by Angela Arney
Nicholas was startled. ‘If I were Peter?’ he repeated.
‘Yes.’ Oh dear, this was difficult, but once started Eleanora knew she had to go on. ‘I mean, about me sleeping with, with . . .’
‘Raul Levi?’
Eleanora nodded. ‘Yes. Except that he wasn’t just a man called Raul Levi, he was my own father. Would you . . . could you love someone who’d been guilty of incest?’ Eleanora’s voice sank to a whisper.
‘If I loved her, it wouldn’t make any difference.’
‘But I wonder what Peter thinks. He’s so distant.’
‘Do you love Peter?’ Nicholas asked slowly.
‘Oh, yes. I’ve never stopped. I tried to pretend to myself that I had, that was why I . . .’ her voice petered out.
‘Water under the bridge,’ Nicholas interrupted, ‘remember?’
‘Yes, I remember. But it’s not so easy.’
‘I told you that I didn’t think it would be,’ said Nicholas gently. ‘But you can’t let one mistake ruin the rest of your life. Learn from it. Learn not to be impulsive, learn to consider others. Let something good come from it, and get on with your life.’
‘I know what you say is right and sensible, but I’m not sure how to go on.’
‘You said a moment ago that you had never stopped loving Peter.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Then you must tell him. He’s not a mind-reader. He doesn’t know how you feel.’
‘But I can’t just go up to him and blurt it out.’
‘Why not? No point in pussy-footing around. You’ve wasted enough time as it is.’
‘You sound just like Gran does sometimes,’ said Eleanora, a wisp of a smile crossing her face.
Nicholas noticed the smile and was relieved. ‘I take that as the supreme compliment,’ he said.
Bullied by Nicholas, Eleanora remounted the bicycle and rode across the valley towards the Chapmans’ house. Peter saw her coming in through the iron gates into the drive. She swept through, pedalling quite fast, but as the house came nearer gradually her legs slowed down. She was pedalling more slowly now, seeming to hesitate. Afraid that she might change her mind, Peter flung open the huge Gothic front door, leaping down the four steps with one bound, racing down the drive to meet her, finishing standing square in front of her, blocking her path.
‘Peter, I’ve got to talk to you.’ They weren’t the words Eleanora had planned to say, but no matter. She had said something.
‘I know,’ he said. He was breathless even though he had only run a short way.
Eleanora dismounted and Peter took the bicycle, propping it carelessly against the withered wintry branches of the roses. He took her hand in his, and in silence they walked into the house, through the hall and into the library where a log fire burned brightly in the stone fireplace. The bicycle stayed where it had been so abruptly abandoned. It was there for a long time, perched drunkenly between a rose and a lavender bush.
It was all so much easier than either of them had ever dreamed or hoped that it could be. At first hesitant, then firmer as she remembered her father’s advice, Eleanora said, ‘Peter, I want you to know that I still love you. It’s something I have to tell you, although it doesn’t mean that I expect anything from you. I expect nothing, because I know I deserve nothing. Running off and jumping into bed with Raul Levi was stupid and wrong, and I’m ashamed of myself. I would still be ashamed, even if he hadn’t turned out to be my own father.’
Peter put his fingers up to her lips to stop the words, then drew her down so that they were kneeling on the rug before the open fire. ‘Didn’t I always tell you that your recklessness would lead you into trouble?’ he said, but Eleanora knew from his gentle smile that what had seemed so dreadful only seconds ago was suddenly quite unimportant. ‘But nothing you have done or might do,’ said Peter softly, ‘will ever stop my loving you.’
‘You still love me?’
‘Always, my darling, always.’
Peter leaned back against the old leather chesterfield and pulled Eleanora into his arms. With a sigh of relief she fitted her head into the hollow of his shoulder. ‘I feel as though I’ve come home at last,’ she whispered, afraid to speak too loudly in case she broke the spell.
‘And so you have, almost.’
‘Almost?’ Eleanora twisted so that she could look up at him.
‘Yes, really home will be after we’re married.’
