Reach For Tomorrow

by Jessica Blair

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

The year is 1891. Marie Newton is the daughter of a famous painter, Arthur Newton, and she has inherited much of her father's skill. Luckily her father is happy to encourage his daughter's talent, agreeing that she may attend a prestigious art school in Paris. Accompanying her on her journey is her best friend, Lucy, a young widow. The girls find themselves entranced by Paris and each finds a sweetheart though this does not bring happiness for Lucy. In order to help Lucy recover, Arthur proposes that the girls join him and his wife on a visit to America to visit relatives. But Arthur's past is about to catch up with him. Edward Clayton is determined to find his real father from whom he has inherited his talent as an artist. His, widowed mother, Colette, is apprehensive about his quest as Arthur Newton, her former lover, is married with a daughter and people could be hurt by the revelations. Edward is, however, determined, following the clues from Whitby to Paris to America where he has to face a tragedy that has left a shattered family.

Release date: November 10, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 400

Sample

Colette Clayton straightened from her camera and surveyed the Whitby scene she had photographed – oh, she couldn’t remember
how many times since she had been given a camera thirty-four years ago for her eleventh birthday.


The view, looking upstream along the River Esk towards the bridge that joined the crowded East and West Sides of this busy
Yorkshire port, had come to mean a great deal to her. She had photographed its many moods at all times of the year. It was
not just one picture to her but many, never two the same. The cool, sharp light of an early-winter morning today lent the
scene a restful atmosphere though overhead, out of the frame, were glowering clouds, driven by the furious wind and sent skidding
overhead, possible portents of doom and disaster. Perhaps she loved this scene best when the sun was lowering to the west,
saturating the scene with a tranquil light over the town’s ships and buildings, a day’s work done, she decided.


There were many such pictures, admired and praised by friends or bought through the photographic business she had built into
a successful enterprise. But Colette was never satisfied with her own work as she strove in vain to match the atmosphere of
a painting of the same scene that hung above the fireplace in the drawing room of her house on the West Cliff. It was signed,
Arthur Newton 1889.


Every day for two years since its unexpected arrival she had stood in front of that picture and seen in it, not only an atmospheric
depiction of her favourite view along the river but also an expression of the love she and Arthur Newton had once shared,
a love that she had long believed to have been cauterised by his betrayal of her. But the surprise arrival of that painting after Edward had made his acquaintance and unsuspectingly taken
him home to tea with his mother had made her realise she had always retained a deep affection for her first love, despite
a happy marriage to another man. Bernard Clayton had loved her devotedly until his tragically early death and had died without
realising that their son Edward had been fathered by another man.


Nor had Edward known that Bernard was not his real father until the surprising arrival of Arthur Newton’s painting and a sketchbook.
Although both were addressed to Colette, his mother had told Edward to unwrap the smaller package while she removed the wrapping
from the canvas. On finding the sketchbook he had flicked through its pages and been surprised to discover a sketch of his
mother dated 1866. Startled and surprised that she had known Arthur Newton so long ago he had studied it intently, slowly
realising from the care that had been lavished on the portrait that artist and model had been deeply in love. Then the answer
to something that had always puzzled him dawned: he knew at last from whom he had inherited his own talent as an artist.


Edward’s immediate desire to find his real father again, after meeting him purely by chance on the quayside without realising
who he was, was curbed by his affection and respect for Colette. ‘Too many lives would be stricken,’ she insisted. ‘Your father
is married and has a daughter.’


Edward had complied, but Colette knew that his desire to make contact, especially now that he knew he had a half-sister, would
never falter and she could only hope that when he made the effort to find Arthur Newton and his daughter, there would be no
unfortunate repercussions.


