Zoe sighed. She was sure most of these differences were discovered by every couple who suddenly began living together twenty-four hours a day. It would work itself out, she assured herself, and their magical romance of the past could be sparked into life once more.
The problem was exacerbated, of course, by the fact that they were held captive in the most luxurious prison imaginable. Zoe looked beneath her and thought how much she’d like to leave the house and go for a long walk on the beach alone. But that would mean alerting Dennis, the bodyguard, who would then tail her in the car, so that the whole point of being solitary was lost. Yet for some reason, she thought, she hadn’t objected to Simon’s being around her. She’d found his presence and his company calming.
Zoe stood up and rested her elbows on the balcony railing, remembering the twenty-four hours she and Simon had spent together at Welbeck Street. The way he’d cooked for her, soothed her when she was in such distress. She’d felt like herself then, like Zoe. Comfortable to be who she was.
Was she herself with Art?
She didn’t know.
“Morning, darling.” His voice called her from the bed as she tiptoed across the room to the bathroom.
“Morning,” Zoe replied brightly.
“Come here.” Art’s arms stretched toward her.
She walked toward the bed and let Art embrace her. His kiss was long, sensuous, and she lost herself in it.
“Another day in paradise,” he murmured. “I’m famished. Have you ordered breakfast?”
“No, not yet.”
“Why don’t you go and see Maria and have her bring us some fresh orange juice, croissants, and some kippers? She said she could have them flown in yesterday and my taste buds are tingling for them.” He gave her a fond pat on the bottom. “While you do that I’ll take a shower. I’ll see you on the terrace downstairs.”
“Oh, but, Art, I was going to take a show—”
“What, darling?”
“Nothing,” she sighed. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
They spent the rest of the morning sunbathing by the pool, Zoe reading a novel, Art scanning the English newspapers.
“Listen to this, darling. Headline: ‘Should the son of a monarch be allowed to marry a single mother?’ ”
“Really, Art, I don’t want to know.”
“Yes, you do. The newspaper had a phone poll, and twenty-five thousand of their readers called to register their opinion. Eighteen thousand of them said yes. That’s over two-thirds. I wonder if Mater and Pater have read it.”
“Would it make any difference if they had?”
“Of course. They’re terribly sensitive to public opinion, especially at the moment. Look, there’s even a Protestant bishop interviewed in the Times who’s come out in support of us. He’s saying single mothers are part of modern society and that if the monarchy is going to last into the new millennium, it has to throw off its shackles and show it can adapt too.”
“And I’ll bet there’s some whinging moralist in the Telegraph who’s saying it’s the duty of public figures to set an example, not use the sloppy sexual behavior of the general public as a get-out,” Zoe muttered darkly.
“Of course there is. But look, darling.” Art got up from his chair and sat on her sunbed. He took her hand in his and kissed it. “I love you. Jamie is my flesh and blood anyway. From whichever moral standpoint you look at it, our marriage is the right thing to happen.”
“But no one can ever know that, can they? That’s the point.” Zoe got off the lounger and began to pace. “I just don’t know how I’m ever going to tell Jamie about us.”
“Darling, you’ve given up over ten years of your life for Jamie. He was a mistake that—”
Zoe swung round, her eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare call Jamie a mistake!”
“I didn’t mean it like that, darling, really. All I’m saying is that he’s growing up now, forging a life of his own. Surely this is about you and me, and our chance for happiness before it’s too late?”
“We’re not talking about an adult here, Art! Nowhere near. Jamie’s a ten-year-old boy. And you make it sound like a sacrifice that I brought Jamie up. It wasn’t like that at all. He’s the center of my world. I’d do it all over again.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. Gosh, I seem to be getting it all wrong this morning,” Art muttered. “Anyway, I’ve got some good news. I’ve arranged for a boat to come and collect us this afternoon. We’re going to cruise over to Mallorca and pick up my friend Prince Antonio and his wife, Mariella, in the harbor. Then we’re going to sail the high seas for a couple of days. You’ll love them, and they’re very sympathetic to our predicament.” He reached out an arm to her and stroked her hair. “Come on, darling, do cheer up.”
Just after lunch, as the maid was packing Zoe’s clothes to take on the boat, her mobile rang. She saw it was Jamie’s headmaster and answered it immediately.
“Hello?”
“Miss Harrison? It’s Dr. West here.”
“Hello, Dr. West. Is everything all right?”
“I’m afraid not. Jamie has gone missing. He disappeared this morning, just after breakfast. We’ve searched the school and grounds thoroughly and there’s no sign of him so far.”
“Oh God!” Zoe could hear the blood pumping round her body. She sat down on the bed before she crumpled to the floor. “I . . . has he taken anything? Clothes? Money?”
“No clothes, although it was pocket-money day yesterday, so he might well have that. Miss Harrison, I don’t wish to panic you, and I’m sure he’s fine, but the truth is that I’m concerned that, under the circumstances, there’s a very small chance that Jamie may have been abducted.”
Zoe put her hand to her mouth. “Oh my God, oh God! Have you called the police?”
