Until the Colours Fade Read online

  His thoughts finally in order, Charles turned and walked purposefully away from the pond and emerged from the shelter of the hedge on the open lawn in front of the west wing. He was wondering whether the garden door would be locked, when he caught sight of Helen through a window. She was standing behind a young man sitting on a chair, and was looking at some sort of paper he was holding up for her. A moment later the man got up and Helen laughed over something he had said. Charles’s view was not improved by reflections of the sky in the panes of glass, but, moving closer, he was surprised to see that Lady Goodchild’s companion was an artist who had been pointed out to him at Braithwaite’s house a week before. While Charles did not for a moment suppose that her ladyship could be attracted to a man of Strickland’s class and profession, he felt irritated to find him at Hanley Park, especially on this particular morning; and momentarily forgetting that she owed her rank to her neglectful husband, he was indignant that Helen should lower herself, by allowing an artist to see that she found him amusing. But then Helen had never been conventional, as the identities of many of those permitted to dine at her table in London had already amply proved. It was in spite of such things that Charles cared deeply for her.

  Finding the garden door locked, he had to retrace his steps to the beech hedge and go in at the main hall.

  Helen came towards Charles as soon as he had been announced.

  ‘An unexpected pleasure, Charles. I believe you have not met Mr Strickland. Captain Crawford, permit me to introduce Mr Strickland.’

  Charles nodded briskly to Tom and put down his hat and cane on a small table by the door, making it evident, Tom thought, that he was too insignificant to be accorded the privilege of shaking hands. In fact he had seen Crawford at a large reception given by Joseph Braithwaite but had not been told his name. Now he found it incredible to discover that this man, with his awkward movements and set face, was the brother of the poised and graceful traveller he had met so recently on the station road. Tom saw Crawford murmur something to Lady Goodchild, who nodded and then turned to him apologetically:

  ‘Mr Strickland, I fear you must excuse me for a moment.’

  Tom thought she looked irritated as she led Charles from the room, but though he would have liked to have continued sketching her, he was too happy to feel any serious disappointment. After seeing two rough sketches, Lady Goodchild had agreed to sit for her portrait.

  Helen ushered Charles along a covered colonnade until they reached the tall glass doors of the conservatory. She motioned to him to be seated on an ornate white iron seat but remained standing herself. He looked at her against the lush and improbable background of broad leaves and serrated fronds. Everything about her appearance pleased him: her complexion, her hair, the way her clothes always emphasised the perfection of her figure. She was waiting for him to speak. Seeing that the doors were still open, he got up and closed them.

  ‘Helen, forgive me for intruding into what is clearly none of my business, but, as an old friend, perhaps you will bear with me. I know you will think me absurd for asking this, but the question has some bearing on another matter of great importance.’ He paused awkwardly, covering his embarrassment by resuming his seat. ‘Has your husband employed any new male servants in recent months?’

  She frowned and shook her head, as though trying to clear it.

  ‘Am I to understand, Charles, that you have come to talk about our servants?’

  ‘Believe me, Helen, the subject is serious enough,’ he replied, wounded by her incredulity.

  She gave him a resigned smile, which reminded him of a patient governess with an obtuse pupil, and sat down next to him.

  ‘Since the matter is obviously of such interest to you – Harry does not interview servants. Our steward employs male staff; the housekeeper takes on the maids, except those who wait on me – naturally I interview them.’ She smiled. ‘I had almost forgotten to say that cook chooses her kitchen maids.’

  ‘But there have been new servants engaged recently?’ he asked, persevering in spite of her ironic tone.

  ‘They come and go,’ she replied with obvious impatience. ‘Ought I to be counting spoons and forks?’

  ‘Have any new servants been seen skulking around doors?’

  Helen threw up her hands in amazement.

  ‘Heavens above, Charles, servants have always listened at doors and always will. Imagine how dull they would be without that amusement.’ She paused and stared at him with a directness that made him lower his eyes. ‘Spare me your insinuations, Charles, and speak plainly. You think Harry is having me spied upon. Is that not so?’

  The sudden change from superior amusement to indignation and deadly earnestness shook Charles.

  ‘I have no positive proof,’ he murmured, noticing that she was blushing.

  ‘But you must think he has good reason for suspicion. Otherwise why should you wish to warn me?’

  Charles could feel his heart thumping and an unpleasant tightness in his throat. He had hoped to manage matters more smoothly.

  ‘Suspect you of anything, Helen? Nothing could be further from my mind. You ask me to be plain with you and I will try, although I confess to speak of such matters pains me beyond words.’ He paused and looked down at the tessellated floor of the conservatory. When he continued it was rapidly, as though he were eager to be done with what he had to say. ‘Lord Goodchild is at present embarrassed by the possibility of an action being brought against him by a Manchester physician.’

  Charles saw her smoothing her dress nervously and then gaze at him as if uncertain that she had heard him aright; then, recovering herself, she asked in a level voice:

  ‘May I ask the nature of this action?’

