“Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes me sad.”
“I find the melancholy tunes uplift me the most.”
He turned and looked at her curiously. “Do they?”
She knew then that he had witnessed her tears. She turned away. “Yes. By expressing my feelings, I release them.”
They walked under the pine trees, across the dark shadows and silver slashes of moonlight that lit up the paving stones beneath their feet. The Convento loomed out of the night, seemingly impenetrable. The door was closed; the little window carved into the stone, where the dove had cooed the evening they had arrived, now blind and empty. The bell tower on the roof of the church caught the light and turned to silver. They both tasted the floral scent from the city of the dead across the road. Celestria didn’t want the night to end.
“Do you want to come and look at the sea from the old fortress? It’ll be beautiful in this moonlight,” he asked, stopping to glance across the road. His features grew suddenly serious, his brow lined and heavy, as if an invisible weight had at once smothered any joy.
“I’d love to,” Celestria replied, finding her eyes drawn there, too, knowing that he was thinking of Natalia. She felt jealous of the ghost who still laid claim to his heart. And yet they barely knew each other. She had no right to it. Again he put his hand in the small of her back as he accompanied her across the track, though there was little danger at this time of night from Nuzzo in his horse and cart. The warmth of his hand burned through her dress.
They walked past the gates in silence, the crypts dark in the tranquillity of the night. Hamish threw a troubled glimpse inside, to where the park was bathed in shadows cast by the towering pine trees and beyond, to where the eye could not see, to where the spirit of his wife remained, locked in that small, candle-lit mausoleum with the secrets that only they knew.
“Darkness is simply the absence of light,” he mumbled.
“Are you in a dark place, Hamish?” she asked gently, moved by the heaviness that now enveloped them.
“What do you know of darkness?” he retorted gruffly.
“I can feel it,” she replied, following him down the little stony path that led to the cliffs where the old fortress stood, silhouetted against the sky. “I feel it when I’m with you.” He stopped and looked at her a moment, his eyes boring into hers as if searching for something.
“What did you just say?” he asked, leaning towards her. His voice was full of pain.
“I feel the darkness that surrounds you.” He didn’t respond, but turned and continued to walk down the path.
Finally, he sat down on the dry grass where she had sat the day before while Daphne painted. The fortress was filled with shadows, desolate and empty like Hamish himself, plagued with demons and a deep, unfathomable sadness. They sat together, gazing in silence over the rippling sea and vast starlit sky. In that moment, sitting beside the man she now knew she loved, Celestria felt the gentle movement of the earth’s plates beneath her.
“What are you doing in Puglia?” he said at last. She took in his profile, the strong line of his jaw, the long crooked nose, and the bright, almond-shaped eyes blessed with thick, feathery lashes.
“I have come to find my father’s killer,” she replied steadily.
“Your father was killed?” He stared at her incredulously.
“My father apparently committed suicide in Cornwall a few weeks ago. He drowned at sea. They found his boat and a suicide note. But if you knew my father, you’d be as certain as I am that he would never have taken his own life. I have discovered that he sent large sums of money to Salazar, which is why I went to see him. Salazar claims my father withdrew it again, but I don’t believe him. I think he stole the money and, somehow, got rid of my father.”
Hamish’s head spun. “I didn’t know,” he murmured, toying pensively with the crook of his walking stick. “You must be shattered.” Now he knew why she had been crying, and his heart filled with compassion. Like him, she was well acquainted with grief.
“Do you know what I’m most afraid of?” She felt emotion tighten her throat and the prickling sensation of tears behind her eyes. It was only because of the beauty of the night and because Hamish, too, suffered the pain of bereavement that she let down her guard. For the first time since her father died, she felt her heart buckle with sorrow, as if she had at last allowed it in. “I’m afraid that I’m wrong. That he stole our money, then killed himself because he couldn’t bear to live with the shame. If that’s true, then I’m afraid that I never knew him.” She wiped away a fat tear that trickled slowly down her cheek. Hamish put his arm around her and drew her against him. She rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes. Perhaps it was the darkness, or the fact that he hurt, too, that enabled her to grieve without embarrassment.
