Carver's Bride

by Nicola West

  'You—you've watched me, all that time?' she managed at last. 'But why? Why?'

  'Why? I've told you, I made a promise. I promised your father on his deathbed that I'd look after you. I don't break promises just because they become less easy to keep.'

  Linzi felt her face crimson as his glanced raked her. It was as if he was implying that she did just that—and she knew that, from his point of view, she had. Could she ever make him see that she had run away, not because her promise was merely less easy to keep, but because it was impossible? But she didn't want to get into that argument again. Instead she asked quickly:

  'So you know all about me—and I know nothing about you. What have you been doing?'

  'Working,' he answered laconically. 'You obviously haven't kept up with the art world—or my branch of it, anyway. I suppose you could say I've made quite a name for myself, with my sculpting. I've had several exhibitions, anyway.'

  She glanced at him from under her lashes, taking in the signs of success—the suede slacks, the silk shirt in matching dove grey, the thin gold chain that glinted among the hairs of his chest, and the answering dull gleam from his Longines wristwatch. Catching his sardonic glance, she looked hastily away, searching for a distraction, and at the end of the terrace saw a tall slab of marble, smoothed to the texture of satin and glowing with a translucency that turned to amber in the warmth of the evening sun, An example of his work? she wondered. Jason followed her gaze and nodded.

  'I brought that piece of marble back from Italy. It's my favourite—I don't think I'll ever sell it.'

  Linzi glanced at him in quick surprise at the sentiment. But Jason had never been entirely hard, she recalled. He'd been deeply fond of her own parents—fond enough to consider a deathbed promise totally binding, even when it threatened to interfere with his own life. It was only towards herself that he had been so implacable. . . .

  'When did you come to live in Wales?' she asked, shying away from the questions that kept raising themselves in her mind. 'The last I heard you were in Cornwall.' It was vivid in her own memories, the studio Jason had had in the north Cornish fishing village near St Ives. He had moved there when she was only twelve, and she recalled holidays spent there with her parents. Long, sunlit days when they'd fished and swum and sailed; days when she had sat for hours in the studio, watching with absorbed attention as Jason chipped painstakingly away at his slabs of rock, gradually etching out a shape that was so right for each individual stone it was as if it had always been there, hidden inside, waiting only for the right eyes to see it and the right hands to set it free. And Jason had those eyes and hands. Even as a small boy he had had them; and he had been fortunate, as he had always been the first to acknowledge, that after his own parents' deaths when he was only three years old, the Berwicks had taken him in and recognised his potential as soon as it began to emerge.

  Linzi hadn't been born then; she had arrived twelve years later, when Robert and Elizabeth Berwick had given up all hope of having children of their own. But she knew that from the first they had treated Jason, child of one of Robert's old school friends, as their own. She knew that they had done all they could to encourage his development as a woodcarver and sculptor, sending him to the best art colleges both in England and abroad to study.

  And to give him credit, Jason had never forgotten his debt to them. He had been away most of the time by the time Linzi was old enough to notice his presence. But his visits home had been frequent enough for him to become her idol. And he had treated her in a fond, rather patronising way as his younger sister, letting her watch him at work, using her as a willing slave just as any elder brother might do. It was only later that things had changed....

  'I've been here for three years now,' he answered her question. 'Inherited the place from that old uncle of mine—Walter. He was too old ever to take much notice of me when I was a child—he was my great-uncle really— but he always said he'd do what he could for me. Couldn't afford it while he was alive, poor old chap—but I blessed him for Bron Melyn when he died.'

  'But you loved Cornwall!' Linzi had loved it too—the atmosphere in nearby St Ives, where so many artists gathered and Jason's own idol, Barbara Hepworth, had had her own studio. She remembered seeing huge slabs of marble and granite being manhandled through the tiny cobbled streets; raw material, its secrets still locked inside it; and later the completed sculptures destined for the parks and gardens, the colleges and the great buildings they were to enhance.

