Ten

When she woke the next morning, Gwendeline was bewildered. The dawn light fell across a coverlet of gray silk and struck a wall papered in gray with pink roses. The furniture and pale pink curtains were unfamiliar, and she felt a moment of panic. Then memory returned, and she realized that this was “her” room in her own house. With that realization came the events of the previous day. Again, she heard Mr. Blane say that her mother had been the earl’s mistress, and again she realized that here was a reason for his aid to her. But more important, even worse, she acknowledged that she loved him. The feeling had been growing outside her conscious knowledge, and this crisis had revealed it. And the realization that followed this one shocked her most; she didn’t care about his relationship to her mother. She wanted him to love her regardless of the past. This was what had driven her here and what made her now leap from her bed and dress hurriedly to go in search of Miss Brown.

The older lady was also up early, drinking tea in the breakfast room. She looked up with a worried frown when Gwendeline came rushing in.

Gwendeline allowed her no time to speak but blurted, “Brown, how much money have we?”

“What?”

“How much money, in the household account? I know money was put there, how much is left?”

“About five hundred pounds,” Miss Brown answered automatically. “Gwendeline, please tell me what’s wrong.”

“So much,” said Gwendeline. “That should do. I’m leaving London, Brown.”

“What? But where are you going? Why?”

“I’ve learned some very unpleasant things, which make it necessary for me to go away. I must leave immediately.” Gwendeline paused for breath. “I’d like you to come with me, if you will.”

“I must have some explanation first, Gwendeline,” the older woman replied. “What exactly is going on?”

“I won’t repeat it,” she said. “I’m very unhappy, and I will go alone, if I must.”

“Of course, I will go with you, but…” Miss Brown began.

“Good. We must leave immediately.”

“But where are we going? How do we travel?” asked her old governess.

Gwendeline sat down abruptly opposite her. “Where shall I go?” she said to herself. “Oh, what shall I do?”

Three hours later, Gwendeline had poured out her story to Miss Brown, and though Miss Brown felt they should wait for explanations, she finally gave in to Gwendeline’s frantic denials. She’d suggested a small seaside town she knew in the south. The inn there was run by friends of hers. This settled, Miss Brown was sent out to withdraw the money from the household account and purchase tickets on the stage. Gwendeline informed the servants that she was going on a visit of indefinite length. Miss Brown returned, packed her things, and they departed by ten o’clock.

The journey was long and tiring, and Gwendeline remembered little of it later. As the distance from London increased, her tension lessened, though she was more miserable than ever. She still believed she’d done the right thing, but the future looked empty and bleak as she rested her aching head in the corner of the coach.

They reached Penwyn on the third day, very late. Gwendeline scarcely knew how she got up to a cozy bedroom and into bed. She could hear the sea from her window, and as she fell asleep, she thought that the murmur sounded melancholy.

Staring at the waves some days later, the same thought was in her mind. She sat at a writing desk before the window of the neat little parlor set aside for their use, a book open in her hands. Today, the water was gray and lashed with rain and wind.

She looked down at her book. It was a French grammar. Gwendeline had decided that Miss Brown should tutor her in all the subjects she’d neglected as a schoolgirl and thus prepare her to make her own living. But the harder she tried to master them, the more facts seemed to elude her. As now, she found herself spending more time gazing out the window than learning. She sighed, closed the book, and went to stand in front of the fire.

Gwendeline caught herself thinking of Lord Merryn. She recalled the way his eyes lit when he was amused and the smile he showed only to his friends. Secretly she’d begun to think that Miss Brown had been right to suggest they wait for explanations. She wanted to make excuses for the earl, and excuses for herself to return to him. But what reasons were there? What could Lord Merryn say to her after Mr. Blane’s accusations, and worse still, what could she say to him? All society must know by now what had happened. There would be sneers and laughter wherever she went, whatever she did. No. She straightened; she couldn’t go back. She turned to the desk and sat down again, opening the grammar. I’ll make myself learn it, she thought fiercely, setting her jaw.

Miss Brown came in. She’d gone out walking earlier in the morning. “A fire,” she said. “Just the thing. The rain came on so suddenly that it caught me before I had half finished my walk. I was wet through and had to change.” She took the armchair in front of the fire.

“I’m sorry,” Gwendeline replied listlessly.

Miss Brown looked at her. “And guess what I found when I stopped to shelter in the circulating library? All of Lady Merryn’s books!” She paused, but Gwendeline turned away toward the window. “I nearly brought you Terror at Wellwyn Abbey to read, but I couldn’t through the rain.”

Gwendeline burst into tears.

Miss Brown rose and went to her. “Gwendeline, my dear, I’m so sorry. You’re too sensitive; I meant only to amuse you.” She knelt and put her arms around her.

Through her tears, Gwendeline said, “I-it’s no u-use, Brown. I l-love him. I sh-shall never be h-happy again.”

