Sea of Lost Love (28 page)

“It's too late for that. You've had ample opportunity. Anyway, I really don't care. I have business to see to. I'm not here on holiday, you know. It is really of no consequence whether or not I get on with people like you. My mission is altogether more important. Why don't you go and shout at someone else? I'm in a hurry.” She folded her arms and stared at him defiantly. “In fact, you should meet the Frenchwoman with whom I've just had the misfortune of colliding. You'd get on like a house on fire!”

Hamish stepped aside with reluctance. He was bewildered. He hadn't anticipated such rudeness from her, and it had wrong-footed him. He watched her march across the courtyard and disappear up the stairs without a backwards glance. She hadn't even accepted his apology.

A
fter lunch Celestria composed a telegram to her grandfather. She wrote that Salazar had been extremely unhelpful, most probably hiding the truth. She had no way of finding out. She didn't speak Italian and had no “connections” to rely on. She also mentioned the Frenchwoman and the brick she threw at his window. “Where do I go from here?” she wrote, then ventured into town to find the post office.

 

Mrs. Waynebridge and Nuzzo walked along the top of the cliffs, where the stony ground gave way to tufts of rough grass and sprigs of herbs. Fluffy sheep grazed on the vertiginous hillside, apparently unafraid of falling into the sea. The air was sweet with the medicinal scent of the eucalyptus trees, and the sound of the waves lapping the rocks below lent a musical accompaniment to their promenade. Nuzzo had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, revealing his muscular brown arms. His beret protected his head from the sun, but the skin on his face was thick and weathered due to having lived most of his life out of doors at the mercy of the elements.

Mrs. Waynebridge was hot beneath her hat and welcomed the breeze that swept in off the ocean. The sun was high in the sky, and she could already see her white skin turning pink on her freckled forearms. Nuzzo playfully endeavored to teach her Italian by pointing things out and stating their names with the same clarity with which he had introduced himself on their first night.

“Pecora,”
he said, pointing to the sheep.

“Pecora,”
she replied.

His face lit up excitedly.
“Pecora, brava!”
He looked about for something else.
“Mare,”
he said, pointing to the sea.
“Mare.”

“Mare,”
she replied.

“Brava, signora. Mare.”
Mrs. Waynebridge felt her heart swell. Nuzzo's enthusiasm made her feel young again.

“Cielo,”
he said, waving his hand up at the sky.
“Cielo.”

“Cielo,”
she repeated.

He shook his head, impressed.
“Bravissima!”
he exclaimed. Then he bent down and plucked a small yellow flower that nestled between two white stones.
“Fiore,”
he said, handing it to her.

“Fiore,”
she repeated softly. He gazed at her, his eyes full of affection.
“Bella,”
he said bashfully.

Mrs. Waynebridge swallowed. Even she knew what
bella
meant. She looked down at the flower.
“Bella,”
she said.

“No, signora.”
He shook his head, gesticulating at her.
“Lei è bella.”

Mrs. Waynebridge blinked at him. “Me?”

“Si, signora. Lei è bellissima.”

 

Celestria returned from the post office and wandered through the kitchen to sit on a bench in the garden, surrounded by terra-cotta pots of lavender. Amid the aromatic tranquillity of the herb garden she pondered her next move. Her meeting with Salazar had come to nothing. She had no option but to await her grandfather's instructions. As much as she tried, she was unable to ignore Hamish's insistent face, which leapt into her mind at every available opportunity, demanding to be noticed. She dismissed him with a snort as Mrs. Waynebridge finally returned from her excursion, flushed and bright eyed, a lively bounce to her walk. In her hand she twirled a small yellow flower.

“I found out nothing,” Celestria told her flatly. “I'm at a loss where to look now.”

Mrs. Waynebridge sat beside her, grateful for the shade of a large canvas parasol. “Maybe you're looking for something what isn't there.”

“There's something there, all right. The bugger won't tell me, though. He played with me like a cat with a mouse. I don't speak the language. I have no way of knowing whether he was telling the truth.”

“Why don't you just lie back and enjoy a holiday?” Mrs. Waynebridge smiled secretively, taking off her hat to fan herself. “It's a beautiful place.
Bella, pecora, cielo, mare, fiore, bella…”
Her voice trailed off.

“Because I won't rest until I find out why my father killed himself. I suspect it was blackmail.”

“Blackmail?”

“I'm sorry, Waynie. I can't expect you to understand when I haven't kept you in the picture. My meeting, though, bore no fruit, but I met a frightful Frenchwoman who threw a brick through Salazar's office window and was dragged away by the police. He's obviously not very popular. This town is full of the rudest people.”

“And some very nice people, too.” Mrs. Waynebridge stared out over the orange grove that extended from the garden to a small cluster of houses fighting for shade beneath towering pine trees.

“More flirting, I presume. Really, Waynie, I'm shocked. You've not even been here a week!”

Mrs. Waynebridge played with the little flower. “No harm in a little flirting. I don't think I've looked at another man since me Alfie passed away. That Nuzzo is a right so-and-so.”

“How do you communicate? He doesn't speak English.”

“We get by.”

Unable to sit still, Celestria suggested they go for a walk. Mrs. Waynebridge, tired from her morning excursion, declined. She was happy to sit in the sun, alone with her thoughts. She hadn't had such nice thoughts in a very long time. So Celestria headed off alone. To her annoyance, she caught herself looking for Hamish everywhere she turned her eyes, but instead she found Mrs. Halifax on the cliff top, painting a small, disused fortress.

“You know,” she said, gazing out over the sea. “Puglia has been dominated by the Greeks, the Romans, the Byzantines, the Normans, the French, the Spanish, and the Neapolitans. These lookout points were built to keep watch for approaching Turks. They would send signals down the coast by lighting fires, alerting one another of attack. Terribly romantic, don't you think?” Celestria sat down on the dry, spiky grass and looked out over the sea. “You'll find some beautiful Moorish buildings here, too. It's a great melting pot of different cultures. I do love it.”

