Tyringham Park (24 page)

Cormac looked over at Charlotte and made a thumbs-up gesture. She put her hand on her heart in response. Verity noted the exchange.

“Let’s hope this person everyone’s talking about is a relative,” said Waldron. “We’ll claim him anyway.”

He was in high good humour and even Edwina seemed to be affected, looking around with interest and studying every face in the room.

“I hope to get some private lessons from you, Cormac, now that your stint with Charlotte is up. I have time on my hands,” said Waldron, who privately thought he could teach Cormac a
thing or two. “Drawn all my life but would love to attack the nuts and bolts of painting. Come and see me tomorrow and we’ll arrange a time.”

“I’ll look forward to that,” said Cormac.

“Where’s Charlotte gone?” asked Verity.

“I think she’s gone to the . . . outside. She’s gone out for some fresh air, I think.” He’d noticed how Charlotte had become paler and more agitated each time the
name ‘Blackshaw’ was mentioned, and had seen her slip away. He expected her to be missing for some time.

“Verity, go off and look for those paintings everyone’s talking about. We’ll wait here for a bit until the crowd thins out.”

“Shouldn’t be long,” said Cormac.

“So you show your work here all the time?” asked Waldron.

“For the last six years. Lucky to join the Society. Had my first one-man show two years ago.”

“You should have told us. I’d like to have seen it.”

“You were away, sir.”

“Did you do well?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Really?” asked Waldron, surprised. “I’m not surprised.”

Verity arrived back, puffing. “Nearly everyone’s gone,” she said.

“We can hear that,” said Edwina.

The painting beside him caught Waldron’s eye. It was a still life painted in a naïve fashion in gaudy colours. “No wonder that didn’t sell. If I can’t do better than
that after a week I’ll shoot myself. Now, Cormac, fetch that assistant again and we’ll see these Blackshaw paintings for ourselves. Where’s Charlotte? She shouldn’t miss out
on this.”

They all dutifully looked around but she hadn’t returned to the room.

“No point in waiting any longer,” said Waldron.

The stairs were negotiated again by the three men, and Edwina ended up facing the grey paintings, though from her chair she could only see the top two above the heads of the people viewing
them.

“They’re lovely,” she said spontaneously.

David Slane waved over at Cormac and indicated he would join them shortly.

Cormac had never before been in the predicament of having to introduce his employers. What on earth was the correct procedure? And what was Aunt Verity’s title? Did one follow the gender
and age rule only or were there added refinements to confound the uninitiated? Or did one simply not introduce them and let them make themselves known if that’s what they wanted?

As David approached he turned to face him and, shaking his head slightly as he pointed to Charlotte’s paintings, hoped that David was quick-witted enough to heed the warning to proceed
cautiously.

“Lady Blackshaw, Lady Verity, Lord Waldron,” Cormac said, taking a chance. It didn’t sound right, but it would have to do, “I’d like you to meet David Slane,
President of the Society.”

“How do you do?” said Waldron and Edwina.

Verity registered her disapproval at not being given her correct title by remaining silent.

“You’re very welcome,” said David. “I hope you’re enjoying the exhibition.” Because of Cormac’s warning, he was careful not to ask any questions.
“Opening night always creates a flurry among the buyers. Anyone with money can buy an established name,” he went on to explain, “but what excites a serious collector is
identifying a new talent before anyone else does. It shows he has an eye. Taste. Discernment. That’s why there’s so much chagrin here tonight about missing out on a
Blackshaw.”

“By a strange coincidence,” said Waldron, “that’s our family name and we’re curious to know who he is and if by chance he could be a relative of ours. It’s
not as if it’s a very common name.”

Puzzled, David looked across at Cormac for guidance and was silenced with a look.

“Well, let’s have look,” said Waldron. He left the chair at the back of a group of people and went in front of them to check the signature on the paintings they were
studying.

“It’s signed ‘C. Blackshaw’,” he said to the group when he returned. “I’m still none the wiser. I’ll look up the family tree when I get
home.”

