Hearts and Diamonds

by Justine Elyot

  ‘You mean Lord Harville? Oh, then the girls . . .?’ I said, hideous light dawning.

  ‘Poor mites,’ said Eliza with a bitter laugh. ‘They ain’t done nothing to deserve what they’ve got in life. Let me show you something.’

  ‘Show me what?’

  ‘Wait.’

  She went over to the round iron cover that concealed the entrance to the wine cellar and performed some kind of manoeuvre to open it.

  ‘I’ll show you something that’ll make you see,’ she said.

  ‘What can you show me? I already see,’ I said. ‘I see that you are the one responsible for all those horrible tricks, and you intend to steal my husband from me once again. But it will not work. I can give him a son, born in wedlock, and that is his heart’s desire, far more than to bed some servant girl whenever he wants.’

  With a suppressed cry of fury, she rushed at me and knocked me to the ground, where we struggled desperately, hand against hand, with much scratching and biting and pulling of hair. I got free of her and rose again to my feet, but she launched herself once more, and her arms and legs flailed at me with such murderous intent that I feared for my life.

  I cannot recall exactly how it came to pass, but somewhere in the milling chaos of fingernails and teeth, I pushed her off me with the last vestiges of my strength.

  She went backwards, over the cellar opening and fell headlong into its gaping maw.

  For a moment I could do nothing but stand there with my hand over my mouth. She made no sound. I called her name, tentatively. Still, silence.

  I went into the kitchen for a lantern and took it with me, down the slippery cold rungs of the ladder. Halfway down, I shone it into the darkness. Eliza lay there, her neck at a sickening angle. I had killed her.

  I went down to sit with her. I know not why. I sat with her for an hour, perhaps two, even three, then I realised I had this diary in the pocket of my nightgown and I thought to write it all down and leave this testimony with her.

  I leave it now. I place it beside her and I leave this cellar, this house and this town. I will pack a bag and be away from here with the morning mail.

  What will become of me, and my child, I cannot say.

  I place our destinies in the hands of a merciful God. He will need no diary to understand my motives, for He will see what is in my heart, and so, farewell.

  Jenna put the book aside and for a moment neither of them spoke.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Jason at last, with feeling.

  ‘So the body wasn’t hers,’ said Jenna. ‘God. What a mess.’

  ‘And guess what,’ said Jason, sounding so savage that Jenna turned to him in concern. ‘The only one who gets away with it all is Harville.’

  ‘Oh, well, but does he? He loses his wife and the son he longed for. So, not really.’

  ‘You think he wouldn’t go out and remarry straight away?’

  ‘How could he? Frances was still alive. He’d need her death certificate before he could do that. Although, maybe a divorce on grounds of desertion? But I’m shaky on divorce law back then. I’m sure it took a very long time.’

  Jason shook his head. ‘But what the hell happened to her? Them? I mean, if she had the baby. She might have lost it, what with all that fighting and stress.’

  Jenna leant her head back against the wall, her brain working furiously.

  ‘I don’t know. But I think we need to dig deeper. I can’t just let it end like that. I need to know what happened to them all – to Frances and the baby, to Lord Harville, to those poor girls. And Eliza’s family! Did they know? Were they told? Everything suggests that it was totally hushed up, since Eliza’s body has lain there ever since. The cellar was sealed and it was left that way. Although . . . somebody put all those boxes of papers down there. Harvilles have known, all the way down the years.’

  ‘How the hell are we supposed to find out though? We can’t exactly bring any of ’em back to life to ask them.’

  ‘I don’t know. Parish records. Births, deaths and marriages. I’m going to look into it, Jay. Just as soon as this exhibition’s off my hands.’

  ‘Yeah, I think it’s got to be done. I’ll help you.’

  They clasped hands, each looking for some comfort from the other from the awful story they had just read.

  ‘We’ll sort this out,’ said Jenna, and they embraced.

  Chapter Twelve

  LATE AUGUST HAD come to Bledburn, and with it the first break in the weeks of summer heat that had tyrannised the town since Jenna’s return from London.

