The corn was ripening to a brilliant golden colour on the morning that Marie walked to the station at Rosewell with Tibbie on her way to her first art class in Edinburgh. They were both as excited as they would have been were she going to Timbuktu.
Marie felt very smart in the new clothes that she and Tibbie had bought from the best draper’s in Rosewell. They’d chosen a soft blue dress, a Paisley shawl with a deep fringe and a maidenly little bonnet with artificial violets tucked into the rim. Everything smelt, and felt, new, which added to the feeling of adventure.
‘You look real bonny,’ Tibbie said as the train was about to leave and Marie smiled her thanks. She was in need of all the reassurance she could get. Going to Edinburgh was the boldest thing she’d ever done and she wished Kitty could have been there to see her off, but the harvest was beginning and it was impossible for her to get away from Falconwood.
Bethya’s maid was already seated in the corner of a second-class carriage, looking bored and indifferent. Mindful of David’s expressed concern about his sister braving Edinburgh alone, Bethya had detailed a housemaid called Ellen Merrilees to go with her. The girl was Edinburgh-born and boasted of her familiarity with the city. Unfortunately, she was also disdainful of country people and resented being told to take care of a girl who was unused to travelling.
The train was slow in starting and Marie, leaning from the open window, thought her heart would burst with nerves before it finally pulled away. Her nervousness was not only because she’d never been to a city before, she was also uncertain that she was doing the right thing. She was afraid that as soon as the art master saw what she could do, he’d send her straight back to Rosewell and this uncertainty had been fuelled by David who’d been steadily undermining her for weeks.
First of all he suggested that her nervous disposition would not be able to cope with the hustle and bustle of a city; then he switched to the tack that she would be scorned by the other students, girls who came from a very different social background to her own. He did this by advising her how to cope with them.
‘Don’t let those upper-class girls frighten you,’ he told her over and over again. ‘They’re not really any better than us. They just think they are.’
If she protested that she was going to learn how to paint and not to meet other girls, he smiled. ‘Of course you are. And you mustn’t be put out if the master says cruel things. He’ll be used to really good painters. You mustn’t let him sap your confidence.’
At last they chugged out of the station, leaving Tibbie waving frantically on the platform. Maddiston was the first stop and when they drew into the station, Marie saw her brother on the platform.
‘David, David,’ she called leaning from the carriage and he came running along to take her hand.
‘Be brave. And remember you don’t have to keep on going if you don’t like it,’ he said earnestly.
Behind her, Marie heard Ellen Merrilees sniff scornfully and when the train started again, she said, ‘I’ve never known folk to make such a fuss about a wee train trip. Haven’t any of you been anywhere before?’
Marie shook her head. ‘I certainly haven’t and neither has David. Our father was one of the workers who helped to build this railway line though, so he must have travelled a lot.’
‘Might have guessed as much,’ said Ellen, who shared the general condescension towards navvies. The knowledge made her treat Marie in an even more cavalier way.
It took all Marie’s pride not to clutch the maid’s arm when they stepped off the train at Waverley station, for the noise, the hustle and bustle were overwhelming. The city brought out a new aspect in Ellen too. She seemed to become taller and more bold than she was in Rosewell and intent on showing Marie how familiar she was with urban chaos. Shouldering her way through a crowd of other travellers, hauling Marie behind her, she headed for the steep flight of steps leading to Princes Street. It was a breathless climb but when they’d completed it, they found themselves in a broad thoroughfare packed with carriages, people on horses, men pulling handcarts and horse-drawn tramcars.
Marie quailed. Her heart began to beat very fast and she drew back into the mouth of the stairs, wishing she could retreat into the station, but Ellen had other ideas.
‘The place you’re going to is number ninety-three Princes Street,’ she said consulting a piece of paper she held in her hand. ‘This here’s Princes Street and it can’t be far. I’ll take you there and come back for you at a quarter past three.’
Though she resented being sent to look after a yokel, it was good to be back in her native city and free to spend half a day visiting friends and relations in the High Street, where she’d been born. She intended to get rid of Marie as soon as possible and make the most of her freedom.