  ‘Crim con,’ he replied, with burning cheeks.

  She stared at him with sudden anger.

  ‘Come, Charles, our grandmothers used that term. May we not say adultery? This man’s wife is Harry’s mistress, I suppose?’ He nodded. ‘And Harry is likely to be cited in divorce proceedings brought against her by her husband? Have I understood you?’

  ‘You take this calmly, Helen,’ he replied with open admiration.

  ‘Was it not bound to happen sooner or later?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He paused and groaned inwardly at how very differently he had envisaged her reacting. He had imagined tears and his comforting arm on her shoulder. ‘Matters are not quite as straightforward as I may have led you to believe,’ he went on. ‘Lord Goodchild will do all he can to stop the proceedings; he has many reasons for wishing to do so.’

  ‘Mr Braithwaite would not approve, I daresay,’ said Helen with a bitter smile.

  ‘Harry also has ambitions to be appointed general for the district when Delamere goes. A scandal would do little for his chances. Obviously he will bribe the doctor to prevent the action.’

  A silence followed, only broken by the chirping of small birds sheltering in the conservatory from the cold outside. Charles was alarmed by the strange expression on Helen’s face.

  ‘Why have you told me this?’ she whispered. ‘To make me wretched? What possible gain can there be in my knowing?’

  ‘Bear with me, Helen,’ he murmured, knowing that the critical moment had arrived. Now he could no longer delay telling her his plan. His eyes gleamed with excitement as he leaned towards her. ‘Should you try to force a separation now, Harry could not resist your demand, if you threaten to make his behaviour public.’

  He watched her face intently, not knowing what to expect. When she spoke, the soft sadness of her voice contrasted strangely with the harshness of what she had to say.

  ‘You must think me desperate indeed to dare suggest such a dishonourable course to me.’

  ‘I only do so,’ he cried, ‘because I cannot bear to see you humiliated.’ He gazed at her with tender entreaty. ‘Let me talk to this doctor, Helen. I will say that, unless he goes on with his divorce and tells Harry that he is going to, I intend to inform his superiors that he is taking bribes. To
avoid the loss of his medical licence, he will oblige me.’

  Helen shook her head and frowned.

  ‘How can it help me if he does cite Harry? A wife cannot seek a divorce on the grounds of adultery alone.’

  Charles’s hopes rose again with what he took to be acquiescence on her part. He turned to her, his normally impassive face glowing with animation.

  ‘Tell Harry that only you can prevent the case being brought. Explain your hold over the man. If you do that, I’d stake my life Harry will consent to a separation in a month or two and make you a generous settlement. He has too much to lose to dare gamble on whether you are in earnest. Everything’s on your side – Harry’s reliance on old Braithwaite, the election … everything.’ He jumped up unable to hide his feverish excitement. ‘Your chance may not come again. A few months’ time and Harry will snap his fingers at any threat of scandal. You must act now or not at all.’ Her thoughtful silence maddened him. ‘What do you say, Helen?’

  She hung her head for a moment and then said quietly:

  ‘I will not pretend to maidenly outrage at your proposition. I can’t tell you what I think now. I hardly know myself. I must have a few days to consider.’

  ‘You will send word then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Charles walked towards the doors, exulting in his success. Standing with his hands clasped behind his back – a pose which concealed his mutilated fingers – he said:

  ‘Now perhaps you will appreciate my mention of the servants. Harry knows his present danger well enough. It would suit him to be able to produce trumped-up evidence against you if you prove awkward.’

  ‘I have nothing to conceal.’

  ‘Much can be made of little,’ he replied with a grim smile. ‘I would suggest that after this meeting you receive no gentlemen if you are alone. I would also advise you not to sit for your portrait, if that is your intention.’

  ‘Nobody would believe that I would….’ She left the sentence unfinished, seeing his sceptical expression. ‘Harry would not stoop to using perjured statements,’ she ended, regaining her composure.

  ‘If I am to help you, Helen, I think you should abide by my advice,’ he said gently.

  ‘Very well,’ she sighed, ‘I will do as you ask, although I know you are no friend to Harry.’

  ‘If I were, you would hardly trust me.’

  Taking her silence for assent, Charles bowed to her and pushed open the doors. On reaching the Red Drawing Room, he did not bother to say anything to Strickland, but picked up his hat and cane and left the room. On his way to the stables, his elation was so great that he would have thrown his hat into the air or slashed the bushes with his cane, if he had not feared being observed.

  When Helen returned to the room, Tom could see that whatever Crawford might have said had made a deep impression on her. Her former gaiety and sharpness of observation had given way to a self-absorbed and indifferent mood. He almost felt that she had forgotten his presence until she sat down in a chair close to him and said absently:

  ‘I fear that I shall after all be too much engaged during the next few weeks to sit for you.’

  Tom looked at her aghast. She had made this devastating announcement with the distant unconcern that might have been appropriate for a remark about a change in the weather or the unexpected addition of another guest for dinner. The cruelty of the volte-face astonished and enraged him.