“That’s obviously why I’m calling you. I wanted to ask your permission to do so.”
“Yes, oh yes! Do it immediately. I’ll make arrangements to fly home as soon as possible. Please, Dr. West, ring me the instant you have any news.”
“Of course. Try to keep calm, Miss Harrison. I’m only erring on the side of caution. This kind of thing is relatively common: a spat with a friend, a telling-off from a master . . . The boy is usually back within a few hours. And it may just be that simple. I’m going to interview all the boys in his class now, see if they can shed any light on his disappearance.”
“Yes, thank you. G-goodbye, Dr. West.”
Zoe stood up from the bed, her entire body shaking, trying to garner her courage. “P-please, G-God . . . anything, I’ll give anything, just let him be okay, let him be okay!”
“Señora? Are you all right?”
Maria received no response.
“I go get ’is Royal ’ighness, okay?”
Art entered the room a few minutes later. “Darling, whatever is it?”
“It’s Jamie!” She looked at him with agonized eyes. “He’s gone missing from school. His headmaster thinks he might have been abducted!” Zoe palmed the tears from her eyes. “If anything has happened to him because of my selfishness, I—”
“Hold on now, Zoe. I want you to listen to me. All boys run away from school. Even I did once, sent my detectives into a spin, and—”
“Yes, but you had detectives, didn’t you?! I asked you if Jamie was going to get some protection but you said it wasn’t necessary, and now look what’s happened!”
“There is absolutely no reason to suspect foul play. I’m sure Jamie is fine and will arrive back at the school as right as rain in time for supper, so—”
“If there was no reason to suspect foul play, then why on earth did you give me a bodyguard and not your own son? Your own son, who is far more vulnerable than I am! Oh God! Oh God!”
“Zoe! Will you calm down. You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
“What?! My son goes missing and you accuse me of being overdramatic! Get me on a plane home, now!” Zoe began throwing things on top of the half-packed suitcase.
Zoe threw a shoe at him in frustration. “Take my mind off it! Jesus Christ! It’s my son we’re talking about, not some family pet that’s gone off for a wander! Jamie is missing! I can’t float round the Med enjoying myself while my child, my baby”—Zoe gave a huge sob—“might be in danger.”
“You’re going completely over the top.” Art’s lips pursed together in irritation. “Besides, I doubt we can get you home tonight. You’ll have to fly out in the morning.”
“No, you can get me home tonight, Art. You’re a prince, remember? Your wish is everyone else’s command. Get a plane here now to take me back, or I’ll find one myself!” She was shouting now, past caring what he thought of her.
“Okay, okay.” He put his hands out as he backed away toward the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Three hours later, Zoe was standing in the small VIP room at Mahon Airport. She was traveling on a private plane to Barcelona, and then from there on a late British Airways flight to Heathrow.
Art had not accompanied her to the airport, boarding the boat to Mallorca instead. They had said a terse goodbye as Zoe had climbed into the car, kissing each other politely on the cheek.
She fumbled in her handbag for her mobile. It would be midnight before she stepped onto British soil to search for her son. And in the meantime, there was only one person she could trust completely to help her find him.
Zoe dialed his number, praying he’d answer. He did.
“Hello?”
“Simon? It’s Zoe Harrison.”
29
Joanna sat on the Cork–Dublin express staring at the rivulets of water streaming down the other side of the glass. It had not stopped raining since last night. The pitter-patter of the raindrops had kept her awake, and—like some kind of hypnotic torture—the faint noise had grown inside her head to become pounding hailstones. Not that she’d been able to sleep anyway. She’d been far too tense, spending most of the night staring at the cracks in the ceiling, trying to work out where the new information would lead her.
The situation with this gentleman is highly delicate . . .
What did that mean? What does anything mean at the moment? Joanna thought wearily. She crossed her arms and closed her eyes to try to doze away the remaining hours.
“Is this seat taken?”
The voice was male and American. She opened her eyes to see a tall, muscular man dressed in a checked shirt and jeans.
“No.”
“Great. It’s so unusual to find a smoking carriage on a train. We don’t have those anymore back home.”
Joanna was faintly surprised that she had sat in a smokers’ carriage. She wouldn’t have done normally. But then normally she wasn’t this tired or confused.
The man sat down across the table from her and lit up a cigarette. “Want one?”
“No thanks, I don’t smoke,” she replied, praying this man was not going to smoke endlessly and keep her talking for the next two and a half hours.
“Want me to stub it out?”
“No, you’re fine.”
He took another drag as he studied her. “You English?”
“Yes.”
“I was there myself before I came over here. I stayed in London. I loved it.”
“Good,” she said abruptly.
“But I just love Ireland. You on vacation here?”
“I suppose so. A working holiday.”
“You a travel writer or something?”
“No, a journalist, actually.”
The man studied the Ordnance Survey map of Rosscarbery on the table in front of her. “Thinkin’ of buying some property?”
It was asked in a casual drawl, but Joanna stiffened and regarded the man carefully. “No. I’m just investigating the history of a house I’m interested in.”
