House of Shadows (19 page)

‘I did warn you it was best my enemies thought I was dead, didn't I, honey?'

Suddenly, I was furious with him. Angry that he didn't kiss me, that he didn't tell me he loved me, that he didn't even talk to me as if I was an intelligent adult. ‘Stop treating me like a child!' I heard my voice quiver.

Tom took me in his arms, and his kiss was all I could have wished it to be. His mouth parted mine, and I felt my breath become ragged. I wanted him to caress me, make love to me, but he pulled away. ‘I need a shower.'

‘That's the truth,' I replied.

‘You must have an exhibition in London soon,' he said into my ear. ‘It's vital you have some work ready within the month. Understood?'

He left me, without another word, and I saw him lower himself from the window and my heart was in my mouth. I didn't know if I should love him or hate him. Did he love me, or was he using me for some scheme of his own? And yet I found myself in my studio, almost as soon as he had left, mixing my paints and obeying his command as if I was a slave girl and he my master.

My other painting was almost dry; soon I would glaze it and it would be finished. This time I did a painting of the stairs – in greys and blues, with just a narrow slant of yellow-orange light, falling from the landing down into the large ornate hall, to give the canvas some colour. A ghostly shadow sat on the stairs, one arm raised to the balustrade and a long thin sleeve revealing a slim delicate arm. The face was hidden by long sweeping hair, which was almost transparent against the darkness. It was good; even I knew it was good, perhaps the best thing I'd ever painted. I seemed to improve with every work I executed. Was I really such an accomplished artist, I wondered, or was something in the house urging me on?

My life was full of questions, the main one being did Tom love me. But I was also worried about my work – was it natural inspiration or some spiritual intervention? I didn't know the answers, and yet I finished the painting in two days: one for the initial composition, and the second day for making the small changes I thought necessary. There weren't many: a little flare of light on the sweep of the hair; the pattern of colour in the carpet briefly revealed in a narrow patch of light; and one bare long finger highlighted as it touched the balustrade.

When I had completed the painting, exhausted, I went to the kitchen, where Mrs Ward had left me a cold pie and some beef sandwiches. I made a hot cup of tea, realizing I'd eaten nothing all day. I was losing weight, and I was thin to start with. I could feel the clothes hanging off me, and so I decided to treat myself to a new frock when I went into Swansea. I rarely bought clothes so I had coupons to spare, and suddenly I was filled with the urge to dress up, have my hair done and put on some lipstick. What I must have looked like first thing yesterday morning I dreaded to think. And yet my heart lightened as I remembered the way Tom's mouth had parted my lips and how I'd wanted him to love me, to make love to me, however improper it might be, however wrong and forward, and me a single girl. Such behaviour could only have been excused in the war; then death had been an ever-present threat.

The next morning I was in my studio again when Mrs Ward came up to me with a tray of Camp coffee that smelled strong and delicious. ‘Have you heard the gossip?' she asked, her eyes curious as she examined my face.

‘No. I've been working hard for my next exhibition.' I made a gesture towards the painting.

She hardly glanced at it. ‘More ghosts,' she said with raised eyebrows. ‘Anyway, you know Tom, the American air force man?'

‘Of course I know Tom.' I was impatient and a little worried. ‘What gossip could there possibly be about him?'

‘It seems he's run away to London and got involved with an heiress,' she said, watching my face carefully.

I managed to hide my shock. ‘Good for him,' I said smoothly. ‘I hope he'll be very happy.' I turned away and began to work like a fiend. I was outwardly composed, but inside I felt as if jagged glass was tearing up my heart.

In the next few weeks I found that work was my salvation from the bitterness, anger and jealousy that seemed to eat my soul. My paintings were executed with a frenzy of brush strokes and in strong colours, but always with a shadowy corner and an ethereal being, hardly there, behind a stone arch or similar. Outside the house and in, I painted scenes of the shadowed hallway, the landings, and even the blue room, and wished that Beatrice was there to talk to about my troubles.

Mrs Ward poked and pried, but I remained elusive and avoided her when I could; she seemed to feed off my misery. It seemed to me that she was blooming and I was fading away into nothingness like my ghosts.

