Sea of Lost Love

by Santa Montefiore

  “Or the will of Monty,” said Penelope dryly.

  When Elizabeth Montague heard the news, she wouldn’t at first believe it. “It’s not true. Robert would never be so selfish!” she raged, her face flushing the color of a fresh bruise.

  Archie tried to rationalize. “I know. It’s implausible. But it’s the only explanation. Monty has disappeared. The note in the bottle, the shoes in the sea, the boat left to drift—they all point to one thing: that Monty has taken his own life.”

  “Robert would never do such a thing. Even if he were unhappy. Which he wasn’t, because I’d know about it. I’m his mother, for God’s sake. This has got to be a prank. A sick joke. Or kidnap.”

  Archie sighed. He’d already had this argument with David. He rubbed his forehead wearily. “I’m afraid, Mother, at this stage we have nothing else to believe but the worst. How or why, we may never know, but Monty is most probably dead.”

  Elizabeth sank into the sofa. “If that is the case, then it won’t be long before I join him,” she said, her voice tight with restrained grief.

  Archie poured her a glass of gin, then walked over to the window and stared out into the diminishing light. The dower house was a short walk down the garden from the Hall and overlooked the sea. It was a pretty white house with large windows, built at the same time as the main house but not as loved and uncommonly damp. It bore the same chilly expression as its mistress and required fires to be lit throughout the summer. Outside, the ocean was calm beneath a flamingo-pink sky. Feathery clouds drifted on the horizon, turning a deep shade of gray as the sun dipped beneath it.

  “Why the note? ‘Forgive me.’ Forgive you for what, Monty? For leaving your family bereft? For not communicating your unhappiness? For bottling it all up? For never asking for help?” Archie seemed to be talking to himself.

  “He wasn’t unhappy,” Elizabeth snapped then took a large gulp of gin. “He was jolly. He’s always been jolly. There’s no side to Robert. No surprises. He’s always been like that. Like his father. Straightforward. A more honest man one simply couldn’t find. If he is dead, then it wasn’t because he sought death. Death found him and snatched him away.” She straightened, her jaw stiff as if struggling to contain her emotions. “But I won’t believe it until there’s proof. No funeral until the body is found. Until then, my Robert is still alive.”

  Archie turned to face her. She was a broad woman, with wide hips and a strong, formidable face and yet, in that cold room, she looked very small.

  “Why don’t you stay at the Hall for a while?” he suggested kindly, even though Julia wouldn’t thank him for suggesting it. His mother looked at him sternly.

  “I might be old, but I’ve survived on my own for fourteen years. There’s no reason to be a burden to anyone now. I shall join you at Mass tomorrow as usual, and then I would like to see Father Dalgliesh alone. If Robert is dead, then only God will be able to comfort me.”

  As Archie left the room he heard the sound of breaking glass. He hurried back to find his mother on her knees, picking up the pieces with trembling hands. He knelt down beside her. “Leave me alone,” she growled. The ferocity of her reaction stunned him, but he did as he was told. He looked back a moment to see her sink to the floor and bury her face in her hands. His natural instinct was to comfort her, but she would not be comforted. He left with the sense of inadequacy that had dogged him all his life. How come Monty had admired him? What was there to admire?

  Father Dalgliesh reached for his bicycle. The dusk was heavy, the air cooler, the first smoky smell of autumn carried on the wind with the scent of the sea. He paused a moment, wondering if his visit had done any good at all. Father Hancock would have known exactly what to say. But not him. He didn’t have the vocabulary or the delivery.

  Suddenly he felt a presence behind him. Still holding the handlebars, he turned around. There, sitting on the doorstep, sat Celestria. She struck a match and lit a cigarette, and her lovely face was suddenly illuminated in the dusk.

  “Mama hates me smoking. She says it’s unladylike.”

  “I think she’s probably right,” replied Father Dalgliesh.

  “I think it’s excusable today of all days, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I’m very sorry, Celestria.”

