ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
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ዘመኑ ባፈራው የቴክኖሎጂ ግብአት በመጠቀም ለህብረተሰባችን ስራ ለሁሉም በሚል ግብ የተሻለ የስራ አማራጭ፣ ለተሻለ ኑሮ፣ ለተሻለ የገበያ ትስስር ፣ ለተቀናጀ የገበያ ተደራሽነት ገዥን ከደንበኛ የማስተሳሰሪያ የቴክኖሎጂ አማራጭ ይዘን መተናል በሁሉም የስራ መስክ በሁሉም የስራ እርከን ስራ ለሚገኙ ባለሙያዎች እና ድርጅቶች የስራ አጋጣሚን መፍጠር
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For almost fifteen years, old Berta had spent every day sitting outside her front door. The people of Viscos knew that this was normal behaviour amongst old people: they sit dreaming of the past and of their youth; they look out at a world in which they no longer play a part and try to find something to talk to the neighbours about.
Berta, however, had a reason for being there. And that morning her waiting came to an end when she saw the stranger climbing the steep hill up to the village, heading for its one hotel. He did not look as she had so often imagined he would: his clothes were shabby, he wore his hair unfashionably long, he was unshaven.
And he was accompanied by the Devil.
'My husband's right,' she said to herself. 'If I hadn't been here, no one would have noticed.'
She was hopeless at telling people's ages and put the man's somewhere between forty and fifty. 'A youngster,' she thought, using a scale of values that only old people understand. She wondered how lone he would be staying. But just stay one night before moving on to a fate about which she knew nothing and cared even less.
Even so, all the years she had spent sitting by her front door waiting for his arrival had not been in vain, because they had taught her the beauty of the mountains, something she had never really noticed before, simply because she had been born in that place and had always tended to take the landscape for granted.
As expected, the stranger went into the hotel. Berta wondered if she should go and warn the priest about this undesirable visitor, but she knew he wouldn't listen to her, dismissing the matter as the kind of thing old people like to worry about.
So now she just had to wait and see what happened. It doesn't take a devil much time to bring about destruction; they are like storms,
hurricanes or avalanches, which, in a few short hours, can destroy trees planted two hundred years before. Suddenly, Berta realised that the mere fact that Evil had just arrived in Viscos did not change anything: devils come and go all the time without necessarily affecting anything by their presence. They are constantly abroad in the world, some times simply to find out what's going on, at others to put some soul or other to the test. But they are fickle creatures, and there is no logic in their choice of target, being drawn merely by the pleasure of a battle worth anyone for more than a day, let alone someone as important and busy as a messenger from the dark.
She tried to turn her mind to something else, but she couldn't get the image of the stranger out of her head. The sky, which had been clear and bright up until then, suddenly clouded over.
'That's normal, it always happens at this time of year,' she thought. It was simply a coincidence and had nothing to do with the stranger's arrival.
Then, in the distance, she heard a clap of thunder, followed by another three. On the one hand, this simply meant that rain was on the way; on the other, if the old superstitions of the village were to be believed, the sound could be interpreted as the voice of an angry God, protesting that mankind had grown indifferent to His presence.
'Perhaps I should do something. After all, what I was waiting for has finally happened.' She sat for a few minutes, paying close attention to everything going on around her; the clouds had continued to gather above the village, but she heard no other sounds. As a good ex-Catholic, she put no store by traditions and superstitions, especially those of Viscos, which had their roots in the ancient Celtic civilisation that once existed in the place.
'A thunderclap is an entirely natural phenomenon. If God wanted to talk to man, he wouldn't use such roundabout methods.'
This time, Berta got to her feet, picked up her chair and went into her
house before the rain started; but this time she felt her heart contract with an indefinable fear.
'What should I do?'
Again she wished that the stranger would simply leave at once; she was too old to help herself or her village, far less assist Almighty God, who, if He needed any help, would surely have chosen someone younger. This was all just some insane dream; her husband clearly had nothing better to do than to invent ways of helping her pass the time.
But of one thing she was sure, she had seen the Devil.
In the flesh and dressed as a pilgrim.
The hotel was, at one and the same time, a shop selling local products, a restaurant serving food typical of the region, and a bar where the people of Viscos could gather to talk about what they always talked about: how the weather was doing, or how young people had no interest in the village. 'Nine months of winter, three months of hell,' they used to say, referring to the fact that each year they had only ninety days to carry out all the work in the fields, fertilising, sowing, waiting, then harvesting the crops, storing the hay and shearing the sheep.
Everyone who lived there knew they were clinging to a world whose days were numbered; even so, it was not easy for them to accept that they would be the last generation of the farmers and shepherds who had lived in those mountains for centuries. Sooner or later the machines would arrive, the livestock would be reared far from there on special food, the village itself might well be sold to a big multinational that
would turn it into a ski resort.
That is what had happened to other villages in the region, but Viscos had resisted because it owed a debt to the past.
The stranger carefully read the form he was given to fill in at the hotel, deciding what he was going to put. From his accent, they would know he
came from some South American country, and he decided it should be Argentina, because he really liked their football team. In the space left for his address, he wrote Colombia Street, knowing that South Americans are in the habit of paying homage to each other by naming important places after neighbouring countries. As his name, he chose that of a famous terrorist from the previous century.
In less than two hours, all the 281 inhabitants of Viscos knew that a stranger named Carlos had arrived in the village, that he had been born in Argentina and now lived in a pleasant street in Buenos Aires. That is the advantage of very small villages: without making the slightest effort, you can learn all there is to know about a person's life. Which was precisely what the newcomer wanted.
He went up to his room and unpacked his rucksack: it contained a few clothes, a shaving kit, an extra pair of shoes, vitamins to ward off colds, a thick notebook to write in, and eleven bars of gold, each weighing two kilos. Worn out by tension, by the climb and by the weight he had been carrying, the stranger fell asleep almost at once, though not before placing a chair under the door handle, even though he knew he could count on each and every one of Viscos' 281 inhabitants.
The next morning he ate breakfast, left his dirty clothes at reception to be laundered, put the gold bars back in his rucksack, and set off for the mountain to the east of the village. On his way, he saw only one villager, an old woman sitting in front of her house, who was looking at him with great interest.
He plunged into the forest, where he waited until his hearing had become used to the noises made by the insects and birds, and by the wind rattling the leafless branches; he knew that in a place like this someone could easily be observing him without his being aware of it, so he stood there for almost an hour without doing anything.
When he felt sure that any possible observer would have lost interest and
moved on without anything to report, he dug a hole close to a rocky outcrop in the shape of a Y and hid one of the bars there. Then he climbed a little higher, spent another hour as if in rapt contemplation of nature, spotted another rocky outcrop - this time in the form of an eagle - and dug another hole, in which he placed the remaining ten gold bars.
The first person he saw as he walked back to the village was a young woman sitting beside one of the many temporary rivers that formed when the ice melted high up in the mountains. She looked up from her book, acknowledged his presence, and resumed her reading; doubtless her mother had to know, and so he went over to her.
'Hello,' he said. 'Very hot for the time of year.' She nodded in agreement. The stranger went on: 'I'd like you to come and look at something.'
She politely put down her book, held out her hand, and introduced herself.
'My name's Chantal. I work in the evenings at the bar of the hotel where you're staying, and I was surprised when you didn't come down to dinner, because a hotel doesn't make its money just from renting rooms, you know, but from everything the guests consume. You are Carlos from Argentina and you live in Colombia Street; everyone in the village knows that already, because a man arriving here outside of the hunting season is always an object of curiosity. A man in his fifties, with greying hair, and the look of someone whom has been around a bit.
'And thank you for your invitation, but I've already seen the landscape around Viscos from every possible and imaginable angle; perhaps it would be better if I showed you places you haven't seen, but I suppose you must be very busy.'
