Sea of Lost Love (19 page)

“Your mother has asked me to travel with you to Italy.”

Celestria's face lit up. “Oh, good! You will come, won't you?”

“Doesn't look like I have much choice.”

Celestria rushed over and took Mrs. Waynebridge's hands in hers. “It'll be fun, Waynie. We've never been to Italy.”

“I've never been farther than London. I'm Yorkshire born and bred. Strong in th'arm, thick in th'ead!” Mrs. Waynebridge looked as though she was about to cry. “What'll I do in Italy?”

“Lie in the sun and be treated like a queen.”

“Oh, I don't think I'd like that. Where will we stay?”

“At this divine little bed-and-breakfast in Puglia. It's on Italy's heel.”

“That doesn't sound very appealing.”

“It's by the sea. Think of all that Italian food and wine. We'll have a ball, you and I.”

“You know what they say about Italian men?”

“They're charming. Forget the war; it's been over for years. Besides, you might fall in love.”

Mrs. Waynebridge flushed again. “Really, Celestria. At my age!”

“We'll look after each other. Besides, don't you think it's about time you saw a bit of the world?”

“I'll make that tea,” she said, withdrawing her hands and shuffling over to fill the kettle. “You'd better watch out for those wops, Celestria. Your mother will have a heart attack if you fall in love with one of them.”

“So will Aidan,” Celestria added under her breath, delighted that Mrs. Waynebridge had decided to come. She sat down, kicking off her shoes. “No, I'm not going all the way to Italy to stay there. God forbid! I can't imagine anywhere more isolated than the heel of Italy! No, I'm going to find out who drove my father to take his life and then I'm going to dish out the most horrible helping of revenge. You, Angela Dorothy Waynebridge, are going to help me.”

“Sometimes you talk a lot of nonsense, love.” Mrs. Waynebridge placed the kettle on the stove.

Celestria laughed. “That's what my grandfather says!”

 

Elizabeth Montague stood on the cliff top and let the salty wind bellow about her. She steadied herself by leaning on her walking stick and bracing her shoulders. Her black cape fluttered in the air like bat's wings, but she stood unmoving, staring out over the murky Atlantic. It was evening. The sky was a milky gray, descending into muted shades of pink and orange where the sun had sunk below the line of the sea, melting to liquid gold. She stuck out her jaw defiantly, but her grief burst through the tender flesh of her heart and filled her body with despair. She blinked away the tears, ashamed to be giving in, and felt her lips begin to tremble. She hadn't cried when Ivan died. She had stuffed her pain to the very bottom of her soul and shut it with a cork, allowing nothing out but also allowing nothing in. Now the cork was released and it all came frothing and bubbling forth, the old sadness mixed with the new in one great unstoppable flow. Her hand clenched her stick so the knuckles turned white and the veins stuck out like blue worms under her skin. She didn't take her gaze off the sea. The treacherous sea. She had lived by it all her life. As a young woman she had sailed, swum, and paddled in it; as an old woman she had taken comfort from its rhythms and tides, the little treasures it washed up on the sand and the wild birds that lived off it, diving into the waves like falling angels. This is how it repaid her love: with death.

She remained there until she was cold right to the marrow in her bones. She felt weary and yet strangely at peace. She wiped her face with the back of her hand then hobbled towards the Hall thinking of little Bouncy, the only one of her grandchildren who wasn't afraid of her. With a growing sense of urgency she reached the house and stumbled through the French doors into the drawing room. She didn't bother announcing her arrival. As she crossed the hall she heard low voices in Archie's study. Julia and Archie were in deep discussion. She paused a moment, long enough to hear the words
sell the house
. Her heart stumbled. It wasn't possible. Were they talking of her house? The Hall? The tears welled in her eyes again as she started up the stairs towards Bouncy's room, hoping she had misheard. Nothing good ever came of eavesdropping.

Nanny was sitting on Bouncy's bed reading the child
The Little Engine That Could
when the imposing black figure of Elizabeth Montague appeared in the doorway. Nanny looked up and stopped midsentence. She couldn't remember the last time Elizabeth Montague had ventured upstairs. The old woman looked bloodless, her gray hair wild, her eyes glittering with tears. Nanny stood up.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Elizabeth?” she asked, remembering the handsome woman she had worked for in her early days.

