Sea of Lost Love

by Santa Montefiore

  “What about your husband’s family?”

  “They’re all terribly British, if you know what I mean. Penelope acts as if nothing has happened. Milton’s gone very quiet and contained. Archie’s tormented and not very strong. Julia, his wife, is as distraught as I am, but it’s that stiff-upper-lip thing. It’s all very dignified and what one would expect from a Montague, but my feelings are laid bare for everyone to see, and I feel I’m such a burden to them all.”

  “What about your children?”

  “Oh, Harry is easily distracted, thank heavens, but Celestria now thinks her father has been murdered. But she would, wouldn’t she? Little girls always adore their fathers. Well, most of them do.” She lowered her eyes.

  “Celestria mentioned a grandfather who lives in New York,” he said. “I assume that is your father.”

  “Yes, he’s my father, all right.” Her face grew hard. “I have a troubled relationship with him. Celestria adores him. I took her to America for the duration of the war. Harry wasn’t born then, so it was just the two of us. My father has always been a rather distant figure in my life, the kind of man who never had the time, but thought gifts would make up for it. He was too busy making money. Besides, he wanted a son. A Richard Bancroft III to take on his empire after he retired. Well, he got a Pamela instead. That wasn’t good enough. I think by the time Celestria came to stay, he had realized what he had missed out on, because, boy, did he shower her with love and affection.” She chuckled bitterly. “I’ve never forgiven him for that. But Celestria thinks the sun shines out of—” She stopped suddenly, remembering where she was, and added, “She thinks he’s perfect.”

  “I can’t imagine you get to see him very often.”

  “We used to spend a week with him at this ridiculously flamboyant castle he owns in Scotland, but I hated the cold. So did my mother, who prefers to stay in America. We haven’t been for years. And we used to go spend the whole of July in Nantucket, which was where I spent my summers as a child, but we haven’t been for the last two years. What with one thing and another…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Celestria must miss him.”

  “She was devastated when we returned to London at the end of the war. She didn’t recognize her father and missed her grandfather dreadfully. Monty tried so hard, and, in the end, they got on like a house on fire. Well, he had that charm. It was impossible not to love him.” Her voice grew quiet as she spoke about him. “London was a gray city in comparison to New York. Postwar rations and all that. It was hard to adjust. Then Harry was born. My darling Harry.” Her eyes lit up. “He loved his father, too, but he’s always been my little boy. Children have a way of just getting on with life, don’t they? Harry’s not moping about in a heap, like me. He’s back in the woods with his cousins, trapping vermin and shooting rabbits with David. I wonder what goes through his head at night when there aren’t any distractions.”

  “Children might seem to handle bereavement better than adults, but it doesn’t mean they aren’t scarred by it. They just have a different way of coping, that’s all.”

  “My heart bleeds to think of the pain my husband has caused him. Didn’t he think of that the night he took his life? It’s the most selfish act imaginable. My children are left fatherless, and I’m a widow.” She began to cry. “Black really isn’t my color, either.”

  “Mrs. Bancroft Montague,” Father Dalgliesh began, but Pamela cut him off with a melodramatic sob.

  “What am I going to do? How am I going to go on? He should have taken me with him.”

  “You have your children to think of. They need you now more than ever.”

  “I’m of no use to anyone. That’s the truth of it. I’m a hopeless mother.” She clicked open the black handbag on the sofa beside her and pulled out a white handkerchief. Dabbing her eyes, she continued, “Monty was never around, you see. He traveled so much on business. When we first married, it wasn’t like that. He’d invest in some scam, which would either make him a lot of money or it wouldn’t, but he was around. Then after the war he established an office in Paris, spending half the week there and half the week in London. Those weeks then turned to fortnights. He became hard to pin down. I could never get hold of him. Then he’d return and try to be a good father and husband, and in many ways he was. He bought me beautiful gifts, told me how lovely I was, took Celestria to tea at Fortnums and Harry to Hamley’s, where he treated him to a new train set or something. He was perfect, and yet so damn imperfect. I look back now and realize that he was only skating on the surface of our family life together, never penetrating beneath because he never gave us his time and he never shared his thoughts. He was always so…” She struggled to find the right word. “Detached, as if his heart and mind were somewhere else—yet always charming, always funny, the life and soul of every party. I was the envy of every wife in London, believe me. The reality was less glamorous.” She sighed and sniffed delicately. “I just wanted him to be around. His business grew. More time in Paris. He seemed to have his fingers in every pie. Perhaps I shouldn’t begrudge him; after all, he was working so hard—for us. You’ll think I’m awfully spoiled, Father, but sometimes I felt he gave so much of himself to people he barely knew, he had little to give to us.”

