Despite himself, Richard was moved.
‘Ben,’ he said more gently, ‘my quarrel is not with you.’
I walk up and down in the road outside the Summer House, waiting for my father. I would be on the first vessel out of here, taking Isabella with me, if it were not for my father, who emerges to say Sir Richard is waiting for me. He starts to accompany me back to the house.
‘I am not a child that you have to hold my hand, Pa.’
But my father is insistent.
When I walk into the room, Sir Richard’s face changes colour. He trembles and he swallows a rage that seems to consume him. He grips the edge of the desk in an effort to control himself. When he speaks his voice is not steady.
‘How dare you take advantage of my wife? How dare you abuse my trust so wickedly?’
‘I have known Isabella since she was a child. I grew to love her. I had no intention of abuse …’
‘What do I care for your intentions? You knew my wife as a child, yet you are happy to ruin her reputation. What do you say to that?’
‘My intentions towards Lady Isabella are honourable, Sir Richard. I wish to take responsibility for the predicament she is in. I would marry her and take her to New England to a new life …’
Sir Richard leaps to his feet. ‘Never! Do you hear me? I will never divorce my wife. Who the hell do you think you are? You will never marry her.’
I stare at him. ‘Then it is not me, Sir, who is ruining her, but you.’
Sir Richard becomes red with rage, and saliva hangs in the corner of his mouth. My father moves forward, afraid that he might have a heart attack.
‘You think I would divorce my wife so that she can marry you, you … imbecile?’
‘She carries my child.’
Sir Richard moves towards me from behind the desk with surprising agility for a man of his age.
‘Aye, and that child will be born a bastard and my wife will live out her disgrace here. Do you hear me …?’
‘Does Lady Isabella have no say in her own life, Sir Richard?’
‘She,’ Richard spits, ‘has forfeited all rights. Her future, as yours, lies in my hands, and like the idiot you are, you do not seem to comprehend this.’
I turn for the door. With my hand on the latch I look back.
‘I have always thought of you as a fair and just man, Sir Richard. I have wronged you and I cannot put that right except to seek respectability for Lady Isabella. Your anger is justified. I cannot undo what has happened, nor would I, for I love Isabella and would spend my life with her …’
I pause. I suddenly see Isabella’s beautiful young face. I see that this revengeful, vain old man would like to ruin her to satisfy his own vanity, with no thought to her youth, to her life, which is her own. He had no right to take and hold a young woman like a bird in a cage. I shake with fear for her and my voice is unsteady.
‘Isabella is not yet nineteen, she has hardly begun her life. You would blight her life for evermore because she and I have done you injury? I do not call that love. If that is your kind of love then I prefer the love of my sort … Punish me, prevent me from working in Cornwall. Do not punish Isabella …’
‘Thomas, wilt thou keep thy mouth shut …’
My father’s intervention brings Sir Richard’s attention to him.
‘It should be of great concern that your son cannot keep his mouth shut when it would be better for all of you that he did.’
I have had enough. ‘Aye, Sir, it is easy to threaten my father and the village with loss of work, but how does that save your own reputation?’
Sir Richard smiles and returns behind his desk. ‘There is only one way to save my reputation and your livelihoods.’
My father and I stare at him.
‘You tell me this affair between my wife and your son is not yet common knowledge?’ Richard asks my father.
‘Aye, I do, Sir.’
‘Then this is what your son will do, Ben …’
I believe he had not decided until that moment. I could see this by his sudden satisfied smile.
‘You indeed will sail for New England, but on your own, Welland. I will not divorce Isabella. She remains as my wife and the child she carries will be mine and I will bring it up as mine. If you do not agree I will withdraw all contracts. No ships will be built in St Piran and I will ensure that Mr Vyvyan does not employ anyone from this village, man or woman.
‘Put out of your mind, for good, Welland, any union with my wife. If you leave for New England with her I will make sure no work awaits you there. You accept these terms or suffer the consequences. Have I made myself clear?’
