Sea of Lost Love (30 page)

“Did he give your money to Salazar, too?”

“I had so little, Celestria. In the end I didn't consider it mine. He looked after me. Now he is gone, I'm alone. There is no one to look after me. I'm forty-five years old, and I have nothing. I will have to sell the house and buy a small apartment. You can imagine. I have been used to a certain standard of living. Now I have to begin all over again.” Celestria inhaled deeply. To be bereft was bad enough; to be bereft and poor was unthinkable. At least Celestria had her grandfather.

Armel and Celestria had no option but to bide their time. Armel was sure that, with Freddie and Gaitano's help, a chink in Salazar's armor could be found. Celestria was content to wait. The longer she waited, the more likely she was to bump into Hamish, who now dominated her thoughts almost more than her father did.

She spent the afternoon with Mrs. Waynebridge and Daphne Halifax, accompanied by the playful Nuzzo. He and Mrs. Waynebridge seemed to have a joke that only they shared, for they ribbed each other teasingly, stating words in their own language for the other to repeat. They walked into town. The locals all greeted them warmly. The children with the same curiosity, giggling behind brown hands, followed them in small, mischievous groups, like elves.

They entered a little shop that sold food and postcards. A young woman stood behind a counter; her aged mother, dressed in black from head to toe, embroidered a shawl in the corner on a stool, while two small children played in the doorway. They shared banter with Nuzzo, who took off his beret when he entered. They laughed, even the sad-looking old lady, who cackled at Nuzzo's impish charm. Celestria bought postcards to send to Lotty, Melissa, and her mother. She chose one for Aidan, out of guilt, because Daphne was right; she wasn't missing him.

Mrs. Waynebridge bought some postcards, too, while Daphne exchanged a few words with the shopkeeper in broken Italian. After that they ambled along the coast, taking pleasure from the rocky coves along the way. Nuzzo picked flowers to give to the women, but Celestria knew they were all plucked for Waynie. She wanted to ask where Hamish's wife had died. The cliffs were high and sheer the whole way along. It could have happened anywhere. Nuzzo would know. However, she felt she shouldn't ask.

 

Hamish did not appear that evening, either. Celestria was frustrated. She saw so much of Freddie and Gaitano; how was it possible for him to avoid her? She wished they had never met in that dreadful place. Then he wouldn't have overheard her talking about him with Daphne in the dining room. They might even have become friends.

During dinner, the conversation turned unexpectedly to Hamish. Federica mentioned Saverio's bar in town, where he went every night, staying until the early hours of the morning, playing Scopa with the locals. Celestria was struck with a crazy idea. After dinner, she said good night to Mrs. Waynebridge, but, instead of going to bed herself, she crept out of the Convento and made her way into town.

She walked briskly under the pines. The moonlight was bright, casting shadows across the paving stones as if it were a silver sun. The air was thick with the scent of wood and herbs from the Convento's garden, and the smell of lilies was carried over the wall of the city of the dead on a cold breeze blowing in off the sea. Celestria shivered, wondering whether she should go back. What would he think of her turning up like this? She knew no one. What if he wasn't there? If he was, what on earth was she going to say to him?

She arrived at the bar. Small groups of men were sitting outside, playing cards, smoking, and drinking. She noticed at once that there were no women. One by one they lifted their eyes. Some glared at her with hostility, others with ill-disguised delight. She tried to look confident, but inside she felt lost. She knew she was not welcome. Suddenly a familiar voice called her name. She turned to see Salazar standing behind her in a coat that was extravagantly lined and had a wide fur collar, wearing those old-fashioned two-toned shoes. He looked ridiculous.

“Miss Montague,” he said, amused to see her in such an unlikely place. “It is a pleasure to see you again.” His smile was broad and somehow indecent. He held out his arms again, as if about to embrace her. “Let me buy you a
limoncello.
It is only right to welcome you to my town. I must apologize for our hasty meeting. That woman has been a plague.” He shook his head, lifting his hand to escort her into the bar. Celestria feigned confidence, knowing it was the only way to get her through what was clearly a terrible mistake.

“She was very rude,” she replied, hoping to draw him into a false sense of friendship.

