some exotic restaurant. Stimulating for her, hard work for him, when all he’d wanted after a day of financial hassle and university politics was something on a tray in front of the fire. On the surface the row had been about one evening, quickly forgotten. In retrospect it had been a metaphor for their whole relationship.
‘It’s never just about the milk, Ellie,’ he said. ‘You gave up art college for him, didn’t you?’
‘I gave it up for me. We were Ellie-and-Sean. Sean-and-Ellie. That’s all I ever wanted. The two of us. Kids. He had no right to be so careless with his life.’
Not when she’d sacrificed her dreams for a lifetime of happy-ever-after with him.
He looked at the angry strokes of colour, impression rather than reality, but a powerful image nonetheless. Unlike the prettier pictures that littered the floor, this one was filled with rage, pain and loss.
‘Did you ever take the balloon ride, Ellie? Not the metaphorical one, but the real thing?’
He didn’t think she was going to answer him, but after a moment she nodded. Then, as if to make sure he understood, ‘I took Sean’s ashes and set him free over the Downs, poured two glasses of champagne. One for him, one for me. Too late. We left everything too late.’
‘Let it go, Ellie,’ he said, a twist on her lips telling him to move on. But, whatever she was doing, he was certain now that it was anything but that. ‘You have to let it go.’
He laid the pad to one side, took the pastel from her numb fingers, then stood up, easing her to her feet before she fell asleep where she was. Held her when her legs refused to support her.
‘They’ve gone to sleep,’ she said.
‘Very sensible. Let’s get you downstairs so that you can join them.’
He hooked his arm around her waist, helped her to the next floor, tugged back the cover, sat her on the bed. She fell back against the pillows. ‘Jeans, Ellie,’he said. Then, clearly to himself, ‘You can’t sleep in your jeans.’
He unbuttoned the waistband, eased them down over her hips, over her feet, lifted her legs onto the bed, then covered her up, kissed her cheek. She turned over, face into the pillow, as if to shut out the light-or the world.
He would have drawn the curtains, but she’d taken down the heavy velvets, draped soft sheers in their place. Covered the bed with a hand-pieced quilt in shades of blue. Made the room entirely hers.
Beside the bed was a silver frame.
Sean. Smiling.
He had every reason…
He watched Ellie for a moment, but she didn’t stir and he finally went back upstairs to fetch Sue’s number. It was too early to call, so he gathered up the drawings, looking at each one as he shuffled them into a tidy pile, smiling at the layout of the herb garden, the neat detailing of the plants, Latin and common names. The drawing of Wickham Lodge.
Coming to a halt at the one of the table at the end of their meal, his hand resting on the cloth, his fingers curled around a glass. Hands, he knew, were notoriously difficult to bring off successfully, but this, drawn from memory, was superb. He rubbed at his knuckles, at the almost forgotten scar that she’d caught.
She was, it seemed, truly gifted. Even if she’d wanted to stay near Sean, if he’d had no choice but to stay in the area, there was an excellent art department at the university where she could have studied.
What had she said? Exactly? Something about the common sense option. He looked again at the drawing and wondered who had persuaded her that taking an English degree with its limited options was the common sense choice.
He realized, to his chagrin, that he’d underestimated her. If she’d had that wide a choice, she must have been a seriously bright student.
Maybe she could write as well as she could draw.
He glanced around, half hoping to find something, anything that would give him a clue. But there was nothing lying around that he could pick up. And he wouldn’t stoop to looking through her drawers.
Instead, he picked up her design for the herb garden and, after a moment’s hesitation, the picture of the house, leaving the rest in a neat pile on the table beside the sofa, took the Busy Bees card and went downstairs. There was a handwritten cellphone number beside the printed office number, and on impulse he dialled that.
‘Sue Spencer.’ The voice was crisp, collected, wide awake despite the early hour. Clearly Sue Spencer worked as hard as the people she employed.
‘Miss Spencer, this is Ben Faulkner at Wickham Lodge. I’m calling to let you know that Ellie won’t be at work today.’
‘Is she sick?’ He heard genuine concern, rather than the vexed reaction of a disgruntled employer who’d have to find a replacement at short notice.
‘Not sick. She just didn’t get much sleep.’ Then, because that could be taken more than one way, ‘She was working.’
‘Writing.’A heartfelt sigh. Adele, it seemed, was not the only person who was concerned that Ellie was wasting her life. At least he could reassure her on that score.
‘Not writing. She was drawing.’
‘Drawing?’ There was a pause. ‘Drawing what?’
‘Anything and everything. She produced dozens of sketches-things, furniture, people. A quite detailed picture of the house.’
‘Oh, well, she fell in love with your house the first time she saw it.’
‘Did she?’
Somehow, he was not surprised. That was the difference between the way it had looked when Mrs Turner worked for him and now. The fact that his mother’s precious ornaments were no longer placed in regimented rows, but in small groups. That there were flowers. That it looked like home.
It was love.
‘I found her in a bit of a state at about five o’clock this morning.’
‘Oh, Lord.’ Then, ‘How is she?’
‘Exhausted. Asleep. She made me promise to wake her in time to pick up Daisy Thomas.’
‘Right. Yes, that would have been difficult. Tell her I’ll sort out cover for the rest of her jobs. Tell her…Tell her to take the rest of the week off, will you?’
‘I’ll tell her. I can’t promise she’ll listen.’
‘Maybe if you tell her that I won’t pay her even if she does turn up, that would do it.’
‘But would she believe you?’
She laughed. ‘You’ve got her measure, Ben.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. Why don’t you drop by this evening and tell her in person? She might need someone to talk to. Someone she trusts.’
‘I’m not sure that’s me any more. She’s cut herself off in the last few months. Stopped talking about anything, even her writing.’ Then, when he didn’t respond, ‘Maybe I should have tried harder. You’re right. I’ll be there. And Ben…?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you for taking care of her.’
‘No problem.’ Then, ‘Miss Spencer…?’
‘Sue, please.’
‘Sue. Would you say it’s a good thing? That Ellie’s drawing again?’
‘It’s certainly a breakthrough.’ Then, ‘How much has she told you?’
‘About her dead husband who wanted to take the balloon ride. That she’s given up teaching to write a novel. That studying art was not the common sense option.’
‘That much?’
Her evident surprise made him feel privileged, included. ‘Was he jealous?’ he asked. ‘Of her talent?’
‘Sean? He adored her, Ben.’
‘I never doubted it.’ He’d seen the man’s smile. The eyes suggested he had everything he wanted. ‘It doesn’t answer my question, though.’
‘She adored him.’
He’d never doubted that, either, but to hear it from someone who’d known Ellie all her life, known Sean, was both a comfort and a pain.
