Lark Cottage by Pamela Kavanagh

This was the perfect place for Hannah to paint, but what would happen at the end of her lease?

HANNAH watched apprehensively as her brother studied the advertisement, frowning.

To be let for six months, furnished cottage near Burton, Wirral. Offering rural accommodation for single lady, comprising parlour, kitchen, two bedrooms. With garden, orchard, stabling for one horse, carriage-house.

Apply, post paid, to Miss A. Rossmore, Grove House, Willaston.

“What do you think? Tom, say something.” Tom looked up.

“Are you serious about this, Hannah?”

“Absolutely. Tom, it’s been good of you and Esther to have me here during the initial mourning for dear Mama, but –”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you wish,” Tom cut in. “Make this your permanent home. Esther would be delighted.”

Without doubt, Hannah thought uncharitably, but with habitual honesty.

As unpaid nursemaid to six-year-old Belinda and young scamp Daniel, her continued presence would be altogether acceptable.

“I have ambitions. I want to paint. This cottage provides the means to do so away from the hurly-burly of town. We can rent the Laurels out for the interim.”

An image of the family house at Chester, which brother and sister had inherited, surfaced in Hannah’s mind: large, cold and echoing. She held her breath as Tom again scanned the advertisement.

“No mention of a bathroom, Hannie.”

“It’s a country cottage. I cannot expect luxuries. I shall survive. My allowance will cover my expenses, and there’s accommodation for Daisy, so I shan’t be without a conveyance.”

“Lazy Daisy! It sounds a fearfully rustic existence to me. I don’t know what Mama would have said.”

“Most likely, ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained!’”

Hannah’s brisk imitation of their mother was so true that Tom laughed.

“Look,” Hannah went on, sensing a softening. “It’s not far away. You’ll be able to visit. The female owner makes matters wholly appropriate.

“Also, a lady painter nowadays has a highly respectable status, thanks to the likes of Mistress Allingham.”

“Who’s she?” Tom asked. “She’s a renowned watercolour artist of rural scenes. Oh, come, brother. I have my own life to lead.” Hannah paused. “Tom? Do I reply to Miss Rossmore with your blessing?” Tom gave in with a shrug. “You will, anyhow. Don’t blame me if there are mice in the thatch and beetles in the rafters.”

“Thank you, Tom. I shall pen a reply right away,” Hannah said.

Julian Rossmore regarded Hannah steadily.

“The cottage is small. No accommodation for a housekeeper.”

“All to the good. Another person in a house can be distracting.”

The March day throbbed with the promise of spring: puffball clouds, scents of fresh growth, and such a trilling of birdsong that Hannah’s town-bred senses were overwhelmed by the abundance of it all.

The unexpected sight of the tall, rather stern male figure who had met her off the train, instead of the assumed female, added to her confusion.

He introduced himself as brother to the name behind the advertisement.

“I trust you don’t object to my showing you Lark Cottage, Miss Bates. My sister was called away.”

“Oh.” Hannah collected herself. “No objections at all, Mr Rossmore.”

“Then shall we proceed? The horse and trap is this way.”

Lark Cottage bore little resemblance to the picturebook representations of Mistress Allingham, but there was a staunchness in the structure that Hannah liked.

Someone had been busy in the garden. Her gaze

took in the orchard, the single stable with carriagehouse attached. Discreet behind a clump of lilac was what Hannah rightly assumed to be the privy.

The front door of the cottage opened on to a low-beamed parlour smelling of old log fires.

The room was dim and had an unlived-in feel, and Hannah’s step faltered.

Then a shaft of sunlight shone through the lattice, revealing a stone-flagged floor and furniture that was shabby but comfortable, and her heart lifted again.

“But this is charming,” she said. “How could your sister bear to leave it?”

“I have no idea,” her escort replied. “Would you care to view the rest by yourself?

“Be mindful of the stair. It’s steep. Amelia had vague thoughts on turning the landing bedroom into a studio as it’s north facing. Apparently the light is well suited to the purpose.”

Hannah could hardly believe her ears. Lark Cottage might have been made for her.

Two weeks later, she was arranging her painting equipment in the studio, which afforded a view of rolling fields, woods and the glimmer of water from the distant estuary.

Hannah sighed with pleasure. Six months to do what she loved best – painting. With milk and other essentials available from the farm a short walk across the meadow, she was unlikely to starve.

Below, the pony grazed the tender new grass of the orchard.

“Make the most of it, Daisy. Tomorrow you and I are off on a sketching spree!”

Julian leaned back in the chair of his study, contemplative. Something of an enigma, was Miss Bates. Not exactly a bluestocking, but no simpering miss, either.

Arresting rather than beautiful, the telltale creases around her dark eyes put her past the first bloom of youth.

She wore the lavender garb of semi-mourning. Intelligent, certainly.

Julian pulled himself up short. He’d long accepted his bachelor state; he was happy with his lot.

