"Wonderful," I answer, dragging a chunk of potato through the sauce on my plate. "Is it in Heraklion?"
"Well, there, too, but I thought we’d go to the one in Miklos, show the locals our faces after everything that has happened."
"Good idea," Daniel nods. "I must say, Briony, this lamb is abolutely delicious. Best Sunday roast in memory."
Briony beams as though she herself had anything to do with the preparation. "Thank you! Tuck in, but leave a bit of room, there’s apricot tart for afters."
CHAPTER 24
"Afters" as Briony called dessert, has done us in. Sated to the point of bursting, we break apart. Daniel to call Caspar’s father again, and Jeffrey to work. Judging by the sound of snoring echoing through the walls, this means, "to nap."
Briony and I settle in the sitting room. She begins to do some quick-fingered stitching on a white pillowcase, and I flick open a copy of
Evelina.
After a few moments where the only sound is that of dry pages being turned, Briony says, "Evie, what will you do when this is over?"
I lower the book onto my lap. "What do you mean?"
Briony hesitates, the fabric of her pillowcase creasing in her clenched fists. "Will you go back home? To London?" Her voice is calm, trying for a neutral tone. I know her too well though, noticing the twinge of ill-concealed anxiety.
"I wasn’t planning to. Not yet, at least. I don’t want to intrude though—"
"No, no!" She shakes her head with force, blonde waves bouncing above her narrow shoulders. "That isn’t what I meant at all. I just didn’t know whether you would want to stay after what has happened." Her eyes meet mine. "You left London to escape sad memories, and now you have been dragged into this miserable affair. It’s not the holiday I had in mind for you when I sent the invitation."
"Oh, Briony, of course not. No one was to know any of this would happen. However, it’s not the same as at home. Those memories claw at my heart. Caspar … well, I didn’t know him, did I? Don’t misunderstand, I am horrified at what happened to him, certainly I am, but his ghost does not haunt me. Do you understand?"
She nods, her face briefly brightened by a smile. "I hoped you would say so."
"I told you I would stay as long as you needed me, and meant it wholeheartedly." I squeeze her hand.
"With you and Daniel here, the house doesn’t feel so empty. It sounds like a terribly selfish reason to keep you here, but you know what I mean, don’t you, Evie?" I nod. The situation hasn’t brought Briony and Jeffrey closer together yet after all.
"Evie?" Briony bites her bottom lip, signifying something serious on her mind.
"What is it?"
She swallows, dragging out the moment before answering, "Will you come to Zaros with me tomorrow?"
"Zaros? I’ve never heard of it. Where is it?"
"A town nearby. The truth is …" her words trail off, and she looks at her lap where she is still holding onto the little pillowcase with white knuckled vigor.
"Yes?"
"I want to visit an orphanage."
This was not the response I had anticipated. In thruth, I do not know what I had expected her to say. Briony is ordinarily not one for scandals or great surprises.
"Don’t be shocked." Her lips are a pale thin line.
"I am not shocked, only a little surprised. Of course, I will go with you. Happily," I add.
"Really?" Relief floods her face, and traces of pink appear in her cheeks.
"Yes! Did you think I would not? Really, you ought to know me better. Tell me, how many children will we be returning with?"
Shaking her head she emits a mirthless laugh. "Oh Evie, I wish it were so simple." She leans back into the cushions, releasing the creased pillowcase with a sigh.
"Can’t it be?"
"Nothing is ever simple, Evelyn Carlisle, you should know by now."
"You must do what you think is right, Briony. What can be wrong with being happy?"
"It may come at the cost of my marriage?" She doesn’t look at me, speaking almost in a whisper.
"Would it?"
Another sigh, her eyes still somewhere near the ceiling.
"It is much harder than when we were children. We could easily convince ourselves that we would get everything we wanted when we were all grown up. We would be married to the most handsome men, our children would be best friends. Being happy was a basic assumption."
"We read too many fairy-tales."
"Little girls always read fairy-tales. Why do you think we were so mislead, sitting at home, while the boys went out shooting with their fathers?"
"They made us happy, Briony."
"Deluded and naive."
"We saw what we wanted to see. A princess, a prince, a happy ending. We ignored the fact that the witch and the wolf kept reappearing, or that the princess was the one to make the greatest sacrifices. We were not deluded, we were children." I pause, and when she does not respond I add, "And when, not if,
when
you have a daughter of your own, you will tell her the same stories we were told, because you will want her to believe in happy endings."
"I will." Briony says in a dreamy voice.
"It isn’t so bad here, is it?" I try to coax out a sense of contentedness. "The weather alone ought to give you reason to smile. You have had a lot to worry about lately. Life will calm down again, and I will still be here and so will Jeffrey."
"I know." She turns her head in my direction. "I should not complain, I have it so good in so many ways, it’s just …" She gives a little shrug, "everytime I have a moment of quiet, my mind turns back to the child I might have had. It is as though I have a chronic ache, a chronic emptiness, which nothing, no matter how wonderful, can fill."
"We will go to the orphanage tomorrow, only you must promise to do nothing rash. Jeffrey must be a part of the decision, whatever may come. He loves you, Briony, I know he does."
"Yes, but it isn’t enough. I am greedy, Evie, God help me, but it isn’t enough."
CHAPTER 25
The day drifts by with surprising speed. I read my book, take a long bath, join the others for dinner, and drop condentedly into my soft bed. All the while, Briony’s words echo in my mind. In truth, there is nothing to be done. Jeffrey is too traditional to accept an orphan into his family. It would embarass him, challenge his manliness, I believe, though I hope to be proven wrong. While I spoke the truth when saying he loved her, I doubt he is ready or even willing to make such a sacrifice. With these thoughts churning in my head, I somehow manage to drift off into a dreamless slumber.