“Frenchwomen have no manners. I much prefer doing business with the British.” As she walked in, she felt more pairs of eyes upon her, indignant, as if she had walked into a private party uninvited. Salazar ordered a
limoncello
for her and a coffee for himself. “So,” he said, appraising her with unguarded appreciation, “you are very brave to come here on your own. Saverio's wife only serves behind the bar during daylight hours, and she's as ill-humored and tough as a donkey.”

“Oh?” she replied coolly, noticing his predatory eyes slipping over her body, as if deciding which part he'd devour first. “Do Italian men turn into vampires the moment the sun sets?”

He chuckled. “Didn't your mother warn you? Nighttime is not safe for little girls.”

“Should I be worried?”

He shrugged. “Not now you are with me. Salazar will take care of you.” He raised his eyes to a group of people in the corner laughing raucously. Celestria turned around to see Hamish at a table, playing cards with a group of men in caps. He was throwing his head back, roaring with laughter like a lion, his hair falling about him in a shaggy mane. Her heart surged with relief. However, he couldn't see her because he was facing the other way. She turned back to Salazar, who was beginning to make her extremely uncomfortable. “Did you come here alone?” he asked.

“Of course,” she replied defiantly. “This is a small town; I'm hardly likely to get lost.”

“As long as you don't walk in the shadows.” He laughed and puffed on his cigar, blowing smoke into her face.
“Poverina!”
His eyes lingered on her lips longer than was polite. “This is no place for a girl; why don't I walk you home? Where are you staying? At the Convento?” Before she was able to reply, Hamish's voice spoke from behind her.

“That's okay, Salazar. I'll walk her home. She's staying with us.” Celestria was too relieved to feel foolish. She spun around to face him. “Shall we go?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in amusement, his mouth displaying the beginnings of a smile.

“I'm ready,” she replied.

“Che peccato,”
said Salazar, putting the cigar between his lips. “We were just getting to know each other.”

“Tell your wife,” said Hamish, placing his hand in the small of her back and leading her out into the street.

“Thank you,” she said, folding her arms and shivering, more from fright than nerves.

“What? For not shouting at you?” He smiled cynically.

“No, for saving me from Salazar.”

“You're a foolish American,” he replied, leaning on his stick with one hand, putting the other in his trouser pocket. “Where do you think you are? In Manhattan?”

T
hey set out down the road towards the Convento. Hamish leaned on his stick, his limp preventing him from walking very quickly. Celestria was aware of every fiber in her body, her nerves alert like an animal braced to react, uncertain whether he was friend or foe. However, one thing was certain: he was unable to avoid her now.

“What on earth possessed you to come to the bar?” he asked gruffly.

“I was bored at the Convento. I wasn't ready to go to bed.”

“Do you make a habit of wandering the streets at night on your own?”

“Certainly not! What are you implying?”

“I'm joking. This might be a small town, but I wouldn't consider it safe for a girl like you.”

“A girl like me?”

He glanced at her. “You're more suited to the Ritz than to a small-town bar frequented by rough countrymen.”

“You misjudge me.”

“I never misjudge anyone.”

“You're going on appearances. You don't know me at all.”

He stopped and looked her up and down as one might appraise a mare for sale. “Expensively cut, well-conditioned hair. Blond, which is rare in these parts. Manicured nails, polished skin, clean clothes, a fresh dress every day, smart leather shoes, painted toenails, elegance, refinement, and an air of snootiness, too, which comes from being spoiled by your parents. Don't pretend you felt you blended into Saverio's, because you stuck out like a swan among swine.” Flattered that he had noticed her in such detail, Celestria hid her pleasure behind a veneer of defiance.

“If one was to judge simply on appearances, you wouldn't come off too well yourself.” She looked him up and down with the same arrogance. “Hair that could do with a good wash and a brush; a shave wouldn't go amiss, either. Stooping shoulders, which denotes a man ill at ease with himself or his height, which should be an advantage. Scruffy clothes more suited to a shepherd than an artist, who should really have more taste. The shoes could do with a polish, too. But I don't judge on the outside alone.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“You're wrong. But you are right about one thing, I didn't like the bar at all.”

He continued to walk. “That's because you got hooked by the crookedest man in Marelatte.”

“And unhooked by the angriest man in Marelatte.”

He glanced down at her irritably, but her smile was surprisingly infectious; he couldn't help but smile, too. Celestria felt a wave of triumph.

“I have good reason to be angry.” His face crumpled into a frown. “But I don't owe anyone an explanation, least of all you.”

