by Rose Amberly
And that’s when Du Montfort decided he would go back to his old ways.
“Did your parents never teach you that it’s rude to return a gift? His voice was steady, but his right hand gripped the arm of his chair hard enough to break it.
“I can’t accept it. You must see that.” She was determined not to cry.
“I understand you can’t work for me for much longer, that it would be difficult. But must you leave the island altogether? Why won’t you take the cottage?”
Millie shook her head. The cottage had been a gift for when— “Things are different now.”
“They don’t need to be. Millie, we know it was a ghastly misunderstanding. It can be straightened out with a single phone call.”
Millie shook her head.
“Call him. He won’t refuse to speak to you.”
She shook her head again. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to turn into one of those dog puppets that sat on a car’s dashboard and shook its head at traffic.
“Millie, this is unnecessary suffering, for the two of you. He’d be here in a heartbeat if he knew the truth. Just tell him. Put him right. I know he isn’t the trusting kind of man, but he did trust you, he wants to trust you again, that’s where the rage comes from—”
“I know all that. I’m not stupid.”
“Oh I think you both are.” He huffed. “Very stupid. All you need to do is go to him. Speak to him.”
“Really? You want me to go to him?” She met Du Montfort’s blue gaze. “Beg him to give me the benefit of the doubt? Run after him to force him to hear my side?” Millie shook her head. “If I have to work this hard to make him see that I’m innocent, then I might as well have stayed with Henr—no.” She walked away to the bookshelf and pretended to look for something.
She’d learnt her lesson. Never again would she put herself through another relationship where she had to keep proving herself over and over.”
Du Montfort sighed heavily behind her. “We will keep trying, of course. I’ll take out a full-page advertisement in The Times if I have to.”
“No.” She turned around. “Please, if you care for me at all, don’t keep trying.”
“But why?” His blue eyes were full of concern.
“He told me once… A compliment that doesn’t come freely is worthless.” She rubbed a hand down her arm to smooth away the cold that came whenever she remembered his warm voice and laughing face.
But she’d lain in bed night after night thinking about this and she was sure about it. “The same holds true for love, for trust, for understanding. It has to come from him.” Millie pushed her hair out of her face. “He has to want to give me the benefit of the doubt.”
Of course, he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion, long years of bitterness and mistrust with his father... all of it.
Of course, if he’d understood the truth, he’d have been calm and loving.
Being calm and loving when life was good, that was the easy part. Her grandmother used to say, All ships float in calm water; only a storm will test hull and keel. George had failed the test of ships.
* * *
A week later. London
One of his associates put his head round the door. “Do you have a minute?”
George looked up. “Yes.”
“I know you’ve given a provisional okay for this case, but Swiss Energy just sent the brief.” The young man stepped into the office. “It’s an enormous case, George. Not only breach of contract but potential fraud. I don’t see how we can spare the manpower to handle it. And it would have to be handled from Geneva.”
George didn’t even have to think about this. “I’ll take it.”
The associate’s mouth fell open before he pulled his face back into professional blandness. “You’ve already taken two other cases between Brussels and Scotland. If you oversee this, too…” He paused. “Well, you know best, but you’ll have to work 100, maybe 120 hours a week.”
Perfect. “Just tell them to send the material to our Geneva office next week. I’ll be there.”
The other man left, and in that instant of silence before George remembered what he’s been doing, in that instant of emptiness, his mind went back to Millie.
Call her. Speak to her.
Why? So she can lie to you again?
He just wanted to hear her voice.
Why?
Just once more.
She’s taken Everything: your mother’s inheritance, your father, the title. She took your heart too? don’t give her what’s left of your self-respect.
Forget her. move on.
Did moving on usually feel like swallowing knives?
He needed a distraction. What better than a complicated financial fraud case in Switzerland? It would occupy his mind and fill every waking hour.
It wouldn’t fill the aching, twisting hollow in his abdomen, though. Nothing could.
Learn to live with it.
* * *
Later the same day.
The entire staff seemed to have closed ranks around Millie. Even discreet Mrs B, who must have had a soft spot for George since he was a little boy, found lots of little ways to show Millie support. It was Mrs B who had first realized how the misunderstanding occurred. She had collected the torn gift card, the diamond pendant, and taken them to Du Montfort.
And in that first week, it was she who saw that Millie couldn’t face going into her room. The mirror in front of which, for so long, she had dressed carefully, thinking of George. The bed where she had lain, waiting to hear his footsteps on the stairs, and more recently where she had kept her phone by her pillow in case he called or texted. Even the faint scuff marks on the door where George had kicked at it. All became pieces of their lost relationship.
Mrs B had helped Millie move to a different room with different furniture and even a window looking over a different part of the garden so the view wouldn’t be the same.
Millie had friends here, real friends.
Joanie set supper on the kitchen table. A warm Spanish omelette, a salad, and a basket of bread; it looked delicious.
