Last Voyage of the Valentina

by Santa Montefiore

  Fitz lifted the trunk and a rather stiff, crumpled Sprout lumbered out. The dogs all sniffed each other curiously, though Margo’s terriers showed a greater interest in Sprout than the old dog showed in them. He was keener to cock his leg on the tire and sniff the gravel than play with the scruffy little creatures who pressed their noses to his bottom. Fitz left the trunk open so Sprout could seek refuge there when the terriers became too much, and followed Margo and Thomas into the house.

  “Caroline’s coming down after lunch and Miranda’s home from school. Poor Henry’s at Sandhurst. They keep him busy there,” said Margo as they walked through the hall into the drawing room. Fitz was pleasantly surprised by Alba’s parents. They weren’t the ogres she had portrayed but conventional, country types. The drawing room was decorated simply in pale yellows and beiges. He sank into the sofa and, to his surprise, Alba positioned herself beside him and took his hand and squeezed it. He noticed Thomas catch Margo’s eye. It was clear that Alba had never brought a boyfriend home before.

  “A drink, Fitzroy?” Thomas asked. Fitz wondered what they would expect him to have, then asked for a whiskey on the rocks. Thomas looked pleased and walked over to the drinks table. Margo sat on the club fender and pulled one of the dogs onto her lap.

  “So, Fitzroy, what do you do?” she asked, running a large hand down the dog’s back.

  “I’m a literary agent.”

  “Ah,” she replied, impressed.

  “Among others, I represent Vivien Armitage.”

  She raised her eyebrows in recognition. Margo Arbuckle epitomized Viv’s readership.

  “Now, she’s jolly good,” she said. “I don’t get much time to read. Running this house and my horses swallows up the days but when I get the chance I do enjoy her novels. Thomas likes Wilbur Smith, don’t you, Thomas?”

  “I like a good read. Mind you, I’m rather more inclined to read biographies these days.” He handed Fitz his drink. “Nothing like a true story, is there?”

  “Now, Fitzroy,” Margo began, “are you one of the Norfolk Davenports?”

  “Yes,” Fitz lied. If one was going to lie one should do so with the utmost confidence. He squeezed Alba’s hand and she squeezed his back. She was enjoying this.

  “Do you know Harold and Elizabeth?”

  “Harold is my father’s cousin,” said Fitz. He had never heard of Harold and Elizabeth.

  “Ah, so your father is…?”

  “Geoffrey.” Another lie, but why quit now, he thought. Margo narrowed her eyes and frowned.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know Geoffrey.”

  “Do you know…George?”

  “No.”

  “David?” It was a gamble.

  “Yes.” Her small brown eyes lit up. “Yes, I do know David. Married to Penelope.”

  “Absolutely,” said Fitz. “Charming woman, Penelope.”

  “Isn’t she? Shame they had no children.” She sighed and pulled a sympathetic smile. “So your parents live near Kings Lynn too?”

  “No, my father moved down south, to Dorset. He has a grouse moor in Scotland though. When I was a child we divided our time between the two houses and of course the chalet in Switzerland.”

  “You ski?” interjected Thomas, who loved all sports. He didn’t know which impressed him more, the grouse moor in Scotland or the chalet in Switzerland.

  Thomas sat down in the armchair and took a swig of martini. “I hope you’ll stay the whole weekend, Fitzroy. We have the Reverend coming for lunch tomorrow, after the service. Do you play squash?”

  “Absolutely,” said Fitz, which was the truth. “I’d love a game, but preferably not with the Reverend. I daren’t play a man with God on his side.”

  Margo laughed. Alba was amazed. Her father was pink with pleasure. They really liked him. Viv had been right. She wasn’t a best seller for nothing.

  And as if Fitz hadn’t charmed them enough, he bent down and picked up one of Margo’s little dogs. “My mother had terriers,” he said, stroking its fur. “She stopped going on holidays simply because she couldn’t bear to leave them behind.” Margo tilted her head to one side and gave the most understanding of smiles. “And yours, Mrs. Arbuckle, are delightful.”

  “Oh, Fitzroy, you make me feel so old. Call me Margo.”

  “Only if you call me Fitz.”

