The Shivering Sands

by Victoria Holt

  “Very,” I replied. I signed for Allegra to take her place beside Napier, but she hung back sullenly and I did not want to force it, so I turned my horse and we went on and in a short time we came to a cottage with a long front garden in which the weeds were growing.

  I heard Sylvia’s shrill voice: “That’s the Brancots. Their garden’s a disgrace. The weeds blow to other people’s and spoil their flowers and vegetables. There have been complaints.”

  “Poor Mr. Brancot,” said Alice gently. “He’s so old. How can he do his garden? It’s not fair to expect it.”

  “Still, it’s a rule that tenants look after their gardens, my mother said.”

  The only time Sylvia was bold was when she was quoting her mother.

  We passed on and in a short time I noticed that the girls had fallen behind again. They were keeping their distance because they thought we wished them to, and what this implied made me uneasy.

  A few days later an even more disturbing incident occurred.

  As I came out of the house I found Mrs. Lincroft with Alice about to get into the dog cart.

  “We’re just going to the little shop to get a few things,” she said. “Is there anything you need?”

  I thought awhile and remembered that I needed a reel of blue cotton.

  “Why not come along with us?” she suggested. “Then you can choose the exact color you need.”

  As we rode along I remembered the little shop which Roma and her friends had used and which I had once visited with my sister. It was in fact a house—little more than a cottage—and in the window of the parlor, goods were displayed, the idea seeming to be to cram in as much as possible. Roma had said that the shop was a godsend and saved them going into Lovat Mill whenever they wanted any little thing. It was run by a large woman and all I remembered about her was that she talked a great deal and was shaped rather like a figure eight.

  One stepped down into the interior of the shop, where bundles of firewood were stacked against a wall beside a great tin of paraffin oil, the smell of which permeated the gloom. There were biscuits, cheeses, fruit, cake and bread as well as haberdashery. I guessed it prospered largely because many of the people of the neighborhood were saved, as Roma and her friends had been, from making the journey into Lovat Mill.

  As soon as I entered memories came back to me of Roma and I thought of her standing there asking in that brisk voice of hers for glue or brushes or bread and cheeses.

  Mrs. Lincroft made her purchases and I asked for my cotton; and as the plump lady, whom Mrs. Lincroft addressed as Mrs. Bury, brought out her tray of cottons, she peered at me and said, “Oh, you people are back then, are you?”

  In dismay I understood at once. She recognized me.

  Mrs. Lincroft said: “This is Mrs. Verlaine, who teaches the girls music.”

  “Oh ...” A long-drawn-out sigh of astonishment. “Well, fancy that. I could have sworn ... I thought you were one of them ... They were here for quite a time ... always coming in for this and that.”

  “Mrs. Bury means the people who were working on the Roman remains,” explained Alice.

  “That’s right,” said Mrs. Bury. “Why you’re the spitting image of this one. I could have sworn ... she didn’t come in much ... once or twice ... but I’m not one to forget a face. I thought for a minute: “Hello, they’re back. This is a nice blue. It depends of course—”

  As she brought out a little brown paper bag and put in the cotton I had selected, she was chuckling to herself. “My word ... For a minute I thought... I could have sworn you were one of them.”

  She took my money and gave me my change.

  “Mind you,” she said, “I wouldn’t be the one to say no if they wanted to come back and do some more. There’s some that don’t like it. But they were always in here. Some didn’t like ’em cutting up the countryside but it’s good for business, I say. Well, it takes all sorts to make a world. It was funny that one who disappeared. We never heard what became of her. I expect it was in the papers and I missed it. Though if it had been murder—”

  “We shall never know now,” said Mrs. Lincroft finalizing the conversation. “Thank you, Mrs. Bury.”

  “Thank you, I’m sure.” Her warm brown eyes followed me out; and I knew she was trying to cast back her mind to a certain afternoon when Roma had gone into her shop taking a companion with her.

  “I had to cut her short,” said Mrs. Lincroft as we climbed into the trap. “Otherwise she’d go on forever.”

  I had been rather shaken by Mrs. Bury’s recognizing me and I wondered what effect it would have on the Stacys if they discovered that I was Roma’s sister. At best it seemed to make me appear rather sly. My only excuse would be that I thought her disappearance might be in some way connected with the house and its inhabitants, which could scarcely be expected to please them.

  Perhaps I should do well to confess now. I could imagine myself telling Napier.

  I wanted to be alone, away from the house to think of these things and what better solitude than riding through the country lanes.

  I went to the stables and as I was about to ride out Napier came in. As he dismounted he threw a bag onto the ground where it fell with a clatter. I looked at it in some surprise and he said: “It’s only a spade and shovel and few gardening things.”

  “You’ve been working with them?”

  “You look surprised. There are many things I can do. I turned my hands to all sorts of jobs on the Station.”

  “I suppose so,” I said.

  “Now you are putting on that ‘It’s no concern of mine’ look. Please don’t. I like to think that what I do is a concern of yours.”

  “That,” I said coolly, “is more baffling than ever.”

  “You say that but you know there is a perfectly simple explanation. I am eager for your approval, so I shall tell you what I’ve been doing.”