“I've come to see my grandson,” she announced, hobbling forward. Nanny moved aside so that Elizabeth could sit on the edge of the bed. Then she hurried as fast as her old legs could take her to find Mrs. Julia.

Elizabeth leaned her stick against the wall by the headboard and settled on the bed. The warmth of the bedroom seeped through her clothes and onto her cold skin. Bouncy looked at his grandmother and smiled. “Don't be thad, Grandma,” he said, and his innocence brought a lump to her throat. She took his hand, so small and plump, in her withered one, and stroked the soft skin with her thumb.

“I'm not sad anymore,” she replied, and a tear trickled down her cheek, getting caught in the deep lines that extended down from her mouth.

“Then why are you crying?”

“Because I'm happy to see you,” she said, and smiled. The little boy looked confused. “Sometimes grown-ups cry when they're happy,” she explained.

She heard the sound of footsteps along the corridor. A moment later Archie and Julia appeared in the room. “Are you all right, Mother?” Archie asked. He looked at his wife, who returned his stare with a shrug.

“I came to say good night to my grandson,” she said. She picked up the book. “Ah,
The Little Engine That Could.
My favorite book. Shall I read it to you?”

Bouncy nodded, raising his big brown eyes to his parents, enjoying the attention. Elizabeth began to read, her voice full of animation. She read without pause, except for a moment's hesitation when Bouncy put his hand on hers and ran his fingers over the surface where it was still smooth but covered in brown liver spots. “I'm making it better,” he whispered.

Elizabeth's voice wavered, but she stiffened her jaw and continued. “Thank you, darling. It's already much better,” she replied.

Julia took Archie's hand and led him away, drawing Nanny with him. She sensed her mother-in-law needed to be alone with Bouncy. If anyone could mend her heart, it was her three-year-old son. Perhaps it was something to do with the disheveled hair and watery eyes, but she was certain she could already feel it thawing.

P
amela arrived back in town to find the house filled with red roses. “Goodness me, people are so kind,” she said, dropping her suitcase on the hall floor.

Celestria didn't have the heart to tell her that they were all from Aidan and all for her. She didn't tell her that she was engaged, either. She'd wait until she had come back from Italy. Right now, she was unable to think of anything but solving the mystery of her father's death.

Godfrey, the butler, had returned from his summer break to the dreadful news of his master's suicide. A wiry man with silver hair and a nose like a beak, he had worked for Mr. Montague almost as long as Mrs. Waynebridge had. With the formality that came with years of loyal servitude, he offered his condolences to Mrs. Pamela in a few short sentences, his expression as grave as an undertaker's, placed a silver tray laden with letters on the hall table, and proceeded to carry her suitcase upstairs. When he reached her bedroom, he remained a while in the doorway that led into Mr. Monty's dressing room. The air still contained his scent embedded in the upholstery, where it would now begin to fade. Like a lost dog he lingered there for a long time, not knowing what to do.

“It feels so empty without your father,” said Pamela to her daughter, sensing a coldness in the rooms that hadn't been there before. Harry strode past her and dragged his suitcase up the stairs. Cornwall had been the scene of unhappiness, but also a much needed distraction. Now he was home, the house echoed with the dreadful loss. The rooms seemed larger, the ceilings taller, the air unfamiliar, and his father's memory a ghostly presence everywhere he looked. He sat on his bed and let the sense of desolation wash over him like a gigantic wave. He was now the man of the house, but inside he felt like a little boy, barely able to keep afloat.

Pamela had scarcely had time to catch her breath when the doorbell rang. It rang persistently, as if the caller was in a terrible hurry. “Where's Godfrey?” she snapped, raising her eyes from the pile of letters she was shuffling through.

“He's upstairs,” Celestria replied.

Pamela huffed. “Can't he hear the bell?”

“I'll get it.” Celestria rolled her eyes; the door was only a few paces away.

“Tell Waynie to take Poochi into the kitchen. He could do with a little something.” Pamela wandered off, distracted by the handwriting on one of the envelopes.

Celestria opened the door to find Lotty on the doorstep in a cloud of Chanel No 5. “Good Lord!” Celestria exclaimed, pulling her cousin inside. “What are you dolled up for?” She took in the red lipstick and coiffed hair.

“I need to talk to you,” Lotty hissed, her eyes darting across the hall like those of a hunted animal.

“What's happened?”

