The Shivering Sands (3 page)

She took me over the finds and showed me the mosaic pavement, which was the delight of her life; she pointed out the geometrical patterns of white chalk and red sandstone; she insisted on my examining the three baths they had discovered which showed, she informed me, that the house had belonged to a nobleman of some wealth. There was the tepidarium, the calidarium and the frigidarium. The Roman terms rolled off her tongue in a kind of ecstasy and I felt alive again as I listened to her enthusiasm.

We went for walks together and I grew closer to my sister than I had ever been before. She took me to Folkestone to show me Caesar’s Camp; and I walked with her to Sugar Loaf Hill and St. Thomas’s Well at which the pilgrims on their way to the shrine of St. Thomas à Becket had paused to drink. Together we climbed the four hundred feet or so to the summit of Caesar’s Camp and I shall never forget her standing there with the wind ruffling her fine hair, her eyes brilliant with delight as she indicated the earthworks and entrenchments. It was a clear day and as I looked across that twenty miles or so of calm translucent sea I could clearly make out the land which was Caesar’s Gaul and it was not difficult to imagine the legions on the march.

On another occasion we went to Richborough Castle—one of the most remarkable relics of Roman Britain, Roma told me. “Rutupiae,” she called it.

“Claudius made it the principal landing place for his legions crossing from Boulogne. These walls give you a good idea of what a formidable fortress it must have been.”

She took great delight in showing me the wine cellars, the granaries and the remains of the temples, and it was impossible not to share in her excitement as she pointed out these wonders to me—the remains of massive walls of Portland stone, the bastion and its postern gate, the subterranean passage.

“You should take up archaeology as a hobby,” she told me half wistfully, half hopefully. She really believed that if I would I could not fail to find the compensation in life which I so badly needed. I wanted to tell her that she herself was a compensation; I wanted her to know that her care of me and her affection had helped me so much because she had made me feel that I was not alone.

One could not, however, talk of such things to Roma; she would have cried: “Nonsense!” if I had tried to thank her. But I promised myself that in the future I would see more of her; I would interest myself in her work; I would let her know how glad I was that I had a sister.

And trying to lure me to forgetfulness she set me to help in restoring a mosaic plaque which had been found on the spot. It was specialized work and my task was merely confined to fetching the brushes and solutions which were needed. It was a yellowish disc on which was some sort of picture and the object was to restore that picture to something like it had originally been. It was too delicate a job for the pieces to be moved, Roma told me, but when it was completed it would have a place in the British Museum. I was fascinated by the care and minute attention which went into the restoration and again I was catching some of the excitement as the pieces were fitted together.

And then I discovered Lovat Stacy itself—the big house which dominated the neighborhood and by the grace of whose owner Roma and her friends had been allowed to excavate.

I came upon it suddenly and caught my breath with wonder. The great Gate Tower stood dominating the landscape. This consisted of a central tower flanked on either side by two higher and projecting octagonal towers. As I looked up at these battlements I was impressed by the aggressive aspect of power and strength. Tall narrow windows looked out from the tower. I could see through the gate the high stone walls beyond. Leading to the gateway was a road flanked on both sides by stone walls on which grew moss and lichen. I was enchanted and for the first time since Pietro’s death I ceased to think of him for some few minutes and experienced an almost irresistible urge to walk up that road and pass under the gateway to see what was on the other side. I even began to but as I started up the road I saw the carved gargoyles over the gateway—venomous, cruel-looking creatures—and I hesitated. It was almost as though they were warning me to keep out, and I stopped myself in time. One simply did not go walking into people’s houses merely because they excited one.

I went back to the cottage full of what I had seen.

“Oh that’s Lovat Stacy,” explained Roma. “Thank goodness they didn’t build the house over the villa.”

“What about these Stacys,” I asked. “Is there a family?”

“Oh yes.”

“I’d like to know about people who live in a house like that.”

