Ocean Child, Page 4

  They reached the stone wharf, but it seemed to move beneath her feet, and she clung more tightly to Algernon’s arm.

  ‘I don’t see the governor,’ he muttered crossly, as he freed himself from her grip and tugged at his jacket lapels. ‘Neither is there any sign of a welcoming committee.’

  ‘There’s just me, I’m afraid, Algy. The governor’s tied up in some debate over irrigation.’

  Clarice almost fainted again. Lionel Bartholomew stood before them, resplendent in military uniform, his fair hair and magnificent moustache brushed to a gleam, blue eyes alight with mocking humour. He’d hardly changed in the last ten years and was still the charismatic, handsome Lionel who made her heart pound, and her senses sing.

  ‘General Bartholomew.’ Algernon sketched a stiff bow, his dislike clear in his expression. ‘I am disconcerted the governor could not spare a few minutes to welcome me after such a long journey.’

  ‘He’s a busy man,’ said Lionel, without a hint of apology.

  Clarice’s pulse raced as he took her hand and looked into her eyes. ‘Welcome to Australia, Clarice,’ he said softly.

  As he kissed her hand she breathed in the long-remembered scent of him and trembled. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  ‘We should be on our way,’ said Algernon. ‘Take us to our accommodation, Bartholomew, and see that our trunks are delivered before nightfall.’

  Lionel’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes lost their good humour. ‘My man will take care of your luggage,’ he replied, ‘and as your accommodation is not quite ready, I have arranged for you to stay at my home.’

  Algernon’s protest was forestalled. ‘We have been in the sun long enough, Algy. Clarice is not looking at all well.’ Lionel tucked her hand under his arm and led the way to his carriage.

  She could feel strength beneath the fabric of his sleeve and found it hard to breathe in such proximity. ‘Thank you, Lionel,’ she managed, as they reached the welcoming shade of the trees and she reluctantly freed her hand. ‘I am finding the heat intolerable.’

  His gaze swept over the draped skirt with its soft bustle and many petticoats, and the tightly laced bodice. ‘I’m surprised your sister didn’t warn you to dress more appropriately,’ he said, his expression concerned.

  Clarice blushed and swiftly glanced at Algernon who was still looking grim. ‘I dared not follow her advice,’ she murmured. ‘Algernon would not approve.’

  Lionel’s moustache twitched and his blue eyes narrowed. ‘Unless he wants a wife who faints every five minutes, he doesn’t have a choice.’ He helped her into the carriage, adjusted the fringed canopy and took a bottle out of a basket stored beneath the seat. ‘Lemonade,’ he said, offering her a glass. ‘It might chase away the heat until we get home.’

  Clarice’s blush deepened as their gazes held before he moved away. She sipped the lemonade, her heart drumming so loudly she wondered that Algernon couldn’t hear it. The passion she’d thought dead had been revived by Lionel’s kindness, his smile and the touch of his lips on her hand – but it was a dangerous, frightening passion that must never be reciprocated or permitted, for its very rebirth was an act of betrayal against her sister Eunice – his wife.

  *

  Clarice opened her eyes, determined to dismiss the memories. She regretted not being able to show her deep affection for Lorelei, but past events had proved beyond doubt that emotions were dangerous when given free rein. They weakened resolve and laid bare the soul to hurt and betrayal.

  Yet, in the silence of her bedroom, she felt the stirrings of the old passions which had led her on the path to perdition and the ache in her heart for everything she had lost. ‘Damn you for stirring up the past, Joe Reilly,’ she muttered, ‘and I pray this is an end to it.

  *

  Lulu’s nerves had got the better of her, and she’d felt unwell all day. As the time approached for the guests to arrive at Bertie’s London gallery, she’d had to lie down in his office for a while and take one of her pills. It was terrifying to reveal her work to such a knowledgeable crowd, and this exhibition was not only the culmination of a year’s work but the largest Bertie had staged for her. She dared not let him down.

  Lulu had dressed carefully in a shift of shimmering peacock blues that enhanced her eyes. Her hair tumbled down her back and framed her face, held in place by a blue silk scarf artfully tied around her head so the fringing fell to one side. Clarice’s white fox stole was draped over one shoulder and her only piece of jewellery was a silver armlet.

