by Kirsty Ferry
Stef let out such a loud exclamation of anger, Lissy automatically clamped her hand over the earpiece, frightened on some silly level that the man on the beach would hear it. She was certain he had a gun. He was walking along the beach, gazing out to sea; then alternately looking up at her house and staring at the cliffs. And in his hand as his arm hung loosely by the side of his body, was a shiny gun-shaped item.
‘Then you cannot stay there!’ shouted Stef. ‘You call the police right now and tell them. And then I will come and fetch you. It will take me half an hour. In fact, I will meet you somewhere. I …’ She could hear the tone of his voice change as he apparently stood up and moved rooms.
‘No!’ hissed Lissy. ‘You’re right. I’m not staying here any longer, not even to wait for you. I’m not calling the police because they’ll want me to wait as well so they can talk to me.’ She knew it wasn’t exactly rational reasoning, but the sight of the shot gun or whatever it was had sent all common sense fleeing from her brain. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. ‘I’m getting in the car and I’m coming to your B & B. Text me the address. I’m going now to get my keys. I’ll get your message when I’m in the car.’ And with that, she hung up and ran back into the house.
Lissy didn’t stop to pack anything. She shoved her feet into a pair of espadrilles, grabbed her handbag, phone, house keys and car keys, and ran out of the front door. Only when she was in the car and a good way down the road towards Whitby, did she stop in a lay by and check her messages.
As she had requested, Stef had sent her the address of his hotel. She knew Whitby well enough to realise it wasn’t a standard Bed and Breakfast, and she knew whereabouts she would find it. She would worry about her own place tomorrow. Tonight, she just wanted to be out of that house and to have some company; and Stef would do just as well as anyone.
Chapter Eleven
Sea Scarr Hall, 1905
Florence looked rather wan and pathetic, huddled up on one of the white wrought iron seats Lorelei had ensured were arranged on the lawn behind the Hall.
‘We shall try to ensure information about your punch incident goes no further than Whitby, darling,’ Lorelei told her. The girl nodded miserably and a look of pain flitted across her face as she did so. Lorelei smiled and patted her knee. ‘A cup of tea is just what you need, I think, before you head south. Archie and his family will not be long and you can huddle with him instead of on your own.’
‘Oh, Lorelei!’ moaned Florrie. Lorelei had long since told the girl not to call her Lady Scarsdale, much to Walter’s disgust. ‘I simply cannot recall anything about the latter part of the evening. I know that nice man from the Dower House arrived and then you both disappeared. After that, I am afraid much of it is a blur.’
‘Then you need to remember that feeling in London, darling.’ Lorelei smoothly skipped over the fact Julian had been referred to as a “nice man”. ‘Stay away from the punch or you shan’t recall any of the lovely young men you meet there.’
Florrie’s bottom lip trembled. ‘I swear that I am dying.’
‘I suspect not.’ Lorelei smiled. She looked up and saw a maid coming across the lawn with a tea tray. ‘Do you think you could manage a little cake with your tea?’ There wasn’t much that would stop Florrie’s enjoyment of a piece of cake.
‘I shall struggle with it, but I will try,’ the debutante replied bravely.
‘Good girl.’ Almost as if she could sense him, Lorelei suddenly turned the other way and saw a loping figure walking across the lawn. Julian had come; and he was carrying some kind of box which she realised was his camera. ‘Oh, I say. I think this is the gentleman from the Dower House. I did extend an invitation to him to join us, as he had to leave very suddenly last night.’
She rose gracefully from the table, glad she had dressed in an ivory lawn dress this afternoon. She knew the style and the colour became her; and it was so very hot that she was grateful for anything that was cool. The dress was festooned with lace and had two tiers of frills, but it was light and pretty. She had added a large straw, cartwheel hat to the ensemble, and the lace scarf she had tied around the brim blew out gently behind her as she hurried across the lawn to meet Julian.
‘Well, good afternoon,’ Lorelei called as she approached him. A stray gust of wind appeared from the direction of the coast and almost lifted her hat off. She raised her arm and held onto it as she smiled up at Julian. ‘I’m so pleased you could come. Florrie is suffering horribly still, but I am feeding her cake and that usually cheers her up.’
