Page 34 of Rivals at Ashmore Castle

‘Eh bien, then you are free to dance with anyone you please. You have the whole world in front of you. This young man, plutôt sévère, if he loves you, he will come back.’

Rachel was pleasantly surprised. ‘I thought you would be angry with me,’ she said.

Grandmère looked at her with unprecedented kindness. ‘You will not always be young, ma petite. Life passes away more quickly than you can imagine. And love is not always what it seems, or to be found where you suppose.’

She looked at Richard as she said that. His smile disappeared. After a beat of silence, she resumed, to Rachel, ‘You must dance every dance while you can. One day the music will stop. A life of waiting is a life wasted.’

Rachel wasn’t entirely sure what her grandmother was telling her, though it sounded profound. Richard obviously understood, because he got up and went to Grandmère, bent over to whisper something in her ear – in French, probably. Grandmère pushed him away and said quite briskly, ‘Don’t be sentimental,’ and he sat down again.

He gave Rachel a cheerful look. ‘So now you have licence, from the highest authority, to enjoy yourself to the top of your bent.’

‘But I don’t really know what that means,’ Rachel said. ‘What am I to do?’

‘Just what you did in your come-out season,’ he said. ‘Test the water. I can tell you that, from a man’s point of view, older girls are much more interesting than debutantes, so you will not be short of partners. But do set your sights just a little higher than Mr Farocean.’

Rachel felt herself blush, and Grandmère said, ‘Who is this Far Ocean? Tiens, quel nom! Can it be real? Personne ne s’appelle “la mer”!’

‘He’s the son of a businessman,’ Richard told her.

‘But so is Tullamore,’ Grandmère objected.

‘Yes, I’m afraid my little sister is developing a taste for les hommes d’affaires,’ Richard said, laughing. ‘How will our mother react to having a grandson “in trade”, I wonder?’

Rachel glared at him and asked, to change the subject, ‘Should I tell everyone that I’m not engaged any more?’

‘Bien sûr,’ Grandmère said. ‘How else will you receive offers?’

Richard was still laughing, but silently. Rachel found she felt better now, with people who did not take her situation too seriously. They had removed some of the sting, though not all. It was quite exciting to think of revisiting her come–out year, when she had been the centre of male attention; but on the other hand it was a nervous prospect. Suppose Angus didn’t come back and no-one else offered for her? On the whole, she felt she would rather be engaged to Angus and not dance than have the whole world in front of her, as Grandmère said, and risk being left on the shelf. She hadn’t her courage.

It didn’t occur to her that fifty extra years of living had engendered that courage. She couldn’t imagine Grandmère as a young woman. In her mind, she had always been exactly as she was now.

Alice had enjoyed a few days at the Castle at Easter, in the delight of riding again. That was the worst thing about living in London – no Pharaoh. But she was not sorry to be going back. She missed the structure of her days at the school, the sense of worth it gave her, the feeling of progression towards a goal. And there was the prospect of her special lessons with Mr Wentworth to look forward to.

Every Tuesday at four o’clock, instead of attending the scheduled lesson at school, she walked to his narrow slice of a house in Stafford Street, a short distance away, where with four other girls she studied figure and portrait drawing and painting. It was a tremendous honour to be chosen, and Tuesday afternoons were the high point of her week. Bron, who claimed not to be envious of the extra attention and scrutiny, the extra opportunities to fail, nevertheless asked her rather wistfully what it was like. ‘Do you enjoy it?’

‘It’s hard work. An hour and a half of instruction, practice and intense concentration,’ Alice told her. ‘Being under Mr Wentworth’s eye with nowhere to hide one’s faults is terrifying.’ She grinned. ‘Of course I enjoy it! I wouldn’t give it up for anything.’

‘Well, you can’t be doing too badly, since he hasn’t dropped you,’ Bron said. ‘I heard Miss Sanger was in his class last year and was dropped after three weeks. She was terribly upset. She left the school and went home.’

Alice had feared the same was going to happen to her when at the end of the last lesson before Easter he had asked Alice to remain behind. The other girls filed out, giving her curious looks, and she knew that as soon as they were out of earshot their heads would come together and they would be canvassing her downfall.

Wentworth had carried on clearing up his own table until she had wondered if he had forgotten her, and cleared her throat politely. He turned, gave her a considering look, and said, ‘When we resume after Easter, you will not come to me at four on Tuesdays. You will join the other girls in Miss Deeks’s class at that time.’

For just a moment her stomach had fallen away sickeningly with disappointment. How could she have thought her abilities were in any way out of the ordinary? He had found her out in her mediocrity.

But it was only a single heartbeat before he resumed. ‘You will come to me at five on Wednesdays instead. That is all.’

Now, on the first Wednesday of the new term, full of relief, gratitude and good intentions, she arrived promptly in his studio and found no-one there but him.

‘Ah, Miss Tallant. You are punctual – good. We shall begin.’

‘Won’t we wait for the others?’ she asked tentatively.

‘There are no others,’ he said. ‘I have made this class for you. I shall teach you one to one.’ She was too surprised to say anything, and he added, ‘You show promise, Miss Tallant. I think you have it in you to be an artist, not just another capable painter. I wish to give you special instruction and nurture the qualities I see.’

She had only been able to stammer thank you. This was Mr Wentworth – the Ivor Wentworth, famous, lauded, practically a god – and he thought she had promise? He thought she might become an artist, like him? She found her hands trembling as she took off her coat and hat and hung them up.

She was about to put on her smock when he raised a hand and said, ‘You won’t need that. No grubbing today. Our sessions last term were all about technique, but to progress you need to study theory and philosophy as well.’ An easel was set up in the middle of the room, on which a clean sheet of paper was concealing what was underneath. ‘We shall consider today the fine line between art and eroticism.’ He flipped the cover up and over, revealing a photograph, mounted on another sheet, of a statue. ‘You remember, I am sure, that we looked at this marble at Lord Leven’s house.’