A Desperate Fortune (36 page)

Mary had tried to absorb this. “But Hugh…that is, Mr. MacPherson says he’s not a broken man.”

“Then he is not. And it’s Hugh is it, now?” Effie’s eyes had been knowing. “What else has your Mr. MacPherson been telling ye, there in your cabin at night?”

“That I talk too much.” Mary had smiled and refused to be shamed. “He has made no improper advances, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It is, and I’m glad of it. But I’ll be gladder still,” Effie had told her, “to finally be back on dry land.”

She had found her wish granted three days after that, when at last having caught a fair wind, the
Princesa
Maria
came safely to Civitavecchia.

Captain del Rio insisted on coming ashore with them. “I know the coachmen here who can be trusted to bring you to Rome. Also those who are not worth your trust, and in harbors like this there are many of those. You will have to be careful,” he said, “for I hear that the man at the root of this scandal in London, a man named John Thomson, is even now heading to Rome with a borrowed name.”

Mary could see, as before, the intelligence lighting the depths of his playful dark eyes.

“There will be many people, both here and at Rome, who are watching for this man,” del Rio remarked. “The reward is a large one, a great deal of money, for one who can capture him. Here, I have this from Marseilles.” Reaching into his pocket, he took out a cutting of newspaper, tidily folded. “It is his description, in case you might see him yourself.” The quick flash of his grin let them know beyond doubt he had known Thomson’s name all along. Maybe theirs too, thought Mary.

But when he bent gallantly over her hand, having found them a suitable coach that would carry them down from the harbor to Rome, he still said, “Mrs. Symonds. It has been a very great pleasure to know you. If ever you’re captured by corsairs, it would be my honor to rescue you.”

“Thank you.” Mary had carried her fur-lined cloak over her arm, while Hugh carried the dog and the bulk of their other things, but now she folded the softness and passed it to Captain del Rio. “For Emiliana,” she told him. She no longer needed it. No longer needed to borrow the plumage of some other bird when she’d learned how to fly on her own. “It’s a present, for taking such kind care of Effie. Please tell her I’m grateful.”

Kissing her hand with a warmth that would have done great credit to one of Madame d’Aulnoy’s heroes, del Rio straightened to face Hugh. “I’m thinking, Mr. Symonds, you must buy your wife the finest wedding ring in all of Rome, for how you won the love of such a woman I will never know. How did he do it?” he asked Mary.

Mary thought a moment, then she raised her chin and told the truth. “He watched me from afar when he believed I could not see him. He followed me when he believed that I was not aware of it. One day my gloves were stolen in the street, and he returned them to me. And,” she told the captain, simply, “that was our beginning.”

Feeling she could do no better for an ending to this chapter of their voyage, Mary turned towards the coach. Hugh stood beside its open door, his hand outstretched to help her. And he waited. For the first time, Mary laid her hand on top of his, and felt his hand turn so her fingers were enclosed within his own, a masculine protective touch that left her feeling cared for. Safe.

And Mary needed all of that to give her strength this morning. For by day’s end she would be in Rome, preparing for a meeting with her father. And the king.

I didn’t like interviews. Didn’t do well at them.

Luc had assured me, “It’s only my brother.”

Which hadn’t been helpful. The fact that the man I’d be meeting at lunch
was
Luc’s brother made it imperative I do my best to impress him, since he wouldn’t only be judging me as a prospective employee but as someone worthy of Luc. When I’d tried to explain this last night, Luc had hugged me. “He’ll like you, don’t worry. Just be yourself.”

“I don’t have the right clothes for an interview.”

“Fabien’s very informal, he’ll be wearing jeans. So should you, if we’re taking the bike. He’ll care more about what’s in your head than what outfit you’re wearing.”

That still hadn’t stopped me getting up early this morning and trying on all of the clothes in my wardrobe before I had settled on one combination I liked, and then taking a full sixteen minutes to tie and retie the blue scarf Luc had bought me in Paris, until its folds lay in a perfect arrangement. The clock on the chest of drawers had been my lifeline, and when I had later gone downstairs to wait, I’d relied on the stately and competent pendulum swings of the old longcase clock in the dining room, and at 10:50 precisely I’d stepped out to wait on the terrace, deferring in turn to the time display that I refreshed on my mobile with rhythmic, predictable clicks.

I could see the top part of Luc’s house from here, over the wall at the back of the garden. I’d hear the Ducati start; hear when he rode up the lane and around to come fetch me.

He’d said he would fetch me. He’d said, “If we leave at eleven, we’ll get there in plenty of time.”

I had managed to stay fairly calm till the moment the time on my mobile read: 10:58.

Because if he were going to start the Ducati and ride it around to collect me, two minutes was really the minimum time he would need.

I refreshed the display again: 10:59.

I had started to pace. He was coming, I told myself. Ordinary people weren’t hung up on time in the same way I was. I should try to stay calm.

I should go
there
. It was now exactly 11:00, and Luc’s house was so close I could cross the garden and go through the door in the wall and be there at his door in the time it would take me to text him or call him. Yes, that’s what I’d do. I had already paced to the end of the terrace, so walking the final short distance across the back garden and through the door into the lane seemed a logical step.