“The people you think you know are often full of surprises. Those you hold in the highest esteem only disappoint you,” he said, his tone full of bitterness. “Even those closest to you, the ones you think you know the best. You don’t know them at all. All you have is your trust.”
Hamish withdrew his arm and began to toy once again with his stick. “I hope you have some nice young man back in England to make you happy.”
Celestria was stung by his comment. She didn’t want a nice young man as superficial as she was. In Hamish’s eyes she saw great depths like oceans, stirred by sorrow, agitated by joy, but most of all unpredictable. She knew she’d never settle now for shallow pools and puddles where the stones below were clearly visible. Her heart strained to reach him, longing for him to hold her. His words made her recoil. If he really believed that, then what was he doing sitting alone with her in the middle of the night?
“There are plenty,” she replied, wanting to hurt him back. “As soon as my questions have been answered, I’ll return home.”
“Girls like you are sure to marry well,” he said ironically. “Not only are you taught to sing and dance, you’re taught to think in terms of wealth and estates. I spent most of my life in England, and I know your sort. Well-educated girls like you live in a rarefied, though I might add, disadvantaged, world. You lick the fruit of life, but you don’t bite into it and taste the bitterness and sweetness of the flesh.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. When I fall in love, the earth will shake, tremble, and shift on its axis, whether the man I lose my heart to has money or not.” She stood up and made her way down the slope to the fortress, surprised by her words, which echoed with an honesty and sincerity she had never felt before.
It was dark inside the fortress. The earth was damp, the stone walls cold and hard. She could hear the sea below, lapping against the cliffs with wet tongues. Her heart was thumping, throbbing in her ears. She hoped Hamish would follow. She hurried along the stones to the other side, where the wall was crumbling but a tall window remained, giving on to the glittering ocean and navy blue sky, where a corpulent moon hung low and heavy. She stood staring out, the wind raking cold fingers through her hair, sure she could sense him approaching her slowly from behind.
Then it was his fingers on the back of her neck, and not the wind. Caressing the skin there, cupping her shoulder, and turning her around to face him. He looked down at her, this big, strong man with eyes as vulnerable as a child’s.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been foolish. Playing a clumsy game,” he said, gently tracing her cheek and neck.
“Why play a game at all?”
“Because I don’t want to love you.” He studied her face as if hypnotized by what he saw. “I’m drawn to you. Don’t think I haven’t tried to resist you.”
“Why resist me? Don’t you deserve to be happy?” He was very close now. She could feel the warmth of his body against hers, his breath on her forehead, his lips only inches away, and the delicious tingling in the pit of her belly.
“I don’t think I can any longer,” he groaned, closing his eyes and kissing her. Aware only of him, she remained in
the present moment, savoring the tenderness of his touch, the feel of his rough skin against hers, his smooth, warm lips, and the sense of being pulled into the eye of the storm, from where there would be no turning back.
They spoke no more. There was too much on his mind even to begin. He didn’t know how to explain. He wasn’t sure she’d understand. Right now, he, too, existed in the present moment, relishing the taste of this woman who had held him in her thrall since their first inauspicious meeting in the cemetery. He had secretly watched her, tried to ignore his fascination with her, fought to resist the power of her attraction, knowing all along that there was light behind the door, if only he could reach it. If only she were someone else. Anyone other than Robert Montague’s daughter.
He knew he shouldn’t kiss her. But what man could resist the warm translucence of her skin, the sensuality of her lips, the startling brazenness of her sexuality set against the cool stiffness of her class, like cream on stone? He had fought against his reasoning and lost to his instincts, like an animal with nothing but his five senses. How blissful it would be to lose himself in her, to forget his past and the tragedy there that would inevitably poison any cup of joy he attempted to drink from.
Finally, he pulled away. “Come, I’ll take you back to the Convento.” His voice was full of regret, betraying the confusion that tore him in two.