Colette remained still, casting her eyes across the scene, judging the play of light that would result once the clouds had
moved away from the sun. One more photograph …


She patted the fair hair she always tied loosely on top of her head when working outside. She was simply attired in a plain
brown dress that, though well fitting, allowed her freedom of movement to manage her equipment. Her actions, even when making
minor adjustments to the settings on her camera, were graceful, not to make any contrived impression but coming naturally to her. Her blue eyes were alert, always judging views and people
in terms of their appearance before the camera. She drew a handkerchief trimmed with lace from her pocket, dabbed her nose
absently and watched cloud shadows, pursued by sunlight, race across the red roofs of Whitby that climbed the cliff towards
the ruined abbey. The river, on its way to the sea, sparkled like a trail of diamonds caught by the light.


Now! She thrust the handkerchief away and swiftly made the exposure. Afterwards she gave a contented sigh, approving of what
she knew would be a good photograph. She dismantled her equipment with the help of her sister Adele, two years younger than
herself, who had taken a few hours away from her family to help as she used to when Colette first began her study of photography.
These were precious moments the sisters enjoyed. They chatted amicably as they made their way back to Colette’s house on the
west cliff.


Marie Newton’s eyes brightened with excitement. It replaced the doubt that had been there but moments before when she’d opened
the letter which had arrived as she and her father were about to start breakfast. Arthur had guessed who had sent it and had
watched with an anxious expression as his thirty-two-year-old daughter slit the envelope open. When he saw her eyes light
up his anxiety evaporated. He guessed the letter contained the news she had been eagerly awaiting. Although it would mean
a parting for them, he would not stand in the way of her furthering her artistic career.


‘Papa, Monsieur Bedaux has accepted me to study under his tuition!’ The joy in her voice revealed Marie’s intense excitement.
She thrust the piece of paper across the table at him.


He took it with trembling fingers.

He had privately doubted the wisdom of her widening her artistic experience and technique in Paris but it was only natural
that her thoughts had turned there; the city was the shining light for art students of all ages. Its reputation was far-flung
and exciting. Paris pulsed with life in every shape and form. The students who flocked there hoping to find fame and fortune created an unrivalled atmosphere in the boulevards and cafes of Montmartre and Montparnasse,
filling them with hectic joie de vivre and constant talk of drawing, painting, fabulous sales and intriguing commissions. And besides all this the city dwellers
ceaselessly pursued their own pleasures in a celebration of women, wine and wit.


Small wonder then that Arthur had some misgivings about Marie venturing into such a world; after all she was an attractive
young woman. She had an engaging personality, could readily be at ease with people, had a sharp mind and was particularly
engaging on the subject she loved most – art. Her growing talent as an artist had been inherited from her father, her looks
from her maternal grandmother, particularly her eyes which were beautiful and languid, but with an ability to shine with pleasure
and excitement as they were now. Arthur loved and admired her. He could not hold her back. There were many who ventured into
the Parisian throng and survived. Why shouldn’t his daughter do likewise? He should trust her, give her his love and let her
go. She would love him all the more and return time and time again. Besides, it was possible she would not be living alone
in Paris …


‘I wonder if Lucy has been accepted?’

‘You’ve voiced my very thought,’ he replied. ‘We’ll walk over to Cherry Hill after breakfast.’

‘I hope your recommendation drew attention to the work she submitted.’

Arthur nodded. He hoped so too for it would mean that the two friends could live together. He cast his eyes over the letter
from Paris again


Marie and Lucy Wentworth had first met in London in March of the previous year when attending an art lecture. They had become
close when they discovered that outside the capital they lived within two miles of each other, near Deal on the south coast.
Six months later, after they had become almost inseparable, Lucy had confided in her friend that she had been married.


Taken aback, Marie had remarked, ‘But you wear no wedding ring?’

‘Nor do I bear his name,’ Lucy had offered with bitterness in her tone. She had gone on to reveal that in 1884 she had been the envy of many young women when she had married the handsome,
dashing Army officer, Giles Langley-Clift whose family had estates in Northumberland. The following year she had accompanied
him on his posting to India but after three years and three miscarriages the marriage had turned sour. She became aware of
whisperings among other wives but paid little attention to them until it was revealed that for a year her husband had been
having an affair with a wealthy young Indian woman. Scandal broke and stuck with such intensity that it resulted in a double
suicide pact which rocked the Army in India and even had repercussions in England. Back in her own country Lucy could not
escape the implications her unusual married name conjured up so sort anonymity by reverting to her maiden name of Wentworth
and living with her widowed mother, Isobel, at the family farm now run by a competent manager. Lucy rekindled with great vigour
her old love of painting, which had been stifled by her husband, and on meeting Marie was grateful for her father’s advice
and encouragement.


