Spring Skies Over Bluebell Castle. Sarah Bennett
choked as the bubbles fizzed up the back of her nose. Smooth, Lucie. Snorting out one’s drink was most definitely not the ‘Witherby’s way’ of doing things.
Hoping nobody had noticed her discomfort, she began to stroll around the edge of the room, catching snippets of conversations as she went. It came as no surprise how few of the discussions were about the painting they’d all gathered to see. Art was rarely appreciated solely for its ability to induce an emotional reaction, whether breath-taking joy, or shock and discomfort. It had become a commodity. A thing to own for the sake of owning it, or even as a way of reducing taxation liabilities. It was the ugly side of the art world, a necessary evil without which she wouldn’t be able to do the job she loved. But it broke her heart to think of all the treasures secreted away in bank vaults and kept under lock and key. A shiver ran through her. Try as she might to escape it, the tendrils of materialism continued to thread themselves through her life.
‘Ah, Lucinda, there you are.’ The warm greeting from Carl Nelson, the head of her department, chased away the dark clouds gathering in her mind. He’d been nothing but supportive since she’d first joined the company as a shy girl fresh from university. Setting her shoulders, she lifted her face to meet the paternal smile he aimed her way and moved towards the small group gathered around him. ‘I was just telling everyone about your remarkable discovery.’
A woman clad in a sleek black skirt and jacket that whispered of vintage Chanel from every stitch and thread gave Lucie an appraising glance before smiling. ‘You really just found the piece hanging forgotten in the hallway?’
Lucie nodded. ‘I was there to appraise another artwork entirely. I turned to take off my coat and caught sight of the Meileau from the corner of my eye.’ She paused, lost for a moment in the memory of her first sight. Butterflies danced inside her, the same as they had in the dusty hallway of a suburban bungalow. The luminous blues and greens of the beautiful watercolour had glowed even in the half-light of a gloomy afternoon, stealing the breath from Lucie’s lungs.
‘And Impressionism isn’t even her speciality.’ The slightly hesitant voice behind her shoulder was another welcome balm to Lucie. Turning, she made room for a slightly rumpled-looking Piers Johnson to join them. ‘So you can imagine,’ he continued with a quick wink at Lucie, ‘how green with envy we were when our Pre-Raphaelite-loving colleague stumbled across one of the discoveries of the decade.’
Fighting not to blush, Lucie found his hand and gave it a quick squeeze before dropping it again in case he got the wrong idea. With his kind blue eyes twinkling from behind the lenses of his wire-framed glasses, to the ruffled brown hair that always looked in need of a good comb, Piers had the kind of bookish charm that ticked every one of Lucie’s boxes. Or should have.
They’d dated a handful of times the previous summer before Lucie had admitted reluctantly to herself that the only stimulation between them was on an intellectual level. When he’d finally kissed her in a quiet corner of the V&A where they’d been to visit an exhibition together, it had been…pleasant.
Though he’d been disappointed when she’d suggested they had too much to lose in terms of both friendship and their working relationship, he’d been nothing but gracious. Over the past twelve months he’d never intimated he wanted to resume their fledgling romance, but she caught the odd look from him now and then that made her wonder, so she was at pains not to act in a way he might take as encouragement. He was a decent man, and the last thing she wanted to do was hurt or embarrass him. Turning up to support her today was just the sort of thing he would do, and she wished, not for the first time, that she was attracted to him. He was perfect for her in every other way.
Swallowing a sigh of regret, she turned his compliment aside with one of her own. ‘Oh, Piers, don’t tease so. Everyone knows how much you’ve done to build Witherby’s reputation to what it is today. I’m just a beginner in comparison.’
Casting her a grateful smile, he shoved his glasses back in place with his forefinger. ‘You’re too kind.’ He turned back to the client. ‘Since Lucie’s find we’ve all been trawling the valuation enquiries inbox in the hopes of matching her success.’
Members of the public were welcome to submit requests directly to Witherby’s via their website, and it usually fell to Lucy and the other junior valuation staff to comb through the emails and winnow out anything of interest. Her find had, temporarily at least, elevated the task from mundane chore to something of an in-house competition to find the next big thing.
‘It was pure luck,’ she stressed. ‘Any one of my colleagues could’ve been assigned the visit. I was just in the right place at the right time.’
‘Well, we’re all on tenterhooks. When do we get to see this masterpiece?’ The sleek woman asked.
Glancing past the woman’s shoulder, Lucie spotted Carl making his way towards the cloth-swathed stand in the centre of the room. Immediately, the butterflies in her tummy were dancing once more. ‘Any minute now.’
‘Allow me.’ With a smile, Piers offered the woman his arm, excusing himself from Lucie with a smile. No doubt he’d sensed her nerves and was giving her space to compose herself. Such a good man. As he strolled away, his words drifted back to Lucie. ‘There were some questions over the provenance, but Lucie beavered away until she scraped together enough data to satisfy the committee.’
Lucie winced. It was true she’d faced an uphill battle to trace an unbroken line of ownership of the Meileau. Piers was no doubt just trying to make polite conversation, but she wished he would be a little more discreet. Someone might overhear him and assume there was some question mark over her research, which could be ruinous. Provenance was everything in the art community, and any doubt in its veracity might put off potential bidders. Trying not to let her nerves ratchet up to panic, she gave the pair a wide berth as she made her way towards the circular dais along with the rest of the converging crowd.
‘Lucinda, where are…oh, there you are. Come on up.’ Carl gestured to a spot beside him facing the gathered staff and guests.
Feeling heat prickle in her cheeks, Lucie edged towards the front to slip through a gap and join him. Never comfortable in the spotlight, she would’ve preferred to remain within the group. In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter who had discovered the painting, only that someone had brought it back into the light for the world to enjoy once more. Credit where credit is due. The old adage drifted up from her memory, the words spoken by her grandfather when she demurred over him giving her a special present after she’d received an award at her school’s speech night. When she’d pointed out her award had been for participating in a group project, he’d chucked her cheek with his finger. ‘You’re allowed to shine a little bit, sometimes. People will be quick enough to steal your glory, don’t give it away so easily.’
With the spirit of her grandfather boosting her courage, Lucie forced her shoulders to relax and lifted her head to meet Carl’s encouraging smile. He’d been instrumental in ensuring she received her due. He’d monitored her progress as she’d worked to pin together the bits and pieces of lost provenance caused in the main by the desperate flight from Paris a few steps ahead of the unrelenting press of the Third Reich sweeping over France’s borders by the grandparents of Mrs Richardson, the now-owner, in the spring of 1940. Along with many other French Jews, their assets had been seized, the belongings they’d left behind ransacked by neighbours and former friends caught up in the anti-Semitic frenzy of those darkest of days.
It had taken many hours of delicate negotiation and correspondence with the great-granddaughter of a neighbour, before she’d allowed Lucie to search through the contents of their attic. In amongst boxes and suitcases stuffed with personal items and correspondence belonging not only to Mrs Richardson’s grandparents but a host of other families who’d fled—or worse—Lucie had eventually found the original bill of sale for the Meileau. What other secrets might still be hidden in amongst the other boxes she’d left for others to uncover.
Lost in the memory of that dark, dusty attic filled with ghosts, Lucie didn’t realise that Carl had launched into his speech until he mentioned her name again. With