“Thank you, Mr Fenton.”
Andrew Fenton had been wool-gathering, fatigued after his efforts of the last days, and was flustered. He jumped to his feet, and took her thin hand, kissing it with his rather charming old-fashioned air.
“For what, my dear? For being in the correct place at just the right time? Pure chance on my part, Juliana.”
“How did you find me?” she asked, curious. “I would have thought it like looking for a needle in a haystack, yet you tracked me down.”
“Seymour and I roamed all over the area, and were lucky enough to stop by Mr Stevens, down at Piccadilly Circus. He recognised your description. We had a great deal of good luck.”
Juliana smiled here.
“Mr Stevens is such a nice man,” she said. “He is a real gentleman.”
“Indeed he is. He and Seymour got on splendidly. Now…”
He put his hands on her shoulders and looked down. Juliana’s pallor hinted at the strain that the recent events had wrought. Her clear skin was marred by the dark shadows under her eyes; there were lines of tension around her mouth, and her lips were pale. He gave her a warm smile.
“I am so glad that I should be the one to have the opportunity to bring you back, my dear Juliana. And at the same time, I feel that I should apologise for all this uproar. I… we all realise how upsetting and confusing this whole scenario must be to you.”
Juliana nodded. She was grateful for the gentlemanly way he was treating her, but she saw the flashes of doubt in his eyes, and understood what they meant. Andrew Fenton was unsure of her. Of her claim to have lost her memory, and to have no recollection of her life with Adrien Creed. She wondered whether she should be angry, but realised that he would not be the last to think so. If she had been on the other side of the puzzle, she might well have thought similarly.
“Now, shall we sit down and discuss what happens next?” he continued. “We understand that you have a life here that needs to be wrapped up, but Adrien… Mr Creed is no doubt anxious to take you home.”
She looked across at Adrien, who stood behind Fenton, his face pale. He ventured a smile at her. It was uneven, twitching higher to the right, displaying a nervousness that helped Juliana in a strange way. Thinking that he was here unwillingly had been a blow, and had eaten away at her self-composure. Bad enough to be ripped from her world; to be ripped grudgingly would make it so much harder. But at the sight of that crooked smile and appearance of what looked like genuine hope in his eyes, she realised that he was as nervous as she, that the reserve in his manner might be down to strain rather than aversion. She took a breath.
“Everything can be sorted out,” she told them. “People have been most accommodating.”
With a nod of approval, Seymour provided them all with a glass of Madeira, and called Andrew to his desk to show him a letter received that morning regarding an old client.
“You’ll find this one interesting, Andrew. You remember the case? Husband home from Cape Town…”
Grateful for the easy way the older men were allowing them time to talk together, Juliana allowed Adrien to take her arm and they moved towards the window, where there were two horsehair chairs on either side of a small table. The upholstery was overstuffed, and the fabric uncomfortably slick. Juliana had to dig her feet into the carpet to keep from sliding off.
They sat primly, and Juliana sipped at her glass. She was not used to drinking wine, especially at eleven o’clock in the morning, but today she was sorely in need of it. There was a strained silence that she was reluctant to break. Words between them were going to move everything into another realm. She was not ready for that. She appreciated the wine as it warmed her insides, for she felt cold as ice under her skin. Daring to peek over at Adrien, she was comforted to see his hand shake as he lifted his own glass.
“This has been a very strange day or so,” he ventured finally.
“That we can agree on,” she answered. “I don’t think my heart has stopped pounding since I met Mr Fenton yesterday.”
Adrien nodded, coughed, and then the words seemed to pour from him.
“Please, Juliana. You must excuse me if I seem distracted. It is not that I am not happy. I am, very much so. It is just so sudden. I didn’t know until late last night that you had been found. Andrew didn’t want to tell me until he was certain. I drove up from Cornwall overnight.”
He gave her again that rather uneven smile, but this time it travelled to his eyes, and they warmed.