‘You would tie Isabella to you for the rest of her life, even though she does not love you? You would give her no chance to speak for herself?’
‘It matters not whether she loves me. It matters a great deal that you do not have her and that my standing is not compromised. I will not have sniggers behind my back. Well, do you agree to these terms?’
My father turns to look at me and for the first time I see the fear in his eyes. Because of me my family, a whole community, risk losing all and everything they have worked for.
I turn back to Sir Richard. ‘I cannot agree to anything until I have seen Isabella,’ then, I add quickly for my father and Sir Richard’s benefit, ‘one last time, before I leave.’
Sir Richard considers, then smiles, very pleased with himself.
‘Very well. On my return to Falmouth you may see her one last time. But, naturally, not alone.’
Chapter 65
In the bath Gabby thought about the face of Lady Isabella. No one could have carved a face like that unless they had been sexually involved. It wasn’t possible. She walked around the house in her nightdress opening the windows. The sky was dramatic with strange-shaped clouds of charcoal and pink collecting in great masses behind the buildings on the opposite side of the river. There was not a breath of wind. The last of the day hung heavy and the little house seemed airless. There was going to be a storm.
Gabby did not want to go to bed in case she missed the phone from upstairs, so she curled up on the sofa, put some music on and picked up her book. Two minutes later she got up and went in to the kitchen to make some tea. She refused to look at her watch again. She was so afraid the evening would slip by without Mark phoning.
If it was possible for him to phone, he would. Gabby knew this … it was just her imagination, and the distance, and his huge family. If she had considered for even a second that she could stay with Charlie, was it not possible that Mark might feel the same about Veronique? He had five daughters he adored, and grandchildren, and a whole full rich life over there.
She remembered what Nell had said once when discussing some mutual friend in the village who was having an affair.
‘When the time comes, men so rarely leave their wives, and women never seem to learn this.’
Elan told her once about a friend who planned to leave his wife. He broke it to his wife and daughter, packed a bag and made for the door, but his daughter, aged five, ran and held on to his ankle and would not let go. He walked down the hall dragging one foot, with the little girl hanging on like a ball and chain, being pulled along the carpet behind him, her small face grim and tight with misery. The man knew then it was hopeless, he could not prise those small fingers off his leg, open the front door and walk away.
Gabby’s very anxiousness seemed to her a betrayal. She knew it was the reassurance of hearing his voice that she needed because she had made an ending of sorts. The nearest to a leave-taking with love she could manage.
In the distance a low growl of thunder started and Gabby got up and shut the downstairs windows before she went to bed. She listened to Mark’s message one more time and smiled. Suddenly, all doubts flew. She remembered their last week together, how close they were and how sure of each other.
She took her mobile phone to bed but left the bedroom door wide so that she could hear the downstairs phone too, an
d fell asleep almost immediately in the hot room. The thunder rumbled on through the night but came to nothing.
Some time in the early hours she was woken by the sound of her mobile phone beeping and flashing beside her, and half-asleep she lifted it to her ear.
‘Mark! I’m so glad you rang, I’ve been worrying about you.’
There was silence and then a strange man’s voice said, ‘I am afraid this is not Mark. Am I speaking to Gabriella Ellis?’
‘Yes,’ she said warily. She looked at the clock; it was two-thirty in the morning.
‘My name is David Horsanavitch, I am Mark Hannah’s American publisher.’
Gabby tried to gather her wits, wake up properly.
‘I am sorry, there is no easy way to tell you this. Mark was killed on an internal flight to Montreal yesterday afternoon. The plane came down in bad weather. There were no survivors.’
What is this man saying? Is it some cruel joke? How does he have her number?
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes. It can’t be true because I’ve got a message from Mark. He left a message on my answer-phone yesterday.’
‘I am sorry, Gabriella. I am afraid there is no doubt Mark died in the crash.’
She wanted to scream, Don’t call me that, only Mark calls me that.
