by Kirsty Ferry
Stef appeared, clutching the pink spade in one hand and a floppy pink sunhat designed to look like a pig in the other. ‘Please. Don’t go just yet. Come. Walk with me to the pier and we can chat.’ He plopped the hat on Grace’s head and she shrieked with laughter, her hands coming up to the brim as Stefano pushed the hat gently down so it slipped and covered her eyes, the ice-cream wobbling dangerously before Lissy steadied Grace’s wrist.
‘I’m coming nowhere with you,’ Lissy growled. ‘I’m leaving and don’t even think about following me.’
Of course he followed her.
‘Elisabetta, I think we need to spend some time talking. We have a lot to say to one another.’ He fell into step with her as she walked away from Grace and her ice-cream.
‘I have nothing to say to you,’ began Lissy, then she clamped her lips together as if she suddenly realised he had almost engaged her in conversation. Stefano chuckled. ‘Damn you,’ she muttered.
‘You have already done that,’ replied Stefano. Lissy faltered but kept on walking. He wondered what she would do when she reached the end of the pier – whether she would just keep on walking right off the thing and end up in the sea, or whether she would do a grand circle and end up retracing her steps back to the beach and safety and noise and people.
‘No. Actually, no.’ Lissy suddenly stopped and swung around to face him. Her eyes blazed in her sun-burnt face and he was drawn again to the unusual colouration of them – one sapphire, one emerald. ‘Let’s get this right,’ she continued, seemingly oblivious to his desire. ‘You damned yourself. You’re the one who was with that woman. What was I supposed to do? Sit and watch while it happened? As if!’
‘It was the biggest mistake of my life,’ said Stefano. ‘In fact, all the years after that – after her, without you, were the result of that mistake. I want to put it right.’ He reached out and tried to take her hand. She shook him away and strode off again. He watched her stomp up to the end of the pier. It was the circuit she was going for then, not the throwing yourself into the ocean thing. That was fine. That was perfectly acceptable.
Stefano looked around and saw a wooden bench facing out to sea. As she couldn’t stay at the top of the pier forever, she would have to come back to him at some point. He sat down on the bench, stretching his long legs out and crossing them at the ankles. He draped his arms along the backrest and leaned back, closing his eyes to catch the last of the warmth in the sun’s rays on his face.
Even with his eyes shut he would know when she was passing him. He hadn’t lived and breathed her perfume so intensely that summer without recognising it. Plus – he smiled to himself, feeling the heat relax his muscles – the gypsy in him would know when she scurried past. His grandmother had always claimed he had inherited his dark, passionate looks and his intuition from her Romany ancestors. Stef was inclined to believe her. Take Lissy, for example; you didn’t walk into that sort of relationship by luck alone. The pull now towards her was as strong as it had ever been. And maybe that was what had drawn him to Newlyn that year; maybe he knew his destiny was there.
Of course, there was only one thing to query about that. He opened his eyes and stared into the cloudless blue sky. Lissy didn’t actually know she was his destiny. He still had to convince her of that one and hoped her heart would believe it even if her head told her otherwise.
Cornwall, Seven Years Ago
Jon had stayed another day or so with Lissy. Then he’d gone back to the hotel and packed his own bags. Fran had left nothing of herself behind; not even a stray toothbrush or item of clothing that would be a perfectly acceptable reason for them to meet up again. It was definitely over. They watched Jon stuff the cases in the car and Lissy felt a little sorry for him.
‘It’s a long way back,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind driving? Fran isn’t there to share it, remember.’
Jon smiled ruefully. ‘Yeah. But at least I don’t have to travel back via Sussex, do I? It’s fine. I’ll stop halfway, maybe rent a room somewhere if I need to. Have a mini holiday. Take some photos.’ He shrugged. ‘Or I might just head straight to Whitby. Get started in the studio as soon as I can.’
‘Well remember – whatever you need, just let me know. I’ll get it organised.’
‘Thank you, Lissy.’ Jon gave her a quick hug. ‘Thanks for everything. You seriously didn’t have to buy the place, you know.’
