by Jana Petken
Marie watched him in silence. Guilt spread through her body, burning her skin. She was so hot that she thought she would faint. She had told him the truth, the truth she wanted him and Celia to know, but she had kept the real truth to herself, and although it would eventually eat her alive, she was willing to take on that burden herself.
Ernesto suddenly looked up, anger still planted firmly on his face. “What do you want me to do? Tell me and I’ll do it.” He spoke in a hard voice that shocked Marie.
“I don’t know. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure that I want you to do anything. I think I just want to hear you say that you and your family will forgive her. Forgive all of us.”
“Of course I forgive her; that goes without saying. I just wish I’d met this man. He would not have reached the gallows alive! When will you tell her?”
“I think the sooner the better, although I must say that I’m dreading it.”
They sat in silence for a moment, and thenErnesto said abruptly, “Allow me to tell Celia about her husband’s death. That way, she’ll know that I am aware of everything.”
It made sense, Marie thought, looking out the carriage window. But if he did tell Celia, he would unwittingly become party to a terrible lie. She could feel him waiting for an answer, and she wished again for Simon.
“Do you think that’s a good idea? Maybe I should be the one to tell her. After all, it’s my duty, not yours.”
“Yes, it may be your duty, but it’s my obligation,” he told her. “She has to know that I support her, that I don’t blame her, and that she is loved by all my family.”
There was silence and then Marie said, “Celia talks about you all the time in her letters.”
“Really, she does?”
Marie smiled. She wasn’t sure what prompted her to say that. It just felt right to do so. “Yes, and I know she trusts you … Tell me, is there anything I should know about?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Excuse me for prying. It’s just that I don’t want to see Celia get hurt again … Is there anything between you two?”
Marie watched him fight with unspoken words. He shuffled his feet like a vulnerable child in a man’s body, and at that moment, she suspected that he was afraid of her disapproval.
“Please tell me,” she urged him.
“Miss Osborne, I am in love with Celia. I love her with all my heart. I have never felt this way about any woman, yet I fear she does not return my feelings.”
“Dear Lord …”
“And I would do anything for her. I assure you that I could not and would not ever hurt her.”
“So you love my niece.”
“Yes.”
“Then you must know that you are facing an uphill struggle. You will have to be patient with her. She has suffered and will not trust again easily.”
“I know,” he agreed. “And I will do everything I can to gain that trust. I won’t give up without a fight.”
Marie wasn’t sure if she should be happy or worried about Ernesto’s declaration of love. Celia was a mysterious woman who kept everything close to her chest, and it was anyone’s guess as to which way this would go.
She waited until he mounted his horse to respond. The meeting had gone better than she could have dared hope, and she now felt, for the first time, that all would be well for Celia from now on.
“Ernesto, I wouldn’t be so sure about Celia’s lack of feelings for you. I’m her aunt, and I know her well. Fight for her. She’s worth it.”
Celia sheltered from the wind under the tree. It was their tree, the one where she’d learned to love again. How she missed him. If only he knew that. She loved him. If only he knew that too. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around her waist, wishing that they were his arms. She pictured what she’d say to him if he gave her the opportunity. She’d tell him that she was sorry for her unforgivable behaviour, that she wanted his touch, his love, his understanding, and his trust. Of course, as a testament to her foolishness, she had lost all possibility of having any of those things. He probably thought her childishly hysterical, vain, and ungrateful, not to mention arrogant, and she had no one else to blame but herself if he did.
When she heard the distant sound of horse hooves, she didn’t dare open her eyes. Only when the horse snorted did she look up to see Ernesto.
She stood up with hidden legs trembling beneath her long black skirt. She panicked. Had he come to send her away?
“Hello, Ernesto,” she said meekly.
“How are you? Are you well?” he asked without moving any closer.
“I’m fine, thank you. And you, Ernesto? Are you well?”
He nodded his head and sat on a rock a short distance from her. She sat down not far from him and wondered again why he’d come. He looked tired. His forehead was creased in anger. Or was it pity?
“How did you know I’d be here?”
“My mother told me.”
“She did?”
“Yes, you know my mother. She knows everything. Celia, I would like to apologise for the distress I caused you the last time we were here. Please understand that my actions were in no way meant to insult you.”
“I know that,” Celia told him, daring to hope that he’d forgive her. “I can’t explain why I behaved the way I did. But it’s me who should be saying sorry, not you.”
He averted his eyes. “I miss our picnics under this old tree. I miss talking to you,” he told her.
“Me too,” Celia replied.
“Then do you think we can start again? Do you think we can be friends?”
“Friends? Yes, of course. I would like nothing better.” She walked towards him and sat down next to him. Without speaking, she stretched out her hand, and he took it in his. “Celia,” he said softly, stroking her hand. “There’s something I have to talk to you about.”
“Of course …”
“It’s about your husband, Joseph.”
“J-Joseph?” Celia stuttered.
“Yes, I know all about him. I know what he did to you and to your father, and I understand why you wanted to keep the truth hidden. You weren’t ready to tell us.”
Her body grew rigid. She opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her, placing his finger on her lips.