'I'm 52, my name isn't Carlos, and everything I wrote on the form at the hotel is false.'
Chantal didn't know what to say. The stranger went on:
'It's not Viscos I want to show you. It's something you've never seen before.'
Without trace. For a moment she was afraid, but her fear was quickly replaced by a desire for adventure: after all, this man wouldn't dare do anything to her when she had just told him that everyone in the village knew all about him - even if none of the details were actually true.
'Who are you?' she asked. 'If what you say is true, surely you realise I could turn you in to the police for passing yourself off with a false identity?'
'I promise to answer all your questions, but first you have to come with me, because I really do want to show you something. It's about five minutes' walk from here.'
Chantal closed her book, took a deep breath and offered up a silent prayer, while her heart beat in fear and excitement. Then she got up and followed the stranger, convinced that this would prove to be yet another disappointing encounter, one which started out full of promise and turned into yet another dream of impossible love.
The man went over to the Y-shaped rock, indicated the recently dug earth, and suggested she uncover what lay buried there.
'I'll get my hands dirty,' protested Chantal. 'I'll get my dress dirty too.' The man grabbed a branch, broke it and handed it to her to use as a spade. She found such behaviour distinctly odd, but decided to do as he asked.
She did as she was told. The man led her to the next hiding place. Again she began digging, and this time was astonished at the quantity of gold she saw before her.
'That's gold too. And it's also mine,' said the stranger.
Chantal was beginning to cover the gold over again with soil, when he asked her to leave the hole as it was. He sat down on one of the rocks, lit a cigarette, and stared at the horizon.
'Why did you want to show me this?' she asked. He didn't respond.
'Who are you exactly? And what are you doing here? Why did you show me this, knowing I could go and tell everyone what's hidden here on the mountain?'
'So many questions all at once,' the stranger replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the mountains, as if oblivious to her presence. 'As for telling the others, that's precisely what I want you to do.'
'You promised me that, if I came with you, you would answer any questions I asked you.'
'In the first place, you shouldn't believe in promises. The world is full of them: promises of riches, of eternal salvation, of infinite love. Some people think they can promise anything, others accept whatever seems to guarantee better days ahead, as, I suspect, is your case. Those who make promises they don't keep end up powerless and frustrated, and exactly the same fate awaits those who believe those promises.'
He needed, rather, to use the kind of language the young woman would understand. Chantal, however, had understood just about everything. Like all older men, he was obsessed with the idea of sex with a younger woman. Like all human beings, he thought money could buy whatever he wanted. Like all strangers, he was sure that young women from remote villages were naive enough to accept any proposal, real or imaginary, provided it offered a faint chance of escape.
He was not the first and would not, alas, be the last to try and seduce her in that vulgar way. What confused her was the amount of gold he was offering: she had never imagined she could be worth that much, and the thought both pleased her and filled her with a sense of panic.
'I'm too old to believe in promises,' she said, trying to gain time. 'Even though you've always believed in them and still do?'
'You're wrong. I know I live in paradise and I've read the Bible and I'm not going to make the same mistake as Eve, who wasn't contented with
her lot.'
This was not, of course, true, and she had already begun to worry that the stranger might lose interest and leave. The truth was that she had spun the web, setting up their meeting with which to dream of a possible new love and a one-way ticket out of the valley where she was born. Her heart had already been broken many times over, and yet she still believed she was destined to meet the man of her life. At first, she had let many chances slip by, thinking that the right person had not yet arrived, but now she had a sense that time was passing more quickly than she had thought, and she was prepared to leave Viscos with the first man willing to take her, even if she felt nothing for him. Doubtless, she would learn to love him - love, too, was just a question of time.
'That's precisely what I want to find out: are we living in paradise or in hell?' the man said, interrupting her thoughts.
Good, he was falling into her trap.
'In paradise. But if you live somewhere perfect for a long time, you get bored with it in the end.'
She had thrown out the first bait. She had said, though not in so many words: 'I'm free, I'm available.' His next question would be: 'Like you?' 'Like you?' the stranger asked.
She had to be careful, she mustn't seem too eager or she might scare him off.
'I don't know. Sometimes I think that and sometimes I think my destiny is to stay here and that I wouldn't know how to live far from Viscos.'
The next step: to feign indifference.
'Right, then, since you won't tell me anything about the gold you showed me, I'll just thank you for the walk and return to my river and my book.' 'Just a moment!'
The stranger had taken the bait.
'Of course I'll explain about the gold; why else would I have brought you
here?'
Sex, money, power, promises. But Chantal decided to pretend that she was expecting some amazing revelation; men take the oddest satisfaction in feeling superior, without knowing that most of the time they are being utterly predictable.
'You're obviously a man with a great deal of experience, someone who could teach me a lot.'
That was it. Gently slacken the rope and then lavish a little light praise on your prey so as not to frighten him off. That was an important rule to follow.
'However, you have a dreadful habit of making long speeches about promises or about how we should behave, instead of replying to a simple question. I'd be delighted to stay if only you'd answer the questions I asked you at the start: who exactly are you? And what are you doing here?'
The stranger turned his gaze from the mountains and looked at the young woman in front of him. He had worked for many years with all kinds of people and he knew - almost for certain what she must be thinking. She probably thought he had shown her the gold in order to impress her with his wealth, just as now she was trying to impress him with her youth and indifference. 'Who am I? Well, let's say I'm a man who, for some time now, has been searching for a particular truth. I finally discovered the theory, but I've never put it into practice.'
'What sort of truth?'
'About the nature of human beings. I discovered that confronted by temptation, we will always fall. Given the right circumstances, every human being on this earth would be willing to commit evil.'
'I think...'
'It's not a question of what you or I think, or of what we want to believe,
but of finding out if my theory is correct. You want to know who I am. Well, I'm an extremely rich and famous industrialist, who held sway over thousands of employees, was ruthless when necessary and kind when I had to be.
'I'm a man who has experienced things that most people never even dream of, and who went beyond all the usual limits in his search for both pleasure and knowledge. A man who found paradise when he thought he was a prisoner to the hell of routine and family, and who found hell when he could at last enjoy paradise and total freedom. That's who I am, a man who has been both good and evil throughout his life, perhaps the person most fitted to reply to my own question about the essence of humanity - and that's why I'm here. I know what you're going to ask next.'
Chantal felt she was losing ground. She needed to regain it rapidly.
'You think I'm going to ask: "Why did you show me the gold?" But what I really want to know is why a rich and famous industrialist would come to Viscos in search of an answer he could find in books, universities, or simply by consulting some illustrious philosopher.'
The stranger was pleased at the girl's intelligence. Good, he had chosen the right person as ever.
'I came to Viscos because I had a plan. A long time ago, I went to see a play by a writer called Diirrenmatt, whom I'm sure you know ...'
His comment was merely intended to provoke her: obviously a young woman like her would never have heard of Diirrenmatt, and he knew that she would again try to appear indifferent, as if she knew who he was talking about.
'Go on,' said Chantal, feigning indifference.
'I'm glad to see you know his work, but let me just remind you about the particular play I mean.' He measured his words carefully so that his remarks would not sound too sarcastic, but would also make it clear that he knew she was lying. 'It's about a woman who makes her fortune and
then returns to her home town with the sole intention of humiliating and destroying the man who rejected her in her youth. Her life, her marriage and her financial success have all been motivated by the desire to take revenge on her first love.
'So then I thought up my own game: I would go to some remote place, where everyone looked on life with joy, peace and compassion, and I would see if I could make the people there break a few of the Ten Commandments.'
Chantal looked away and stared at the mountains. She knew the stranger had realised that she had never heard of the author he was talking about and now she was afraid he would ask her about those ten commandments; she had never been very religious and had not the slightest idea what they were.
