Authors: Roberta Latow
Sami had spoken up, not for Cressida nor Carol but for Byron. Sami’s religious beliefs simply could not allow Byron to die with such evil spirits whirling around him. When Sami opened his eyes and gazed into Carol’s, he gave her a grateful smile. ‘Thank you, Carol. I will
remember you all my life for rising above yourself to do this for a dying man. Just show him love. It will reach him, and finally peace and love will take him over to the other side.’
Carol, though far from calm or happy about it, did at least understand Sami Chow. She took another sip of the Sambuca he had poured and then handed the glass back to him. ‘You’re better than Cressida deserves. She doesn’t even understand how much you love her, no more than her father understood how much I loved him. How much we want them to love us.’
She rose from the settee, Sami followed. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it. ‘Thank you.’
It was then, as she was turning round to leave the room, that she saw Cressida standing in the doorway. Carol walked directly to her. ‘I have always thought Sami to be a handsome and attractive man, Cressida. But I had not understood that he was also a very wise and understanding one. You are very, very stupid. I am going to Byron now and I would appreciate it if we could share this duty in three-hour shifts. In our own different ways, you and I, we will see him out. Sami’s suggestion. I don’t think we need speak, just pretend that the other does not exist.’ And she brushed past her step-daughter.
‘Come on,’ Sami said, placing an arm round Cressida. ‘Let’s go back to the Gritti. You can bathe and change, we’ll have some breakfast.’
‘I can’t leave Byron.’
‘Yes, you can. We’ll be back in three hours.’
‘But what if he dies without me?’
‘We’ll tell the doctors and the nurses and his man Hyram where we are, and they’ll see to it that if there is any change in his condition someone will come for you.’
‘If we could only get him home, Sami.’
‘Forget it, Cressida. It’s no longer an issue. Later you’ll bring him home.’
Within hours the entire household was aware of the change Sami had wrought. Carol ordered that the heavy silk velvet draperies in Byron’s room be thrown open. Light poured into the magnificent eighteenth-century room that still bore its original Chinoiserie wallpaper, hand painted on a silver ground. The four poster bed, impressive for its carved angels and still bearing its original draperies, seemed an alien place for Byron Vine’s final sleep. The sunny master bedroom at Hollihocks and the Queen Anne four poster he was born in were more suited to this very American New Englander, and yet fate had chosen this bed and Venice for him.
Carol Vine, famed for being the efficient manager of Byron’s life and his households, in control of herself now, conferred in a more sane and
rational way with the medical staff in attendance. The drips and machines, all the frightening modern medical paraphernalia were on her orders removed from the room, save for a small tube of oxygen that helped Byron’s breathing and the catheter that took care of his bodily functions. The tank stood behind a Venetian screen of tooled leather; the medicines were put away in drawers. She and the nurse arranged large soft feather pillows covered in champagne-coloured silk and lace behind Byron’s shoulders. The nurse drew him up against them, and Hyram, who had been shaving Byron and cutting his hair for thirty years, was called in to attend him. Carol stood by and watched the valet at work. Still handsome but a shadow of himself, Byron was nevertheless the man she had wanted, had chased after and won, the man she adored. He was still her man. She sat down and took his hand in hers.
Byron was very weak, and had already drifted very far away. He could speak, but when he did it was barely above a whisper and always about Hollihocks or the
Sea Hawk
, about another time and another place. He was drifting back in time as he was drifting away from life.
He seemed less distressed now that the medical technology had been removed from the room. He even feebly raised his hand to the sunlight streaming through the windows, as if trying to warm it. Some sort of dignity had been restored to him. He squeezed Carol’s hand. She knew her husband well, he was telling her how grateful he was. She knew that the end was soon to come when he whispered, ‘There are no easy exits.’
That prompted her to speak to him about love, her great love for him, what it meant to her to be part of his life. ‘Everything I did, the good and the bad, was for you, my love. For you.’
The room was now filled with fresh flowers, bowls of fruit, music. The reflection of the sun on the water projected lazy moving patterns on the walls. Byron was dying but everything ugly, all the hatred, the tension and sadness of the occasion, had somehow been made to vanish from his sight. The nurse sat in the far corner of the room watching, waiting for the least little sign of distress from her patient, and marvelled at the change in him and the two women who had caused so much anxiety to an already untenable situation.
