The Art of Love (21 page)

‘I hadn’t any other plans.’ It slipped out before she could stop herself, but it was true. Tara could not imagine returning to her old life in London next spring, going to balls and parties and all the while knowing Leo was painting in his studio just across the river but was not part of her life. It seemed to her that she might as well be unhappy being useful at Penge than be unhappy and useless anywhere else.

‘That doesn’t sound like you,’ Lady Penge said, and looking up Tara found her concern for her mother mirrored in her eyes. ‘I think both of us need a change of scene,’ she said abruptly.

‘But that’s just not possible,’ Tara said.

Lady Penge shook her head decisively. ‘With the appointment of a reliable estate manager, and your brother home as well, it is. We could both use a few weeks away, by the sea. Now, have you any suggestions for the post?’

Tara was about to deny that anyone could step into Leo’s shoes when a conversation they had had sprung to mind.
Jennings will know of a mason, I’m sure of it,
Leo had said when they discussed the repairs needed to the paddock walls. He had consulted Jennings about the disposition of the bull calves and Jennings had arranged for the lads who were even now scything the hay field. Leo had respected and relied on their dairyman, perhaps she should do the same. ‘Jennings,’ she said.

Thoughtfully her mother stirred honey into her tea, then she looked up at Tara. ‘I think you might be right.’

As Mark had predicted, his parents had been delighted to see Leo and his younger sister Caroline had been thrilled. ‘My friend Lady Susannah Maxwell wrote to me and said you had painted her portrait,’ she said as they sat at the supper table. ‘Do you remember her?’

‘I remember her well,’ Leo said, far too well, those blissful days with Tara at Wallingford Manor had taken place all too recently and he couldn’t think of Susannah without Tara filling his mind. ‘She has just become engaged,’ he said, forcing himself to make conversation.

‘Really?’ Caroline’s eyes were huge. ‘She hasn’t told me. Who is she going to marry?’

‘Sir Rodney Hulme,’ Leo said and then found himself subject to an interrogation on all Hulme’s finer points. ‘He’s very cheerful,’ he told Caroline, unable to prevent himself from hearing Tara’s voice describing Rodney in his mind. ‘Straight forward. I’m sure your friend will be very happy with him,’ he added hastily, hoping to bring the subject to a close before the crushing feeling in his chest rendered him unable to speak.

‘Do you know him well?’ Caroline asked.

‘Quite well,’ Leo said and then realized he had sounded too abrupt. ‘I attended a house party he hosted a couple of weeks ago,’ he elaborated.

‘You must be famished, Leo, after riding all day,’ Aunt Dorothy said. ‘Let him eat, everyone. Mark, tell him about the yachting fixtures which are coming up. Perhaps Leo will stay long enough to crew for you.’

‘What really brings you to Bournemouth?’ Mark asked some time later when he and Leo were alone again. The other members of the family had retired to bed, but despite his restless night and early start Leo had not felt himself yet ready for sleep.

‘I’m painting a collection of landscapes for an exhibition,’ Leo prevaricated. Until about this time the night before he had never even considered Bournemouth as a place to paint.

‘This friend, the one you were staying with until today, do I know him?’ Mark asked, swirling his brandy idly in his glass.

‘I don’t think so,’ Leo said briefly. He very much wanted to change the subject, but all he could think of was Tara. Mark looked at him expectantly. ‘She’s not a him,’ Leo said grudgingly when it became apparent that Mark was not going to break the silence.

‘And now we come to the crux of the matter,’ Mark said, draining his glass, setting it down and leaning forward to give his undivided attention to Leo. ‘I admit I’ve never seen you so riled before. You’re often taciturn, but tonight you seem to be longing to speak but reluctant to say anything. But this explains it all - your heart has been ensnared by a lady.’

‘You might say that,’ Leo said half under his breath but Mark heard him.

‘Tell me about her,’ he said. Leo glanced back at his cousin and saw genuine interest on his face.

‘She is quite stunning,’ he began.

‘Of course,’ Mark nodded, ‘I never expected you to fall for somebody ordinary.’

‘But she thinks I am beneath her.’

‘What?’ Mark looked gratifyingly surprised. ‘But you are Lord Fosse! You are beneath no one except royalty.’ Then a look of incredulous horror came over his face. ‘It’s not… tell me you haven’t fallen in love with Princess Charlotte?’