David’s expression now said ‘Help me’. Cormac had mentioned there might be some family animosity to Charlotte’s showing publicly, but he didn’t know they
didn’t know. “Just excuse me for a minute,” he said with a meaningful glance at Cormac. “There’s something urgent I’ve forgotten to attend to.” He hurried
across the wooden floor through a door marked ‘
Private
’ at the far end of the room.

We won’t be seeing him for a while, thought Cormac.

There was no one now between the Blackshaws and the paintings so Waldron promptly moved the wheelchair forward, Verity following. They quietly absorbed the twenty shades of luscious greys made
from complementary colours and not black and white, but accented by black and white and containing subtle hints of colour.

“This one’s called ‘The Fish Market’,” said Waldron at last, reading the card beside it. “‘Oil on canvas, 24 inches by 24 inches’.”

“Oh yes, I see it,” said Verity, as the abstract shapes became fish, boxes, shelves and stacks receding into a distant window.

“I don’t see it,” said Edwina.

Waldron couldn’t either but he wasn’t going to have anything pointed out to him by Verity. “Stand back, now. It will be easier to interpret from a distance,” he said as
he wheeled Edwina back into the middle of the room. “There!”

The paintings’ stillness subdued them again.

“They’re wonderful,” whispered Edwina.

“That sense of design and composition,” said Cormac. “Perfect. What an eye! And the depth. It’s as if there’s another world under the one we’re seeing.”
His speaking first without being spoken to by his employers would normally be unthinkable but in this room on this night his natural ascendancy went unremarked.

“Quite ambiguous and restrained,” said Verity, who’d been waiting to use those words since they arrived. “Not like some of the others we’ve seen tonight,” she
added, looking meaningfully at Cormac.

“It’s the textures and tonal values I love,” said Cormac, trying to make sure he gave Charlotte as much praise as he could while he had the chance.

He saw her standing at the far end of the room. She raised her eyebrows. He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger to signify a good reception, and shook his head, to indicate they
didn’t know. She advanced slowly.

“Charlotte, there you are,” said Waldron. “You took long enough. Come here and take a look at these.”

“I think ‘The Lock’ is my favourite of the four of them,” said Verity.

“What about you, Mother? What do you think of them?” Charlotte asked hesitantly.

“I like them all equally and would love to have the set hanging in our study. They have a strange power. I feel as if I could move in and out of all those shapes.”

The four stared at her, as they’d never known her to have any interest in the visual arts, and the use of the word ‘move’ touched them all with its double meaning.

Waldron wished he could say something original, but couldn’t think of any phrases. There was nothing in the work he could identify – not a person or an animal in sight – but,
in the presence of all those red dots, he thought it prudent to look wise and say nothing.

Charlotte looked helplessly at Cormac. “Will I say anything?” she whispered.

“It’s bad manners to whisper in company,” said Verity.

“We’ll certainly be claiming C. Blackshaw as one of ours,” said Waldron, smiling. “I wonder what the ‘C’ stands for. Cameron? Christian? Don’t remember
any of those as family names.”

Cormac was given a sign by Charlotte.

“How about Charlotte?” he said.

All through dinner that night, Charlotte was warmed by the reality of her triumph despite the chill in the atmosphere. Every now and then she smiled to herself.

“What’s that supercilious look in aid of?” Edwina, eyes narrowed, asked from her place at the end of the table as the main course was being tidied away.

The temperature in the room dropped a further few degrees.

Charlotte sat still while her plate was being removed and acted as if she hadn’t heard her mother’s question.

“I said, young lady, what does your supercilious look signify?”

“Oh, are you talking to me? Sorry. I couldn’t tell from the question and you didn’t address me by name.” Charlotte’s tone was mild and her look inoffensive.
Cormac’s encouragement and advice were shielding her like a suit of armour.

“Don’t use that innocent tone with me. One minor success and you’ve got above yourself already –”

“Hold on, old thing.”

“I won’t hold on. The superiority flaunted by artists makes me sick to my stomach. Just wait until I tell you what I think of artists, seeing no one has bothered to consult me about
my daughter’s turning herself into one behind my back.”

A manservant rushed over to refill Waldron’s glass that he had emptied in two gulps and was told he and the others could leave for the night.

