by Kirsty Ferry
‘Lissy! It’s not what it seems. Kerensa is an old flame. We knew each other—’
‘An old flame? I bet she’s the reason you came here, isn’t she? What was I? Just a distraction until you reconnected? How could you, Stef? I refuse, I absolutely refuse to be used by anyone. I’m not going to be just a distraction.’
She hurled the first thing that came out of the basket at him. It happened to be the jar of jam. It just missed him and shattered on the rocks. Stef let out a yell and tried to shift away from the shards of glass. The womanrocked on his lap and ducked her head, laughing, clinging tighter. Lissy followed through with the tub of cream. Next were the scones. The fruit was easy to launch, and she didn’t care two hoots about that hitting either of them on the sodding head.
‘I trusted you. I really trusted you!’ Lissy shouted. ‘How could I be so stupid? You’re all the same!’
The Sixties sex-kitten was still laughing, shaking her head as if Lissy was to be mocked or pitied or something, hanging onto him like a bloody limpet, curling up closer around his body, despite his futile attempts to unpeel her.
‘No, Lissy! Please. We were just saying goodbye—’
It was completely the wrong thing to say.
‘Doesn’t look much like it’s goodbye from here!’ yelled Lissy. ‘It looks like you’re making up for lost bloody time, happy that I’m not around. Forget it, Stef. Just forget it. I hate you! In fact, no. I don’t hate you. I have no feelings for you at all. None. It’s finished. It’s over. Go off with her. I really don’t care.’
She closed her fingers around the bottle of wine and pulled it out of the basket, but common sense kicked in at that point; she hung onto the bottle and threw the basket at them instead. It skittered across the rocks and fell into the deep pool with a splosh.
‘And you can collect your things from my cottage,’ she shouted as her parting shot. ‘Actually, no. I’ll dump them on the sand for you. Then your girlfriend here can help you pick them up – and if you’re lucky, the tide won’t have come in and swept the whole bloody lot away!’
True to her word, she had dumped his belongings on Newlyn beach, the closest beach to her cottage. And he’d turned up for them, without the mystery woman in tow. He’d come with his right foot all bandaged up too; hobbling along saying he’d stood on some of that strawberry jam glass and cut himself. But so what?
If he hadn’t been so fickle, things might have turned out quite differently. And as she watched the sun drop into the ocean from the terrace of yet another rented holiday home, a few miles up the coast from Whitby, Lissy let go of all the anger and all of the hurt and cried over Stefano Ricci for the first time in seven years.
Just a bit further down the coast, in his own holiday apartment, Stefano had reached the bottom of his champagne bottle – he had dispensed with a glass and drank straight out of the thing – and was now staring out of the window. He couldn’t see much, just the big old houses opposite him, a few of which had themselves been converted into B & B’s and boutique hotels. He wished he had taken rooms closer to the beach.
He always felt happier and freer by the ocean, probably due to the fact he had grown up near Portofino, a picturesque harbour village in Northern Italy. He had numerous happy memories of lazy days and hectic nights on the Italian coast, part of a large, noisy family, the third child of five. He was now thirty-seven years old and had seen his sisters love, marry and have children – not necessarily in that order. His family owned a large villa by the coast, his father’s fortune coming from vineyards, and he had been a confident, spoilt, only son. It seemed a world away now, diving into those crystal depths and seeing the statue of Christ the Abyss beneath the ocean, simply as a rite of passage.
Stef had always been artistic and discovered a deep love of photography in his early twenties – and an even deeper appreciation of the models he met in that industry. Some, he had slept with. Some, he had kissed. One he had thought he loved – briefly. And he’d tied himself to her in a fit of rage after Lissy refused all contact with him – no emails, no phone calls, nothing.
Kerensa was the one he had lived with, sometimes laughed with and often fought with for six of the seven years he and Lissy had been apart. But those high-octane years and the meaningless affairs on both sides had finally made him take stock and realise he needed more. He wanted more. He wanted what he’d had with Lissy. Kerensa was a beautiful mistake, that was all. They parted as violently and as passionately as they had begun, and he apologised to her for wasting six years of her life. She had told him, eventually, that she wanted children. And he’d suddenly realised he wanted them too, but with Elisabetta, not Kerensa. He’d never been able to forget Lissy. He’d never wanted to destroy himself for Kerensa – but he’d happily throw himself off a cliff to save Lissy.
