The Mermaid Garden

by Santa Montefiore

  “Maybe he didn’t want to be a judge. Perhaps he’s happy with the choice he made. Anyway, you’re not meant to love your stepmother. Had she been born the daughter of a king you still wouldn’t think her good enough.”

  “I think she wanted the house because it was owned by the Duke of Somerland. She sits in her study, which used to be the duchess’s, and feels important. Dad was so far above her on the food chain I’m surprised she managed to get him in her sights.”

  “I think she’s beautiful. There’s something deep and sad in her eyes.”

  “Trust me, she has nothing to be sad about. She’s got everything she ever wanted by sheer manipulation.”

  “Then you should take a leaf out of her book and use your beauty cleverly.”

  “I’m not beautiful.”

  Sylvia shook her head and grinned at her kindly. “You are when you smile.”

  Marina watched with relief as Balthazar’s car finally spluttered its way out of the driveway. She found Grey up a ladder in the library next door, looking for a book to lend the brigadier who had breakfasted on eggs and fried bread at the Polzanze ever since his wife had died five years ago.

  “Oh dear,” he said. “So that didn’t go well.”

  She raised her hands to heaven and inhaled theatrically. “I couldn’t get rid of him. My office now smells like a hostel for the homeless, and I’m about to interview another one.”

  “Why don’t you sit outside? It’s a beautiful day.”

  “If Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes is presentable, I will. However, if she’s crazy, I’ll have to hide her away for fear of scaring our guests. I’ve lit a scented candle, but I fear it will take more than that.”

  “I thought you’d like him. You love eccentrics.”

  She smiled grudgingly. “Not eccentrics with blackened teeth and bad breath, long greasy hair, and ridiculous clothes!”

  “You surprise me.” He came down the ladder.

  “I like presentable eccentrics. Ones who smell of lime, wear clean shirts, and brush their teeth.”

  “Ah.” He raised an eyebrow.

  He kissed her forehead. “This is meant to be fun, Marina. It’s your idea, after all. Enjoy it.”

  “But what if I don’t find someone suitable?”

  “You don’t have to have an artist-in-residence.”

  “Oh, but I do. We need something to make us different, to draw people in. I don’t have to remind you of the trouble we’re in. We have to think of new ways of attracting business, or we’ll be another credit-crunch tragedy. We’re not making money, Grey. In fact, we’re hemorrhaging money. Think about it: half the guests who come here in the summer come to paint. My London ladies have booked in for their week in June simply because they want to repeat the fun of last year. I’m building a reputation that will bring people back year after year.”

  “Then if the right person doesn’t appear, we’ll hunt him down.”

  She knitted her fingers. “Clementine thinks it’s in poor taste.”

  “She’s young.”

  “She’s rude.”

  “Ignore her. She wants to get a rise out of you.”

  “Then I am not going to be a soufflé. She should show me some respect. I’m her stepmother.” She turned away sharply, the word “mother” lingering on her lips like an affront.

  “Do you want me to talk to her?”

  “No. Leave her alone. Perhaps I’m just not very good at it.”

  “You have tried, darling. I know how hard you’ve tried, and I’m very grateful. It’s an impossible situation.” The air was suddenly heavy with words too painful to articulate.

  When she spoke, Marina’s voice was quiet. “Let’s not talk about it, Grey. Elizabeth whatever-she’s-called will be here any minute, and I don’t want to look strained.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “Only to you.”

  “Who else matters?”

  Her expression softened. “You’re my champion, Grey.”

  “Always, my darling.”

  Shane shuffled awkwardly by the door, pretending not to hear. He wiped his large nose with the back of his hand, then stood to attention as he heard a car draw up on the gravel outside. Jennifer left Rose at the reception desk and pressed her nose to the window to see what this candidate was like.

  2.

  Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes was extremely presentable. Tall and willowy, with fine, aristocratic features, porcelain skin, and sensitive blue eyes, she was the epitome of what an artist of refinement should look like. Marina shook her hand and noticed at once how cold it was.