  “So am I. It’s a crying shame. I’m being driven mad in there. Going around and around in circles: ‘It looks like suicide, but how unlike Papa. Why would he do it?’ And on and on and on. I want to close my ears to it all. As for Mama, she’s in bed with a migraine again, and there’s no Papa to put her out of her misery. Aunt Penelope’s right, she’ll never recover.” She raised her eyes, blowing out a puff of smoke. “What drives a man to take his own life?”

  “An unbearable unhappiness,” he replied. “A depression so heavy that the alternative, whatever he believes that to be, is better than living.”

  “You see. That’s what I don’t understand. Papa was so happy. All the time. He always smiled. He had time for everyone. No one was too small or insignificant for him to take trouble with. You know, he cared about people. He cared about us. He loved life. Why would somebody like that write a note, put it in a bottle, motor out into the middle of the ocean, and then jump overboard?”

  Father Dalgliesh leaned his bicycle back against the wall and went to sit down beside her. He felt she needed to talk and was pleased to have the opportunity to be of use.

  “Do you cycle everywhere?” she asked, and he suddenly caught the scent of bluebells grown warm upon her skin. There was something alluring about the smell of spring that made his stomach flip over.

  “While the weather is nice, I do,” he replied.

  “What about when it rains?”

  “I shall get wet or take the car.”

  “So you do have one?”

  “I do.” He smiled diffidently. “But I don’t like to drive.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “A little nervous, shall we say.”

  “When I learn to drive, I think everyone else is going to be a great deal more nervous than I.”

  She held the cigarette to her lips and watched him through the smoke as she exhaled. “Does one go to hell if one commits suicide?” she asked.

  “The life God gave us is not ours to take away.”

  “That’s what we’re taught. Do you believe it?”

  “I do. Life is sacred. It is not ours to dispose of. We have to accept whatever God gives us with gratitude. Only God has the right to take it away.”

  “So if Papa has killed himself, is he damned for eternity?”

  “He is in hell until God decides to forgive him. We must pray for him.”

  “Does God listen?”

  “That’s why we pray, because He listens.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Look, if you did something wrong, would your father hold it against you forever?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then you have answered your own question. God is a forgiving father. I don’t, however, believe that one gets away with murder, any less the murder of oneself.”

  “I’ve attended Mass all my life because of Papa. Mama couldn’t care less. She’s not religious and thinks the whole thing is manufactured to keep simple people on the straight and narrow. I can’t say I’ve ever really thought about God.”

  “But you’re thinking about Him now.”

  “That’s because I’m forced to. If Papa is dead, he’s in a place where I can’t reach him. God rules that place, so I might as well try and speak to Him.”

  Father Dalgliesh felt his heart swell. “That’s one way of looking at it,” he replied with a tentative smile. “God can be a great comfort in times such as these.”

  “I’m still hoping, though,” she said, turning away and flicking ash onto the gravel.

  “That’s only natural. Until there’s proof, there will always be hope.”

  “My grandfather used to tell me that dead people become stars.”

  “It’s a nice idea.”

>   “I wish he were here how.”

  “Your grandfather?”

  “Yes. He’d know what to do. He’s the sort of man who knows everything.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In New York.” She took one final drag of the cigarette, the end lighting up like a firefly. “Harry has always been Mama’s favorite, after herself, of course. But I’m special to Grandpa.”

  “And your father?”

  “Papa? Everyone’s special to Papa.”

  Father Dalgliesh said good-bye to Celestria and watched her walk inside. He was left alone in the dark with nothing but the faint smell of bluebells. A shadowy figure stood watching him from an upstairs window. Pamela wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and shivered. She did not move until the priest had turned the corner and disappeared down the drive. Then she raised her eyes to the sky, wondering whether there was a heaven after all.