“My concern was with Sir William—the old man. He’s the lord and master, so he was the one who could give the permission we wanted.”

Dear Roma. I would get nothing from her. She saw life only in the terms of archaeology.

But I found Essie Elgin.

When I was starting on my musical career I had been sent to a music school and Miss Elgin had been one of my teachers. Taking a walk in the little town of Lovat Mill a mile or so from the dig I met Essie in the High Street. We looked at each other in bewilderment for some seconds and then she said in that Scots accent of hers, “Well, I do believe it’s wee Caroline.”

“No longer so wee,” I told her. “And of course…Miss Elgin.”

“And what would ye be doing here?” she wanted to know.

I told her. She nodded gravely when I mentioned Pietro. “A terrible tragedy,” she said. “I heard him in London when he was last there. I went up specially for the concert. What a master!”

She looked at me sadly. I knew that she was thinking of me in that regretful way in which teachers think of pupils who have not fulfilled their promises.

“Come into my little house,” she said. She pronounced it
hoose
. “I’ll put the kettle on and we’ll have a chitter-chatter together.”

So I went and she told me how she had come to Lovat Mill because she wanted to be near the sea and was not yet ready to give up her independence. She had a younger sister three or four miles out of Edinburgh who wanted her to go up there and live and she reckoned she would come to it in time; but here she was enjoying what she called her last years of freedom.

“Teaching?” I asked.

She grimaced. “What some of us come to, my dear. I have my little house here and pleasant it is. I give a few lessons to the young ladies of Lovat Mill. It’s not much of a living, but it’s improved since I have the young ladies of the big house.”

“The big house? Do you mean Lovat Stacy?”

“What else? It’s our big house and by the grace of God there are the three young ladies to be taught their music.”

Essie Elgin was a born gossip and she did not need to be prompted very much. She realized that my own career was a painful subject so she happily chatted away about her pupils from the big house.

“What a place! Always some drama going on up there, I can tell you. And now we’ll soon be having the wedding. It’s what Sir William wants. He wants to see those two man and wife. Then he’ll be happy.”

“Which two?” I asked.

“Mr. Napier and young Edith…though she’s not old enough I’d say. Seventeen, I believe. Of course some people at seventeen…but not Edith…oh no, not Edith.”

“Edith is the daughter of the house?”

“Well, you could call it that in a manner of speaking. She’s not Sir William’s daughter. Oh, it’s a complicated household with none of the young ladies being related. Edith is Sir William’s ward. She’s been with the family for the last five years…since she lost her father. Her mother died when she was quite a baby and she was brought up by housekeepers and servants. Her father was a great friend of Sir William’s. He had a big estate over Maidstone way…but it was all sold when he died and everything went to Edith. She’s an heiress in a big way and that’s why…Well, her father made Sir William her guardian and she came to Lovat Stacy when he died and lived there as though she were Sir William’s daughter. Now of course he’s brought Napier home to marry her.”

“Napier would be…?”

“Sir William’s son. Banished! Ah, there’s a story for you. Then there’s Allegra. Some connection of Sir William’s, I’ve heard. She speaks of him as her grandfather. Proper little tartar and gives herself airs. Mrs. Lincroft, the housekeeper, runs the place and she is Alice’s mother. There are my three young ladies: Edith, Allegra, and Alice. For although Alice is only the housekeeper’s daughter, she is allowed to join in their lessons—and so she comes to me, too. She’s being educated as a proper little lady.”

“And this…Napier?” I said. “What a strange name!”

“Oh, some family name. They’re rare ones for family names…families who have been joined with theirs in marriage, so I heard. His is an odd story. I’ve never quite learned the wrongs and rights of it, but his brother Beaumont died…and Beaumont’s another family name. He was killed, and Napier was blamed. He went away and now he has come back to marry Edith. It’s a condition so I gather.”

“How was he to blame?”