  The Kensington gallery was alive with the sound of many voices, the popping of corks and the clinking of champagne glasses. A haze of cigarette and cigar smoke was interlaced with exotic perfumes as white-coated waiters glided silently between the clusters of people gathered to discuss the art and catch up on the city gossip. Jewels sparkled and silks whispered beneath feathers and furs as the guests drifted and mingled.

  Feeling much better, she ignored Clarice’s disapproving glare, took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and raised it in salute to Bertie, who was on the other side of the room chatting with Lulu’s best friend, Dolly Carteret.

  At forty-two, Bertie Hathaway cut a splendid figure in the beautifully tailored tuxedo. He was tall, handsome and broad-shouldered, with the assured air that came from great wealth and a clear understanding of his lofty position in society. His fortune was inherited, his wife the darling of London society and his connections impeccable. Clarice had gone to school with his grandmother, and Dolly had attended the same finishing school as his sister. Dolly was engaged to his younger brother, Freddy; their marriage would unite two of the wealthiest families in England.

  Hitching Clarice’s white fox fur over one shoulder, Lulu sipped the champagne and turned her critical gaze to the bronzes that were displayed on plinths about the room. It was interesting to see them from a fresh perspective, and she was delighted at how well they looked in this large white space.

  The women and dogs she had sculpted exuded effortless elegance in their elongated, sleek lines, and she was thrilled at how well the greyhound had turned out. But it was Ocean Child that was attracting the most attention, and she could see why – for he looked magnificent.

  Her gaze raked the room. There was still no sign of Maurice, despite the fact he’d promised to come, and that made her cross. Bertie had reluctantly agreed to show some of his paintings as a favour to her, and the least Maurice could have done was put in an appearance.

  ‘Well done, Lulu. I told you it would be a success.’

  She turned and smiled as Bertie refreshed her glass. ‘Thanks. It’s a marvellous evening, and I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done.’

  Bertie’s smile didn’t quite reach his dark eyes. ‘It’s a shame Maurice didn’t turn up, but it was only to be expected, I suppose. I have to say, his stuff isn’t really to my taste, and I suspect I’ll find it hard to shift.’

  They regarded the rather menacing oils on a nearby wall, and Lulu experienced a familiar pang of unease. The torture in Maurice’s soul was all too clear in his art. It lay in the dark paint, the twisted figures and haunted eyes – even in the erratic, angry strokes of his palette knife – but the world had moved on from such horror. Bertie was right; they would be difficult to sell.

  She sipped her champagne and leant closer to him. ‘Has anyone actually bought anything of mine, or are they just here for the champagne?’

  His black brow lifted quizzically. ‘My dear girl, what a thing to ask.’ He led her towards a private corner where his assistant hovered with the order book. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’

  Lulu was in a daze as he went through the book. Each of the eight sculptures had a limited edition of six. She would keep one of each, but nearly all of the rest had been placed on order. She leant against a convenient pillar and stared at him, unable to speak.

  He smoothed back his hair, his smile almost smug. ‘After tonight, Lulu Pearson, you will be the toast of London.’ He raise
d his glass to her and drained it. ‘I’m delighted for both of us,’ he said, ‘and as I’ve already received several enquiries about commission pieces, I hope you haven’t planned on going anywhere for the next year or so.’

  *

  The supper party at Bertie’s Knightsbridge mansion was a glittering success, and as Lulu stepped out of the taxi she realised dawn was already lightening the sky. Clarice had retired to her hotel room some hours ago, but Lulu had stayed on, elated with excitement and champagne. Now she was weary and longing for bed, fully aware that there was always a price to pay for overdoing things. Her heart was thudding quite painfully as she looked up to the windows of the upper floor. All was in darkness. Maurice was either still out, or more likely asleep.

  She clung to the handrail as she went down the concrete steps to the garden apartment and stood for a moment to catch her breath before opening the door. Dropping her bag and borrowed stole on the table in the narrow entrance hall, she eased off her satin shoes and padded into the kitchen to make cocoa.