'Everybody in this village is honest, starting with you,' the stranger went on, 'I showed you a gold bar, which would give you the necessary financial independence to get out of here, to travel the world, to do whatever it is young women from small, out-of-the-way villages dream of doing. The gold is going to stay there; you know it's mine, but you could steal it if you wanted. And then you would be breaking one of the commandments: "Thou shalt not steal".'
The girl turned to look at the stranger.
'As for the other ten gold bars,' he went on, 'they are worth enough to mean that none of the inhabitants of this village would ever need to work again. I didn't ask you to re-bury the gold bars because I'm going to move them to a place only I will know about. When you go back to the village, I want you to say that you saw them and that I am willing to hand them over to the inhabitants of Viscos on condition that they do something they would never ever dream of doing.'
'Like what, for example?'
'It's not an example, it's something very concrete. I want them to break the commandment "Thou shalt not kill".'
'What?'
Her question came out like a yell.
'Exactly what I said. I want them to commit a murder.'
The stranger saw the young woman's body go rigid and realised she might leave at any moment without hearing the rest of the story. He needed to tell her his plan quickly.
'I'm giving them a week. If, at the end of seven days, someone in the village is found dead - it could be a useless idle man, or someone with an incurable illness, or a mental defective who requires constant attention, the victim doesn't matter - then the money will go to the other villagers, and I will conclude that we are all evil. If you steal the one gold bar but the village resists temptation, or vice versa, I will conclude that there are good people and evil people which would put me in a difficult position because it would mean that there's a spiritual struggle going on that could be won by either side. Don't you believe in God and the spiritual world, in battles between devils and angels?'
The young woman said nothing, and this time he realised that he had mistimed his question and ran the risk of her simply turning on her heel and not letting him finish. He had better cut the irony and get to the heart of the matter.
'If I leave the village with my eleven gold bars intact, then everything I wanted to believe in will have proved to be a lie. I will die having received an answer I would rather not have received, because I would find life more acceptable if I was proved right and the world is evil.
'I would continue to suffer, but knowing that everyone else is suffering too would make the pain more bearable. But if only a few of us are condemned to suffer terrible tragedies, then there is something very wrong with Creation.'
Chantal's eyes filled with tears, but she managed to fight them back. 'Why
are you doing this? Why did you choose my village?'
'It's nothing to do with you or with your village. I'm simply thinking of myself; the story of one man is the story of all men. I need to know if we are good or evil. If we are good, God is just and will forgive me for all I have done, for the harm I wished on those who tried to destroy me, for the wrong decisions I took at key moments, for the proposition I am putting to you now - for He was the one who drove me towards the dark. 'But if we're evil, then everything is permitted, I never took a wrong decision, we are all condemned from the start, and it doesn't matter what we do in this life, for redemption lies beyond either human thought or deed.'
Before Chantal could leave, he added:
'You may decide not to co-operate, in which case, I'll tell everyone that I gave you the chance to help them, but you refused, and then I'll put my proposition to them myself. If they do decide to kill someone, you will probably be their chosen victim.'
The inhabitants of Viscos soon grew used to the stranger's routine: He woke early, ate a hearty breakfast and went off walking in the mountains, despite the rain that had not stopped falling since his second day in the village and which eventually turned into a near continuous snowstorm. He never ate lunch and generally returned to his hotel early in the afternoon, shut himself in his room and, so everyone supposed, went to sleep.
As soon as night fell, he resumed his walks, this time in the immediate surroundings of the village. He was always the first into the restaurant, he ordered the finest dishes and - never taken in by the prices - always ordered the best wine, which wasn't necessarily the most expensive; then he would smoke a cigarette and go over to the bar, where he had begun to make friends with the regulars.
He enjoyed listening to stories about the region, about the previous
generations who had lived in Viscos (someone told him that once it had been a far bigger village than it was today, as you could see from the ruined houses at the far end or the three surviving streets), and about the customs and superstitions that were part of rural life, and about the new techniques in agriculture and animal husbandry.
When the time came for him to talk about himself, he told various contradictory stories, sometimes saying he had been a sailor, at others mentioning the major arms industries he had been in charge of, or talking of a time when he had abandoned everything to spend time in a monastery in search of God.
When they left the bar, the locals argued over whether or not he was telling the truth. The mayor believed that a man could be many different things in his lifetime, although the people of Viscos always knew their fate from childhood onwards; the priest was of a different opinion and regarded the newcomer as someone lost and confused, who had come there to try and find himself.
The only thing they all knew for certain was that he was only going to be there for seven days; the hotel landlady reported that she had heard him phoning the airport in the capital, confirming his departure - interestingly enough, for Africa not South America. Then, after the phone call, he had pulled out a bundle of notes from his pocket to settle the bill for his room as well as to pay for the meals he had taken and those still to come, even though she assured him that she trusted him. When the stranger insisted, the woman suggested he pay by credit card, as most of her guests usually did; that way, he would have cash available for any emergency that might arise during the remainder of his trip.
She thought of adding that 'in Africa they might not accept credit cards', but felt it would have been indelicate to reveal that she had listened in on his conversation, or to imply that certain continents were more advanced
than others.
The stranger thanked her for her concern, but refused politely.
On the following three nights, he paid - again in cash - for a round of drinks for everyone.
Viscos had never seen anything like it, and they soon forgot about the contradictory stories, and the man came to be viewed as friendly, generous and open-minded, prepared to treat country folk as if they were the equals of men and women from the big cities.
By now, the subject of the discussions had changed. When it was closing time in the bar, some of the late drinkers took the mayor's side, saying that the newcomer was a man of the world, capable of understanding the true value of friendship, while others agreed with the priest, with his greater knowledge of the human soul, and said that the stranger was a lonely man in search either of new friends or of a new vision of life. Whatever the truth of the matter, he was an agreeable enough character, and the inhabitants of Viscos were convinced that they would miss him when he left on the following Monday.
Apart from anything else, he was extremely discreet, a quality everyone had noticed because of one particular detail: most travellers, especially those who arrived alone, were always very quick to try and strike up a conversation with the barmaid, Chantal Prym, possibly in hopes of a Meeting romance or whatever. This man, however, only spoke to her when he ordered drinks and never once traded seductive or lecherous looks with the young woman.
Chantal found it virtually impossible to sleep during the three nights of following that meeting by the river. The storm - which came and went - shook the metal blinds, making a frightening noise. She awoke repeatedly, bathed in sweat, even though she always switched off the heating at night, due to the high price of electricity.
On the first night, she found herself in the presence of God. Between nightmares - which she was unable to remember - she prayed to God to help her. It did not once occur to her to tell anyone what she had heard and thus become the messenger of sin and death.
At one point, it seemed to her that God was much too far away to hear her, and so she began praying instead to her grandmother, who had passed away some time ago, and who had brought her up after her mother died in childbirth. She clung with all her strength to the notion that Evil had already touched their lives once and had gone away for ever.
Despite all her personal problems, Chantal knew that she lived in a village of decent men and women who honoured their commitments, people who walked with their heads held high and were respected throughout the region. But it had not always been so. For over two centuries, Viscos had been inhabited by the very dregs of humanity, and everyone took this for granted, saying it was the consequence of a curse put on the village by the Celts when they were vanquished by the Romans.
And so things remained until the silence and courage of a single man - someone who believed not in curses, but in blessings - redeemed its people. Chantal listened to the clattering metal blinds and remembered the voice of her grandmother recounting what had happened.
'Once, many years ago, a hermit - who later came to be known as St Savin - lived in one of the caves hereabouts.