Julian laughed and looked across at the girl. Lorelei followed his gaze. Florrie was now seemingly on to her second slice and was munching steadily through it with a third one lined up on her plate, and her eyes fixed in the middle distance somewhere contemplatively. She looked a little like a cow and Lorelei smiled fondly. She would, however, never, ever tell the girl anything so mean. She was a delightful child, really, and Lorelei did love her.
‘It’s a shame to bother her,’ remarked Julian. ‘But this, I cannot resist.’ He raised his camera and Lorelei realised he was taking a photograph of Florrie.
It was Lorelei’s turn to laugh. ‘Such a marvellous invention. And a wonderful way to record all these moments that we might otherwise forget.’
‘My aim is to record you this summer.’ Julian turned his attention back to her and smiled. ‘I gave the matter some thought after our wee chat this morning, and I decided if Mrs Cameron can’t take your photograph in the style you want, then I can.’
‘Truly?’ asked Lorelei. ‘You can do that?’
‘Why do you look as if you find that difficult to believe?’ asked Julian. ‘You’ve just said what a marvellous invention the camera is, and that it was perfect to record moments we might otherwise forget. I don’t really want to forget this summer.’ Or you.
The last words were silent, yet Lorelei thought she understood, simply by the look in the man’s eyes.
‘No, I don’t suppose I want to forget it either,’ she replied. ‘Is there anything you had in mind for the photograph?’ It was like a layer of Lady Scarsdale had melted away; once more the consummate professional model, Lorelei was ready to be guided by the artist.
‘I did have something in mind. It came to me when I saw you on that rock and I christened you my Siren of the Sea. And then to hear your name is Lorelei – well! It is truly a gift. You are aware, of course, of the legend of the Lorelei Rock in the Danube?’
‘I am,’ replied Lorelei. ‘I believe I was named after it. My parents lived there for some time. I’ve been told I was conceived within view of it.’
‘Oh, my! I couldn’t imagine my parents discussing that sort of thing with me!’
‘My parents were very young when I was born. My mother had eloped with my father and I don’t even know if they were married. I don’t believe they are married, come to think of it.’ She laughed and shook her head, making the loose ends of the scarf on her hat drift with the motion. ‘They live quite comfortably wherever they please – and that is Cornwall at the moment, I think. But they don’t stay in one place for very long, so who knows how long they will be there? I swear there is some Gypsy in at least one of them.’
‘The Gypsy would be where you get your colouring from, then,’ said Julian.
‘Perhaps,’ replied Lorelei, ‘but tell me more about this marvellous photograph you have envisioned.’
‘Ah, yes. I would like you to be seated on the rock with your hair plaited as it was when I saw you emerge from the water. And I think, for the sake of modesty, you should be clothed.’
‘Mermaids do not have extensive wardrobes.’ Lorelei smiled and raised her eyebrows at him. ‘Perhaps I should simply be naked?’
Julian grinned and leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘Much as that appeals to me as an artist and as a man, I think we had better maintain some propriety, don’t you?’
He was deliciously close to her and his warm breath and his spicy cologne made her stomach do odd,
fizzy things. Lorelei wondered why she didn’t feel that sort of attraction to her husband. And, she realised, without even feeling guilty, she was as good as sinning in her head. She could sin very easily with this man, given half the chance; and, she also thought, she had the perfect outfit for the photograph.
‘Would something rather medieval encompass what you are envisaging for my photograph?’ asked Lorelei.
She looked stunning standing there in front of him. Her face was upturned and her eyes were alight with excitement. And he adored the way she had already claimed the photograph – “my photograph”. She was, clearly, a little vain; but, having said that, when you looked at her and you knew the circles she had moved in and the work she had done, one shouldn’t really be surprised at such a revelation. In fact, Julian thought, it endeared her to him even more.
‘Medieval would work very well, I should think,’ he replied. ‘It did Mrs Cameron no harm to clothe her models as such.’