“I think he was worried that if he called me earlier I would have rushed up here and got in his way. From what he and Banks have said, they spent a day or so trailing you around London, then proving that they were not white slave traders.”
“Apparently they did,” she replied, amused. “I only met Mr Fenton myself late yesterday afternoon. He came to my place of work. I think he thought it would be more correct to approach me via my employer.”
“Andrew is nothing if not correct. I know he agonised over how to do everything the best way.”
They paused.
“Despite what he said, Juliana—I don’t want to hurry you. He is correct, I am anxious to take you back home as soon as you are ready. But I do understand that you have things to finish up here, first.”
She nodded.
“Thank you, A…Adrien. I do need a little time. There are people here who have been very good to me over the past couple of years.”
“Anyone you wish to invite will be welcome in our home,” he said. “And you can travel back here, too. I don’t want you to think you will never see them again, or be stranded far away.”
He sounded horrified at the thought, and she nodded, acknowledging his solicitude.
“That will make it easier. Really, I think drawing everything out would be a mistake. But I do have to say goodbye properly.”
She smiled a little.
“Mr Costelloe, my employer, seemed to think I would leave on the spot. I was rather put out about his haste, at first. But when I think about it, he is such an old-fashioned sort of person. And rather romantic. I think he believes that all will be well as soon as I get back to… where I’m supposed to be.”
Home was not yet a word she could apply to far-off Cornwall. Home at the moment was a small set of crowded rooms above an Italian grocer in Soho. Adrien did not appear to notice; at least he did not seem to mind. He twirled his glass slowly, shaking his head.
“I have to say that I find it a bit strange, that you have been working for a living all this time.”
“Strange?” She thought it an odd word to use.
“Well, you never had to, before,” he answered hastily. “Andrew tells me you have been working for a clothing house near Regent Street.”
He stammered over the last words, as if he realised that she might think him supercilious.
“Just along from Liberty. Very convenient, really. Short walk to and from home,” she said, then paused. “Does it surprise you?”
Adrien put down his glass firmly, and took her free hand in his. He held it gently, and looked straight at her. She could see that his eyes were oloroso dark, and however he felt about her working life, the expression in them was sincere. She felt a flush of warmth as he touched her.
“Nothing you have done has surprised me, Juliana. Not since the day you agreed to marry me and move to a strange country with a near stranger. I knew then that you would do anything you put your mind to. Just believe that I am happy you are found. And I hope that you will soon be ready to come and take your place again at home with me.”
***
Persuaded by her own common sense that hesitating over her departure would merely make the eventual parting harder to bear, she was ready to leave a week from the day she had gone to Seymour Banks’ office. One of Anna Maxwell’s assistants had been promoted, and given a thorough if breakneck introduction to her new role. Juliana’s own copious files and notebooks had been handed over, instructions on anything and everything noted down for
the future, and finally a tea party for everyone in the building was given.
“Just think, Bertaux cakes on a Wednesday!” murmured Anna to her friend.
Juliana laughed. Despite her forebodings about her move, she was beginning to think ahead. She had not been further afield than Kent in three years, and the thought of the journey was beginning to excite her. If she must leave London, and it was clear that she had no choice, then she would do it with courage. She knew what had to be done. She had to leave her work, her home, leave the city she had grown to love and go back to the man she had married and lived with and apparently forgotten. Zia Teresa had come to her one evening, sensing her dread. The two had talked long into the night, about love and duty and the always surprising nature of life itself. The Italian woman had been pragmatic, and her practical common sense had helped to ease Juliana’s fears.
“I shall come up to visit, Anna,” she replied. “And we shall go out for tea and eat as many cakes as we want.”
Their comfortable chatter was interrupted by Mr Costelloe himself, who stood by the fireplace in his office with his wife, beaming at all those around him. He made a short but heartfelt speech, and Juliana felt nothing but fondness for him. At the end of the afternoon Mrs Costelloe came by her office, bearing one of the house boxes.