A crow is sitting on the uppermost branch of a tree below my window, croaking nastily and dragging me unwillingly from my sleep. Yawning and stretching my arms toward the heavens—or rather the plaster ceiling—I climb out of bed. Making my way to the window, I rub the remnants of sleep from my eyes. There it is, blue-black and loud, its head with beady eyes turned pointedly towards me.
Surely, this is symbolic of something dire
. A black crow at dawn, or, as I am surprised to observe from my bedside clock, at eight in the morning, cannot be a good omen. Perhaps I should simply crawl back into bed. A tempting thought.
With a sigh I abandon it and think instead of the plan Briony has drawn me into. An orphanage.
I am an orpahn, too
. I have a strong desire to stay here, rooted, not moving, to pretend I am ill, to feign a cold as unlikely as that would be. I do not want to go. I do not want to meet these parentless children. I do not want to feel helpless and small as I know I will. But I told her I would go with her, and so I must. Only for Briony.
I open the wardrobe, and after some rumaging decide on a plain white dress with thin blue stripes running down its length. An attached belt in the same fabric ties low on my hips. There. I look into the mirror, seeing a familiar young woman looking back at me. Slim and on the tall side, a wavy auburn bob that could use a trim, tense shoulders, a wary look in stormcloud gray eyes. That’ll do. No jewelry. No adornments. Only me.
As I come down the stairs, Jeffrey rushes from the library, clutching a stack of creased and disorderd papers. "Oh, Evie, morning. I must dash, late already. There’s a meeting of museum directors I cannot miss."
"Have a good day."
He nods and hurries past me, out of the door. Moments later, I hear the now familiar rumble of the Delage’s engine and the sound of the tires running over the gravelly drive.
Briony is still at breakfast, a very old copy of
Vogue
spread over Jeffrey’s empty space on the table.
"Hello," I say, gently squeezing her shoulder as I enter and take my usual seat.
"Good morning." Briony looks up from the paper, excited anticipation putting a glow into her cheeks.
As I pour myself a cup of the strong and fragrant coffee, Niobe bustles in, carrying an empty tray. Her face is pale, her skin waxy. I have heard pregnant women can suffer from illhealth, perhaps she is one of them. Briony still doesn’t know.
"Can I get you anything else, Miss Carlisle?" Niobe inquires, attempting a smile, but only managing a pained expression.
"No, nothing at all. There is so much here, it could feed a small country."
With a distinctly relieved expression, she disappears again.
"Shall we leave in an hour?" Briony asks, handing me a plate of warm rolls and following it with a tub of butter. She is clearly in a hurry to get me fed and ready.
"Yes, that sounds fine." I butter one of the rolls and drizzle it with a generous stream of golden honey. "Where is Daniel? Has he left with Jeffrey?"
"No, he called the police again this morning, quite early, and was told he could begin arraging the funeral. I believe he is going to talk to Caspar’s father and sort things out."
"Oh." I do not know what else to say. Poor Daniel. Hopefully though, a funeral will give him some closure, so he can move on with his life.
Will he leave Crete afterwards?
I wonder. The idea stirs in me a distressing sensation, and I am quick to push it aside.
"It is awful, to be sure," Briony goes on, dipping the edge of her toast into her tea, a habit she has fostered since childhood. "But he is not alone, at least."
"No," I agree, taking a small bite, "he isn’t."
Breakfast passes, during which we speak of nothing of much importance, unless the topic of acquiring the "simply darling" little Chanel jacket found in
Vogue
can be classified as such.
Claiming it will only take me a moment to wash up and grab a purse and hat so we can be on our way, I dash upstairs, brush my teeth, grab my things and am out of the door when I nearly collide with Daniel. as he emerges from his room.
"Oh! Sorry," I cry. Sorry indeed. He looks drained; his handsome face hollow as the faint stubble of an unshaven chin casts further shadows.
"My fault." He tries a faint smile with little success.
"Briony told me you spoke to the police." My eyes search his, but they reveal nothing.
"Yes," he nods, hands in pockets. "I’m arranging the funeral."
"I hope you know you can depend on us for any help you might need. I understand he was your friend, but you mustn’t shoulder this alone."
His mouth remains impassive, but his eyes crinkle ever so slightly at the edges. "Thank you, I will."
"Good."
"Evie!" Briony’s shout is a boulder thrown into a placid lake, and both Daniel and I startle.
"Coming," I call back. "Briony is waiting for me," I quickly explain. "We’re going out for a few hours."
"I won’t keep you."
"Right, goodbye." I nod quickly and squeeze past, perceiving the aura of sadness emanating from him and feeling a pang of guilt for leaving.
Downstairs, Briony is fully dressed in a blouse and wide white trousers. Her shoes are flat, peeking out from the hem of her pants.
"Ready?" She asks, impatience in her voice.
I secure my wide-brimmed hat atop my head as we take out the bicyles. "Ready."
Zaros is only two miles away and slightly inland in a surprisingly green valley. The ride is pleasant, the day still cool, and a breeze gently embraces us while we make our way along the dry dirt road.
The orphanage is located on the outskirts, and we have to pedal down the main street through town to reach it. The buildings have suffered from greater wear than those in Miklos. Crumbling stones and chipped paint a common sight. Still, it possesses its own sort of charm, in the same way old places everywhere do. The people we encounter look friendly and pay us little heed. It is Monday, market day, and two women on bicycles, foreigners though we may be, are not a very exciting distraction.
The orphanage is marked by a single sign in Greek, which I am pleased to note I can read, "Orphanage of St. Christopher"
.
The gates are rudimentary at best, and we glide over much-trodden ground without being questioned. Only at the front door, a massive and sturdy set of oak-wood planks, a voice asks for our names.