  She led her through the hotel to the terrace, stopping in the conservatory on the way to admire the lemon trees in urns and the grapevines that climbed the trellising, spreading their tentacles across the glass ceiling like pretty octopuses. Elizabeth was highly complimentary, missing nothing, and Marina’s heart swelled with relief that she had found her artist-in-residence at last.

  They sat outside at one of the small round tables, surrounded by big terra-cotta pots of rosemary and lavender yet to flower. Elizabeth crossed her legs, wrapping her pale lilac pashmina around her shoulders, for there was a cold edge to the wind. Her naturally blond hair was streaked with gray, and the wisps that had escaped her ponytail were caught by the breeze and blew about playfully. She was not blessed with beauty, but her face possessed a certain haughtiness that was arresting.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  Marina hated cigarettes and was a little disappointed. But Elizabeth had asked so politely, her educated accent clipping the words so efficiently, that Marina decided not to hold it against her. No one was perfect.

  Elizabeth reached into her bag and burrowed about in search of cigarettes and lighter. This took a while, during which time Marina ordered herbal tea for her guest and a fruit juice for herself. At last Elizabeth’s long fingers appeared with a packet of Marlboro Lights, and she popped one between her thin lips and lit it, turning her back to the wind.

  “You have a beautiful place, Marina,” she said, blowing smoke out of the corner of her mouth. “It’s jolly inspiring to see the sea.”

  “I have to be near the sea,” Marina replied, resting her heavy gaze on the glittering water. “It has always been the most consistent thing in my life.”

  “I agree with you. It’s good for the soul. I once traveled with a famous actor—who discretion prevents me from naming—who meditates by the sea. I suppose I was his artist-on-tour. He was an inspiration to me. I’ve tried to meditate, but my mind is too busy. I can’t shut it up.”

  “Do you travel a lot with your work?”

  “All the time. I’ve accompanied kings, queens, and princes all over the world. Jolly lucky, really.”

  Marina felt uneasy. Even she was realistic enough to appreciate that the position of artist-in-residence at the Polzanze was not a highly covetable one. Surely, if Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes was used to painting for kings, she would not consider spending the summer in Dawcomb-Devlish, teaching old ladies for her board and lodging. “How fascinating, Elizabeth. Tell me, which kings and queens and princes? I would love to hear your stories.”

  Elizabeth pursed her lips. “Well, that’s the thing. You see, if one is privileged enough to be invited on their foreign tours, one has to keep shtoom. I’m sure you understand.” She laughed a smoky little snort through her nostrils. “Perhaps when we know each other better I’ll share some gems.”

  “Of course.” But Marina doubted she had any gems to share.

  Just as Marina’s spirit began to plummet, Grey walked out onto the terrace. “Ah, my husband,” she said, smiling at him gratefully.

  Elizabeth took in his stature, his broad shoulders, his thick, curly hair and genial face, and thought how incredibly attractive he was. An intellectual, clearly, and noble, too, one could always tell. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she gushed, giving him her hand.

  “I thought I’d come and join you,” he replied, shaking it. He notic
ed her weak grip and the cold, thin feel of her fingers. “Are you warm enough out here?”

  “Perfectly,” she replied. He pulled out a chair and sat down. A waiter hurried to the kitchens to fetch him some coffee. “We were just saying how lovely it is to see the sea.”

  “I agree, the view is spectacular.”

  “I’d love to paint it.”

  “Well, perhaps you shall,” he said. Then he caught his wife’s eye and deduced from her expression that Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes would not be coming back to paint anything.

  “So, this position of artist-in-residence, what does it involve, exactly?”

  Marina felt the familiar tug in her stomach, an internal warning system that never failed. She didn’t want Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes in her hotel, name-dropping all summer. Once again, she found herself having to go through the motions in order not to be impolite. “Last year we had a charming man who resided with us for three months, teaching the hotel guests painting. It’s something different I like to offer our residents.”