  “I don’t think you’re spoiled at all,” said Father Dalgliesh kindly. “I think you’re lost, that’s all.”

  “How will I ever find myself?” she asked, stifling a sob. “I don’t know where to look.”

  “God will help you.”

  “If I can’t see Him, how do I know He’s there?”

  “Close your eyes and look inside your heart.”

  “But they all say that. How can I look inside my heart? I don’t have eyes on the inside of my head.”

  Father Dalgliesh wanted to laugh. But Pamela was deadly serious.

  “Next time there is a beautiful sunset, stop a while to look at it. Next time you see a beautiful view or a magical dawn, hear the birdsong at the end of the day, next time you are struck by the magnificence of nature, when your heart is flooded with that melancholy feeling of awe, turn your mind to He who made it all. Let His love flow into your heart. Stand up and say ‘I open my heart to You, God, so that You may fill it with Your love and make me whole.’”

  She sniffed and put the handkerchief back into her handbag, clipping it shut. “I’ll try,” she said softly. “I trust God can find all the pieces.”

  Miss Hoddel knocked on the door and staggered in behind a tray of cups and teapot, complete with a yellow tea cozy she had knitted herself. Father Dalgliesh leapt up to help her. “I’ll go and put my feet up now if you don’t mind. I did your study yesterday and don’t wish to repeat the exercise until I absolutely have to. Might help myself to a cup of tea. These are trying times.” She feasted her eyes on the elegant visitor, hoping to woo her into conversation. There was almost a scuffle as Father Dalgliesh had to push her through the door.

  “You certainly deserve a cup of tea, Miss Hoddel. Thank you very much for ours.” Miss Hoddel returned to the kitchen scowling and sat eating cake while Father Dalgliesh remained in the parlor for another hour.

  Finally, they emerged and Father Dalgliesh showed Mrs. Bancroft Montague to the door. “You are most welcome to come and see me any time you need to. Perhaps you will come to Mass on Sunday. I think you’ll find church a great comfort.”

  She turned to him and took his hand in hers. “I want you to know, Father, I’m not a good person.”

  “I don’t judge people, Mrs. Bancroft Montague. That is not my right nor my interest. I guide them in the way that I believe is right. We are all sinners.”

  “The eye of the needle and all that,” she replied with a chuckle.

  “So you do know your scriptures.”

  “Some,” she said with a smile. “One picks it up in a family like mine.”

  As she walked down the road she was surprised to find that she felt a lot better.

  No one wanted to begin the painful task o
f sorting out Monty’s affairs, least of all Pamela, who’d rather have gone to ground like a bear. However, the matter was taken out of their hands by a telephone call from the family solicitor, Mr. Scrunther, who requested a meeting most urgently. It had been over a week since Monty’s disappearance. Nothing more had been recovered. The waters had swallowed all trace of him, along with the secrets of his last moments, forever sealed in the sea’s impenetrable bed of rock and stone.

  Mr. Scrunther’s office was in the nearby town of Newquay, on the main street above an estate agent specializing in pretty seaside houses for rent. Archie accompanied Pamela and Celestria, as neither of them knew the first thing about Monty’s business, though he was pretty vague himself. As an executor of his brother’s will, it was right that he should be there, although Monty could not officially be pronounced dead due to the absence of his body. There would be an investigation, no doubt, and a petition to court in order to receive a death certificate. Monty had acted most irresponsibly. The very least he could have done was leave them with a body to bury.

  Mr. Scrunther greeted them unhappily, shaking their hands and muttering his regrets through his bushy white beard. “This is a sad day indeed,” he said, ushering them into his office. It was dim and smelled of damp wool and stale cigar smoke. “I knew Mr. Montague when he was a young man setting off to Brazil in search of gold. He was a man of courage then. Who could have predicted this?”