The hours passed, and then the days, and Byron was kept from his pain by the needle, and by the tranquil aura that seemed to have settled in the room. He appeared to be more at ease in himself, having rallied to the positive energy that had entered the bedchamber. The love that need no longer be qualified by either of these two warring women, their truce a gesture, their last gift to him, he accepted gratefully.
For the last hour of his life Cressida and Carol were there by his bedside, both at the same time. Just before the end came, Byron
seemed to gather his diminished strength, even his voice was stronger. He spoke, but not to them. ‘Rosemary, I found the note. Fate cheated you. The goddess Chance looked upon Cressida. Leaving me with nothing, no part of you, was that your legacy to me? To take all your children with you to a watery grave? Thwarted, thankfully. A dastardly, selfish and cruel thing. Evil, to snuff out the boys’ lives.’ Only Cressida heard him speaking to her long dead mother. Carol at the time was on the far side of the room, talking to the nurses and the doctor.
Cressida was horrified. Her father had apparently always known Rosemary had murdered her sons and taken her own life, but had kept it secret, even from her. They had been father and daughter, supposedly living in a relationship of love and trust. Not so, apparently. They had lived with that enormous secret between them. Had she always known in her heart what had really happened? How many other people knew? And why, she wondered, did she feel such a sense of betrayal.
Cressida was ashen. Turning, Carol saw at once that something had happened. Had she missed something important? She rushed to Byron’s bedside. ‘What did he say? Did he call for me? What is it, Byron? I’m here. Speak to me. It’s Carol.’
His eyes were open and there were tears streaming from them. Carol grabbed his hand and kept repeating, ‘It’s Carol, Byron. Tell me you love me, darling.’ Her hysteria was rapidly escalating. She began to shout, over and over again, ‘Tell me you love me, darling.’
‘Please, Carol, stop. Please, leave him be.’ Cressida had placed a hand on her arm, trying to stop her pulling at Byron. She snatched herself away. The doctor and nurse came across the room at a run to calm Carol. Cressida sat down silent, filled with despair.
The doctor took Byron’s pulse. He shook his head and placed Byron’s hand gently on the lace-trimmed sheet. The nurse removed the slim tube of oxygen. For one last time Byron was just able to move the fingers of his hand. They were searching for Cressida. She took his hand in hers and lowered her head and kissed it. ‘Cressy.’ He was just barely audible. ‘Hollihocks, we can go home to Hollihocks together now.’
It was a massive effort for him. Appalled, Carol rose from her chair and turned her back on her husband. Cressida rose and sat on the bed next to Byron and rested her head on his chest. Her tears stained his silk nightshirt. She remained there for some minutes before she raised her head again to kiss his lips and then his cheeks and eyes. A faint pressure on her hand from Byron, and his life ebbed away.
Neither Cressida nor Carol needed confirmation of death from the doctors. They knew Byron was gone and retreated from the four poster bed to stand near the window. Cressida turned to see the nurse draw
the sheet over his face. She gasped as Carol announced, ‘He will never go back to Hollihocks.’
Cressida’s last words to her step-mother before she left the room were: ‘Never is a very long time.’ Tears streamed uncontrollably down her face, but she walked away with dignity.
Now she gave a deep sigh. It had been a long time since she had thought about that dreadful scene in Venice. Here in the sun, watching the
Sea Hawk
lower her last sail, the memories resembled a far off dream. She had come a long way since then. It had taken a long time and she had had a hard fight but the
Sea Hawk
was home. And so was she.
The large crew worked swiftly and efficiently. The gardeners, a stable lad and the boatman arrived on the dock. They caught the mooring lines and secured the
Sea Hawk
. People seemed to appear from nowhere to welcome home the Vines’ yacht. She was the pride of Hollihocks, but she was more than that to New Cobham. She was a legend who had brought back silver sailing trophies for the town. An heroic vessel known up and down the Cape and well-respected in the sailing world.
