Sea of Lost Love (31 page)

They spoke no more. There was too much on his mind even to begin. He didn't know how to explain. He wasn't sure she'd understand. Right now, he, too, existed in the present moment, relishing the taste of this woman who had held him in her thrall since their first inauspicious meeting in the cemetery. He had secretly watched her, tried to ignore his fascination with her, fought to resist the power of her attraction, knowing all along that there was light behind the door, if only he could reach it. If only she were someone else. Anyone other than Robert Montague's daughter.

He knew he shouldn't kiss her. But what man could resist the warm translucence of her skin, the sensuality of her lips, the startling brazenness of her sexuality set against the cool stiffness of her class, like cream on stone? He had fought against his reasoning and lost to his instincts, like an animal with nothing but his five senses. How blissful it would be to lose himself in her, to forget his past and the tragedy there that would inevitably poison any cup of joy he attempted to drink from.

Finally, he pulled away. “Come, I'll take you back to the Convento.” His voice was full of regret, betraying the confusion that tore him in two.

He took her hand and the stick that he had leaned against the wall, and they walked back up the path. They passed the walls of the city of the dead, and, even though no words were spoken, the fact that he made a conscious effort not to look there told Celestria that she had lost him. When they reached the Convento, the little window in the wall was no longer empty. Not one but two fat doves slept in the moonlight.

He turned the key in the lock and opened the door for her. She realized that had she not met him in the bar, she would not have been able to get back inside. Once within the sanctuary of those walls, they crept across the courtyard and upstairs without exchanging a word. Celestria wished he would say something. They had crossed an invisible line. It wasn't possible now to step back. Quietly, he escorted her down the corridor to her bedroom. With her fingers on the handle, she hesitated, longing for reassurance.

“Where do we go from here?” she said at last, turning to face him.

He shook his head and frowned, his face cast in shadow. “I don't know.”

“You can't allow yourself to wither away, loving a ghost, Hamish.”

His eyes grew hostile. “You don't know what you're saying,” he whispered.

She reached out and touched his arm. Her hand looked out of place there. “Do you want to pretend this never happened?”

“It happened because we both wanted it to happen. But you don't want me,” he said, without self-pity. “Trust me, your suitors in London are a much safer bet.”

“Don't play that old card with me. So you're in your late thirties, you have a limp, you need to brush your hair and learn some manners and a little patience; I can live with all of that. But I can't compete with a woman who's not around to play fair.”

At the mention of his wife, the air stilled around them. He glared at her, suddenly distant, the intimacy they had shared in the fort all but completely evaporated.

“You don't understand,” he began, closing his eyes as if to control his fury. “You're young. You know nothing about love.”

“If I don't understand, it's because you haven't explained it to me. You're right, I am young, but I know about love.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I do now. Because I realize the love I thought I felt before has been all about me. I want to run my fingers over your wounds and heal them. I want to kiss away the past and bring light and happiness to your future.”

He was disarmed by her candor. “You don't know me,” he said incredulously, a little afraid.

“But I love you regardless.” She gazed at him steadily, absolutely sure of herself. “I don't care about your past; it has nothing to do with me.”

“Oh, God,” he groaned. “It has everything to do with you.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, he touched her cheek with his rough and calloused hand, shaking his head in bemusement. “I don't know what to make of you,” he said.

She turned and kissed the palm of his hand. “I'm the light behind the door.” He looked at her in surprise. “You're in a dark place entirely of your own making.”

“I wish that were so. Good night, Celestria,” he said, leaning down and planting a lingering kiss on her forehead. Then he turned and walked away.

Cornwall

B
ack at Pendrift Hall, Archie and Julia waited anxiously for the car. It was a beautiful sunny day, so the house would be shown off to its best advantage. Wilfrid and Sam were at school, and little Bouncy had been sent to his grandmother's for the morning so that the prospective purchasers could look around in peace. The estate agent had valued it far higher than Archie had predicted, but neither of them wanted to sell. Archie had lost his temper, Julia had sulked, but they had both come to the conclusion that they were left no option. The debts had to be repaid. They were struggling to keep afloat. Neither had had the courage to tell Elizabeth.