‘No, no!’ Leo found himself laughing in spite of his black mood. ‘The lady is not as elevated as that, but she thinks me a struggling artist, a tradesman, and beneath her consideration.’

‘Couldn’t you simply tell her she is mistaken?’ Mark asked, very reasonably, Leo thought. He found himself playing with the twisted fringe of the antimacassar, reluctant to meet his cousin’s eye.

‘I
am
a struggling artist,’ he said, ‘I am lord of nothing more than my canvass and paint. You know that.’

‘But your background is not that of a tradesman,’ Mark said, sounding confused. ‘And I thought the painting was going very well, I heard you had made quite a name for yourself.’

‘I have,’ Leo said, ‘but that’s not good enough for her ladyship. She has not got an artistic bone in her body and she has no comprehension of what painting means to me.’

‘I can see why you are so drawn to her,’ Mark said dryly. He reached out and slipped the antimacassar out of Leo’s unprotesting hands. ‘My mother has enough needlework to keep her busy without you adding to the pile.’

‘She is lively and vivacious and she is capable of great sensitivity,’ Leo said, thinking of the ridiculous amount of concern Tara showed towards La Monte. ‘Although she does not show it towards me,’ he added reluctantly, but feeling the need to be honest with his cousin.

‘Perhaps the lady is not in love with you,’ Mark said gently.

Unbidden, their last passionate evening flew into Leo’s mind. ‘Oh, she is,’ he said heavily. ‘She may not realize it, but her heart is mine.’

‘Did you seduce her?’ Mark asked.

Leo gave him a sideways look. ‘Only a little, I am still a gentleman.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ Mark said. ‘Even down here one does hear things. Rumour has it that you will only paint beauties, and tongues have wagged over that.’

Leo shook his head in disbelief. ‘Now where would I be if I seduced my client’s wives and daughters?’ he asked. ‘No one would hire me.’

Mark laughed. ‘I think, to be fair, that the rumour has added clients to your list. Perhaps that is why your lady does not consider you eligible.’

Leo shot a disdainful look at Mark, but his cousin did not appear to see how foolish his remark had been. Tara, of all people, was not afraid of the appetites of men. ‘She is not intimidated by my reputation,’ he said.

‘It sounds more like she is not aware of your reputation,’ Mark countered, ‘as an artist, I mean,’ he added hastily, evidently seeing the denial in Leo’s eyes.

‘She will be,’ Leo growled. ‘I mean to mount my exhibition of landscapes in the spring. I have begun negotiations with the Dulwich Picture Gallery. By May next year everyone in London will have heard of me.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Mark said, and Leo felt irrationally encouraged despite the fact that his cousin had said nothing useful. ‘Are you going to stay in Bournemouth to paint? There are some spectacular views around here with the downs and the cliffs, and you might visit Handfast Point and paint a view of Bournemouth itself.’

Leo nodded slowly, thinking about what Mark had said. ‘That’s a good idea,’ he admitted. ‘I think I will take a cottage to use as a studio for a month. Perhaps you can help me find one down on the coast, it will be good to get a bit of sea air.’

‘It will be good to get a bit of sea air,’ Lady Penge said in what Tara thought was an overly self-satisfied manner. One would have thought she was single-handedly responsible for the fact that they were now ensconced in their carriage, preparing to spend the whole of August in what she had been assured by the agent was a charming little cottage by the sea. Tara’s maid Betty and their cook Mrs Grayson sat in the carriage also, with their backs to the horses and the footman who was driving was going to act as driver-cum-butler for the duration of their stay. Tara felt a little guilty about absconding with the cook and leaving her brother to be fed by the one of the maids, but her mother did not share her guilt. ‘Our need is greater than Richard’s,’ she had said. ‘We both need building up, while he has been surviving on school food and will not notice the dubious skills of the scullery maid. Don’t give it another thought.’

Their cottage was everything it was promised to be, Tara saw with some relief. It was built of the local cream coloured stone and sat at the top of a sloped, tufty lawn, made of a strain of grass which was hardy enough to withstand the salty air that swept in from the sea on the lower side of the road. A spray of roses had been artfully trained around the door and one of the chimneys smoked faintly, showing that their arrival had been anticipated by the landlord. Best of all it looked quite big enough to accommodate them all in comfort.