Arthur looked up from the letter and said with all sincerity, ‘Wonderful news, Marie, just wonderful. Bedaux may not be at
the forefront of the Parisian art world but he’s a competent artist who sells regularly. I’m told he’s also a good teacher,
especially of portrait painting in which you say you wish to specialise. You should progress well with him but are likely
to meet with opposition, maybe even contempt, from some of the male fraternity, especially the young pretenders.’


‘Don’t worry, Papa. I’ll manage. I’ve met opposition to female artists in London, Scarborough and here in Deal.’ She gave
a little chuckle. ‘Paris hasn’t reckoned on Marie Newton.’


‘I’m so proud of you, and I know your mother would have been too.’

‘Would she, Papa?’ There was a hint of doubt in her voice.

‘Of course she would. You were her much-loved daughter. I know what you are thinking, and I agree. She never really understood
the hold of art upon us even though in time she did cease to oppose my career as an artist and lent me her support.’


Marie saw sadness cross her father’s face then and knew he was thinking of what might have been. Though Arthur was only in his mid-fifties, the tribulations of earlier years had lined his
otherwise distinguished face, and worry over his wife’s final illness had greyed his hair prematurely. Otherwise he was still
a strong, upright figure and as she watched him Marie hoped she would have such vitality when she was his age. Though he lacked
inspiration now and painted very little, Arthur’s bright eyes never ceased to search out and appraise scenes he would once
have transferred to paper and canvas.


‘Mother was never really in favour of my following in your footsteps.’

‘She saw it as an obstacle to what she desired for you – a happy marriage with children for her to dote on. But she never
once forbade you to strive for the career you desired.’


‘I think you were very persuasive there and tempered all her objections.’

Arthur shrugged his shoulders. He made no comment and instead said, ‘I know she would have been very proud of you, Marie,
don’t ever think otherwise.’


She left her chair as he was speaking, came to him, knelt down and hugged him. ‘I owe it all to you. You taught me, guided
me, but most of all I inherited my ability from you – what more could you give me?’


He stroked her head with the tenderness of a father’s deep love. ‘But by doing so, did I deprive you?’

‘Deprive me?’ She looked askance at him.

‘Of the love of a man who would make you a good husband and give you the joy of children. Did my encouragement of your art
take that chance away from you? You grew from a shy young girl into a self-confident, very beautiful young woman whom many
men have found attractive. You’ve had many suitors.’


‘If I had wanted any one of those men I would have married.’

‘Perhaps I did fail you by encouraging your talent.’ He gave a little shake of his head.

She raised her hand to his cheek then stopped the movement. She looked deep into his eyes. ‘You did not. Don’t ever think
that.’


‘You are thirty-two, Marie. Time does not stand still for any of us.’

‘I know, Papa.’ She pushed herself to her feet. ‘Now, no more of this! Be happy for me.’


He gave a forced smile. ‘I am happy for you and I know you will make the most of your opportunity.’ In a way Arthur envied
the good fortune presented to his daughter. It had been a chance he had never had. His own natural ability had been recognised
and encouraged through a casual meeting with an art dealer, Ebenezer Hirst, in Leeds. Arthur’s family had shown no such interest
in his talent, only in the sound steady job they had found for him at the railway offices which they believed would provide
comfort and an assured future. The same attitude was shared by his wife, Rose, and their marriage sailed into dangerous waters
when he threw in his job to paint. She eventually gave him an ultimatum that she would tolerate his whim only if the standard
of life that she had experienced during his work with the railway was never allowed to slip.


