Ebb and Flow

by Mary O'Sullivan

  “Pity it’s dusk now, Mr Laide. You’re not really going to see the gardens at their best. I can assure you, though, they’re spectacular. Would you like to view the outside buildings first? The storerooms and stables?”

  Jason nodded and followed where Ella led. The courtyard formed by the stables was eerie in the dusk. Their footsteps echoed loudly in the enclosed space. Jason poked around, opening stable doors and peering in.

  “If you were interested in development, these stables would easily convert to some very classy apartments,” Ella said.

  He just grunted a reply and she knew then she had said the wrong thing. Jason Laide was obviously vetting Manor House as his future home, not an investment and had been insulted that Ella should think otherwise. He was standing inside the stable with the red door now, his jewellery glinting, his ginger hair glowing in the semi-darkness.

  “My wife is a good horsewoman,” he said defensively. “You know Sharon. Gymkhanas and all that kind of thing.”

  Ella just nodded. She should have remembered that Sharon Laide stabled horses in the county and that she rode out at times. When she was home. Ella should also have remembered to bring the torch she always kept in the boot of the car with her. In semi-darkness, Jason was pacing the area of the red-doored stable. Ella watched on as he trod the length and breadth of the very stable where Karen Trevor had kept her horse. This man could afford to buy the whole estate and more but yet he could not trust anyone’s measurements except his own. If he really was going to pace the entire property, then it could be a very long time before a decision was made.

  “I think maybe we should go back to the house, Mr Laide. It’s getting too dark to view the gardens.”

  “When I’m ready.”

  Ella shrugged and leaned against the stable door as Jason Laide continued to pace around the big, dark, empty space, just to make a point. He obviously was laying down some markers. He was the one with the money and she should show him deference. And Ella would do that. The commission from this sale added to the revenue from the sale of the site in Ballyhaven would mean that they could buy a cottage in Cuanowen. If Andrew agreed.

  The longing for Cuanowen which had struck her this morning had increased throughout the day. Through her headache, which had by now abated, and a million annoying little jobs. She closed her eyes and pictured the shoreline, scattered with driftwood, flecked with foam, dotted with the jagged rocks that stubbed your toe unless you were careful.

  She had just begun to mentally scan the horizon when a shout brought her back to reality. Her eyes flew open and she focused on the dim reflection of Jason Laide’s gold chains and iridescent hair at a much lower level than she had last seen them. Ella had to smother a laugh. The stupid man had fallen on his backside in the middle of the stable. He was clambering up as she walked towards him, brushing himself off.

  “Are you alright, Mr Laide?”

  “Yes! Yes,” he said impatiently. “I want to get out of here. Show me the house.”

  Just the words Ella had been hoping for. She didn’t feel too comfortable out here alone with Jason Laide anyway. Yesterday she had been surprised and even impressed by his gentleness, despite his awesome appearance. This evening she sensed a barely repressed violence in his impatient manner. How had Sharon Laide, a cultured woman for all her bohemian lifestyle, ever got involved with this Neanderthal? They walked in silence to the double front doors of Manor House. Ella rang and waited for Rob to answer. He had obviously noticed their arrival because he opened the door instantly.

  “Good evening. Come in, please.”

  Ella motioned for Jason to precede her into the vastness of the black and white tiled hall.

  “Thank you for seeing us at such short notice, Rob. I’d like you to meet Mr Laide. Jason Laide.”

  Rob offered his hand but Jason was standing still, his mouth hanging open, staring at the portrait at the bottom of the sweeping staircase.

  “Mr Laide?” Ella prompted, embarrassed now by her client’s rudeness.

  Jason brushed past her and walked over to stand in front of the portrait.

  “Who’s that?” he demanded.

  “Lady Harriet Wellsley,” Rob said, going to stand beside Jason. “My late wife’s great-aunt.”

  Ella tried not to follow on, tried to stay away from the portrait but she found herself drawn towards it.

  “She was a very beautiful woman, wasn’t she?” she said softly.