“You can’t be serious about leaving the island,” Ann said as she helped Joanie dish the food.
“If I can turn down the job at the Adelphi Hotel and stay here then so can you.” Joanie Sliced the omelette into triangles. “I’d rather cook chopped-up rubber balls than take a job that came through George’s help.” she put a generous portion on Millie’s plate.
“Oh, Joanie, I love you, but I don’t think I can eat.” In truth, all food looked like chopped-up rubber balls now. Once upon a time, she’d have welcomed a chance to stop eating and lose weight.
“I’ll cook you whatever you like if you stay.”
Millie kept her heart locked on all feelings and spoke from that superficial place where nothing touched her.
“The property was a gift for his future daughter-in-law. I am not that person. It would feel like I got it on false pretences.”
Mrs B and Joanie exchanged a look, but it was Ann who spoke. “Millie,” she said, putting down her fork and knife. “It’s early yet. Don’t give up before the sun rises. He loves you. He’ll be back.” Her kind words stripped the bandage from Millie’s wounds.
“I think I need to go to sleep. All this good advice takes it out of a girl.” She stood up to leave the kitchen.
Mrs B looked up at Millie, her face full of love. “All right, dearie,” she said quietly. “Forget all that. We won’t about it anymore. But I hope we are your friends.”
They were trying their best, and it was hard on all of them. “Of course we’re friends.” Millie sat back in her chair.
“Then it’s the duty of friends to speak truth, even when you don’t want to hear it.”
Joanie agreed. “Who else is going to stop you from making a big mistake?”
Hell must have frozen over. “Joanie when did you start believing in compromises?”
Joanie shrugged.
“I thought,” Mrs B said. “It was your dream to renovate the cottage. Wasn’t it?” She spoke gently, but her tone was serious. It reminded Millie so much of her granny. “You certainly talked enough about painting tables and chairs and repairing the jetty so boats could dock there.”
“I remember,” Joanie buttered a warm roll. “With flower pots hanging from the railings to make a—how did you say, ‘a beautiful border on both sides of the pier, visible from the sea.’ That’s what you said.”
“you have a very good memory. If I’d known you would use it against me, I’d have kept my mouth shut.” Millie took a deep breath. They were forcing her to talk about a subject she wanted to avoid. “If I accepted the gift he meant for his ‘future daughter-in-law,’ then it would always remind me of—of what I lost.”
“Poppycock,” Ann said. “Are you going to give up your dream because of him?”
Mrs B took Millie’s hand. “Master George did wrong, a terrible wrong. We know that. But this new wrong, you are doing to yourself.”
“Pretty eyes or no pretty eyes,” Joanie said. “Are you going to give him your future even after what he did?”
Joanie’s delicious supper lay untouched. Ann pushed her plate away. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’ve learnt nothing from your divorce if you are going to let another man come between you and your dreams.”
“Okay. Don’t all gang up on me.” She looked at their faces. They would not give up. “Fine, I’ll think about it. Now don’t let Joanie’s frittata go to waste.”
It worked, they let the subject lie.
At least for now.
* * *
Five days later. La Canette
Millie left the house very early on one of the bicycles from the rack outside the house. Less than two hours later, she crossed the isthmus and stood on the hill to watch the cool October sun shine weakly on Blue Sage Bay. She was afraid, and part of her wanted to turn and run from this. Run from the part of her self that she didn’t want to let out.
Her feet were hesitant as she made herself walk to the jetty, down the boardwalk and finally to the cottage.
The door had been propped shut just as they had left it on that morning two and a half months ago. She stepped inside carefully, as if afraid of waking a sleeping baby. The tins she had placed to catch rainwater were still there, dotted around the floor.
She was terrified, but she searched for her courage and held on to it like the hand of a guardian angel. Then she walked into the back room. Her towel still lay crumpled on the floor by the ashes spilling from the fire grate. To the side, the blanket they had huddled under. She looked and kept on looking. Slowly, the memories came. His warmth, his smell, the feel of his rough chin on the back of her neck. The sound of his laughter. Memories that cut like razor blades.
Blue Sage Bay was deserted as usual. No one heard her. It was why she had come here, to let the storm break.
To see if it would sink her.
* * *
The same day. London.
George’s finger pressed a button on the internal phone. “Vicky? Can you come in here for a second, please?”
She walked in and shut the door, then sat opposite, her knees together, and waited for him to speak.
“I am grateful for your help, you and all the admin staff for facilitating a smooth transition. I might be away for a long time, and I’ll only come here for flying visits. So I am relying on you to hold everyone together.”
“Of course.” She kept her eyes down.
“Vicky?”
She looked up.
“You’re getting married soon, aren’t you?”
“Yes, November, then two weeks’ honeymoon in Málaga.”
“Call my travel agent and ask him to book you somewhere very nice and put the invoice through my expenses.”