Working under such a stricture forced him to tackle only subjects that would be good sellers. There was no inspiration for
him there. That only happened after he had met and fallen in love with a Whitby girl ten years younger than himself. His affair
with Colette Shipley had had a tremendous impact on his work and Arthur became nationally known as a result, especially for
his paintings of Whitby and Leeds. What he had looked on as an ideal situation ended abruptly when Rose and Colette came face
to face. Rose realised she was married to an unfaithful husband and Colette learned she was in love with a married man. It
was only then that Arthur appreciated the depths of his own folly and deceit. Shaken and remorseful, he resumed his fidelity
to his wife, finding common ground in their love for their child. He learned that Colette found solace in her marriage to
a childhood sweetheart, though there was little joy for him in that fact.


Arthur’s work had slipped back into the realms of the ordinary. His true inspiration, the one person who could raise it to
glorious heights, had been missing from his life, until one day on a nostalgic visit to Whitby he saw her again and realised
that, even throughout a happy marriage, she had never relinquished that final remnant of love for him that dwelt in her heart.
Buoyed up by this knowledge, Arthur had once again painted with a sureness and passion that he knew were guided by Colette. This return to form continued
until Rose’s illness took them from the Yorkshire coast to the shores of southern England where she had made only a partial
recovery before she faded away.


Father and daughter had remained together after she died but now they were faced with a parting that could take on the mantle
of permanency. That prompted Marie to put a question to her father as they walked to Cherry Hill.


‘Would you like to return to the North? To Leeds where you were brought up or to Whitby for which I know you have great affection?
Maybe even Scarborough where we were happy and which I always regard as our family home.’


Arthur stopped and turned his gaze across the waters of the Channel, now calm under the caress of a gentle breeze. Marie saw
a faraway look in his eyes and wondered what thoughts had been prompted by her questions. His lips tightened. She knew a decision
was coming. He turned his eyes slowly away from the sea and said as he started to walk again, ‘We talked of this when your
mother died, but chose to remain here. I think the same applies now.’


‘But things are different, Papa. With your blessing I am leaving. Then I was not.’

‘I know, but I shall remain here, I couldn’t face the upheaval of moving north again.’ It was a thin excuse but he knew it
would suffice to satisfy his daughter. He could not tell her the truth. If he returned to Yorkshire perhaps the love he and
Colette had shared, which he knew still remained deep in their hearts, could blaze again. But fanning those flames would shatter
lives. Marie and Edward would have to know of the past and the unfaithfulness of their parents; all respect and love would
be gone. His love for Colette was too great for him to subject her to the torment of a rift between her and her only child.
He gave a little nod and confirmed with conviction in his voice, ‘I have a good cook-housekeeper here and an efficient household
staff. I have my love of art to occupy my time and mind so I will remain here. Mrs Wentworth and I will be able to exchange
news of you both, and living here will mean less travelling when you and I visit one another.’A lame excuse he knew but it helped to still Marie’s concern.


‘If that is what you want, Papa.’

‘It is. So that is settled.’ Arthur gave a little pause to emphasise his decision then said, ‘Of course I will accompany you
to Paris and see you settled.’


‘There is no need, Papa, I am perfectly capable of looking after myself,’ protested Marie. ‘Besides, hopefully Lucy will be
with me.’


‘I know, but for this first time you must have an escort. I will be easier in my mind if I know you have arrived safely. I
will be able to see where you are living and where you will be studying, and satisfy myself that everything is to your liking
and benefit. I’m sure that Mrs Wentworth also would like to know that her daughter is settled.’


Marie knew her father. That determination in his voice, when he had set his mind on a particular course of action, was familiar
to her. She knew it was no use objecting further.


They were still two hundred yards from the large farmhouse, standing on a hill with a line of cherry trees to its left from
which it took its name, when the door was flung open. A laughing Lucy ran to meet them, waving a piece of paper in the air.


‘She must have been accepted!’ cried Marie joyfully, and started to run towards her friend.