Archie tried not to become sentimental. It was bricks and mortar, after all. Julia, however, couldn't help but cling to the memories of her boys' young lives that lingered in every corner, beneath every chair and table where they had played, in the gardens and down on the beach. The air still vibrated with their laughter and the laughter of their father and his siblings. She couldn't bear to tear her children away from the only home they had ever known. She knew she'd shatter their security. In an uncertain world, she wanted to give them that one certainty from which they would set off to make their own way. Whatever life threw at them, nothing would ever take away that magical foundation. Now, her hopes were dashed.

At last a silver Mercedes convertible drew up outside the Hall. Soames waited for them on the steps that led up to the front door. He stood stiffly in his black tailcoat and shiny shoes, rocking gently back and forth, holding his chin up so that he could peer down his nose in a supercilious fashion. Three people climbed out: Mr. Townley, the slick estate agent, in a pinstriped three-piece suit and tie, and Mr. and Mrs. Weavel, the prospective buyers, who Soames thought looked frightfully common.

Reluctantly he showed them into the hall, reeling at the sweet cologne that Mr. Weavel had clearly bathed in that morning, and apparently swallowed, too, for it seeped from every pore. Archie and Julia knew they had arrived, but remained seated in the drawing room, pretending to read the papers. Both were too nervous to read. Julia smoked her third cigarette of the morning while Archie rubbed his fingers over his mustache. They caught eyes as the sound of Soames's footsteps crossed the hall. Julia stubbed out her cigarette and Archie's fingers froze on the thatch of hair that had now been smoothed so much it shone.

“Come in,” called Archie in response to Soames's knock. The butler entered, looking as unhappy as they did.

“Mr. and Mrs. Weavel and Mr. Townley.” Archie folded his paper and stood up. Julia followed suit, throwing her newspaper onto the coffee table in the center of the room.

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” said Archie, extending his hand.

“You have a beautiful house,” simpered Mrs. Weavel, laying her hand limply in his like a dead pigeon. “It's everything I hoped it would be.”

“We have been very happy here,” replied Archie, aware that Julia was almost too distraught to speak. It was so out of character for her not even to manage a smile.

Mr. Townley shook hands firmly and with enthusiasm. This would be a big sale for him. The Weavels were very rich.

“Do you have children?” Julia asked, watching with indignation as Mrs. Weavel wandered about the drawing room in her tight little gray flannel suit and stilettos, peering into everything. Didn't she know they weren't selling the furniture?

“No, we don't,” she replied. “Paul and I don't really like children very much.” She laughed falsely, giving a little sniff and a shrug by way of an apology.

“This really is a family home,” Julia added with emphasis.

“Oh, goodness me, we're not going to live here ourselves,” Mrs. Weavel said. She looked at her husband, who chuckled at the absurdity of the idea. “No, didn't Mr. Townley tell you? We're going to turn it into a hotel.”

Julia glared at Archie. Archie looked away. What did it matter what they did to it?

“Why don't I show you around?” he suggested, striding into the hall. “It's a large house, and I'm sure you're busy people.”

Mr. and Mrs. Weavel followed him. Mr. Townley was put out. He'd rather have done the showing around himself. It was always easier to sell a property if the owners made themselves scarce.

Julia heard them talking in the hall. She remained standing with her hands clenched, wondering where she could go and hide. Those damned people were going to go into every room in the house. How dare they rifle through all her things, trample on her memories? She couldn't bear it. They didn't even like children. Mrs. Weavel was so arid Julia doubted her womb would be capable of conceiving, and Mr. Weavel was beyond belief with that disgusting scent. It made her eyes water, and, worse, it was already lingering in the soft furnishings. She'd have to open the windows the moment they had gone.