Lissy and he were going to head east, that long-ago summer, and tour the Cornish Riviera in a battered old VW campervan. The names of the beaches didn’t exactly roll off his tongue; Lissy had laughed at his attempts to say words like Mevagissey and Polkerris. She had begged him to take her on a basking shark safari and they had spent hours looking at maps and plotting their route. But in the end, they’d never gone. Was it too late now?
Stefano dragged himself away from the window and the painful memories and headed into the little second bedroom. He had created a portable, makeshift, digital photography studio in there, by warrant of his laptop. Unlike Jon, Stefano embraced digital photography and was renowned in his field for creating the most astonishing pieces of digital artwork. He had some things to finish that he had been working on before he came to England, and also, within his portfolio, he had one or two precious pieces he just couldn’t leave behind. It was these he turned to now, pulling them out of the folder and examining them. He intended to find a use for them here – how, he wasn’t sure, but he was going to do it.
But first, he thought, he needed to sleep. Time and tide waited for no-one. And if he managed to sleep, at least the awful, lonely, Lissy-less night would pass more quickly.
Chapter Eight
Sea Scarr Hall, 1905
The company that night consisted of a selection of Walter’s friends and acquaintances attending a ball to celebrate the coming-out of seventeen-year old Miss Florence Percy, the daughter of a Scarsdale cousin from Northumberland.
Lorelei had tentatively suggested to Walter that, as a display of wealth and grandeur, the Scarsdales should host a ball so little Florrie could cut her debutante teeth before visiting London to represent the family. Walter had, surprisingly, agreed. He was, he had said, hoping it would encourage Lorelei, the current Lady Scarsdale, to act as she should be expected to. Then he had invited everyone he knew, telling her there was no room left for any of her friends, if indeed she even had any friends, which he doubted.
Sadly, he was right, but it galled her nonetheless.
Lorelei’s greatest hope was now that Julian MacDonald Cooper should attend. Then she would have at least one person there that she knew. She was ten years older than Florrie, but almost ten years younger than her husband and his acquaintances – Florrie’s mother, Mary, for example, was only two years or so older than Walter, and thus it was that she, Lorelei, did not fit into any category easily; she was neither fish nor fowl. Julian, it had seemed, was around her age, though. Which was encouraging.
Lorelei sighed and stared at herself in the mirror; yet another formal gown – white, this time, and eminently virginal to show off her sweetness and purity as lady of the manor.
It had probably been a bad choice. But she did quite like the dress. She smoothed down the frills on the skirt and stood up a little straighter. Her eyes drifted to the window where the evening sun was just beginning to stain the sea rose-gold and orange, and wondered what Julian’s reaction would be when and if he came.
For a brief moment, Julian wondered whether he should have gone back into Staithes and found that barber after all. Then he decided the answer was no. These people were nothing l
ike him, and therefore he should not be judged by their standards.
Julian hadn’t met Lord Scarsdale, although the estate manager had been a decent enough fellow. He hadn’t said anything directly derogatory about his employer, but Julian had a sharp mind and soon gathered that the man didn’t hold his lordship in any great respect. Lord Scarsdale paid his wages, of course, but the man didn’t get involved with the estate as much as he should. The estate manager had come with the territory, if you like – and Walter was apparently a poor substitute for his father, the previous Lord Scarsdale.
So as Julian walked up the path to the Hall and was almost knocked over by a carriage speeding down the driveway, he determined he would only stay long enough to see the Siren, satisfy himself of her identity and leave. He smiled to himself. He wondered whether the Siren would come away with him. Maybe she wouldn’t be missed if she was a minor guest – the thought of her leaving with him was enticing, anyway, and that was what put the spring back into his step and gave him the energy to climb the steps and walk through the great doorway into the foyer.