  “What a brilliant idea—and such lovely surroundings to paint.”

  “I think so. Last summer Paul taught us all how to paint.”

  “You as well?” She directed her question at Grey.

  “Not me, I’m no artist. Marina had a go, didn’t you, darling?”

  “Yes, though I’m no good at it, either. It was fun to experiment, and he was such a nice man. It was a pleasure to have him to stay all summer, and we missed him when he left. He’d become part of the family.”

  “As shall I. One loves nothing more than to roll up one’s sleeves and get stuck in. All hands on deck.”

  “Absolutely,” said Grey, finding her heartiness comical. The waiter placed his coffee on the table along with herbal tea and a glass of grapefruit juice.

  Elizabeth rested her cigarette on the ashtray. “Now let me show you what I do.” She delved into her bag and pulled out a black photo album. “I’m afraid my art is too big to carry around. Some of my paintings are hanging in royal households, so you can imagine, one can hardly go asking to borrow them, can one? This will give you a good idea.” She handed Grey the book. Marina pulled her chair closer to her husband and nudged him with her elbow. “I’m jolly good with people,” Elizabeth continued. “You see, it’s one thing knowing how to paint, but quite another knowing how to teach. I’m fortunate enough to be adept at both.” Grey nudged his wife back.

  They leafed through photographs of horses sketched in charcoal, to still lifes in oil. There was no doubt that Elizabeth had talent. However, her work had nothing of the heart of Balthazar Bascobalena’s melancholy boats, nor his flair. She was extremely good, but she had no soul. “You’re very talented, Elizabeth,” Marina said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

  “Thank you. One loves what one does, and I think it shows, don’t you?”

  “Oh, it really does,” said Grey, but Marina could see no traces of pleasure in her work at all.

  Elizabeth finished one cigarette and lit another. As she sipped her tea, Marina noticed her face fall in repose. She suddenly looked old and sad, like an actress weary of playing her role. Marina felt a twinge of compassion, but she couldn’t wait to be rid of her.

  “She was dreadful,” she exclaimed to her husband once Elizabeth’s car had disappeared up the drive.

  “You have to kiss many frogs before you find your prince. Perhaps the same applies to your artist.”

  “Oh really, Grey. I suppose you think this is all very funny.”

  “I’m amused.”

  “Well, at least one of us is.”

  He put his arm around her and squeezed her affectionately. “Darling, you have to keep your sense of humor. The world is full of wonderful people—wonderfully ghastly and wonderfully pleasant. Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes was certainly entertaining.”

  “I’d enjoy it like you if I didn’t feel so anxious.”

  “There’s nothing to be anxious about. It’ll all work out in the end. Consider this a study in human nature.”

  She grinned up at him. “From which I deduce that God has a sense of humor, too.”

  “Yes, but I think He was very serious when He created you.” He laughed, and Marina couldn’t help but laugh with him.

  * * *

  At midday Harvey Dovecote strode into the hall. A determined bachelor, Harvey had worked for Grey and Marina from the very beginning, having been estate manager for the last and least fortunate Duke and Duchess of Somerland. Now, at seventy-five, he did little more than odd jobs for Marina, clad in his habitual tweed cap and sky-blue boiler suit. The regular guests delighted in his familiar presence as he went about his work with irrepressible optimism and charm. He was a beloved character, as much a part of the hotel as the bricks and mortar, and Marina had grown entirely dependent on his down-to-earth good sense. He swept leaves, filled the log baskets, mended broken pipes, and fused light switches. He repaired roof tiles and leaking ceilings, and plastered and painted when the decoration needed touching up. There was nothing he couldn’t do, and he had the energy of a man twenty years his junior.

  Fit and wiry, Harvey had thinning gray hair and a long, genial face that always smiled. His skin was scratched with deep laughter lines but his eyes sparkled with the reflection of an agile mind that missed nothing and saw the humor in everything. He arrived as Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes sped off in her Range Rover.

  “Another one bites the dust!”