She sank onto the sofa and stared into the half distance. So this was to be a hotel? This beautiful drawing room would be a tacky lounge full of cigar-smoking strangers paying large amounts of money to taste a bit of history. She could imagine the crimson-and-gold-patterned carpets and tables of magazines. The thought of what they would do to the children's bedrooms was more than she could stand. She put her head in her hands and wept. If only Monty were alive, none of this would be happening. He would have thought of something.

After an hour Archie stepped into the hall, followed by a delighted Mr. Townley, rubbing his hands together with glee. The Weavels loved it. They adored the views. They'd have to cut down a few trees, of course, in order to accommodate the gazebo, and that pond would have to go, as would the little square lawn at the front of the house, because they'd need a car park for guests. There was plenty of space where the terrace stood for a conservatory. Mrs. Weavel was very fond of conservatories. “That way the guests can enjoy the garden even when it's raining,” she had said. Mr. Townley had commended her flair.

They stood in the hall, all smiling, except for Archie, whose expression was so pained it was more of a grimace than a smile.

“It's perfect,” gushed Mrs. Weavel, taking her husband's hand.

“I would like to make you an offer you can't refuse,” said Mr. Weavel. He was clearly the sort of man who liked to talk big. He expected Archie to look pleased. Archie looked miserable.

“You won't be sorry,” said Mr. Townley, breaking into a sweat. “It's a rare piece of England. A jewel, and it comes with the charming little town of Pendrift.”

“We appreciate that,” replied Mr. Weavel, puffing out his chest. “And our guests will appreciate that, too. It's a shame when these old houses are allowed to go to ruin because the grand families who live in them don't have the cash to maintain them. That's where we step in. We'd like to throw you a lifeline and rescue your house.” He glanced up at the pretty moldings on the ceiling and shook his head. “To think that this beautiful place has been hidden from view for three hundred years. Damn shame, if you ask me. Now it will be enjoyed by everyone.”

Archie's face grew redder and redder as he tried to contain his anger and humiliation. He had never been so insulted in his life. He focused on the debt and the offer they were about to make him and tried to ignore their oafishness.

Suddenly the sound of Bouncy's piping voice rang through the house, making Archie's heart leap. However, the feeling was short-lived, for holding the boy's hand was Elizabeth, her bottom lip protruding with fury.

The three visitors turned as Elizabeth Montague's large frame filled the door that led into the hall from the kitchen wing.

“Mother!” Archie exclaimed, looking aghast. “What are—”

“How dare you not inform me that you are intending to sell Pendrift! I have to find it out from my grandson.” She banged her stick on the floor, as if her furious face was not enough to convey her outrage. Bouncy stared up at his grandmother in wonder, for her ears had turned bright red.

“Please excuse me,” Archie said to the Weavels, hoping to usher Elizabeth into the drawing room. Like one of his stubborn heifers, she would not budge. “We were going to tell you once it was all settled,” he explained gently, through gritted teeth. Julia, who had heard the familiar boom of her mother-in-law's voice, hurried out into the hall. Suddenly, the appalled expression on Mrs. Weavel's perfectly made-up face made her want to scream with laughter. Soames, who was hiding in the pantry, heard everything and he, too, smiled to himself. With any luck, Elizabeth Montague would put off any buyer unfortunate enough to meet her.

Elizabeth turned on the visitors. “Do you know how long I have lived in Pendrift? Almost sixty years. Sixty years! Do you know how long my late husband, Ivan Montague, lived here? His whole life. This house has been in my husband's family for three hundred years. If you think I'm going to stand back and let a pair of upstarts snatch it from under my nose, you've got another think coming.”

Mr. Townley looked on the point of fainting. It was all too horrendous. The Weavels would never buy the place now.

“And you!” she glared at Mr. Townley, who visibly shrank with fright. “I don't want to see your face in this house again. Do you understand me? I may be old, but I'm a formidable opponent with my stick.” She banged it on the floor again to prove her point. Bouncy stuck his tongue out at Mrs. Weavel, who recoiled.

