Celestria discovered that the events she had put into motion the previous night were now gaining a momentum of their own. Aidan turned up at her house weighed down by the most enormous bouquet of roses. She smelled their sweet perfume long before she saw him, which brought on a vague memory of a proposal. Celestria wasn’t a person easily forced into doing something against her will. In fact, she was quite ready to make her excuses, blame the wine, her confused heart, whatever it took to erase the agreement she might have made. However, Aidan’s expression was so full of anxiety that she buckled.
“You’re not regretting last night, are you?” he asked, the words he’d carefully rehearsed tumbling out in a hurry. “You weren’t there when I woke up. I telephoned you constantly. No one answered. I’ve been sick with worry. I hope you don’t think I took advantage of you. I would never—”
“Silly old thing! Waynie doesn’t work on weekends, and I was asleep,” Celestria chided affectionately. “It wasn’t proper for a young lady to wake up in a man’s bed. I’m not that sort of girl.”
“Of course you’re not,” he said, his shoulders dropping with relief. “You’ll still marry me?”
She hesitated a moment before shaking her head of any misgivings. “Yes. I do and all that. You see, you needn’t have worried.” She took the flowers and walked back into the hall. “These are lovely. I adore roses.”
Perhaps last night hadn’t been such a mistake, she conceded. Aidan would make a fine husband, after all. He was rich, handsome, charming, funny, and well respected. What did it matter that she didn’t love him? She could always take a lover further down the line if she felt so inclined. Practically speaking, he would look after her, and that was the most important…She would want for nothing, and he was awfully good at the preliminaries, which was the second most important requirement of a husband. Her mother would be relieved to be shot of her, and, besides, they all needed something happy to distract them from the recent horror of Monty’s suicide. She placed the roses on the table and turned to face her fiancé. She allowed him to take her in his arms.
“Are you happy, my love?” Aidan gazed down at her and stroked her face with his eyes.
“Very,” she replied. It was true. She no longer felt shoddy about the night before; Aidan was to be her husband, after all, and her grandfather had arrived just in time, like a lifeguard with a rubber ring to stop her from sinking. She was as happy as she could be in the circumstances. She returned his gaze in rather the same way she had looked at those adoring adults in her childhood, her eyes full of affection, her heart as empty as a pretty bubble. Aidan smiled with pride. She really loves me, he thought with gratitude.
“I can’t wait to spoil you, darling. We’ll buy a glorious house together and fill it with children. You’ll be Mrs. Cooney. How does that sound?” Honestly? Not very glamorous, she thought, but the Mrs. part appealed to her. “I need your mother’s permission,” he added seriously. “When does she come back from Cornwall?”
“Ah,” said Celestria, pulling away. “I need to talk to you.”
“What’s the matter?” He followed her into the sitting room.
“Mama gets back on Tuesday, but I’m going to Italy.”
“Italy?” He was shocked. “When?”
“Next week.”
“You never told me.”
“I only thought of it today. My grandfather’s in town, and he suggested I take a holiday.”
“You’re not going on your own, surely?”
“Mrs. Waynebridge, our housekeeper, is coming with me, though she doesn’t know it yet. Grandpa will organize everything. I’ll be taken care of. Don’t you think I need time to get over my father’s death?” She sank into the sofa, spreading herself across it like a sleek white cat.
“Of course you do. I’m being selfish. How long will you be away?”
“Not long. A fortnight, a month. I don’t know. No longer than a month.”
Aidan relaxed. “I suppose I’ll manage without you.”
“Of course you will, darling.” Celestria pulled him onto the sofa and covered his face in small kisses.
“You won’t fall in love with an Italian while you’re out there, will you?”
“I don’t like Italians,” she said, unsure whether or not she had ever met one.
“I’ll just have to wait until you get back, then. It’ll be the worst month of my life. Knowing I’m engaged to the most beautiful girl in the world and unable to tell anyone.”
“You can’t possibly tell anyone,” Celestria gasped in horror, unconsciously carving a little hole in their arrangement in case she might need to escape through it.
“My parents will love you,” he continued. “I can’t wait for them to meet you.”
His enthusiasm was a little disconcerting, the idea of meeting his parents rather alarming. If one considered the food chain, he was certainly near the top as far as wealth and class were concerned, but she wasn’t sure he was a lion. It didn’t matter. Lion or stallion, at least he wasn’t a wildebeest. Anyway, she didn’t have to think about it now. For the time being she could ignore her doubts. She was leaving for Italy in a week.
“Where shall I take you for dinner?” he asked.
“Later,” Celestria murmured. Aidan pressed his lips to hers and began to kiss her deeply. Later, she thought to herself, I’ll think about it later.
Pamela stood on the cliff top, staring out over the sea that had swallowed her husband only a week ago. It was still incomprehensible. She felt as if she were walking in a nightmare, waiting to wake up, but that blessed moment never came. She was incarcerated in it forever. The water below her was calm, lapping innocently onto the sand as if it were incapable of drowning anyone. She raised her eyes to the sky, which exhibited the magnificent colors of sunset. The sun itself was a rich gold, enflaming the horizon with blood reds and fuchsia pinks, setting alight the wispy clouds that wafted across it like puffs of smoke. She waited to feel something, but her heart was heavy with the hatred she felt for all around her: for the duplicitous sea and her careless husband. She expected God to appear in the sky in an angel-drawn chariot or a flash of light like Paul saw on the road to Damascus. She expected to feel the weight lifted off her shoulders at the very least. But she felt nothing, just the same wearing sense of desolation.