“We will serve the cheese and port ourselves. Just pass over that opened bottle of red before you go.”

“Artists think they are a cut above everyone else,” continued Edwina before the door had closed behind the servants. “They think ordinary rules of conduct don’t apply to
them. They wreak havoc in the lives of others and it doesn’t cost them a thought. They don’t defer to their betters because they don’t think they have any. According to them their
authority comes from their talent and they’re not impressed by any other kind – just because their works live on after them, giving them immortality . . .”

Verity was becoming fidgety.

“. . . they think their calling is higher than the law, the Church, the Army, politics, the Civil Service, the Diplomatic Corps, even the Monarchy. Where did such an idiotic belief come
from?”

“I don’t know where it came from,” Verity said, taking a deep breath to give her courage, “but I believe it to be true. I think they
are
superior.”

“You
would
think that, wouldn’t you, seeing you were madly in love with one.”

Verity blushed scarlet. “So were you.”

“Now we’re getting to the nub of things,” Waldron said with satisfaction. “Are we by any chance talking about that chap who doesn’t complete his work? What was his
name?”

Charlotte looked at each face in turn – all this was news to her – and remained still, hoping they would forget she was there.

“There’s no need to mention names because I’m not talking about one artist in particular,” said Edwina. “I’m talking about artists in general. For all the
high-flying notions they have of themselves, they’re nothing but tradesmen.”

“Never!” Waldron looked as if he was taking personal offence.

“Nonsense.” A flinty look came into Verity’s eyes.

“There’s no difference between an artist and a peddler – they both offer a commodity and people can choose either to buy or not. What clearer definition of trade can there be
than that?”

“There’s something wrong with your logic,” said Waldron, “but I can’t put my finger on it. Give me a minute.”

“We don’t have a minute. Charlotte’s pictures are to be taken down before that place opens in the morning. I can’t have her peddling her wares in public and dragging the
Blackshaw name into the mud. And Mr Delaney should be shown the door for overstepping the mark – he had no authority – encouraging her in such a sly fashion. That’s the last I
have to say on the matter.”

Waldron lurched to his feet. “I hope it
is
the last you have to say – I’ve never heard such poppycock in my life! Charlotte, leave the room and don’t listen
outside the door. I have a couple of things I need to sort out with your mother, and it can’t wait.”

Verity made as if to depart as well, but Edwina commanded her to stay as, by the sound of Waldron’s tone, she might need a witness.

Charlotte quietly entered the darkened storeroom next door, reassuring herself that what she was about to hear couldn’t be any worse than what she had already heard about
herself over the years.

“The wrong daughter disappeared,” was Edwina’s often-repeated lament to Verity after she had drunk too much port. “It’s a pity you never saw Victoria. You would
have been captivated by her. Such a pretty child, with her soft dark curls and blue eyes. You’d never think she was Charlotte’s sister to look at her. And so sweet-natured. Yes, that
Teresa Kelly knew what she was doing when she stole Victoria and left me with the wrong daughter.”

At this point Verity would take her cue and cluck in sympathy. “All Charlotte’s life, nothing but one disappointment after another. You’ve done well to cope.”

As was her habit, Charlotte rested her head against the wall where the hole she had made years ago was hidden on the dining-room side by a large gilt-framed portrait, conveniently leaning
outwards so that very little sound was blocked. It was the first time she’d had the chance to eavesdrop on her father.

Waldron was in the process of forbidding his wife to either dismiss Cormac or revisit the salon to insist on the removal of Charlotte’s paintings. Edwina demanded to know why she should be
cast as the villain and what right had Waldron to give orders when he had been an absentee husband, father and landlord all their married life and now that he had retired he was still absent.

“Not this again!” Waldron moaned.

And when he was around he was usually in various stages of inebriation, so wasn’t much use anyway. And they had all managed very well without him. And how dare he push her out of the
gallery when she was in mid-sentence to that David Slane chap.

Waldron asked if she would allow him to answer her accusations and she said it would be interesting to see how quickly he could make up excuses to justify himself. She was all attention and he
had the floor, so carry on.