  “Oh, Harvey, I’m so pleased you’re back!” Marina exclaimed, feeling a pleasant calm wash away her doubts. “You wouldn’t believe the people I’ve had to interview today. A pirate and a name-dropper. If the third interview isn’t a success, I don’t know what I shall do.”

  “You shall wait for the right person to appear.”

  “You think he will?”

  “Oh, he will.” Harvey’s certainty was comforting.

  “How’s your mother? I’m sorry. I’m so wound up in my project I forgot to ask.” She placed her hand on his arm, for his mother’s health had declined recently and she’d been put in a home. She was ninety-eight, and Harvey was devoted to her, visiting her up to three times a week.

  “She’s bearing up. Sun Valley Nursing Home is dreary, but me and my nephew, Steve, keep her entertained, as much as we can. She’s very excited because Steve’s gone and bought a secondhand Jaguar. Beautiful car. Purrs like a big cat. He drove it to the nursing home, and they wheeled her out so she could get a good look at it.”

  “You haven’t told me about Steve before. I never even knew you had a nephew. He sounds very successful.”

  “He is. He lives in a big house just outside Salisbury, full of beautiful things. He’s a collector, you know. You’d be amazed by the things he has. My brother, Tony, never amounted to much, but his boy Steve’s broken the mold. He’ll lend me the Jag if I ask him, he’s that generous. Might have to bring it down here and show it off.”

  Marina laughed. “You at the wheel of a swish car? Now that I’d like to see.”

  “And I’d like to see the look on your face when I take you out in it!” He opened his wide mouth and laughed heartily.

  “Oh, I’d love that, Harvey. It’s many years since I’ve been in a beautiful sports car.”

  She suddenly grew serious. “You heard the news this morning?”

  “I did indeed. He’s like Macavity the Mystery Cat.”

  “Really, Harvey …”

  “He’s called the Hidden Paw—

  For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.”

  He grinned as he managed, yet again, to make her smile.

  “It’s no laughing matter, Harvey.”

  “I don’t like to see you worried.”

  “But it is a worry, Harvey. We have to be vigilant and hope he doesn’t target us. We’re small compared to the places he’s robbed so far, so I hope he’ll overlook us.”

  “I expect he will. There’s not much to steal here, is there.”

  “Nothing re
ally valuable, no.”

  “So put it out of your mind.”

  “Only once the police have caught him.”

  “He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair: For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!”

  “You don’t seem at all anxious about it.”

  “Being anxious isn’t going to stop him targeting the Polzanze.”

  “Then what is?”

  “I’ll stand outside with a shotgun.”

  “I don’t think I’d feel any safer with you wielding a gun, Harvey. We need something else.”

  “He scratched his chin. “A dog?”

  “You know I don’t allow dogs on the premises.”

  “You’d feel a lot safer if you had one. Cats like Macavity don’t like to rob places with dogs.”

  She turned away and folded her arms. “I couldn’t bear a dog. I just couldn’t …”

  “Dogs are very friendly animals.”

  “I know … but I really couldn’t …”

  “Then we’ll think of something else,” he said soothingly.

  She smiled with relief. “Yes, please. Anything but a dog.”

  Marina’s third and final candidate arrived late. A bumbling, university graduate in jeans and beige corduroy jacket, he was foppish, with long blond hair and a baby face that barely looked old enough to be out of school. They had tea in the conservatory, for the wind had picked up, and he told her about himself while she tried to concentrate and look interested. Harvey caught her eye as he wandered out to the terrace to fix a wobbling table, and pulled a face. She didn’t need his confirmation, but it was nice to know that he agreed; George Quigley would not be staying the summer, either.

  It was hard to get rid of him. He drank endless cups of tea and ate four slices of cake and whole handfuls of little egg sandwiches. Marina listened patiently while he chatted on about Exeter University, his girlfriend, and his somewhat optimistic plans for his future, exhibiting all over the world. His work was abstract, as she expected it would be. She laughed away her disappointment, imagining what her old ladies would make of it.