  Jason shrugged. 'Yes, I loved it. But—things changed.' He was staring up the valley, his brilliant eyes veiled by the heavy lids and dark lashes. 'And when Bron Melyn came along I knew it was right for me to come here. And so it has been. I've done my best work here.' His glance wandered to the marble slab, so plainly done, a single form with a slash of gold across it where the sun speared its last rays through a notch in the hills. It was different every time you looked at it, Linzi thought, fascinated; already she was looking forward to her first view of it in the morning. She was sure that Jason would have placed it just where it could draw the most from its environment.

  'I'll show you the studio if you've had enough tea,' he said abruptly. 'Hugh will be wanting us in for dinner at eight—I always eat then, when I've finished work for the day—and I suppose you'll be wanting to change before that.' His glance skimmed over her and Linzi felt suddenly scruffy, even though only half an hour earlier she had felt perfectly satisfied with her appearance. Before she could speak, he was on his feet, with the litheness of a panther in his spring, and walking away towards the barn without a backward glance, followed closely by Bracken.

  Presumably she was expected to follow him too! Linzi felt indignation bubble inside her again. Once upon a time she would have conceded weakly to this treatment, thrilled that he even noticed her presence—but that was years ago. She was grown up now, she told herself savagely as she got to her feet and walked after him, deliberately taking her time. Not an adoring child, nor even a lovesick teenager, but a woman. . . . And the thought of his kisses burned across her memory again, so that she turned hot and had to pause for a moment to regain control of her suddenly hammering heart.

  Was it because she'd grown up that Jason Carver's kisses affected her in this way? There had been nothing like it during their earlier relationship—even during their brief engagement. Was that part of the reason why she had run away from him then, the unformulated knowledge that something vital was missing? And if so, what did its emergence now mean, to either of them?

  Jason had reached the door of the barn and turned impatiently to see where she was. For a moment Linzi stood quite still, seeing him in an entirely new light. Not as the beloved idol of her childhood; not as the man from whom she had escaped only days before a wedding that terrified her; nor even as the domineering male who had assaulted her senses as soon as she had met him, waking a sensuality she hadn't known existed in herself.

  But as some strange figure of doom; an almost mythical being, with the power to shape her life as he shaped the rocks around them. A god of bronze and marble, in whose hands she, like the stone he wrought to suit his own purposes, was totally helpless.

  'For heaven's sake,' Jason said impatiently as she reached him at last, 'you looked as if you'd been turned to stone, standing there. What's the matter—caught sight of my pet basilisk?'

  'Your pet ‑?' For a moment, still shaken by her vision, she didn't understand. Then she remembered the childhood joke she had once made when in his Cornish studio: that he had only pretended to sculpt the figures that stood about on their plinths, that in fact they were locals 'looked on' by a basilisk he kept hidden nearby, and so turned to stone. It surprised her that he should have remembered it; but she smiled as best she could, thankful for the help it gave her now in recovering from a moment that had troubled her more than she cared to admit.

  Jason opened the door of the barn and led the way inside. The sun had almost disappeared now; the great space was filled with a blue-gr
ey twilight. They stood at the entrance together, looking into the gloom. Linzi saw the dim shapes gradually form; shapes that loomed out of the impending darkness, strange and menacing. Then Jason reached out and flicked down the light switch, and she gasped, momentarily dazzled.

  The light came from long fluorescent tubes, reflecting off the pure white walls. There was light everywhere, it seemed. It was essential, Jason had once explained to her, to have a light studio. Light was important to sculpture; you couldn't see the shapes in a bad light, couldn't tell exactly what you were doing. Imperfections and roughnesses could go unnoticed.

  Her eyes growing used to the glare, Linzi looked around. The barn was. completely renovated inside and formed one large, high room—high enough for the tallest sculpture, its great doors wide enough for the bulkiest to pass through. The large windows in walls and roof would let in enough natural daylight when the sun shone; on dark winter days and during the night the fluorescent tubes would take over.

