"You look very beautiful, Miss Carlisle." She looks pleased, adding softness to the elegant angularity of her face.
"Please, do call me Evie," then, remembering Yannick’s response, "well, at least when it’s the two of us." Niobe nods understanding, and I brush down the skirt of my dress and head to the door. "Wish me luck."
CHAPTER 4
The pale yellow silk dress I am wearing, one of the few pieces having survived the journey unrumpled, happens to be one of my favorites. I bought it on a weekend trip to Paris with Briony and her mother shortly before she left and have worn it only twice since! Around my wrist dangles my grandmother’s diamond bracelet, one of the few items of jewelry I took with me from London and the only one, aside from my parents’ wedding bands, I truly treasure.
As I climb down the broad wooden stairs, I can already hear amplified voices coming from the hall below. Cheerful and masculine. A tiny shiver of excitement mingled with anxiety runs down my spine, and I cling to the solid bannister. It has been a long time since I was at a party of any kind without the watchful eye of my aunt or some other chaperone keeping me perfectly in line. Which is not to say I am white as a bride’s veil. There might have been a kiss snuck in, here or there. I am no nun, and this is 1925, after all. One learns to adapt.
My sandals make a light clicking noise as I reach the bottom landing and step into the marble foyer. Following the sounds of chatter and laughter, I make my way in the direction of the main drawing room, a flutter of nerves, the proverbial butterflies busily flitting about in my stomach. Before entering, I carefully smooth the front of my dress and take a deep breath. Shoulders back, I cross the threshold. For a moment, no one notices the addition to their company, and they keep chattering happily. Quickly, I scan the room, taking in the figures of two tall men, one dark the other fair-haired. Jeffrey detects my presence just as I am about to launch into the old, but reliable
cough-to-gain-get-attention
routine. An inaudible sigh of relief escapes me. I am ususally not the socially awkward type, but I feel a bit out of my depth in this den of testosterone.
"Ah, Evelyn!" He walks towards me, offering a welcoming arm. I could embrace him! "Come and meet the lads." The other men turn around as Jeffrey leads me to them. Briony was right in her assessment.
They are handsome
. Both look deeply suntanned, presumably from hours aboard a yacht with their new lady-friends. The tone of their skin offers a prominent contrast to the crisp whiteness of their starched shirts. "This is Daniel Harper," Jeffrey gestures at the dark haired man who nods at me and smiles without opening his mouth, "and this scoundrel is Caspar Ballantine. May I present my cousin, Lady Evelyn Carlisle. Evie, I’ve invited them both to stay for as long as they like, and I do hope they’ll behave like gentlemen." As he says this, Jeffrey claps Caspar on the back in a gesture of warning reproach.
"I can assure you, we shall do our best," Caspar replies in a distinctly Etonian drawl as he gives a small bow.
Did he just wink at me?
His pale hazel eyes sparkle with mischief in the low light. The room is aglow in the light of numerous yellow candles in simple, elegant silver candlesticks. A warm, pleasant radiance illuminates the broad, even panes of Caspars clean-shaven face, only faintly revealing the pale pink line of a scar between his left eyebrow and hairline. His hair tells of long exposure to the sun and gleams the color of honey streaked with paler strands.
I look around, pleased by what I see. Briony has always had good taste, and this house, her new home, has clearly given her an outlet to showcase it. Speak of the devil! Briony glides through the doorway floating in a delicate seafoam green dress that I could swear is this season’s Lanvin.
"Evie, darling," She joins our little group arms outstretched, a gesture echoing that of her husband. Pecking my cheek, she turns to the couple that has followed her into the room. Both are fair-haired and tall. On first sight they are, perhaps, no beauties in the traditional sense, but their faces have a pleasent openess worth more than a strong jaw or a high brow.
Briony ushers them forward like a little mother hen, her pink cheeks matching the color of the womans dress. "This is Paul Vanderheyden," she gestures at the man, "and his lovely wife Rosie. Paul, Rosie, my cousin Evelyn Carlisle, and you’ve met Daniel and Caspar, of course." The men nod at each other, and I offer a modest smile. I am glad she leaves out my title. I do not want everyone here to think of me as English aristocracy. Nor does the new Evie necessarily want to be a lady, come to think of it …
Briony places a hand on Paul’s arm to draw him and his wife closer to us. "Paul works with Jeffrey for his research at the museum. Imagine they’ve come all the way from Amsterdam!" She beams brightly, clearly relishing the role of hostess in her own little castle.