“People don’t talk much round here about the Stacys,” she said regretfully. “They’re frightened of Sir William. He’s a bit of a tartar too and most of them are his tenants. Hard as nails, they say. Must have been, to have sent Napier away. I’d like to know the ins and outs of that story but I can’t speak to the young ladies about it.”

“I was very attracted by the house. There was something menacing about it. It looked so beautiful from a distance and when I was close to that great gateway…ugh…”

Essie laughed. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you,” she said. Then she asked me to play something for her and I sat down at the piano and it was like old times when I was young, before I had gone abroad to study, before I had met Pietro, before I threw away my chance.

“Aye,” she said, “ye’ve a pretty touch. What do you plan?”

I shook my head at her.

“Oh come, lassie,” she said. “That’s nae the way. You go back to that Paris school and see whether you can take up where you left off.”

“Where I left off…before my marriage?”

She didn’t answer. Perhaps she knew that although I was a competent pianist, although I could be a good teacher, I lacked the divine spark. Pietro had taken it from me; no, if I had had it I should never have chosen marriage instead of a career.

Then finally she said: “Think about it…and come again soon.”

I walked back to our little cottage and thought about Essie and the old days and the future; but every now and then I would see the big house in my mind’s eye, populated by vague and shadowy figures who were only names to me, and yet seem to have some life of their own.

I remember those days vividly; sitting in the cottage watching the mosaic emerge from under the skillful fingers of the restorers and sometimes strolling over to Essie’s house for a cup of tea and an hour or so at the piano. I think Essie wanted to warn me to make an effort to pick up the threads; she was telling me that I did not want to find myself in a position such as hers.

One day she said to me: “The wedding’s on Saturday. Would you like to see it?”

So I went to the church and saw Napier and Edith married. They came down the aisle together—she fair and fragile, he lean and dark, though I noticed his blue eyes which were startling in his brown face. I was seated at the back of the church with Essie as they went by and the organ was playing Mendelssohn’s wedding march. I felt a strange emotion as they passed—almost a premonition I might have said. But it was not that. Perhaps it was because I sensed the incongruity of the match; they did not belong together, those two, and it was obvious. The girl looked so young, so delicate and could I really have seen the apprehension in her face? I thought: She is afraid of him. And I remembered the day Pietro and I had married, how we had laughed together, how we had teased each other, and how we had loved. Poor child, I thought. And he had not looked too happy either. What was his expression? One of resignation, boredom…cynicism?

“Edith makes a pretty bride,” said Essie. “And she’ll continue with her lessons after the honeymoon. Sir William wants her to.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. Sir William’s all for music…now. Although there was a time when he wouldn’t have it in the house. And Edith’s got a pretty talent. Oh nothing great, but she plays well and it’s a shame to drop it.”

I went back with Essie for a cup of tea and she talked about the young ladies at Lovat Stacy and their music…how Edith was good, Allegra lazy, and Alice painstaking.

“Poor little Alice, she feels she has to be. You see, having so much given to her, she has to take advantage of it.”

Roma agreed with Essie that I should go back to Paris and carry on with my music. “I can see,” she said, “that it’s the right thing for you to finish your studies. Though I’m not entirely sure of Paris. After all it was there…” She fingered her turquoises almost impatiently and decided not to mention my marriage. “If you feel it’s impossible…we could work out something else.”

“Oh Roma,” I cried, “you are so good. I don’t know how to tell you what a help you’ve been.”

“Nonsense!” she retorted gruffly.

“I’m realizing how good it is to have a sister.”

“But naturally we stick together in times like these. You must come here more often.”

I smiled and kissed her. Then I went back to Paris. It was a foolish thing to have done. I should have known that I could not endure to be in a place which was so full of memories of Pietro. It only showed how different Paris was without him, and that it was stupid of me to think that I could start all over again. Nothing could be the same again because the foundations on which I must build my future would be the past.

How right Pietro was when he had said that one did not beckon the Muse and expect her to return after one had deserted her.

I had been in Paris some three months when news came that Roma had disappeared.