Page 63 of Rivals at Ashmore Castle

‘I know. There was the little Fernhurst chit a couple of years ago. And Miss Sanger last year…But she wasn’t connected. You’re quite sure? You couldn’t be mistaken?’

Mawes shook his head. ‘Lady Alice Tallant, Stainton’s sister. I’ve met her at her aunt’s house.’

‘Damn these people,’ Wentworth said, in frustration. ‘Why do they send them to us? Using us as a finishing school! Wasting my time! By next year she’ll be married to some milk-faced scion of the upper crust, and spend her life opening village fêtes. Such a waste, when she has a real talent.’

‘I don’t suppose they have any idea of that,’ Mawes said, puffing serenely.

‘Or would care, if they did! Well, thanks for warning me, old fellow. Decent of you. I shall cut all ties immediately, of course.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘Oh, Lord, look at the time! I must get cleared up.’

‘I’ll take myself off. Good luck with it, Wentworth. And we’ll see you on Friday, at Lawrence and Laura’s.’

After a sleepless night, Rachel had spent a restless day wondering what to do. She had walked from room to room until even her patient aunt had said, ‘Can’t you settle down with a book to read, dear? You’re making me nervous.’ So she had picked up a book at random and taken it into the morning-room for privacy, and stared unseeing at the pages, worrying at the problem. Gone back to Scotland. Not just a visit. That would be ‘Gone to Scotland,’ or ‘He’s in Scotland.’ Gone back to Scotland was final.

Could she write to him? Explain it was all a horrible misunderstanding? But she didn’t know where in Scotland, and how could she find out? And he had gone without telling her, without even taking leave of Aunt Caroline, as mere politeness would dictate. He must have been so disgusted with her he had seen no point in such gestures, given he’d never see any of them again. She brooded miserably.

There were visitors at luncheon, which meant she didn’t have to talk, for which she was grateful. When they had gone, Aunt Caroline said, ‘Now, dear, I’m engaged at Lady Vane’s for tea. Do you want to come with me? You needn’t if you don’t want to – we’ll be discussing the benefit concert so it will be dull. It might be better if you rested before the opera this evening – I think it’s a long one. You’re looking rather peaked. This has seemed such a long Season – I’m starting to feel glad it’s almost over.’

‘Yes,’ Rachel said. ‘I mean, I’ll rest, thank you.’

‘Are you quite well, dear? You look a little flushed.’

‘I’m rather tired, Auntie. I – I think I’d like to go home.’

Her aunt looked her surprise. ‘Home? You mean, down to Ashmore? Well, you’ll be going next week anyway, won’t you, to the celebration for that fellow with the strange name who’s being given a medal? Cecile is going to accompany you and Alice. On Wednesday, I think it is. Can’t you wait a few days longer? We have cards for every day until then – and they might not be ready to receive you sooner.’

Rachel, struggling to hold back tears, could not argue. ‘Yes, of course I’ll stay until then,’ she said. ‘I’ll just go…My room…Rest a little.’

She hurried away, and her aunt watched her with surprise and faint concern: Rachel so loved the Season, – usually she couldn’t get enough of it. But then her mind reverted to the annoyance of tea at Lady Vane’s and the discussion of the benefit, which would ramble on so long, as such discussions tended to, that she would hardly be back before dressing bell. They’d been invited to the Porchesters’ box and were dining with them first, so it would take a long time to dress – everything had to be just so. And the Porchesters were such opera lovers, they would want to leave in time to see at least some of the first act, so dinner would be on time. She couldn’t remember which opera they were to see but she had a horrid suspicion it might be Carmen. An evening of singing was bad enough, but all that unregulated passion was so tiring…

Alice had gone to luncheon on Sunday at Aunt Caroline’s locked in a world of her own. It was lucky that there were outside visitors so there had been no attention on her. She answered when spoken to but had no memory of what anyone had said or even who had been there.

Her life was about to change. Next week she would sit for Ivor Wentworth, for his major work. She would be his muse, his inspiration, and in return he would teach her. She would become a true artist, and they would be everything to each other. Theirs would be a great love that echoed down the years. Once she had taken this first apocalyptic step…She was terrified at the thought of it, yet she could not think of turning back. Terrified, and elated…She understood that she would be putting herself outside conventional society. There would be a scandal, they might have to go away. She might never see her family again. But what did it matter? In the service of Art, no price was too high. Artists were above convention. They lived by different rules.

Her aunt had said something about going down to Ashmore the following week – her and Rachel. She had smiled vaguely and nodded. She didn’t think she would be going. Everything would be different by then.

As she entered the school on Monday, Mrs Platt, the secretary, called her from her office. Bron raised her eyebrows and walked on to the cloakroom while Alice went in.

‘A note for you, Miss Tallant,’ said Mrs Platt, holding out an envelope across the desk.

Alice opened it. Inside was a single sheet of heavy paper. Across it, in black ink and what she now recognised as Wentworth’s spiky writing, two sentences sprawled.

Your lesson on Tuesday is cancelled.

I shall not be teaching you next term

I. B. Wentworth

There was not much to reread, but Alice reread it. No salutation. No explanation. She looked up, bewildered, and Mrs Platt did too, perhaps wondering why she was still standing there. ‘Are you sure this is for me?’ Alice asked. ‘It doesn’t have my name on it.’

‘Mr Wentworth gave it to me himself and asked me to give it to you.’ There was a hint of disapproval in her voice, though Alice could have no idea of what.

‘He’s cancelled my lesson. Did he say why?’

Mrs Platt twitched impatiently. ‘He gave me the envelope, nothing more. I expect he’s going home a few days early. It’s not unusual.’

There was the reason for the disapproval. Alice felt it, but her own concerns were greater. ‘I thought he lived in Stafford Street,’ she said.

‘That’s his Town house. His home is in Surrey, with his family. Haven’t you a class to prepare for, Miss Tallant?’