‘Marvellous.’ Lorelei clapped her hands. ‘I have just the thing. We had a fancy-dress ball here one Christmas and I dressed as The Lady of Shalott. Well, to be precise, Waterhouse’s Lady of Shalott.’ A shadow flitted across her face. ‘Walter was supposed to be my Sir Lancelot, but he decided to come as a Sea Captain instead. We were hardly the unified Lord and Lady of the Manor as I had hoped.’
‘“The mirror crack’d from side to side”,’ quoted Julian. ‘From Tennyson’s original poem. Did you go as the Lady who had seen life through her mirror or did you go as the suicidal maiden in the boat?’
‘The suicidal maiden,’ replied Lorelei. ‘Only I didn’t have a boat.’ Then she smiled ruefully. ‘I had a Sea Captain though, I suppose. By default, if by nothing else.’
‘Well I am pleased to hear that – the dress is much more medieval in the suicidal maiden portrait – although I must confess you look more like the model in the mirror portrait.’
‘Thank you. I do feel more of an affinity with her – trapped as she is in her gilded cage. Never mind. You are not here to discuss my marital disharmonies. Allow me to seek the dress out and we can see if it is suitable.’ She looked across at Florrie, who had perked up considerably after demolishing the cake. ‘We must go and see my other guests. Archie will be here soon, and the ladies are leaving at about seven to catch the sleeper train. Will you be able to suffer our company that long? I wish I could get away sooner to find the dress.’ She frowned.
‘There’s no real hurry,’ said Julian. ‘But I think it’s maybe best if I don’t outstay my welcome with the ladies? Your husband may return and you don’t want me to monopolise you if that happens. Because I would monopolise you. Without a doubt.’ He couldn’t quite believe he had spoken the words out loud.
‘I wouldn’t mind being monopolised.’ Lorelei smiled. Her voice seemed to lose some of its upper-class polish and suddenly she was just a girl from Yorkshire who was a little out of her depth in this Society nonsense. ‘It would make a nice change.’ She dipped her head and turned away from him, walking across the lawn back towards the tea party. She raised her arm and waved at Florrie and her mother. ‘Allow me to introduce our summer visitor,’ she called. ‘Mr Cooper is a famous photographer and he is extremely interesting. I invited him to meet you all before you leave. After all, Florrie, you may need to appoint a wedding photographer should you ensnare a man in London.’ Lady Scarsdale was back. But Julian had had a little glimpse of who she really was and he liked it very much.
The tinkle of feminine laughter made Julian smile. Or it might have been the sight of Lorelei Scarsdale walking in front of him and the way her dress hung in perfect folds from her gently swaying hips. Either way, the smile was refusing to leave his face.
In the event, Julian remained at the house for a good couple of hours. Lorelei was torn between smiling at poor Archie who was staring lustfully after the young, curvaceous Florrie as his parents practically dragged him away, or watching Julian MacDonald Cooper as he sat easily in the garden chairs and sipped tea, fielding all the questions the other guests put to him, then seeming to unfold himself, stretch, and take his leave.
Lord Scarsdale himself was notable by his absence, which was most certainly a blessed relief to her.
Lorelei couldn’t tell anybody where Walter was. She supposed he would make the excuse that he was at the sailing club or some other place only men frequented. Lorelei and Walter did not spend a great deal of time together, which she was quite grateful for. If he wasn’t around, she wasn’t on edge. She wasn’t playing a part and trying to behave, fearful of whatever punishment he would come up with next, for her latest misdemeanour.
It was just as the servants were carrying the travelling trunks to the front door, and Lorelei was moving around her bedroom looking for the leaving gift she had prepared for Florrie, that she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Honestly, what a fright she looked. She had removed that hat and her hair was desperately flattened to her head, not to mention that the bulk of her tresses had come undone and had tightened themselves into little ringlets with the sea air. It was getting damp out there. There was a definite hint of a summer storm coming over from the sea and she hoped the ladies would make it to London safely.
Roughly, she pulled the pins out of her hair, determining to smarten herself up a little. She hated looking ruffled and told herself that she wanted to give Florrie nice memories as she left the Hall, rather than the child looking back at a terrifying scarecrow. Given Florrie’s behaviour over these few days, London was going to be frightening enough for her. Such an innocent.