He had his house in Willaston, his friends and business interests, his books. Who could want for more?

That said, as surrogate landlord he had a duty to perform.

“Well, then, Archer,” he said to the retriever at his feet, “perhaps we had best pay Lark Cottage a visit.”

“Miss Bates. Good afternoon.”

Hannah looked up from the rockery she was clearing of weeds and saw her landlord at the gate, accompanied by a handsome retriever.

Conscious of her wellworn gardening skirt and battered hat, she rose, hastily brushing the soil from her hands.

“Mr Rossmore.” As Hannah advanced towards the gate, Julian Rossmore courteously removed his hat, displaying a fine head of greying brown hair.

“You don’t have to do the garden. I can send my man to attend to it.”

“But I enjoy being outside – and Daisy needed a rest.”

Hannah threw a rueful smile at the orchard, where the inmate was catching up for lost time with some serious grazing.

“My brother calls her Lazy Daisy, but she’s a good-natured creature.” Her gaze went to the dog. “What a lovely retriever.” “Yes. Archer’s grand company. You are fond of dogs, Miss Bates?”

“Very. Mama and I always wanted one but Papa suffered with his chest, so having animals in the house was never an option.”

“Your parents are . . .?” “Both gone now, I fear.” They chatted on, and once it had been established that all was well, Julian Rossmore continued on his way.

Hannah stood at the gate, watching him walk off along the leafy lane. Nothing had been said about the absent sister.

Not a thing in the cottage revealed the personality of its owner. The cupboards were empty of personal possessions, and there were no pictures, books or well-thumbed periodicals.

Hannah turned her mind to what she had come here to achieve – a portfolio of paintings. After which might come the stepping stone of an exhibition.

Over the next few days sunshine turned to showers, but even here Hannah found inspiration. She drew with compassion and humour, and her confidence was growing.

The sun appeared again, stirring a trip to Parkgate to record the fishermen and their boats. Seascapes were ten a penny; hers had to be unique.

In her studio she turned her sketches into paintings, rejecting the current trend for watercolour and opting for oils.

Her canvases were not large, and the figures in the pictures not immediately clear at close range, but viewed from a short distance away the scenes sprang to life. It was Hannah’s style and she strove to perfect it.

Now and again Julian Rossmore called by. When she received him one day with a paint-smudged smock over her gown, his gaze sharpened.

“So you are a painter! Am I permitted to see your work?”

His interest seemed genuine, and after a moment’s hesitation she fetched him a selection of paintings. He studied them intently, then turned to her with enthusiasm.

“Madam, you are good. Very good.”

“You think so? My style is not in the usual mode and one wonders how it might be received. Something new will always draw criticism. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained, as my mama would have said.”

“Not a bad dictum to follow.”

“Indeed, no.”

They exchanged a smile. Julian picked up a picture of a man and his dog retreating down a springtime lane. It had been done from memory. There was no mistaking the subject matter.

“Would this be myself and Archer? I would like to have it for my study. May I buy it from you?”

“It was an early attempt. Take it, do. Please, I insist.”

“Then I accept with thanks,” Julian said gravely.

Lark Cottage might have been made for Hannah

Towards the end of July, a letter from Esther proclaiming a family visit prompted Hannah to abandon her paintbrush for broom and dusting cloth.

With luncheon in mind, she went to the farm that supplied her with eggs and milk to see if they could help.

The farmer’s wife deliberated.

“A tasty bit of boiling ham? Lettuce and radishes from the garden to go with it? Maybe strawberries and a jug o’ cream for pudding.” She paused. “Happy at Lark Cottage, are we? Happen you’ll be wanting to stay on.”

“I’m not sure if that is possible,” Hannah replied. “Six months was the rental agreement.”

“Oh?” The farmer’s wife nodded understandingly. “Seems Mr Julian erred on the safe side this time and had things drawn up legal, like. They’d not had much luck with tenants before.” Hannah frowned. “I thought the cottage belonged to the sister. Did she never live there?”

“Miss Amelia? Not her! Goodness knows what that one gets up to.” She shrugged. “I’ll send

our Billie with your order, miss. We can square up when you call again.”

Walking back, Hannah’s mind reeled. Why had Julian never spoken of the problems with Lark Cottage? Why lead her to understand that the property was his sister’s home, when this did not appear to be the case? Where was Amelia?

Perhaps she had been too trusting. She had considered enquiring about a further term of tenancy.

Maybe, Hannah concluded, disappointment swamping her, this might not be appropriate.

Julian sighed. Calling at Lark Cottage that afternoon, he had been met with such a cool reception he had made the visit short.

“And just when I needed a word.”

Archer licked his master’s hand, sensing disquiet.

“Better try a different tack. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

For without doubt, Hannah had come between him and his peace of mind.

The arrival of the car had Hannah hurrying to greet her guests. The children tumbled out of the motor car, shrieking with excitement.

“Aunt Hannah! We’re here!”

