Read Online Man of the Trees by Hilary Preston - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Hilary Preston
Ads: Link
Ross Hamilton breathing down her neck.
Tears of loneliness and self-pity filled her eyes. It was all too much. She simply could not cope. Hunger still gnawing at her, she made some tea and spread two small slices of brown bread with butter and marmalade and took them up to her studio. There she did not feel so alone. Had Ross Hamilton really admired her work, she wondered, or had he simply been sarcastic? Suddenly it was important that he was sincere, but she thrust the thought aside. She didn’t care what he thought. She didn’t like him and she never would. The sooner she found a place of her own the better. As to forbidding her entry into the inclosures, she would see about that!
Doing a mental battle with him made her feel better. She finished her breakfast, then went downstairs again and brought up the new picture. The man strolling beneath the trees looked altogether too much like Ross Hamilton, she thought, and began to mix the colours to make him look fatter, but then halted. If she did that it would spoil the picture. Tall and slender, he looked just right. She would leave it.
While the weather remained dry it seemed sensible to work out of doors. Ruth liked to have plenty of pictures on hand, and she was rather short of spring scenes. Each season had a beauty all its own, and every inch of the Forest and time of day revealed new and fresh delights. No two trees looked exactly alike to Ruth, but were as individual to her as people.
But this morning, a few days after her encounter with Ross Hamilton, Ruth decided she would do a series of paintings showing Foresters at work. Figures were not easy to draw and paint, but she had not done too badly at them in the college of art where she had learned such techniques.
She knew that at this time of year the men would be felling larch trees for electricity poles, lopping and topping from felled trees and jobs like cutting wood for clothes props, bean rods and firewood.
Some of the men knew Ruth, naturally, as they had certainly known her father, and when she arrived at the place where a number of them were working they raised something of a cheer. Some of the younger ones called out facetious remarks, but Ruth only laughed. They did not mean any disrespect. The ganger, Bill Rogers, strolled up to her, to find out, in a friendly way, Ruth presumed, what she was up to.
‘Going to paint the boys at work, are you?’ he asked with a grin.
‘That’s the general idea. All right?’
‘Certainly, Miss Medway.’
One of the men called the ganger’s name, and looking in that direction, Ruth could have groaned aloud. Ross Hamilton had appeared. With a muttered ‘excuse me’, Bill went towards him.
Her pulse beginning to beat erratically in anticipation of trouble, Ruth put on a calm face and began to erect her easel. As she expected, after a few words with Bill, Ross Hamilton strode up to her, his face dark.
Without even the courtesy of a ‘good morning’ he said brusquely: ‘You can’t paint here.’
She continued setting out her materials. ‘Oh, I can, I assure you.’
‘I’m telling you, you can’t.’
‘Why not?’ she asked, her heart thudding ridiculously against her ribs.
‘Because I say so.’
She refused to allow herself to be intimidated by him, though he was certainly doing his best to do so.
‘I’m afraid that just isn’t a good enough reason,’ she retorted, wishing that her anger whenever he was near had not somehow deserted her.
He put his hands on his slim hips and looked at her through narrowed eyes. There was no quirk of his lips now, she noted, neither sarcastically or otherwise.
‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’ he asked heavily, eyeing her up and down suggestively.
‘Yes, you do,’ she answered, though she fully realised what he was driving at.
He took a deep breath and then expelled it in the manner of one trying to be patient.
‘To say the least, you’ll distract the men from their work,’ he said pointedly.
Tears of loneliness and self-pity filled her eyes. It was all too much. She simply could not cope. Hunger still gnawing at her, she made some tea and spread two small slices of brown bread with butter and marmalade and took them up to her studio. There she did not feel so alone. Had Ross Hamilton really admired her work, she wondered, or had he simply been sarcastic? Suddenly it was important that he was sincere, but she thrust the thought aside. She didn’t care what he thought. She didn’t like him and she never would. The sooner she found a place of her own the better. As to forbidding her entry into the inclosures, she would see about that!
Doing a mental battle with him made her feel better. She finished her breakfast, then went downstairs again and brought up the new picture. The man strolling beneath the trees looked altogether too much like Ross Hamilton, she thought, and began to mix the colours to make him look fatter, but then halted. If she did that it would spoil the picture. Tall and slender, he looked just right. She would leave it.
While the weather remained dry it seemed sensible to work out of doors. Ruth liked to have plenty of pictures on hand, and she was rather short of spring scenes. Each season had a beauty all its own, and every inch of the Forest and time of day revealed new and fresh delights. No two trees looked exactly alike to Ruth, but were as individual to her as people.
But this morning, a few days after her encounter with Ross Hamilton, Ruth decided she would do a series of paintings showing Foresters at work. Figures were not easy to draw and paint, but she had not done too badly at them in the college of art where she had learned such techniques.
She knew that at this time of year the men would be felling larch trees for electricity poles, lopping and topping from felled trees and jobs like cutting wood for clothes props, bean rods and firewood.
Some of the men knew Ruth, naturally, as they had certainly known her father, and when she arrived at the place where a number of them were working they raised something of a cheer. Some of the younger ones called out facetious remarks, but Ruth only laughed. They did not mean any disrespect. The ganger, Bill Rogers, strolled up to her, to find out, in a friendly way, Ruth presumed, what she was up to.
‘Going to paint the boys at work, are you?’ he asked with a grin.
‘That’s the general idea. All right?’
‘Certainly, Miss Medway.’
One of the men called the ganger’s name, and looking in that direction, Ruth could have groaned aloud. Ross Hamilton had appeared. With a muttered ‘excuse me’, Bill went towards him.
Her pulse beginning to beat erratically in anticipation of trouble, Ruth put on a calm face and began to erect her easel. As she expected, after a few words with Bill, Ross Hamilton strode up to her, his face dark.
Without even the courtesy of a ‘good morning’ he said brusquely: ‘You can’t paint here.’
She continued setting out her materials. ‘Oh, I can, I assure you.’
‘I’m telling you, you can’t.’
‘Why not?’ she asked, her heart thudding ridiculously against her ribs.
‘Because I say so.’
She refused to allow herself to be intimidated by him, though he was certainly doing his best to do so.
‘I’m afraid that just isn’t a good enough reason,’ she retorted, wishing that her anger whenever he was near had not somehow deserted her.
He put his hands on his slim hips and looked at her through narrowed eyes. There was no quirk of his lips now, she noted, neither sarcastically or otherwise.
‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’ he asked heavily, eyeing her up and down suggestively.
‘Yes, you do,’ she answered, though she fully realised what he was driving at.
He took a deep breath and then expelled it in the manner of one trying to be patient.
‘To say the least, you’ll distract the men from their work,’ he said pointedly.
Similar Books
