couple of hours ago.’
Olivier moved in to explain.
‘She found me in the kitchen. Bit of a shock.’
Lettice intervened, her husky growl setting Jamie’s teeth on edge. Someone had once misguidedly compared her to Honor Blackman, and it had given her carte blanche to purr like a Bond heroine at every opportunity.
‘Lucky thing. I’d love to find you in my kitchen.’
Jack was still looking totally flummoxed. Jamie was surprised that his reactions were so slow. Her father was usually so reactive and spontaneous. It was, she supposed, his age. But to her relief, he finally smiled and held out his arms.
‘Jamie, darling. How wonderful.’
Jamie slid into his clasp and hugged him to her, not knowing what to say. Lettice clapped her hands like a little girl.
‘What are we waiting for, everyone? This is a champagne moment if ever I saw one. There should still be some chilled in the boot. Olivier!’
She barked his name and to Jamie’s amazement Olivier obeyed without demur. Then she turned to Jamie with a dazzling smile. She’d definitely had a face-lift since the last time she’d seen her.
‘Why ever didn’t you tell us you were coming home? There’s a marvellous invention called the telephone, darling. We could have met you at the airport.’
We? Us? thought Jamie wildly. She wondered what else she didn’t know about, as everyone trooped inside to the drawing room. Jack threw open the French windows that led out on to a little camomile lawn, and the early evening sun streamed in. The dogs took up their position on the kilim rug in front of the fireplace. Jamie flopped on to the sofa and looked around.
The room still held so much of her mother’s personality. The wood-panelled walls were covered in paintings Louisa had accumulated over the years: not the usual hunting prints favoured by so many country homes, but a collection that reflected her artistic background and her wide-ranging tastes. Modern, vivid splashes of abstract colour were positioned next to more traditional portraits and wild, rugged landscapes. Mixed amongst them were Louisa’s own works: charcoal sketches of animals whose very essence was captured in just a few skilful lines; vibrant and impressionistic still lifes; thoughtful, brooding studies of the Shropshire countryside in bruised purples and indigos. Each of her many and varied styles reflected a different facet of her character,ranging from lively and gregarious to inward and reflective.
She had been, thought Jamie, so many different people. There was the tortured artist, who would retreat into the old shed she used as a studio, battling with her work with everything else fading into unimportance – no meals, no washing done, the animals neglected – until she was happy with her masterpiece. Or not, as was sometimes the case, in which event it went on the fire. Then there was the nurturing gardener. Louisa would spend all day in the greenhouse, in a tattered old pair of cords, hair tied back with baler twine and hands engrained with earth, pricking out and propagating and fertilizing and repotting. And the country gentlewoman, bastion of the local hunt, upholding the tradition of riding side-saddle, exquisite on her prancing grey steed.
But Jamie’s favourite incarnation was Louisa the party girl, the sparkling hostess, forever throwing spontaneous drinks parties, impromptu barbecues, spur of the moment Sunday lunches that went on well into the night. A mere half an hour could see a total transformation from one of the above personae, and Louisa would descend the stairs looking for all the world like a film star in a fitted silk dress that would show off her tiny waist, her rich chestnut hair piled on top of her head, the merest hint of eye-liner and lipstick enhancing her fragile, translucent beauty. Her dark-brown velvet eyes spoke volumes and held everyone in their thrall. Under her gaze, you felt likethe only person in the world. For somehow, Louisa always made everyone
Olivier moved in to explain.
‘She found me in the kitchen. Bit of a shock.’
Lettice intervened, her husky growl setting Jamie’s teeth on edge. Someone had once misguidedly compared her to Honor Blackman, and it had given her carte blanche to purr like a Bond heroine at every opportunity.
‘Lucky thing. I’d love to find you in my kitchen.’
Jack was still looking totally flummoxed. Jamie was surprised that his reactions were so slow. Her father was usually so reactive and spontaneous. It was, she supposed, his age. But to her relief, he finally smiled and held out his arms.
‘Jamie, darling. How wonderful.’
Jamie slid into his clasp and hugged him to her, not knowing what to say. Lettice clapped her hands like a little girl.
‘What are we waiting for, everyone? This is a champagne moment if ever I saw one. There should still be some chilled in the boot. Olivier!’
She barked his name and to Jamie’s amazement Olivier obeyed without demur. Then she turned to Jamie with a dazzling smile. She’d definitely had a face-lift since the last time she’d seen her.
‘Why ever didn’t you tell us you were coming home? There’s a marvellous invention called the telephone, darling. We could have met you at the airport.’
We? Us? thought Jamie wildly. She wondered what else she didn’t know about, as everyone trooped inside to the drawing room. Jack threw open the French windows that led out on to a little camomile lawn, and the early evening sun streamed in. The dogs took up their position on the kilim rug in front of the fireplace. Jamie flopped on to the sofa and looked around.
The room still held so much of her mother’s personality. The wood-panelled walls were covered in paintings Louisa had accumulated over the years: not the usual hunting prints favoured by so many country homes, but a collection that reflected her artistic background and her wide-ranging tastes. Modern, vivid splashes of abstract colour were positioned next to more traditional portraits and wild, rugged landscapes. Mixed amongst them were Louisa’s own works: charcoal sketches of animals whose very essence was captured in just a few skilful lines; vibrant and impressionistic still lifes; thoughtful, brooding studies of the Shropshire countryside in bruised purples and indigos. Each of her many and varied styles reflected a different facet of her character,ranging from lively and gregarious to inward and reflective.
She had been, thought Jamie, so many different people. There was the tortured artist, who would retreat into the old shed she used as a studio, battling with her work with everything else fading into unimportance – no meals, no washing done, the animals neglected – until she was happy with her masterpiece. Or not, as was sometimes the case, in which event it went on the fire. Then there was the nurturing gardener. Louisa would spend all day in the greenhouse, in a tattered old pair of cords, hair tied back with baler twine and hands engrained with earth, pricking out and propagating and fertilizing and repotting. And the country gentlewoman, bastion of the local hunt, upholding the tradition of riding side-saddle, exquisite on her prancing grey steed.
But Jamie’s favourite incarnation was Louisa the party girl, the sparkling hostess, forever throwing spontaneous drinks parties, impromptu barbecues, spur of the moment Sunday lunches that went on well into the night. A mere half an hour could see a total transformation from one of the above personae, and Louisa would descend the stairs looking for all the world like a film star in a fitted silk dress that would show off her tiny waist, her rich chestnut hair piled on top of her head, the merest hint of eye-liner and lipstick enhancing her fragile, translucent beauty. Her dark-brown velvet eyes spoke volumes and held everyone in their thrall. Under her gaze, you felt likethe only person in the world. For somehow, Louisa always made everyone
Similar Books