Paul holds out a hand and I take it. He has a kind face and a wiry frame. I have a brief flash of what he must have looked like in youth, a very gangly boy, all elbows and knees, and everyone’s friend. Behind his thick-rimmed spectacles, I feel the glimmer of intelligent eyes observing me.
"Very nice to meet you, Mr. Vanderheyden, Mrs. Vanderheyden." I reach out my right hand so that I might shake hers, but she doesn’t react, standing mutely beside her husband. I pull back my hand, feeling gauche and slightly rejected. Did I do something wrong? Rosie’s face is blank. There is a moment’s awkward silence until Briony, thank heavens, launches us into conversation.
"Rosie, went to school in England, didn’t you, my dear." Briony pats Rosie’s shoulder as if she was a child though Briony must be a decade her junior. Still no reaction. Briony chatters on, as a blush creeps up Paul’s pale neck. He is clearly feeling uneasy about his wife’s behavior. There seems to be something wrong with her. I dare not stare, but cannot keep myself from tossing an occasional glance at her, watching for any signs of reaction or involvement in the conversation. Nothing comes. She smiles benignly at us, yet doesn’t utter a word. Caspar and Daniel don’t seem to notice anything amiss and wander off to fetch everyone drinks.
Rosie, nearly matching her husband in height, is of a robust build with muscled calves above her sandaled feet, and broad shoulders tinged a painful sunburnt pink. She wears her gleaming daffodil-yellow hair in an unfashionably long braid, which suits her broad face nicely and gives her, in my eyes at least, the distinctive appearance of a Germanic warrior princess.
Brunhild
, I think, referring to the fierce woman of the
Nibelungenlied
. Brunhild loses her strength eventually, becoming the humilated pawn in the games of men. Hmm … maybe not Rosie’s ideal, then. Paul seems a nice enough fellow, and it shoudl be noted that my imagination can go rampaging down many a wrong path at the best of times. I am eager to know what on earth is the matter with this, to all outward appearances, hale and healthy woman.
We chat for a while longer until the arrival of more guests. Niobe leads he local doctor and his wife, Nikolas and Laria Zarek into the room, brandishing a bottle of ouzo for their hosts. Nikolas is a bit older than his pretty wife—certainly over forty is my guess. Streaks of grey dapple his otherwise thick black hair and the crinkly lines at the corners of his eyes indicate a life lived with laughter, which immediately endears him to me and leads me to believe he will be good company. He is not tall, but well-built with a wide chest and shoulders. He carries himself with a certain self-possessed confidence and natural grace, which surely must have appealed to Laria as might his rather unusual flare for style. Nikolas wears an impeccably tailored jacket with a forest green silk cravat, for my taste a little too much of a good thing.
His young wife is a striking creature, slender and dark, exuding an air of mystery. They make a handsome couple indeed.
Laria tells me, in her low, melodiously accented voice that she, too, has visited London. As she says this, her nose wrinkles. "It was not for me," she comments diplomatically, giving me the clear impression that she has a much less dipolomatic opinion of our capital. "So much cold. So many people. I missed the sea. The river …" she grimaces as if the thought of the Thames’ murky depths is too much to contemplate, and shakes her head. "No, I was happy when I came back to Crete."
"It certainly is beautiful here, though if you ever go back to England," as I say this, I know she will not, "you might enjoy a trip to the coast. Cornwall is beautiful, and you can walk along the sea for miles."
"Yes," she says, drawing out the last letter, "perhaps I will."
As we continue our conversation, I learn that she studied to be a nurse, in spite of her parent’s objections.
"I have my own head, you know, Evelyn?" She taps her temple as if to prove her point. "And that is how I met my husband." Laria beams at him and touches his shoulder.
"My great fortune," he says, dutifully patting her hand, which has come to rest tucked in the crook of his elbow, where it seems to belong like a piece in a puzzle.