  At one end of the studio she saw Jason's workbench, running the full width and covered with tools, maquettes and small pieces in various stages of completion. The studio was well heated too, she noticed, with electric storage heaters; there must be no risk of damage to the work during cold weather.

  The rest of the space was taken up with Jason's gallery—sculptures of all sizes, ranged some on shelves, some on plinths. Fully absorbed, she wandered away from his side, examining them. Many of them she would have recognised as being Jason's work, simply from her knowledge of his work in Cornwall. Others were of styles new to her. Fascinated, she gazed at the busts, heads and full-size figures, both animal and human; wondered at the life and vitality that seemed to shimmer from the cold stone and metal. She could almost see the muscles of a great bull ripple as she approached him; almost flinched at the violence expressed in the tension of a boxing champion's stance. But other pieces were less easy to understand. Slabs of bronze or marble, asymetrical in shape, with holes in odd places; what did they mean? Figures that were—or were they?—surely meant to represent the human figure, standing, kneeling, reclining, also with strange holes. And others that meant nothing at all to her in shape, yet seemed to suggest something she could not put into words and drew her to touch, tentatively, their flowing curves and to rest her hands in their hollows or to cup their rounded arches.

  At last she turned and walked slowly back to where Jason was standing by the door, watching her. His expression was closed and enigmatic; perhaps he too had his memories of these days in Cornwall. He said nothing as she approached.

  Hesitantly, Linzi remarked: 'You—you seem to have moved on a lot since I last saw your work, Jason. Some of it I would have known anywhere as yours. But the rest——--' She finished her words with a shrug.

  He nodded, but evidently wasn't disposed to talk about it. His work had always been too precious to him for idle chatter, she remembered, and tried to not feel sad at the thought that once she had been one of the few he was willing to discuss it with.

  'What kind of thing is it you want me for?' she enquired, wondering now if the finished work would, after all, resemble her in any way.

  Jason grinned, obviously reading her thoughts. 'Don't worry, you're not going to end up as a slab of marble with a hole in the middle!' He crossed to a drawing-board which stood at one side, near the workbench. 'Look, these are a few preliminary sketches. See, it'll be in bronze— very large, about twenty feet high—very airy-looking. I suppose the nearest way to describe it is a kind of modern-style figurehead, like they used to have on ships. A symbol of progress and forward-looking success. Life, forging ahead—get the idea?'

  Linzi did. Staring at the sketches in fascination, she asked: 'And you think I can convey that?' It took some assimilating, the idea that Jason should even have considered her for such a role.

  'Yes. Your looks are just right, and you still have that air of eagerness, an excitement in life that's always been the most attractive thing about you.' He spoke in an unemotional, even professional tone that had nothing to do with the way his words brought colour to her cheeks. 'I was afraid that might have gone—and it's that that I need most of all. It brings a certain tension to your entire body, your whole attitude and posture, that's exactly the spirit of what I want to portray. Lose that and it'll fall completely flat.' He turned suddenly from the drawing and looked down at her, eyes brilliant again under the stark lighting. 'So don't lose it, Linzi—at least not while you're here.'

  Not much chance of her losing it, if it was tension he was talking about, Linzi thought. She was like a tightly-wound spring! But she merely nodded and shifted away slightly, pretending an extra interest in the drawings. 'And where's this figure going to go?'

  'Over the entrance of that new hotel they're building in London,' Jason answered. 'The Berkeley Palace.' His eyes glinted in appreciation of her reaction. 'You'll really stun 'em there, Linzi. It's a big thing for us both if it succeeds—and it's my intention that it should!'

