A Safe Harbour (57 page)
Authors: Benita Brown
Tags: #Technology & Engineering, #Sagas, #Fisheries & Aquaculture, #Fiction
But Alice couldn’t help speculating. Was Richard Adamson man enough to bring up another man’s child – let alone overlook the trouble Kate’s brother had caused him? And even if the answer to both those questions was yes, what of Kate herself ? The lass was proud and mostly that was a good thing. But in this case, Alice suspected that Kate’s pride was only going to serve to make two people unhappy. Herself and Richard Adamson.
Richard let himself into the cottage and went straight to the upstairs room that Howard had called his studio. The only two portraits left there were his own and Kate’s. He would take them home but first he must bring himself to look at them. They were propped up against the whitewashed wall, side by side. Had Howard arranged them deliberately so that the figures seemed to be facing away from each other?
Wanting to delay the pain he knew he would suffer, he glanced at his own portrait first. He saw, not the man who looked back at him from his shaving mirror every morning, but a dark authoritarian figure who was saved from total austerity by a hint of controlled vitality and, furthermore, a rugged look that was barely tamed by the fine gentleman’s clothes. It seemed his cousin had seen him as a man of action rather than an office-bound businessman.
Then, reluctantly, he let his gaze fall on the other portrait. Kate. The pain that seared through his body left him weak and close to tears. The woman standing on the cliff top, with the wind lifting her lustrous hair as she gazed out across the sea, was beautiful, of that there was no doubt. But Howard had perceived in her more than mere beauty. He had infused the slender lines of her body with an inner strength, a valiant fearlessness that defied fate to do its worst.
Such a woman was a prize worth fighting for; worth dying for. And Richard had hoped and believed that he could make her his own. But now it seemed he had lost her, and he knew that he would live for ever with the torment of what might have been.
The old woman’s eyes moved restlessly behind closed lids. Was she dreaming? Betsy guessed that she was. But what did old Sarah dream about? Things that had already happened or things she wished would happen, like the dreams Betsy had?
Her favourite dream had come to her more than once. She was living in a cottage with Kate. But it was not a cottage by the sea. It was in the country, Betsy thought, although she had never been to the country. But in the dream there was green grass and flowers and trees with blossom. And she was sitting with Kate under one of the trees and they were drinking milk and eating raisin cake. Betsy wondered if dreams could come true.
Sometimes the old woman smiled in her sleep but sometimes she looked so sad that Betsy wondered if she should wake her up. But Kate’s mother had told her not to do that. She said it might frighten her.
Today they were alone in the cottage, Betsy and old Sarah, and there were tears streaming down the old woman’s face. All Betsy could do was kneel by the bed and hold her hand.
Chapter Twenty-six
Paris, April 1896
Richard sat with his coffee and a cigar at a table in the courtyard of a café in Montmartre and tried to pretend that he was simply on holiday. That was difficult, not only because the task that had brought him here was distasteful, but because he had never been on holiday and was not sure what people on holiday did. He had bought a guide book. The English was quaint but readable.
The book had directed him to some public parks and he had seen straight away how different the Parisian parks were from the municipal parks in England. Here there were no swaths of green, no winding pathways, exuberant flower beds, or romantic groupings of trees. In fact these parks did not look green at all. The Parisian parks were laid out in a formal manner with gravel pathways and obedient avenues of chestnut trees.
The parks in Paris seemed to be for smart public display rather than somewhere where working people could relax and enjoy a breath of fresh air. However, they were decorated with monumental statues and fountains and there were plenty of benches for visitors to sit quietly and view the passing scene.
Richard had allowed himself to sit now and then and be warmed by the spring sunshine. He had deliberately put the purpose of his visit out of his mind, but could not so easily suppress the deep longing to have someone sitting here beside him – someone who had put herself out of his reach. Who had vanished from the face of the earth, it seemed. When he saw the young couples walking by sedately with their pretty children he thought he would give anything – his entire fleet of trawlers – just to be part of one of those family groups. His own family . . .