  On the day of the exhibition, the skies were darker and fat raindrops fell singly or in pairs before changing their minds and withholding the ever-promised cloudburst. The uncertainty did nothing to help Jenna’s mood, already jittery, as she rushed around the house and garden supervising the final touches.

  ‘Jen, chill,’ said Kayley, laughing, as she unpacked a box of champagne glasses in the kitchen. ‘Leave it to the team. Tabitha’s got the paintings covered and I can cope with the other bits and bobs. Take five before your blood pressure goes through the roof.’

  ‘I could do with finding Jason,’ she muttered, picking up a handful of invoices and gazing unseeingly at the figures. ‘Where’s he gone? Doesn’t he care that this is his big night?’

  ‘Go and find him. He’s probably a bag of nerves too. Honestly, everything’s in hand.’

  Jenna nodded and put down the papers.

  ‘Thanks, Kayl,’ she muttered, wandering out into the back garden.

  She hadn’t felt comfortable out here since the discovery of the body and, now she knew the story behind it, she felt even less so, imagining Frances’s footsteps underneath hers, seeing the spot where Eliza had been toppled into the cellar mouth. But people were busy stringing fairylights between the trees and setting out folding tables and chairs. In the past fortnight, she had worked like mad to get the wilderness into a more presentable state. Jason had spent every day stripped to the waist, hacking back bushes with a chainsaw. Not that that had been such a bad sight . . .

  Where was he, though?

  She wandered vaguely through the old formal garden, rather less formal than it used to be. Potted shrubs and miniature trees had been placed in the flowerbeds, which next year would hopefully have blooms of their own to show.

  She reached the tree trunk with the entwined initials and turned back, her skin suddenly cold.

  Frances’s happiness had been so short-lived.

  She looked back at the house, raising her eyes from the hectic business on the patio and lifting them all the way to the roof.

  Ah. That could be her answer.

  She went back inside and climbed the stairs to the top floor. Nobody was up here – it was out of bounds to exhibition-goers. They had decided to do the attic frescoes as a separate exhibition, once Jason’s name was made. She called up to the attic and was rewarded by the sight of Bowyer leaping out of the door.

  ‘Jason? What are you doing?’

  ‘Come up and see.’

  She huffed. ‘I haven’t got time for this. We’ve only got three hours before the first guests . . .’

  ‘Come up and see,’ he repeated.

  She did as she was told, grudgingly, and huffed again when she saw the state of Jason, bare-chested in his old trackpants with paint all over him, even in his hair.

  Her scolding words died in her throat when she saw what he was doing.

  He had a large canvas in front of him, on which was a half-finished picture. Unusually for him, it was a portrait. Of her.

  ‘Is that . . . me?’ she asked uncertainly.

  So far, it was just an outline, but she knew from the pose he had put her in and the sketch of her hair and face that it couldn’t be anyone else.

  ‘I’ve made a start,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I mean, there’s a long way to go with it. I’m not used to portraits either.’

  ‘I . . . Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but if you’re painting me, shouldn’t I be
posing for you?’

  ‘You’d have to keep still for five minutes,’ he said with an uncharacteristically shy little laugh. ‘When does that ever happen?’

  ‘I could do it for you,’ she said, looking closer. ‘Are you going to put clothes on me?’

  He reached over to ruffle her hair with a paint-stained finger.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Jason!’

  ‘It’s only a sketch. I’m nowhere near ready to paint the real thing yet. I’m kind of hoping you will pose for me when I get that far.’

  ‘If this exhibition does what it’s meant to do, you’ll be a hot property. And so will any picture you paint of me. Especially if it’s nude!’

  ‘Yeah, and? There’s a gorgeous painting I saw once in art class at school of a woman lying on her side, showing her arse. Dead sexy, can’t remember the title or the artist, though. But, whoever she was, she’s living forever. Everybody gets to see what a beautiful woman she was when she was alive, even centuries after she died. I want that for you. Nobody looks at that painting and goes, ew, I can see her bum, how embarrassing. Do they? They look at it and go, wow, what a beautiful thing.’

