The Shivering Sands

by Victoria Holt

  “And now?” I asked.

  “Who knows?” she answered. “I expect they will take her away from me now. I must tell them the truth. My poor child ... She was so like him ... I used to watch for the signs. He had her gentleness. He wanted to be good, I am sure.”

  I could only murmur my sympathy. I could offer her nothing else.

  “What will become of us?” she murmured. “What will become of us now.”

  Alice herself decided what should be done.

  The day after we had come back from the caves she was missing. Her little room was as neat as ever, the bed made, the coverlet smooth; everything neatly folded in her drawers.

  But there was no Alice.

  I knew where she was. She had heard that she was not Sir William’s daughter, that she would have to go away. This was something she had vowed she would never do. She had determined she would stay at Lovat Stacy forever. She would not accept the fact that it was not her home.

  She would always think of the dramatic effect. Beside the shifting sands she had dropped a handkerchief with “A” neatly embroidered in the corner.

  I pictured her standing there, holding her candle in her hand. Now she would be buried forever in the land which she had determined should be her own.

  Nothing would be the same again. Between the new and the old life was a great chasm which could never be crossed. The past was dead and the future was vital and living. For one thing Death had taught me when it had come close to me and all but taken me by the hand was that I wanted to live. I wanted desperately to live. I wanted to build up a new life over the rains which should be so completely hidden that it would be as though they had never existed.

  There were two men waiting for me. One was cool and charming, so certain of his place in the world; and the other was scarred by life. Godfrey was so sure, Napier so unsure.

  They had both been at hand when I needed them; they had both been watchful since the fire; in their different ways they loved me. Godfrey tenderly, kindly, gently and perhaps dispassionately; perhaps he had chosen me because I would make a suitable wife. And Napier fiercely, possessively, desperately.

  “Marry Godfrey,” my head told me. “Go right away from here and forget your nightmares. Live graciously ... bring up a family in ideal surroundings ... comfortable and easy.”

  “But,” said my heart, “this is where you belong.” Nightmares, perhaps. Memories. Devils to fight, his and your own. Pietro to mock you for having once more followed the call of the heart.

  And when Napier came to me and took my hands in his, different now, Napier the free man, he said: “Now I suppose you think you should marry Godfrey and settle down in your country vicarage while you await your bishopric. But you’re not going to.” And he laughed and I laughed with him. “You’re going to be a fool, Caroline. Everyone will tell you you’re a fool.”

  “Not everyone,” I said.

  And I was confident. My heart would always win.