At the time, Viscos was little more than a frontier post, populated by bandits fleeing from justice, by smugglers and prostitutes, by confidence tricksters in search of accomplices, even by murderers resting between murders. The wickedest of them all, an Arab called Ahab, controlled the whole village and the surrounding area, imposing extortionate taxes on the local farmers who still insisted on maintaining a dignified way of life. 'One day, Savin came down from his cave, arrived at Ahab's house and asked to spend the night there. Ahab laughed: "You do know that I'm a murderer who has already slit a number of throats, and that your life is
worth nothing to me?"
'"Yes, I know that," Savin replied, "but I'm tired of living in a cave and I'd like to spend at least one night here with you."
'Ahab knew the saint's reputation, which was as great as vvn and this made him uneasy, for he did not like to share his glory with someone so weak. Thus he was determined to kill him that very night, to prove to everyone that he was the one true master of the place. 'They chatted for a while. Ahab was impressed by what the aint had to say, but he was a suspicious man who no longer believed in the existence of Good. He showed Savin where he could sleep and then continued menacingly sharpening his knife. After watching him for a few minutes, Savin closed his eyes and went to sleep.
'Ahab spent all night sharpening his knife. Next day, when Savin awoke, he found Ahab in tears at his side.
“You weren't afraid of me and you didn't judge me. For the first time ever, someone spent a night by my side trusting that I could be a good man, one ready to offer hospitality to those in need. Because you believed I was capable of behaving decently, I did."
'From that moment on, Ahab abandoned his life of crime and set about transforming the region. That was when Viscos ceased being merely a frontier post, inhabited by outcasts, and became an important trading centre on the border between two countries.'
'Exactly.'
Chantal burst into tears, grateful to her grandmother for having reminded her of that story. Her people were good, and she could trust them. While she attempted to go back to them, she even toyed with the idea of telling them the stranger's story, if only to see his shocked face as he was driven out of Viscos by its inhabitants.
The next day, she was surprised to see him emerge from the restaurant at the rear of the hotel, go over to the barcum-reception-cum-souvenir shop
and stand around chatting to the people he met there, just like any other tourist, pretending to be interested in utterly pointless things, such as their methods of shearing sheep or of smoke-curing meat. The people of Viscos always believed that every stranger would be fascinated by their natural, healthy way of life, and they would repeat and expand upon the benefits of life away from modern civilisation, even though, deep in their hearts, every single one of them would have loved to live far from there, among cars that pollute the atmosphere and in neighbourhoods where it was too dangerous to walk, for the simple reason that big cities hold an enormous fascination for country people.
Yet every time a visitor appeared, they would demonstrate by their words
- and only by their words - the joys of living in a lost paradise, trying to persuade themselves what a miracle it was to have been born there and forgetting that, so far, not one hotel guest had decided to leave it all behind and come and live in Viscos.
There was a lively atmosphere in the bar that night, until the stranger made one rather unfortunate comment: 'The children here are so well behaved. There's not a squeak out of them in the mornings, not like other places I've visited.'
There was an awkward silence - for there were no children in Viscos - someone asked him what he thought of the local food he had just eaten, and the conversation resumed its normal rhythm, revolving, as usual, around the wonders of countryside and the problems of life in the big city. As time passed, Chantal became increasingly nervous, afraid that he might ask her to tell everyone about their meeting in the forest. But the stranger never even glanced at her and he spoke to her only once, when he ordered – and paid cash for - a round of drinks for everyone present.
As soon as the customers left and the stranger went up to his room, she took off her apron, lit a cigarette from a packet someone had left behind
on the table, and told the hotel landlady she would do the clearing up the next morning, since she was worn out after a sleepless night. The landlady agreed, and Chantal put on her coat and went out into the cold night air.
Her room was only two minutes' walk away, and as she let the rain pour down her face, she was thinking that perhaps everything that had happened was just some kind of crazy fantasy, the stranger's macabre way of attracting her attention.
Then she remembered the gold: she had seen it with her own eyes.
Maybe it wasn't gold. But she was too tired to think and as soon as she got to her room she took off her clothes and snuggled down under the covers. On the second night, Chantal found herself in the presence of Good and Evil. She fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, only to wake up less than an hour later. Outside, all was silence; there was no wind banging the metal blinds, not even the sounds made by night creatures; there was nothing, absolutely nothing to indicate that she was still in the world of the living.
She went to the window and looked out at the deserted street, where a fine rain was falling, the mist barely lit by the feeble light of the hotel sign, all of which only made the village seem even more sinister. She was all too familiar with the silence of this remote place, which signified not peace and tranquillity, but a total absence of new things to say. She looked at the mountains, which lay hidden by low cloud, but she knew that somewhere up there was buried a gold bar or, rather, a yellow object, shaped like a brick, that the stranger had left behind there. He had shown her its exact location, virtually begging her to dig up the bar and keep it for herself.
She went back to bed, tossed and turned for a while, then got up again and went to the bathroom where she examined her naked body in the mirror, spent a few moments worrying that soon she would lose her looks, then returned to bed. She regretted not having picked up the packet of
cigarettes left behind on the table, but she knew that its owner was bound to come back for it, and she did not want to incur people's mistrust.
That was what Viscos was like: a half-empty cigarette packet had its owner, the button lost off a jacket had to be kept until someone came asking for it, every penny had to be handed over, there was never any rounding change bill. It was a wretched place, in which everything was predictable, organised and reliable.
Realising that she wasn't going to be able to get to sleep, she again attempted to pray and to think of her grandmother, her thoughts had become fixed on a single scene: the hole, the earth-smeared metal, the branch in her hand, as though it were the staff of a pilgrim about to set off. She dozed and woke up again several times, but the silence outside continued, and the same scene kept endlessly repeating itself inside her head.
As soon as she noticed the first light of dawn coming in through the window, she dressed and went out.
Although she lived in a place where people normally rose with the sun, it was too early even for that. She walked down the empty street, glancing repeatedly behind her to be sure that the stranger wasn't following her; the mist was so thick, however, that visibility was down to a few yards. She paused from time to time, listening for footsteps, but all she could hear was her own heart beating wildly.
She plunged into the undergrowth, made for the Y-shaped rock which had always made her nervous because it looked as if it might topple over at any moment - She picked up the same branch she had left there the day before, dug at the exact spot the stranger had indicated, stuck her hand into the hole and pulled out the brick-shaped gold bar. She thought she heard something: a silence reigned in the heart of the forest, as though there was a strange presence abroad, frightening the animals and
preventing the leaves from stirring.
She was surprised by the weight of the metal in her hands. She wiped it clean, studied the marks on it: two seals and a series of engraved numbers, which she tried in vain to decipher.
How much would it be worth? She couldn't tell with any degree of accuracy, but - as the stranger had said - it would be enough for her not to have to worry about earning another penny for the rest of her life. She was holding her dream in her hands, the thing she had always longed for, and which a miracle had set before her. Here was the opportunity to free herself from all those identical days and nights in Viscos and from the endless going back and forth to the hotel where she had worked since she was eighteen, from the yearly visits of all those friends whose families had sent them away to study and make something of themselves, from all the absences she had long since grown used to, from the men who arrived promising her the world and left the next day without even a goodbye, from all the farewells and non-farewells to which she had long become accustomed. That moment there in the forest was the most important moment of her entire life.
Life had always been so unfair to her: she didn't know who her father was; her mother had died in childbirth, leaving her with a terrible burden of guilt to bear; her grandmother, a countrywoman, had eked out a living as a baker, saving every penny she could so that her granddaughter could at least learn to read and write.
She had had so many dreams: she thought she could overcome all obstacles, find a husband, get a job in the big city; overcome being discovered by a talent scout who happened to be visiting that out-of-the-way place in the hope of finding a new talent, get a career in the theatre, write a best-seller, have photographers calling out to her to pose for them, walk along life's red carpets.