“I think you are the bravest, most courageous woman I have ever met, and I admire you now more than ever. And had you told us in the beginning, we would have loved you just the same. It’s important that you know that.”
Celia walked back to the tree. She was struck dumb. She tried to get the words out of her mouth, but they were stuck at the back of her throat. She saw Ernesto take a couple of steps towards her through the light mist surrounding her. Eventually, she found her voice.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. How did you find out?”
“Your aunt told me.”
“My aunt Marie? How is that possible?”
“She’s here at La Glorieta.”
“I don’t understand. Ernesto, I don’t understand. Why would my aunt tell you about Joseph? She’s here? Has something happened to Joseph?”
Ernesto walked quickly to her side. She was trying to clear her head.
“I don’t understand,” she repeated.
“Celia, I met with your aunt this morning. She has come to tell you that your husband is dead.”
Celia felt her body sway to the side. She thought she was going to fall to the ground. She saw Ernesto move closer yet again.
“Dead?” she said just before she fell into his arms.
She closed her eyes and in the darkness felt Ernesto stroking her hair. When she opened them, again he pulled her closer to him, and she heard the sound of wretched sobbing leave her mouth. Finally, she stopped crying and searched his eyes.
“How did he die?”
Ernesto wiped a tear from her cheek and told her everything, leaving no detail by the wayside. As Celia learned the cold, hard truth about Joseph’s demise, he held her and continued to stroke
her hair.
“Dead? He’s dead? So now I can go home?”
“Only if you want to,” Ernesto answered.
Celia searched his eyes. Did she see disappointment in them? Perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her because that was what she wanted to see.
“I don’t want to leave. I want you to forgive me,” she blurted out.
“There’s nothing to forgive, and I don’t want you to leave me. My heart would break. I would do anything to make you stay … I love you, Celia. I love you.”
He loved her! She had to know if he was telling the truth. She cupped his face in her hands and stared into his eyes. He didn’t flinch. She saw tears in the corners of his eyes. She saw sincerity captured in their light. She saw love, and it was real!
“You love me?”
He smiled. “Yes, I do.”
She wanted to tell him everything now. There was no need to hide the truth any longer. “I thought it would be for the best to say I was a widow. I thought Joseph would just disappear as though he never existed, but I was wrong. He was always there, destroying everything I touched, everything I wanted, laughing at me in my dreams, taunting me until I thought I would go mad. I can hardly believe he’s gone.”
“He has. He’s gone, and he will never hurt you again.”
“I suppose I should feel sorry that he died, but I’m not. I’m not sorry at all.”
When she’d finished speaking, she snuggled into his chest. He pushed her gently away and tilted her chin with his hand.
“I love you, Celia Merrill. I love you with all my heart, and I promise you that no one will ever hurt you again for as long as I live and breathe. I will love and protect you until the end of our days. Will you be my wife? Will you have me? Will you allow me to make you happy?”
She searched his eyes again and nodded, and she felt only pleasure when his mouth covered her own, and as his kiss deepened, all thoughts of Joseph Dobbs were banished. She kissed his eyes, his cheeks, and his mouth. She tightened her arms around his neck, pressing herself closer to him, and when she drew away, she was smiling, with silent tears caressing her cheeks.
“Yes, I will marry you. I love you, Ernesto Martinéz, so much.”
Celia sat by the window, staring pensively at the perfect full moon. She opened her journal and smoothed the pages with the back of her hand. It had become a daily custom to document everything at the end of each day in the pages bound in leather. So much had happened, so many wonderful things, and she was loath to leave out even the tiniest details.
18 February 1914
I can hardly believe that I have been married for a whole week. Ernesto is my husband, and I love him more and more with each passing day.
John and his wife, Pip, are a delightful couple, and I was genuinely sad when they left us today. My cousin is like my aunt in so many ways, especially when he smiles and when he is in deep discussion about something or other. I still can’t believe that I have gone my whole life without knowing him, as I now feel I have known him forever. I made John and Pip promise to return for the summer, or at least for a couple of weeks. I don’t want to lose him now, and there are still so many things I want to know about him and his family.
The madness that enveloped the house over the last few weeks has finally died down, and in a way, I’m glad that everything has returned to normal, although I must admit that I enjoyed all the attention in the days leading up to my wedding day.
15 June 1914
Ernesto cried tonight when I told him about the baby. His happiness was the most wonderful joy to see and left me with a feeling of complete and utter contentment that ultimately has shown me that God does indeed work in mysterious ways. Joseph Dobbs, instead of destroying my life, has been the instrument of fate that eventually led me to happiness above and beyond my greatest expectations.
From the darkness of inconsolable grief and immeasurable despair, my marriage to him has led me to undertake a path of self-awareness, and I have now found the courage and determination to conquer my past, a past which was filled with self-loathing and recriminations. In essence, my rebirth is thanks to a man who wished me dead, and the happiness I now feel is a direct result of his evil legacy.
I do not know what the future will bring, but I have had more happiness in these few short months than a person could ever hope for … or deserve.