She set a good pace, striding along the pavement and pushing loiterers aside till they found ninety-three, an elegant town house facing directly across to Edinburgh Castle, which sat high on its crag on the southern side of Princes Street.
A flight of broad white steps with black railings on each side led up to the front door from the pavement and Ellen stopped at the foot of them.
‘This is it,’ she said indicating the number painted on the door. ‘You’ll surely be able to manage to get yourself in? All you’ve got to do is rap the knocker.’
Marie flushed, angered by the assumption that she was a total incompetent. ‘Of course I can. I see you’re in a hurry. Please go.’
The maid didn’t protest but swept off down the crowded pavement like a sea cutter.
Marie lifted the enormous knocker and dropped it in its bed. The noise it made was so loud that she stepped back in alarm. Almost at once the door was opened by a middle-aged woman wearing a mob-cap and carrying a feather duster, who took one look at Marie and said, ‘Up you go, my dear. He’s waiting for you.’
A wide stone staircase with elegant metal banisters led to a broad landing off which a half-open door showed a long room overlooking Princes Street. It had vast, uncurtained windows to the front and the rear and the floor was polished wood that shone like glass. Dotted here and there across its wide expanse were tall wooden easels and canvas stools. There was no sign of anyone, however, and Marie hovered uncertainly on the threshold till the woman in the hall called up, ‘In you go. I’ll tell him you’ve arrived.’
As soon as she stepped into the salon, something wonderful happened. It might have been the smell of paint; it might have been the sight of the easels and the clarity of light flowing into the gleaming empty space, but her fingers suddenly itched to pick up a brush and start painting. Dazzled she walked down the middle of the floor staring at half-finished canvases propped on the easels and did not turn her head when there was a footfall behind her.
‘Do you like anything in particular?’ asked a warm voice and she whirled round to see a plump little man with an upstanding frill of grey hair and gold-rimmed eyeglasses. His clothes looked as if he had stepped out of the past, because he was wearing black silk stockings, black pantaloons and shoes with silver buckles, a high-necked white shirt and a black waistcoat that buttoned over his round stomach. The thought that flashed through Marie’s head when she saw him was, He looks like Humpty Dumpty.
This pleasing little vision came prancing towards her, walking on his toes. His hand was outheld and he cried, ‘Good day, my dear, good day. You are Lady Godolphin’s young friend, aren’t you? She wrote so glowingly of you, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. My name is D’Arcy Abernethy.’
All Marie’s nerves and misgivings were dispelled by the stimulating atmosphere of the studio and the warmth of this greeting. ‘Yes, I’m Marie Benjamin, Mr Abernethy,’ she said.
‘Professor D’Arcy Abernethy,’ he corrected her in a kindly way before taking her arm and leading her up to a window. ‘Just look out there. Isn’t that a wonderful view? What other city in Europe has a view like that?’ he asked her.
‘I’ve never been anywhere else,’ she told him and he laughed.
‘But you will, my dear, if Lady Godolphin is right. I hope you’ve brought some of your work to show me.’
She was carrying a small document case bought for her by Tibbie and raised it in his direction. ‘Yes, they’re in here,’ she told him.
He frowned. ‘Not very big, are they?’
She didn’t explain that she had never had access to large sheets of paper and practised her art on scraps or single sheets. Her nervousness returned.
Bending down she opened the case and brought out a sheaf of watercolours of the countryside around Camptounfoot and some of wild flowers that she’d done during her wanderings with Kitty.
He held them up in front of his face and peered closely at them, one after the other. This took a long time, for after he’d looked he laid them down on a tabletop and bent over them, finger on plump chin. Marie felt as if she were going to faint, for the suspense was almost more than she could bear and her self-esteem was falling with every moment that passed. David’s warnings about the high standard of art in Edinburgh resounded in her mind.
‘I’ll go back to the train and forget all about this,’ she said at last, watching the Professor’s solemn face.
He shook his head and asked, ‘Have you any others with you?’
‘No, I’m sorry, that’s all I brought. And anything else I’ve got isn’t better I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t be sorry, my dear. These are delightful. Lady Godolphin’s right. You have an amazing talent, although it’s quite unpolished. This flower picture has a Dürer-esque quality about it, and in the landscapes, the skies are good and skies are very hard to paint. Yes, you’ve mastered that. Remarkable in one so young. The perspective’s a little out in places… that needs work. And your range of colour is unsophisticated. You need to widen your palette.’