Every day was another day spent waiting. Every night was a night when she might meet someone who would recognise her true worth. Every man she took to her bed was the hope of leaving Viscos the following morning, never again to see those three streets, those stone houses with their slate roofs, the church with its cemetery beside it, the hotel selling local handicrafts that took months to make and were sold for the same price as mass-produced goods.
Occasionally it crossed her mind that the Celts, the ancient inhabitants of her region, might have hidden an amazing cache of treasure there, which one day she would find. Of all her dreams, that had been the most absurd, the most unlikely.
Yet here she was now with a gold bar in her hands, the measure she had never believed in, her definitive freedom.
She was seized by panic: the one lucky moment in her life could vanish that very afternoon. What if the stranger changed his mind? What if he decided to go in search of her village where he might find another woman more willing to help him in his plans? Why not stand up, go back to her room, put her few possessions into a bag and simply leave?
She imagined herself going down the steep hill, trying to hitch a ride out of the village while the stranger set out on his morning walk and found that his gold had been stolen.
She would continue on her way to the nearest town and he would go back to the hotel to call the police.
Chantal would thank the driver who had given her a lift, and then head straight for the bus station and buy a ticket to some far-away place; at that moment, two policemen would approach her, asking her politely to open her suitcase. As soon as they saw its contents, their politeness would vanish: she was the woman they were looking for, following a report filed only three hours earlier.
In the police station, Chantal would have two options: to tell the truth, which no one would believe, or to explain that she had noticed the disturbed soil, had decided to investigate and had found the gold. Once, she had shared her bed with a treasure hunter also intent on unearthing something left by the Celts. He claimed the law of the land was clear: he had the right to keep whatever he found, although any items of historical interest had to be registered with the relevant government department. But the gold bar had no historical value at all, it was brand new, with all its stamps, seals and numbers.
The police would question the man. He would have no way of proving that she had entered his room and stolen his property. It would be his word against hers, but he might be more influential, have friends in high places, and it could go his way. Chantal could, of course, always ask for the police to examine the gold bar; then they would see that the ponce" was telling the truth, for the metal would still bear traces of earth.
By now, the news would have reached Viscos, and its habitants - out of envy or jealousy - would start spreading rumours about the girl, saying that there were numerous reports that she often used to go to bed with the hotel guests; perhaps the robbery had taken place while the man was asleep.
It would all end badly: the gold bar would be confiscated until the courts had resolved the matter, she would get another lift back to Viscos, where she would be humiliated, ruined, the target of gossip that would take more than a generation to die down. Later on, she would discover that lawsuits never got anywhere, that lawyers cost much more than she could possibly afford, and she would end up abandoning the case.
The net result: no gold and no reputation.
There was another possible version: the stranger might be telling the truth. If Chantal stole the gold and simply left, wouldn't she be saving the
village from a much deeper disgrace?
However, even before leaving home and setting off for the fountain, she had known she would be incapable of taking such a step. Why, at precisely the moment that could change her life forever, was she so afraid? After all, didn't she sleep with whomever she pleased and didn't she sometimes ingratiate herself with visitors just to get a bigger tip? Didn't she lie occasionally? Didn't she envy her former friends who now only came back to the village to visit their families at New Year?
She clutched the gold to her, got to her feet, feeling weak and desperate, then crouched down again, replaced it in the hole and covered it with earth. She couldn't go through with it; this inability, however, had nothing to do with honesty or dishonesty, but with the sheer terror she was feeling. She had just realised there were two things that prevent us from achieving our dreams: believing them to be impossible or seeing those dreams made possible by some sudden turn of the wheel of fortune, when you least expected it. For at that moment, all our fears suddenly surface: the fear of setting off along a road heading who knows where, the fear of a life full of new challenges, the fear of losing for ever everything that is familiar.
People want to change everything and, at the same time, want it all to remain the same. Chantal did not immediately understand why, but that was what was happening to her. Perhaps she was too bound to Viscos, too accustomed to defeat, and any chance of victory was too heavy a burden to bear.
She was convinced that the stranger must now be tired of her silence and that shortly perhaps that very afternoon - he would decide to choose someone else. But she was too cowardly to change her fate. They were inferior beings, uptight and talentless - and they believe it too.'
The stranger, however, seemed determined to show that his culture was worth more than all the labours of the men and women in the bar. He pointed to a print hanging on the wall: 'Do you know what that is? It's one
of the most famous paintings in the world: The Last Supper, painted by Leonardo da Vinci.'
'It can't be as famous as all that,' said the hotel landlady. 'It was very cheap.'
'That's only a reproduction: the original is in a church a long, long way from here. But there's a story about this picture you might like to hear.' Everyone nodded, though once again Chantal felt ashamed to be there, listening to a man showing off his pointless knowledge, just to prove that he knew more than anyone else. 'When he was creating this picture, Leonardo da Vinci encountered a serious problem: he had to depict Good - in the person of Jesus - and Evil - in the figure of Judas, the friend who resolves to betray him during the meal. He stopped work on the painting until he could find his ideal models.
'One day, when he was listening to a choir, he saw in one of the boys the perfect image of Christ. He invited him to his studio and made sketches and studies of his face.
'Three years went by. The Last Supper was almost complete, but Leonardo had still not found the perfect model for Judas. The cardinal responsible for the church started to put pressure on him to finish the mural.
'After many days spent vainly searching, the artist came cross a prematurely aged youth, in rags and lying drunk in a gutter. With some difficulty, he persuaded his assistants
to bring the fellow directly to the church, since there was no time left to make preliminary sketches.
'The beggar was taken there, not quite understanding what was going on. He was propped up by Leonardo's assistants, while Leonardo copied the lines of impiety, sin and egotism so clearly etched on his features.
'When he had finished, the beggar, who had sobered up slightly, opened his eyes and saw the picture before him. With a mixture of horror and sadness he said:
'"I've seen that picture before!" '"When?" asked an astonished Leonardo. '"Three years ago, before I lost everything I had, at a time when I used to sing in a choir and my life was full of dreams. The artist asked me to pose as the model for the face of Jesus."'
There was a long pause. The stranger was looking at the priest, who was drinking his beer, but Chantal knew his words were directed at her.
'So you see, Good and Evil have the same face; it all depends on when they cross the path of each individual human being.'
He got up, made his excuses, saying he was tired, and went up to his room. Everyone paid what they owed and slowly left the bar, casting a last look at the cheap reproduction of the famous painting, asking themselves at what point in their lives they had been touched by an angel or a devil. Without anyone saying a word to anyone else, each came to the conclusion that this had only happened in Viscos before Ahab brought peace to the region; now, every day was like every other day, each the same as the last.
Exhausted, functioning almost like an automaton, Chantal knew she was the only person to think differently, for she alone had felt the heavy, seductive hand of Evil caressing her cheek. 'Good and Evil have the same face, it all depends on when they cross the path of
each individual human being.' Beautiful, possibly true words, but all she really needed now was to sleep, nothing more.
She ended up giving the wrong change to one of the customers, something which almost never happened; she apologised, but did not feel overly guilty. She carried on, inscrutable and dignified, until the priest and the local mayor generally the last to leave - had departed. Then she shut up the till, gathered her things together, put on her cheap, heavy jacket and went home, just as she had done for years.
On the third night, then, she found herself in the presence of Evil. And Evil came to her in the form of extreme tiredness and a soaring fever, leaving
her in a half-conscious state, but incapable of sleep - while outside in the darkness, a wolf kept howling. Sometimes she thought she must be delirious, for it seemed the wolf had come into her room and was talking to her in a language she couldn't understand. In a brief moment of lucidity, she attempted to get up and go to the church, to ask the priest to call a doctor because she was ill, very ill; but when she tried to convert her intentions into actions, her legs gave way beneath her, and she was convinced she would be unable to walk.