Cressida’s happiness kept gathering momentum. She felt wild with joy. All these surprises: Kane, the
Sea Hawk
, the pride and affection and loyalty of those who worked at Hollihocks. Carlos, too.
It had been he who had arranged the
Sea Hawk
’s return. Carlos, who had never seen Hollihocks. Standing on the dock, Cressida was counting her blessings. Carlos, Sami, Byron and even Kane had all added so much to her life in one way or another. To the euphoria she was feeling this day.
The captain appeared and some of the crew. There were handshakes all round and a great deal of laughter.
‘You’re a fantastic surprise. I didn’t expect you for a month,’ Cressida told him.
‘It was a ploy. We did our best to be here the morning you took possession of your house. Mr Arriva only pretended the sailing date was delayed because of crew problems. He was adamant about surprising you. And here we are, from the Lagoon in Venice straight to Amiable Bay.’
The captain handed her a letter from Carlos. She placed it in her pocket and took a tour of the
Sea Hawk
. In the master cabin, she sat down and retrieved her letter, clasping it to her heart before she opened the envelope and read it. The
Sea Hawk
’s return was a house gift, that and the painting wrapped and waiting for her in the yacht’s galley. The other papers were an exhumation certificate, and authorisation to ship Byron Vine’s remains back to New Cobham. Just one phone call and
Byron could come home to be buried with his ancestors in the little cemetery in the churchyard in town. His last wish would be fulfilled.
A party for the crew? Impossible. The house was not put together yet, everyone was still working flat out, it was just too much to ask. But something had to be done. The return of
Sea Hawk
, its second crossing of the Atlantic. It was a big thing, there must be a celebration. Hell, yes. They would have their party. But on the
Sea Hawk
and in the boathouse. Anyone who wanted to come to Hollihocks for the return of the
Sea Hawk
was welcome. Open house, Cressida told the staff to pass the word in town. Nothing grand or formal, anyone and everyone welcome.
Mrs Cosgrove and Mrs Timms seemed excited by the idea but confused as how to handle a party under the circumstances. The excuses flew past Cressida fast and furiously. She shot them down. The telephones were their last excuse. Oh, yes, Carol had had them removed as well. The cook and the housekeeper knew they were defeated when Cressida waved a cordless phone and told them, ‘Not to worry, ladies. We must start as we mean to go on. Happy times. We’ll bring in outside catering.’
Again the two women looked dismayed. Shock, horror, there had never been outside catering at Hollihocks!
‘I’ll call the Clam Shack.’
Cook looked as if she were about to faint. Mrs Timms merely appalled.
‘Such an extravagance, outside catering,’ she weakly muttered.
‘Ladies, we are not equipped to handle this any other way.’
‘Don’t do it then,’ suggested Mrs Timms.
‘Not an option, sorry,’ replied Cressida. ‘Call the Clam Shack, tell them we want a real old-fashioned clam bake. Fires on the beach, the lot. And I leave the rest to you. Not tonight, tomorrow night. That should give everyone plenty of time. Talk among yourselves, and with the crew, and if then you all decide against it, let me know.’
With that Cressida walked away. From the dock, she dropped down on to the beach. Carlos, the remarkable Carlos. The thought of him kept rolling over and oyer in her mind as she walked along the shore. The very thought of him, her longtime complex lover, her benefactor, her friend, brought a smile to her lips. Once more she clasped his letter to her heart and then to her lips. She climbed on to the sand dunes. It felt good, the crystals of warm, white sand slipping between her toes. Cressida sat down. Drawing her knees up, she wrapped her arms round them. There she sat for a long time drinking in the beauty of Amiable Bay and gathering it into her soul. Listening to the sound of the sea lapping the shore, the distant calls of gulls as they followed a
New Cobham fishing boat across the bay. A blue sky, a bright sun, a glorious day. It was all hers.
Cressida shielded her eyes with her hand and scanned her new world. She had much to be thankful for and not least the men in her life. She had survived their love and their lust to rise again for a new day.
‘You don’t mind?’
‘No, I’ve told you, I don’t mind at all. You and Tommy go off.’