All decorum was thrown aside as they flung their arms round each other. Laughter rang through the air.

‘I’ve been accepted!’ cried Lucy. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘So have I, so have I!’ shouted Marie as she swung Lucy round. ‘We’re going to Paris! We’re going to Paris!’

Arthur, smiling at the joyous enthusiasm of the young folk, congratulated Lucy in his turn.

He was pleased that this pretty young woman would be with his daughter in Paris. He had locked her story in his mind, never
to be mentioned. He was pleased the laughter lines around her eyes had returned along with her naturally happy, friendly nature.
Her dark, shoulder-length hair framed a round, rosy face that reflected much time spent out of doors, as was only to be expected
having been brought up on a farm on the western side of Deal.


‘Oh, Mr Newton, I’m sure your recommendation did the trick,’ cried Lucy, her expression brimming over with thanks.


‘That would not have been enough of itself. Monsieur Bedeaux would look first for talent.’

He glanced beyond them and saw Lucy’s mother coming from the house. Isobel Wentworth was a fine woman, tall and erect with
an air of natural authority though she did not let that appear unless it was necessary. In the year since their daughters
had met and he had come to know Isobel, Arthur had learned that there was a kind tender heart behind her exterior. He also
knew that she was not a woman to take any liberties with; cross the line and their friendship would be destroyed, and in his
lonely hours Arthur valued that friendship. He slipped past the two friends and went to meet Isobel.


He admired her black gored ankle-length skirt. A white blouse could be glimpsed beneath a reefer jacket that emphasised her
slim waist and showed that this was a lady who cared about her figure and appearance. Her copper-coloured hair was straight
but drawn back in an attractive way to frame her oval face and reveal her lively hazel eyes.


‘Arthur!’ Her voice was soft, gentle and full of pleasure.

‘Isobel.’ He removed his hat and made a little bow when he reached her. ‘This is good news.’

She gave a little grimace along with her smile. ‘Is it?’

‘You know it is. It’s what our daughters want, and if we let them go they will succeed,’ he returned quietly in a tone that
was meant to reassure.


‘But Paris?’

‘They will be all right there. They are sensible and old enough to cope. We still tend to think of them as younger than they
are, and believe we should be looking to their every need when really they are easily able to be independent.’


‘I know you are right, Arthur, it’s only a mother’s natural concern.’

They started to stroll to the house, leaving their daughters to enjoy their news together.

‘Isobel, I am proposing to accompany Marie to Paris to see that she is settled. I have no doubt that they will want to travel
together so, if you approve, I will escort Lucy too.’


Isobel stopped and looked at him with gratitude in her eyes. ‘Please do. I should be a lot happier knowing that you were there.’
She laid a hand on his arm as she was speaking, a sure sign of her appreciation.


The girls reached them.

‘Mr Newton is going to be your escort to Paris,’ announced Isobel with relief in her voice.

‘There you are, Mother, I told you not to worry. Mr Newton will see us safely there and bring you news of where we are settled.
It’s all so exciting!’


Isobel smiled at her daughter. ‘Come along in. We’ll have some hot chocolate.’

Time rushed by and before any of them realised it the day of departure for Paris was upon them.

Arthur had fussed over Marie’s preparations. She had let him, knowing that it eased the prospect of his having to face life
without her.


As the coach that would take them first to Cherry Hill and then to Dover pulled away, Marie looked back at the house with
sadness. Except for the loss of her mother, she had been happy there. Moving away from it marked a break, a change in her
life which, from now on, would chart a different course. She dabbed a tear from her eye, swallowed hard and bit her lip. Her
father would not want to see her sad but would prefer to see a determined young woman, eager to look at the future firmly
and seize the opportunities that came her way. He would also want her to enjoy the adventure that lay ahead, and she regarded
the unknown life before her as such. She resolved to do well for his sake as well as fulfilling her own ambition to become
a good portrait painter and breach the walls of a male dominated citadel.


Her reaction was not lost on her father. He reached out and patted her hand comfortingly. ‘Enjoy the journey,’ he said quietly.