  As she carried the cup down the passage she noticed a glimmer of light coming from beneath her bedroom door and frowned. She could have sworn she’d turned everything off before she went out. Opening the door, she almost dropped the cup at the sight of Maurice sprawled in the chair before her gas fire. ‘What on earth are you doing in here?’

  He uncoiled from the chair and ran his fingers through his already mussed hair. ‘I thought I’d wait up,’ he muttered. ‘Sorry if I frightened you.’

  ‘Thanks, but there was no need.’ She had meant to ask him to return her key, but somehow she’d kept forgetting, and now was not the time to get into a wrangle over it.

  ‘How did it go?’

  Despite her weariness she couldn’t help but grin. ‘Brilliantly – and you’ll never guess … Bertie sold one of your paintings.’

  ‘Really?’ Maurice’s face was suddenly wreathed in a smile. ‘Which one?’

  Lulu sank on to the bed and eyed the pillows with longing as she tried to remember the title of the landscape. ‘Storm over the Somme,’ she replied through a vast yawn. ‘I’m sorry, Maurice, but I’ve had it. I must sleep.’

  ‘I know it’s late, old thing, but you can’t possibly want to sleep after such good news. This could really be the start of something for me, don’t you think?’

  Lulu suspected Bertie had bought the painting himself out of kindness, but would never reveal her thoughts to Maurice. The poor chap needed bucking up, and the sale of just one of his works had done that already – but it was rather galling that he hadn’t even asked about how her work had been received. ‘Perhaps it will ensure your presence at the next exhibition,’ she said drily. ‘Bertie wasn’t at all pleased by your absence.’

  He ran his fingers through his hair again and shrugged. ‘You know how it is. I just couldn’t face all those people.’

  ‘I know,’ she sighed, ‘but if you really want to make it as an artist, you’re going to have to find some way of dealing with that fear.’ She looked up at him as he paced the small room. He was obviously elated at the news, but she just didn’t have the energy to cope with it now. ‘Go to bed, Maurice, and let me sleep. Otherwise I’ll be fit for nothing.’

  ‘But I need to talk, Lulu. This—’

  Her patience snapped. ‘Go away,’ she said sharply. ‘I’ve had an exhausting day and I need to sleep. We’ll talk later.’

  ‘Oh, well, if you’re going to be like that.’ He dropped his chin and headed for the door.

  Lulu sank against the pillows and closed her eyes. She regretted her spark of anger, but was feeling too exhausted to even apologise. At least he was leaving.

  Maurice had his hand on the doorknob when he changed his mind. ‘There’s a letter for you, by the way. I put it on the mantelpiece.’

  Lulu watched him through her lashes as he hovered by the door, obviously hoping for some response. As she remained silent, he shrugged again and closed the door behind him with a none-too-gentle bang.

  She lay there watching the flickering shadows from the gas fire being swallowed up by the light seeping through her window. Her heartbeat was uneven and a tightness in her chest made it difficult to breathe – but as she relaxed into the soft bed she felt the restriction ease and her pulse slowly return to normal. This was definitely a case of having overdone things, and Maurice was the last straw.

  *

  Lulu had fallen asleep almost immediately. Now the sun was going down again, the cocoa was cold and it was almost time for dinner. She sat up, realised she was still wearing her clothes from the previous night and decided to have a bath. Clarice was expecting her for dinner at the hotel.

  Feeling refreshed and relaxed after her bath, she returned to the bedroom to dress and caught sight of the envelope Maurice had left on the mantelpiece. The writing was familiar. ‘It looks like Mr Reilly is apologising for his mistake,’ she muttered with a wry smile.

  She thought about ignoring it until she returned from dinner, then decided not to – it might be interesting to read what his excuse was for making such a silly error.

  Dear Miss Pearson,

  I was disconcerted by your reply, and wondered at first if perhaps I had been given the wrong details. But Mr Carmichael assures me you are the owner of Ocean Child, and the papers to prove it are enclosed.