  That night Celestria felt a strong urge to visit little Bouncy in his bed. It was late. Everyone had retired. She felt drained and weepy and strangely angry. She remembered the morning scouring the beach for Bouncy, unaware that the sea had taken her father instead. She crept down the corridor to Bouncy’s room, decorated with cream wallpaper on which were depicted pale blue elephants. Bouncy adored elephants; he called them “fanties.” She opened the door as quietly as she could. There, in the pale yellow light of the little candle that burned eucalyptus oil on the dresser, Bouncy lay in his bed, his arms up by his ears, his legs spread in their blue pajamas, the blanket tossed off in his sleep. His eyes were closed, his skin translucent, his full lips sensual in the warm comfort of his dreams. She gently replaced the blanket, putting his legs beneath it one by one. He didn’t even stir, but continued to breathe deeply and slowly, as only children do. Suddenly, she felt tears fill her eyes and spill over onto her cheeks. He looked so beautiful and innocent.

  She heard a movement and turned. Julia stood in the doorway in her dressing gown. Celestria smiled through her tears. Julia tiptoed over and put an arm around her niece.

  “This morning we thought it was Bouncy,” Celestria whispered.

  “I’m ashamed to feel grateful, now that God has taken Monty,” replied Julia. “My heart is full of gratitude and sorrow.”

  “He’s a treasure,” said Celestria. “It’s consoling to see him safely sleeping in his bed. He gives me hope. We found Bouncy; perhaps we’ll find Papa.” They remained in silent thought for what seemed a long while. Finally, Julia spoke.

  “You’re not alone, Celestria, darling,” she said. Celestria was too moved to reply.

  She allowed herself to be drawn against her aunt and rested her head against her shoulder. They both gazed upon the sleeping child and wept.

  9

  Pendrift had talked of nothing else since Mr. Monty’s boat had been discovered the previous morning. No one believed Monty had committed suicide. On that they were all agreed. Everyone claimed to know him intimately, for he had been a man happy to pass the time of day with anyone who offered their company. No, the Monty they knew was a man content with his life and only too ready to share that contentment with the rest of the world.

  Indeed, Monty was as much a part of the little Cornish town of Pendrift as pasties and clotted cream. He enjoyed reading the papers over a cup of coffee in Maggie Brewick’s Tea House, buying cigarettes in the corner shop, and drinking beer in the Snout & Hound. Everyone greeted him warmly, and he knew them all by name—from the secretary in the doctor’s surgery to old Talek, who sat on the bench gazing out to sea, day in day out, like a discarded coat, getting shabbier with each rainfall.

  He took an interest in the most minute details of their lives: a wife whose husband had strayed, a sick dog, trouble with the plumbing, a child who’d won a prize at school, inflation, government, royalty, the way things were always better in the old days. Even Archie wasn’t aware that Mrs. Craddick’s son had been hospitalized with polio. Mrs. Craddick ran the post office and wouldn’t have presumed to chat with Archie or Penelope, but Monty lingered if there wasn’t a queue and although he now came down from London only in the summer, he remembered everything about her family and asked after them all more kindly than her own husband did. His compassion had once reduced her to tears. She had confided in her friends, and he had grown even more in the affections of the community—although perhaps not in those of Mr. Craddick.

  Pamela, on the other hand, had never visited the post office, and Celestria only went into town to buy things she didn’t need, just for the small pleasure of shopping. It never occurred to her to speak to the locals. They’d stare at her with wonder in their eyes, for her beauty dazzled them. “Good morning, Miss Montague,” they’d say, the men tipping their hats, the women nodding politely—she knew she was a swan among geese. “Regards to your father,” they’d say, and she’d throw them a gracious smile that they’d devour hungrily, but forget them the minute her head was turned. The first family of Pendrift might be respected and admired from a distance, but Monty was one of them.

  It was Sunday morning. While most of the town were Church of England, some, like the Montagues, were Catholic and attended Mass in the Church of the Blessed Virgin Mary, one of the few original Catholic churches left standing after Henry VIII had brought the majority crashing to the ground. However, this particular Sunday saw a vast increase in the number of attendants, while the Protestant Church of All Saints was virtually empty. The Reverend Woodley scratched his head in bewilderment and wondered where they had all gone.