“Family connections?”
“Yes.”
The tea trolley came by next to them.
“Jeez, I’m starving. Must be all this good ol’ fresh air. I’ll take a coffee, and one of those pastries, ma’am, and a packet of tuna sandwiches. Want anything . . . er . . . ?”
“Lucy,” she lied swiftly. “I’ll have a coffee, please,” she said to the young woman in charge of the trolley. She reached into her rucksack to take out her purse, but the man waved it away.
“Hey, I can just about run to a cup of coffee.” He presented it to her and smiled. “Kurt Brosnan. No relation to Pierce, ma’am, before you ask.”
“Thanks for the coffee, Kurt.” She folded up the Ordnance Survey map, but he appeared to have lost interest anyway as he unwrapped the plastic from his tuna sandwich and took a large bite.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “So, you think you got some heritage over here in Ireland?”
“Possibly, yes.” Joanna resigned herself to giving up her nap for as long as this Kurt was on the train. Now that he was munching away on his sandwich and spraying crumbs over the table, she kicked herself for her earlier paranoia. Not everyone is out to get you, she reminded herself. And he was American after all, nothing to do with any of it.
“Me too. Down in a li’l ol’ village on the coast in West Cork. It seems my great-great-grandfather hailed from Clonakilty.”
“That’s the next town to where I’ve been based, in Rosscarbery.”
“Really?” Kurt’s face lit up like a child’s, happy with the small coincidence. “I was only there the day before yesterday, in that great cathedral. I had the best pint of stout I’ve had so far afterward, in that hotel in town—”
“The Ross? That’s where I’m staying.”
“You don’t say! So, you off to Dublin?”
“Yes.”
“Been before?”
“No. I have some business to do, then I thought I’d take a potter around the city. Have you?”
“No, ma’am, my first time too. Maybe we should join forces.”
“I’ve got to go to the Land Registry. It might take hours to find out what I need to know.”
“Is that where they keep title deeds to homesteads?” inquired Kurt, tucking in to a pastry now.
“Yes.”
“You tryin’ to find out whether you have an inheritance?”
“Sort of. There’s a house in Rosscarbery. No one seems to know who owns it.”
“It is a bit more casual here than at home. I mean”—Kurt rolled his eyes—“no one has alarms on their cars, or locks their front doors. I was in a restaurant in town yesterday when the owner said she had to leave for a while and would I put my plate in the sink and shut the door behind me! It sure is a different way of life. So”—Kurt indicated the map—“show me the house.”
Despite her initial misgivings, the journey to Dublin passed pleasantly enough. Kurt was good company and entertained her with stories about his native Memphis. As the train pulled into Heuston Station, Kurt pulled out a small notebook and a gold pen from his pocket.
“Give me your number in Rosscarbery. When you get back there, maybe we could get together for a drink.”
Joanna wrote down her mobile number on a slip of paper and passed it to him. He tucked it into his jacket pocket with a pleased grin.
“Well, it sure has whiled away a journey talkin’ to you, Lucy. When do you travel back to West Cork?”
“Oh, I’m not sure. I’m leaving it flexible.” She stood up as the train came to a halt. “Good to meet you, Kurt.”
“And you, Lucy. Maybe see you again soon.”
“Maybe. Goodbye.” She smiled at him, then followed the other passengers out of the carriage.
Joanna took a taxi to the Land Registry office near the river by the Four Courts building. After endless form-filling, she queued at the counter and was eventually handed a file.
<
br /> “There’s a free desk over there if you want to study the deeds,” said the young woman.
“Thanks.” Joanna made her way toward the desk and sat down. Disappointment filled her when she saw that the coastguard’s house had been handed over from HM Government on June 27, 1928, to become the property of “the Free State of Ireland.” After taking a photocopy of the deeds and the plans, she handed the file back, thanked the woman, and left the office.
Outside it was still pouring with rain. Opening up her puny London umbrella, she walked until she reached Grafton Street, and the myriad of small lanes off it, filled with enticing-looking pubs. She dashed into the closest one, and ordered a glass of Guinness. She took off her jacket, which, although labeled “waterproof,” had belied its description, and brushed a hand through her damp hair.
“Fine, soft day out, isn’t it?” said the barman.
“Does it ever stop raining here?”
“Not often, no,” said the barman without irony. “And they all wonder why so many of us end up raving alcoholics.”
Joanna was just about to order a cheese sandwich, when a figure she recognized came through the door.
He saw her, then waved at her in delight. “Lucy! Hi there.”
Kurt came to sit next to her at the bar, the water on his jacket making a puddle on the floor below him. “I’ll have a Guinness, please, and another for the lady,” he said to the barman.
“I . . . I’ve already got one, thanks,” she said, attempting to hide her disbelief at the coincidence.
He seemed to catch her tone. “Hey, it’s not really so weird. You are in one of the most famous pubs in Dublin. The Bailey is on every tourist’s ‘must go’ list—James Joyce himself used to drink here.”
The Royal Secret Page 31