‘And then there’s that other rule, isn’t there, India? No outsiders allowed.’
India eyed him through the corner of her eye, trying to ascertain his mood. He had sounded slightly annoyed; spotting the hint of mischief in his eyes, she laughed. ‘Well, I will say this, you do learn fast, Mr Rhodes.’
‘So do you, Lady India,’ he shot back. ‘How long do you intend to stay up here?’
‘I’d planned to stay for a week before this happened. But who knows, I could be here longer now, if I’m out at the house and not at the store in Leeds. I’ve a lot of work there, and I’ll have to stay until it’s finished.’
‘When can I start the painting?’
‘Tomorrow. Hopefully. It all depends.’
He picked up on the concern in her voice, and said quietly, ‘I’m sure Adele will show up, India, I really mean that. And certainly I hope so.’
‘Thanks, Dusty …’ Her voice trailed off and she searched in her bag for the car keys, found them and headed towards her car parked next to the barns.
‘I do envy you this,’ Dusty said when he drew to a standstill, patting the bonnet. ‘An Aston Martin DB2-4, a piece of vintage mechanical art if ever there was one.’
She smiled up at him. ‘Wasn’t it nice of Daddy to part with his favourite wheels?’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘But then I am his favourite, you know,’ she added, getting into the car.
‘Don’t rub it in,’ Dusty responded, his laughter rising. ‘Give me a shout later.’
‘I will.’ After blowing him a kiss through the open window she turned on the ignition.
Once the Aston Martin had disappeared from sight, Dusty turned on his heels and crossed the cobbled yard, went down to the ornamental lake. He stood looking into its depths, taking pleasure at what he was seeing – a perfect reflection of the Georgian house on the hill, a mirror image clearly visible in that placid body of water as smooth as glass. How clever they were, those architects of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, he thought, nodding to himself. Whenever the topography allowed, they set the house on a hill and created a man-made lake at the bottom so that the house was reflected in all its glory. A double image. Very impressive indeed.
Dusty had studied architecture for a time, and he was particularly interested in the designs of Andrea Palladio. He considered it part of his training as an artist. And he had always thought that a Palladian villa set in a verdant English park was a very beautiful sight. He saw it as the perfect marriage of a building with nature. Dusty loved the classicism of the designs, because he loved all things classical, and of the Renaissance. William Kent, a follower of Inigo Jones, the great seventeenth-century architect, had designed and built his house, Willows Hall, over two hundred and seventy-five years ago, and it was pure Palladian. Dusty had fallen in love with it the first time he had seen it, although he had become concerned when he began to understand how neglected it truly was. The surveyors he had brought in had told him it was mostly surface damage, and that everything could be restored to its original state with some good repair work by master craftsmen.
He began to walk towards the house now, climbing up the grassy hill, and his thoughts automatically swung to India Standish. If anyone looked as if she belonged in this house it was she; after all, she had grown up in a very similar place – Clonloughlin in Ireland, a renowned Georgian house of impressive proportions and great beauty. And so of course she was at ease with the grand overtones of Willows Hall. He knew he looked right in it, too, even though he had been brought up in a back-to-back, a far cry from this place indeed.
Dusty had lavished a great deal of time, effort, care, love and money on Willows Hall over the past eight and a half years, and in doing so he had made it his own; he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
When he reached the top of the hill he stood gazing at the south front façade for a moment, and he couldn’t help admiring the way the pale stone gleamed in the afternoon sunlight; it looked as if it had been polished. It was perfectly beautiful.
As he lifted his eyes to the sky Dusty was happy to see that the thunderclouds had blown away; it wasn’t going to rain after all. Turning, he walked down the length of the terrace, making for his studio. This stood a little away from the house on the left, and it was of his own design. From the outside it looked like a guest villa, echoing the main house since it was in the Palladian style.
When Dusty went inside he stood blinking for a moment. The studio was one vast, open space with a high-flung ceiling that seemed to soar endlessly upward, with many windows on both sides. There were a series of skylights set in the ceiling, and the whole area was filled with intense glittering northern light. Still blinking, he touched several buttons and electric window shades slid into place over the windows, dimming the daylight, cooling the room.
Moving lithely, he crossed to a drawing board, picked up a charcoal crayon and quickly made a series of dramatic and vivid sketches of India’s face. Suddenly, he stopped, threw the crayon down and stepping away from the drawing board, went and lowered himself into an armchair.
Why was he painting her? The idea was ridiculous. It was really asking for trouble. In every way. Trouble for her. Trouble for him. Her father wouldn’t like her association with him; whatever she believed, he knew he was right. They came from entirely different worlds. She was an aristocrat from very high altitudes; he was a working-class boy. Yes, he was famous. Very famous, in fact. And rich. All because of his talent, and doing something he couldn’t live without doing. Painting. But as far as he was concerned, the Earl of Dunvale wouldn’t care about those things. Other considerations mattered to a man like her father. Propriety and background, and stupid things like where he had gone to school, and what his father did, and whether he had a posh accent.
No, it wasn’t fair to her, or to himself, actually, since he had no intention of becoming serious with India. He was wasting his valuable time with her, when he could be painting, and he was setting her up to get hurt when he said goodbye. Yes, she was trouble. For a variety of reasons.
The red phone on the counter top began to ring. He looked across at it balefully, reluctant to answer it. But it didn’t stop after six rings, so he got up in exasperation and strode over to the counter, snatched at the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Russell?’
‘Hello Melinda.’
‘How did you know it was me?’
‘Recognized your voice.’
‘I want out of this place, Russell,’ she wailed. ‘Get Dr Jeffers to release me.’
‘You know I can’t. You’ve got to stay there until he thinks you’re properly de-toxed. Then he’ll sign your release. I don’t have anything to do with it, you know that.’
‘Russell, please ask him.’
‘You know very well he won’t listen.’
‘Please don’t punish me this way.’
‘I’m not doing that, Melinda. You signed yourself into the clinic.’
‘I’ll tell Atlanta what you’re doing to me.’
‘I’m not doing anything. Anyway, she’s too young to understand.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘Yes, she’s wonderful. I spoke to your mother yesterday and she said she’s as happy as a lark. Look, Melinda, I’ve got to go. I’m working.’
‘Will you talk to the doctor? Please.’
‘Yes, I will. I’ll give him a ring tomorrow. Now rest quietly, and get well. ’Bye.’ He hung up and stared at the phone. Now that was trouble if anything was. And then some.
He groaned. What was he going to do about