  At that moment Miranda hurried into the room. She was tall and slim with straight blond hair tied into a ponytail. She wore jodhpurs and riding boots and an irritated expression on a round, flushed face. “Summer’s bolted again, Mummy!” she said, huffing and puffing in the doorway.

  Margo stood up. “Darling, let me introduce you to Fitz Davenport, Alba’s friend.”

  “Oh, sorry,” she said breezily, extending her hand. “I’m afraid my horse is a bolter.”

  Fitz was about to make a joke about the Bolter in Nancy Mitford’s Love in a Cold Climate but changed his mind; such a reference would probably be lost on one so young.

  “Do you want help getting her back?” he said instead. “Sprout could do with a run.”

  “Would you?” interrupted Margo. “Gosh, Fitz, you are kind. You’ve only just arrived from London.”

  “Let me go and change out of these clothes into something I don’t mind getting mud on. Then we can all muck in together, can’t we, Alba?”

  “He’s in the yellow room,” interjected Margo as they stepped out into the hall.

  Alba looked horrified. She hoped that she could hold the gate open or something. As a child she had been forced into riding and cleaning tack, but when she grew old enough to express her opinions she kicked up such a fuss that Margo let her off, so long as she helped in the garden, podding and peeling beans all summer, which was the lesser of two evils. Picking vegetables wasn’t so much an arduous task as a boring one and besides, there were other things she’d much rather be doing, like reading magazines and playing with Cook’s makeup. At least, though, it was a solitary occupation that left her alone with her thoughts. She would hear the others shouting in the field above the house, their hearty voices echoing across the valley, grateful that she wasn’t among them. She had always had an aversion to group activities—especially family ones. She led Fitz up the stairs and when they were alone she burst into commentary.

  “You’re first-class, Fitz!” she exclaimed, embracing him. “You’ve already won them over and you know what? They think better of me because of you. Suddenly I’m being treated like a grown-up.” Fitz savored the sensation of her body against his, her arms wrapped around his waist, before she pulled away.

  “You are a grown-up,” he said, watching her saunter over to the window. He peered into his empty suitcase, surprised that it had already been unpacked.

  “That’s Mrs. Bromley. She’s the housekeeper. A shadowy figure one rarely sees, like a little field mouse,” Alba added when she saw the puzzled look on his face.

  “Does she always unpack?”

  “Of course, for guests. Sadly not for me though, and I need it more than you do, because I’m chaotic.” She laughed huskily. “No field mouse to scurry about in my room.”

  “Will I find anything?” He opened a drawer to discover one pair of pants and one pair of socks neatly placed together like an old married couple in bed.

  “That’s a tough question. I don’t know the way her mind works, assuming that she has one, of course. She’s a fossil.”

  “At least I know where my pants are!” he said with a chuckle, then opened the wardrobe to find his jeans draped over a hanger.

  “Wouldn’t it be awful if we really did end up together? They’d discover you’d lied.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” said Fitz seriously but Alba was giggling as if the mere idea was preposterous.

  “I’ll see you downstairs,” she said, tossing her ponytail. “I’m not changing and I’m not chasing a bloody horse around a muddy field, either. Really, Fitz, that was beyond the call of duty. You know she has bloody pigs in the woods?” />
  “Pigs?”

  “Yes, wild boars. Six sows and two boars in a pen that takes up about an acre. She thinks they’ll make her money. They’re always breaking free and believe me, you don’t want to encounter Boris on a dark night. He’s fearsome. He also has the biggest balls you’ve ever seen.” She raised her eyebrows playfully.

  “Don’t make me feel inadequate,” Fitz replied with a chuckle.

  “Then don’t make me run around after a bloody horse. I think you’re enjoying this role-play much too much.”

  Alba swept out of the room. Fitz changed into his jeans and a gray sweater. Alba was right, he was enjoying the act enormously. It wasn’t hard. Thomas and Margo were easy to please. It wasn’t difficult either to hold Alba’s hand and pretend that her heart belonged to him. Sadly, though, it was only an act and, at the end of the weekend, he would drop her off in Cheyne Walk and return alone to Clarendon Mews. Hopefully he would find out enough about her mother for her to travel to Italy and discover more for herself. He would have served his purpose and she’d have no further use for him. He’d have to continue his bridge fours with Viv and endure the sight of Rupert whistling down the pontoon in anticipation of Alba’s unique brand of hospitality, any intimacy with him having evaporated like the mists that hang over the Thames. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind and left the room. As long as he was in this house he was Alba’s boyfriend and he would do his best not to let reality ruin it for him. He had no intention of turning into a pumpkin before it was absolutely necessary.