“Where's Aunt Pamela?”

Celestria turned around. “She was here a minute ago.”

“Tell her I'm here, just so she knows.”

“Oh,
I get it.
You're off somewhere else. Mama, it's only Lotty!”

She heard her mother shout back from the sitting room. “Don't forget Poochi, and your grandfather is coming at six.”

“Let's go upstairs,” Celestria suggested.

“No, I can't stay. I'm meeting Francis.”

“So, you want me to cover for you?” said Celestria with a smile. “You've made your decision, then? Are you going to elope?”

Lotty looked flustered. “I'm not sure. I mean, I don't know. I need to talk to him.”

“I don't think talking will get you anywhere. That kind of talking just gives me a headache. Besides, you've had the whole summer to think about it. If my father's death has taught me anything, it's that a girl needs to be looked after, if not by her father, then by her husband. I wouldn't recommend being poor to anyone. It was ghastly. Fortunately, I have a rich grandfather.”

Lotty found her cousin's melodrama grating. She had no experience of poverty, on any level.

Celestria lowered her voice and grew serious. “I never want to go there again, Lotty, and I wouldn't want you to.”

Lotty changed the subject. “Melissa and Rafferty are getting serious, by the way. They're very in love. I thought you'd like to know.” Her voice sounded flat.

Celestria looked mildly concerned for a moment. “Oh,” she replied tartly. “Just as well, considering how she compromised herself at the dance.”

“What do you mean?”

“He ravaged her like an animal.”

“Did he?”

“Of course. You could see it in her eyes. One simply can't behave like that with a man and not marry him. One can so easily get a bad reputation. London is a small town.” Lotty looked confused. “Anyway, he's undoubtedly rich and handsome; he'll make the perfect husband. It's not all about love, you know.”

“I think it is,” Lotty replied in a small voice. “I think love is more important than money. Life is short…” Her voice trailed off. If Monty's death had taught
her
anything, it was that nothing but love had any worth at all.

“You're a hopeless romantic. No, one should have a cool head when deciding one's future. There's time later on for the hothead to take precedence. Marry Eddie, Lotty, but love Francis. It's very easy. That way you get the best of both worlds.”

Lotty looked offended. She straightened up, nostrils flaring. “And you, Celestria. What are you going to do about your future?”

Celestria turned away. “Marry for comfort, like I told you. I might even grow to love him. If not, I'll love someone else, discreetly. Nothing wrong with that. Papa used to say the eleventh commandment is ‘Never get caught.' Well, he's right about that, and I don't intend to.”

“Well, you and I are very different, Celestria. Please cover for me. You will, won't you?”

“Of course I will.” She opened the door. The street outside was bathed in sunshine, the little communal garden a froth of green on the point of turning. She remembered her forthcoming trip to Italy and felt her heart swell with excitement. In that state of happiness it was easy to be generous. “Whatever you decide, Lotty. I'll always stand by you.”

“Thank you, Cousin. I hope your trip to Italy is a success.”

“Don't worry, I'm already on the scent.”

“You will write to me, won't you?”

“If you write back and tell me what you decide. You can always join me in Puglia if it all gets too much. I can't imagine Aunt Penelope taking to Francis.”

They embraced warmly, and Celestria watched her cousin hurry off down the street towards Belgrave Square. We are very different, you and I, she thought smugly as Lotty turned the corner. I will never give up my comfortable life for love.

 

Pamela began to unpack. All her clothes had been washed and ironed, so she had only the simple task of putting things away. She dared not venture into Monty's dressing room. The sight of the empty room would give her another migraine. Usually she'd be unpacking for him, too, which she'd always found a bore. Now she longed for his socks and shirts to put away. It was while she unpacked that she discovered that the star brooch she had worn for Archie's birthday party, the one that Monty had given her, was missing. At first she thought nothing of it, figuring it had probably dropped to the bottom of the case. But when she pulled out the last few items, it wasn't there.

“Celestria!” she shouted out to the landing. “Have you seen my brooch?” Celestria wandered into the room.

“No.”

“I can't have left it in Pendrift.”

“Did you have it after the dance?”

“I remember very little about what happened after the dance. It's the shock.”

“It's only a brooch,” Celestria consoled her.

“No,” retorted Pamela sharply. “It was much more than that.”

