Sea of Lost Love

by Santa Montefiore

  But Celestria was more than an English beauty. She had something of the exotic about her, which men found irresistible. Concerned for her safety, her mother had taken her to New York when war broke out. They had lived with Pamela’s parents in a Park Avenue penthouse with ceilings so tall Celestria could barely see them and splendid views over Central Park. For six years she had been her grandfather’s delight. He had long since lost his daughter to Monty and England, so he relished having a little girl around the house and showered her with attention and presents that came in boxes, wrapped with tissue paper, smelling of new. He was the father she had lost to the war, the father she could embrace while hers was overseas and in wafer-thin envelopes that arrived sporadically to make her mother cry. Celestria learned to weave her charm and throw it over whole roomfuls of people like a fisherman setting his net, drawing it in little by little until she had ensnared each and every one. She learned to enchant and enthrall, understanding very early on what her grandfather expected of her. His applause was addictive, and she drank his love and grew dizzy. She was shown off to guests before dinner, presented aged seven by her governess with her hair in ringlets, her dress pressed, and her shoes shiny, and her grandfather’s pride was as sweet as candy. She sang songs and blushed when they all clapped. It was easy to manipulate people. They thought she was too young to be aware of her charisma, but she knew how pretty she was, and it didn’t take long to realize that by mimicking adults she could win their admiration. “What a funny child!” they’d coo. “A clever little darling!” And the more precocious she became, the more everyone loved her.

  Amid all the pretense her grandfather was never fooled. He knew her better than her own mother did, and understood her more compassionately. He took an interest in every aspect of her life, inspiring in her a love of books by reading to her every night before bed, and later lending her the classics he had adored as a child. He was not a musical man, lamenting that he had never had the luxury of learning an instrument, but he had a deep appreciation that he nurtured with regular evenings at the opera. He took Celestria to the ballet when she was only five and personally supervised her piano lessons. No detail escaped him, however small. He encouraged her at school, praised her triumphs, and showed his disappointment when she let herself down. But he never once let her forget how fiercely he loved her.

  Pamela Bancroft Montague seemed incapable of loving anyone more than she loved herself. It wasn’t her fault. The trouble was her parents had spoiled her. She had learned to be selfish, to believe she was the center of the universe, so there wasn’t much room for anyone else. She loved Celestria as an extension of herself; that was a love she instinctively understood. Her husband spoiled her, too. She shone like a jewel, and he treasured her as one. She had a captivating beauty, the sort of beauty that struck fear into the hearts of both men and women. Men found such loveliness indomitable, and women knew their own beauty lost its luster in the light of hers.

  Celestria didn’t miss her father in those early years. She had arrived in America as a two-year-old and returned to London when she was eight. She couldn’t even remember what he looked like. She had missed her grandfather when she left New York, treasuring the week they spent every autumn at the fairytale castle he had bought in Scotland to shoot and stalk, and the annual holiday at the Bancroft family home on the island of Nantucket. Like her mother, she learned to love herself more. When Monty tried to make up with presents for the years of estrangement, she accepted them gladly, manipulating him with little kisses and charming smiles of gratitude. Then he gave her mother a little boy: Harry. From the moment Harry was born, Pamela Bancroft Montague discovered that she could love someone more than she loved herself. Celestria didn’t feel eclipsed by her new brother; she was still basking in the bright glare of her grandfather’s love.

  When Celestria returned, wearing a simple white dress embroidered with daisies, the family were taking their seats for lunch at a long table beneath a big square sunshade. Father Dalgliesh was placed at the head, Archie at the foot. Julia put herself next to the priest, with Penelope on his other side.

  Pamela’s place was discreetly taken away by Soames. He found Mrs. Bancroft Montague exceedingly tiresome. Cook’s son, Warren, had already been up to her six times that morning, with trays of hot drinks and little bowls of food and water for her wretched dog. He had a good mind to muffle her bell so he couldn’t hear it.