‘But that leaves you here, all alone in Paris.’
‘You know being alone never bothers me.’
‘Anyone else would be furious at our running off and deserting you. The three of us did plan this Paris holiday together after all.’
‘Look, don’t be silly, Victoria. If I had a chance to go away with an old aunt on a week’s jaunt to Petra, I’d go.’
‘You only call me Victoria when you’re upset with me.’
‘OK, Vicki. And I’m not upset with you.’
‘If my parents found out we went with her, they’d be real angry. You know, the family feud sort of thing. You won’t say anything to them?’
‘Why would I? Have I ever, when you’ve made those other trips or spent the night with her? Haven’t I always covered up for you? Now don’t be silly. See you back at school.’
Victoria Beacon-Phipps all but sprang out of her chair and rushed round the small café table to kiss Cressida on the cheek. The Beacon-Phippses were the family Cressida had lacked since the death of her mother and brothers. Since prep school she and Vicki had been best friends who confided everything to each other. Holidays and weekends, when Cressida was not away somewhere with her father, she borrowed the Beacon-Phipps family life to play with as her own. Two years before, Tommy, Vicki’s brother, who was four years older than her, had fallen in love with Cressida and they had been a steady item ever since. Now Cressida watched her boyfriend and best friend walk away from her in the Brasserie Lipp, through the glass door into a Parisian summer rainstorm.
She felt an acute sense of loss. An utter loneliness. It drove her from the warmth and camaraderie into the street. The rain was incessant. Walking the streets of St Germain was one of the great fun things in life. Every small shop had a charm of its own, every art gallery, café, boutique, artist’s materials emporium, cobbler’s, restaurant or bookshop, appeared to be some intimate experience that had to be explored. Cressida shrugged off her loneliness.
She looked up at the sky and wondered when a little summer rain had turned into a dark storm. It was not so late in the day but was nevertheless dark enough for the street lamps to be switched on, and for shops to glow with soft yellow incandescent lamplight. People were huddling in small seventeenth – and eighteenth-century doorways and the narrow street was jammed with twentieth-century traffic. Horns sounded angrily and people under large black silk umbrellas were hurrying along. Everyone in Paris seemed as if they had a place to go, something to see, someone to meet, except Cressida. Walking the streets, she felt incredibly alone, a foreigner in a foreign land. An unpleasant feeling. That too she shrugged off. If you were Byron’s daughter and came from
Mayflower
stock, self-pity was something to be shrugged aside.
Cressida wiped the rain from her face and stepped briskly into a doorway to avoid the splashes from a car that, miraculously, was able to move several feet up the Rue de Seine. A couple, arms wrapped round each other, made room for her. Cressida watched the young man kiss his woman. She longed for a kiss of her own. She removed her beret and squeezed the water from it. She and the couple watched it drip on to her shoes. The three in the doorway shrugged their shoulders. Cressida shook out the black beret then replaced it and stepped back on to the pavement and into more torrents of rain.
She was wearing a Burberry with its collar turned up, and shoes that would be ruined and would have to be thrown in the rubbish before this day ended. She should have been warm enough because these were the last days of summer, but a cold wind had come with the storm. She shivered, but was determined that a slight chill and a rainstorm would not prevent her from enjoying window shopping on the Rue de Seine, one of the great joys of Paris.
It was difficult to forget the happiness of the kissing couple. It lingered with her while she was looking at a window exhibiting African art. Fleeting visions of them in bed in some small room, naked, having sex, merged with her scrutiny of tribal masks.
Lovers on a summer’s afternoon in Paris … could there be anything more romantic or exciting than that? Cressida was good at laughing at herself. She did now. Eighteen years old and starved for romance, for sex, for a Mr Right to come along and sweep her off her feet. Pathetic, she told herself, and relegated that too to the back of her mind, and got on with window shopping.
The weather no longer mattered to her, nor did the chaos of Paris in the rain. Unlike the more sensible shoppers, she ignored it and took her time cruising the shop windows. She was reminded of what Byron
told her once when they were in Paris together on one of their many holidays without her step-mother: ‘A city of shopkeepers and philosophers, restaurants and tourists. I never knew a
parisien
who was not a tourist in his own city.’ It brought a smile to her lips now.