 

That evening Richard W. Bancroft II arrived at number 13 Upper Belgrave Street. His chauffeur remained outside in the red Bentley, waiting for an opportunity to smoke a quick cigarette beside the gates of St. Peter's Church, next door to the house. Godfrey opened the door and showed Mr. Bancroft into the sitting room, where his daughter and grandchildren were waiting for him. Celestria was the first to embrace him, and he patted her affectionately on the back, planting a kiss on her forehead. Harry didn't know his grandfather as well as his sister did and felt awkward, unsure whether to kiss him or shake his hand now that he was the man of the house. But Richard Bancroft was not a man of indecision. He scooped the boy into his arms and kissed him, too. Harry blushed, but it was the first physical contact he had had with another man since his father died and he liked it.

“You've grown into a fine young man,” said Richard. He rested his gaze on his grandson for a long moment, admiring his intelligent face and pitying the dreadful loss that was reflected in his clear gray eyes. “I bet your father was very proud of you. He had a right to be.”

Harry was unable to reply. He felt the tears sting his eyes but was able to restrain his emotions by stiffening his jaw and shedding none.

Pamela, Poochi under her arm like a handbag, took her father's hand in hers and kissed his ruddy cheek. “Hello, Pa,” she said. In spite of their difference she was grateful he had come.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm sorry for you all.” He sat down. Godfrey poured Pamela a glass of sherry from the drinks table that stood behind the sofa, where golden liquids glittered in crystal decanters beneath a large potted jasmine. “Pour me a whiskey, Godfrey. Straight, no ice.” The butler did as he asked and brought the glass over on a silver tray.

“Would Sir like anything else?”

“Not for the moment, Godfrey. Why don't you take a break?” He took a swig and watched the butler leave the room, closing the door softly behind him. When he was sure that they were completely alone, he lowered his voice and spoke solemnly.

“This is a dreadful business, but I want you all to know that even though I am unable to bring Monty back, I can at least support you financially so that life can continue as it always has. When do you go back to school, Harry?”

“On the ninth,” Harry replied, feeling a great sense of relief that his grandfather was assuming control of things.

“I'll telephone your housemaster this evening. You're the head of the family now, son. It's a heavy duty on the shoulders of one so young, but it could just be the making of you. Death comes to us all eventually, and your father gave you the best years of his life. You know the Jesuit saying? ‘Give me the boy until he turns seven and I'll give you the man.' Those seven years are the most important. They're the foundation blocks from which you will build your future, and yours, my boy, are very strong. You're thirteen now, a young man. This can only make you stronger. You understand?” Harry looked doubtful. His grandfather chuckled. “You will.”

He pulled a fat white envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Celestria. “This is the itinerary for you and Mrs. Waynebridge. You leave on Thursday. Rita will come over tomorrow morning to go through it all with you. Fred will drive you to the airport. The arrangements have been made to the last detail. I didn't think your mother would like me to leave anything to chance.”

Celestria felt a frisson of excitement. “Thank you, Grandpa!” she exclaimed, thrilled that only she and her grandfather knew the real reason for her trip.

It had not escaped Richard's notice that Pamela had so far said little. She was sitting on the club fender, her white fingers stroking her dog, listening to everything he said, her face taut with discomfort. “Now, why don't you both leave your mother and me to discuss the boring stuff,” he said, draining his glass. Celestria and Harry left the room.

“Thank God we're not going to be poor,” said Celestria to her brother as they climbed the stairs. Harry clicked his tongue. His confidence had returned with the wave that had swept in his grandfather.

“You and Mama are ridiculous sometimes,” he replied. “We were never going to be poor.”

Richard Bancroft studied his daughter. He knew her so well, even though in the last twenty years he had slowly lost her. “What's eating you, girl?” he said. “I can only read so much from your silence. Have I done something to offend you?”

Pamela's cheeks stung pink, and she swallowed. “I feel so wretched,” she said in a soft voice, lowering her eyes. “I haven't asked you for a dime in twenty years!”

“You might be married, Pam, but I'm still your father.”

“Monty stole everything from me.”

“He knew I'd look after you.”

“He didn't think of the shame he'd bring on us.”

“There's no shame, Pam. Those who love you sympathize.”

“There are plenty who don't, believe me.” She laughed bitterly.

“If he was in a mess, I doubt he thought of anything but escape. He must have been at rock bottom to kill himself.”