Sea of Lost Love (20 page)

“It was so unlike him.”

“We're not all black and white.”

She raised her eyes and looked at him steadily. Suddenly the question that had been lurking in a far recess of her mind for over twenty years rolled to the front. She had never dared ask it, fearing his answer. Now that her husband was dead, it no longer mattered. It would, however, shed light on a great many things. “Did you see beneath the surface?”

Richard nodded slowly. He had always been good at looking into the hearts of people where lay their intentions, ambitions, and desires. Monty was no exception. “I never liked him,” he replied, shaking his head.

“I thought as much,” Pamela said, feeling the wall between them dissolve in the light of honesty. “Why?”

“I never trusted him.”

“When everyone else did? Why were you different?”

“Because you meant more to me than you did to everyone else. You're my only daughter, Pam. He wasn't good enough for you.”

“Did Mama like him?”

“She couldn't see beyond his charm and good looks. When you and your mother get something into your heads, there's nothing that can stop you. I let you go. It was the only thing I could do. I hoped I'd be there to pick up the pieces.”

“You couldn't have foreseen that it would end this way.”

“Of course not. Right now, I can't even put my finger on why I never trusted him. Maybe because he was too good to be true. There were no cracks. Everyone has cracks, even me, and I'm pretty perfect.” They both laughed. The tears spilled over Pamela's cheeks and dropped off her chin onto her pale yellow cashmere sweater.

“You are pretty perfect, Pa. I'm sad that we've drifted apart over the years. It must have been hard for you to have seen me with Monty, when you sensed faults in his character.”

“You're pigheaded, Pam, like me. I couldn't blame you for marrying the man you had set your heart on. I'd have done the same, no matter what my father might have thought. No one can tell me what to do. I admire that quality in you.”

“I feel so betrayed, because I loved him.”

“But you're not alone. Come and sit next to your pa.”

Pamela snuggled up against her father and breathed in the scent of her childhood. It was the smell of home, no matter where she was. “What am I going to do?” she asked. “Harry's at boarding school. Celestria's off to Italy. I'm all alone.”

“Celestria and Harry need you.”

“What about
my
needs?”

He kissed the top of her head and chuckled at her selfishness. “You don't change, do you, Pam? You're young and beautiful. When you're ready, you might fall in love again.”

“I don't think my heart could take it.”

“Oh, I think your heart is full of secret compartments you've never even looked into.”

Pamela sat up suddenly and stared at him. “Do you believe in God, Pa?”

He shrugged. “Of course I do. There's got to be some greater power than me.”

“I mean, really. Do you
really
believe?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why don't I?”

“Perhaps you haven't found Him yet.”

“You sound like Father Dalgliesh.”

“Father Dalgliesh is obviously a very wise man!”

“I don't want to believe that after all this struggling, there's nothing. I want to believe we all go somewhere. That Monty is somewhere.”

“If you're good, you'll go to heaven no matter what you believe.” He sounded as if he were talking to a child.

“But that's the problem, Pa. I'm not at all good.”

He looked at her with affection. “It's never too late to start.”

“But it's so awfully difficult.”

“Not if you try. I started this morning, and it's not as difficult as I imagined it to be.”

She laughed, both irritated and amused. “You're teasing me!”

“I don't know the answers, Pam. Even your Father Dalgliesh doesn't know. You have to find out for yourself and have your own belief that comes from here.” He placed his hand on his heart. “Not from what other people tell you.”

“You are good, Pa! You've rescued us.” He hadn't seen his daughter look at him with such fondness in twenty years. He felt his old heart give a little flutter, like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

“It's a start,” he said with a chuckle. “I've got
sixty
years of not being good to make up for. How else do you think I built my empire? You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs.”

 

Mrs. Waynebridge packed her bag. She didn't have many clothes, being a woman of simple tastes and means. The thought of flying terrified the life out of her, even though Celestria had assured her they'd be flying first class. They still had to be in the air, whichever class they traveled in, and those machines didn't look right in the sky. “It's against nature. If God had wanted us to fly, He would have given us wings,” she had complained. However, she had to admit that a large part of her was excited by the idea of adventure. If she could overcome her nervousness, she might actually enjoy herself. She had watched two magpies alight on her small terrace that morning…one for sorrow, two for joy…That had been very encouraging.

She was a widow and life was lonely, set into a comfortable but not very exhilarating routine. She wasn't sure about the Italians, but Italy was famously beautiful. She folded her cardigan and placed it over her Sunday dress. It was the end of summer, Celestria had said, but the evenings could be cold. She wasn't expected to take her apron. She stood up and stared down at her small suitcase. The sight of it made her tremble. It meant leaving home. Leaving England. Setting off for somewhere unfamiliar. She carried the case downstairs and put it in the little entrance hall, where it would remain until Mr. Bancroft's chauffeur came to pick her up on Thursday morning. She went into the sitting room and perched on a chair with her hands neatly folded on her lap, feeling a mixture of excitement and sickness. She was relieved she couldn't see the case. It was getting dark outside. She looked at her watch. It was eight-thirty. She was too nervous to eat or even to heat up some soup. Sliding her eyes over the furniture in the small Fulham house, she suddenly felt quite lost, as if everything that belonged to her was drifting off on an unseen tide. Would it all be here when she got back?

