Two Loves by Sian James Read Free Book Online Page B

said.
    They’d both been silent on the way home; her mother concentrating on driving as though she’d never driven before and Rosamund revising German irregular verbs for an end-of-term test as though they held the secret of salvation.
    Not one of them mentioned the baby’s death ever again. Sometimes it seemed to Rosamund that she’d only existed to bring her and Dora together. For several months, though, she used to write Louise Harcourt in fancy letters on scraps of paper with wreaths of roses or leaves around it. It was a way of grieving, she supposed.
    Dora and her father had never had another baby.

Chapter Four
    The copy of Ingrid’s article arrived at the end of the week.
    It was entitled Poet’s Muse and seemed to be more about Rosamund herself than about her paintings. ‘“Wide-set eyes, the colour of faded speedwell, hair like rippling water” – well really,’ Rosamund said aloud, ‘“tall, shapely body, strong hands.”’
    After the description, the story. Ageing poet falling in love with the young beauty fate had sent his way, finally marrying her a year before his death. A mention of Joss – ‘the charming pencil drawings of him are not on sale’ – hinting at joyous consummation. The paintings themselves were praised rather ponderously, the word ‘impressive’ much used, so that they sounded worthy but dull. Prints of the five photographs the art editor had chosen were included, one of her looking rather sulky by the schoolroom door, one of the studio, showing the high Gothic windows and the long table with the painting paraphernalia on it, and three of the actual paintings – predictably Anthony’s Gate in its two variations, one entitled In Love’s Day, the other In Love’s Wake; the last was the small painting Ingrid had particularly liked, entitled Pastoral. The whole article was bland and overwritten, but neither unkind nor indiscreet.
    Ingrid had enclosed a short letter. ‘I told you I wouldn’t be able to do justice to your paintings. I experienced them – and you – too deeply. However this article, unless there’s something you’d like altered, will find its way into Country Homes in one of the next issues.’ As a postscript she’d added: ‘ PLEASE come up to stay with me.’
    Rosamund had feared that Ingrid might have been more acerbic; once or twice she’d caught her looking at her with what seemed like pity or even scorn.
    *   *   *
    It was a delightfully warm afternoon and Rosamund, still in a restless state, decided to walk the two miles down to the village to call on her mother, realising that she ought to warn her about the possible publicity regarding Anthony’s poems.
    Brian was in the front garden of their new house, brushing up fallen cherry blossom as though it were lethal fall-out. Their garden could probably have won a prize for the neatest in the whole world; everything in it savagely trimmed and pruned and disciplined. Brian made her mother seem a daredevil. ‘How are you, Brian?’ she called out in a chummy voice she never used except to him.
    â€˜Mustn’t grumble,’ he said. ‘My back isn’t as bad as it was last spring. Not yet, anyhow.’ He straightened up with a faint but audible groan.
    â€˜Take care, now. Don’t overdo it.’ She waggled her fingers at him as she walked up the path.
    She rang the bell, opening the door at the same time. ‘Come in, dear,’ Marian said. ‘I was just going to stop for a cup of tea. I’ve been doing a spot of spring cleaning. These Swedish blinds, dear.’
    â€˜Is that a new rug?’
    â€˜Yes. Do you like it? I don’t suppose so.’
    â€˜Why do you say that?’
    â€˜We never like the same things, do we? Never mind. Go and call Brian, dear, while I make the tea.’
    â€˜Can I talk to you