Victoria Connelly - The Rose Girl Page 7

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Celeste said, and Mr Faraday cocked his head to one side.

  ‘You sound disapproving.’

  ‘Do I?’ Celeste said. ‘I suppose I am. There are so many beautiful villages where, I’m afraid, half the population spends most of its time in London. The villages seem half-dead and the house prices are pushed skywards, meaning that the locals find it impossible to get on the property ladder.’

  Mr Faraday cleared his throat as if he were a little nervous. ‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I inherited my property from my grandmother. She lived in Nayland all her life so, although I’m not a local, I’m nearly as good as one,’ he said calmly.

  ‘But how much time do you spend there?’ she asked, tucking her dark hair behind her ears as she was apt to do when she was rattled.

  Mr Faraday looked surprised by her question. ‘I try get down most weekends but it’s not always possible, I’m afraid. I’d like to spend more time here because it’s so beautiful and I’m rather addicted to the antique shops, but work sometimes keeps me in London.’

  They stared at each other for a moment as if trying to work each other out.

  ‘You look very young to be a fine art specialist,’ Celeste continued, thinking that Evie was right. ‘I was expecting somebody older.’

  ‘You were probably expecting my father. He was a Julian too. I’m a junior. I took over the business when he retired but you can be assured of my professionalism, Miss Hamilton. I specialise in nineteenth-century European paintings and I believe that’s what you have to show me today.’

  Celeste nodded. ‘Sorry if I sounded rude,’ she said. ‘We’re in a strange situation at the moment and we’re all finding things a little overwhelming.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I perfectly understand.’

  ‘Shall we get on with things, then?’ She gave an uneasy smile and led him through to the living room.

  She saw him clock the Fantin-Latour immediately and watched as he walked towards it.

  ‘It’s a good one,’ he said.

  ‘Is there such a thing as a bad one?’ Celeste asked.

  ‘Of course. Well, in terms of market value,’ he said. ‘It could be in bad condition or be too small to raise a good sum or even be just a sketch, but this is a full-size oil in very good condition. The subject matter is perennially popular and it’s a good composition – a little looser than his normal style but very pleasing. Do you mind if I take it off the wall?’

  Celeste assented with a brief gesture of her hand.

  ‘The reverse can be just as revealing,’ Mr Faraday explained.

  ‘I’ve never looked at the back before,’ Celeste said, inching forward to get a look.

  ‘The secret life of paintings,’ Mr Faraday said as he turned the painting around.

  ‘And what does it tell us?’ she asked, looking at the rather dull brown rectangle.

  ‘Well, the canvas has still got its original lining so it hasn’t been relined.’

  ‘And that’s good?’

  ‘Most serious collectors prefer a painting to be in its original state, and relining can have a detrimental effect on valuing too,’ he told her. ‘And see the lovely dark patina? That tells us it’s all original. The stretchers too,’ he said, pointing to the wooden framework. He then reached into his canvas bag, which he’d placed on the floor, and brought out a strange flat black instrument.

  ‘What’s that?’ Celeste asked.

  ‘It’s a UV light and it’ll highlight any imperfections or areas that have been retouched,’ he said, turning it on to reveal an eerie blue-green light.

  ‘It won’t damage the painting?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘It’s not in our interest to go around damaging great works of art.’

  She blushed at her own naiveté and then watched as he floated the light over the canvas.

  ‘Well, there’s a tiny bit of retouching in the background here but nothing that would devalue the painting greatly. Are you sure you have to sell it?’

  ‘Pretty sure.’

  He nodded. ‘Because it’s a real investment. It will only increase in value over time.’

  ‘Yes, well, time is something we don’t have, Mr Faraday.’

  ‘Please, call me Julian.’

  She looked at him and gave a little nod. ‘There are some other paintings too but I’m not sure they’re worth very much. But I suppose I should let you be the judge of that.’

  ‘You’d like me to look at them now?’

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘They’re in the study.’

  She led the way back out into the hallway and then down the corridor that led to the study.