“You love Lord Merryn?” Miss Brown asked gently. Gwendeline nodded and began to cry harder, her head on Miss Brown’s shoulder. Her old governess patted her back, saying over and over again, “There. It will all come right,” but her expression was sad.

When Gwendeline had cried herself out, she felt exhausted but oddly relieved, though there was still nothing to be done as far as she could see. “So I have resolved, Brown, that I’ll study very hard,” she said. “I’ll force myself every day. Then, by the time our money is gone, I’ll be ready to find a position and support myself.” Miss Brown said nothing. “I could teach very young children, couldn’t I?”

Miss Brown seemed abstracted. “I’m sure you could.”

“I’ll start immediately,” Gwendeline said. “I’ll study all day very, very hard. You’ll see, Brown. I know you don’t think I can do it, but I will.”

Miss Brown nodded. “I believe I’ll write some letters then, Gwendeline.”

“You can quiz me at tea.”

Gwendeline’s resolution lasted longer this time, and for several days she studied conscientiously. But the length of her reading periods shortened. She spent more and more time outdoors, and got into the habit of carrying an easel and sketching materials with her, drawing and painting for hours. Her room at the inn gradually filled with studies of the sea and cliffs about Penwyn and of the countryside near the inn. She even tried a sketch of Miss Brown, but her skills didn’t run to portraiture.

She’d set up her painting things on the beach one day when she met one of their neighbors. “It’s really quite good, you know,” said a voice behind her. “You’ve caught the waves, and that’s difficult.”

Startled, Gwendeline turned. Standing behind her, surveying her canvas critically, was a small man of about fifty. His hair was white, unkempt and bushy, and his coat was of a loose baggy cut that Gwendeline found odd. But his blue eyes twinkled.

“If I could suggest,” he continued, “just a touch of the green, here,” he moved closer and pointed at her painting, “and even a bit of red there. It sounds strange, I know, red in the sea, but it would be a marked improvement.” He appeared completely engrossed in the question of color as he surveyed the painting with narrowed eyes, but he slowly realized that Gwendeline was staring at him. “Oh, I beg your pardon, young lady, but I noticed your drawing as I passed, and I was much taken with it. You have some real talent.” He tapped the top of the canvas. “I had to stop and comment.”

“I…I see,” said Gwendeline, still mystified.

“I’m an artist myself, you see,” the man explained, as if that made all obvious. “Live up there.” He pointed to a house perched on the edge of the cliffs north of them. “This part of the country is just right for a painter. The sea, you know, and the rocks.”

“They are very beautiful.”

“Beautiful, yes, and a sight more interesting than Lady This, or the Countess of That. I can’t abide portraits. Used to do ’em, you know. Painted a dashed gallery of such rubbish. But I’ve given it up. The sea, now, there’s a subject for a painter. The Greeks knew that, young lady, the sea.” He smiled down at her and seemed to recollect himself. “Oh, my name is Ames, Carleton Ames.” He looked at her. “You’ve heard of me perhaps?” Gwendeline shook her head. “Ah, well, some pieces in the Royal Academy, you know. Nothing too important. Keep the best ones myself.” He winked. “Say, you must come to tea. I’ll show you my pictures, and you can criticize them. Turn about, you know. My wife will be happy to see a new face. Are you visiting near here, Miss, Miss?”

“Gregory,” replied Gwendeline mechanically.

“Miss Gregory. Are you staying hereabouts?”

“At the inn.” Gwendeline felt a bit dazed by this flow of talk.

“Ah, with your parents, perhaps?”

“No, with Miss Brown, my old governess.”

“Well, splendid, bring her along. Four sharp, mind. I’ll tell my wife.” He started off down the beach, swinging an ivory cane.

“But I—” Gwendeline stammered.

Mr. Ames waved cheerily. “Four sharp,” he repeated and walked on.

“I had no chance to refuse,” Gwendeline said when she told Miss Brown of the encounter. “He hardly gave me time to say anything. What an odd creature! Shall we send a note round with our regrets?”

“Why not go?” Miss Brown replied. “You say he was a gentleman?”

“Oh yes, though a strange one,” answered Gwendeline.

“It might prove interesting. I’ve never met an artist.” Miss Brown looked at Gwendeline. “And it would be good for you to go out. You’ve been moping about far too much.”

“Perhaps I have. Very well, then, we’ll go.”

Accordingly, at half past three, they set out to walk across to Mr. Ames’s house. Miss Brown had asked her friends, the Wilsons, who ran the inn, about him, and they assured her he was perfectly respectable, though considered odd by many of his neighbors.

The walk up the cliffs took more than twenty minutes, for the path was narrow and steep, and they had to go slowly. The clock in the church tower below was striking four when Miss Brown knocked on the door of the small white cottage and was greeted by Mr. Ames himself. “Hello, hello,” he cried. “Miss, uh, Gregory, yes. Delighted to see you. Come in.” He ushered them into a narrow hall.

