CHAPTER 56
Harriet
Dorset
‘It’s possible that your Emmy lived next door to your ancestor William Rufus for a while,’ Owen suggested to Joanna when he returned from his place holding a painting they could only see the back of.
Joanna frowned. ‘At your farm, you mean?’
‘Yes. I don’t know the history of Warren Down Farm and who owned the place back then. Maybe she had a friend or a relative there, or she was working at the farm?’
‘Perhaps, yes.’ Joanna sounded sceptical. She was trying to see the painting that Owen had brought over but he wasn’t having any of that, he was keeping it well hidden. ‘And then they ran into one another one day. And . . .’
‘Fell in love?’ suggested Harriet. In those days she supposed it wasn’t so uncommon to have a liaison with a neighbour. There must have been evening get-togethers around the piano or something. And who else did you see back then? There was no online dating after all.
Owen nodded. ‘It would have been difficult to meet – their love was forbidden.’
‘Obviously, since Rufus was already married,’ Harriet pointed out. Joanna had told her he was twenty-eight at the time most of the letters were written.
‘Then they might have likened themselves to Pyramus and Thisbe.’ Owen shrugged. ‘It’s a romantic enough story. Lovers do that sort of thing.’
Harriet raised her eyebrows at him, but he wouldn’t look at her.
‘Pyramus and . . . ?’ Joanna was clearly still confused.
At this point Harriet took it upon herself to explain the story.
‘They were neighbours,’ she began. Love, misunderstanding and death.
Same old, same old. She précised the story about the lovers’ arranged meeting by the mulberry tree, the lion, the blood and the miscomprehensions.
‘So, in the end they both died. And the berries from the red mulberry tree are meant to symbolise their blood.’ She finished with a flourish.
‘Ugh.’ Their mother shuddered. ‘How grisly.’
‘So, you think Rufus planted the mulberry tree in memory of Emmy, as a symbol of their love.’ At last Joanna seemed to get it. For someone who was supposed to be rather bright, Harriet thought, she could be remarkably dense at times.
‘It’s possible.’ Why else would Warren Down Farm Cottage suddenly become Mulberry Farm Cottage? Why else would he (or anyone) decide to plant a mulberry tree? It seemed way too coincidental – given what they already knew.
‘And by way of confirmation . . .’ Finally, Owen revealed the painting.
Joanna gasped. It was a painting of another bridge she knew rather well, and clearly it had been painted by Emily Selleck. The watercolours had the same delicate touch, the running and blending of the colours employed the same technique. ‘The aqueduct,’ she breathed.
This time, it was Harriet and Owen who shared a glance of incomprehension.
‘In Lisbon,’ Joanna explained. ‘She wrote a letter to Rufus from there, she wrote that she was painting a bridge. And I . . .’ She didn’t go on.
Clear as mud, thought Harriet. ‘How did you get hold of it?’ she asked Owen.
‘Found it in the barn.’ He eyed the painting speculatively. ‘Cleaned it up a bit. Quite liked it, so I decided to keep it.’
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Joanna smiled at him and Owen blushed. Harriet felt a twinge of something that might have been irritation.
‘If Emmy had lived at your farm for a while, she could easily have given the painting to the family or friends who owned the farm,’ Joanna said. She seemed fascinated by the picture. ‘So, Rufus had the Venice painting and Emmy’s family or friends next door had the Lisbon painting.’
Owen shuffled his feet about. Harriet repressed a sigh. She knew what he was about to say before he said it.
‘You’re welcome to have the picture, Joanna,’ he said. ‘Seeing as it means so much to you.’
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t.’
‘Call it an early Christmas present.’ He smiled. ‘I want you to have it.’ He glanced awkwardly at Harriet. ‘Really.’
‘Really?’ Joanna seemed overwhelmed. She got to her feet and hugged him. ‘Thanks, Owen. Thank you so much.’
Owen didn’t know where to put his arms. He glanced helplessly at Harriet. At last, gingerly, he put them around Joanna. Joanna. Everyone was always half in love with Joanna . . .
‘But why did they break up in the first place?’ Joanna asked, still gazing at the painting. ‘If they were so much in love? You only have to read her letters . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
For heaven’s sake . . . ‘It was 1913, Jo. He was married. He had a child. People didn’t just rush off to the divorce courts in those days.
’ Harriet clicked her tongue. She could quite understand why her sister had left Martin, but honestly .
. . ‘It was a matter of duty. Even if they were desperately unhappy, they had to grin and bear it.’
‘And his wife wasn’t a well woman,’ Joanna agreed. ‘At least, she looks pretty frail and miserable in the photos.’
‘Perhaps she had a lot to put up with,’ Harriet remarked.
But she was talking to herself because Joanna had already gone haring from the room. To do some more of her detective work, presumably . . .