  ‘What a marvellous room,’ he said as he entered. ‘Look at the panelling.’ He reached out to touch it. ‘And that window is wonderful. When does the house date back to?’

  ‘It’s medieval in part. A bit of Tudor here and Jacobean there, and a touch of Georgian too.’

  ‘Each generation adding its own bit of beauty,’ Julian said.

  ‘And our generation having to keep it all going,’ she said, and then she saw his gaze settling on the desk. ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess. My mother died recently and – well – there’s a lot to sort out.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

  She nodded and their eyes met briefly.

  ‘Look, I could come back another time if you’d prefer,’ he said.

  ‘No, no!’ Celeste said. ‘It’s fine.’ She paused for a moment and then motioned towards the paintings in the room. ‘Well, here they are. I really don’t know if there’s anything here worth selling. Our grandpa picked them up over the years and I don’t think he paid much for them.’

  It was a happy group of half a dozen paintings, each of them depicting roses. None was particularly large but each had its own warm charm and the colours sang out into the room.

  Julian Faraday didn’t say anything at first but looked at each painting in turn. Celeste couldn’t help wondering what was going on in his mind. Was he trying to think of the right words to tell her that these were nothing more than pretty car boot purchases and that she might be lucky to get a tenner for each of them?

  ‘What do you know about them?’ he said at last, his eyes still fixed on them.

  ‘Not a lot, really,’ Celeste said. ‘Grandpa used to buy one if the business was going well – usually after the launch of a successful new Hamilton Rose. It was his way of commemorating the moment with a rose that would last for generations. He used to present each one to Grandma and she liked to have them in her study here. Actually, we think one might be missing but we’re not totally sure.’

  ‘That’s a lovely story,’ Julian said, smiling. ‘But you have no idea where any of them came from?’

  ‘I think this one was bought from some major general who’d inherited it from his wife’s family at Clevely House out on the coast.’

  ‘That’s just the sort of story a buyer would love to hear. Provenance is very important when buying a painting – especially an old one.’

  ‘So, you think these might be worth something?’ Celeste dared to ask.

  Julian Faraday’s eyebrows rose a fraction and he smiled his warm smile again. ‘They’re certainly worth something. This one – from the stately home – is a Frans Mortelmans,’ he said. ‘Late nineteenth- century.’

  Celeste looked again at the pale pink and crimson roses which seemed to explode out of the basket. It had been her grandmother’s favourite painting. She said it reminded her of the abundance of summer.

  ‘A rose basket painting – very similar to this one – went for over thirty thousand pounds a few years ago,’ Julian said.

  The colour drained from Celeste’s already pale face. ‘Thirty thousand?’ she croaked. ‘I don’t think our grandpa paid that much for it.’

  ‘And this is a rather good Ferdinand Georg Waldmüller. A little earlier than the Frans Mortelmans.’

  Celeste looked at the bunch of ceri
se roses, so bright in their silver vase.

  ‘I love the unashamed darkness of the background here and how it sets the flowers off,’ Julian said, his face filled with boyish enthusiasm. ‘So wonderful.’

  Celeste nodded.

  ‘And I’m pretty sure this one’s a Pierre-Joseph Redouté. Early nineteenth-century. He was known as the “Raphael of Flowers” and was commissioned to paint Empress Josephine’s roses, I believe.’

  ‘Right,’ Celeste said, feeling horribly uneducated.

  ‘I think they’re called cabbage roses, aren’t they?’

  ‘Rosa Centifolia,’ Celeste said, glad that she knew something worthwhile at last.

  ‘Just beautiful. And very collectible,’ he added, his smile filling his face once more. ‘These others are definitely nineteenth-century too. I’d have to check the artists, although I think this one is Jean-Louis Cassell. He fell out of favour and his sort of thing became really unfashionable – a bit like the Pre-Raphaelites did for a while. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? How something beautiful can be publicly shunned for so long.’