‘Yes, I suppose it will.’ She was dying to ask him when he thought that might happen, but kept her peace. Peter would lead and she would follow. Slowly Eleanora reached up and touched his face in a feather-light caress. ‘I’ll marry you, Peter, whenever you say and wherever you say. I leave it to you, and afterwards I will follow you to the ends of the earth if necessary.’
They kissed, a long, slow, gentle kiss, full of passion, and yet at the same time strangely chaste. So much had happened since their last kiss. They had both changed. Now, reaching out to each other, it was with a new maturity. Eleanora was aware of a humility and tenderness she had never possessed before. She savoured the rediscovery of their love, praying that they would succeed in keeping it sweet and pure.
‘It won’t be necessary to go to the ends of the earth,’ whispered Peter at last, into a warm corner of her mouth. ‘Only to London for a while, and then later we’ll move back to Broadacres. I’ll ask your father if we can have a wing of the house.’
The thought was idyllic. By the time they had finished talking, it was much too dark and late for Eleanora to ride back to Broadacres on her bicycle, so Peter took her and the bike in the estate car. Contented, they drove slowly across the winding river valley towards the big, honey-coloured house that would soon be their home. Neither had hidden anything in their hours of talking. Peter made Eleanora see that she had nothing to be afraid of by telling the truth so she had poured out her heart, all her doubts, her fears and the subsequent growing shame of the life she and Raul had led. She found that the truth, once out in the open, could be dealt with. And how easy it proved to be with someone like Peter to help her. She understood, too, when Peter said he did not want to make love until they were married. It seemed right. Between them they had wiped the slate clean. Now they could look forward to their wedding day. And it would be a very special day.
‘Something we will both remember for as long as we live,’ said Peter. ‘The day we make a commitment to each other before God.’
Eleanora smiled, her new-found sensitivity enabling her to accept how important Peter’s religion was to him. The old resentment had gone. Although she still did not completely understand, she knew it important because it was an integral part of Peter’s being and could not be separated. And now she knew she did not even want it to be. It made him what he was, the good, gentle, but emotionally strong man she loved.
As the estate car turned in under the triumphal stone arch of Broadacres, Eleanora glanced up at Peter’s profile. Already the memory of the time spent with Raul had faded. Now it was less of a nightmare, more like a bad dream. How could I have ever for a single moment doubted my love for Peter, she wondered. How could I have been so stupid?
They found Nicholas and Lady Margaret comfortably settled by the fire in the Grey Room.
‘Have a whisky.’ Nicholas jumped up the moment they entered the room and moved across to the tantalus on the sideboard.
Eleanora sensed he was nervous. ‘It’s all right, Daddy,’ she whispered. Her eyes shining.
Wheeling round, an unstoppered decanter in his hand, he said. ‘You mean . . .?’
‘Yes, Eleanora has agreed to marry me,’ said Peter. ‘In a Catholic church, sir. I hope you won’t object.’
‘Why should I? I was married in a Catholic church myself. May the first nineteen forty-four, in a tiny little church in Naples.’
Margaret banged her stick on the floor. ‘As long as you have a blessing here in Longford Parish Church, so that I can come and have a new hat, you can get married in the same bl
essed church in Naples for all I care. But don’t waste any more time. I’d like some great-grandchildren before I move on to the next life.’
‘Oh, Gran,’ said Eleanora laughing. ‘Give us time!’
‘A toast,’ said Nicholas, pouring enormous measures of whisky. ‘To Eleanora and Peter.’
‘To Eleanora and Peter,’ echoed Margaret.
A long silence followed. The happy mood suddenly blighted as they all thought of Liana. ‘Oh, how I wish Mummy were here,’ said Eleanora.
*
Lady Margaret longed to throw away her sticks. The porter at Waterloo was very kind. He had seen her at once as she struggled off the train, sticks getting mixed up with the handles of her luggage, and had taken her cases and put them on a trolly.
‘I’ll take them over to the taxi rank for you, luv,’ he said. He knew it had to be the taxi rank. The old girl would never manage the escalator and tube.
But he was walking much too fast. The taxis at the far end of the Waterloo concourse seemed miles away to Margaret’s painful feet and legs. I wish someone had warned me old age would be so damned painful, she thought resentfully, and began to wish she had not come up to London. Probably a waste of time anyway, common sense told her. There was no guarantee that Liana would turn up.