Marie gave a wan smile, nodded, drove back the tears. By the time they reached Cherry Hill she was genuinely looking forward
to the new experience she would share with Lucy.


The warmth and pleasure in their eyes when Marie and Lucy greeted each other matched the day’s sunshine. As Isobel came forward to greet them, Arthur could tell that her outward brightness
was forced and hid deep regret that her daughter was leaving. He gave her a reassuring look as he said, ‘I know it is easy
to say, but don’t worry. Lucy will be all right. I’ll report as soon as I get back.’


‘Thank you.’

He waved away her thanks and said, ‘We shouldn’t linger.’

Isobel nodded, hugged her daughter and said goodbye with last words of advice, ‘Look after yourself and write often,’she instructed.

‘I will, Mama.’ The words choked in Lucy’s throat. She returned her mother’s affectionate embrace, turned and stepped quickly
into the coach. She shut the door behind her, leaned out of the window and reached out to make contact with her mother’s hand
in a last gesture of love as the coachman sent the horse forward.


In a few moments more excited chatter filled the coach and this continued until they reached Dover. There they were swept
up into the bustle and activity that preceded the sailing of any ferry for Calais. Arthur ushered the two young women past
the port officials. Once on board he found them a comfortable seat on deck, giving way to their wishes to remain in the open
as the weather was so fine.


The clop of hooves, and creak of carriages and wagons bringing passengers and goods to the dockside, were swallowed up amid
the shouts of command and answering retorts of sailors bent to their tasks so as to have everything ready by sailing time.
The young women were fascinated by such seeming confusion and did not have one boring second as they waited for the ship to
sail. This was preceded by a momentary lull, with activity on the dockside diminishing as preparations were finalised and
a last check was being carried out.


Then orders came from the bridge, answering shouts from the quay. Smoke belched from the stack, bells clanged. Marie and Lucy
jumped from their seats and, holding on to their hats, even though they were tied by ribbons under the chin, hurried to the
rail. Mesmerised by the activity on shore, they saw ropes unwound from capstans, friends and relations waving goodbye to loved
ones, eyes dabbed with handkerchiefs. Children ran in chase of the stately motion of the boat or were held tightly by their mothers
and cajoled to wave to their fathers. Slowly the ship was eased from the dockside and the excitement of being underway thrilled
them. Any apprehension that they had had beforehand about being seasick disappeared. They did, however, bless their luck that
they were faced with a smooth crossing.


So it proved and they enjoyed the exhilarating salt air and the throb of the ship’s engines that seemed to tell them that
their lives were changing and that, unusually for young women of their class at that time, they were stepping into an unknown
wider world. They thanked their own interest in art and their understanding parents for this opportunity to step out from
under the strictures of the society in which they had lived. Freedom beckoned.


Reaching Calais, much of the activity they had witnessed was repeated in reverse as the ship was brought skilfully to the
dockside. With only a smattering of French from their schooldays in England they understood little of the exchanges here,
but once the gangway was run out and passengers were allowed ashore Arthur lost no time in ushering them through to the Paris
train. They were fascinated by the countryside they saw as the train huffed and puffed its way to the capital where once again
Arthur soon hired a cab to take them from the noise and clatter of the Gâre du Nord to a residence on the edge of Montparnasse.


Marie and Lucy exchanged excited chatter over everything that caught their attention on the way through the city. Arthur smiled
at their enthusiasm, which blossomed as if they were still school-girls. He remembered his own reaction when he’d first visited
Paris after his wife had died and Marie was studying in London.


People strolled along the grand boulevards, stopping to exchange a passing remark with acquintances or, if they were friends,
lingering longer. There was elegance in their dress and posture, and they seemed oblivious to the rush and bustle around them
and the noise that characterised these thoroughfares. Whirling wheels followed smart carriage horses; vendors’ carts rattled
and hawkers cried their wares; a double-decker omnibus, drawn by huge Percherons, swayed past taking passengers to various
parts of the city; customers in the pave