‘I wanted to.’ Then she grinned. ‘I’m your landlady now; that gives me power. Isn’t it marvellous? I told Daddy that I was going to do it. It’s not fair that I got the rich father and the trust fund and you didn’t. It’s the least I could do. This way, you can set yourself up in business and I get to see that I’ve done something good. It’s a start.’
‘It is. And you’re marvellous,’ he said.
Then he was off.
Lissy slipped her hand into Stefano’s as she watched Jon go and sighed as she waved. ‘He can be an utter pain, but he’s my pain. Do you know what I mean?’
‘He’s a good guy. There’s a woman for him out there. His soulmate. He will find her.’
‘Well I hope it’s bloody soon.’ Lissy sighed again. ‘Come on. I want to go shopping. Shopping always makes me feel better.’
‘Love always makes me feel better,’ Stefano murmured. Lissy was aware of his warm body next to hers and her stomach did that squishy thing again.
But no – tempted as she was, she had to be sensible. ‘Shopping,’ she said. ‘And I know exactly where I want to go.’ She pointed towards the high street. ‘I have it on good authority that there is a wonderful antiques dealer just down here and along one of the side streets. I’m going there.’
‘You love your junk!’ moaned Stefano. ‘What is it about that stuff? What is it that draws you to it? You’re like a moth to a flame.’
Lissy laughed. ‘I just love it. I love the history of it and the stories it could tell.’ She reached up and kissed him. ‘Now are you coming shopping or not?’
‘I shall grace you with my presence, Signorina.’ Stefano bowed jokingly. ‘Fear not.’
They meandered down the High Street hand in hand, until they reached the little antiques shop Lissy had talked about. It wasn’t long before she had engaged the owner in conversation and spotted something she liked the look of.
‘So what do you know about the history of this piece?’ she asked. She was looking at a ring, which lay on a faded, red velvet cushion. The centre was a solitaire diamond; a round, brilliant circle which, when you tilted it, would probably look like a glorious diamond spinning-top from the side. ‘I’m guessing it’s Old European cut?’ she continued. ‘And maybe Edwardian, judging by the decoration on the shoulders?’ The platinum ring was set with filigree leaves and flowers and what looked like tiny waves cresting over the decorations either side of the central gemstone. It was a very elegant, sophisticated piece of jewellery.
‘That would be right, Madam.’ The antiques dealer nodded in agreement. ‘You have an eye for these items.’
‘One of my abiding interests,’ she replied. ‘You’d be surprised what I can dig up in shops like this.’
‘I’m sure, Madam. As far as this little beauty is concerned, we don’t know a great deal about it. What you say is correct about it being Edwardian. It’s probably a privately commissioned piece, maybe an engagement ring; but more than that, we can’t tell. I bought it at an auction. I think it echoes the sea, don’t you?’
Lissy looked at the ring for a moment longer, processing the information. She was aware of the dealer watching her closely.
‘Do you want to handle it, Miss?’ he asked. He was a sun-tanned, wiry-haired fellow with a face as round as a clotted cream scone. He smiled engagingly at Lissy and on some level she marvelled, as his white teeth completed the effect of a golden scone split and filled with the lovely local cream.
Then Stefano appeared at Lissy’s elbow. ‘What is the problem? Have you not agreed to instantly relieve the gentleman of his burden?’ he a
sked, peering at the ring.
‘No. Not yet,’ said Lissy. For some reason, she was entranced by the ring, but it didn’t feel quite right to take it. It seemed wrong that this particular ring, this token of someone’s love, should have ended up in an auction and been sold onto an antiques dealer. Lissy didn’t usually fuss about things like that. She was practical and, as she had said, had an eye for a bargain and a flair for spotting something unusual and interesting. But this piece, sitting on its little cushion, defied all her logic.
Stefano smiled at the dealer. ‘I am sure Elisabetta would like to handle the item as she contemplates it. Please – allow me to pass it to her.’ He held out his hand and the dealer dropped the ring into his open palm.