The Ducati was parked in its place at the side of Luc’s house so I knew he’d be home when I knocked at the door, and before I could start with my pacing again he had answered it.

He had his hand to his ear and it took me a second to realize that he was midway through a phone call. “Hang on a minute, Geoff,” he told the caller, and muted the mobile to kiss me hello.

“It’s 11:02,” I said. “We need to go.”

“Yes, I know. Sorry. My boss,” he explained, as he held up the mobile. “Come have a seat. We’re just finishing up now, it won’t take a minute.” He turned as he said that and crossed to the dining room table to study the screen of the laptop computer on top of it while he unmuted his phone and continued, “Thanks. Now, read me the numbers he gave you?”

He didn’t understand, I thought. Unless we left
now
, we’d be late. It wouldn’t matter what his brother thought of me, of how my mind worked—no one hired a person who turned up late to an interview.

I tried to breathe more normally, feeling in my pocket for my pen and my Sudoku puzzles, only to discover I’d forgotten them.

The last time I’d worried this much about being late, when I’d first come to Claudine’s and my cousin had taken her time getting ready for breakfast, at least I’d been able to take matters into my own hands and go down alone, but that wasn’t an option here. I wasn’t in control of how I got into Paris. I had to rely on Luc.

“We need to go.”

I wasn’t sure if I’d said those words audibly, my mouth had gone so dry, and Luc seemed not to have heard me.

The hall was too narrow. I took a step into the sitting room but that was worse. There was music here playing from some source I couldn’t see, not loud but vaguely discordant, like jazz. And the trees outside made moving shadows across the wall next to the window, so that to my eyes the light seemed to be flickering. Squeezing my eyes shut, I fought back the impulse to cover my ears.

No
, I told myself silently.
No, no, no, no…

I couldn’t have a meltdown. Not in front of Luc. Not here.

I rarely had them anymore. I’d learned to recognize the warning signs and knew the ways to calm myself before things overwhelmed me, but already I was losing my ability to concentrate. I knew Luc was still talking on his mobile but I couldn’t hear the words. The sounds around me blended into one confusing jumble, and I started trembling as the feeling of compression settled over me, as though the air around me had grown thick and heavy, closing in. In panic I clenched and unclenched my hands, making tight fists and releasing them, trying to keep control.

Forcing my eyes open, I braved the stabbing bright pain of the light as I focused on Luc and said urgently, “We need to
go
.”

He turned then and looked at me. Quickly he spoke again into his mobile and ended the call but he didn’t approach me. He stood there, his figure distorting and wavering like a mirage. He was saying my name: “Sara? Sara, I’m sorry. It’s OK. I’m here. It’s OK.”

But it wasn’t OK, and I knew it. I said so. “It’s not OK.” And like a wheel spinning round in a rut I repeated it over and over: “It’s not OK. Not OK. Not OK. Not OK…”

And then sensation and pain flooded up and took over and I was in meltdown.

I felt the hot tears overflowing and knew I was yelling at Luc but I wasn’t aware anymore of the things I was saying, although I could hear the accusing tone of my own voice. I heard him asking me quietly whether I wanted him to leave the room, and I told him I didn’t, I screamed it, and then I was curled on the sofa, my arms locked around my bent knees while I rocked myself, sobbing and sobbing, unable to stop…

Until slowly, like floodwaters draining by steady degrees, it began to subside.

I felt shaky. My head ached. My eyelids felt swollen and my throat felt raw.

I had folded myself into the furthest corner of Luc’s leather sofa. The light in the room now was blissfully dim, and he’d taken the armchair across from me, where he sat quietly waiting. His voice when he spoke was incredibly calm. “Sara? What do you need? Can I get you a blanket?”

I nodded and he rose and left the room, returning with a blanket of the perfect heaviness so when he draped it round my shoulders it was like a reassuring hug. And then I wanted one of those, as well. I asked him, “Can you hold me?”

“Sure.” He sat and I curled myself into his arms and the feel of them round me was perfect as well—just the right weight and pressure.

We stayed there like that without moving. Without saying anything. Slowly the floodwaters lowered still more and were followed behind by a dark seeping current of shame.

It went deeper than simple embarrassment. I couldn’t even imagine what Luc must be thinking; how much his opinion of me must have lowered.

I said, “I’m so sorry.” My voice hurt.

“You don’t need to be sorry.”

“Your brother…” I had no idea how much time had passed, but I knew I had ruined our plans for the lunch with his brother in Paris. My chance of a job.

“There’s no problem. I texted him. He understands.”

He was trying to make me feel better. I shook my head. Ordinary people, I knew, wouldn’t understand something like this. “No, he doesn’t. How could he? How—?” I was about to say, “How could you?” when I stopped talking because for the first time I’d noticed what lay on the table in front of the sofa: a booklet of Sudoku puzzles, with a pencil laid on top of it. It wasn’t
my
puzzle book, but one that looked a lot like it, and it was set out so tidily within my reach that it couldn’t have been a coincidence. Taking a moment and trying to think, I looked once more around the room, noticing all of the things Luc had done.