  “It’s not necessary and I’m sorry if I implied that I should like to know.”

  “You implied it ... most clearly. That’s what I find so stimulating about you. You always want to know. There is one thing I cannot endure, and that is indifference. Now be prepared for a great surprise. I’ve been to the Brancots’ helping with the garden. Ah, that has shaken you.”

  “I—I think it’s extremely kind of you.”

  He bowed. “It’s pleasant to bask in the warmth of your approval.”

  “You could of course have sent one of the gardeners.”

  “So I could.”

  “Your tenants will think you a most unusual landlord, working in their gardens.”

  “One tenant—one garden—and I didn’t do it as a landlord.” He leaped back into the saddle. “This is too good an opportunity to miss. We’re going for a ride together.”

  “I have only an hour to spare.”

  He laughed again and as I could do nothing else but move away, he followed me out into the sunshine.

  While we walked our horses through the narrow lanes he said seriously: “About Brancots ... yes I could have sent one of the gardeners, but old Brancot didn’t want that. There are some malicious people around here. So self-righteous they are. There’s our dear vicar’s wife for one. She believes in justice. No matter how uncomfortable everyone is, justice must be done. She would say that if old Brancot cannot manage the garden he should move to a cottage without one; but he’s lived in that cottage all his life.”

  “I understand.”

  “And your opinion of me has improved a little?”

  “Of course.”

  He looked at me quizzically. “Who is to say that I did it to win your approval and not for old Brancot.”

  “I’m sure there is no question of it.”

  “You do not know me. I have mean, ulterior motives. My ways are devious. You should beware of me.”

  “That could very likely be true.”

  “I’m so glad you realize it, because you will be much more interested in me for that very reason.”

  I thoug
ht then: There is no doubt to what he is leading. I must show him quite clearly that he is making a mistake. I was not going to run away simply because the master of the house—well, he was not quite that while Sir William lived—but because he was trying to force his attentions on me. I would show him that he could make no headway with me, nor could he drive me away. For the first time the thought struck me that he might want to drive me away.

  We had come to an open stretch of country and he broke into a gallop. I followed, and when he finally pulled up I was not far behind him.

  I brought my horse to a standstill and we looked down on the sea together. Ahead lay Dover Castle, grey, impregnable and magnificent, standing like a sentinel guarding the white cliffs as it had for hundreds of years. Dubris—as Roma would have called it—the gateway to England; and there was the remains of the pharos—Roma again—which had so delighted her, on what was known as the Devil’s Drop, built in green sandstone and Roman brick and cemented together by Roman mortar, which my sister had told me had stood up to the weather for nearly two thousand years. Away to the west was that wonderful formation known as Caesar’s Camp. Invisible now, but I remembered my sister’s taking me along this coast and gloating over the evidence of Roman occupation.

  Napier’s thoughts were clearly not with the Romans for he turned to me and said: “Shouldn’t we speak frankly?”

  I was brought back to the present “It would depend on what that would entail.”

  “Isn’t frankness always desirable?”

  “No, not always.”

  “Your husband would not wish you to go on mourning him.”

  “How can you know?” I fiercely demanded.

  “If he did wish it, it should be easier for you to forget. That would show clearly that he was not worth remembering.”

  I was angry—unfairly so perhaps, because he was making me look at what I did not want to see. Of course Pietro would want me to go on remembering him for the rest of my life.

  I remembered something else then. There had been at the Paris pension a girl student who had been smitten with an incurable disease. She had had a lover and a sudden vision of their two melancholy faces came to me. They were in my room in the pension and we drank coffee together and talked of love and she quoted the poem which she said she had given to her lover to read when she was dead if he should remember her and be sad.

  “No longer mourn for me when I am dead

  Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

  Give warning to the world that I am fled…”

  And it went on:

  ... “for I love you so,

  That in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,

  If thinking on me then should make you woe.”

  My eyes filled with tears which I tried to blink away but he had seen them.

  “He was an extremely selfish man,” he said brutally.

  “He was an artist.”

  “Weren’t you?”

  “I lacked something. Otherwise I should never have been deterred.”

  He leaned towards me: “Caro ... no not Caro ... that was his name for you. Caroline, you have forgotten sometimes ... since you’ve been here.”

  “No,” I said firmly. “I never forget.”

  “You are not telling the truth. You forget now and then, and the times of forgetting grow more frequent.”

  “No, no,” I insisted.

  “Yes, Caroline, yes,” he went on. “There is someone here who makes you forget. Why were you not here when I came back. Before...”

  I looked at him coldly and prodding my horse, moved away from him.

  He was beside me.

  “You are afraid," he said accusingly.

  “You are mistaken,” I replied. I was horrified to find that my hands were shaking. I should never ride alone with him again.

  “You know I am not. What sense is there is pretending things are what they are not.”

  “Sometimes it is necessary, to ... accept.”

  “I never would.” His voice rang out clearly. “Nor should you, Caroline.”

  He cut at some nearby bushes with his riding crop. “There must be a way,” he said.