“We wanted to give you something as a goodbye, my dear,” she said, popping it on the now empty desk and holding her hand out to Juliana.
“But I have so many lovely gifts,” she replied, embarrassed.
“This is from Mr Costelloe and myself. I don’t expect you have had much need for one of these for a while. It’s always useful to have a decent evening gown. Mrs Corner gave us your measurements.”
She pulled Juliana close and kissed her on her cheek.
“Good luck, my dear. Please do let us know how you get on,” she said, a little sadly, then rushed off.
Juliana opened the box, pulling the silken ribbon free and pushing through the tissue paper to find a velvet gown. She pulled it out and held it against her, noting how the dark silk gave her skin a creamy tone. Her eyes filled with tears. Not at the gown itself, although it was lovely. But the thought and the care behind each of the gifts that had been given to her made her heart ache. From the swansdown puff from the Counting House girls, to the gloves from Anna, and the enormous bag of mint humbugs from the messenger boys, she knew that she was going to miss this part of her life hugely.
Her final evening in Brewer Street was both merry and poignant. After finally agreeing that Adrien Creed was not a white slaver, and was genuinely Juliana’s husband, the Perdonis had invited him for dinner, to meet the family and to allow them to inspect him thoroughly before allowing Juliana to leave for Cornwall with him. They had eaten an enormous meal of all Juliana’s favourites and drunk a bottle of a thin red wine normally reserved for feast days, making speeches and singing songs. It had been a wonderful, ridiculous, riotous evening, and Adrien had been laughing as he said goodbye to Juliana outside the door, reminding her to be ready early the next morning.
Chapter 3
Adrien brought the Alvis to the door exactly when he said he would. The arrival of such a vehicle in Brewer Street, especially at half past seven in the morning, was a minor sensation. The local boys swarmed around its shining paintwork, stroking the smooth leather of the seats and beaming at the coins he distributed. While he stowed her cases, strapping them securely to the back of the car, Juliana was hugged roundly by the Perdoni family, and they set off to a maelstrom of endearments and good wishes in Italian and tears.
The rain came down fiercely just after they left the city, and Juliana was content to sit in silence, allowing Adrien to look to his driving. The roads were awash in places, and slick with a greasy topcoat everywhere else. With the rain seeming to follow them, it was dull with nothing much to look at, and Juliana fell asleep shortly after they left Yeovil, where they had lunched at a small hotel overlooking a lake.
She became aware through her sleep fog that Adrien was shaking her shoulder. She woke slowly, then stretched and yawned, aware by the position of the sun slipping down the western sky that she had slept for several hours. A fresh breeze rolled in the half-open window, but she was warm, thanks to a rug that had been tucked in around her. Adrien smiled at her.
“Feeling better?”
“I must have been exhausted.”
She paused, remembering her tossing and turning of the previous nights. She had roused often in the dark, and had woken early every morning, unable to go back to sleep while her mind whirled with new knowledge. Now, rested for the first time in a week, she rubbed her eyes, then bobbed upright and looked out of the window. The rain had ceased. Although the clouds were still low, the light shining through like a misty pearl, the countryside was starting to show its colours.
“I’m sorry to have woken you, but we are about to cross the Tamar. So we are almost in Cornwall. I thought you might like to see it.”
Privately Juliana could see nothing different between Devon and its neighbour, but the light in Adrien’s eyes told her that the distinction was important.
“It’s important? Crossing the river?” she asked.
He snorted. “Important? Dear me, little emmett, I shall have to teach you all over again,” he teased. “To a Cornishman, this is where home starts.”
She frowned at the unknown word.
“What did you call me?” she asked. “An emmett?”
“It means a stranger. We are a very particular bunch, the Cornish. If you’re not born here, then you’ll always be something of an outsider.”
She must have looked alarmed, because he smiled over at her, and patted her arm.
“Not to worry,” he said. “There are fewer and fewer of us all the time.”