  ‘If your ladyship would rather another artist …’ he replied with icy control, deliberately leaving his sentence unfinished.

  ‘I told you your work pleased me,’ she replied sharply. ‘I have not changed my mind. The timing is all that is in question.’

  ‘Your ladyship knew that I would be leaving for London in two weeks and told me distinctly that you could spare the necessary….’

  ‘Perhaps even you have overlooked things on occasion, Mr Strickland,’ she cut in, evidently annoyed that he should have pressed her.

  ‘Indeed,’ he conceded with a show of contrition. ‘I hope your ladyship will not think me unreasonable if I ask you during which month at least I should expect….’

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot tell you anything at present.’

  Although Tom thought he could detect a hint of apology in her voice, her refusal to give him even the vaguest commitment convinced him that he had been rejected. If she had any intention of employing him she would surely prefer to guess now and change the dates later rather than say nothing. No reason could explain her behaviour satisfactorily, except an inability to tell him to his face that she had changed her mind. The initial shock had passed, and his hands shook with anger as he took his sketch book and ripped away the top three pages.

  ‘In case any further events prevent you sitting at all, please allow me to leave these with you as some reward for what will then prove to have been a wasted hour.’ He got up and placed the sketches on his chair. Now he was eager to leave as quickly as possible. The room with its boulle tables and scantly appreciated works of art made him want to shout his disgust.

  ‘I will keep them carefully, Mr Strickland.’

  Tom picked up his hat and moved towards the doorway, where he turned.

  ‘It may be unbecoming of me to make such an observation, your ladyship, but it might be less painful for any artist you may consider commissioning in the future, if you withhold your appreciation until you are able to make some firm undertaking.’ His memory of Goodchild’s treatment of him added to this rebuff, made his lower lip tremble.

  She rose and came several steps towards him, and said very softly:

  ‘Mr Strickland, not everything is always just as it seems.’

  ‘I have had proof of that today,’ he returned, refusing to be won over by the slight hint of pathos and appeal in her voice. How delightfully capricious to make a riddle out of a straightforward rejection; how amusing to try to make a man feel that his fall from favour is in some obscure and mysterious way impossible to explain; how enigmatic. Perhaps she thinks I will blame myself in the end, he thought bitterly, shutting the door behind him.

  Alone, Helen raised clenched fists to her face and pressed them against her eyes. She did not suppose that in Strickland’s position she would have behaved very differently. She cursed Charles and her husband silently and then with a sinking heart remembered what had been said in the conservatory. There were few things that she desired less than being beholden to Charles Crawford. But then, if Charles could be so resourceful, might she not be the same? The steward’s books must surely have some record of payments to a Manchester physician. They would look quite innocent there. Men paid dearly for their health, particularly those like Harry, who set such store on physical prowess. She could discover this doctor’s name; yes, and see him too … herself. She breathed deeply, feeling suddenly sick as she remembered Charles saying that he could not bear to see her humiliated. Perhaps he would not have to bear it after all.

  Not long afterwards she heard the sound of raised voices coming from the hall; the members of the hunt were returning. She rested her forehead against the cold marble mantelpiece for several seconds and then went out to meet them, a smile already on her lips.

  3

  Three miles from Hanley Park was Leaholme Hall, a smaller house but two centuries older, although the Crawfords had owned it for a mere seventy years. When the first baronet had bought the hall the trees in the park had been wastefully and wantonly cut down, leaving the place naked and unsheltered on its low eminence, and since then his successors had done little to remedy this beyond planting a few scraggy poplars and light-leaved birches, which now formed an interrupted screen to the south-west. The only old tree near the house was an ancient cedar, whose dark foliage conveniently obscured the modern brickwork of the new wing. Two stories high for the most part, with small leaded panes set in mullioned windows, the house was too low and rambling to be imposing, and too large to be idiosyncratically homely, like so many smaller Elizabethan halls and manor houses.


  As his gaze passed from the dark outer hedge of the topiary garden to the small clock tower above the stables, Magnus slowed his horse to a trot. His heart was full of misgiving and, apart from his eagerness to see his sister, he took little pleasure in his homecoming. In any case Leaholme Hall was his home only in the most limited sense, since it, like his father’s title and most of his possessions, would finally pass to Charles as Sir James Crawford’s heir. But, as Magnus rode under the shadow of the squat central tower, resentment of the inferior prospects of a younger son had little to do with his despondent mood; the roots of that lay in the host of memories summoned up by the creeper-covered walls of his childhood home.

  Even as children Magnus and Charles had been markedly different; Magnus devoted to his mother and sister; Charles, four years his senior, concerned only with an assiduous emulation of their father. When Charles had gone to sea as a boy of thirteen, Magnus had remained at home, rarely seeing his brother for more than a month or two every three years. The navy had also separated Magnus from his father who, like Charles, had disapproved of his remaining at home; but Magnus’s mother had encouraged him to do so and had employed a succession of tutors rather than have him sent away to school.