‘Do you really like them?’ she whispered, only half-believing him.
‘Like them? They’re delightful. It will be a pleasure to teach you, my dear, a real pleasure. We’ll start with drawing practice. The class does not begin till half-past one but I’ll fetch you a chair and a table and you can do some charcoal sketches. Wait here a moment till I get things organised.’
While Marie was gathering her sketches together again and putting them back in the case, the woman who had opened the door to her, came into the studio and asked, ‘Have you eaten? I’m sure you haven’t and Papa is so silly, he’d never ask. When he’s talking pictures, he doesn’t think about food.’
She’d called him Papa and Marie had thought she was the maid! Her face flushed scarlet with embarrassment at her mistake, but the woman did not mind. She was obviously used to being taken for the servant.
‘I’ll get you something,’ she said sweetly to Marie. ‘Sit down there on the window seat and I’ll bring it up.’ She brought bread and cheese, an apple and a glass of red wine, the first Marie had ever tasted. She was brushing breadcrumbs off her skirt when a group of young women came into the studio, laughing and chattering among themselves. They were all beautifully dressed in clothes and jewellery that made Marie’s gown look insignificant.
One of them looked across at her and asked, ‘The new girl? The Prof said you were coming today. Lady Godolphin’s friend, aren’t you?’
Marie nodded and one by one they smiled at her, saying their names which she immediately forgot because she was so flustered. The only one she remembered was a girl with very black hair swept tightly back from an elfin face with a pointed chin and sparkling dark eyes. Her figure was slight and wiry and she looked like a sporty young boy.
‘I’m Amy Roxburgh,’ she said with a wide smile before walking over to the far window and hiding herself behind a large white canvas propped up on an easel.
Before long the Professor came back, followed by his mob-capped daughter, who was struggling to carry a fold-up chair and a table at the same time.
‘Put them down there, Milly,’ he said indicating a spot by the window. ‘Then go and bring George,’
George turned out to be a huge plaster-cast head of a Roman emperor wearing a wreath of laurel. He was laid on the window ledge and adjusted to just the right angle by the Professor, who then indicated that Marie should sit down in front of him.
Make a drawing of George, my dear. Note his fine nose and the nobility of his brow. Make him look like the ruler of a vast empire. Go to it!’ he exclaimed, clapping his hands and skipping off into the middle of his other students.
As he made his rounds, Marie could hear him making comments on their work. ‘Oh no, Sibyll, your flowers look dead. They’re alive, paint them as if they are living and vibrant. I want to be able to smell them!’
When he came to Amy Roxburgh at her stance in the far window he stood back and sighed, ‘My dear Miss Roxburgh, everything you paint is larger than life and three times more coloured. Do try to tone things down a little.’
Gradually, however, as Marie pored over her drawing of George, the world around her withdrew and she became oblivious to the talk and laughter of the other students, who, as three o’clock approached, left off their painting and gathered again in chattering groups. It took a hand on her shoulder and the Professor’s voice in her ear to break her concentration.
It’s ten past three, Miss Benjamin. Your maid has come to take you to the station. That’s a good drawing you’ve done but when you come back I’ll show you how to master charcoal in order to give depth. You’re coming back on Friday, aren’t you?’
She stood up, wiping her charcoal-stained fingers on her handkerchief. After concentrating so long on the plaster cast of the Roman emperor it took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust and she staggered a little.
She did not fall because a hand slipped under her elbow and a laughing voice said, ‘You work too hard. You mustn’t do that or you’ll show all the rest of us up. Most of us are only here to pass the time, you know.’
It was Amy Roxburgh. Marie recovered quickly and said, ‘I’m sure you’re not!’
Amy nodded solemnly. ‘But we are. It’s good to be able to paint little pictures. It gives us a nice hobby for when we’re respectable married ladies. But it wouldn’t do to be too serious, would it?’