  Neither Jason nor Rob replied. As they stood in silence, in front of Lady Harriet’s portrait, Ella was powerless to prevent the image changing, powerless to look away as the features wavered and changed into the death mask of Karen Trevor. Karen bled and cried and reached out to Ella from the portrait of her great-aunt.

  “Fucking creepy!” Jason said.

  Jason’s words brought Ella back to reality. She blinked and Karen disappeared.

  “What do you mean?” she asked Jason.

  “Just what I said. That Lady Harriet whoever is a double for someone I know. You must know her too. Everyone does.”

  Ella nodded her head. She remembered her nagging feeling that she had seen Lady Harriet’s face before, seen those near-perfect features and those bluest of blue eyes. “Yes, I believe I have seen that face before. Who is it, Mr Laide?”

  “The likeness is fucking creepy.”

  Ella cringed. Jason was doing a good job in convincing Rob Trevor not to sell Manor House to him. At any price. Unless of course Rob so desperately wanted to be out of here that he did not care who took it off his hands.

  Jason interrupted her thoughts. He had said a name: Maxine Doran. Of course! She knew she had seen that face before.

  “The supermodel?” Rob asked

  “The very one,” Jason answered. “Who would have thought that she had any decent blood in her veins?”

  “She may well have,” Rob said quickly, “but it’s not Wellsley blood. Maxine Doran has no connection to this family. None at all.”

  Ella was not so sure about Rob’s quick denial. The grace, the dignity with which Maxine Doran carried herself was natural, not acquired. Something innate. Something inherited? Why could Maxine Doran not be one of the Wellsley clan? Looking at Rob’s closed features now she saw that he was not willing to discuss this any more.

  “I’ll leave you both to look around the house,” he said. “Feel free to wander. I’ll be in the library if you want to ask me anything.”

  He turned and walked quickly towards a carved and panelled door on the right-hand side of the hall. The door closed with a heavy thud.

  “Fucking creepy,” Jason said again as he and Ella began their tour of Manor House.

  Chapter 9

  Before Maxine had even said good evening she bundled Andrew into her lounge and began to lock and bolt her door and put a safety chain across it. He watched in puzzlement as she turned her apartment into Fort Knox.

  “Nervous about intruders, are you?” he asked. “You seem to have invested in a lot of security since I was here last.”

  She turned around and stood facing him with her back against the fortified door.

  “We don’t want to be disturbed, do we?”

  He let his eyes wander over this beautiful woman from her shining blonde hair to her toes with the red-varnished nails and he agreed. He did not want anybody to spoil their precious time together. Maxine looked extraordinarily beautiful tonight. Her black dress fitted like a second skin and a single diamond on a gold chain glittered tantalisingly in the cleft between her breasts.

  She walked slowly towards him, swaying her hips in that elegant way which had made her so famous. In her four-inch high heels, she was almost as tall as Andrew. She put her arms around his neck and brought her body close to his. Andrew gasped as her softness settled against him.

  “This is our space, our time,” she whispered.

  Andrew closed his eyes and kissed her. He wanted to talk to her about her trip to Paris, about the amazing photograph in his pocket
, about their relationship and where it was going but first he had to follow the dictates of his body, his soul. He had to make love to the beautiful woman in his arms. He picked her up, carried her into the bedroom and gently removed her shoes, her dress, her silky underwear. Then he paid homage to the most perfect body he had ever seen. Inch by inch, he venerated the perfection of Maxine Doran and claimed her as his own. The gentleness gave way to a desperate want and they became the sum of their need, crying out as that need was fulfilled. Exhausted, replete, stunned by the intensity of their union, they lay back on the silken sheets and held each other closely. They drifted off to sleep.

  When Andrew woke, he reached out to an empty space beside him. He sat up and listened to the sounds of ware tinkling in the kitchen. Getting up, he was about to reach for his clothes when he noticed a dressing-gown draped across the bottom of the bed. Navy terry towelling. A man’s robe. A sudden bolt of anger shot though his post-coital calm. Who else had worn this dressing-gown? Was Maxine so expert in entertaining men that she had all the little details down to a fine art? Had the Dutchman who was with her in the park, the Van Aken person, worn this robe? He remembered whispers. Rumours. Maxine and one business magnate and another. How many had there been? Had she cried out in ecstasy with all of them? Kissed them and held them with the intensity she had just bestowed on him?