Chapter 33
Joseph Dobbs sat outside a bar nestled in a backstreet of the Montmartre district, overlooking the sprawling city of Paris. He’d come to this bar almost every day since his arrival in Paris, and the simplicity of his life now never failed to amaze him. He lived in a one-room flea-infested attic only two doors down from the bar, with a woman that he’d picked up shortly after finding the hilltop district. Her name was Suzanne, and she’d taken him in after a night of sex. She’d loved it, loved what he did to her, had begged for more, and he’d obliged. He didn’t see much of her – didn’t want to. She was a prostitute and worked nights in the Bois de Boulogne, a park where rich men paid for pleasure without commitment. He gave the prostitute the odd tumble in the mornings, along with a few francs to keep her happy, the same francs that she hid in a trinket box under the bed. She gave him a roof over his head, and in return he gave her what she wanted, but only when it suited him. Women were so fucking stupid; it made him laugh.
Apart from the fleas, the attic was home to half the rats in Montmartre. Dampness blackened the walls and the bed crawled with crabs, but he was happy there, and unlike Celia, Suzanne never asked for anything, not even for his affections. His bad leg still gave him grief. He still walked with a limp but only a very slight, annoying weakness of foot that didn’t diminish his attractiveness in the slightest. It had improved, he thought, probably because he had to walk up and down the steep hill that separated him from the posh avenues and bars that served men who served his purpose; stealing from drunken men on wine was easy in the wide Parisian avenues. He had accumulated enough francs to keep him going for a while, and more would come if he played his cards right, in every sense of the word.
He’d arrived in Paris with twenty pounds and had spent a lot on the journey through France, wanting to get to the capital as rapidly yet as discreetly as possible. His mother had given him about one hundred pounds, give or take a couple; he had no idea where she’d gotten the money.
For the most part, the journey to Paris had been uneventful. He’d shed his mother’s garb on the outskirts of London and had made his way slowly and cautiously across the country. He’d seen a few policemen inside the Dover docks, and getting on the ferry had probably been the most difficult part of the journey because of their presence. The bastards hadn’t lost any time in chasing him.
Joseph ordered a drink and checked the time on the pocket watch that he’d stolen from some man on Avenue Foch. He was due at the club in an hour. Getting on that ferry, he remembered, had really forced his brains to earn their keep. It was his brains that had beaten Marie Osborne, her bastard son, and the hangman’s noose; and it was his brains that would see him through the doors of the posh gambling club tonight.
It had been touch-and-go getting on the ferry. He’d crept inside a warehouse attached to the jetty. Men were loading crates onto the ship, while others were marking them off in ledgers. He’d managed to slip by them, and once inside, it had been easy to find a pallet marked for Paris; Lady Luck had showed him the way. He’d slipped under the rough grey sheeting and ropes covering the wooded slatted crates and had made himself as comfortable as possible in the tiny space the pallet afforded him. Once on board, he’d found himself alone in the cargo hold. The bulkhead door with a wheeled handle had opened for him but only after using every bit of strength he had. It had been a risky plan getting on that ship, but everything in life was a risk and a gamble worth taking.
He looked at his watch again. Roderick Smyth Burton, the posh fucking git, would be waiting for him. He’d met the British Consulate secretary at a game of poker a few weeks earlier. The
man was hooked on the game, lived for it just as he did. Joseph smiled. The night he’d met him had been a good night for him, but Roddy, as he now called him, had wished he’d never been born. The rich bastard from the London suburbs had lost everything that night, apart from the very expensive shirt on his back. Joseph had taken him to the cleaners and then bailed him out to stop him getting his throat cut by the other three at the table.
Roddy was his age, give or take a year or two, husband to some fragile, dainty wife and father to a spotty-faced boy who went to the best private school in Paris. He loved to boast about his family. They were his pride and joy, he always said, after they’d both fucked some whores in a backstreet brothel. According to Roddy, a whore was just a means to an end. They got rid of the day’s stress because working in a consular office was very stressful, according to him. Roddy was clueless when it came to the game. Maybe in time he’d learn, but he doubted it. People either had the gift for poker or they didn’t, and Roderick Smyth what’s-his-face just didn’t have it.
Joseph got up from the chair, pushing the table away to make space. He walked inside the bar to pay the bill and studied his reflection in the mirror that hung on the wall from one end of the bar to the other. He still saw his face, but others wouldn’t recognise him now. Gone was his fair curly hair, and in its place were black short bristles so short that he could see the skin on top of his head. His clean-shaven face had gone too; that was the biggest transformation. He didn’t know if he liked the full black beard. It had grown on his face but not on him yet. He turned his head left then right; he was still a handsome bugger.
He walked into the fresh air and thought again about Roddy. The man owed him a lot of money, and tonight the debt would be paid, but only in part. The terms of the deal were clear and had been very cleverly thought up, even if he did say so himself. He’d given Roddy a photograph of himself with his new looks and had convinced the man to get him new identity papers with a new name, but Roddy still owed him big, and he would call in the rest of the debt when it suited him. The man was now in his pocket, and that’s where he would stay.