He took her hand and the stick that he had leaned against the wall, and they walked back up the path. They passed the walls of the city of the dead, and, even though no words were spoken, the fact that he made a conscious effort not to look there told Celestria that she had lost him. When they reached the Convento, the little window in the wall was no longer empty. Not one but two fat doves slept in the moonlight.
He turned the key in the lock and opened the door for her. She realized that had she not met him in the bar, she would not have been able to get back inside. Once within the sanctuary of those walls, they crept across the courtyard and upstairs without exchanging a word. Celestria wished he would say something. They had crossed an invisible line. It wasn’t possible now to step back. Quietly, he escorted her down the corridor to her bedroom. With her fingers on the handle, she hesitated, longing for reassurance.
“Where do we go from here?” she said at last, turning to face him.
He shook his head and frowned, his face cast in shadow. “I don’t know.”
“You can’t allow yourself to wither away, loving a ghost, Hamish.”
His eyes grew hostile. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he whispered.
She reached out and touched his arm. Her hand looked out of place there. “Do you want to pretend this never happened?”
“It happened because we both wanted it to happen. But you don’t want me,” he said, without self-pity. “Trust me, your suitors in London are a much safer bet.”
“Don’t play that old card with me. So you’re in your late thirties, you have a limp, you need to brush your hair and learn some manners and a little patience; I can live with all of that. But I can’t compete with a woman who’s not around to play fair.”
At the mention of his wife, the air stilled around them. He glared at her, suddenly distant, the intimacy they had shared in the fort all but completely evaporated.
“You don’t understand,” he began, closing his eyes as if to control his fury. “You’re young. You know nothing about love.”
“If I don’t understand, it’s because you haven’t explained it to me. You’re right, I am young, but I know about love.”
“You do?”
“Yes, I do now. Because I realize the love I thought I felt before has been all about me. I want to run my fingers over your wounds and heal them. I want to kiss away the past and bring light and happiness to your future.”
He was disarmed by her candor. “You don’t know me,” he said incredulously, a little afraid.
“But I love you regardless.” She gazed at him steadily, absolutely sure of herself. “I don’t care about your past; it has nothing to do with me.”
“Oh, God,” he groaned. “It has everything to do with you.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, he touched her cheek with his rough and calloused hand, shaking his head in bemusement. “I don’t know what to make of you,” he said.
She turned and kissed the palm of his hand. “I’m the light behind the door.” He looked at her in surprise. “You’re in a dark place entirely of your own making.”
“I wish that were so. Good night, Celestria,” he said, leaning down and planting a lingering kiss on her forehead. Then he turned and walked away.
27
Cornwall
Back at Pendrift Hall, Archie and Julia waited anxiously for the car. It was a beautiful sunny day, so the house would be shown off to its best advantage. Wilfrid and Sam were at school, and little Bouncy had been sent to his grandmother’s for the morning so that the prospective purchasers could look around in peace. The estate agent had valued it far higher than Archie had predicted, but neither of them wanted to sell. Archie had lost his temper, Julia had sulked, but they had both come to the conclusion that they were left no option. The debts had to be repaid. They were struggling to keep afloat. Neither had had the courage to tell Elizabeth.
Archie tried not to become sentimental. It was bricks and mortar, after all. Julia, however, couldn’t help but cling to the memories of her boys’ young lives that lingered in every corner, beneath every chair and table where they had played, in the gardens and down on the beach. The air still vibrated with their laughter and the laughter of their father and his siblings. She couldn’t bear to tear her children away from the only home they had ever known. She knew she’d shatter their security. In an uncertain world, she wanted to give them that one certainty from which they would set off to make their own way. Whatever life threw at them, nothing would ever take away that magical foundation. Now, her hopes were dashed.