Unsure if she was joking or not, Marie stared at her and Amy grinned like a cheeky urchin. ‘The Prof said your maid’s waiting. You’d better hurry. I know what maids are like. Positive tyrants. I’ll see you again, won’t I? I always come here on Tuesdays and Fridays.’
‘Yes, I’ll be back on Friday,’ said Marie. All her dread about the painting class had disappeared and she could hardly bear to tear herself away from George.
The maid, Ellen, was waiting at the front door. Her face was scarlet and she smelled strongly of drink, for she’d spent three hours in one of the taverns of the Old Town among the cronies of her youth. When she saw Marie coming down the stairs, she ran forward and grabbed her arm. ‘Come on, hurry up, we’ll miss the train if we don’t run.’
Amy, descending the stair behind Marie, laughed and said, ‘Just like I said, tyrants. I’d get another maid if I were you, my dear.’
Ellen was pulling Marie out into the street, dodging in and out between strolling people like a rabbit making its getaway from a hungry dog. Marie had no choice but to run after her.
When they got to the station, Marie said angrily, ‘What’s all the hurry about? The train doesn’t leave for another ten minutes.’
Ellen didn’t bother to answer but dashed straight into the station buffet and ordered herself a glass of gin.
‘I need a drink before I can face that journey with you again,’ she said rudely, throwing it back and pushing the glass across the polished wooden top for a refill. By the time they boarded their train, she was staggering and two old women, already seated in the carriage, drew back from her in distaste.
When they alighted it was Marie who was looking after the maid. She took her into the ladies’ waiting-room and poured cold water on her face. ‘Can you manage to get back to Bella Vista on your own?’ she asked.
Ellen bridled. ‘Of coorse I can. Awa’ ye go and leave me be. I’m weel able to tak care o’ mysel’, no’ like some folk.’ In her cups she had abandoned the carefully modulated accent she adopted when at work and reverted to pure Edinburgh.
Marie left, determined that she had no need of a chaperon any longer. Friday could not come fast enough as far as she was concerned.
One important thing had to be done before she could return to Edinburgh, however. She must go to Bella Vista and report to Lady Godolphin about her first visit to the painting class.
Bethya was lying on the sofa with her eyes closed when the butler announced the arrival of Miss Marie Benjamin.
Marie, shyly entering the room behind the imposing man-servant was surprised to see the change in Lady Godolphin since their last meeting. She was no longer a figure of glamour in a rose-bedecked bonnet but a thin invalid lying on a sofa with the funny-looking dogs snuffling beside her. Her lips were tinged blue and her glorious hair seemed to have become less vital, for the long side tresses lay limply on her shoulders. However, her voice and manner were as vivacious as ever.
‘My dear Miss Benjamin!’ she exclaimed. ‘How kind. Have you come to tell me all about Professor Abernethy’s class? I’ve been dying to hear how you got on with him. He’s very quaint, I believe.
Marie took the chair that was indicated to her and said awkwardly, ‘Yes, your ladyship. He’s kind and he said he could teach me a lot – about colour and perspective in particular.’
Bethya said, ‘I do hope that means you’ve decided to continue going to Edinburgh.’
The girl nodded. ‘Oh yes, I want to go on attending the classes. The atmosphere of the studio makes me want to work. I’m so grateful to you, your ladyship.’ Marie was concerned at Bethya’s wan look, however, and soon rose from her seat, saying, ‘I don’t want to tire you out. I only came to say it was a wonderful experience and that I’d like to continue going to the classes…’
But Bethya gave a little gasp and gestured to her to sit still. ‘I’m only a little tired. Though I wonder what I’ve got to be tired about. I don’t seem to have to do anything but lie here. My husband is quite exasperated with me. No wonder he’s gone to London again! I want to hear everything from you today because I’m going back south tomorrow.’
Marie was genuinely disappointed. ‘So soon! I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said.
Bethya smiled. ‘But I’ll only be away till next year. When I come back I want to see all the pictures you’ve painted.’
Marie blushed. ‘I hope I don’t disappoint you, Lady Godolphin,’ she said.
‘You won’t,’ said Bethya confidently. ‘I’ve great hopes for you.’