  I have made further enquiries into the purchase of Ocean Child and into the character of your Mr Carmichael, and can find nothing untoward in either. Yet your denial of ownership places me in a very awkward position. Please examine the enclosed documents carefully, and if you still maintain you have no knowledge of this purchase then I will have to consult a solicitor. My racing license is at stake if there is the slightest doubt regarding the ownership of Ocean Child, and although he is one of the most promising horses I’ve trained, he cannot be entered into races or sold on until this question is cleared up.

  I would appreciate an early answer.

  Joe Reilly

  Lulu read the letter again before going through the documents he’d sent. The sales certificate and registration papers looked important, with seals and stamps and gilded lettering, but as she’d never seen anything like them before she couldn’t tell if they were genuine.

  She examined the signatures of the auctioneer, the representative of the Victoria Turf Club and the mysterious Mr Carmichael, then stared out of the window for a while, deep in thought. She was bewildered, but had to admit to a growing sense of excitement. It wasn’t every day a girl was given a racehorse. Perhaps she had a secret admirer – for what other explanation could there be? Shadowy possibilities came and went and she couldn’t quite dismiss them even though she knew she was fantasising.

  As Lulu dressed for dinner, she came to the conclusion there was only one person who might know the answer, and as she was leaving London early next morning, there was no time to waste.

  *

  Clarice was waiting for her in the hotel lounge, resplendent in black silk and pearls, a glass of sherry on the low table before her. She looked up as Lulu joined her. ‘This is a pleasant surprise, Lorelei. I wasn’t sure you’d come after such a long night.’ She signalled to a passing waiter, who brought another sherry.

  ‘I’ve had a good rest,’ murmured Lulu, as she sipped her drink and tried not to show just how much she hated sweet sherry.

  ‘It was a very successful night, my dear. I think you can safely say you have made your mark on London, and dear Bertie is delighted. Have you seen the papers?’

  Lulu’s mind was on other things, but she took the newspapers, dutifully read the reviews of the exhibition and the gossip columns, which waxed lyrically over Bertie, his supper party and the high-society people who had attended.

  ‘Ghastly photographs, of course, but then what can one expect from the press?’

  Lulu smiled. ‘Dolly is as glamorous as ever, but I look like a startled rabbit, and far too pale.’

  ‘You had me and Bertie worried, but you rallied, just li
ke I knew you would. Breeding always tells, my dear – it is our family’s strength, and thankfully you seem to have inherited it despite everything.’

  Lulu pretended to sip sherry, her thoughts far from Clarice’s opinions on class and breeding.

  ‘You don’t seem very excited by all the fuss,’ said Clarice. ‘If anything, you appear distracted.’

  Lulu put down her barely touched drink. ‘There is something on my mind,’ she began, ‘but I’m not sure where to begin.’

  ‘At the beginning, dear. You know I can’t concentrate on prattle when I’m looking forward to dinner.’ She pulled a compact from her handbag, eyed her reflection sourly and applied a defiant dash of lipstick.

  ‘I’ve heard from Joe Reilly again.’

  ‘To apologise, no doubt.’ Clarice sniffed.

  Lulu shook her head. ‘He’s still insisting I own the horse and has even sent proof.’

  The clasp on Clarice’s handbag was shut with a snap. ‘Probably forgeries. The racing world is rife with corruption. Let me see those.’

  Lulu saw the complacency ebb from Clarice’s face as she carefully read each document and, by the time she’d come to the last, her lips had formed a thin line. She was frowning, and a small pulse jumped in her jaw as she set the papers aside. Making no comment, the sherry forgotten, she stared into some distant place beyond the hotel lounge.

  Lulu knew better than to badger her with questions, but this silence was frustrating.

  ‘It is obvious Mr Reilly is convinced you own the animal, and one has to have a certain amount of sympathy for him,’ she said finally. ‘As for this Mr Carmichael … I’m not sure where he fits into this at all.’ She drifted into silence again, her expression unreadable.

  ‘It’s all quite exciting though, isn’t it?’ Lulu blurted out. ‘I mean, it’s not every day one is given a racehorse.’

  Clarice’s expression was brittle as she emerged from her thoughts. ‘It’s a Trojan horse, Lorelei. Not to be trusted.’