  Margo and Miranda waited in the hall with Alba. Margo had tied a scarf around her head and put on a pair of brown corduroy trousers. Alba lingered by the window while her stepmother and half sister discussed the problem fence and Summer’s extraordinary intelligence.

  “It’s becoming a pain,” said Margo stridently. “Peter will simply have to go through every inch of it and mend the weak spots. We can’t have her running off like this. One day she’ll run into the road and cause an accident! Ah, Fitz,” she said, her ruddy face breaking into a large smile. “You really are a sport!”

  “It’s a pleasure,” he replied. “Besides, it’s such a beautiful day. It’s a shame to waste it inside.” Miranda’s cheeks flushed when he settled his eyes on her.

  “I hope she hasn’t gone far,” she mumbled, then turned and followed her mother out of the house. Alba rolled her eyes at Fitz.

  “You’re mad,” she said affectionately. “I said they’d love you, didn’t I? You’re their sort of person.” Fitz knew she didn’t mean it as a compliment.

  Catching Summer was no easy task. She had headed off up the drive and was almost in the lane, chewing the cow parsley greedily. At first Margo gave the orders. Even Alba had to make up the circle in their attempts to corner her. No hanging around gates for Alba. She shot Fitz a furious look; if he hadn’t suggested they help she would still be sipping wine in the drawing room. Sprout and the terriers raced around barking at Summer, but she simply tossed her head and cantered off triumphantly. When Margo’s strategy failed, Fitz took over. His prime concern was not Summer but Alba, whom he wanted desperately to please. He ordered her to go back to the field and hold the gate wide open. Then he, Miranda, and Margo, instead of trying to catch the stubborn mare, encouraged her to trot back to the field on her own by simply walking toward her in a line with their arms outspread. Her natural instinct was to move away from them. Little by little, with patience, they managed to usher her back. To Miranda’s amazement, Summer cantered into the field and Alba closed the gate behind her gleefully. It had taken time, but there was a large grin on Alba’s face. It had been worth it.

  When Margo congratulated Fitz, he explained that he had grown up with horses. “I’d get that fence looked at, though,” he said, doing his best to sound like a man of vast experience. “We had a mare once that bolted. Cut her leg on barbed wire. It got infected. Nasty business.”

  “Oh dear. One wants to avoid that at all costs. Shame Alba doesn’t ride; otherwise you could both have a good hack before lunch.”

  Alba linked arms with Fitz. Miranda’s admiration for him had not escaped her notice.

  “I’d like to show him around the estate,” she said.

  “Miranda will take you, if you’d like a ride,” Margo persisted in her usual tactless manner. Alba was furious. She wants Fitz for Miranda, she thought angrily. Fitz sensed Alba bristling at his side and declined politely.

  “That’s very sweet of you. Another time, perhaps.” Then he shouted at Sprout. “Come on, old boy. Let’s go and check out happy Boris.”

  “Happy?” said Alba, crinkling her nose.

  “Well, of course,” he replied, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Oh,” she said with a smile. “Of course.”

  Margo watched Alba and Fitz walk off in the direction of the orchard and turned toward the house. “What a charming young man,” she said to her daughter.

  “Lucky Alba,” Miranda replied with a sigh. “He’s attractive, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is,” Margo agreed. “Not her type, though. She usually goes for pretty boys and fashionable ones too, according to Caroline.”

  “He’s ruggedly handsome, I’d say.”

  “I hope he knows what he’s in for.” Margo laughed and shook her head. “She’s a headstrong girl. Though, he’s no shrinking violet, is he? He’s tall and broad and strong. I’m sure he can manage her.”

  “I’m glad she’s found someone nice.”

  “Oh, so am I. A proper person.”

  “He’s quite a bit older than her, though, isn’t he?”

  “Thank the Lord! No man her own age would cope.”

  “Do you think he’ll marry her?”