Celestria didn't pack. She knew Waynie would help her the following day. Instead, she lay in a hot bubble bath, feeling a sense of serenity wash over her with the bluebell-scented water. She had told Aidan that she was tired. The truth was that she was tired of hanging around waiting to go to Italy. Aidan had suggested a flick, but she didn't feel like necking in the back row. She'd retire to bed early and get her beauty sleep. She needed all her energy if she was going to find the person responsible for turning her world upside down.

The sun set and the sky grew dark above London. The same sky grew dark above Puglia, but the stars were much brighter there, and the moon, full and round like a ball of mozzarella, was not obscured by the clouds that gathered over England, but shone phosphorescent over the Aegean Sea, turning it a milky green.

There, on Italy's heel beneath that all-knowing moon, a small flame was kept alight in the fragrant city of the dead that stood over the track from the Convento di Santa Maria del Mare. It was quiet, but for a light breeze that rustled through the pine trees, casting dancing shadows across the grassy square and paving stones that led through the rows of silent crypts. The scent of lilies filled the air, and the little candles cast flickering gold shadows across the stone walls where the spirits of the dead rested in peace. Except for one spirit, who was not allowed to rest. The man knelt before her tomb and wept. By the sheer force of his grief he kept her little flame alive. However much she tried to move on, she could not.

T
he journey to Puglia took two days. Mrs. Waynebridge had barely drawn breath since they had left London in the early hours of Thursday morning. It had been raining. Large, steamy drops landing on parched pavements and running down drains choked with early autumn leaves. Mrs. Waynebridge had been ready and waiting an hour before Celestria was due to pick her up in her grandfather's chauffeur-driven car, clutching her handbag on her knee, raincoat buttoned up to her chin, hat containing her soft gray curls, her face pinched with anxiety. In her hand she held the passport Rita had managed to obtain for her with Mr. Bancroft's far-reaching connections. She had watched the clock above the fireplace with mixed emotions: part of her felt like a turkey on Christmas morning, awaiting the chop; the other part like a turkey endowed with magic wings, waiting to fly for the first time. Whichever turkey she turned out to be, she was still a turkey for having allowed herself to be coerced into embarking on this ridiculous adventure in the first place.

She had glanced around the house she had shared with her husband of forty-six years and then remained in as a widow, and knew that she was leaving behind everything that was familiar, but most frighteningly, her routine. How would she exist without structure? She'd lived a structured life from the moment she had entered into domestic service as a mere sixteen-year-old. She'd be like a body without a skeleton. What on earth was she going to do with herself with no daily map to follow? But Celestria had arrived half an hour late, smiling confidently, and her worries had been swallowed into the girl's enthusiasm.

They had left the gray skies and low-hanging clouds behind and arrived in Rome, where the air was thick, hot, and caramel-scented. Above them the sky was bluer than either had ever seen before, the clamor of birds in the umbrella pines rising above the roar of traffic in a merry cacophony, and, suddenly, after having chattered all the way on the airplane out of nerves, Mrs. Waynebridge had been rendered speechless. For once she had no comment. It was all too beautiful.

They had taken the train from Rome to Spongano, changing at Caserta, Brindisi, and again at Lecce. Celestria had read Maupassant's
Bel Ami,
a present from her grandfather. Mrs. Waynebridge knitted a cardigan for Celestria, who thought the shade of green she had chosen the ugliest ever seen. Mrs. Waynebridge called it “parrot green,” explaining that the parrot was a very lucky bird. Celestria concentrated on her novel, repressing her desire to point out that practically any other color would have been preferable to parrot green, regardless of superstition. Mrs. Waynebridge gazed out of the window and let her eyes wander over the cypress trees and olive groves and small clusters of sandy-colored houses that shimmered in the midday heat. She was careful not to interrupt the girl's reading; Celestria hadn't the patience for interruption. But when they went to eat in the restaurant car, she chattered away with the enthusiasm of a dog let off her lead.

“I should like to have seen the world,” she said, toying with the wedding ring she still wore. “But a goose wandered into church on our wedding day, so I knew I were destined for the home and hearth and not for a life of adventure.”

“A goose?”

“A goose. It just waddled in out of nowhere. It were a sign, you see. I knew it, of course, because of me understanding of the secret nature of birds. It was no coincidence. Alfie thought me more than a little soft in the head, but he never did take me nowhere. Perhaps he took advantage of me superstitious mind. Had I not noticed the goose, we might have had a more interesting life.” She sighed wistfully.