Quite alone, he had visited Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe. His mother would want to know his impressions. And now here he was in Montmartre. Once a village, it was situated on a hill soaring high above the city; a place that took its name from the slaughter of early Christian martyrs, but was now the favoured district of artists from the world over – including his cousin Howard.
The waiter appeared with a smile and asked m’sieur if he would like more coffee. Luckily the man spoke English. Richard had no wish to make a fool of himself by exercising the French he had learned at school and not spoken since.
‘Yes, please,’ he said. ‘And I’ll have a glass of cognac, if you please.’
His mother would be shocked if she knew he was drinking alcohol at such an early hour, but somehow, away from home and duties, normal time and routines seemed to have lessened their grip on his life. And, besides, he wanted to fortify himself for the confrontation to come.
He sipped his cognac and sat back, closing his eyes as the light streamed in over the grey slate rooftops to dance on the pavements of the little square. He could hear low voices and muffled laughter from the open windows of the buildings all round him. He already knew which were the windows of Howard’s apartment. He had come here the day before and actually seen his cousin looking down and along the street as if he was anxious for someone to arrive. Howard had not seen Richard sitting at the café table. Why should he think to look there? And Richard had baulked at the last moment. One more day, he promised himself. I can live in peace for just one more day.
With his eyes closed his sense of smell seemed to become more acute. There was a bakery nearby, he was sure of it. Someone else was smoking a cigar – a cheap one – and, of course, there was the coffee. And the perfumes. They wear more perfume here, he realized. Both the men and the women. And, as that thought flitted through his mind, his nostrils were assailed by a delicate refreshing scent that he thought he recognized. But it was gone too quickly for his memory to recall the name.
He opened his eyes just in time to see two women cross the road towards the building where Howard lived. They wore dresses of some soft, cream material that flounced and swayed as they walked. But, just like yesterday, he couldn’t see their faces. They both carried parasols low enough to obscure their heads. And again, just like yesterday, they entered the big old door of the building that contained Howard’s apartment.
One of them would come out again soon. The smaller of the two. And now she would make no attempt at concealment. He was right. No more than five minutes later a plump, fresh-faced young woman emerged and sauntered off in the sunshine. And, as she did so, a woman’s laughter echoed down from an open window of his cousin’s apartment.
This was why he had come to France. His aunt had written to his mother saying that Howard had extended his stay in Paris and had given no good reason. Something about his letters had made his mother suspect there was a woman involved. Richard had thought this nonsensical and had told his mother so. But Grace Adamson had assured him that a mother senses these things and that she, for example, knew very well that he, Richard, was pining for someone, no matter how much he tried to conceal it.
Not wishing to have his own emotions discussed Richard had agreed, reluctantly, to go to Paris and seek Howard out. ‘Just to put my sister’s mind at rest,’ his mother had said.
But what about his own peace of mind? He could not remember the precise moment when the idea that the woman might be Kate had come to torment him. But, ever since, he had not been able to rid himself of the notion that Howard had somehow persuaded Kate to join him in Paris and that she was the woman who was with him now in his apartment. Today he would find out if this were true.
The lobby was cool. The marble floor was clean, perhaps freshly mopped by the old woman he had seen emerge now and then to shoo away the pigeons. The staircase must have been grand at one time. Richard realized that this house had once been home to one wealthy family, but that must have been long ago for now there was a distinct impression of many lives lived here, different voices seeping through the doors, different cooking smells of dishes prepared for different tables. All this was a distraction until he reached the top floor and the moment when he must face his cousin.
He could hear two voices: a man’s and a woman’s. He could not hear what they were saying, but the moment he knocked on the door the conversation stopped. He heard the sound of suppressed laughter, and after a moment or two Howard opened the door. His shock was comical.
‘Richard! What on earth are you doing here?’
‘May I come in?’
‘Of course.’