“I expected it to look like Tuscany.”

Mrs. Halifax laughed. “Most certainly not. That's the charm of it.”

“You paint very well,” said Celestria, glancing at the canvas.

“I've had years of practice.”

“Don't you get bored?”

“Certainly not. Why would I get bored? Every scene I paint is different.”

“But you're on your own all the time.”

“I'm surrounded by the wondrous beauty of nature. It fills my soul. Besides, I like to be alone with my thoughts. I remember the past. That makes me happy.”

“Why didn't you return to France?”

“Ah, I aroused your curiosity.”

“You said you'd tell me.”

She stopped painting. “I fell in love.”

Celestria looked surprised. “You fell in love?”

“I know what you're thinking. Old ladies don't fall in love. Well, it's not what you think. I fell in love with a little boy who lived at the château.”

“Ah.” Celestria nodded.

“His mother worked there. He was mute. A dear little thing he was. So enchanting, with white-blond hair and these big, curious, intelligent blue eyes. He reminded me of my son.” She sighed and started painting again. “Then one day, at Mass, a miracle happened. God gave him back his voice.”

“A real miracle?”

“Yes. They do happen, you know, very occasionally. If you let them.”

“What happened to him?”

“He went to live in America. His mother fell in love with an American who came to stay. I don't blame her. He was a dish if ever I saw one. After that the château held little charm for me. Without Mischa the place seemed cold and empty and joyless. I never went back. But I remember him always. There's a place in my heart where he resides along with my son and husband.”

“It must be a painful place,” said Celestria.

“Painful? No, my dear, it's the happiest place there is, full of memories of the people I have loved. You'll learn that love comes in many different disguises. It strikes when you least expect it and often when you really don't want it. Sometimes it's so quick to take you over, you don't believe it. In the end there is nothing as important as love. It's the only thing you take with you when you die.” Mrs. Halifax gazed out over the sea, a wistful smile warming her face with the sun.

“It's very quiet here, isn't it?” said Celestria after a while.

“It'll take some time to get that dreadful city out of your system.”

“Oh, I love London,” she said brightly.

“I like it, too, in very small doses! Do you want to paint something?”

“Oh, I don't think I'd be very good.”

“Why not have a try? Look in my bag; there's a small sketchpad. Why don't you grab a piece of charcoal and have a go. You don't have to show it to anyone, if you'd rather not.”

As there was nothing else to do until her grandfather arrived, Celestria sketched Mrs. Halifax. The old woman sat beneath a straw sunhat, in the shade of a withered evergreen tree whose branches were low with prickly, unfriendly leaves, holding her brush in front of her nose every now and again to measure distances. While Celestria drew, she entertained Mrs. Halifax with stories of her family in Cornwall. Mrs. Halifax laughed out loud.

“Oh, dear, you are a funny girl,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Your Aunt Penelope sounds quite a card.”

“She's very fruity,” said Celestria, watching Mrs. Halifax laugh again. “Like a bowl of rich red plums!”

Celestria's drawing was terrible, but it didn't matter. She discovered she enjoyed the tranquillity of the afternoon, the gentle sound of the sea lapping against the rocks below, and the distant barking of a dog. She enjoyed Mrs. Halifax, too. “You're a pretty girl, Celestria. You must have a suitor or two back in England?”

Celestria thought of Aidan. “Not really,” she replied, then decided there was no point in lying to someone who had nothing to do with her life back home, so she added, “Well, I have agreed to marry someone.”

“Oh, dear, you're going to have to break it off then, aren't you?”

Celestria looked surprised. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Because you're not in love. That's obvious.”

“But he's very nice.”

“If
nice
is the best adjective you can come up with, I should definitely avoid the trip to the altar. Weren't you forbidden to use that word at school? I was. My dear, if the earth doesn't move, it isn't right.”

“But, Mrs. Halifax, the earth has
never
moved.”

“Good God, dear, you're still a child! You've plenty of time for earth-shattering moments. Believe me, the earth will move. It will tremble and shake and shift on its axis, leaving you in no doubt that you are head over heels in love. By the way, please do call me Daphne.”

 

That evening, back at the Convento, Celestria bathed and dressed for dinner. She wondered what her grandfather had made of her telegram and hoped he had decided to join her. She spent a long time in her room, rubbing oil into her body and painting her toenails pale pink. Then, a now-familiar voice rose up to her window from the courtyard below. She wrapped a towel around her and hurried over to peer down between the shutters. There, talking to his father-in-law, was Hamish. Her stomach lurched. He was pointing to various places beneath the cloister, and Gaitano was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. They were speaking Italian.

Celestria dressed, her body quivering with the sudden rush of adrenaline. Confronting him had been the right thing to do. She didn't feel furious and defensive; rather, her assertiveness had empowered her. She slipped into a pretty white sundress that reached midcalf and showed off her slim shape, and a pale blue cashmere cardigan. She rubbed her bluebell scent into her wrists and under her ears. She was certain that since their confrontation earlier, he would attend dinner tonight, if only to have the last word.

She skipped down the stone staircase and out into the courtyard. She cast her eyes to the little door through which Hamish and Gaitano had disappeared only minutes before and hoped they'd step out again. She bent down to pat Primo, who was lying sleepily on one of the crimson cushions that were piled up under the cloister beside a low table of elaborate hand-embroidered dolls from Afghanistan. She played for time, but they did not emerge. Finally, as the courtyard grew darker, she knew she should make her way to the dining room.

Mrs. Halifax was already deep in discussion with Mrs. Waynebridge and Federica. There was no sign of the men anywhere.