  Father Dalgliesh made the sign of the cross, then, with his head bowed and his hands folded, he said grace. “Benedict, domine, nos et haec tua dona quae de tua largitate sumus sumpturi.” As his hands made the sign of the cross for the second time, Celestria raised her eyes and caught those of the priest. He reminded her of a startled fox. She was about to smile at him with encouragement when Archie invited everyone to sit down with the words: “Let battle commence!”

  Celestria was placed between Lotty and David, but she was aware of the priest’s attention even though he made an effort not to look at her again. It came as no surprise. Most men found her alluring. It was quite fun catching the eye of a priest and almost tempting to lead him astray for sport. She had had few rivals, but never one as powerful as God. The concept of celibacy fascinated her, especially in a man so good-looking. He had intelligent brown eyes, an angular face with chiseled cheekbones, and a strong jawline. In fact, if he took off those glasses, he’d be quite dishy.

  “Father Dalgliesh,” she said, concealing a smirk. “What called you to serve the Church?” He looked shocked for a moment and pushed his glasses up his nose, appalled at the effect this young woman had on him. Hadn’t his faith and dedication built a resistance to this sort of thing?

  “I had a dream as a little boy,” he replied.

  “Really? Do tell,” she encouraged.

  He raised his eyes and looked at her steadily. “An angelic being came to me and in the clearest voice told me that my future was in the Catholic Church. It was a vision, a light so powerful it left me in no doubt that God was calling me to serve Him. Since then I have only ever wanted to be a priest. I have never forgotten that vision, and during moments of doubt, I remember it.”

  “Like the light on the road to Damascus,” said Archie, chewing on a sausage.

  “How miraculous,” exclaimed Penelope, her voice fruitier than ever.

  “And how wonderful that miracles happen in the modern world,” added Julia.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” replied Father Dalgliesh.

  “Do you suffer doubts, Father?” Celestria asked to a sharp intake of breath from her aunt Penelope.

  Father Dalgliesh struggled with the impertinence of her question. “We are, all of us, human beings,” he said carefully. “And it would be wrong to assume myself superhuman because of a vision and a calling. God has given me a challenge, and, at times, it seems great. Just because I’m a priest doesn’t mean I am immune or even excluded from life’s obstacles and pitfalls. I have weaknesses like everyone else. But my faith gives me strength. I have never doubted it or my conviction, only my own aptitude.”

  As he spoke, he grew in stature. He seemed older than his years, as if he had a maturity gained over decades of experience, and yet, somewhere in the darkest corner of his heart, a menacing little seed was sown.

  Later, back at the presbytery that stood next door to the Church of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Miss Hoddel brought Father Dalgliesh his tea on a tray. He sat in silence in the sitting room, his eyes far away from the book that rested on his knee. She looked about her, at the piles of papers and books squeezed into the bookshelves and heaped onto every available surface, and wondered where to put the tray. With an impatient snort she shuffled over to the coffee table and placed it on top of a tower of letters. Father Dalgliesh was shaken out of his trance and rushed to help her.

  “I can’t clean this place if it’s always in a mess, Father,” she said, rubbing her hands up and down her wide hips as if to clean off the dust.

  Father Dalgliesh shrugged apologetically.
“I’m afraid even this house isn’t big enough for all my books,” he replied.

  “Can’t you sell some of them?”

  He looked appalled. “Absolutely not, Miss Hoddel.”

  She sighed heavily and shook her head. “Well, I’ve left you and Father Brock some cold ham in the larder and a little salad for your dinner.”

  “Thank you,” he replied, bending to pour the tea.

  “I’m taking your vestments home to mend. I’ve got my trusty Singer, you see, so I can do the job properly. We can’t have you looking shabby in church, can we, Father?” Again, he thanked her. “I’ll be going, then. See you tomorrow, bright and early, to tackle all that dust. I’ll just have to clean around your clutter. It’s not ideal, but what can I do?”