She had no idea what a deep impression she made on Marie, who left Bella Vista that afternoon absolutely determined to justify Bethya’s faith in her, no matter how much hard work it took.
And she did work hard. She worked from the moment she set foot inside the painting studio till the moment when she had to clean her brushes and return home. At Camptounfoot, she continued to work, drawing and sketching from morning till night and all the time her skill was increasing. Her application and eagerness to learn was greater than that of any other student in Professor Abernethy’s experience and when he wrote to tell Bethya so, she, in her turn, glowed with the feeling of having done something useful. She looked on Marie as her private project. Somehow it was very important to her that the girl should do well.
There were other effects on Marie, however, apart from making her more skilled with brush and pencil. By the time six months had passed, she began to feel as if she were two different people.
At home in Camptounfoot, she was the same girl that she had always been – sweet-natured, shy Marie who was anxious to please everyone. She still looked forward to the occasions when Kitty was able to slip away from work and they could go for one of their old walks along the hedge-lined lanes that radiated out from the village. They tried to talk as closely and confidentially as they had always done but little by little their worlds were drawing apart and Marie unconsciously began looking at her old friend with more sophisticated eyes, to see her from a different perspective.
For when she went to Edinburgh Marie became a different person. There she was no longer a navvy’s abandoned child, a penniless orphan. In the art class she was a star, a person of mystery, a girl who held her own among the daughters of lawyers and judges, landowners and men of property. They assumed that she came from the same background as they did and, though she hated herself for the deception, she did nothing to disabuse them of that idea.
That meant she drifted into an uncomfortable situation in which she did not have the courage to make her true circumstances known. She should have told the truth from the beginning but the opportunity never seemed to come. Because she had been accepted into the art class under the auspices of Lady Godolphin, who was paying her bills, it was assumed that she must be some irregular relation to the Godolphin family. Many of the well-to-do girls had relations born on the wrong side of the blanket who were absorbed into their families in a sideways manner. If they were girls, they were educated and, hopefully, married off well or, failing that, provided with a post as governess in some superior family.
Marie’s fellow students assumed that she was one of those illegitimate sprigs of a lordly tree. They did not think less of her because of it.
Amy Roxburgh was always the most friendly of Marie’s fellow pupils and when she finished covering her own canvases with daubs of colour, she would come wandering over to see what Marie was doing and always expressed deep admiration.
‘You’re very clever. How do you do it? You must show me because I’m really quite serious about wanting to paint well, you see,’ she enthused. In fact, Amy was a vigorous and original painter but she lacked the discipline to concentrate on her work.
It was different with Marie, who was obsessive and painstaking. Whatever the Professor told her, she absorbed eagerly and put into practice. In a short time she finished with George and progressed to drawing other plaster casts taken from the Professor’s store. He brought out a succession of posturing nymphs, armless torsos and, one day, a large statue of a male discus thrower wearing nothing except a strategically placed fig-leaf, which caused a lot of girlish giggling.
One afternoon, when they were leaving the class Marie and Amy walked down the stairs together and Amy said, ‘No maid today, I see. That girl you brought on your first day was a complete bully.’
Marie smiled. ‘I only had her with me on the first day to make sure I found the house and because my brother thought I wouldn’t be safe alone, but I prefer being on my own.’
‘Your brother sounds like my parents. I wish they’d let me out without a servant but they always worry if I’m alone. You’ve obviously won your brother round. How did you do it?’ said Amy mournfully.
The coachman, who delivered her to classes and collected her when they were finished, was waiting impassively at the door while she stood making conversation with Marie.
‘My brother doesn’t live at home any more so he doesn’t know I’m going out without a servant,’ Marie told her.
‘Don’t you have parents – a mother or a father?’ Amy sounded surprised.
Marie shook her head. ‘Both of them are dead. My brother and I were brought up by Nanny Rush and when she died, we went to Mrs Mather. That’s where I live now.’
‘Orphans! How romantic.’ Amy clasped her hands in admiration.
‘You’re lucky to have a mother and a father. I don’t remember either of mine,’ said Marie sadly.
