Free Until the Colours Fade by Tim Jeal Page A

threat of scandal. You must act now or not at all.’ Her thoughtful silence maddened him. ‘What do you say, Helen?’
    She hung her head for a moment and then said quietly:
    ‘I will not pretend to maidenly outrage at your proposition. I can’t tell you what I think now. I hardly know myself. I must have a few days to consider.’
    ‘You will send word then?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Charles walked towards the doors, exulting in his success. Standing with his hands clasped behind his back – a pose which concealed his mutilated fingers – he said:
    ‘Now perhaps you will appreciate my mention of the servants. Harry knows his present danger well enough. It would suit him to be able to produce trumped-up evidence against you if you prove awkward.’
    ‘I have nothing to conceal.’
    ‘Much can be made of little,’ he replied with a grim smile. ‘I would suggest that after this meeting you receive no gentlemen if you are alone. I would also advise you not to sit for your portrait, if that is your intention.’
    ‘Nobody would believe that I would….’ She left the sentence unfinished, seeing his sceptical expression. ‘Harry would not stoop to using perjured statements,’ she ended, regaining her composure.
    ‘If I am to help you, Helen, I think you should abide by my advice,’ he said gently.
    ‘Very well,’ she sighed, ‘I will do as you ask, although I know you are no friend to Harry.’
    ‘If I were, you would hardly trust me.’
    Taking her silence for assent, Charles bowed to her and pushed open the doors. On reaching the Red Drawing Room, he did not bother to say anything to Strickland, but picked up his hat and cane and left the room. On his way to the stables, his elation was so great that he would have thrown his hat into the air or slashed the bushes with his cane, if he had not feared being observed.
    When Helen returned to the room, Tom could see that whatever Crawford might have said had made a deep impression on her. Her former gaiety and sharpness of observation had given way to a self-absorbed and indifferent mood. He almost felt that she had forgotten his presence until she sat down in a chair close to him and said absently:
    ‘I fear that I shall after all be too much engaged during the next few weeks to sit for you.’
    Tom looked at her aghast. She had made this devastating announcement with the distant unconcern that might have been appropriate for a remark about a change in the weather or the unexpected addition of another guest for dinner. The cruelty of the volte-face astonished and enraged him.
    ‘If your ladyship would rather another artist …’ he replied with icy control, deliberately leaving his sentence unfinished .
    ‘I told you your work pleased me,’ she replied sharply. ‘I have not changed my mind. The timing is all that is in question.’
    ‘Your ladyship knew that I would be leaving for London in two weeks and told me distinctly that you could spare the necessary ….’
    ‘Perhaps even you have overlooked things on occasion, Mr Strickland,’ she cut in, evidently annoyed that he should have pressed her.
    ‘Indeed,’ he conceded with a show of contrition. ‘I hope your ladyship will not think me unreasonable if I ask you during which month at least I should expect….’
    ‘I’m afraid I cannot tell you anything at present.’
    Although Tom thought he could detect a hint of apology in her voice, her refusal to give him even the vaguest commitment convinced him that he had been rejected. If she had any intention of employing him she would surely prefer to guess now and change the dates later rather than say nothing. No reason could explain her behaviour satisfactorily, except an inability to tell him to his face that she had changed her mind. The initial shock had passed, and his hands shook with anger as he took his sketch book and ripped away the top three pages.
    ‘In case any further events prevent you sitting at all, please allow me to leave these with you as