  Naked, he sat on the side of the bed and tried to reason himself out of his fit of petty jealousy. He had no right. He was the one who was married, the one who had lied to his wife this evening. Maxine had every right to sleep with whoever she pleased. Whenever. He did not.

  The door opened and Maxine stood there in a white towelling robe, the light from the corridor behind her turning her blonde hair into a halo.

  “Get up, sleepy head! Dinner’s ready. Try on the robe I bought you. I wasn’t sure about the size but I think it’ll be okay.”

  Guiltily, Andrew put on the robe which fitted perfectly. She had bought it specially for him. He smiled at her.

  Together they went to the kitchen, served up the delicious lasagne and salad Maxine had prepared and brought the dishes to the dining room. Glass and silverware glistened in the flickering candlelight and Andrew thought he had never seen Maxine look more beautiful. Her hair was loose and tumbling around her shoulders and she looked innocent and vulnerable wrapped in her towelling robe. In this dim light she bore an even stronger resemblance to the lady in the Manor House portrait. He would show it to her when they had finished eating.

  After chocolate mousse dessert, they brought their coffees into the lounge. Maxine lit the soft lamps and put on a CD of Nat King Cole. Andrew was surprised at her choice.

  “I thought you would be much too young to appreciate this type of music.”

  Maxine turned towards him and there were shadows in her magnificent blue eyes. “I was young a long, long, time ago. I had to grow up quickly, Andrew. ”

  Andrew raised his hand and touched her hair, her soft cheek. “I want to know about you, Max. Not just your media hype. I want to know the real Maxine.”

  She laughed and the sound had an edge of sharpness. “Believe me, Andrew, you don’t. What we should really be talking about is ‘the something interesting’ you said you must show me. Have I already seen it or is there more?”

  Andrew frowned. She was telling him not to ask any questions. Telling him not to try to get close to her. Maybe she was right. But her warning was too late for him. He already felt closer to Maxine in the short time they had been together than he ever had to his wife. Or to any other human being. He stood up.

  “The ‘interesting something’ is in my coat pocket. I’ll get it. Bet you’ll be surprised.”

  When Andrew came back into the lounge, he flicked on the overhead light so that Maxine could see the photograph of Lady Harriet Wellsley’s portrait clearly. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. Here he was, presenting a woman who could now be considered his mistress, with a photograph taken by his wife. Tragic, sad Ella.

  Handing the photo to Maxine, he waited for her squeal of delight, her laughter. He was not prepared for the shock on her face, for the tears that welled in her eyes.

  “Where did you get this?” she whispered.

  Andrew put out his hand to touch her, to try to comfort her but she shrivelled back into her robe, a hunted, terrified expression replacing the earlier shock.

  “Where did you find it?” she shouted. “Tell me! Have you been poking and prying into my private life? What do you want, Andrew Ford?”

  Andrew stood up and walked to one of the armchairs. Obviously Maxine was terrified of him now. Maybe he could make more sense of this if she calmed down a little. If he put space between them, showed her he was no threat. He had, after all, over a year’s experience in dealing with emotional trauma. And here it was again in the last place he had expected to find it. Ella, yes. She had good reason to be ‘upset’, as he liked to term her impossible moods. But Maxine? What in the fuck was wrong with her?

  “Calm down, Max, please. I would never do anything to upset you. I thought you’d have known that. This is a photo of a portrait hanging in a property we are selling.”

  “What property? Where?”

  “Manor House in the western suburbs. Do you know it?”

  “I know where it is. The owner and her son were killed in a . . .”

  Maxine stopped talking and Andrew knew that she was putting the pieces together.

  “Yes,” he said. “Karen Trevor of Manor House and her son died in the road accident in which my wife almost lost her life too. Now, a year later, Rob Trevor, Karen’s husband and father of the little boy, is selling up. He no longer wants to live in that big old house alone. Can’t blame him really.”