She was doing well, Tara thought, wandering out the back door of the cottage and finding a kitchen garden. Leo had not crossed her mind from when they first sighted the cottage some minutes ago, until just now. For the thousandth time she wondered where he had gone. She was sure he had not returned to London for she had received no reply to her letter. She did not allow herself to consider the possibility that he might not answer, although she was no longer so confident that her words would have had the calming effect on him that she hoped for. In her darker moments she thought they might have enraged him even more.

‘I have dispatched Betty to the shops,’ Lady Penge said, coming out to join her. ‘Stop shredding those sweet-peas, I know the flowers are bedraggled but they haven’t done you any wrong.’

Tara hastily snatched her hand away. ‘Shall we go for a stroll along the shore?’ she asked her mother. She had been cooped up in the carriage all day, that was her problem, if she could only stretch her legs she would be able to put the wretched man out of her mind.

‘You go, dear,’ Lady Penge said. ‘I shall lie down, the journey has tired me. Tomorrow will be quite soon enough for me to go out and about.’

It was August, but the air was cooler by the sea so Tara dug a light shawl out of her bag before setting off. The sea lapped at the base of a pile of boulders here, so she walked down the road. A cluster of houses stood not a quarter of a mile away, probably heralding the beginning of the high street and the shops that Betty was even now exploring. She would go there too, Tara decided, she had never been to Bournemouth before and she found herself seized with a sudden whim to explore the town.

The usual shops lined the high street, but they were augmented by those of particular relevance to the seaside. Tara passed a greengrocer, a butcher’s shop and a bakery, but in addition to that she was interested to see a hardware store the chandler’s shop which had a display of anchors lined up on the cobblestones outside. She felt her spirits lift as she realized she really was somewhere quite different from home; Leo might have turned his back on Penge, but so had she and it was liberating. She glimpsed Betty in the distance, choosing fruit from a market stall and then her attention was caught by an open doorway topped by a sign which read
Bournemouth Lending Library
. It occurred to her that with few if any acquaintances in Bournemouth, she and her mother would have a lot of time on their hands which might enjoyably be spent reading, and she stepped inside.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust after the brightness of the street outside and all she perceived were a few shadowy figures perusing the shelves. Then all at once her vision cleared and she nearly gasped. There, at the far end of the room, with his back to her, was Leo. Without hesitation she strode over to him and then paused, something about the man was not quite right. His hair, which fell in the same black curls as Leo’s seemed longer, and it was tied at the back in a fashion which she had never seen Leo adopt. He was wearing a coat she had never seen before, too, and she thought she was familiar with all the pieces in Leo’s slender wardrobe.

Perhaps the man had heard her footsteps, or perhaps he had felt her eyes upon him, for he turned and Tara was filled with crushing disappointment. It was not Leo. It took her some moments to realize however, that she did know the gentleman

‘How delightful to see you again,’ he was saying and with a great effort Tara focussed on the man standing in front of her, not the one in her mind’s eye. ‘Perhaps you don’t remember me,’ the man continued. ‘We met two or three years ago, at the Assembly Rooms in Bath. Please allow me to re-introduce myself. Mark Reeves, at your service.’

‘Oh, yes, of course I remember you,’ Tara said, regaining her manners. Really Mark was extraordinarily like Leo, yet Leo had not reminded her of Mark at all. ‘You advised me not to drink the waters and I ignored you and found that you were right.’ She wrinkled her nose, recalling with distaste the chalky water in the Pump Room.

‘Are you holidaying in Bournemouth?’ Mark asked. Next to him Tara noticed an older gentleman rather ostentatiously select a book from the shelf in front of Mark and open it up to read. Mark must have noticed too, for he said ‘I think we are disturbing people here. There’s a little tea-shop on the high street, would you care to join me for some light refreshment?’

Even Mark’s voice reminded her of Leo’s although his choice of vocabulary was more flowery. Tara smiled at him, finding herself at least temporarily soothed by the resemblance. ‘I should enjoy that very much, Mr Reeves,’ she said and allowed Mark to escort her out.