Julia watched the sunset, too, from the terrace where she was alone with Purdy. She smoked a cigarette in the still evening air and reflected on the terrible repercussions of her brother-in-law’s suicide. She and Archie had little money. The aid that Monty had promised had all been castles in the sky. He had had nothing to give them, just empty promises. Is that why he killed himself? Because he had pledged so much to so many and couldn’t live with the shame of not being able to deliver?
There was no one they could turn to. Elizabeth did not have much, either. There were cottages on the farm, but they brought in a meager rent. Pendrift Hall was a terrible burden. Part of the roof needed mending, for a start. The upkeep of such a house was a struggle, not to mention the children’s school fees. And yet they all loved it so much. It was the only home the children had ever known, and little Bouncy just adored the seaside. He was growing in confidence, beginning to explore the house and its many corridors and rooms on his own. She smiled at the recollection of finding treasures posted in strange places: pieces of jigsaw puzzle slipped into drawers in the spare room; a fluffy toy under a bed; Nanny’s reading glasses dropped carelessly into a flower pot; a trail of mischief she was able to follow all over the house. Julia began to cry. She didn’t bother to restrain the tears that now welled in her eyes and spilled over her cheeks.
What were they going to do? The prospect of having to sell Pendrift Hall had already seeped into her subconscious a long time ago, but now it surfaced as a shocking reality. If only they could find the money to pay off Archie’s debt. But that sort of money wasn’t easily come by. She considered working herself: she had a good eye for decoration and design, but where to start at her age? Besides, it would take a while to build up the business; they needed the money now. She thought of Wilfrid and Sam and her darling Bouncy. What future did they have if Pendrift Hall was sold off? It was all very well for Pamela, crying poverty for no reason. Her father would undoubtedly step in and give her bank account a hefty cash injection. Julia had no father to bail her out. The only person who could help them now was God.
Father Dalgliesh watched the gradual fraying at the heart of Monty’s family with sadness. He prayed for them and did his best to comfort them when they sought him out in the presbytery. Elizabeth Montague expected him to know whether her son was alive or dead, and had looked appalled when he had told her that his communications with God were only one-way. “I feel God in my heart,” he explained. “He doesn’t give me news bulletins.”
Elizabeth didn’t understand. “He was my favorite, you know,” she had said, her steely gray eyes glittering with emotion. “He was so like his father. I will have little to live for if God has taken Robert, too.”
Pamela Bancroft Montague wanted someone to lean on. Her husband was gone, she was estranged from her father; there was no one left but the Church, for which she had previously felt contempt. She hadn’t attended Mass following their meeting, probably out of fear or pride, having ridiculed it in front of her husband’s family for so many years. Father Dalgliesh prayed she’d open her heart and let God in during the silence of her own contemplation. Maybe then would she feel ready to join her family in the front pew without embarrassment.
Julia Montague, of whom Father Dalgliesh had grown fond, was a godly and kindhearted woman. She visited him frequently to unburden her thoughts. “I worry about Harry; he’s so young. As for Celestria, she’s like her mother, far more worried about herself.”
Father Dalgliesh recalled his last meeting with Celestria. He could still see her running off into the fog, her face enflamed. He had heard nothing since, but something told him she was no longer in Pendrift. He couldn’t feel her there.
“She’s not a bad person,” he said carefully. “She’s just lost.” He felt the color burn his cheeks as he spoke of her.
“Oh, I don’t think she’s bad, Father, she’s just too pretty for her own good. The trouble is she’s been terribly spoiled by her mother. She’s never had to think of anyone but herself.”
“Life has a funny way of molding us. She’s young, and the death of her father must have hit her very hard. If she hasn’t grieved for him yet, she will later.”
“Her grandfather has arrived in London. That’s a huge relief. He’s an extraordinary man. A wonderful man. He’s taking care of her. Pamela tells me he’s sending her off to Italy for a holiday.”
“Italy?”
“Yes. Poor darling Harry will languish at boarding school while his sister basks in the sunshine in Italy.” She shook her head. “I don’t think that’s fair, do you?”
“School is probably the best place for Harry at the moment. He’ll be surrounded by his friends, and the routine of classes will be a distraction.”
“Celestria’s like her mother, Father Dalgliesh. Every time Pamela has a problem she goes to bed with a headache. Celestria’s just avoiding facing up to Monty’s death by hiding out in Italy.”
“We all react in different ways. However far we run, we can never run away from ourselves.”
“But she’s so selfish.”
“She has a big heart, Julia.”
Julia gave him a wry look. “That’s because you’re a priest. You see the good in everybody.”
If you had seen the desolation in her eyes as I had, you would understand that she is in a dark place, he thought to himself, but instead he said, “To every black cloud there is a silver lining.”
Father Dalgliesh wished he knew the truth about Monty’s death, but he had to remind himself that he wasn’t a detective; his job was to pick up the pieces for those the man had left behind. The job would be a whole lot easier, however, if there was a body to bury. It was all very distressing for the whole community. The only person deriving pleasure from the scandal was Miss Hoddel, who had her own explanation. “If you ask me,” she said, ignoring the fact that nobody had, “he’s killed himself to be rid of Mrs. Pamela.”
“Now why would he want to do that?” asked Father Dalgliesh patiently.
“Well, if you were married to Mrs. Pamela, wouldn’t you want to kill yourself?”
Father Dalgliesh had to leave the room. He’d never heard anything so preposterous in his life.
Mrs. Waynebridge was astonished and a little nervous when Pamela telephoned her to request that she accompany Celestria to Italy the following week. She flushed pink, then turned gray before her color settled into a pasty white, like mashed potato. She put down the receiver and waited at the kitchen table until Celestria returned home at teatime. She placed her crocodile handbag on the sideboard. Mrs. Waynebridge got up slowly. “You don’t look well, Waynie. What is it?”
“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.