“I think you're a silly old goose, Waynie, for believing such rubbish.”

“When you're older, you'll know what I mean. The world is full of messages, if you know where to look for them.”

“I won't allow superstition to direct my life.”

“No, love, you have a mind of your own.”

“I'm not sure traveling is going to appeal to me, Waynie. I've sat on this train long enough to never want to sit on another.”

Waynie disagreed. “First class, love. I could sit in first class for a week and not grow bored.”

 

Celestria felt she had seen as much of the world as a city girl on the brink of marriage could desire to see. Nothing compared to New York and London. Her mother had taken her to Paris a few times and been as bored by the Louvre as she was. Once she returned home, she doubted she'd be tempted farther than Cornwall. This was to be an adventure in search of truth. Having exacted unspeakable revenge on the person responsible for her father's death, she would go back to her cosseted life in London, where Aidan would look after her in suitably grand style until her dying day. She considered Aidan with a growing sense of unease. There was something unsatisfactory about the whole situation. She reminded herself that love wasn't the objective; she could find love later if she desired. The important thing was that he loved her. The more she thought about it, the less she believed her own reasoning. She picked up her fork and toyed with her pasta as if it were a helping of garden worms.

As the sun waned, the train screeched to a halt. Waynie and Celestria disembarked wearily, alighting on a small platform where only a few miles of dirt track separated them from their journey's end. They inhaled the pine-scented air and felt themselves a little restored. The silence was soothing after the rumble of the train, the sea breeze a blessing after the heat of their carriage. Celestria stretched, savoring the sight of a pretty blue bird that watched them with interest from the top of a carob tree. Now,
that
color would have made a lovely cardigan.

Their attention was caught by a short, stocky man in a beret and waistcoat who was striding purposefully towards them. He greeted them in Italian with a smile so charming that Mrs. Waynebridge once again lost her voice. His shiny blue eyes belied his advanced age. They twinkled like tourmalines in rock, reflecting the light with a mixture of sincerity and mischief.

“Vengo da parte dalla signora Gancia, dal Convento di Santa Maria del Mare,”
he said, and his voice was as soft and light as flour.

“No parlo Italiano,”
said Celestria, drawing on her French education and slapping an “o” on the end. The man chuckled and nodded energetically.

“Io, Nuzzo,”
he said, pressing his hand to his chest and articulating his name slowly and clearly as if speaking to the hard of hearing.

“Hello, Nuzzo,” Celestria replied. “My name is Miss Montague, and this is Mrs. Waynebridge.”

Nuzzo frowned, drawing together two feathery eyebrows. He glanced at the muted Mrs. Waynebridge, and his face softened with sympathy. She looked gray and tired. He said something incomprehensible, then bent down to pick up their bags. Mrs. Waynebridge had her one small case, but Celestria had three navy blue Globetrotters littered with stickers. Nuzzo made several journeys, and his jovial smile never faltered.

Celestria was astonished to find they were to travel in a horse-drawn cart. The sturdy beast stood patiently in the evening sun while fat flies buzzed about his head, which he shook every now and then in an attempt to shoo them away. Nuzzo piled the cases on top of one another on one seat, then gestured for the ladies to mount. Mrs. Waynebridge thought nothing of it, having grown up with similar transport, and took Nuzzo's hand for support. For a moment she hesitated, unsure whether her tired legs would function as they ought. Nuzzo encouraged her with words she did not understand, but his tone was gentle and persuasive and his grin so endearing, she felt herself blush and heaved herself into the cart. Celestria was appalled. It was a terrible come-down from her grandfather's swish red Bentley. As if in response to her snobbishness, the carthorse lifted his tail and released a foul-smelling expulsion of wind.

“Good Lord!” she exclaimed in distaste. “I didn't come all the way to Italy for this! We have come to the end of the world, Waynie,” she said, waving her hand in front of her nose.

“I think it's lovely,” replied Mrs. Waynebridge. “If this isn't paradise, I don't know what is.” Nuzzo took the reins, and the horse slowly set off up the dusty track. “I don't think I've seen anything as beautiful in all me life!” She watched Nuzzo's broad back as he hunched over the reins, his white sleeves rolled up to reveal strong brown forearms, gray and white tufts of hair sticking out of his beret, and found his presence surprisingly exhilarating.