“So you are, my sweets. Esther, how lovely. And Tom.”

Tom gave her a hug. “You look well, Hannie. Country air is suiting you.”

“But my dear, your complexion!” his wife put in. “You should wear a hat to keep the sun off your face.”

On the whole the visit went well. The children relished being free to romp around outside, and the midday cold collation was declared excellent.

Afterwards they relaxed in the garden, which smelled deliciously of roses. The children slept, worn out with sunshine and fresh air, and the adults were free to talk.

Not for one moment did Hannah mention her questionable rental arrangement, which would be enough to provoke an attack of the vapours in Esther.

Tom had news.

“I’ve had a visit from the tenant we found for the Laurels. Hannah, he wants to buy the house. He’s made a very generous offer and he’s willing to wait until you and I, as joint owners, can reach a decision.”

“Sell?” Hannah found it hard to take in. “Tom, the Laurels is my home.”

“Yes, but realistically the house is too large for one and it’s unlikely we’ll ever want to live there. I’m willing to sell if you are.”

“May I think it over? My term here ends in September. I’ll write and tell you my thoughts before then,” Hannah said quietly.

After they had gone, she lingered in the garden, considering her dilemma.

With the family house sold, where would she live? Not with Tom and Esther. Some paltry residence placed in town?

She looked at the cottage that had become home. She didn’t want to leave, though here again lay problems.

The air had grown sultry with storm clouds gathering in the west, but Hannah sat on, undecided what to do.

In the end Hannah simply immersed herself in her painting. There was more pressure than ever to prove herself. She was no town mouse. She needed the countryside for her work.

There had been no further contact from Julian. September was here and soon she would have to leave. Some form of communication would surely be forthcoming.

The letter when it came was not what she expected. Dear lady,

There are matters I need to discuss with you. Would it be convenient if I were to call Tuesday next at ten a.m.?

I await your reply forthwith. Sincerely yours, Julian Rossmore.

The letter shook slightly in her hand. What could he want that warranted such a formal approach?

Frowning, she went to pen a response.

Hannah had intended to be ready for her guest, but a shimmering September sunrise, gilding the landscape with hazy colour, had her setting up her easel in the garden. Soon she was absorbed.

The click of the front gate alerted her of his arrival.

“Mr Rossmore. Is that the time?”

“I’m late, actually. Archer took off after an interesting scent and it took a while to get him back.”

The dog, suitably repentant, gave his tail a hopeful wave.

Hannah put down her paintbrush.

“Would you like tea?” “Splendid.”

Over tea, Julian launched into the reason for the visit.

“I owe you an explanation.”

“You misled me!” Hannah exclaimed.

“Not intentionally. Lark Cottage does belong to my sister and she did intend living here – but other issues took over.”

Julian took a sustaining sip of coffee.

“She got wind of a group of ladies with views on campaigning for women’s rights and joined them.” “Good for her!”

“You are not shocked?” “Why should I be? There is nothing wrong in standing up for one’s principles.”

“I should have known you’d take the broader aspect,” Julian replied. “Let me explain. When Amelia decided to leave, she let the place out to the first people that came along – a couple who neglected it sorely. You understand?”

“I’m beginning to. When the pair moved on you had the cottage put to rights.”

“I hoped it might tempt Amelia back. She did appear briefly, but it was plainly not for her and to avoid another disaster she advertised for a lady tenant, short term, to see how things went.

“She was then called away and I was stuck with dealing with the cottage. Yours seemed the most desirable response.”

There was a small silence in which Hannah digested the information.

“I hope I’ve clarified matters. There was no plan to deliberately mislead. It just so happened, as I have said.” He smiled tentatively.

“All perfectly clear,” Hannah said, her heart lifting at the implications. “Mr Rossmore, I had wondered about a further term of rental.”

“A winter let? Winter in the country can be bleak.” “But worthy of painting.” “Ah. That brings me to my next point.”

Hannah listened as she was informed that a visiting friend with contacts in the art world had seen her picture on Julian’s wall.

“He was so taken with it he returned with the owner of a Liverpool gallery. Miss Bates, the man wants to meet you with a view to holding an exhibition of your work.”

Hannah was finding it hard to breathe.

“An exhibition?” she stammered. “Really?”

“Really,” Julian endorsed solemnly.

“I hardly know what to say. I’ve had such unworthy thoughts and I could not have been more wrong. I’ve been very foolish.”

“You were simply being cautious.” Suddenly he was in command. “As to the rental – the cottage is yours for as long as you wish.

“Now I shall return home and write to my associate to arrange a meeting.”

Still in a daze, Hannah accompanied him to the gate. Here, he paused.

“I’m giving a small dinner party. Would you consider coming as my guest?”

His eyes warmed as they met hers. Hannah inclined her head graciously.

“I’d be delighted,” she replied.

She was smiling as she headed across the grass to her abandoned picture.

After studying it carefully, she retrieved her brush and began to paint. n