  Jenna nodded. ‘The “Rokeby Venus”, maybe?’ she suggested. ‘Velazquez?’

  ‘Whatever. No, the title was stupid. Made us all laugh.’

  ‘Also known as The Toilet of Venus?’

  He laughed with recognition. ‘Yeah, that was it. You can imagine how a bunch of fourteen year olds from the estate reacted to that. We thought it was hilarious. But you get my point, though?’

  She smiled and put a hand in his.

  ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘Because I’ve been thinking a lot since we finished reading that diary, about what lives on after death. My work is the kind that lasts. Yours, not so much. I want you to be remembered as more than a footnote on Deano’s Wikipedia entry. You deserve it.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ said Jenna with a brittle laugh, but she knew what he meant, and she appreciated the sentiment. ‘You’ve made me a bit fat,’ she objected, peering again at the outline.

  ‘Get lost. There’s nothing of you. Besides, what’s wrong with a bit of flesh?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she sighed. ‘You’re right. LA turned me into such a body fascist. I hope I’m growing out of that now. You know, I really resented Deano’s fling because I thought she was fat. Isn’t that pathetic? What kind of skewed thinking is that?’

  ‘Well, Bledburn’s knocking all that crap out of your head,’ said Jason. ‘So it’s good for something.’

  ‘Look, we haven’t got long before the show,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘Would you do me a massive favour and come and get showered and changed? People are going to start turning up before we know it and I want everything to be perfect when they do.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Time for me to practise all my handshakes and manners and polite conversation,’ said Jason, rolling his eyes. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll behave myself at the exhibition. Can’t promise anything for afterwards though . . .’

  He caught her round the waist and cupped her face in a rough, white-spirit-smelling hand. ‘Unlike you,’ he whispered. ‘You made me a promise for after the exhibition? Remember?’

  A guilty little thrill of arousal hit Jenna right in the pit of the stomach.

  Oh yes. She remembered.

  Forty-five minutes later, she stood in her bathrobe, taking her dress for the night from its hanger and laying it on the bed.

  ‘That’s nice,’ commented Jason, standing behind her in his own dressing gown, slicking gel through his wet hair. ‘You’re wearing that tonight, are you?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  Jason rubbed his hands together then put them on her shoulders. He bent to kiss her neck. She nuzzled against his face instinctively, despite her gathering opening-night nerves.

  ‘Bend over,’ he growled.

  ‘Jason, we’ve just got out of the shower . . .’

  ‘Do it.’

  Everything in her responded to his take-no-prisoners tone. She bent straightaway, her hands on the mattress either side of the long spangly dress.

  Jason reached underneath to loosen her robe, so he could run his hands over her belly and breasts. He lifted it clear of her bottom and spread her cheeks with his thumbs.

  ‘Do you remember what you’re getting tonight?’ he said, as if this rude exposure hadn’t provided the perfect reminder.

  The thought made Jenna wet and squirmy between her legs, much as she clenched her muscles.

  ‘Of course,’ she whispered.

  ‘Good. Cos I don’t want you forgetting. As a little reminder, you’re going commando at the exhibition tonight.’

  ‘Jason,’ she gasped, looking at the high split in the skirt of her dress, calculating the chances of wardrobe malfunction. They were slim, but all the same . . .

  ‘No arguments,’ he said, with a light pat to her bottom. ‘You’ll do as you’re told. I’m your performing monkey downstairs, after all. You made that deal, babe, and when you make a deal with the devil . . . well . . .’ He put his fingers between her legs and rubbed her pussy lips.

  ‘You are the bloody devil,’ she wailed.

  ‘You’d better believe it.’ He continued to finger her steadily while she thought long and hard about wearing no knickers at the exhibition, and what would come afterwards. It made her almost delirious with lustful shame. ‘I’m having my way with you tonight, Jen. I’m going to get you good and ready for it. I’m going to start by fucking you here and now, because I want you doing all that hostess with the mostest stuff downstairs with a well-fucked pussy. They won’t know, but they might guess. And I’ll know. And you’ll know.’