Vicky’s face broke into a surprised smile. “Are you sure? That’s awfully decent of you. Thank you.”
“I am sorry I’ve been difficult recently.” Difficult? Tyrant, more like, barking at anyone who came close. “Would you organize something for the staff, maybe a West End show and dinner? They can bring their partners.” He could throw money at the problem and smooth ruffled feathers. “Make it next week after I’ve gone.” He didn’t need to be there to watch happy couples enjoying themselves.
Vicky got up to leave, but then hesitated at the door. Loitering with intensity again. “George?” She had that look. “I’m sorry, can I just say something?”
He took a deep breath and held it. “Not now, Vicky.”
Vicky pressed her lips on whatever words she’d been about to speak.
Would there ever be a time when he could listen to her motivational quotes? Would there ever be a time when he could understand?
Don’t think.
“I am going to the gym for a couple of hours.” He stood up and was about to walk away, then stopped. “Oh, and Vicky, one exception to the personal calls rule.” He leaned over the desk and tore a sheet from a yellow lined pad. “If this person calls or gets in touch, you can forward to me directly.” He wrote the name quickly and folded the page.
Was this a good idea?
He unfolded the page. His handwriting, quick, sloping near the top, Millie Summers.
She wouldn’t call, she hadn’t in six weeks. And he had nothing to say to her. He should tear up the paper.
After a minute, he gave it to Vicky. Then he was out the door.
* * *
Two weeks later. La Canette.
Du Montfort was in the downstairs dining room. Recently he’d started taking his meals there when the agent, the lawyer or various people from the town hall came up to the house to discuss business.
Today he was alone, though, sitting at the middle of the long table reading the paper. Millie knocked.
“Since when do you need to knock?”
“I came to give you my resignation.” She walked towards the table. “And to let you know what I’ve decided.” She sat down two places away from him and folded her hands on the beautiful polished wood.
“Am I going to like it? Because I warn you, I still own this island and I can prevent ferries from docking here. If you mean to leave, you’ll have to swim.”
She smiled. With her lips only.
Du Montfort put the paper down and waited. It had been nearly a fortnight since her visit to Blue Sage Bay. The decision had grown inside her gradually, unconsciously, but she had waited to make sure it was her final decision. There was no chance of her changing her mind.
“The only way I could take the cottage and the land would be to buy it. At full market price.”
Du Montfort threw his head back and laughed in that characteristic way he had. Another cruel memory cut through Millie’s heart. Father and son had the same laugh, the same mannerism.
“Girl, where do you think we are? The London property market? The place has been derelict for twenty years. It’s not worth £500.”
“Okay, then I will pay you £500,” she said.
She felt an unexpected calm. Despite crying herself to sleep some nights, and stray words or memories still hit her out of the blue and almost made her double over with sudden pain, but the fear had dissolved. She knew she would survive.
“And,” she said, “I’d like to pay for the jetty to be maintained as a working dock and for the isthmus to be shored up above the high-water mark so the cove isn’t cut off by the tide, ever.”
Du Montfort watched her for a long time, his eyes calculating.
“I accept on two conditions. One.” He held up his index finger. “The maritime repair levies belong with the seigneur as the freeholder of the island. So, it is my municipal services that will handle str
uctural maintenance to both the jetty and the isthmus. You’re welcome to pay for any beautification or flowers over and above.”
Millie considered this. It was reasonable. Besides, what did she know about structural engineering? “All right.” She nodded.
“And two”—he held up a second finger—“I will not accept payment for the property until you have finished your renovations and started trading and turning a profit.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off. “It is the only way I would agree to your ridiculous request. I have no intention of letting you cripple your renovation project for the sake of £500.” He gave her a stubborn look. “Non-negotiable.”
He was quick and clever. She was going to need every penny to get the place into shape and unlikely to start making any revenue until March when the weather improved. November to February… that was four months she had to live on her savings.
“But I will live at the cottage. I won’t stay here.” She met his eyes with a stubborn look of her own. “Non-negotiable.”
Du Montfort held out his right hand across the empty chair between them and shook hers. “You drive a hard bargain, young lady. It’ll be a pleasure doing business with you.”
She smiled again, a big, wide smile. It reached from ear to ear, although it didn’t reach her eyes.
Spring
TWENTY
Eight months later Good Friday. Chelsea, London, 8pm
George had forgotten about Friday night traffic. The taxi bringing him from the airport was crawling down the King’s Road slower than an old lady on a Zimmer frame.
“All right, that’s enough,” he told the driver. “I can walk from here.”
The instant he was able to walk at his own pace, he felt better. It was a cool night for spring, and a light drizzle fell on his hair. God, he missed the sounds of London, the noise black cabs made as they drove past him, the rough growl of red busses taking commuters home and the patter of people’s feet on wet pavement in the dark.