“I think you're old enough to do as you please.”

“How old do you think I am?”

She laughed, though every muscle in her face and neck was taut. “I don't know. Older than me.”

“Most of Marelatte is older than you. You're just setting off, like a beautiful sailing boat. I imagine this is the first time you've left the safety of your cove. I should stay with the oldies. It's safer within the walls of the Convento.”

“With you in residence, I don't think that particular cove is very safe at all.”

“You can't be afraid of a man with a limp? Even though he's a little rough around the edges.”

“I gather it was a hunting accident,” she said.

He looked at her quizzically, and she realized that she had unwittingly revealed that she had been asking about him. She was sure his lips twitched with amusement.

“I haven't ridden since,” he replied, looking straight ahead.

“Do you miss it?”

“Damn right, I miss it.” He shook his head. “I don't think I've experienced such freedom as I felt on a horse. Flying like the wind. Jumping whatever stands in my way. I was good at it, too.”

“I've never even sat on a horse.”

“No?”

“Now taxis, I've been in a lot of taxis. Yellow ones in New York and black ones in London. That's something I'm really good at, along with painting my nails and sitting in the hair salon.” He chuckled, the lines around his eyes and mouth deepening into his weathered skin. She felt a sudden yearning to run her fingers over them.

“But you love books,” he said softly, and she realized to her joy that he, in turn, had been asking about her.

“Gaitano says we share a favorite book,” she ventured.

“The Count of Monte Cristo.”

“And the terrible Château d'lf,” she added with a grin.

“What else do you love?”

She sighed ponderously. “I love dancing, playing the piano…”

“Yes, I know.”

She felt herself blush and hastily moved on. “Freddie told me you're the only one who plays.”

“Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes me sad.”

“I find the melancholy tunes uplift me the most.”

He turned and looked at her curiously. “Do they?”

She knew then that he had witnessed her tears. She turned away. “Yes. By expressing my feelings, I release them.”

They walked under the pine trees, across the dark shadows and silver slashes of moonlight that lit up the paving stones beneath their feet. The Convento loomed out of the night, seemingly impenetrable. The door was closed; the little window carved into the stone, where the dove had cooed the evening they had arrived, now blind and empty. The bell tower on the roof of the church caught the light and turned to silver. They both tasted the floral scent from the city of the dead across the road. Celestria didn't want the night to end.

“Do you want to come and look at the sea from the old fortress? It'll be beautiful in this moonlight,” he asked, stopping to glance across the road. His features grew suddenly serious, his brow lined and heavy, as if an invisible weight had at once smothered any joy.

“I'd love to,” Celestria replied, finding her eyes drawn there, too, knowing that he was thinking of Natalia. She felt jealous of the ghost who still laid claim to his heart. And yet they barely knew each other. She had no right to it. Again he put his hand in the small of her back as he accompanied her across the track, though there was little danger at this time of night from Nuzzo in his horse and cart. The warmth of his hand burned through her dress.

They walked past the gates in silence, the crypts dark in the tranquillity of the night. Hamish threw a troubled glimpse inside, to where the park was bathed in shadows cast by the towering pine trees and beyond, to where the eye could not see, to where the spirit of his wife remained, locked in that small, candle-lit mausoleum with the secrets that only they knew.

“Darkness is simply the absence of light,” he mumbled.

“Are you in a dark place, Hamish?” she asked gently, moved by the heaviness that now enveloped them.

“What do you know of darkness?” he retorted gruffly.

“I can feel it,” she replied, following him down the little stony path that led to the cliffs where the old fortress stood, silhouetted against the sky. “I feel it when I'm with you.” He stopped and looked at her a moment, his eyes boring into hers as if searching for something.

“What did you just say?” he asked, leaning towards her. His voice was full of pain.

“I feel the darkness that surrounds you.” He didn't respond, but turned and continued to walk down the path.

Finally, he sat down on the dry grass where she had sat the day before while Daphne painted. The fortress was filled with shadows, desolate and empty like Hamish himself, plagued with demons and a deep, unfathomable sadness. They sat together, gazing in silence over the rippling sea and vast starlit sky. In that moment, sitting beside the man she now knew she loved, Celestria felt the gentle movement of the earth's plates beneath her.

“What are you doing in Puglia?” he said at last. She took in his profile, the strong line of his jaw, the long crooked nose, and the bright, almond-shaped eyes blessed with thick, feathery lashes.