Or, if she did manage to walk, she would be unable to reach the church. Or, if she did reach the church, she would have to wait for the priest to wake up, get dressed and open, the door, and meanwhile the cold would cause her fever to rise so rapidly that she would drop dead on the spot, right there outside the house that some considered to be sacred. 'At least they wouldn't have far to take me to the cemetery: I'd be virtually inside it already,' she thought.
Chantal's delirium lasted all night, but she noticed that her fever began to diminish as the morning light came filtering into her room. As her strength returned and she was trying to get to sleep, she heard the familiar sound of a car horn and realised that the baker's van had arrived in Viscos and that it must be time for breakfast.
There was no one there to make her go downstairs to buy bread; she was independent, she could stay in bed for as long as she wanted, since she only began work in the evening. But something had changed in her; she needed contact with the world, before she went completely mad. She wanted to be with the people she knew would now be gathering around the little green van, exchanging their coins for bread, happy because a new day was beginning and they had work to do and food to eat.
She went across to the van, greeting them all, and heard remarks like: 'You look tired' or 'Is anything wrong?'. They were kind and supportive,
always ready to help, simple and innocent in their generosity, while her soul was engaged in bitter struggle for dreams and adventures, fear and power. Much as she would have liked to share her secret, she knew that if she revealed it to a single one of them, the rest of the village would be sure to know it before the morning was over. It was better to thank them for their concern and to carry on alone until her ideas had become a little clearer.
'No, it's nothing. There was a wolf howling all night and I couldn't get to sleep.'
'I didn't hear any wolf,' said the hotel landlady, who was also there buying bread.
'It's been months since any wolves were heard in the area,' confirmed another woman who made conserves to be sold in the hotel shop. 'The hunters must have killed them all, which is bad news for us because the wolves are the main reason the hunters come up here at all, to see who can kill the most elusive animal in the pack. It's a pretty pointless exercise, but they love it.'
'Don't say anything in front of the baker about there being no more wolves in the region,' muttered Chantal's boss. 'If word gets out, no one will come to Viscos at all.'
'But I heard a wolf.'
Then it must have been the rogue wolf,' said the mayor's wife, who didn't much like Chantal, but who was sufficiently Well-bred to hide her feelings. The hotel landlady got annoyed. There was no rogue wolf. It was just an ordinary wolf, and it was probably dead by now anyway.
The mayor's wife, however, would not give up so easily.
'Regardless of whether or not it exists, we all know that there were no wolves howling last night. You work the poor girl too hard, up until all hours; she's so exhausted she's starting to get hallucinations.'
Chantal left the pair of them to their argument, picked up her bread and
went on her way.
'A pointless exercise,' she repeated to herself, recalling the comment made by the woman who made the conserves. That was how they viewed life, as a pointless exercise. She nearly told them about the stranger's proposal there and then, just to see if those smug, narrow-minded people would be willing to take part in a genuinely purposeful exercise: ten gold bars in exchange for a simple murder, one that would guarantee the futures of their children and their grandchildren and return Viscos to its former glory, with or without wolves.
But she held back. She decided instead to tell the story that very night, in front of everyone, in the bar, so that no one could claim not to have heard or understood.
Perhaps they would fall on the stranger and march him straight to the police, leaving her free to take her gold bar as a reward for services rendered to the community. Perhaps they simply wouldn't believe her, and the stranger would depart believing that they were all good, which wasn't the case at all.
They were so ignorant, so naive, so resigned to their lot. They refused to believe anything that didn't fit in with what they were used to believing. They all lived in fear of God. They were all - herself included - cowards when the moment comes to change their fate. But as far as true goodness was concerned, that didn't exist - not in the land of cowardly men, nor in the heaven of Almighty God who sows suffering everywhere, just so that we can spend our whole lives begging him to deliver us from Evil.
The temperature had dropped. Chantal hadn't slept for three nights, but once she was preparing her breakfast, she felt much better. She wasn't the only coward, though she was possibly the only one aware of her own cowardice, because the rest of them thought of life as a 'pointless exercise' and confused fear with generosity.
She remembered a man who used to work in a chemist's in a nearby village and who had been dismissed after twenty years' service. He hadn't asked for his redundancy money because - so he said - he considered his employers to be his friends and didn't want to hurt them, because he knew they had had to dismiss him because of financial difficulties. It was all a lie: the reason the man did not go to court was because he was a coward; he wanted at all costs to be liked; he thought his employers would then always think of him as a generous, friendly sort. Some time later, when he went back to them to ask for a loan, they slammed the door in his face, but by then it was too late, for he had signed a letter of resignation and could make no further demands of them.
Very clever. Playing the part of a charitable soul was only for those who were afraid of taking a stand in life. It is always far easier to have faith in your own goodness than to confront others and fight for your rights. It is always easier to hear an insult and not retaliate than have the courage to fight back against someone stronger than yourself; we can always say we're not hurt by the stones others throw at us, and it's only at night when we're alone and our wife or our husband or our school friend is asleep - that we can silently grieve over our own cowardice.
Chantal drank her coffee and hoped the day would pass quickly. She would destroy the village, she would bring Viscos to its knees that very night. The village would die within a generation anyway because it was a village without children young people had their children elsewhere, in places where people went to parties, wore fine clothes, travelled and engaged in 'pointless exercises'.
The day, however, did not pass quickly. On the contrary, the grey weather and the low cloud made the hours drag. The mountains were obscured by mist, and the village seemed cut off from the world, turned in on itself, as if it were the only inhabited place on Earth. From her window, Chantal saw
the stranger leave the hotel and, as usual, head for the mountains. She feared for her gold, but immediately calmed herself down - he was sure to come back because he had paid in advance for a week in the hotel, and rich men never waste a penny; only poor people do that.
She tried to read, but couldn't concentrate. She decided to go for a walk round Viscos, and the only person she saw was Berta the widow, who spent her days sitting outside her house, watching everything that went on.
'It looks like it's finally going to get cold,' said Berta.
Chantal asked herself why people with nothing else to talk about always think the weather is so important. She nodded her agreement.
Then she went on her way, since she had said all she had to say to Berta in the many years she had lived in that village. There was a time when she had considered Berta an interesting, courageous woman, who had managed to continue her life even after the death of her husband in one of the many hunting accidents that happened each year. She had sold some of her few possessions and invested the money together with the insurance money - in securities, and she now lived off the income.
Over time, however, the widow had ceased to be of interest to her, and had become instead an example of everything she feared she might become: ending her life sitting in a chair on her own doorstep, all muffled up in winter, staring at the only landscape she had ever known, watching over what didn't need watching over, since nothing serious, important or valuable ever happened there.
She walked on, unconcerned at the possibility of getting lost in the misty forest, because she knew every track, tree and stone by heart. She imagined how exciting things would be at night and tried out various ways of putting the stranger's proposal - in some versions she simply told them what she had seen and heard, in others she spun a tale that might or
might not be true, imitating the style of the man who had not let her sleep now for three nights.
'A highly dangerous man, worse than any hunter I've ever met.'
Walking through the woods, Chantal began to realise that she had discovered another person just as dangerous as the stranger: herself. Up until four days ago, she had been imperceptibly becoming used to who she was, to what she could realistically expect from life, to the fact that living in Viscos wasn't really so bad - after all, the whole area was swamped with tourists in the summer, everyone of whom referred to the place as a 'paradise'. ;
Now the monsters were emerging from their tombs, darkening her nights, making her feel discontented, put upon, abandoned by God and by fate. Worse than that, they forced her to acknowledge the bitterness she carried around inside her day and night, into the forest and to work, into those rare love affairs and during her many moments of solitude.