I’m dreaming. In a moment I will wake up.
‘Oh God!’ the voice said. ‘I’ve just realized it must be the middle of the night with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I must have woken you with this. I’m sorry, I’m real sorry, shock is making me dumb. I should have thought … I’m not on the ball. I saw Mark two days ago and he was real happy with life and the new book … It’s a terrible shock. He gave me your mobile telephone number a few months ago and asked me if I would let you know if anything ever happened to him.’
No, no, no, no. It’s not true. It’s not true. God. Please don’t let it be true. Please, God …
‘Gabriella?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am so sorry. It is an atrocious waste of a life. He had a lovely family.’
Outside there was a burst of sudden rain and the heat eased, the room cooled.
‘Thank you for ringing me. Good –’
‘Are you all right?’
Gabby could not answer. Breathing seemed difficult, too fast, and too painful.
‘I apologize … I’ve been unnecessarily abrupt. It is just that I’ve known Mark’s family for years, one of his daughters used to work for me. I was sad he was going to break his long marriage up for …’
‘Me,’ Gabby whispered. ‘For me.’
‘There is certainly no doubt he loved you. I’m so sorry to be the one to break it to you. Goodbye, Gabriella.’
‘Goodbye.’
Gabby did not know how long she lay in the same position. She heard seagulls and for a moment thought she was back at the farm and had been asleep.
Her mind would not clear. She felt drugged, as if the sudden shocking awakening had released some drug in her brain which rendered her immobile. She did not trust her legs to get her to the bathroom and eventually she wobbled, holding on to the door jambs like an old lady. She splashed cold water on her face, did her teeth because her mouth was so dry, then slid downstairs on her bottom for water from the fridge.
She went slowly upstairs with the bottle, holding on to the banisters, and crawled back into bed. The day outside was closing in, a grey blanket over the river. The rain was steady against the window, forming a rhythm which she listened to with intense concentration to stop her thoughts. No, no, no, no. Please, no.
If she could fall asleep to wake to another day all would be well. She would not have had that conversation. She could wipe it out … that man … his words. The sweat ran down Gabby’s body, soaking her nightdress and the bed. She kicked the hot duvet off and tossed and turned, sipped the water. She turned the radio on and tried to listen but her mind slid away and the words kept coming back. She looked at the clock. It was only eight o’clock.
She went under the shower, hanging on to the sides as waves of dizziness seized her. She pulled on aged, faded pyjamas that Mark used to tease her about and looked in the medicine cabinet. There were some old sleeping pills left in a bottle she had brought from Cornwall and she took two and collapsed back into bed.
All through the day she slept and woke and dreamt, tunnelling up through a drugged, false slumber to the same words like a terrible refrain. Her mobile phone went once or twice on her bedside table and she knew it would be Lucinda wondering why she wasn’t at the gallery. At four she made tea for her parched throat and got into a bath. She went downstairs and sat in the chair facing the river. The house was an island, closed-in with the sound of water.
Dusk came, the lonely no-man’s land between night and day. Gabby stood in the kitchen looking out. A leaf fell like a tawny hand, landing softly in the yard. Lights sprang on, faces appeared at windows, fingers tugged curtains in small quick movements and then the lights were gone, the windows blind, hiding the lives inside.
Gabby opened the kitchen door and went out. The leaf lay face down all on its own. She looked upwards, but could see no tree from which it could have floated down. She bent and picked it up. The colours were extraordinary, with such depth and shades of copper and crimson, as if still attached to a live source and breathing.
She shivered in the damp air and splayed her fingers over the leaf. Her hand fit snugly within it. She turned her wrist and it seemed to her the thin trace of veins resembled her own. A human hand pressed to an ethereal one, like lovers when a train starts to move out of a station. Inside the train, a hand, fingers spread against the glass. On the platform outside, the lover places a hand over hers. Cold glass divides them. Hands together; yours; mine. Us.