The day of the exhibition dawned. In the early morning, a van arrived to take my canvases to London. Gone were the days when I was expected to transport them myself. Now I was treated like royalty, Mr Readings practically putting out the red carpet for me.

Red; that was the colour I would wear, I decided. Once the van had left, I took the train to London and sat in the first-class compartment like a lady born to riches and honours. No one would know I was grieving inside.

I'd heard nothing from Tom – not a word of explanation, not even a plain letter telling me of his whereabouts. I still felt his last kiss on my lips, and I pushed the thought away in case I began to cry.

At Swansea, Miss Grist got into the compartment and gave me a sunny smile as if nothing had ever been wrong between us. ‘Lovely crisp day,' she said as she sat down, letting a flurry of cold air in from the corridor before she pushed the door shut and pulled her fur collar around her face. Her hat of soft felt with pretty bird feathers she pulled into place on her brow, and I realized she looked very smart; far from her usual frumpy self. ‘I'm actually coming to see your exhibition,' she said, almost preening as she adjusted the hat. ‘I thought it was time to see what all the fuss was about.'

‘Might you steal my ideas for yourself?' I couldn't help the sarcasm. ‘Just as you stole my list of guests. That didn't work, fortunately for me. It seems
your
ghost was a trick.'

‘And yours isn't?' She took out a small mirror from her bag and reapplied her lipstick. It was a new lipstick – still very expensive and exclusive after the barrenness of the war years. I couldn't resist staring at it.

‘Have you been left an inheritance, Miss Grist?'

‘You could say that.' She didn't enlarge. ‘Your ghosts?' Her eyebrows were arched. ‘Do you really believe the old house is haunted then?'

‘I couldn't say.' My tone was cold. ‘All I know is there's no trickery involved. Strange things happen of their own accord at Aberglasney.'

‘Oh, I know that, dear Miss Evans.' Her tone was almost offensive. ‘I also know that your American disappeared and then got engaged to an heiress.' She smiled a thin smile. ‘Of course, you didn't know
this
, do you? Tom Maybury is engaged to
me
, Miss Evans. I am the heiress in question.'

‘You? Really?' I spoke as calmly as I could, though I was seething inside. I left her as soon as I got off the train, and I waved at Mr Readings as he came to greet me, walking along the platform at a smart pace. I could see his car outside the station; it was old, pre-war, but it gleamed with the loving care he'd lavished upon it.

‘Riana, how lovely you look, but you are far too thin! We shall have to feed you up while you are in London.'

Suddenly, Miss Grist was at my side again. ‘Well, I must say goodbye, dear Miss Evans,' she said, as though we'd been having an amicable conversation on the train. She smiled at Mr Readings, and from sheer politeness he bowed and took her hand.

‘Charmed, dear lady. Charmed, I'm sure.'

As we stood there, a huge Rolls Royce drew up. Miss Grist waved her gloved hand and, with a sweet smile at the chauffeur, stepped inside the magnificent car.

‘She must be a lady of good standing and landed gentry to boot. Where did you meet her, Riana?'

‘She works part-time at the local library,' I said flatly.

His eyebrows shot up. ‘She must be doing that as a hobby or something. By the look of her she's extremely wealthy and has very good taste. You should have invited her to the exhibition.'

‘Don't worry, she informs me she's attending,' I said acidly. ‘We must make sure she has the best champagne and we must sweet-talk her, though I warn you she's not the sort to buy my work.'

‘Humph!' Mr Readings chose to ignore my ire. ‘Talking about the exhibition, your work is as colourful and as excellent and individual as always – with just a touch of melancholy, if I might say so.'

‘I'm glad you're pleased. I've worked really hard on the exhibition.' I hadn't actually. The work had come easily to me, the brush strokes quick and sure. When I stood at my easel in the studio and painted the house I loved it was as though it was wrapped around me, urging me on, inspiring me in a way I'd never felt before. ‘And of course you are entitled to say so! You are exhibiting the paintings for me, after all.'

‘And selling them, my dear Riana, and selling them. We shall have a triumphant day tomorrow, you'll see; the opening will be a great event.'