Lorelei dragged the silver-backed brush through her hair, feeling the wild, salty, tangled curls stretch out and pull into the soft waves she was more accustomed to. As she did so, she looked around the prim, perfectly neat room and longed to be outside, rather than trapped in this gilded cage; she yearned to feel the sea breeze on her face and the sand crushing beneath her bare feet. She didn’t belong here, with Walter, but she knew she had to stay, at least a little while longer.
Then she hurried down the stairs, not bothering to pin her hair up again, and was gratified to see Florrie stare at her in awe.
‘You really are very beautiful,’ said the girl. ‘I feel such a frump next to you.’
‘You’re not a frump. You are a stunning young girl who is going to set London alight. Here. This is for you. It’s a little clasp for your hair. I’ve got one the same. You can wear it and remember I am thinking of you and wishing you all the luck in the world.’
‘Oh, thank you!’ cried Florrie. She flung her arms around Lorelei. ‘I hope that by wearing it, it will make me as pretty as you.’
‘Prettier.’ Lorelei smiled. ‘Or is it more pretty? I was never good at grammar.’
‘I will truly settle for as pretty.’ Florrie hugged Lorelei again and went to stand by her luggage. ‘Mother will be here soon. Then we shall have to go.’ She sighed. ‘I did like Mr Cooper. He said I would make a marvellous study for a portrait photograph. Although I do so wish I looked like that red-headed lady in that big painting in your ballroom. Who is she?’
‘Oh,’ said Lorelei, selfishly grateful for the fact she could avoid mention of Julian or agreeing how nice he was or how marvellous Florrie would look in a photograph, ‘the tale will appeal to your youthful romantic side, I suspect. The story is that one of the Scarsdales’ poor relations was an art tutor at the time of the Pre-Raphaelites. He always refused to be parted from this picture so we do not know whether it was his lover or just a painting he was particularly fond of. He lived here for a few years teaching the children of the family, and the picture came with him. It stayed here after he died.’
‘Maybe one day someone will paint me like that,’ said Florrie. ‘Would you wish to be painted again, Lorelei?’
‘I would indeed.’ Lorelei smiled.
She didn’t tell Florrie that a photograph taken by the right photographer would be even better. It would absolutely make her feel appreciated again as a woman.
Chapter Twelve
Whitby, Present Day
Stef had been standing on the pavement outside the apartment for fifteen minutes when he saw Lissy’s little MG speed up the road. He stepped forward and waved as she approached and flinched as she skidded to a halt centimetres from him and wound the window down.
‘Where can I park it?’
Stef blinked in astonishment. She had escaped from a gun-wielding maniac and was worried about where she could park her car?
‘Err. I guess around the back with my hire vehicle?’ He gestured to an entrance at the end of the terrace. ‘You will see the sign.’
‘Good. Thank you. Car parking is terrible in this town. I’m fed up of …’ Then her pretty, elfin face kind of crumpled. She clambered out of the car and slammed the door shut behind her. ‘Oh, Stef. It was horrible!’ She collapsed into him, and he automatically brought his arms up and around her. He closed his eyes and leaned his chin on the top of her head, remembering how well they had always fitted together.
‘You are shivering.’ He held her closer and felt her tremble. ‘You have silly shorts and a strappy vest on. It is not so warm now.’
‘It’s my pyjamas. I’m sorry. It was warmer before and I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.’
‘Look, you are really shaking now. Do you trust me to park your car? Then you can go inside and wait for me whilst I do it.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ She moved away from him and handed over her car keys. ‘It’s quite a fast car. Watch it when you pull away.’
‘I will be careful,’ he said, amused. ‘My rooms are on the first floor. The door is open. Just go in and I will be with you shortly. I make you some cioccolata calda, yes? I always know how much you like hot chocolate. It will help you sleep. But you must talk to me first, okay?’
‘Okay. But just so we’re clear, I wouldn’t have raced up here to see you under normal circumstances. You know that, don’t you?’