‘May I introduce you to the company, Sir?’ A butler or a footman or whatever the hell you called them had appeared silently out of nowhere and blocked Julian’s path.
‘No, thank you. I’m only renting the Dower House. My name is Julian MacDonald Cooper and I have been invited, I assure you.’ He produced an invitation card, which seemed to satisfy the Gatekeeper. Heimdall. That’s who he reminded Julian of – the watchman of the old Norse gods, ready to blow his horn and summon the rest of them when their enemies appeared, on their way to raid Asgard. He ducked his head to hide a smile as Heimdall moved away to let him pass.
Julian walked across the black and white tiled hallway and followed the sounds of invited guests towards a large room at the back of the house. A couple drifted past him and nodded, the female eyeing him curiously and the male taking her arm and pulling her closer to him in a proprietary fashion.
Yes, Julian thought he probably looked a little out of place here – he hadn’t brought any clothes suitable for a ball, that was for sure; so he had worn his three piece, chequered business suit and reluctantly donned a tie and a starched white collar for the occasion. The man who had just passed him had worn a very dapper dinner suit and the lady dripped with lace and diamonds, her silhouette so “S”-shaped that Julian wondered vaguely how she could even stand upright. She must be incredibly well balanced somewhere in her underskirts, in fact, she might be …
His train of thought came to a sudden halt. There she was; his Siren of the Rocks, dressed in a white, frilled gown – but instead of looking as trussed up as the guest in the corridor had, there was a distinct lack of “S”-shaping in her carriage; just a woman wearing a beautiful dress, the skirt falling gently from her waist and pooling onto the floor. Her hair, black as the midnight sky, swirled high onto her head and a cluster of white lilies-of-the-valley were tucked into the side.
God, she was enchanting.
Julian found that he couldn’t move. His feet literally seemed to be stuck to the floor and he just stood there, staring at her. As if she could feel his eyes on her, she turned her head and met his gaze.
As she caught his eye, her skin turned a delicate shade of pink and her sea-green eyes widened slightly. A smile touched her lips for just a second, then she dipped her head and turned away, melting into the crowds.
She couldn’t believe he had really turned up. Next to the boring friends of Lord Stuffy he was a breath of fresh air. He drew the attention of quite a few women in that room; but she had been pleased to realise he looked at her and her alone.
Terrified that her blushes would draw attention to her, she ducked her head and retreated to the coolness of the shadows. She hadn’t gone very far when Florrie appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and stood in front of her. Florrie and her mother had arrived only a couple of hours beforehand, the girl a veritable whirlwind of excitement and raring to go. She had barely been introduced to her bedroom, before she was demanding her ballgown be organised and rejecting all suggestions of a nice rest before the party.
‘Who’s that man who just came in?’ Florrie’s blue eyes were wide and curious, her fair hair slipping sideways out of its elaborate chignon.
Lorelei smiled and reached out, tucking a bunch of feathers more securely into Florrie’s hair. ‘Well now, that’s our summer tenant. He’s a photographer, by all accounts.’
‘But what’s his name?’ the girl persisted. ‘Is he famous? He’s rather a buck.’
‘A buck?’ exclaimed Lorelei, wondering how the child knew such slang – yet he was very handsome. It seemed, then, as if it wasn’t just the older ladies who found Julian attractive. ‘Please don’t let your mother hear you using that sort of word, darling. And whether he is famous or not, I don’t know. He’s called Mr Cooper and I’m sure he doesn’t want any attention drawn to him tonight.’ So just stay away from him, she wanted to add.
‘I dream of having a man like that fall for me,’ said Florrie with a beatific smile. She clasped her hands together and fixed her eyes on Lorelei. ‘Do you think there will be men like that in London?’
‘Hundreds of them,’ replied Lorelei. ‘All waiting for you.’
Florrie laughed rather too loudly and a man nearby glared at her. She covered her mouth with her hands. ‘I must learn to control myself,’ she said, her voice muffled, her eyes blinking owl-like above her chubby fingers.