“Darling, we're leaving,” she said to her husband. Mr. Weavel remained rooted to the spot. “Right now!” she shrieked, making for the door.

Soames appeared out of nowhere to open it for them. He was unable to hide the pleasure that put a glow in his sallow cheeks. Mr. Townley said nothing. He followed Mr. Weavel, scurrying into the back of the car like a scalded rat. The wheels spun on the gravel for a moment as Mr. Weavel hit the accelerator with too much force. Then they were gone.

Julia began to cry with happiness. Without premeditating her actions, she ran over to Elizabeth and threw her arms around her. “I love you!” she cried. Elizabeth looked startled for a moment, but then her mouth twitched a little before breaking into a broad smile. Julia could feel her shaking beneath the hulk of her body.

“As if I would ever let anyone buy Pendrift. Over my dead body.” She would have hugged Julia back had it not been for Bouncy, who still held one hand, and the stick, which remained in the other. It felt good to smile, to feel her heart inflate with joy. She remembered that feeling now. How she had missed it.

“I'm ashamed, Mother,” said Archie, looking down at his feet.

“Are you in so much trouble?” she asked gently, hobbling over to him.

“I'm afraid we are,” he said, running his fingers over his mustache again.

“Then why didn't you come and talk to me?”

“We didn't want to upset you.”

“Codswallop. I'm more upset now than I've ever been.” She shook her head. “I love this house and everyone in it. This is where Wilfrid, Sam, and little Bouncy belong. They're Montagues, don't forget.” Bouncy looked pleased to be mentioned and ran off to jump on the sofas in the drawing room. Since Nanny had retired to a small cottage on the estate, he spent an awful lot of time springing about in the grown-up parts of the house. His mother was too kindhearted to tell him to stop, or perhaps it gave her pleasure to see him so happy. “I'm hurt that you felt you couldn't talk to me. Am I such a monster?”

“What are we going to do?” said Julia, looking anxious again.

“I don't know, my dear,” said Elizabeth, straightening up, ready for battle again. “But whatever it takes, we will not sell Pendrift. Something will turn up. We'll stand firm, and we'll never surrender. Your father would turn in his grave if he thought of this place passing into the hands of those clods, and it would just about finish me off. Actually,” she said, grinning sheepishly, “I think the excitement has given me another lease on life. Soames, a gin and tonic, please, and make it snappy. Let's go and sit in the drawing room. Where's Father Dalgliesh? It's about time he made a direct call to the Lord. We need a little divine intervention!”

Julia raised her eyebrows at her husband, who frowned back in bewilderment. He had never seen his mother in such good form.

 

Penelope, on the other hand, was not in good form. Lotty had run off with Francis Browne. She couldn't understand what had taken hold of her daughter that she would give up her future for the love of a man of no means. Talent was worth nothing if it didn't put food on the table. “One has to be realistic and keep one's feet on the ground,” she explained to Melissa, who was as shocked by the news as her mother.

She wasn't sure which upset her more: the fact that her sister had run off with a man, or that she hadn't let her in on the secret. The whole thing was compounded by Monty's death. Two disasters in one family were more than anyone should have to take.

“In this day and age it is far more important to be comfortable than to be in love. One can grow to love one's husband. I did. Milton and I are a picture of happiness.” (This wasn't entirely true, but she was terrified Melissa would copy her sister and run off with the dreaded Rafferty, who was almost as unsuitable as Francis Browne.) “Besides, all-consuming love really doesn't last. It's like a fire. It consumes everything in the first rush and then diminishes to embers. Friendship is more lasting and true. Poor Edward; he'll be devastated when he hears the news. Of course, if the whole thing blows up in her face, he won't have her back. No one will have her. I don't suppose she thought of that when she decided to run off with Mr. Nothing.”