  He watched her go, closing the paneled wooden door behind her. He breathed a sigh of relief. Miss Hoddel was a godly woman, of that he had no doubt. The trouble was her ill humor: there was nothing godly about that. Still, no one was perfect, not even him. A spinster in her late sixties, Miss Hodder was dedicated to serving the Church, happy to look after him and Father Howel Brock for very little. People like her were a blessing. He asked God for patience. He also asked God for strength and forgiveness. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Celestria Montague since the moment he had seen her walking up the garden in her polka-dot swimming dress. Once again he pulled his rosary out of his pocket and began to move the beads slowly through his fingers, mumbling, in a low voice, ten Hail Marys.

  2

  As far as the Montague family knew, there was nothing out of the ordinary that summer of 1958. No scent of discontent. No trail of unhappiness. Nothing. That year, like every year before, they decamped to Cornwall for the whole of August. The season was over. London looked tired and more than a little ragged, like a fairground in the early hours of the morning once everyone has had their fun and returned home. Monty still considered Pendrift home even though Pamela hated it. “Too darn cold,” she complained, even when the sun smoldered in mid-August and her children complained of sunburn. Perhaps it was only natural that she missed her childhood summers in Nantucket, and there was something about Cornwall that rendered it damp, whatever the weather.

  She opened the curtains and let the sunshine tumble in, irritated that she still felt cold in spite of it. She pulled on a sweater and threw a soft wrap over her shoulders. She hoped the priest had gone by now. She didn’t like the Church and she liked men of God even less; they were always trying to convert people. Pamela believed only in things she could touch, and those things she could touch were often found wanting. She looked at her watch. Monty was coming down earlier than expected, having been away for ten days on business in France. He traveled a great deal, but business was business, and Pamela had to live with his achingly long absences.

  She considered her husband. No one had a bad word to say about Monty—they had enough to challenge a thesaurus when it came to her, but Monty was loved by everyone. In his youth he had been the jaunty youngest child, known affectionately by the surname that suited him so well. That name had duly stuck, so now no one ever referred to him by his real name, Robert, except for his widowed mother, Elizabeth, who lived in the dower house on the estate, heaving herself up to the big house for a grumble at every opportunity. No one was more cantakerous than Elizabeth Montague. They expected every summer to be her last, but the old girl hung on as if afraid heaven would be a place where complaining wasn’t allowed. A woman seemingly devoid of compassion, she loved Monty the best of her family. When he entered the room, her eyes would light up and the usual pallor of her cheeks would take on a blush. It was as if she saw the shadow of her beloved husband in the countenance of her son and was falling in love all over again.

  Being the younger son, Monty was free of the responsibilities that came with owning Pendrift Hall. Those responsibilities had weighed heavily on Archie’s shoulders since he’d inherited the estate fourteen years before, so that he now stooped a little when he walked and often disappeared into his office for hours, where no one ever dared disturb him. Archie Montague might have appeared benign, but beneath the gentle coating a ferocious temper lay in wait for the slightest provocation. He suffered a gnawing anxiety from the pressure of maintaining such a large property and looking after all the employees who worked on it, not to mention the education of his three sons and his wife’s well-known extravagance. While Monty had always done as he pleased, Archie had had to learn about the farm and the maintenance of the family estate that had been purchased by his great grandfather in the eighteenth century. Archie had toiled on the farm with his father while his brother had whistled his way across the world, seeking pleasure in sunny countries. Then, one day Monty had returned to ask his father to lend him money to invest in a sugar venture in northern Brazil. Archie thought the idea preposterous, but Monty had a way about him. A charm that not only dazzled his mother, but enchanted his father, too. Unlike poor Archie, Monty could do no wrong. Everyone else feared the boy had lost his mind and was about to lose the Montague family fortune as well. But his parents believed in him blindly and would not hear a word of doubt from anyone. Their erratic son disappeared for a year, during which time the Montagues held their breath. He returned a rich man, and everyone was able to breathe again. Elizabeth crowed and Ivan was repaid with interest. Later, on hearing the story, Pamela was impressed by his courage. She wouldn’t have considered marrying a man who was lily-livered, nor would she have considered marrying a man who was poor.