As they proceeded down the coast they stared in silence at the rough, arid terrain of Puglia. It was not the lush, green hills they had seen in photographs of Tuscany, but relatively flat, scattered with white rock and herds of sheep grazing on grass and wild capers. The crumbling stone walls that divided the land reminded Celestria of Cornwall, and yet the scents of thyme and rosemary were altogether more exotic. Below, sheer chalk cliffs descended into the glittering turquoise sea that stretched all the way to Albania. Positioned on top of these cliffs stood ancient lookout towers, once used to keep watch for foreign invaders, but now nothing more than useless and deserted decorations. They passed through little villages of sandstone houses with flat roofs and iron balconies, where stray dogs roamed cobbled streets lined with shady pines and cherry trees: old women stood in doorways, dressed in black; and elderly men in berets lingered on benches in village squares, watching the shadows lengthen, puffing on pipes and old regrets. Gray olive groves grew out of the dry, rugged earth where goats roamed freely and children played, ignoring their mothers, who called them to bed.

They were both weary and overwhelmed by the distance they had traveled. At the sight of the unfamiliar terrain Celestria began to wonder why she had come. Surely, it would have been better to have accepted her father's death as suicide and moved on, she thought bleakly, her spirits sinking as her energy flagged. It had all seemed a very good idea back in England. Nuzzo spoke no English, and her Italian was limited to a few phrases. She was ashamed that she had presumed all foreigners spoke English. What if this Salazar character spoke as little as Nuzzo? Would she ever manage to get anything out of him? She reassured herself that there would surely be someone at the Convento who would be able to translate. Mrs. Waynebridge sensed Celestria's unease and began to feel nervous herself. She rested her eyes on the dependable shoulders that were guiding the horse home and felt herself immediately comforted.

At last they arrived in the small town of Marelatte. They were met by a pack of mongrel dogs, sniffing the ground in search of scraps and wagging their thin tails.
“Dei cani della signora Federica Gancia,”
said Nuzzo, nodding. Ah, thought Celestria, recalling the letter she had found in the pile her father had intended to burn, the famous Freddie, no doubt. The cart turned off the track and stopped beside a plain, unremarkable sandstone building attached to a pretty church with tall oak doors below an arched stained-glass window. Sitting proudly on the pink-tiled roof above was a square bell tower ready to summon the people to worship. Nuzzo climbed down a little stiffly and motioned to the wide door of the Convento, inside which was another, smaller door.
“Il Convento di Santa Maria del Mare,”
he exclaimed, catching his breath.

Mrs. Waynebridge stood unsteadily in the cart, unsure how to get down. Nuzzo hurried to assist and held out his hand. As she took it they momentarily caught eyes, and the sparkle in his, so bright and infectious, caused her heart to stumble and a small smile to spread across her delicately flushing face.
“Va bene, signora,”
he said kindly as she placed her aching feet on the dry, dusty ground, grateful for its solid lack of motion.

“Thank you,” she replied, regaining her composure.

“Fa niente, signora,”
he said, his gentle gaze lingering on her a little longer than necessary.

Celestria climbed down without help, too busy with her own thoughts to notice the flirtatious communication between Nuzzo and Mrs. Waynebridge. She strode over to the door, pressed the bell, and waited. For a while nothing happened. Then she heard the scuffle of feet, the unbolting of locks, and finally the little door opened to reveal the wide, handsome face of Federica Gancia. To her relief, Celestria knew at once that this woman had not been her father's mistress; she was far too old!

Federica Gancia settled her warm, whiskey-colored eyes on Celestria's pale face and smiled, revealing delightfully crooked teeth. “Welcome, Miss Montague. Do come in; you must be tired.” Her English was perfect, with only the slightest hint of a foreign accent. She looked behind Celestria to where Mrs. Waynebridge hovered in her shadow, clutching her handbag to her chest. “Did you have a pleasant journey? We are a long way from England.” Mrs. Waynebridge was startled that the woman was addressing her, and hastily nodded. Federica thanked Nuzzo, and Mrs. Waynebridge risked one last look back as he shook the reins and proceeded up the track into town. “I hope he made himself clear,” said Federica, still waving. “Nuzzo's a wonderful character, but he speaks no English. I would have sent my husband, Gaitano, but he is in Brindisi this evening.”

Celestria and Mrs. Waynebridge stepped into a cobbled courtyard surrounded on all four sides by a cloister. It was lit with a dozen large church candles that blazed in the twilight, illuminating the deep red color of the walls. Under the arches there were piles of fat, brightly colored cushions embroidered with gold thread that caught the light and glittered. A couple of cats watched them, their eyes bright and unblinking, like silver coins. Above them the pale sky revealed the first twinkling star and, in a small window cut into the wall, a soft gray dove cooed sleepily. Mrs. Waynebridge gasped when she saw the bird, for the dove symbolizes love. She glanced at Celestria. She was certain that love wasn't destined for her, at her age, and was about to say so, but she was suddenly too weary to speak, and, besides, her young companion was gazing around her, silenced by the strange magic of the place that vibrated in the hypnotic glow of the flames and lingered on the air that was heavy with the scent of lilies.