He had turned off the music. He’d closed the curtains to dim the light. He had stayed close but not too close. Kept calm. Moved quietly. Brought me a blanket.

I shifted my head on his shoulder to look at him. Study him.

Luc went on holding me. “Fabien understands meltdowns because he still gets them himself, sometimes. Not very often. He usually shuts down instead. But his meltdowns were very…spectacular, when we were young.”

What seemed strangest to me wasn’t what he was saying but how he was saying it, in the same tone people used when they talked about commonplace things like the weather.

I asked, to be perfectly certain, “Your brother has Asperger’s?”

“Yes.”

His brother who was, like me, a computer programmer. A skilled one, apparently, to have been put at the helm of developing Morland Electronics’s tactical and sonar systems. “And when did you…how did you…?”

“When we had breakfast,” he said. “That first morning, when you told me all you had learned about Jacobites.”

I felt my face flushing as I recalled how I’d monologued, talking and talking till Jacqui had signaled me. “You must have thought I was crazy.”

He turned his head then and looked down at me with those incredible eyes that could hold my world steady. “I thought you were beautiful.”

Just for that moment, while I looked at him and he looked back at me and those words hung suspended between us, I felt in my heart it might truly be possible, what we were trying to do. But the tear that I felt slowly trailing its way down my heated cheek hadn’t been caused by my meltdown. I brushed it away.

“I can’t do this,” I said. “Not to you. Not to Noah. I ruin things, Luc. I’m not capable—”

“Who told you that?” he asked quietly, as he had asked me that day in the old ruined troglodyte house, when I’d tried to convince him the first time that I couldn’t do real relationships. “Was it your cousin?”

“No.” Jacqui had always looked after me, guarded me, watched out for “friends” who were taking advantage of my lack of social awareness, my need to be liked, for their own ends—to help with their homework or do little chores for them. “Real friends,” she’d told me once when she had rescued me from a posh restaurant where four girls had taken me out for a birthday lunch and left me stuck with the bill, “don’t just take from you all the time. Real friends look after you.” She’d been especially watchful of boys, though there hadn’t been many. My few teenage boyfriends had not hung on more than a couple of months before backing away in what quickly became a predictable pattern: they’d promise to call me and then never would, and I’d wait while my hopefulness slid into heartbreak.

“Why do they always leave me?” I’d asked Jacqui through my tears one night. “What’s wrong with me?” And she of course had reassured me there was nothing wrong with me at all, but even though I hadn’t yet been diagnosed with Asperger’s I’d felt my difference painfully.

When I’d started university, my cousin had been going through the first of her divorces. It had been a messy battle that had claimed much of her energy. I’d felt alone, and lonely. And in one of my computer science classes, I’d met Gary.

He’d been captain of the rugby team, a golden boy in every way, blond haired and so incredibly good-looking that the first time he had spoken to me I’d assumed he’d done it by mistake. But he had asked me out and taken me to dinner and he’d danced with me and kissed me and by half term I’d been totally in love. So when he had assured me that a programming assignment we’d been given was supposed to be collaborative, I’d believed him. I had reasoned I must simply have misunderstood the lecturer’s instructions, wrongly thinking we were meant to work on that assignment independently. Instead I’d worked with Gary and another classmate, Erica.

She’d been a friend as well. We’d worked together as a team before, and Erica had commented on how well Gary treated me, and I’d said I was honestly amazed that he had chosen me at all, and even more amazed he hadn’t left me yet, as all the others had. We’d talked of past relationships, and Erica had told me that I ought to have more confidence. “He really likes you,” she had said of Gary. I’d believed her, too. And being—as I often was—the first to solve the problem of the program we were working on, I’d freely shared my code, only to find myself called up before the head of the department, charged with cheating.

As I told this now to Luc, he settled back into the cushions of the sofa, with his arms still round me firmly and protectively. “They stole your code and passed it off as theirs.”

My nod was slight. “We weren’t supposed to work in teams. They lied.”

They’d changed the code in tiny ways to distance it from mine, but code could be as individual as handwriting to some discerning eyes. And then of course I’d told the truth, because I could do nothing else.

I had been very fortunate. I’d been believed. My marks had been reduced as a small penalty for not taking enough care to be sure of the assignment’s true requirements, but I had been cleared of cheating. Unlike Erica and Gary, who had been kicked off the course.

“Stupid bitch,” was what Gary had called me before he’d left. I hadn’t seen him again after that. Erica had been more vocal, coming round to tell me in great detail what she thought of me. She’d weaponized the private things I’d told her, flinging all my insecurities back at me with a force that made them sting. “You know why all your boyfriends leave? Why no one ever stays with you? Because you’re weird,” she’d told me. “You’re not normal. You’re not capable of having real relationships because you’ll always end up letting people down, the way you’ve let down me and Gary.”

Saying those words over now to Luc still stung a little, even now. “But she was right,” I said.

“No, she wasn’t. They’re the ones who took advantage of your trust. They let
you
down.”

“But—”

“There’s no ‘but.’ She lied to you about the course assignment, right?”