Reluctantly, it seemed, his cousin backed away and allowed him to enter. While Howard closed the door Richard looked round and saw a large sun-filled room that served as sitting room, dining room and artist’s studio. There was a table near the window where croissants and coffee were waiting – for two. A parasol rested against a chair, and draped over a chaise longue was a cream-coloured lace shawl. However, there was no sign of the owner of these things. Richard’s eyes were drawn to a door that stood ajar. The bedroom? He frowned. There was that scent again . . . delicate and fresh . . .
‘Well, then,’ his cousin said. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Have I interrupted something?’
Howard’s eyebrows rose. ‘Yes, you have as a matter of fact.’ His grin was like that of a guilty schoolboy.
‘I’m here because your mother is worried about you. She wrote to my mother who ordered me to come to find out what was going on.’
‘Going on?’
‘Your mother feels that you are reluctant to come home.’
‘She’s right. I am. I’m enjoying myself here. My painting has taken on a different dimension. Let me show you . . .’ He started walking towards an easel but Richard stopped him.
‘It’s not the painting, Howard, is it? Your mother believes that there may be a woman involved. Her words.’
Richard expected his cousin to be angry but, instead, he smiled and began to laugh. ‘Does she indeed? I never could fool her. Yes, I am in love, again.’ For a moment Richard imagined his cousin looked shamefaced. ‘Truly in love.’ Did the words ‘this time’ hang unspoken in the air? ‘I suppose I’ll have to write to tell her.’
‘Why haven’t you told her before now? Is it . . . is it someone of whom she wouldn’t approve?’
‘My God, Richard, do you know what you sound like? You’re getting remarkably pompous as you get older. And I can assure you that my mother will be delighted with my choice of wife.’
‘Wife?’
‘Yes. And the only reason I haven’t told my parents up till now is that I wanted to wait until the lady in question accepted my proposal. And now, I’m delighted to say, she has.’ Howard walked towards the screen. ‘Come along, my dear, I suppose you’d better come out now.’
And then, incredibly, Richard remembered what the scent was. The scent of lilies of the valley. The name,
Muguet des Bois
, came to his mind just as Caroline Travers emerged from the other room. Caroline – but a Caroline he’d never seen before. Her long dark hair was loose – had Howard taken out the pins? – and it framed her face and hung down on to her shoulders in gypsy fashion. The bodice of the cream-coloured dress was moulded to her figure, making her look voluptuous, and her eyes . . . her eyes were shining as he, Richard, had never made them shine in all the time he had known her. This was a different Caroline. A Caroline he decided he hardly knew. And most wonderful of all – this vision of happiness wasn’t Kate!
Muguet des Bois
, came to his mind just as Caroline Travers emerged from the other room. Caroline – but a Caroline he’d never seen before. Her long dark hair was loose – had Howard taken out the pins? – and it framed her face and hung down on to her shoulders in gypsy fashion. The bodice of the cream-coloured dress was moulded to her figure, making her look voluptuous, and her eyes . . . her eyes were shining as he, Richard, had never made them shine in all the time he had known her. This was a different Caroline. A Caroline he decided he hardly knew. And most wonderful of all – this vision of happiness wasn’t Kate!
Caroline laughed softly when she saw Richard’s expression. ‘It’s Paris, you know,’ she said.
‘Paris? What do you mean?’
Howard answered for her. ‘Just being here – especially in the springtime – it does something to people. You discover things about yourself – and others – that you never suspected were there. I won’t go on. I risk making a fool of myself. Suffice to say that I have fallen in love with Caroline and she with me. But now let us sit at the table and talk over coffee and croissants. There’s sufficient for the three of us – and love makes me hungry.’
Richard wanted no more coffee but he sat at the table with them and listened to their explanations. ‘We met by chance,’ Howard said. ‘Caroline is staying in Paris with an old school friend Jeannette who is half French and has come to live with her grandmother for a year. The two of them decided to visit Montmartre one day and we bumped into each other.’
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