“Hmm,” she replied, then gave another half-yawn and looked back out of the window. The journey had been long, and despite the stop for luncheon and then again to stretch their legs just past Exeter, she was getting tired of sitting in the car.
“What time shall we get there?” she asked.
Adrien checked his wristwatch.
“We should reach Trevennen in time for tea, I hope,” he said. “Not long now.”
“Trevennen? I thought we were going to Sancreed,” she said.
“Trevennen is the name of my… our house. It is about a mile outside of Sancreed itself. By road, anyway. There is a shorter walking path,” he replied without looking at her, intent on negotiating the narrow road, which since crossing the bridge had become distinctly muddier and more rutted. “The estate has been in my family for hundreds of years. I was born there. And it was our home, until the day you disappeared. It’s rather nice, even though I do say so myself.”
At this he risked a quick turn of his head and Juliana caught a glint in his eyes that told her just how much he loved it, despite the levity of his tone. Ahead of them a lorry stacked with hay started backing into the road, and he took a hand quickly off the steering wheel to sound the horn in warning. Before he grasped the wheel again, he placed his hand on top of her own. His skin was warm against her own cold fingers. The touch was quick and light, but she was aware of a tingle that ran along her forearm.
The car slowed as they approached a narrow stone bridge, and Adrien sounded the horn again twice before negotiating the high hump in the middle. It was well he did so; on the other side was a horse and dray, loaded high with the mauve and gold of a turnip harvest. The driver, an old man wearing a sack over his grizzled head and his shoulders, waved a briar pipe in thanks as the car passed, then returned to producing a stream of thick smoke as he steered the horse over the bridge in his turn.
“Tell me about the house, about Trevennen, please,” she asked, and lay back in the seat with her eyes closed. It occurred to her that he could be reading the dictionary to her and she would still want to listen to the words simply for the pleasure in hearing his voice, and the sudden lift that was audible when he smiled.
“There has b
een a house where Trevennen stands for over four centuries now,” he began. “The word means ‘homestead of white stones’ in Cornish, and each house that has stood has been painted white. There is a gap in the cliffs and for a short time the house is visible from the water. One of the early Creeds had it painted so that it would stand out more clearly to those at sea. It shines in the sun. At night a lamp was always hung in the sewing room in the west tower. That was before the lighthouse was built up at the Head.”
“Is the coast dangerous, then?” she asked.
In recent years her only contact with the sea had been day trips to Whitstable. They had eaten hot chips, redolent with lard and doused with vinegar, while sitting on the shingle, and paddled in the shallow water when the sun shone. The sea had been flat and cold, and the beaches safe and dull.
“Dangerous?” Adrien thought for a moment. “Yes, I suppose so. The coast all along here is treacherous for the unwary. The wind blows true up here, and as anyone will tell you, the sea has a mind of her own. We don’t have fields of flowers and soft breezes. For that we shall have to go south. I’ll take you there. We can take a picnic and sit in the sun and marvel at how calm it is.”
Juliana gave a smile that curled her mouth and dimpled both her cheeks below the thick dark fans of her eyelashes. She did not see the look that her husband gave her, intent and with an air of longing that he could not hide.
“That sounds lovely. It sounds interesting—romantic and wind-blown! Not much salt breeze in Brewer Street, I can tell you.”
Adrien turned his attention back to the road.
“I imagine not. But London does have its own attractions. I hope you won’t be too bored, tucked away down here after all your adventures.”
She opened an eye and squinted at him, the sun in her eyes. She heard the anxiety in his voice. It was something about which she had wondered herself. She was used to being busy. Between work, and helping out with the shop and with the housework, she had not had much spare time, but there had been trips to the cinema, walks in the park, helping the younger boys with their homework or their hobbies. Just the thought gave her a pang of homesickness. She shook herself, not willing to indulge so early, when in reality, she was returning home.
The Dead Woman Who Lived Page 3