Stef turned towards Lissy and a glint of sunlight caught the diamond through the window. Lissy blinked as the rainbow flared and pierced her vision, flames seeming to lick around the diamond, turning its heart crimson and gold. She ducked her head and rubbed her eyes, trying to get the shards of light out of her pupils, and an image flitted into her mind of the ring being placed on the slim, right hand of a woman, her fingers curling around those of the person who had presented it. Then the fingers disconnected and the image faded and Lissy was blinking in the little shop again.
She sucked in a deep breath, feeling almost winded.
‘I don’t know if it was supposed to be an engagement ring or not,’ Lissy finally managed to say, her voice sounding odd, even to herself. ‘And if they were married, and it ended up for sale, it must have been a pretty bad relationship for them to get rid of it like that.’
‘Does it matter?’ asked Stef, looking bemused. ‘If you like it, you should try it on.’
‘No.’ Lissy shook her head. The images had thrown her. She glanced at the ring in the palm of Stef’s hand and knew it wasn’t for her – not right now.
‘I think I’d like to think about it,’ she said, still staring at it. ‘It won’t run away. It’s quite expensive anyway so I’ll have to consider the cost.’ That was a lie – it was expensive, but she could afford it.
‘But someone else might buy it!’ Stef moved his hand closer to Lissy. ‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s beautiful and I probably would want it in the future, but I need some time to think. I’m getting a migraine, anyway. That flash caught me in the eyes and it’s all twinkly now.’ That, as well, was a lie. But it was the best she could come up with. The fact was, she wanted the ring, but she didn’t want it at this moment. It just didn’t feel right. ‘I’ll head home, I think, and lie down. It’s the heat. And Jon splitting up with Fran. And the fact he’s driving back all alone. I don’t like to think of it.’
‘Oh – my poor Elisabetta. Wait. I’ll take you!’ Stef’s voice carried through the doorway into the street as she stumbled outside, rubbing her eyes again.
‘No, it’s fine!’ she called back. ‘I’ll see you later.’ And then she picked up speed and ran back the way she had come.
Chapter Four
Sea Scarr Hall, 1905
The man who was staying in the Dower House, a Mr Cooper, was supposed to be an artist. At least that was what Lorelei Scarsdale had been told. Her husband, Walter, was quite vague when she asked him.
‘I have no real idea who he is.’ Walter lined up his telescope to get a better view of the horizon. ‘He simply pays the rent. I leave that sort of thing to the estate manager.’ He leaned into the eye-piece, effectively dismissing her and thus ending their conversation.
Lorelei, for once, did not want to be dismissed so rudely. ‘Is he part of the Staithes Group?’ she persisted. ‘They appear to be drifting away, somewhat. It would be so nice if he could help breathe some new life into the movement. After all—’
‘Lorelei!’ Her husband’s voice was sharp, every inch of him a man who was accustomed to being in command. ‘I told you, I do not know. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.’
‘But—’
‘Please!’ He swung around and glared at her. ‘Leave me alone.’
Lorelei stared at him without speaking. She made her eyes go as wide as possible, knowing full well that their bright green – the colour of the frondy seaweed which floated in the rock pools down in the cove – unnerved him. Today, however, his eyes were flinty and harsh, glaring back at her.
Walter had once likened her to a witch, marvelling over her long, wavy black hair and her pale complexion; but that was before they were married and he had realised that they were quite incompatible. They were like fire and ice in the beginning. Only her fire had been dampened down by beatings and insults over the years, and she naturally shied away from his coolness. She sometimes thought that if she’d had sails or a steaming funnel, she would have interested him more.
The man who stood before her was so absolutely buttoned up on the face of it all, that she often wanted to rip his starched collar off and string him up by his silken tie. But of course, she could never do that. She cast a glance over his carefully waxed blonde hair and his tight little moustache and she wondered, not for the first time, what she had ever seen in him.
‘Well?’ he asked. Even his voice was clipped and horrid. ‘Why are you still here?’
Why indeed?