‘But your relative, Lady Godolphin, and your nanny have looked after you, haven’t they?’ asked Amy and Marie realised that Amy assumed ‘Nanny Rush’ was a servant who looked after children and that Bethya’s philanthropy was not caused by charitable admiration but by blood links. That was her chance to tell the truth but she let the moment pass. She was afraid of how Amy, with her liveried coachman and privileged life, would react to the news that her new friend was the daughter of a navvy and did not even know her father’s real name.
Then the real deception began. Marie was quick-witted and a fast learner, so, by listening to the chatter of Amy and the other girls in the painting class, she quickly absorbed their mores and mannerisms. She watched how they behaved, she listened to their descriptions of what happened to them when they were away from classes and, little by little, she began to feel as if she belonged to their world.
She hated herself for her silent lies but having let things go for a long time, it was too late to back out.
One cold winter day when the train had been very late in arriving at Edinburgh because it had encountered snowdrifts on the top of the hills that cut the capital off from the Borders, Marie arrived shivering with cold and found the girls all crowded round a blazing fire and doing no work as the Professor was sick with an ague.
Amy immediately noticed that Marie’s fingers were blue and wrinkled on the tips with cold.
‘My dear, look at your hands. Don’t you wear gloves?’ she exclaimed.
Marie did not own a pair of gloves, only fingerless mittens like those worn by women working on the farms, and she did not want to own up to them though they were in her pocket. ‘I forgot them, she lied. To change the subject she told the girls about the tremendous snowdrifts that had held up her train and how wonderful the world looked in its cloak of pure white. ‘I wanted to paint it there and then,’ she said.
Amy, however, was not thinking about painting. ‘You’ll never get home tonight. Look, it’s started to snow again,’ she said, pointing at the southern-facing window. A curtain of drifting snowflakes like big goose feathers was sailing past it.
Marie was upset. ‘But I must go home! Tibbie’ll be so worried about me. I’ll have to go now…’ She was pulling on her cloak again in a great hurry to get back to the station but Amy stopped her.
‘Don’t be silly. You don’t want to be in a stranded train all night, do you? You’ll come home with me and we’ll send a telegraphic message to your Tibbie.’
‘But Tibbie’s never had a telegraph message,’ protested Marie. In her experience no one in the whole of Camptounfoot had ever received such a thing. It was quite an occasion when the postman delivered a letter to anyone’s house.
‘Then she’s going to get one today,’ laughed Amy. ‘My man’s outside. I’ll send him to the railway station to despatch it. I think I’ve enough money to pay for it.’ She shoved a hand into the pocket of her skirt and came out with a green morocco purse that she emptied into her other hand. Several guinea coins glittered there and she said casually, ‘Oh yes, I’ve enough. I’ll go down and tell him what to do. Come with me Marie and give him the address for the message. I think it should be something like, “Don’t worry, am staying in Edinburgh till the snow stops with Amy Roxburgh, who is very respectable.” Will that do?’
I shouldn’t be doing this. I should try to get home, thought Marie but the lure of staying the night with Amy was too strong so she obediently wrote down Tibbie’s address… ‘Mrs Mather, Camptounfoot’, which implied that she dominated the village and not that it was so small that everyone there knew everybody else.
When the coachman went off with the message, Amy clutched Marie’s arm and cried, ‘Isn’t this fun! My family will love to meet you because I’ve told them all about you. My mother loves art. That’s why she sent me to the classes. She thinks that I’ll turn into a female Leonardo da Vinci or something but I’m afraid there’s not much hope of that. Bring some of your drawings to show her.’
The Roxburgh carriage was snug because the attentive coachman tucked the girls in beneath fur-lined rugs and placed a copper pan of warm charcoal at their feet. Through its little windows they could see that snow was already piling up in the streets of the city and Marie felt as if she were in a fairy story as they drove along. She had never been in such a grand conveyance before because her road travelling had been on the exposed top of the cart of the Camptounfoot carrier who sometimes gave her and Tibbie a lift to Rosewell or Maddiston.
The pair of horses pulling Amy’s carriage slithered and slipped along Princes Street and headed out of the city in a westward direction. They passed lines of houses and shops with lights festively blazing in the windows. The shops were all crowded as if people were rushing out to spend their money because of the bitter weather. Amy sensed her companion’s excitement and laughed. ‘You’re acting as if you’ve never been on a busy street before!’
