‘No, dear, it is very sweet of you, but I could not possibly inflict that household on you. You will be quite all right here with Mrs Mills and Rainbird and if you want to go to any parties while I am away, I will drop a line to Lady Cawston and Mrs Bridling-ton—their girls are usually invited to all the events you are. Or you could stay with your friends at Upper Wimpole Street if you do not feel quite comfortable here while I am out of town.’
‘I will be perfectly easy here with Mrs Mills, I assure you, Aunt Kate. In any case, Mrs Blackstone and Millie and Zenobia are going to Putney for a few days. Zenna has found details of a house that sounds exactly right for the school and Mrs Blackstock has a cousin living nearby, so they are all having a little holiday. They went off this morning.’
‘Are you sure you will be all right?’ Lady Parry regarded Tallie distractedly. ‘It hardly seems fair, but I could not possibly take you with me—one never knows what one might find.’
‘Dear Aunt Kate, I will be perfectly fine, I assure you, and I promise I will send a note round to Jane Cawston or Sally and Lydia Bridlington if I wish to go out in the evening. Although I would not be sorry for a little holiday from parties myself. I will have a quiet evening or two and will doubtless be all the better for it.’
‘If you are certain, dear.’ Lady Parry smiled with relief. ‘I intend leaving as soon as possible. It will mean a late arrival, but the roads are good and there is a full moon tonight. As my sister rarely retires before three in the morning, I have no fear of arriving and finding the house in darkness.’
In a remarkably short time—a circumstance that Tallie had no difficulty attributing to Nick Stangate’s forceful methods of organisation—Lady Parry’s cavalcade set off. Tallie stood on the front step to wave goodbye to her ladyship’s travelling carriage, Lord Parry driving his curricle and Nick astride one of his raking hunters.
He reined back at the kerbside, obviously desiring a final word, and Tallie came down to stand by the big horse.
‘I will stay overnight at the Palgrave Arms, just in case the situation is beyond my aunt’s capabilities to resolve, and will return tomorrow. If you need to speak to me, send word to Brook Street and I will come and take you for a drive.’
‘Will you not call?’ Tallie asked, puzzled. Nick was such a regular visitor to Bruton Street that it seemed strange that he would not come there directly on returning from Sussex.
‘Given that you are alone in the house save for the servants, I do not think that you should be receiving gentlemen visitors.’ He touched his whip to his hat and gathered up his reins, then hesitated. ‘If there should be any problem while I am away … if you should feel in any way alarmed by this man who may be following you … send to Mr Gregory Tolliver, Pickering Place, off St James’s Street.’
‘Who is he?’ Tallie asked, remembering William mentioning meeting Nick leaving ‘his agent’s’ house in that same location. How frank was Nick going to be with her?
‘He is in my employ and will know what to do,’ he said curtly, then unexpectedly leaned down and touched her cheek with his gloved hand before spurring the horse into a canter after the retreating carriages.
Thoughtfully Tallie climbed the steps and went into the house. So, Nick’s agent—presumably the same man whom he had used to make his enquiries into her background—would ‘know what to do’ about the mysterious man. Which meant that Nick was confiding in him and was taking it seriously. A slight tremor of anxiety was replaced by one of irritation. Why could he not confide in her and tell her what he thought was afoot?
She answered her own question. Because he does not trust you, Tallie, she thought grimly. You will not confide in him, so neither will he in you. Stalemate.
The next morning Tallie was enjoying the novel sensation of having nothing to do, nowhere she was expected to be and no one to please but herself and was employing the holiday by trimming a promenade hat of Lady Parry’s from last season. It was restful to be able to employ her old skills again, to concentrate closely on what her hands were doing rather than having to think or talk.
There was a knock at the door, which she ignored, then looked up in surprise when Rainbird brought a letter in. She was rather enjoying the solitude and regarded him with well-concealed irritation when the butler proffered the salver.
‘The man is waiting for a reply, Miss Grey.’
Tallie turned the folded sheet over in her hands, then recognised the handwriting: Mr Harland.
Her hands froze, but her heart seemed to turn in their stead. Why should the artist be writing to her? Slitting the wafer seal with her sewing scissors, she found that his letter was lengthy enough to occupy two closely written sheets.
The artist had penned it in an obvious state of excitement to inform Tallie that he had sold all six of the large classical canvases in which she featured.
With an internal sensation of having eaten far too much ice cream, Tallie read on. Please do not suppose that there is the slightest danger of the works being seen by London Society, Mr Harland had written, obviously anticipating Tallie’s anxieties. The gentleman concerned tells me he is buying them to decorate his private rooms in his castle in the far north of Scotland. He has lately returned from the Mediterranean lands and wishes to have a tangible reminder of the classical landscape.
Tallie blinked at the closely written sheet. It seemed likely enough, she supposed—but how had this Scottish patron heard of Frederick Harland, and particularly how did he know he had classical scenes for sale?
She opened the door and looked into the hall. As she hoped, it was Peter who had brought the letter and who was sitting patiently on one of the hard shield-back hall chairs, hat on knee, waiting for the expected answer.
‘Peter? Could you come in here, please?’ With the door safely shut on Rainbird, Tallie asked, ‘Have you any idea how this gentleman who is buying Mr Harland’s classical canvases came to hear that he had them available?’
‘Why, yes, Miss Grey—he said he made enquiries for a painter of classical scenes at the Royal Academy. You know, Mr Harland talks a great deal about his ambitions for that style of art, even if he does not exhibit.’
‘Oh.’ That seemed plausible, but Tallie was still uneasy.
Peter appeared to understand. ‘He is genuine, Miss Grey, I’m sure of that. Gentleman with a strong Scottish accent and his skin deeply tanned by the sun—he’s been in the south, all right.’
Tallie turned back to the letter. The artist must want some sort of response from her, otherwise Peter would not be waiting.
As you know, none of the canvases is entirely complete and the purchaser—who does not wish to be named—requires to take them back with him in two weeks’ time. In most cases the outstanding work is architectural or landscape and I have every expectation of completing these before he leaves. However, the last canvas, the ‘Diana’ scene, requires one more sitting from the live figure. While fully appreciating your reluctance to be further involved with my work, might I hope that you will oblige me on this one final occasion? To think that six major pieces of mine will be hung together in a fitting setting is a matter of such importance to me it gives me the hope that you may find yourself able to oblige me.
Tallie dropped the pages onto the sofa and stared blankly at Peter. ‘Do you know what is in the letter?’
‘Yes, Miss Grey. Mr Harland wishes you to sit for him one last time.’
Tallie’s immediate reaction was simply to say ‘no', but then the recollection of how grateful she had been for the money Mr Harland paid her, the gentlemanly manner in which he had always treated her and his intense belief and pride in his classical paintings made her hesitate.
‘I do not know when I can sit for him, though,’ she said. ‘Lady Parry is away, but when she returns she will