“I have come to find my father's killer,” she replied steadily.

“Your father was killed?” He stared at her incredulously.

“My father apparently committed suicide in Cornwall a few weeks ago. He drowned at sea. They found his boat and a suicide note. But if you knew my father, you'd be as certain as I am that he would never have taken his own life. I have discovered that he sent large sums of money to Salazar, which is why I went to see him. Salazar claims my father withdrew it again, but I don't believe him. I think he stole the money and, somehow, got rid of my father.”

Hamish's head spun. “I didn't know,” he murmured, toying pensively with the crook of his walking stick. “You must be shattered.” Now he knew why she had been crying, and his heart filled with compassion. Like him, she was well acquainted with grief.

“Do you know what I'm most afraid of?” She felt emotion tighten her throat and the prickling sensation of tears behind her eyes. It was only because of the beauty of the night and because Hamish, too, suffered the pain of bereavement that she let down her guard. For the first time since her father died, she felt her heart buckle with sorrow, as if she had at last allowed it in. “I'm afraid that I'm wrong. That he stole our money, then killed himself because he couldn't bear to live with the shame. If that's true, then I'm afraid that I never knew him.” She wiped away a fat tear that trickled slowly down her cheek. Hamish put his arm around her and drew her against him. She rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes. Perhaps it was the darkness, or the fact that he hurt, too, that enabled her to grieve without embarrassment.

“The people you think you know are often full of surprises. Those you hold in the highest esteem only disappoint you,” he said, his tone full of bitterness. “Even those closest to you, the ones you think you know the best. You don't know them at all. All you have is your trust.”

Hamish withdrew his arm and began to toy once again with his stick. “I hope you have some nice young man back in England to make you happy.”

Celestria was stung by his comment. She didn't want a nice young man as superficial as she was. In Hamish's eyes she saw great depths like oceans, stirred by sorrow, agitated by joy, but most of all unpredictable. She knew she'd never settle now for shallow pools and puddles where the stones below were clearly visible. Her heart strained to reach him, longing for him to hold her. His words made her recoil. If he really believed that, then what was he doing sitting alone with her in the middle of the night?

“There are plenty,” she replied, wanting to hurt him back. “As soon as my questions have been answered, I'll return home.”

“Girls like you are sure to marry well,” he said ironically. “Not only are you taught to sing and dance, you're taught to think in terms of wealth and estates. I spent most of my life in England, and I know your sort. Well-educated girls like you live in a rarefied, though I might add, disadvantaged, world. You lick the fruit of life, but you don't bite into it and taste the bitterness and sweetness of the flesh.”

“That's where you're wrong. When I fall in love, the earth will shake, tremble, and shift on its axis, whether the man I lose my heart to has money or not.” She stood up and made her way down the slope to the fortress, surprised by her words, which echoed with an honesty and sincerity she had never felt before.

 

It was dark inside the fortress. The earth was damp, the stone walls cold and hard. She could hear the sea below, lapping against the cliffs with wet tongues. Her heart was thumping, throbbing in her ears. She hoped Hamish would follow. She hurried along the stones to the other side, where the wall was crumbling but a tall window remained, giving on to the glittering ocean and navy blue sky, where a corpulent moon hung low and heavy. She stood staring out, the wind raking cold fingers through her hair, sure she could sense him approaching her slowly from behind.

Then it was his fingers on the back of her neck, and not the wind. Caressing the skin there, cupping her shoulder, and turning her around to face him. He looked down at her, this big, strong man with eyes as vulnerable as a child's.

“I'm sorry. I've been foolish. Playing a clumsy game,” he said, gently tracing her cheek and neck.

“Why play a game at all?”

“Because I don't want to love you.” He studied her face as if hypnotized by what he saw. “I'm drawn to you. Don't think I haven't tried to resist you.”

“Why resist me? Don't you deserve to be happy?” He was very close now. She could feel the warmth of his body against hers, his breath on her forehead, his lips only inches away, and the delicious tingling in the pit of her belly.

“I don't think I can any longer,” he groaned, closing his eyes and kissing her. Aware only of him, she remained in the present moment, savoring the tenderness of his touch, the feel of his rough skin against hers, his smooth, warm lips, and the sense of being pulled into the eye of the storm, from where there would be no turning back.