  Celeste nodded, looking at the exquisite painting of white roses. It was one of her personal favourites and she couldn’t imagine it ever being out of favour.

  ‘It should really be in the National Gallery where everyone can enjoy it,’ he said.

  ‘Is it really that good?’

  ‘They’re all really that good,’ Julian said. ‘This is quite a collection you have here. Your grandfather was obviously a man of great taste and judgement.’

  ‘I think he just bought them because he loved them. I don’t think he had investment in mind.’

  ‘That’s the best way,’ Julian said. ‘Buy something because you love it.’ He turned his gaze from the paintings at last and looked at Celeste. ‘It’s all about falling in love with something and enjoying looking at it.’

  Celeste couldn’t help smiling at that, and he smiled back at her, which, for some reason, made her feel self-conscious. She looked away again.

  ‘So, what are the paintings worth, do you think?’ she asked, looking at them again, her eyes fixing on the white roses of the Jean-Louis Cassell.

  ‘Well, I can give you an estimate right now, of course, but you have to bear in mind that the world of art is full of surprises and there’s a good deal of luck involved on auction day as to what the final price may be. We’ll also have to discuss a reserve price – that is the least amount of money you’d accept for it. If we don’t get that on the day then the painting remains yours.’

  ‘A reserve, yes,’ Celeste said with a nod.

  ‘Now, this collection here, we’re looking at anything between ten and forty thousand pounds each, with the Frans Mortelmans probably being at the top end.’

  Celeste eyes widened in surprise. ‘Forty thousand?’

  ‘At the top end.’

  Celeste swallowed hard, doing the mental maths. There were six paintings and he was estimating anywhere between sixty and two hundred and forty thousand pounds.

  ‘But the Fantin-Latour,’ he continued, ‘could go for two hundred thousand or more.’

  Celeste’s mouth dropped open. For a moment, she’d actually forgotten about the Fantin-Latour.

  ‘Don’t forget that there will be commissions involved, and tax, of course,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ she repeated. ‘I’ll need to talk to my sisters.’

  Julian nodded. ‘Absolutely.’ He paused. ‘Is there anything else you’d like me to see whilst I’m here?’

  Celeste shook her head, her mind still whirring with the thought of hundreds of thousands of pounds. That would mean they could do a substantial amount of work on the house and prepare it for market, which, in turn, meant that she could move on and start the life she had been promising herself since divorcing Liam.

  Collecting herself, she led Julian out of the study and back towards the hallway.

  ‘So, once you’ve spoken to your sisters and decided what you would like to sell, I can come by again to pick up the paintings.’

  ‘You don’t need me to bring them to London?’

  ‘No, no. I can come out here when I’m next in Nayland.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Celeste said. ‘Goodbye, Mr Faraday.’

  ‘Julian,’ he said. ‘Here’s my card,’ he said, handing her one from his jacket pocket.

  ‘I have one,’ she said.

  ‘This is the latest – with my home number on it.’

  She took it from him and watched as he turned to leave.

  ‘It was very nice meeting you – meeting you all.’

  Celeste nodded. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  ‘I hope to see you again,’ he said. ‘Take care of yourself.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, surprised by how intimate his simple order had sounded.

  She watched as he crossed the driveway and got into his vintage MG, giving her a little wave goodbye before starting the engine and driving across the moat towards the road.

  9.

  Celeste found Gertrude in the rose garden which wasn’t surprising in June because the roses were beginning to open. It was the time of year that every rosarian looked forward to – the glorious awakening of their favourite flower. Early mornings would be spent walking up and down the rose beds, eyes eager to spot new buds and petals unfurling. There was no more glorious sight than a rosebud revealing its colour to the world for the first time. It was a pleasure that never diminished with the passing years and Gertrude obviously didn’t want to miss a single moment

  ‘Look!’ Gertie cried as soon as she saw Celeste. ‘The first Gertrude Jekyll is opening.’