  Maxine continued to stare at the photograph in her hand. Andrew knew his first instinct had been right. There must be a connection between the woman in the portrait and the beautiful woman sitting across from him in a state of agitation. She looked up at last and asked the question he’d thought she should have asked long ago. Would have asked had she not already known the answer.

  “The lady in the portrait. What’s her name?”

  “Lady Harriet Wellsley.”

  Maxine whispered the name and allowed the sound of it to sink into her mind. Lady Harriet Wellsley. Great-gran Harriet Murphy? The legend of the Murphy family. The woman who was only whispered about, her existence only hinted at. Surely, looking at the portrait in Manor House, great-gran Harriet and Lady Harriet had been one and the same person. Had she left her stable boy, gone back to Manor House? No, she had not. Maxine remembered some drunken mumblings of her father about his snotty bitch of a grandmother. How cold and “highfalutin” she had been. Could she have been around the mean streets of Maxine’s childhood long enough to make an impression on her grandson? Maxine’s father. All stable lad and no Manor House. Harriet’s airs and graces had skipped two generations.

  “Is she related to you, Maxine, or is the resemblance only coincidence?”

  Maxine looked across at Andrew, at the concern on his handsome face. How had she doubted him and what must he think of her now? That she was neurotic, unbalanced? Maybe she was. Great-gran Harriet was her most prized secret. Her comfort. Her security blanket. It had been a shock to discover that somebody might have been invading her secret territory. Also a shock to discover the name of Harriet’s family. Wellsley. The name suited the lady in the plumed hat. It had dignity and poise. It fitted. But what about Andrew? How much should she tell him? How much could he bear to hear? She gave a long look into his dark blue eyes and then went to the top drawer of her desk.

  Taking out the red album, she opened it at Great-gran Harriet’s photo and handed it to him.

  “Here. Tell me what you think. Is Lady Harriet Wellsley the same woman that I know as Great-gran Harriet?”

  Andrew looked from the photo Ella had taken in Manor House to the sepia picture with the curled edges in Maxine’s album. The pictures could be of the sa
me woman. It was hard to be certain when one was in colour and the other just muted shades of browns and tans. He held them side by side and scrutinised them. Maxine was standing over him. Hovering, anxiously awaiting his verdict. He looked up from his examination of the pictures.

  “I’m almost sure,” he said. “The eyes, the nose, the mouth. Your eyes, nose and mouth, Maxine. Your face. I’d bet it’s your great-grandmother in Ella’s photo. Even the plumes are the same. In fact, the more I look the more certain I become. That’s definitely the same lady in both pictures. Why were you so shocked when I showed you my photo? Is your connection to the Wellsleys a secret?”

  “I knew nothing about it, Andrew. I just knew her name was Harriet and that I am supposed to resemble her. In personality as well as appearance. I never knew her family name.”

  “So the Dorans kept Lady Harriet a secret?”

  “My name is not Doran. It’s not Maxine either.”

  Andrew waited for her to go on. Silently she took her photo album back from him and locked it into her desk. As the key turned he knew Maxine, or whoever she was, was not going to talk any more tonight. She came to him and put her head on his chest. He held her for a long time as she cried. He rubbed her back, her hair, stroked her face, did every soothing thing he could think of, but Maxine cried until, at last, she fell asleep in his arms.

  * * *

  Ella had been glad this evening that Jason Laide had driven himself out to Manor House. The thought of travelling back to the city with him sitting in the passenger seat made her shiver. Yet she could not afford to turn her nose up at him, despite his crudeness and the aura of suppressed violence that clung to him. He could be one of the best clients they had ever had.

  On impulse Ella called to Ford Auctioneers on the way home. She always liked the quiet of the deserted office at night. It was relaxing with no phones ringing and no clients looking for attention. Sitting back into her chair, she swivelled it gently, enjoying the soothing motion. Maybe she should come to live here. At work. Where Karen Trevor rarely bothered her. Here she was Ella. Not quite the Ella she had been. Not the person who had greeted each new day with a smile, the person who had resented sleep as an intrusion on the life she could not wait to live. The person who had been whole and complete. In love with her husband.