The last to arrive is the museum curator, Darius Calandra, a close friend and colleague of both Jeffrey and Paul. He is a small man, especially standing beside the other men of the party, particularly Paul, who dwarfs us all. His neat features and dark hair do little to distinguish him, but there is something about him, something I cannot quite put my finger on, prompting me think one ought not underestimate the man. How does the saying go,
don’t judge a book by its cover.
Somehow or other, I am left alone with him, Briony having run off to check on the progress in the kitchen and the other men refreshing their drinks. I cannot see either Rosie or Laria, so I assume they must have gone to freshen up themselves. It’s all right, I do not mind. For some reason Darius inspires a sense of peace in me, and I feel more at ease than I did in the larger group of strangers a moment ago.
In a soft voice he quickly, though humbly, reveals himself to be a treasure trove of information. He knows everything there is to know about the history of the island and Miklos, his hometown, in particular. All my life I have been drawn to stories, real or fictional, like a moth to a flame. My earliest memories are of my mother’s lively voice telling the story of poor Cinderalla, or the cunning Shaherazade, filling my mind with images so vivid I felt certain they were real. I listen now as I did then, welcoming Darius’ anecdotes and tales with rapt attention.
Soon the others rejoin us. I am calmer, and even Rosie’s blank-eyed stare does not manage to unsettle me. Jeffrey and Darius have been working together for some time now, examining a new excavation site, which has produced the most wonderfully preserved sculptures and relics that have been found in the area in nearly a hundred years. It is a tremendous success for the museum and one of the reasons for Jeffrey’s presence here.
Jeffrey took a degree in archaeology at Cambridge before the war and was thrilled to have been offered this position even though Briony, at the time, was less so. As I look at them now, standing side by side, I think the change of scenery has done them good. Briony’s cheeks are flushed and Jeffrey appears well rested and content. Now only the sound of children’s feet running around in this large house remains sadly absent. But is is early days.
After Niobe returns and whispers discreetly in Briony’s ear, we are gently ushered to the beautiful candlelit table and sit down to eat. Hungry now, I am looking forward to the meal, if those delicious smells wafting in from the kitchen are anything to go by.
To my delight, I am seated next to Darius and Daniel, with Briony across from me between Jeffrey and Laria. As Niobe fills our glasses with the palest golden wine, Darius explains that he came here straight from the museum where he had been authenticating a new set of sculptures. He appears a little nervous, but visibly excited, his dark eyes flickering with enthusiasm behind thin-rimmed glasses.
“I now believe,” he tells a rapt audience, “we have unearthed an ancient temple site dedicated to the cult of Dionysus. Can you believe it?” He smiles brightly, like a child that has been given a new and shiny toy. “This is most unusual. The temple, it appears, was never finished. In fact,” he pauses, perhaps for dramatic effect, “we have found burn marks, and one wall is entirely smashed in. Violently. We believe it was attacked, but not pillaged as so many relics remain. Most fascinating, isn’t it?”
"Do you suppose it was damaged two years ago when the Turks were forced to leave?" asks Daniel, leaning forward to better see the man as he replies.
"I don’t think so." Darius’ brow creases and shakes his head. "The Turks, most of them, were Greek-speakers, you know. Some married native Cretans. There were even Cretans who converted to Islam. The divide was, at least here on our island, not always black and white. I am still in contact with some of my Turko-Cretan friends, who were exchanged in 1924. If they have lived here half their lives, raised their children here, they become your neighbors and friends, not the enemy. Crete is a place many choose as a new home." The words are uttered as simple fact, yet I feel their truth resonating in my own mind. Taking a slow, savoring sip of the cool wine, he continues, "You see, we have many Greek refugees seeking the chance to make new lives here after having been forced out of Asia Minor. That was a terrible business, but we will recover. I am confident of this."
There is a moment of silence as the people seated around the oval table, ruminate upon this. Most of us, I realize, tossing a fleeting look at my fellow diners, in a way are refugees. Naturally, I could not possibly compare my situation to that of the poor and frightened families seeking safety and prosperity here after having lost their homes due to the tribulations of the Balkan Wars. Yet one way or the other, Crete has become our sanctuary, and we must make of that what we can. It is Briony who breaks the, uncomfortable silence and asks if anyone is ready for the second course.