  Celeste smiled. It was the rose that Gertie had been named after and so held a very special place in her heart. She stepped off the path, her canvas shoes sinking in the soft, hoed earth as she bent to inhale her first Gertrude Jekyll of the summer. It was a deep, heady, old-rose scent to match its deep pink petals. Next to it were several tightly scrolled buds, withholding their delicious scent from the world until the time was right. Celeste knew the cycle. They would take their time and then open into the most perfect pink rosette one could imagine.

  ‘Glorious,’ she said.

  ‘Better than our own Queen of Summer?’ Gertie asked with a smile.

  ‘Of course not!’ Celeste said. ‘David Austin’s roses are good but they can’t beat ours.’

  They grinned at one another, eyes shining with pride.

  ‘So, how did you get on with the art guy?’ Gertie asked at last.

  ‘Well, he’s gone,’ Celeste told her, returning from Planet Rose.

  ‘And?’ Gertie wended her way out of the rose bed and onto the brick path.

  ‘They’re worth a lot more than I thought. The Fantin-Latour could make us a quarter of a million on its own.’

  Gertrude’s mouth dropped open just as Celeste’s had a few minutes before. ‘Oh, my God!’

  Celeste nodded. ‘It means we’ll have to sell them, of course.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘We’ve never had them insured properly and I doubt we could afford to now we know what they’re worth. Plus all this work we have to do on the house, and the bills to pay . . .’ Celeste’s voice faded away.

  ‘You don’t want to sell them, do you?’ Gertie said.

  Celeste took a deep breath. ‘It’ll be like losing dear friends, but I can’t see another way of getting out of this hole we’re in.’ She shook her head. ‘It was strange but, as I was telling Mr Faraday about how Grandpa came to buy the paintings, I was remembering it all for the first time in years. And suddenly it felt as if I was doing the wrong thing and I know I’m now public enemy number one with Evie and she’ll never forgive me for all this but what choice do we have?’

  ‘There’s nothing else we can sell?’

  ‘Not of such value,’ Celeste said.

  ‘Mum left a couple of rings,’ Gertie said.

  ‘Keep them. They’re not worth anything,’ Celeste said, thinking o
f the semi-precious engagement ring set with a single garnet and the gold signet ring. Their mother had barely worn jewellery at all when she’d been working, preferring hands that could delve into the earth without the fear of damaging anything precious. But she’d had quite a collection of costume jewellery for when she went out. Celeste remembered the long sparkling necklaces and the oversized diamante earrings that looked like something from a Hollywood soap opera. They wouldn’t be worth anything, however.

  ‘I didn’t think Evie would mind as much about selling the paintings as she does,’ Celeste said.

  ‘I know,’ Gertie said. ‘She was so young when our grandparents died, and I don’t think she remembers how much they loved them and the stories they used to tell about them.’

  ‘So why is she taking this so hard?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Yes, of course I really want to know,’ Celeste said. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  She shrugged. ‘Because you and she seem to be moving in different directions at the moment and I’m not sure you really care what Evie is feeling.’

  ‘How can you say that? I care desperately about Evie!’ Celeste’s face took on a pained expression. ‘Tell me, Gertie,’ she said. ‘Please!’

  ‘Well, I don’t think she wants anything to change at the moment. She’s feeling really vulnerable since Mum died,’ Gertie said.

  Celeste nodded. ‘She was so close to her, wasn’t she? Well, as close as you could be to Mum.’

  ‘And then you’ve come home like this huge whirlwind of change and I think she’s on the defensive.’ Gertie’s mouth had set in a firm, hard line.

  ‘Look,’ Celeste said, ‘there are going to be some difficult decisions to make over the coming days and weeks. Decisions we’d probably all rather not make but we’ve got to get through this, okay?’

  ‘I know,’ Gertie said. ‘But you must stop treating us like children.’

  ‘I’m not, am I?’ Celeste said with a frown.

  ‘You’ve always been a great leader, Celly, and we’ve always looked up to you but you can be really bossy too and, well, we’re adults too, you know.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Celeste said after a pause and Gertie nodded.