  He was still speaking when Jenna found herself empty of fingers but suddenly full of something else. She moaned with pleasure at the unexpected fullness his penetration provided, pushing herself back on him instinctively.

  ‘I’ll think of this every time I look at you,’ he said, thrusting into her, forcing her weight forwards on to her braced arms. ‘When you catch my eye tonight, babe, you should know that I’m picturing you, bent over and taking it hard. And I’m thinking about how you’re going to get more of it tonight, but . . .’

  She whimpered as his thumb delved between her bottom cheeks and pushed at her tight pucker.

  ‘There,’ he whispered.

  She thought about what he said, thought about it feverishly, adding her hot thoughts to her hot body and all it was going through.

  She wanted to suck it all into her and keep the whole of it inside, so she could have it again whenever she wanted. She would hold on to the feeling of him slamming into her, the way his thighs smacked into her and his cock ploughed deep, waking up every nerve ending along her passage as it went. His hands on her, exploring her, squeezing and examining and owning every inch of her skin. His low-spoken dirty words. The reality of her submission and her base need of him. The thought of her, without knickers, and everybody whispering behind their hands, knowing what had just been done to her – and, worse, knowing what was still to come.

  And it was true; there would be talk. Undoubtedly there already was. That Jason was her lover was common knowledge on five continents. They knew where he’d been. They would probably all be picturing it when they shook hands and exchanged pleasantries over champagne.

  This thought was the one to send her over the edge, spasming gratefully around Jason’s thick, still-thrusting cock.

  ‘That’s it, babe,’ he said with fierce triumph. ‘You need it. You get it. Lots and lots of it . . . Oh . . .’

  He was finally lost for words, his voice breaking into sighs and grunts.

  She held tight to the knowledge that he was filling her up, draining every scrap of wanton pleasure from it.

  ‘I love you,’ he said, language returning to him. ‘And I owe you.’

  ‘Not any more, after tonight,’ she said. ‘And everything I’ve done for you has been for love. You do kn
ow that, don’t you?’

  Falling into a heap on the bed, Jenna’s dress shoved aside, they kissed in a tangle of wet and salty limbs.

  ‘Either that or you’ve totally lost your marbles,’ he said. ‘I like to believe the first one.’

  ‘That’s the true one,’ she said. ‘Oh God. The time. Hand me those tissues.’

  With half an hour to go before the exhibition opened to the invited guests, Jenna and Jason were disturbed in their conversation with Tabitha by a loud bang on the door.

  ‘Tell them it’s too early,’ Jenna called to Kayley as she rushed across the hall to answer it. She turned back to Tabitha. ‘So you think this room is the more commercially attractive stuff and the other rooms are for specialists?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tabitha confirmed. ‘Of course, it’s all excellent, but we’ve used this drawing room for the pieces we think will create the biggest waves. I must say, if you don’t make a very substantial impact tonight, I’m putting my gallery on the market.’

  ‘The buzz is absolutely out of this world,’ agreed Jenna, shutting her eyes for a moment of professional rapture. ‘Have you seen all the speculation in the press and online?’

  Jason, who had been looking every inch the well-heeled young sophisticate about town, suddenly dropped the mask and assumed a posture of teenage sulkiness.

  ‘Mum,’ he moaned as Kayley, apologetic-faced, ushered Linda Watson into the room. ‘I said to come later.’

  ‘What, and miss my own boy’s big moment? I’m your mother, Jase. It was me what gave birth to you. Do you think you can fob me off?’

  ‘Didn’t security stop you?’ asked Tabitha, amused.

  ‘They tried,’ said Linda grimly, and Jason rolled his eyes.

  ‘Kayley, take Ms Watson into the kitchen and get her a drink,’ suggested Jenna, mouthing, ‘Water!’ once Linda’s back was turned.

  ‘If she gets rat-arsed and shows me up . . .’ muttered Jason.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Jenna reassured. ‘Kayley’ll look after her. All you have to think about is accepting the compliments that will be rolling in all evening.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Tabitha with a nod. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just need to call Shona in London, make sure everything’s ticking over at the gallery.’