  Celestria, dressed in black, accompanied the rest of the family to Mass. Harry had barely spoken since their father’s disappearance. His face was sad, but his eyes were empty. Pamela had remained in bed, demanding that Soames telephone the vet because Poochi was off his food. “He’s depressed,” she said. “And I don’t blame him. I’m depressed, too.” David walked ahead with the young boys, but there was no point in trying to cheer everyone up. Julia held Bouncy’s hand while Nanny walked alongside, noticing that the child’s shoelace was coming undone but not wanting to delay the party by bending down to tie it. Elizabeth walked with Archie, using him for support in the place of Monty. She, too, had chosen to wear black. “I’m still in mourning for Ivan,” she explained when Archie arrived to collect her. “I don’t want to be mourning Robert, too. He survived the war, he can survive this.” Milton walked with his wife, who, in the great English tradition of grieving, showed no emotion.

  Lotty and Melissa walked on either side of Celestria, like a pair of funereal bridesmaids, their discreet black hats lost beside the flamboyant spray of Celestria’s black feathers. Lotty had been so consumed with sorrow over the disappearance of her uncle that she had crept out of bed in the middle of the night and written to Francis Browne. Having restrained herself for weeks, she now allowed all the pain and longing to pour out of her heart and onto the page in her small, neat handwriting. Sitting alone in her uncle’s study, using the same paper that Monty had used to write his suicide note, she wondered whether Celestria was right that it would be far easier to run off together and elope than to reveal the truth to her parents. In the face of death she felt brave and fearless. Why spend a lifetime with a man she didn’t love, just for the sake of being comfortable? Francis might not have money, but he was rich in all the qualities that truly mattered to her. “I have realized,” she wrote, “that life can be snatched away at any moment. I don’t want a life of compromise. I want it all, and you are everything.” The letter now smoldered in her handbag, waiting to be posted the following morning.

  When the Montague family walked down the aisle, every eye turned to watch them, and people bowed their heads with respect as they passed. Julia squeezed Bouncy’s hand, for large crowds of people made him nervous. The little boy reached out for Nanny, who took his other hand and rubbed the soft skin with her thumb. Julia caught eyes with Merlin. He took off his cap and pressed it to his chest, wishing that he could turn the clock back and find her brother-in-law asleep in the boat, ins
tead of that dreadful note in the bottle.

  The family took their places in the front two pews. Celestria sat beside her brother and held his hand. He continued to stare ahead as if he hadn’t noticed her. It was hard for both of them, for, while there was no body, there remained a glimmer of hope. Yet that glimmer, like a ray of light, was impossible to hold on to.

  Celestria’s mind began to wander, as it always did in Mass. She understood no Latin and found its monotony soporific. She had come because she knew her father would have liked her to and, while that small hope of his survival remained, she believed God still hadn’t made up His mind whether or not to recall him. Perhaps He needed a little persuading, in which case prayer might just do the trick. However, when Father Dalgliesh stood before her, his godly presence enhanced by the splendor of his green vestments, her mind stopped its aimless wandering. The priest looked quite different from the awkward man she had talked to on the doorstep the night before. He had authority and a presence that filled the church. She blushed, suddenly wishing she hadn’t asked him such silly questions, as if his celibacy was something to be laughed at.

  “Before I begin Mass, I would like to welcome you to church today. I know many of you are here to pay your respects to Robert Montague and his family at this sad and difficult time. I welcome you all and thank you for your support and comfort.” His eyes settled on Celestria, his expression full of compassion. “We ask God that, through prayer, Robert Montague may be delivered safely back to his family and that, through love, we can all unite and give strength to those who need it.”

  Celestria noticed Harry’s bottom lip begin to tremble, and her own eyes stung with tears. Suddenly it all felt so real. He hadn’t come back, and nothing had been heard of him. Although her heart told her it wasn’t possible, her reason began to accept the fact that everything pointed to suicide. Everything but her father’s nature, which perhaps she hadn’t known as well as she thought.