‘Well I haven’t. Rosewell’s only like a little corner of Edinburgh. And it’s much more old-fashioned, another world.’
Amy said, ‘I suppose it is, but this part of the town’s too new for me. I preferred our old house to the one we live in now. We used to have a place in George Square and there was constant coming and going on the pavement outside the front door, but Mama wanted a house with a park so now we live in Murrayhill. She named it after her family… she’s a Murray and very proud of it. She even named one of my brothers Murray, too!’
Marie had heard enough of the conversation between the art class girls to realise that family names were of paramount importance and could guess that the Murrays set themselves higher than the Roxburghs.
It took half an hour and a hard haul for the horses to cover the three miles to Murrayhill, which, to Marie’s amazement, turned out to be a vast Palladian-type mansion sitting on the side of a south-facing hill and staring out over lawns, all covered with snow.
The gates were open in anticipation of Amy’s arrival and when the carriage drew up to the front door a male servant ran out and hurried Amy in through the snow, exclaiming, ‘Come in quickly, miss, your mama’s been worried about you in this terrible weather.’
‘I’m all right, but I’ve brought a real storm victim with me. Miss Benjamin can’t get home to the Borders. Prepare a room for her please,’ ordered Amy.
‘I don’t want to be any trouble,’ breathed Marie, which made both the servant and Amy look at her in surprise.
‘It’s no trouble. We’ve got dozens of empty bedrooms. You’re welcome to one of them,’ said Amy.
Mrs Roxburgh was sitting in the library before a blazing fire and she certainly didn’t behave like someone who was worried about her daughter’s journey through the storm. When the girls walked into the room she looked up without surprise and kept her finger in the book she was reading to mark her place.
In appearance she resembled Amy a little, though there were grey streaks in her hair and her face was deeply wrinkled. To Marie she seemed as old as Tibbie, which was a disappointment because she’d visualized Amy’s mother as young and smartly dressed, rather like Bethya.
What she lacked in looks, however, Mrs Roxburgh made up for in confidence and assurance. She behaved as if the introduction of an unknown girl as a house guest was an everyday occurrence, smiled at Marie, shook her hand and then said, ‘You must be the Miss Benjamin my daughter has been talking so much about. I believe you’re a very talented girl. The only one of Professor Abernethy’s present pupils with genuine talent, according to Amy.’
Marie flushed. ‘I don’t think I’m as good as that.’
Amy chipped in, ‘Now, now, Marie, don’t act false modesty. You know perfectly well that the Prof s in a wax of delight about having you in the class. You’re the only real painter among us.’
‘You’re a good painter too,’ protested Marie.
Mrs Roxburgh shot the stranger a sharp glance over her eye glasses and said, ‘Amy could be better if she tried. Perhaps your example will make her change her ways.’
Amy laughed. ‘Mama, you only want something to hang on your walls and tell your blue-stocking friends that it’s by your daughter.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed her mother unabashed. Then she looked at Marie again. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll show me something you’ve done, Miss Benjamin.’
Amy giggled. ‘I knew you’d ask that. I told Marie to bring some of her drawings with her so’s you could see them. She’ll show them to you after supper.
The finger came out of the book. ‘I’m interested now. Bring them in. I want to see what my daughter’s been raving about for weeks.’
The reception of Marie’s drawings was sufficiently enthusiastic to make her embarrassment even deeper.
‘How old are you?’ Mrs Roxburgh asked after she had leafed through the drawings several times.
‘I’m sixteen.’
‘Who taught you to draw?’
‘No one. I’ve been doing it since I was very small. My first teacher was Nanny Rush. She taught me to copy pictures out of books and when I wanted to do something with colour she bought me a little box of paints.’
‘How old were you then?’
‘About five I think.’
‘Mmm. Like Mozart or Thomas Bewick,’ said Mrs Roxburgh, handing the sheets of drawings back. ‘You’re obviously one of those freaks of nature. Be careful that too much teaching doesn’t spoil what you’ve got.’