  She withdrew from the window and went downstairs, carrying Poochi like a baby. Soames was in the hall gathering the silver from the mantelpiece to polish. “Good afternoon,” he said politely, hiding his irritation. He had hoped to avoid her when she finally emerged from her room.

  “Ah, Soames. I’m ravenous. Would you be very kind and bring something out for me on a tray?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Bancroft Montague,” he replied.

  “Has the priest gone?”

  “He left over an hour ago.”

  “Good. Where’s Mrs. Julia?”

  “On the terrace with Mrs. Penelope.”

  “And Celestria?”

  “Miss Celestria is down on the beach with Miss Lotty and Miss Melissa. Master Harry is in the woods with his cousins, setting more traps.”

  “Good. Poochi would like something, too. Bring him some leftover sausage. You love sausage, don’t you, sweetie. Yes, you do.” She rubbed her nose into the dog’s fur. Soames pitied the poor dog, being nuzzled like that. Her perfume alone was enough to knock anyone out.

  Pamela walked through the French doors onto the terrace. Julia sat in the shade, a cigarette between her fingers, while Penelope held forth about marriage. “You’re lucky, Julia,” she was saying. “This won’t ever concern you, having only boys. But, my dear, it concerns me day and night. There are a good many scoundrels around who would be perfectly unsuitable. The trouble is, young girls love scoundrels.”

  “Nothing wrong with a scoundrel, as long as he’s a rich scoundrel,” said Pamela, squinting in the sunlight. She put Poochi down, then arranged herself before sitting on the cushioned bench. “Sometimes a scoundrel is rather fun.”

  “Oh, Pamela,” exclaimed Julia. “You’re only saying that to be controversial.”

  “You wouldn’t want Celestria marrying a scoundrel,” interjected Penelope.

  Pamela smiled the smug smile of a woman certain her daughter would marry nothing of the sort. “Oh, Celestria, I think she’s got what it takes to tame a scoundrel.” Penelope looked at Julia and rolled her eyes “Oh, I think it’s a very good thing for a man to keep a woman on her toes. There’s something kind of elusive about Monty. I might not like it, but it sure prevents me running off with somebody else!”

  Before Pamela could continue, the scrunching of wheels was heard on the gravel at the front of the house. From up in the woods Purdy heard, too, and galloped off down the field, barking. A car door opened and slammed shut. A moment later, Monty ap
peared, his panama hat set at an angle on his head, his briefcase in his hand and the Daily Telegraph under one arm. He was smiling, his smooth brown face crinkled with merriment.

  “Good day, ladies,” he said, taking off his hat. Then he strode over to where his wife lounged on the bench and bent down to kiss her. “And you, my darling. A very good day to you!”

  Down on the beach, Celestria lay on the sand with her cousins. The tide was high, the sea benign, like a great lion having an afternoon snooze. Gulls circled above, resting on the cliffs that sheltered the east end of the beach, pecking at the odd crab foolish enough to have climbed out of its rock pool. The sun blazed down, making them feel sleepy. Celestria turned onto her back and put her hands behind her head.

  “Do you think he’s never had sex?” she said, referring to Father Dalgliesh.

  “Of course not,” replied Melissa. “If he had his vision as a boy, there wouldn’t have been time.”

  “Do you think he’ll be tempted?” Lotty asked. “He’s not an old codger like Father Hancock was.”

  “Definitely,” Celestria stated, remembering the way he had looked at her. “The trouble is, the unknown enemy is the most dangerous. It’s easier to fight something if you’ve tried it.”