  At that moment I heard a shout from the bushes and Allegra was calling to us. I turned and saw the three girls.

  “We’ve come rather a long way,” said Alice almost apologetically. “Then Allegra thought she saw you.”

  “Shouldn’t you have a groom with you?” I asked.

  Alice looked at Allegra who said: “I dared them.”

  Napier had not spoken. He seemed scarcely aware of the girls.

  “It’s time we started back,” I said.

  And we rode home, Napier and myself ahead; the girls keeping that discreet distance behind us which was so disturbing.

  “It’s a beautiful story.” said Alice. “I felt I knew all the people ... especially Jane.”

  They had been reading Jane Eyre—a task set them by Mrs. Lincroft and they had been commanded to write an essay commenting on the book and comparing it with others.

  Mrs. Lincroft had said to me: “Sir William has had a bad night and he’s a little fretful this morning. I feel I should hover over him. Could you go to the schoolroom for an hour or so?”

  I had readily agreed, thankful to have something, to do. I was disturbed by my conversation with Napier. He was very interested in me, I did not doubt that; what I did doubt was the depth of his emotion. I knew so little of him. But I had to admit that had he been free I might have been eager to discover more; that but for Edith I would have been willing to allow him to show me whether it was possible to forget the past.

  “Have you completed your essays?” I asked.

  Alice laid hers before me, three neat pages. Allegra had done half a page and Sylvia barely one.

  “I shall leave these for Mrs. Lincroft to see,” I said, “since she set the lesson.”

  “We were to discuss the book together and the characters,” Alice explained.

  “I liked it,” said Allegra.

  “Allegra liked the part about the fire, didn’t you?” said Alice, and Allegra nodded, suddenly sullen.

  “What else did you like?” I asked the girl.

  She shrugged her shoulders and said: “I did like the fire. It served them all right. He shouldn’t have shut her up should he ... and he went blind.”

  “Jane was very good,” said Alice. “She ran away when she knew he was married.”

  “He was very upset then,” said Sylvia, “but it served him right, didn’t it? He didn’t tell her he was married to someone else.”

  “I wonder whether she really knew and pretended not to,” suggested Allegra.

  “The author would have told us if she had,” I pointed out.

  “But she is the author,” put in Alice. “Jane is writing the book. She says I ... I ... She might have wanted to pretend.”

  “And she might not have told us,” added Sylvia triumphantly.

  “Still, she did go away when it all came out that he had a mad wife.” Allegra’s dark eyes were on my face.

  “Which,” said Alice, “was the right thing to do, wasn’t it, Mrs. Verlaine?”

  Three pairs of eyes were fixed on my face. Questioningly? Accusingly? Warningly?

  A few days later I was having dinner with Mrs. Lincroft and Alice when the bell in Mrs. Lincroft’s sitting room began to ring violently.

  She looked startled. “Oh dear, what can be wrong?” she said. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “They should be halfway through dinner. Do go on, Mrs. Verlaine. Omelets should be eaten immediately.”

  She left me with Alice, who continued to eat her food. I did the same.

  “He doesn’t usually send during dinner,” said Alice after a short pause. “I wonder why he has today. Sometimes I wonder what he would do without my mother.”

  “I am sure he relies on her.”

  “Oh yes,” agreed Alice in her most old-fashioned manner. “He would be quite lost without he
r.” She looked at me anxiously: “Do you think he appreciates that, Mrs. Verlaine?”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  “Yes, so do I.” She seemed satisfied and returned to her omelet.

  After a while she said: “And Sir William is very good to me too. He takes quite an interest. But although my mother is a good housekeeper, she is still only a housekeeper. Some people remember that. Mrs. Rendall for one.”

  “I shouldn’t worry about it.”

  “No, you wouldn’t because you’re wise and sensible.” She sighed. “I think my mother is as much of a lady as Mrs. Rendall. No, I think she is more.”

  “I’m glad you appreciate her, Alice,” I said.

  The door opened and Mrs. Lincroft came in, looking distinctly worried.

  “Have either of you seen Edith?”

  Alice and I looked at each other blankly.

  “She’s late for dinner.” Mrs. Lincroft glanced at the clock. “Twenty minutes late. They’ve held up serving. It’s so unlike her. Where could she be?”

  “She’s in her room, I expect,” said Alice, “Shall I go and see, Mamma?”

  “Someone has been there, child. She’s not in her room. No one remembers seeing her since luncheon. One of the maids took tea up to her at four o’clock. She always has it at that time ... and she wasn’t there.”

  Alice had risen. “Shall I go and look for her, Mamma?”

  “No, finish your dinner. Oh dear, this is alarming.”

  “She’s probably gone for a walk and forgotten the time,” I suggested.

  “That must be the case,” agreed Mrs. Lincroft. “But I must say it is unlike her. Sir William is really annoyed. He so dislikes unpunctuality as Edith knows.”

  “Your dinner is getting cold, Mamma,” said Alice anxiously.

  “I know, but I must see if I can find her.”

  “Perhaps she’s taken the trap and gone visiting someone,” I suggested.

  “Not alone,” said Alice. “She was frightened of horses.”