  “Shame he didn’t have the courage to face his problems, whatever they were,” said Archie, taking a seat.

  Mr. Scrunther walked stiffly around to his own chair. Cornwall was no place for a man with arthritic bones. He sat down carefully and leaned back against the leather, the buttons on his waistcoat almost popping under the strain of his capacious belly. He took off his pebble glasses and proceeded to clean them with a white cloth before replacing them on his large potato nose.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Montague had a whole mountain of problems,” said Mr. Scrunther, looking like a headmaster discussing a wayward child with his parents.

  “Monty?” said Pamela. “Problems?” Mr. Scrunther leaned forward and opened a large black file. He lifted his chin and glanced down his nose, upon which a small sprouting of curly white hairs was visible.

  “As I’m sure you know, Imperial Amalgamated Investments folded two years ago.” He paused as he heard Pamela’s sharp intake of breath.

  “His business folded?” repeated Archie, horrified. He turned to Pamela. “Did you know anything about this?”

  “No.” She frowned, looking bewildered. “He must have begun something new because he’s been working incredibly hard for the last two years.”

  Mr. Scrunther shook his head and raised his eyes over the rims of his glasses. “I’m afraid his other businesses folded in the last six months. The Buckingham Trust Company and St. James’s Holding Company. There is no easy way to tell you this, Mrs. Montague. Your husband was in terrible debt.”

  “There must be some mistake,” interrupted Archie. “Why, only a couple of weeks ago he was away on business in Paris.”

  “He said he had a million pounds under management!” Pamela argued. “Surely he didn’t lose all that?”

  Mr. Scrunther shook his head gravely. “He lost most on the stock market. Every investor lost his money. The rest he withdrew himself.”

  “What did he do with it?” Pamela asked.

  “That, I’m afraid I cannot tell you, Mrs. Montague, because I don’t know. He came to see me Thursday before last. He wanted to settle his affairs in the event of his premature death. Of course, I suspected nothing of his intentions.”

  “He came to see you the day before the party? What did he say?” Pamela glanced at Celestria, who was sitting quietly, listening to every word. Her mouth was fixed into a grim line that did not soften when she returned her mother’s look.

  “He was anxious. He said he had lost everything. Perhaps that is why he had gone to Paris, in order to see what he could salvage.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me?” said Pamela, shrinking into her chair. “If all his businesses went bankrupt, what the devil have we been living on?”

  “Savings, investments…” Mr. Scrunther paused. “Your husband used to have a lot of money, Mrs. Montague.”

  “Then where’s it all gone?”

  Mr. Scrunther shrugged. “I don’t know. I only know what he told me. That he doesn’t have anything left.”

  “Well, that explains why he took his life. He couldn’t bear to disappoint us,” said Celestria. “All anyone ever talks about is the wonderful Monty, getting them all out of trouble, and where did it get him? Into trouble himself. He just couldn’t say no to anyone. He even offered to pay for your birthday party, Uncle Archie.” Archie looked puzzled. Julia had kept her promise. “Yes, I overheard Papa and Aunt Julia talking in the library about a week before the party. She was crying. Well, Papa said he’d help her out.”

  “Monty once more to the rescue.” Archie breathed in through his nose. He didn’t like to discuss his problems with outsiders, and it humiliated him to think of his own wife groveling for money.

  “He also paid for Mrs. Craddick’s son’s hospital bills,” Celestria continued, glancing at her mother. “It seems that Papa was looking after everyone but himself.”

  “Helping everyone? What with? If he had no money of his own?” Suddenly the color drained from Pamela’s face. Her jaw dropped, leaving her mouth hanging open like a shark’s. “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed in horror. “He’s gone through mine as well. I just know it.”

  Mr. Scrunther cleared his throat. “Two years ago Mr. Montague put the house in Belgravia in your name, Mrs. Montague, thereby avoiding any inheritance tax in the event of his death.”

  “Did he do that at the time Imperial Amalgamated Investments collapsed?” Archie asked.