‘I’m sorry, Walter,’ she replied. ‘I’ll go now.’ Her voice, in contrast to his, still had a Yorkshire burr to it, despite his best efforts to educate her in the King’s English. She turned on her heel and swept out of the room, daring, for once, to slam the study door shut behind her.
She headed down the corridor towards the main doors of the Hall before striding off down the steps and across the lawns. It was the beginning of the summer and the afternoon was warm; but even if it had been midwinter she was not going to stay in that house a moment longer than she had to.
Lorelei kept walking towards the walled garden – once through there, she could head straight across to the sturdy wooden door in the boundary wall and, upon opening that, feast her eyes on the sea and the cliffs and the cove that was theirs and theirs alone.
A small part of her acknowledged that she had been drawn into marriage with Lord Scarsdale in a bid to own this house and this view. Otherwise, there was absolutely no rational judgement to be made about why she had married him. She had been an artists’ model, a nameless figure in the background of some of the best works of art the era had ever produced. She had worked in Cornwall and Paris and London, she had sat for Laura Johnson – who was now Laura Knight – and her new husband Harold. She had even posed for Monet, Renoir, Augustus John … The list went on. And throughout her time in the background, she had developed her own talents and her own passion for painting.
And this passion was what her husband disliked so much about her. Lorelei was meant to be an ornament on Lord Scarsdale’s arm and nothing else. She was not meant to think, speak, act or do anything to tarnish that image – that waxen, painted image of perfection that he demanded of her. She was not supposed to answer back, have an opinion or let herself fall into disarray. She must project perfection and propriety and obedience at all times; and God forbid she forgot to do any of that, or she would suffer the consequences.
She certainly looked the part of the objectified Lady Scarsdale he wanted – without being vain, she knew herself to be quite beautiful, which was why the artists had liked her. But she had never ‘made it’; never become famous, like Lizzie Siddal, or Camille Doncieux, or Rose Beuret. And ultimately, it would have been wonderful to have been a model for Julia Margaret Cameron, but sadly, Mrs Cameron was dead and buried and there was no chance of that now.
So the idea that an artist had moved into the Dower House for the summer was absolutely, wonderfully appealing. The very idea of a kindred spirit, of someone she could talk to or learn from, or even perhaps work alongside, was exciting. Perhaps he would be a bearded, serious old man who had seen more and done more than she could ever hope to do. Perhaps the summer visitor had worked in Paris or London and knew the artists she aspired to be like; knew the artists
she had sat for, even? How utterly divine, how utterly perfect, if for one summer, she could be herself again.
Lorelei had reached the door to the outside world now, and she pulled it open, pausing on the other side as she always did, catching her breath at the seascape that lay before her. The sparkling diamonds on the waves and that hushy-shushy noise as they broke over the rocks; the squawk of the gulls and the tang of salt drifting over in the crisp wind that blew in from the continent. How wonderful.
And how restricting.
There always seemed to be something just over the horizon, just out of reach for her, and it frustrated her like nothing else. She had thought that by marrying Walter, it would free her from her work and give her time to paint and enjoy the ideal of the artist’s life which she had built up in her head. After all, the Scarsdales had an interesting poor relation who had apparently been an art tutor to one of the Pre-Raphaelites – or so the story went.
Lorelei wasn’t sure. She had seen the wonderful portrait in the ballroom of a red-haired girl languishing in a field of daisies, so there was definitely a connection somewhere along the line. But the signature on the picture – Henry Dawson – was nobody she had ever heard of and she had no idea who the girl was. It was an interesting concept though; and to be honest, she had thought that having a connection like that to some of the most glorious artists in history, Walter would have been a little – no a lot – more accepting of her passions. But he wasn’t.
Lorelei made her way towards the path that wound down to the cove and wished she had brought at least a pencil and her sketchbook. She never tired of this place; people – well, Walter – didn’t understand her when she said it was always different. There was, of course, that Greek philosopher who advised you could never step into the same river twice, and that, really, was what she was trying to suggest to him. The water was constantly changing, the rockpools varied with the tides and one never knew what one would find washed up on the shore.