She approached another brightly lit art gallery. It looked pristine, vibrant and exciting, contrasting with the darkness in the street. On an easel in the window was a single painting. She was quite bowled over by it. She stood squarely in front of it. Her heart skipped a beat and then raced madly. The painting was dynamically exciting. Every brush stroke seemed to be pulsating with life. The colours, pure and bold and rich, seemed to wrap themselves round Cressida and draw her into the canvas.
A Picasso, from one of his best periods. A nude reclining body with long black wavy hair, a sensuous face, enormous breasts whose aureoles and nipples were large and pronounced, the dark rich red of a damask rose. Her legs were open, proudly displaying her hugely exaggerated genitals, plump thighs and strong legs with succulent toes. She was all things voluptuous, female, the seductress
par excellence
. Coming at her was the Minotaur, the Cretan monster with the bull’s head and a man’s body, virile, handsome, masculine beyond Cressida’s imagination of how erotic a man could be.
The huge powerful bull’s head had black curly hair and a hedonistic expression. She could hardly see him as a beast, so human was the look in his eyes. His hunger for the reclining woman was revealed on his lips, flared in his nostrils. There was passionate rage in the Minotaur’s face; it rippled in every muscle of his body. The massive erect phallus he was displaying throbbed with expectation. His head was lowered, straining forward from the huge muscled neck, massive strong shoulders. This man-beast was going down between the lady’s legs. He was diving into cunt. It was fantastic, thrilling.
Cressida’s heart pumped faster. She was sexually awake and yearning to be that reclining woman. If she could have one painting and only one, forever, it would be
that
painting. She was seduced by it as she had never been seduced by anything before. She felt as if she were laying down her life for one moment’s bliss. She knew this was real lust, real sexuality, not playtime with Tommy Beacon-Phipps who God knows had tried enough times to convince her he was her Minotaur, and had failed.
People were passing round her on the narrow pavement, some having to step into the gutter. She was jostled by a chic lady with several glossy coloured shopping bags bearing well-known couture labels: Givenchy, St Laurent, Chanel, Dior. A nanny pressed by with two children, then a man spluttering with indignation that she was
obstructing the pavement. But nothing could uproot her from that spot.
The Minotaur was going to devour the reclining lady with his sexual rage. Cressida, while she stood in front of the painting,
was
that woman. An eighteen-year-old American virgin in the rain on a street of the left bank of the most beautiful and exciting city in the world, came alive sexually. A hunger that she had had since a child, and which she had never quite understood, was suddenly made clear to her. She was sexual, and it felt extraordinary, as if she had been born at that very minute, and her life was just about to begin.
Someone crashed into her. Her handbag slipped from her shoulder to the pavement. A man invisible under a brimmed hat retrieved it for her and shoved it into her hand. She barely saw him as he rushed round her and into the gallery. The trifling accident had hardly even disturbed her. She turned back to the lady and the Minotaur.
Kane, was he her Minotaur? Looking at this painting, feeling the way she did, he was the only man, and one she had not seen for nine years, who came to mind. Kane and the Minotaur, not Tommy Beacon-Phipps and his kisses, were her erotic fantasies come to life. Petting sessions with Tommy had never raised in her the passion and sensuality she was feeling now, standing in the rain in front of a Picasso oil painting. Another ‘
Pardon
’ and a harsh bump as yet another person pushed past her. Then the unthinkable. For a brief moment, someone actually stopped to stand next to her and look at the painting. It was enough of a distraction for Cressida to look past the painting and into the gallery.
She could clearly see the man in the hat who had retrieved her handbag from the pavement. He was being greeted by another man, the gallery owner. The two shook hands and then he removed his hat and slapped it against his raincoat, turned the collar of his coat down. The two men shook hands once more. She could see they were pleased to meet one another. It was unbelievable, some sort of witchcraft.
Kane
was in the gallery, walking with the art dealer towards the window. The two men looked past the painting to the young girl standing in the rain. They smiled at her. Now they were standing, one on each side of the painting. The dealer turned the easel at an angle away from the window and into the gallery. Kane stood absorbed, looking at the Picasso, while the dealer placed a small red sold dot on the corner of its ornately carved and gilded frame.
