The Buttonmaker’s Daughter. Merryn Allingham

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СКАЧАТЬ the chance to sit ostentatiously in the family pew. Alice had as much right as they to a seat there, but she never took it. The Summer family sat to the rear; years ago, a tacit agreement had emerged within the congregation that this was where Joshua’s family belonged. Her mother did not appear to mind the discrimination and the thought crossed Elizabeth’s mind as she entered the church that Alice was glad to be away from her brother. She was scared of him. Why, she didn’t know. Uncle Henry had never scared her.

      She could see him now. He was a tall man and his head and shoulders were clearly visible through the nodding plumes and feathers of the women’s toques, donned for this special moment of a special day. He sat rigidly straight, his glance never deviating from the stained glass figure immediately ahead. The window, fittingly donated by the Fitzroy family, held the image of Jesus in an unusually martial pose. Aunt Louisa sat to one side of her husband and, next to her, Dr Daniels. That seemed odd. It appeared they had a lot to say to each other, small sharp whispers between the hymns or as Eddie Miller’s and Ivy’s banns were read or as the vicar made his way to the pulpit. She wondered if her aunt or uncle might be feeling unwell, to need the doctor in attendance.

      When the last prayer had been said, the congregation trickled from the church to shake the minister’s hand as he waited in the porch to greet them. She had thanked him for his sermon and begun to walk along the brick path to the lych gate, when she realised that her mother still lingered by the church door. She looked around and saw her father taking an inordinate interest in several of the more ancient tombstones, their engravings barely visible beneath the lichen. Of William and Oliver there was no sign. They had sat almost entirely silent during the service, and she’d been about to congratulate them on their forbearance, when like two young colts freed from harness, they had chased off, one after another, to the fields that lay at the back of the church. Her mother appeared distracted and seemed not to have noticed.

      It was a feeling Elizabeth shared when Aiden Kellaway emerged from the stone porch and came up to her. She had not seen him in church, had hardly dared look for him. And now he was here, in person rather than in thought, and she was most definitely distracted. He looked a good deal smarter than when she’d encountered him in the Italian Garden, though his hair had not remembered it was the Sabbath and still waved wildly across his forehead.

      ‘Good morning, Miss Summer.’

      Her mother turned sharply at the unfamiliar voice and she became conscious that Alice’s eyes were fixed on them.

      Her colour mounted. ‘Good morning, Mr Kellaway. I hope you are well.’ She tried for a neutral tone.

      He gave a small nod. ‘And you, Miss Summer?’

      ‘Indeed, yes. And how is your work progressing?’

      ‘Well, I thank you. And yours?’

      ‘My work?’ She sounded bewildered.

      ‘Your painting.’

      That left her more bewildered still and very slightly affronted. Art was not work, not in her world. It was an acceptable hobby for a young woman, that was how her family thought of it. And most other families, too. There were women, she knew, who’d escaped the straitjacket, a few who’d attended art school and were even painting for a living. Laura Knight, for instance – she’d heard her spoken of last year in London. But they were exceptional and she was not. At Summerhayes, she remained alone in sensing the true nature of what she did. Alone in knowing the passion that gripped her. But it was a secret, brooding passion, and one she had never shared.

      ‘It’s going well,’ she stuttered, thinking of the lake scene now emerging from the canvas in her studio. ‘But tell me about the temple.’

      ‘Tomorrow we raise the first of the columns – it’s an important moment. We should have a good idea then of how the finished building will look. But I fear the lake will be a blot on the picture.’

      ‘The stream is still dammed then? I’m sorry to hear it.’

      She was burbling. She must sound ridiculous but she had to say something. For days, she’d allowed her mind to conjure an image of him, hear his voice, imagine a conversation. Now faced with the reality, she was flustered and flailing.

      But he treated her remark seriously, or had the good manners to do so. ‘As far as I know, the situation remains the same. Though I sense there may be moves afoot.’

      ‘In what way?’

      ‘I’ve a feeling it’s to break the dam that has been constructed, though I know little of what’s planned.’

      It was probably as well to know little. Breaking the dam sounded altogether too grave, but his words reminded her that her father had yesterday been closeted with Mr Harris and several of his men for some hours.

      ‘You must pay the Italian Garden another visit,’ Aiden was saying, ‘and see the temple as it rises. There’s an excellent view from the summerhouse and the pathway around the lake has now dried completely. We have been lucky with the weather.’

      ‘It would be good to see it,’ she said impulsively.

      But then checked herself. Would she go? She found herself looking into a pair of misty green eyes and thought that she might. Her mother would be shocked by such forwardness, and her father disapprove heartily of her mingling with men he considered servants. But the chance of a small adventure was enticing.

      She became conscious that Aiden was looking at her in the same intent way that earlier she’d run from, and found herself trying to fill the silence that had grown between them. ‘At least today you can forget about the temple. Sunday must be a day of leisure, even for you.’

      He smiled down at her and she grew warm beneath his gaze. ‘Will it be meat and pickles for lunch?’ she gabbled. She’d remembered the supper he’d spoken of and there was something that appealed to her in that simple meal.

      ‘No, indeed.’ His eyes lit with laughter. ‘On Sunday, Mrs Boxall treats her lodgers to a feast – a leg of lamb at the very least. A trifle singed around the edges, but nevertheless roasted meat. And, if we’re lucky, a slice of Sussex Pond pudding to follow.’

      She was about to ask him how such a pudding tasted, when her mother called to her. Whatever had distracted Alice, it was not weighty enough for her to ignore her daughter’s protracted conversation. ‘Elizabeth,’ she called sharply, ‘I need you here.’

      She was apologetic. ‘Enjoy your meal, Mr Kellaway.’

      ‘And yours too, Miss Summer.’

      ‘Who was that?’ her mother asked, as she reached her side.

      ‘One of the men working on the temple, Mama. He is apprenticed to Mr Simmonds.’

      The information seemed unwelcome. ‘You should not be talking to him for so long,’ Alice scolded. ‘Your place is beside me.’

      She felt the familiar wash of suffocation, the familiar burn of annoyance. But any urge to challenge her mother died when Henry Fitzroy and his wife emerged from the church, their son and his tutor a step behind. Dr Daniels was at the rear of the small party. She hadn’t noticed Gilbert in the church, but of course he would have been there. Her young cousin was too small and too quiet, altogether too quiet. She saw her aunt bend her head towards her son, the large plumes on her headdress almost smothering him. Louisa was looking extraordinarily smart, she thought.

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