I wondered why I wasn't feeling excited. I used to love the exhibitions; being the centre of attraction still felt like a new experience for me. Of course, I was still trying to swallow the shock of being taunted by Miss Grist. Was Tom
really
interested in her because she had come into money? And why had Tom asked me to put on this exhibition in the first place?

I could feel my hands shaking. My nerves were strung taut; I felt I would snap into little pieces at any moment. Tom engaged to be married was pain enough, but Tom married to a grasping, duplicitous woman like Miss Grist was impossible to believe!

And then I calmed down. It wasn't true, of course it wasn't true, none of it was true. Tom was lying low as he'd planned, so he couldn't be planning to marry anyone. The way he'd kissed me and held me, the kindness he'd shown me, the love – yes,
love
 . . . He was
my
man. Wasn't he?

I realized then Mr Readings was talking to me.

‘You feeling all right, Riana?'

‘I'm just tired. That's all, I suppose. Working day and night on the paintings and then the journey up to London . . . It's all been a bit wearing, to tell the truth.' My physical tiredness was nothing compared to my emotional exhaustion, but I had to make some excuse to Mr Readings. ‘I'll be all right after a rest on a cosy bed, so please don't worry.'

‘You'll be all right for the exhibition I'm sure, my dear Riana. Put on your best glad rags and rouge your pretty cheeks and you'll be just fine.'

That evening at the exhibition I did feel fine. My weariness vanished as I coaxed myself into believing that Miss Grist was somehow behind the story about Tom and her sudden wealth. What was she up to now? She'd cheated me once over my list of guests, so why should she be telling me the truth now about her engagement? Come to think about it, I hadn't seen a diamond ring on her finger – just some huge stones that could have been bought from any traveller's basket of cheap trinkets.

The exhibition was a great success, and in the end I began to enjoy myself – although mainly because Miss Grist didn't show up. I was fawned over and praised and received so many compliments and smiles that it was a wonder my head wasn't turned. But I knew something the eager buyers didn't: it was the influence of Aberglasney that helped me create such emotive paintings, with the feel of age and ghostliness and mystery. But still. Seeing the pictures framed and hanging on the wall of the well-lit opulent gallery I was impressed myself – and surprised at what I had achieved.

I sipped at the gin and tonic Mr Readings handed me and suppressed a grimace at the taste. Alcohol was a luxury I appreciated, but I would have preferred a nice hot cup of tea. As it was I slipped my rather utilitarian shoes off when no one was looking and stood in my stockinged feet, feeling the softness of the carpet under my toes with a sigh of pleasure.

‘You look very lovely tonight, Riana.' Mr Readings suddenly stood beside me. ‘I didn't realize how tiny you are, and all that luxuriant red hair! You should have your portrait painted, young lady. Why not do a self portrait?'

‘I couldn't,' I said quickly. ‘I can paint other people, but not myself. I'm afraid I'd find too many faults.'
Or see through my own image
, I thought,
and see the flawed unsure being I really was.

‘All right, I'll get young Justin to paint you. A new talent, Riana. Not as original as you or as talented, but worth watching all the same. Come, I'll introduce you.'

Still shoeless, I trailed along reluctantly behind Mr Readings. I didn't want my portrait painted, and I was tired. All I wanted was to go to the privacy of my room in the guest house and go to sleep and dream of Tom.

Justin was pleasant and very handsome, in a film star sort of way. His hair was brilliantined to his head, and his features were in perfect proportion. He was dressed in a fine suit and a black bow tie, very proper for the occasion, but for me Tom's rugged good looks were far more attractive than this picture of male perfection standing before me. I held out my hand and murmured a greeting.

‘Charmed to meet you, Miss Evans.' Justin bent towards me and kissed both my cheeks in what I thought was a very French way and somewhat affected for an English man. ‘I do love your work,' he enthused, and although I knew as an artist himself he probably meant what he said, I made the appropriate modest replies, and after a few minutes of stilted conversation I tried to move away.

Mr Readings wasn't having it. ‘Justin, I would like to make a suggestion. How would you like to paint Riana's portrait?'