At last a silver Mercedes convertible drew up outside the Hall. Soames waited for them on the steps that led up to the front door. He stood stiffly in his black tailcoat and shiny shoes, rocking gently back and forth, holding his chin up so that he could peer down his nose in a supercilious fashion. Three people climbed out: Mr. Townley, the slick estate agent, in a pinstriped three-piece suit and tie, and Mr. and Mrs. Weavel, the prospective buyers, who Soames thought looked frightfully common.
Reluctantly he showed them into the hall, reeling at the sweet cologne that Mr. Weavel had clearly bathed in that morning, and apparently swallowed, too, for it seeped from every pore. Archie and Julia knew they had arrived, but remained seated in the drawing room, pretending to read the papers. Both were too nervous to read. Julia smoked her third cigarette of the morning while Archie rubbed his fingers over his mustache. They caught eyes as the sound of Soames’s footsteps crossed the hall. Julia stubbed out her cigarette and Archie’s fingers froze on the thatch of hair that had now been smoothed so much it shone.
“Come in,” called Archie in response to Soames’s knock. The butler entered, looking as unhappy as they did.
“Mr. and Mrs. Weavel and Mr. Townley.” Archie folded his paper and stood up. Julia followed suit, throwing her newspaper onto the coffee table in the center of the room.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Archie, extending his hand.
“You have a beautiful house,” simpered Mrs. Weavel, laying her hand limply in his like a dead pigeon. “It’s everything I hoped it would be.”
“We have been very happy here,” replied Archie, aware that Julia was almost too distraught to speak. It was so out of character for her not even to manage a smile.
Mr. Townley shook hands firmly and with enthusiasm. This would be a big sale for him. The Weavels were very rich.
“Do you have children?” Julia asked, watching with indignation as Mrs. Weavel wandered about the drawing room in her tight little gray flannel suit and stilettos, peering into everything. Didn’t she know they weren�
��t selling the furniture?
“No, we don’t,” she replied. “Paul and I don’t really like children very much.” She laughed falsely, giving a little sniff and a shrug by way of an apology.
“This really is a family home,” Julia added with emphasis.
“Oh, goodness me, we’re not going to live here ourselves,” Mrs. Weavel said. She looked at her husband, who chuckled at the absurdity of the idea. “No, didn’t Mr. Townley tell you? We’re going to turn it into a hotel.”
Julia glared at Archie. Archie looked away. What did it matter what they did to it?
“Why don’t I show you around?” he suggested, striding into the hall. “It’s a large house, and I’m sure you’re busy people.”
Mr. and Mrs. Weavel followed him. Mr. Townley was put out. He’d rather have done the showing around himself. It was always easier to sell a property if the owners made themselves scarce.
Julia heard them talking in the hall. She remained standing with her hands clenched, wondering where she could go and hide. Those damned people were going to go into every room in the house. How dare they rifle through all her things, trample on her memories? She couldn’t bear it. They didn’t even like children. Mrs. Weavel was so arid Julia doubted her womb would be capable of conceiving, and Mr. Weavel was beyond belief with that disgusting scent. It made her eyes water, and, worse, it was already lingering in the soft furnishings. She’d have to open the windows the moment they had gone.
She sank onto the sofa and stared into the half distance. So this was to be a hotel? This beautiful drawing room would be a tacky lounge full of cigar-smoking strangers paying large amounts of money to taste a bit of history. She could imagine the crimson-and-gold-patterned carpets and tables of magazines. The thought of what they would do to the children’s bedrooms was more than she could stand. She put her head in her hands and wept. If only Monty were alive, none of this would be happening. He would have thought of something.
After an hour Archie stepped into the hall, followed by a delighted Mr. Townley, rubbing his hands together with glee. The Weavels loved it. They adored the views. They’d have to cut down a few trees, of course, in order to accommodate the gazebo, and that pond would have to go, as would the little square lawn at the front of the house, because they’d need a car park for guests. There was plenty of space where the terrace stood for a conservatory. Mrs. Weavel was very fond of conservatories. “That way the guests can enjoy the garden even when it’s raining,” she had said. Mr. Townley had commended her flair.
Sea of Lost Love Page 30