Marie took her work and put it back carefully in her case. She didn’t know if she’d really been complimented or not and Amy saw her confusion. ‘Who was Thomas Bewick, Mama?’ she asked.
‘An eighteenth-century wood engraver who did wonderful countryside scenes, quite untaught. When he was only a child he made drawings with a stone on the hearth of his home in Northumberland.’
Amy looked at Marie and said, ‘My mama has more information in her head than encyclopedias have between their covers. She should have been a university professor.’
‘If I was a man that’s what I would have been,’ said her mother bleakly, taking up her book again.
This was obviously a signal for the girls to leave and Amy took Marie’s arm saying, ‘Let’s go. I’ll show you the room you’ve to sleep in. We’ll see Mother at dinner.’ Mrs Roxburgh only waggled a vague hand in their direction as they were leaving the room, for she was deep in her book again.
Outside the door Amy laughed. ‘Isn’t she funny? She liked your pictures, though. I could tell she was impressed and it takes a lot to impress her.’
When she was left alone in the bedroom assigned to her by a maid, Marie wandered around gazing at the heavy furniture and the oil paintings that adorned the walls. The paintings were of the ‘impressive mountain landscape’ school with shaggy cattle and rushing streams which did not appeal to her but she appreciated the luxury and comfort of the room. A fire blazed in the hearth, the bed was deep in blankets and a feather quilt, and a pile of books lay on a table by the bedhead.
When the maid came back and asked if she would be required to help the guest dress for dinner, Marie shook her head, for she had no baggage except her drawing case and the thought of going down to dine in her travelling clothes with a collection of strangers terrified her.
‘I feel a little ill. I don’t think I want any dinner. Please give my apologies to the family,’ she said.
‘You’re ill? I’ll fetch the housekeeper,’ said the maid and hurried away.
The housekeeper asked what was the matter and Marie croaked, ‘My throat hurts.’
‘I’ll tell Madam,’ said the housekeeper.
Eventually Mrs Roxburgh arrived with her glasses still on her nose. ‘I’m told you’re ill. What’s the trouble?’ she asked.
‘My throat is sore,’ said Marie, wishing that this whole charade had never started.
‘Let me look at it,’ said Mrs Roxburgh. When she had peered down Marie’s open mouth she sat down on the bed and said, ‘It looks perfectly all right to me. Are you nervous of us? Is that what’s wrong?’
‘Yes, I’m nervous. I’m not used to strangers…’
‘You don’t dine out much, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, my dear, I’ve found in life that sometimes the things you dread turn out to be not so terrifying if you face them straight on. You’ve got to start being sociable some time. I often don’t feel like taking dinner with a crowd of people but even if I dread it, it’s often very enjoyable. Come down to dinner and sit by me and you’ll be all right. There’s not many of us, only seven at table tonight, and Amy does most of the talking so you won’t need to exercise your vocal chords too much.’
Marie sensed that this woman guessed a good deal more about her than she was saying and she longed to be able to unburden herself of her secrets, to tell all about Tibbie and Bethya and Kitty and David and her dead father and mother, but she was far too overwhelmed, so instead she nodded her head and said, ‘Thank you. I’ll come down to dinner.’
In fact, as Mrs Roxburgh had predicted, the dinner party was not so terrifying after all, though Marie quailed when she saw the table gleaming with silver and laden with glittering glassware. Again her hostess seemed to know what was worrying her. Whenever a new course arrived, she took up the requisite spoon, knife or fork and held it still for a few seconds before she started eating.
Amy did indeed do most of the talking, teasing her three handsome brothers and her indulgent father, who laughed at every sally she made. She was obviously the spoiled darling of the household and only her mother seemed to look on her without utter infatuation.
The brothers, all as dark as Amy, were called George, Murray and Albert and they dazzled Marie by their poise and handsomeness. They were all older than their sister and went out of their way to be charming to her friend, but Marie was particularly taken with the middle brother, Murray, who had the most brilliant smile and most dancing eyes of them all. Between the attentions of Murray and his mother, she lost her nervousness and began to enjoy herself.
The dinner party broke up after a lot of family banter and laughter. When she went to bed she felt as if she had been reborn; another new world had opened up before her and was welcoming her in.