  “He did.”

  “At least he cast a thought to us,” said Pamela with a sniff. “I’d hate to think of us being destitute.”

  “Mr. Montague’s death may have come as a complete surprise to you all. However, I would imagine he had planned it very carefully. I’m sorry he kept you in the dark. Perhaps I should have said something.” He scratched his beard.

  “You couldn’t have abused his trust, Mr. Scrunther,” said Archie diplomatically. “We completely understand.”

  “If it meant we could have avoided all of this, it would have been worth it,” answered Mr. Scrunther.

  On the way back in the car, Pamela sat staring out of the window in silence. Now, at least, they had a motive, however incomprehensible it was. Archie gripped the steering wheel. Pendrift Hall was suddenly in grave danger. He had hoped to ask Monty for help. Now there was no possibility of help from anywhere, only heaven. His wife hadn’t told him that she had already divulged their money problems. She couldn’t have known that he was on the verge of doing exactly the same thing himself. He had felt emasculated by the thought, but desperation had left him no alternative. Now he didn’t know what to do, or whom to turn to. Celestria watched the raindrops wiggling down the window as the drizzle fell from low gray clouds. It was bleak outside, and it was bleak within. No one spoke, each in his or her own silent world, trying to come to terms with the knowledge they had gained about the man they had all thought they knew.

  “Why didn’t he tell me?” said Pamela after a while. “It makes me so mad. If he wasn’t dead, I’d kill him myself!”

  “Would you have understood?” said Archie, not meaning to be unkind.

  “He obviously didn’t think so,” Pamela replied. “I didn’t question him about his affairs. We never talked business. He said that was men’s talk, better left for discussion over a glass of port at the end of dinner. I suppose he had enough of it at White’s. There was no need to bring it all home with him.”

  “You don’t know Papa’s gone through your money,” said Celestria. “Anyway, how could he touch it?”

  “Because he set up the account, darling. Of course he had acce
ss to it. I never even looked at it. I just spent when I felt like it. Your grandfather gave it to me when I married. Back then it seemed such a large sum; I never believed I’d ever get through it. I certainly never expected my husband to!”

  “What’s happened to innocent until proven guilty? Isn’t that the law in this country?” Celestria was angered that her mother was already accusing her father of robbing her.

  “I’ll call the bank as soon as we get home,” said Archie through gritted teeth. “Don’t worry, Pamela, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “I can’t bear it,” she said melodramatically, a tear trickling down her ashen face. “I thought I knew the man I married. I’ve lost everything. If he’s been through my money, what are we going to do? What will I do about school fees and our home? Without money, how will we maintain it, and God, all the staff, how will we pay them? We’re going to be destitute. Homeless. Why didn’t Monty think of that before he threw himself into the water?”

  “That’s precisely why he killed himself,” said Archie. “Because he couldn’t bear to let everyone down.”

  “What will your mother say?” Pamela exclaimed. “Rather a lot, I should imagine.”

  “I’m not going to tell her,” said Archie firmly. “Why give her unnecessary pain?”

  Pamela raised her eyebrows in disapproval. “Don’t worry, I’ll carry it all for her,” she said sarcastically.

  Archie ground his teeth. The woman was pushing his patience to the limit. It was a wonder he hadn’t lost his temper. She didn’t know the meaning of the word destitute. He and Julia were in real danger of losing Pendrift Hall, without a soul to turn to for help, while pampered Pamela was screaming poverty. Had she forgotten her millionaire father? Or was the lead in the current drama too tempting to resist?

  That night Archie dressed for bed in his dressing room adjacent to his wife’s bedroom. Classical music wafted out from the gramophone, along with the floral scent of her bath oil. Everyone had gone to bed, exhausted and emotionally wrung out. The shock of nearly losing Bouncy had sent Julia into a frenzy of devotion. She read him stories, cuddled him at every opportunity, and visited his room five times a night to check he was tucked up in bed. Monty’s suicide had been a terrible blow for everyone, but he knew his wife thanked God the sea had taken him and spared her son. To her the two were interlinked. The man for the boy. As if there lurked below a monster to whom a soul must be sacrificed, like some ancient Greek myth.