‘Treat this as a practice event,’ advised Lorelei. ‘If you do anything socially unacceptable here, you will remember not to do it when it matters.’ When, for instance, there are men around you, who you can set your sights on properly.
Florrie nodded and let her hands drop from her face. Her fingers clutched at her satin skirts and she sighed, staring over Lorelei’s shoulder. Lorelei just knew she was staring at Julian.
‘He’s looking over here,’ said Florrie. ‘Oh, my!’
‘Darling, we are right next to the champagne. Of course he’s looking over here. The poor man must be thirsty. I’m the hostess. I will take him a drink. You go off and enjoy yourself.’
‘Oh, but don’t you have servants for that sort of thing?’ Florrie asked. ‘Because if you don’t, I could take it and—’
‘No!’ Lorelei knew her voice was too sharp and the girl’s face fell. She softened her tone and tried again. ‘No, Florrie. This is your evening. You are here to socialise and enjoy yourself. Whatever would your mother think if she saw you serving drinks?’
‘But you’re going to serve them,’ Florrie tried again.
‘And as I said, I am the hostess. I make the rules,’ said Lorelei. ‘Now shoo. Go off and find someone to dance with you. Actually …’ She caught sight of her husband’s solicitor and his family. ‘Archie there is a lovely young man. Archie!’ She raised her voice and the solicitor’s twenty-year old son looked across. He was a shy young man, prone to a slight stoop due to his height and rangy with it. But his brown eyes were kind, his reddish hair too long and verging on the Bohemian, just like Julian’s and his face was sweet. Lorelei knew he would look after Florrie. ‘Archie. Come and meet our guest of honour.’ The boy blushed and shambled over and Lorelei quickly introduced them properly.
Once she was satisfied that Florrie’s attention had fully shifted to Archie, Lorelei reached out, took two champagne flutes and hurried across to Julian, keeping to the shadows at the edge of the room.
She was coming towards him. She had two champagne flutes in her hands and much as he knew very little about this sort of social occasion, he did wonder whether it was de rigueur for the female guests to serve the male ones. And whether they usually hugged the shadows in such a fashion. Maybe that was why she was doing it.
‘You came,’ she said, when she was standing right in front of him. There was an awkward pause when Julian felt a little frisson of electricity pass between them, then he smiled and held out his hand for the glass she proffered.
‘I did indeed,’
he replied. ‘I’m delighted to see that you came as well.’
The Siren laughed and shook her head. ‘I had no choice, really.’
‘Ah. When you’re a guest of the Scarsdales, I assume it is expected of you,’ said Julian. ‘That is the way I feel anyway and I’m well enough away at the Dower House to be practically invisible.’
‘I’m not a guest,’ said the Siren.
Julian waited for her to expand, but she just fixed him with those eyes and stared at him, quite curiously, he thought.
‘One of the family, then?’ Julian persisted.
‘Yes,’ replied the Siren. ‘You could say that.’
Julian caught sight of the man he assumed was his host; an insipid-looking man with neatly waxed blonde hair and exuding an air of buttoned-up authority.
Julian grinned. ‘Well you look nothing like him, thankfully. I take it you must be related to a different side of the family, perhaps to someone on his wife’s side?’
‘I am the different side of the family. Unfortunately, that man happens to be my husband.’ She bit her lip and dropped her head as if embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about him. About it being unfortunate, I mean.’
Julian stared at her, aghast. ‘Unfortunate? My God, it is truly unfortunate. I think I had better leave.’ He felt his face colour and looked around for somewhere to put his untouched champagne. Bloody hell. Of all the women to bump into around here and to take a liking to, he had to find the lady of the manor. Well, at least that was his question answered regarding her identity.
He wished he was still ignorant about that one.
‘No. Please. Please, don’t leave.’ Lady Scarsdale or whoever she was reached out an elegant, white-gloved hand and touched his. There was a definite shock of something which frazzled up towards his shoulder at that point. ‘I’d like you to stay.’ She cast a look around the room desperately. ‘I really would like you to stay. Look. The doors are open onto the terrace. Come outside with me. I can’t bear being cooped up in here a moment longer anyway.’