  “One never knows with Alba.”

  “Well, I think I’ll ride out on my own then,” said Miranda, moving away.

  “I’ll come with you,” said her mother. “Alba doesn’t need me.”

  Margo turned to look back up the garden but they had gone. She heaved a sigh and strode into the house to change.

  Alba and Fitz returned at lunchtime. Their faces were flushed and their eyes shone. Alba had shown him around the estate. The gardens and the tennis court, the squash court and stables. She had showed him the swimming pool that was empty of water and filled with leaves, and the pond where ducks and moorhens swam among watercress and bulrushes. Then they had wandered up to the woods, where Boris had been only too happy to show off his assets and how well he used them. They had even spotted a couple of fawns in the woods and heard the rasping cough of a muntjac. The bluebells were nearly out and the fertile scents of nature had filled the air and their spirits. Thomas was impressed. Alba never went on walks on her own. He was pleased that she took pride in her home and was keen to show it off. Fitz is a good influence, he thought happily.

  Fitz had charmed the Arbuckle family with ease. Miranda watched him while her adolescent body stirred with something dark and primitive and deliciously confusing. Margo was overjoyed that Alba had found a normal man with a normal job. A man she could place. A man from her world. Thomas looked forward to an after-dinner cigar in the company of a man of education. It gave him pleasure to see his daughter so happy and calm, for calm was a stranger to Alba. Gone was the raging child who had turned up that night with a fistful of abuse. But there was one member of the family that Alba and Fitz had not considered.

  6

  L avender Arbuckle hobbled into the drawing room. Margo looked on in horror while Thomas rose to his feet to allow his mother prime position in his comfortable reading chair. Lavender spent most days hidden upstairs in her suite of rooms, but she had smelled the excitement in the air like a dog smells dinner and had come down to find out what was going on. She wore an elegant tweed suit that dated from the twenties. It hung off her body; she had shrunk with the years and ate so little that her bones stuck out. It was a wonder they didn’t penetrate her old flesh.

  “Mother, let me present Fitzroy
Davenport,” said Thomas. Fitz jumped to his feet. He bowed and shook her hand. Next to him she looked like a tiny sparrow.

  “And who are you?” she asked in a slow, haughty voice, fixing him with her formidable gaze.

  At this point Margo interjected, “Lavender, he’s Alba’s friend.”

  “Ah,” she said, raising her chin. “Alba’s friend.” She turned to Alba. “You’re back again! How nice.” Alba remained seated. No one spoke. They all waited for the old woman to settle into the reading chair. “Are you married, Fitzroy?” Margo tried once again to intervene. It was most embarrassing.

  “No,” Fitz replied coolly.

  “Jolly good! You can marry Caroline, or Miranda. You look like a good sort.”

  Alba took his hand in hers and inhaled sharply. “If he marries anyone it shall be me,” she stated emphatically, clipping her consonants like Viv did.

  “And who are you?” Lavender repeated, this time to Alba.

  “For goodness’ sake, Grandma, I’m Alba and I need a cigarette!” She got up and marched out of the room.

  “I’d like a cigarette too,” said Fitz and hurried after Alba.

  Once they had left the room the old woman blinked in bewilderment. “Was it something I said?”

  “Mother, it’s really not on that you fail to recognize your own granddaughter,” Thomas complained, handing her a brandy.

  “Oh yes, the dark one,” she said quietly and her voice trailed off as she tried to work out why the girl was so dark when all the Arbuckles were fair. “I’m most confused.” She turned to Margo. “Is she yours?”

  “She’s ours. Lavender, really!” Margo replied, now in a fluster. It had all been going so well before Thomas’s dotty old mother appeared.

  “Beautiful girl,” she said, oblivious that she had offended her daughter-in-law.

  Then Thomas spoke, barely audibly. “Her mother died when she was born. Surely you remember?”

  Lavender’s jaw dropped and she let out a deep groan. “Oh, yes. Valentina,” she whispered as if afraid to mention the name. As if it were somehow sacred. “I quite forgot. What a fool I am.” Her eyes suddenly glistened and her gray cheeks took on a purple hue. “You must forgive me. Dear girl,” Lavender shook her head. “What a business. A ghastly, ghastly business.”