The porter loaded the cases into the taxi and accepted the tip Lady Margaret pressed into his hand. Five pounds! The old girl was generous. ‘Thank you,’ he said, tipping his cap.
‘The Waldorf, please.’ The taxi sped forward. Margaret leaned back and looked out of the window. She had forgotten how lovely London looked on an April day in the sunshine. Now that the weight was off her feet she felt excited, sure that her course of action was right. Somebody had to do something.
The lilac was in full bloom in the Embankment Gardens, pushed on to flower ahead of country lilac by the heat of the city. The heavy flower heads on the bushes drooped in a gorgeous disarray of pale and deep purple, throwing the serried ranks of scarlet tulips in the flower beds before them into greater contrast. Margaret smiled. The tulips looked like miniature guardsmen, bright scarlet and black, all standing upright and still in perfectly straight rows. They had a few beds like that at Broadacres – people expected some formal flower displays – but on the whole, under Liana’s guidance, they had gradually reverted to the old-fashioned flowers, planted in clumps not rows. Liana, Liana, she sighed. Always her thoughts returned to Liana. Would she come?
*
‘I’ve already ordered tea, my dear. Salmon and cucumber sandwiches and fruit cake. I hope that is all right.’ The pianist tinkled away on the grand piano, a medley of half-recognizable, instantly forgettable tunes.
Liana sat down opposite Lady Margaret. ‘You were very sure that I would come.’
‘Not sure at all,’ Margaret admitted, ‘but hopeful.’
‘You got at me in a very sneaky way, putting an open letter in the middle of papers I had to read.’ Liana smiled hesitantly. ‘I thought I was the one with the devious mind! How did you persuade Jason Penrose to do it? I’d left very strict instructions that I was not to be contacted by anyone.’
The tea arrived and Margaret poured them both a cup. ‘I decided that at my age it was about time I did a little bullying. So I bullied him, and he succumbed.’ She reached into the depths of her voluminous handbag and pulled out a sealed letter. ‘This is for you.’
Liana looked at it. Half of her hoped it would be Nicholas’s writing on the envelope – she was regretting sending back his letters unopened – but it was not. She recognized Lady Margaret’s hand. ‘Why this?’ she asked, waving the envelope, ‘Now that we are together we can talk. I don’t need letters.’
‘Do you read The Times?’ Margaret ignored the reference to the envelope.
‘Only the Financial Section.’
Margaret nodded. ‘I thought as much.’ So she was right. Liana had not seen the announcement of Eleanora’s engagement to Peter. She waited a moment, then asked abruptly, ‘Are you happy?’
There was a long silence. The tinkling piano intruded into the thoughts of the two women. Margaret’s spirits plunged. She suddenly felt terribly depressed. Perhaps she was being a silly old woman and had got it all wrong. Maybe Liana was happier to be left alone. Perhaps she had even met another man. But no, she dismissed that thought as foolish. Liana loved Nicholas, she was sure of it, and she certainly loved her daughter. She must miss them both.
‘Happy,’ said Liana at last, her voice soft and reflective. ‘I’m not sure I know what happiness is. Or even if I ever did. One thing is certain, I’ve gone so far from that emotion that I’m not sure I could remember how to be happy.’ She looked at Margaret, who saw that her dark eyes were as beautiful as ever, but not impenetrable as before, not as remote. Now they were sad. ‘But I am at peace,’ Liana said at last.
‘You make it sound as if you were dead,’ remarked Margaret wryly, briskly passing over a plate of sandwiches.
The tiny brown triangles of bread reminded Liana with vivid, startling clarity, of the first tea she had eaten with Margaret at Broadacres when the sandwiches had been made with Mrs Catermole’s stale bread. A vision of the house, with the two cedars standing sentinel flashed before her. Then one after another came other visions, all kept at bay for so long, now released by meeting Margaret. Nicholas and Eleanora on their horses; the mêlée of the meet with hounds and horses everywhere; the gardens; the river; the home farm. Her eyelids pricked with unshed tears. She missed everything about Broadacres and she longed to see Nicholas and Eleanora, to know what they were doing. But she had promised herself she would not ask, and she did not.