The gallery owner opened the door. Kane turned his collar up, placed his hat back on his head and stepped on to the pavement. He turned to stand briefly next to Cressida to look once more at his painting, and in so doing bumped hard against her. He reached out,
a reflex to stop her from falling, and grabbed her by the shoulder. They gazed into each other’s eyes. ‘Monsieur Shiller says you have been out here for a very long time admiring the Picasso. I had to have it. Sorry.’
Cressida made no reply. It was impossible. She was too overwhelmed. He was not at all the same. She was looking at him through different eyes. He was if anything more charismatic, sexy and exciting, more handsome than when she had known him. He walked past her and jostled her handbag to the pavement. He picked it up and once again placed it on her shoulder. The second glance he gave her was more flirtatious. ‘Would that I were that Minotaur, and you the reclining body. Did you know that the Minotaur, when he was kept in the labyrinth, was fed on Athenian youths and maidens sent in tribute to Minos? You might remember that, and think of me.’ He smiled at her and once again pulled up his collar, trying to keep the rain off him, and rushed away down the Rue de Seine.
Cressida turned away from the window and followed him down the street. Her heart was racing. A sense of disappointment engulfed her. He hadn’t recognised her. She had somehow imagined that were she and Kane Chandler ever to meet again, he would know her. It quite stunned her to think that she did not even exist for him. Not even in his memory. She hardly saw another thing in the windows of the Rue de Seine. She scuttled down the street, running away from the Picasso. Now, as it did for everyone else, the rain suddenly mattered. At last she was at the end of the Rue de Seine, where it ran into a wider avenue parallel to the river.
Without a look or a thought, she stepped off the curb and into the road, intending to dodge between the cars and get across the street. She would walk along the left bank of the Seine, out in the open away from the claustrophobic, narrow confines of the Rue de Seine. A driver leaned on his horn and blasted her to attention as he swerved his car away, trying to avoid hitting her. She jumped back at the same moment as someone grabbed her hard by the arm up on to the pavement. The irate driver rolled down the window of his car and started screaming at Cressida.
‘That was very stupid. You could have gotten killed. Come on. He’ll finish the job anyway if he comes after you. Don’t you look before you cross the road?’ Kane, his arm on her elbow, rushing her away from the near accident, saw the fright in her eyes. It made him hesitate. Taking a closer look at Cressida, he couldn’t resist teasing her. ‘Or did you think that that sex-mad Minotaur was after you?’ Again the smile, the seductive charm.
‘You’re wet through and through. Come with me.’
There was a loud clap of thunder, a gust of cold wind blew off the
Seine. Cressida, still feeling dazed by events, allowed herself to be pulled along by Kane. Now just above them there was an even louder roll of thunder. It was followed by a long and powerful jagged streak of lightning that split the dark sky and, bright as a white sun, encased them for a few seconds in a frightening electric glow.
She jumped back, disengaging herself from Kane, and flattened herself against a building. Trembling, consumed by fright, she placed her hands over her face. The shoulder strap slipped and her handbag fell to the ground. Kane rushed to her. ‘Have you been hit? Are you all right? You can’t have been hit.’ He had her handbag yet again in his hand, and felt irritated with it, and with her for constantly dropping it. Somewhat roughly, he placed it firmly on her shoulder. ‘Has the lightning struck you dumb?’
‘No,’ was all that Cressida could manage to say.
‘Well, one would have thought so. You gave me a fright.’
His irritation with her quickly vanished. There was something very sensual about her. Quiet, but hinting of a raging fire within. That sort of sensuality. Rare to find but very exciting. Something happened then to Kane. This sort of upmarket waif who could be besotted by an erotic Picasso, who yearned to be that voluptuous cunt the artist had painted, who was mesmerised by the Minotaur, was suddenly very appealing to him. He wiped the rain from her face and then took her hand in his. ‘Clearly we have got to get out of this.’ And with one arm around her, he hurried her along the flooded pavement.