Until the Colours Fade by Tim Jeal Read Free Book Online Page A

definitely that …’
    ‘Very likely, but I can’t help that.’ Goodchild slapped his whip against his thigh and then smiled, as though he had hit on a solution that would be ideal for both of them. ‘Today week. Yes. Come today week at the same time. I’ll see you then. Good day.’
    Without waiting for any further objection he went out and hurried down the steps, seeing the groom run forward to hold his stirrup. Moments later he was in the saddle and the groom clambering up onto his own mount. Tom Strickland watched the two men cantering down the drive and bit his lips. His face was white with anger and disappointment. Tom blinked furiously, mortified to feel his eyes filling. After waiting hopefully for almost an hour, so sudden and contemptuous a dismissal had shocked and stung him almost with the pain of a physical lash across the face.
    Hearing a low cough to his left, he looked up from the black and white marble floor and saw the splendid footman who had first let him in and asked him to wait. The man’s white cravat and silver-corded tail-coat offended him less than his air of supercilious civility. The thought that this silent functionary had probably witnessed his humiliation sent the blood racing to Tom’s cheeks. The footman was looking at him with an expectant expression – his formal subserviency, Tom suspected, disguising definite satisfaction at what had taken place, confirming that not only those in livery did Lord Goodchild’s bidding.
    Tom advanced on him with a positive tread and said loudly:
    ‘Tell Lady Goodchild that Mr Strickland wishes to speak with her about her portrait.’ The man favoured him with a low bow.‘And say that he waited for his lordship to no purpose, and had his lordship’s letter promising an interview.’
    Helen Goodchild, who had been in no pleasant temper after her husband’s departure, had not hesitated to refuse to see Joseph Braithwaite’s artist – a decision which her conviction that Joseph was to blame for many of her husband’s troubles made still less surprising. Her manner had been so peremptory that she was genuinely astonished to see the same footman return ten minutes later with the perplexing information that Mr Strickland had no other pressing appointments and would gladly wait until her ladyship might find a convenient moment to see him.
    Short of having this persistent person ejected, a course which Helen did not consider, she knew that she would have to receive him. After all his request to see her was not unreasonable; he had come by appointment. Her mind made up, Helen decided to summon him to the Red Drawing Room, a far more formidable setting than the morning room in which she had exchanged words with her husband. She was not concerned to impress this stranger, but was determined that he should relay to Joseph Braithwaite an account of the interview which would discomfort the manufacturer. To receive Joseph’s protégé in style, and then to refuse his services with exquisite courtesy, would give her the double satisfaction of offending Braithwaite and distressing her husband, whose dearest wish seemed to be to avoid differences with his benefactor. Having been born into a far humbler family than her husband’s, Helen felt the indignity of their indebtedness to the nouveau riche Braithwaites far more keenly than Harry himself appeared to do.
    The Red Drawing Room – ‘red’ because its walls were lined with faded crimson Spitalfields’ silk – was not only the largest reception room in the house but also, with its gilded Empire furniture , boulle cabinets, Aubusson carpet and glittering Waterford chandeliers, the most imposing. Four windows, almost reaching the rococo ceiling, were separated from each other by identical marble-topped console tables, supporting tall mirrors in frames decorated with gilded acanthus leaves. But the room’s principal glory was not the furniture, nor even the Sèvres, but the pictures, for these included a