“This is Miss Brown,” said Gwendeline.

“Delighted,” said Mr. Ames. He guided them through an archway and into the parlor. The chief features of this chamber were walls covered with pictures, and the view, a breathtaking vista of ocean and sky. “My wife,” said Mr. Ames. “Here is Miss Gregory, my dear, whom I mentioned, and her friend Miss Brown.”

“Good afternoon,” said the small, fluffy white-haired lady seated behind the teapot. “I’m so pleased you could come.”

Gwendeline hardly knew where to look first. The paintings attracted immediate attention, but there were so many of them that she could attend to none. And Mrs. Ames, too, drew the eye. In general appearance she was like her husband—small, with a great deal of white hair and twinkling blue eyes—but her costume was decidedly original. It seemed to consist wholly of pale blue ruffles. Gwendeline couldn’t see how they all held together, and each flounce appeared to move gently of its own accord.

“Please sit down,” said Mrs. Ames. “Here on the sofa, so you can look out the window. It’s a charming view, is it not?”

“Spectacular,” answered Miss Brown, as they seated themselves.

Mr. Ames beamed. “Thought so myself when I chose this spot for a house years ago. I do a lot of painting right here, as you see.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, and Gwendeline saw that several of the pictures were studies of the view.

“Will you have some tea?” asked Mrs. Ames. “I have some fresh seed cake as well. Very good.” There was a bustle as everyone was served. “My husband tells me you have quite a talent for drawing,” the lady went on then. “He waxed eloquent on the subject.”

“Oh,” said Gwendeline. “He’s too kind.”

“Not at all,” put in Mr. Ames. “Never flatter anyone about talent. You need training, of course, to make anything of it, but it’s definitely there.”

“Miss Brown taught me a great deal about drawing,” Gwendeline answered. “In fact, everything.”

“She did well,” the man replied. “Do you paint also, ma’am?”

“No,” said Miss Brown. “I’m one of those who know the principles but cannot execute. I am a better teacher than doer.”

“A very good teacher, I warrant,” said Mrs. Ames. “There are few who can say so.”

Miss Brown smiled. “I daresay your husband would be a much better one when it comes to art, Mrs. Ames. But I thank you nonetheless.”

“Oh, Carleton doesn’t care to teach. They wanted him in London once, to give lectures. But he refused. He cares only for his own painting.”

“Now, now, my dear,” her husband put in. He turned to their visitors. “She had some crackbrained notion of setting up in London and racketing about the ton. Her mother’s cousin to a duke or some such nonsense, and all her family urged her on. Ridiculous. How am I to paint in London, with people constantly calling or inviting us out and a pack of wastrel students dogging me to lecture?” He smiled at his wife. “And don’t I take you up to London every year, my dear, and let you racket about to your heart’s content?”

“Yes, yes, Carleton. I wasn’t complaining,” said his wife. “I also prefer the country. I was simply demonstrating your dislike of teaching.”

“Well, I don’t know,” he replied meditatively. “I shouldn’t mind giving a talented student a few hints. We might work together here and there on the beach of an afternoon, if you like, Miss Gregory.”

“Oh, I thank you very much, but…” Gwendeline began.

“Nothing formal, mind,” he interrupted. “No schedules and all that nonsense. But I shouldn’t mind giving you a pointer when you go wrong.” He smoothed his flowing jacket complacently. “Glad to be of help.”

“I think that’s a splendid idea,” put in Miss Brown. “A great opportunity for you, Gwendeline.”

“And you can both come to tea afterwards,” added Mrs. Ames. “We’ll make a party of it.” Clearly, the idea appealed to her.

“Well,” Gwendeline faltered. “I suppose…”

“Good,” said Mr. Ames. “And when you go up to London, I’ll give you a list of pictures to view.”

“Oh, I shan’t be going to London,” blurted Gwendeline.

“Really?” Mrs. Ames shook her head. “But you must have one season at least. It would be a great shame for a young girl as lovely as you to miss that.”

Gwendeline shook her head.

“You really must speak to your parents,” continued Mrs. Ames. “A season in London is simply essential.”

Gwendeline shrugged, and a short silence fell.

“Well, if you’ve finished your tea,” said Mr. Ames, “I’ll show you my pictures.”

Gwendeline rose with relief. “I’d like that very much,” she said.

“And I,” added Miss Brown, also rising.

“Capital. We’ll start right here, and then I’ll take you up to my studio. Here, you see, are most of my landscapes.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent looking at pictures. Mr. Ames was an enthusiastic showman, and Gwendeline and Miss Brown agreed as they walked home that he was also a fine artist as well. They felt they’d made an interesting new acquaintance. Too, Gwendeline realized that she’d hardly thought of the past all afternoon. She resolved to try the art lessons Mr. Ames had offered.