'Damn the man. And damn myself too, since I was the one who made him cross my path.' As she made her way back to the village, she regretted every single minute of her life; she cursed her mother for dying so young, her grandmother for having taught her to be honest and kind, the friends who had abandoned her and the fate that was still with her.
Berta was still at her post.
'You're in a great hurry,' she said. 'Why not sit down beside me and relax a bit?'
Chantal did as she suggested. She would do anything to make the time pass more quickly.
'The village seems to be changing,' Berta said. 'There's something different in the air, and last night I heard the rogue wolf howling.'
The girl felt relieved. She didn't know whether it had been the rogue wolf or not, but she had definitely heard a wolf howling that night, and at least one other person apart from her had heard it too.
'This place never changes,' she replied. 'Only the seasons come and go,
and now it's winter's turn.'
'No, it's because the stranger has come.'
Chantal checked herself. Could it be that he had talked to someone else as well?
'What has the arrival of the stranger got to do with Viscos?'
'I spend the whole day looking at nature. Some people think it's a waste of time, but it was the only way I could find to accept the loss of someone I loved very much. I see the seasons pass, see the trees lose their leaves and then grow new ones. But occasionally something unexpected in nature brings about enormous changes. I've been told, for example, that the mountains all around us are the result of an earthquake that happened thousands of years ago.'
Chantal nodded; she had learned the same thing at school.
'After that, nothing is ever the same. I'm afraid that is precisely what is going to happen now.'
Chantal was tempted to tell her the story of the gold, but, suspecting that the old woman might know something already, she said nothing.
'I keep thinking about Ahab, our great hero and reformer, the man who was blessed by St Savin.'
'Why Ahab?'
'Because he could see that even the most insignificant of actions, however well intentioned, can destroy everything. They say that after he had brought peace to the village, driven away the remaining outlaws and modernised agriculture and trade in Viscos, he invited his friends to supper and cooked a succulent piece of meat for them.
Suddenly he realised there was no salt.
'So Ahab called to his son: "Go to the village and buy some salt, but pay a fair price for it: neither too much nor too little."
'His son was surprised: "I can understand why I shouldn't pay too much for it, father, but if I can bargain them down, why not pay a bit less?"
'"That would be the sensible thing to do in a big city, but in a small village like ours it could spell the beginning of the end."
'The boy left without asking any further questions. However, Ahab's guests, who had overheard their conversation, wanted to know why they should not buy the salt more cheaply if they could. Ahab replied:
"'The only reason anyone would sell salt more cheaply usually would be because he was desperate for money. Anyone who took advantage of that situation would be showing a lack of respect for the sweat and struggle of the man who laboured to produce it."
'"But such a small thing couldn't possibly destroy a village."
'"In the beginning, there was only a small amount of injustice abroad in the world, but everyone who came afterwards added their portion, always thinking it was very small and unimportant, and look where we have ended up today."'
'Like the stranger, for example,' Chantal said, hoping that Berta would confirm that she too had talked to him. But Berta said nothing.
'I don't know why Ahab was so keen to save Viscos,'
Chantal went on. 'It started out as a den of thieves and now it's a village of cowards.'
Chantal was sure the old woman knew something. She only had to find out whether it was the stranger himself who had told her.
'That's true. But I'm not sure that it's cowardice exactly. I think everyone is afraid of change. They want Viscos to be as it always was: a place where you can till the soil and tend your livestock, a place that welcomes hunters and tourists, but where everyone knows exactly what is going to happen from one day to the next, and where the only unpredictable things are nature's storms. Perhaps it's a way of achieving 'Peace' but I agree with you on one point: they all think they have everything under control, when, in fact, they control nothing.'
'Absolutely,' said Chantal.
'Not one jot or one tittle shall be added to what is written,' the old woman said, quoting from the Gospels. 'But we like to live with that illusion because it makes us feel safe.
Well, it's a choice like any other, even though it's stupid to believe we can control the world and to allow ourselves to be lulled into a false sense of security that leaves us totally unprepared for life; because then, when you least expect it, an earthquake throws up a range of mountains, a bolt of lightning kills a tree that was preparing for its summer rebirth, or a hunting accident puts paid to the life of an honest man.'
For the hundredth time, Berta launched into the story of her husband's death. He had been one of the most respected guides in the region, a man who saw hunting not as a savage sport, but as a way of respecting local traditions. Thanks to him, Viscos had created a special nature reserve, the mayor had drawn up laws protecting certain near-extinct species, there was a tax per head of each animal killed, and the money collected was used for the good of the community.
Berta's husband tried to see the sport - considered cruel by some and traditional for others - as a way of teaching the hunters something about the art of living. Whenever someone with a lot of money but little hunting experience arrived in Viscos, he would take them out to a piece of waste ground. There, he would place a beer can on top of a stone.
Then he would stand about fifty yards from the can and, with a single shot, send it flying. 'I'm the best shot in the region,' he would say. 'And now you're going to learn how to become as good as me.'
He replaced the can on the same stone, walked back to where he had stood before, took a handkerchief out of his pocket and asked the newcomer to blindfold him. Then he aimed once more in the direction of the target and fired again.
'Did I hit it?' he would ask, removing the blindfold.
'Of course not,' the new arrival would say, pleased to see the proud guide humbled. 'You missed it by a mile. I don't think there's anything you can
teach me.'
'I've just taught you the most important lesson in life,' Berta's husband would reply.
'Whenever you want to achieve something, keep your eyes open, concentrate and make sure you know exactly what it is you want. No one can hit their target with their eyes closed.'
Then, one day, while he was replacing the can on the stone after his first shot, the wouldbe hunter thought it must be his turn to show how good his aim was. Without waiting for Berta's husband to rejoin him, he fired. He missed the target, but hit the guide in the neck. He did not have the chance to learn that important lesson in concentration and objectivity. have to go,' Chantal said. 'There are a few things I need to do before I go to work.' Berta said goodbye and watched her all the way until she disappeared down the alley beside the church. The years she had spent sitting outside her door, looking up at the mountains and the clouds, and holding conversations in her mind with her dead husband had taught her to 'see' people. Her vocabulary was limited, so she could find no other word to describe all the many sensations that other people aroused in her, but that was what happened: she 'saw through' other people, and could tell what their feelings were. It had all started at the funeral for her one great love. She was weeping, and a child next to her - the son of an inhabitant of Viscos, who was now a grown man and lived thousands of miles away - asked her why she was sad.
Berta did not want to frighten the child by mentioning death and final farewells, so all she said was that her husband had gone away and might not come back to Viscos for a long time.
'I think he was having you on,' the boy replied. 'I've just seen him hiding behind a grave, all smiles, and with a soup spoon in his hand.'
The boy's mother heard what he said and scolded him for it. 'Children are
always seeing things,' she said, apologising to Berta. But Berta immediately stopped crying and looked in the direction the child had indicated; her husband had always had the annoying habit of wanting to eat his soup with a special spoon, however much this irritated her because all spoons are the same and hold the same amount of soup - yet he had always insisted on using his special spoon. Berta had never told anyone this, for fear people would think him crazy.
The boy really had seen her husband; the spoon was the sign. Children could 'see' things. From then on, Berta decided that was proof that she was going to learn to 'see' as well, because she wanted to talk to her husband, to have him back - if only as a ghost.
At first, she shut herself up at home, rarely going out, waiting for him to appear to her. Then one day, something told her that she should go to the door of her house and start paying attention to other people, that her husband wanted her to have more joy in her life, for her to participate more in what was going on in the village.
She set up her chair outside her house and sat staring at the mountains; there were not many people out and about in the streets of Viscos, but on the very first day of her vigil, a neighbour returned from the next village, saying that they were selling quality cutlery very cheaply at the market there and, as proof, she produced a spoon from her bag.