  Linzi shook her head slowly. She had known this, was an important commission, but she had never dreamed that it might result in her likeness adorning the facade of one of the most prestigious hotels in London—a hotel that, even before building had started, had excited more comment than any other. She remembered her feeling that this assignment might prove to be something more worthwhile than anything she had yet done, and wondered how Richard would react when he knew. Not much of the furtive and distasteful about this, in spite of his worries!

  'Well?' Jason asked softly. 'Does the idea appeal? Or do you still want to go back?'

  Linzi forgot all their previous animosity, all the doubts and fears and all the dread she had felt when she had discovered that it was he who had brought her here. She turned a shining face on him, a face which glowed with excitement and pride, with eyes that were incandescent as flame.

  'Appeal?' she repeated. 'I've never ever dreamed that I'd be asked to do anything like this. It's the most marvellous thing that's ever happened. Thank you for thinking of me, Jason.'

  She took a step forward, lifting her face for an impulsive kiss, just as she would have given to anyone who had given her such pleasure. But even as she raised herself on tiptoe, something stopped her and made her draw back. Jason hadn't moved—but his expression, closed again and totally unreadable, hit her like a blow. Her kiss wouldn't be welcomed, she realised as she sank back again. Neither would her gratitude. As she herself had asserted, this was to be a strictly professional, business relationship. And, curiously deflated, she turned away towards the door.

  'I'll be ready to start work whenever you like in the morning,' she said in a low voice, and knew from the tiny sound that escaped Jason's lips that he was satisfied.

  Over dinner, they talked desultorily about things that kept them off personal details, things that they could discuss without emotion. And soon after coffee, Linzi said she was tired after the long drive and would like to unpack now and go to bed. Jason made no demur as she stood up, and didn't move from his own armchair, even when she stooped to pat Bracken goodnight. She climbed the oak stairs slowly, conscious of an intense weariness, a weariness that came from more than a long drive, but from emotional upheaval, shock and a strangely exhilarating excitement as well.

  And still, she reflected when she had finished her unpacking and was sitting in the window-seat of the bedroom gazing up the darkened valley, she wasn't entirely sure why Jason had brought her here. Was it simply for the bronze figure, as he'd said? Or was there some other, more sinister reason ...?

  CHAPTER THREE

  During the next few days Linzi found herself settling down at Bron Melyn, though, her thoughts and feelings were still in some turmoil. It was strange, after all this time, to be in daily contact with Jason again. There was an odd, painful familiarity about sharing meals with him; sitting in the same room, often without talking; hearing him move around the house or watching him cross the yard to the studio. It was all so well known that she sometimes wondered if
the past five years had been no more than figment of her imagination; if she had dreamed them and somehow lost her memory of how they had really been. The thought gave her a jolt, almost as if she half believed it; then she shook herself and mentally took: herself to task for being over-imaginative.

  But if being with Jason was, painfully familiar; there was also much that was strange. He had changed subtly during those years, she thought, developed the strength and maturity that had been budding during his twenties when, after long years of study, he had returned to England and set up that first studio in Cornwall. He was now in his prime, both as a man and as a sculptor. And, not for the first time, Linzi wondered just what her life might have been if she had not run away—if she had stayed, and married him. By now, they might have acknowledged their mistake and been parted, for ever this time. On the other hand.

  But it did no good at all to think along those lines. No good to dwell on Jason's firm lips, or feel again the pressure of them on her own. No good to visualise again his hard, muscular body, the powerful arms and wrists that were accustomed to handling heavy weights, slabs of granite and marble, yet could be so tender around a woman's body; to watch those long hands and remember that they were as sensitive when they carved a form from rock or wood as when they moved sensuously over her breast.

  Linzi moved impatiently and went to stare out of her bedroom window. It was still early in the morning. A haze hid the valley and hills, giving a soft golden glow to the landscape as the sun rose behind the house. A movement from below caught her attention and she saw Jason let himself out of the door, Bracken bounding beside him. The pair of them set off up the valley, oddly alike as they swung, loose-limbed and full of vibrant energy, up the rocky path.