‘In a way, I suppose I am dead,’ she answered sombrely.
‘You don’t have to be. Nicholas loves you. He misses you very much. If you had read his letters you would know that.’
‘I wish I could believe you, Margaret. But I cannot; and I don’t want his pity, I couldn’t bear that. And it must be pity, not love, because he has no reason to love me. Indeed, he has every reason not to.’
‘When did reason ever enter into loving?’ asked Margaret crossly. ‘Donald warned me that you would be awkward.’
‘How are Donald and Dorothy?’ In spite of her resolve not to ask anything, the words popped out of their own accord.
‘Getting older like me,’ said Margaret, ‘and not willing to sit around any longer watching you young people mess up your lives. As Donald keeps reminding me, we don’t know how much longer we shall be here. “Our tenancy on this life is nearly up. The Landlord will be calling in the lease any day.” That is what he says.’
Liana looked distressed: a world without Margaret, Dorothy and Donald was unthinkable. ‘Tell him from me not to be so morbid,’ she said.
‘It would be better coming from your own lips.’ Margaret stopped, the stubborn look she knew of old was on Liana’s face. ‘Determined to suffer, aren’t you? Determined to take all the blame. Not willing to be a little generous and ease the lives of others by allowing them some guilt.’
‘Oh, Margaret, now you are being ridiculous. How can I possibly ease the lives of others by allowing them guilt?’
Margaret did not answer the question. Instead she pointed to the envelope, now lying on the table. ‘Put that in your handbag,’ she said. ‘There is a date written in the top left-hand corner of the envelope and a time. That is when you must open it.’
‘Why the mystery?’ Liana was surprised. When she had met Margaret at the Waldorf, the last thing she had expected was a cloak and dagger operation.
‘Now,’ said Margaret fishing in her handbag again and eventually retrieving another envelope which she passed to Liana. ‘You must open this tomorrow. When you have read it, you can either use what is inside or tear it up. For all our sakes, I pray that you will use it.’
‘You make it sound almost ominous,’ Liana said slowly, turning the envelope over and over in her hands.
Margaret smiled suddenly. ‘The last time I saw you, we heard w
hat you called the final chapter of your story. But you missed something, the last paragraph.’ She tapped the envelope. ‘This is the last paragraph of the final chapter,’ she said, ‘and you should be part of it.’ She reached across the low table, and grasped Liana’s slender hand in her own wrinkled, mis-shapened one. ‘I love you’, she said, ‘like a daughter. Remember that.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Now she was here it drew her like a magnet, the craggy building standing atop the hillside. Everything looked just the same, and yet at the same time strangely different. What was it? Then Liana realized. Coming back after twenty-four years she was viewing the scene with adult eyes. When she had left, she had been little more than a child, so her parting view was that of the child who had grown up here, as were her memories. In those far-off days, it had always seemed to Liana that the castello was at the peak of a mountain; now she had a better perspective. In comparison to the towering mountains in the background, the castello was on a hill, a very large hill, but a hill none the less.
She paused halfway up to take a breath; it was a very steep hill, the sun of the first morning in May burned her bare arms. Being away for so many years, she had forgotten how hot the southern Italian sun could be at this time of year. England in May was usually blessed with a gentle, damp warmth. Here it was hot and dry. When she stopped, the familiar aromas and sounds of her childhood permeated her senses: wild thyme and rosemary; the hum of a thousand insects on the hillside and the harsh sawing sound of the cicadas hidden away in the branches of the silver-grey olive trees, and umbrella pines. What had once been a track up the hillside to the village of San Angelo was now a road surfaced with tarmacadam. Hardly surprising, considering the last time Liana had walked this way was twenty-four years ago. But on reaching the fork, she was surprised. The track leading up to the castello, which she had fully expected to find overgrown and neglected, was also surfaced with newly laid tarmacadam. It was not often used, that much was evident from the weeds which were beginning to grow at the edges, but nevertheless she could see the dusty marks of tyres on the road. Someone had come this way recently.