It suddenly seemed to Gabby that the leaf was important. She carried it inside, hurried almost, and sat in the dark room facing the river, still holding it. A barge hooted as it approached the bridge. People laughed as they walked along the river path to the pub.
She sat in the silent house as sounds outside faded and became small distant echoes. The house was drawing itself in, waiting, like her, for the sound of footsteps and a key in the lock.
On she sat, her hand upon the leaf, as night gathered. The river settled for night, flowing darkly, silent now, towards the bridge. Every now and then a half-moon appeared from behind clouds that moved as fast and elemental as the water.
It was like a stupor, a trance. Frozen, Gabby stared transfixed at the black water gleaming beyond the path. Felt a terrible cold penetrate her limbs. She felt stopped, like time, to that one moment. Mark is dead.
Eventually, the cold seemed to wake her. With a jerk she came to. Shivering, she stumbled out of the chair, carried the leaf upstairs and placed it on her bedside table. Staring at the bed, she lay carefully in exactly the same position Mark always lay, curled towards her, one arm thrown out and over her. She wanted to be Mark, turn into Mark, and vaporize into the same infinity.
She lay motionless for a long time wondering how many pills she had in her drawer, then Josh’s face sprang before her and she sat up abruptly. Afraid of what she might do she reached for her mobile phone and dialled Elan’s London number. She had no idea if he was still in London.
It rang for a long time and then Elan came on the line, his voice thick with sleep.
‘Hello? Hello?’
Relief. Gabby closed her eyes, could not speak.
‘Who is this?’ Elan asked crossly.
‘Elan,’ Gabby whispered, ‘Elan.’
Elan was instantly awake. ‘Gabby? Gabby, what is it? Where are you?’
Gabby began to dissolve. ‘Please come. Please come, Elan.’
‘Gabby, are you in London?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s happened? Is it Josh?’
‘No, it isn’t Josh. It’s Mark. He’s dead. He’s dead.’
‘Oh, Gabby!’
Gabby heard him eru
pt out of bed and move heavily across the room.
‘I’ve got a pen, give me your address … OK, I’ve got it. I know exactly where you are. Don’t move. I’m on my way, child.’
It was night again. A whole day had gone. Elan ran Gabby a bath. She was cried out, exhausted. He brought her up a tray of scrambled eggs and tea with sugar in it, as if she was convalescing. She sat up in bed pushing it around the plate, pushing tiny pieces into her mouth and trying to swallow.
‘I can’t go home,’ she said. ‘Elan, I can’t go home.’
Elan got her to swallow one of the tranquillizers he’d brought with him, left over from his days with Patrick. ‘We’ll talk in the morning. Don’t think about anything for now, Gabby, just sleep.’
‘Please don’t go, Elan. I am so afraid of myself.’
‘I have no intention of going anywhere.’
He took his shoes off and lay beside her on top of the bed.
‘I love you, Elan.’ Gabby’s voice was slurred as the pill took effect.
‘I love you too, child.’
Darkness came and Elan lay with his hands behind his head, wide awake. He thought of the farm and Nell and Charlie and what lay ahead, and of the stark fact that by keeping Gabby’s secret he might have betrayed his friendship with Nell. He cursed the gods, because this tragedy was going to rend the family apart. It was going to catch everyone in its slipstream, not least his godson, who certainly wouldn’t understand his mother’s fall from grace.
Nell and Charlie? Nell would be bitterly hurt, she had been so close to Gabby. It was why Gabby never bothered to form friendships of her own age, she had not needed anyone else.
Charlie? Bugger it, Charlie’s pride was going to take one hell of a battering. Charlie was Charlie, and, as with Ted and Nell, Elan had absolutely no idea how deeply Charlie cared for Gabby.
The long day ended as it had begun, to the sound of rain and a grey claustrophobic mist that still clung to the swollen river, shutting them in, enclosing them tightly in Gabby’s grief. One whole day had passed without Mark.
Another Life Page 43