Berta realised she would never see her husband again, but he was asking her to stay there, watching the village, and that was what she would do. As time went by, she began to perceive a presence beside her, to her left, and she was certain that he was there with her, keeping her company and protecting her from any danger, as well as teaching her to see things that others could not, such as the patterns made by the clouds, which always spelled out messages. She was rather sad that whenever she tried to look at him full on, the presence disappeared, but then she realised that she
could talk to him using her intuition, and so they began having long conversations about all kinds of things.
Three years later, she was able to 'see' people's feelings, as well as receive some very useful practical advice from her husband. That was why she refused to be fobbed off with less compensation than she deserved, and why she withdrew her money from the bank just before it crashed, taking with it many local people's hard-earned savings.
One morning - and she could no longer remember exactly when this had happened - her husband told her that Viscos might be destroyed. Berta immediately thought of earthquakes creating whole new ranges of mountains, but he reassured her that nothing of that sort would happen there, at least not for the next few thousand years. He was worried about another sort of destruction, even though he himself was not exactly clear what form it would take. All the same, he asked her to be on her guard, because this was his village, the place he loved most in the whole world, even if he had left it rather sooner than he would have wished.
Berta began to pay more attention to people, to the patterns made by the clouds, to the hunters who came and went, but nothing appeared to indicate that anyone was trying to destroy a village that had never harmed anyone. Yet still her husband insisted that she keep watch, and she had done as he asked.
Then three days ago, she had seen the stranger arrive with a devil by his side and she knew her wait was over. Today, she had noticed that Chantal was accompanied by both a devil and an angel. She immediately linked the two events and understood that something odd was happening in her village. She smiled to herself, glanced to her left and blew a discreet whistle.
She was not a useless old woman; she had something important to do: to save the place where she had been born, even though she had no idea as
yet what steps she should take.
Chantal left the old woman immersed in her thoughts, and went back to her room. It was whispered among the inhabitants of Viscos that Berta was a witch. It was said she had shut herself up in her house for almost a year and, during that time, had taught herself the magic arts. When Chantal had asked who could have taught them to Berta, some said it was the devil himself who appeared to her at night, while others swore that she invoked the spirit of a Celtic priest, using words her parents had taught her. But no one was overly concerned: Berta was harmless and she always had good stories to tell.
They were right, although they were always the same stories. Suddenly Chantal paused with her hand on the doorknob. Even though she had heard the story of how Berta's husband had died many times over, it was only now that she realised there was an important lesson in it for her too. She remembered her recent walk in the forest and the pent-up hatred she had felt inside her, a hatred that seemed to fly out all around her, threatening whoever was near, be it herself, the village, the people in it or their children.
But she had only one real target: the stranger. Concentrate, °of and kill your prey. To do that, she needed a plan - it could be foolish to speak out that night and let the situation run out of control. She decided to put off for another day telling the story of how she had met the stranger, if, that is, she ever did tell the other inhabitants of Viscos.
That night, when she went to collect the money for the round of drinks that the stranger usually bought, Chantal noticed that he had slipped her a note. She put it straight into her pocket, pretending that it was a matter of no importance, even though she was aware of the stranger's eyes occasionally seeking hers, as if silently questioning her. The roles seemed to have been reversed: it was she who was in control of the situation, she
who could choose the battlefield and the hour of the fight. That was how all the most successful hunters behaved: they always arranged things so that the prey would come to them.
It was only when she returned to her room, this time confident that she would sleep soundly, that she looked at the note: the stranger was asking her to meet him in the place where they had first met.
He closed by saying that he would prefer to talk to her alone, but added that, if she wanted, they could also speak with everyone else present too. The threat did not escape her, but she was, in fact, contented that he had made it. It was proof that he was losing control, because truly dangerous men and women never
made threats. Ahab, the man who brought peace to Viscos, always used to say: 'There are two kinds of idiots - those who don't take action because they have received a threat and those who think they are taking action because they have issued a threat.'
She tore the note into shreds and flushed it down the toilet, then she took a scalding hot bath, slipped into bed and smiled. She had got exactly what she wanted: to meet the stranger again for a conversation alone. If she wanted to find out how to defeat him, she needed to get to know him better.
She fell asleep almost at once - a deep, refreshing, peaseful sleep. She had spent one night with Good, one with Good and Evil, and one with Evil. Not one of the three had produced any definite result, but they were all still alive in her soul, and now they were beginning to fight amongst themselves to see who was strongest.
The time the stranger armed, Chantal was drenched - the storm had recommenced.
'Let's not talk about the weather,' she said. 'As you can see, it's raining. I know a place where it'll be easier for us to talk.'
She got to her feet and picked up a long canvas bag. 'You've got a shotgun in there,' the stranger said.
'Yes.'
'And you want to kill me.'
'Yes, I do. I don't know if I'll succeed, but that's what I'd like to do. I brought the weapon here for another reason, though: I might meet the rogue wolf on the way, and if I could shoot him, I might win some respect in Viscos. No one believes me, but I heard him howling last night.'
'And what is this rogue wolf?'
At first she doubted whether to share anything more with this man who was her enemy. But then she remembered a book on Japanese martial arts - she always read any books left behind by hotel guests, no matter what the books were about, cause she didn't want to spend her own money buying them.
There was written that the best way to weaken one's enemy was to get him to believe that you were on his side.
As they trudged through the wind and the rain, she told him the story. Two years ago, a man from Viscos - the blacksmith, to be precise - was out for a walk when, all of a sudden, he came face to face with a wolf and its young. The man was terrified, but he tore off a branch and made to attack the animal. Normally, the wolf would have run away but as it was with its young, it counter-attacked and bit the man on the leg. The blacksmith, a man whose job requires enormous strength, managed to deal the wolf such a blow that it finally ran back into the forest with its cubs and was never seen again; all anyone knew was that it had a white
mark on its left ear.
'But why is it called the rogue wolf?'
'Usually even the fiercest of animals will only attack in exceptional circumstances, in order, for example, to protect its young. However, if an animal does attack and tastes human blood, then it becomes dangerous; it will always want more; it will cease being a wild animal and become a killer. Everyone believes that one day the wolf will attack again.'
'That's my story too,' the stranger thought.
Chantal was walking as fast as she could because she was younger and fitter than him and wanted to gain a psychological advantage over her companion by tiring him out and humiliating him, and yet he managed to keep up with her. He was out of breath, but he never once asked her to slow down.
They reached a small, well-camouflaged, green plastic tent, used by hunters as a hide. They sat inside, rubbing their frozen hands and blowing on them.
'What do you want?' she asked him. 'Why did you give me that note?'
'I'm going to ask you a riddle: of all the days in our life, which is the one that never comes?'
There was no reply.
'Tomorrow,' the stranger said. 'But you seem to believe that tomorrow will come and keep putting off what I asked you to do. We're getting towards the end of the week, and if you don't say something, I'll have to do it myself.'
Chantal left the refuge, stood a safe distance from it, undid the canvas bag, and took out the shotgun. The stranger didn't seem to attach any importance to this.
'You dug up the gold again,' he went on. 'If you had to write a book about your experiences, how do you think most of your readers would react - given all the difficulties they have to face, the injustices dealt to them by life and other people, the struggle they have in order to pay for their children's schooling and to put food on the table - don't you think that those people would be urging you to take the gold and run?'
'I don't know,' she said, loading a cartridge into the gun. 'Nor do I. But that's the answer I'm looking for.'
She inserted the second cartridge.
'You're willing to kill me, despite that reassuring little tale about finding a
wolf. But that's all right, because that too provides me with an answer to my question: human beings are essentially evil, even a young woman from a remote village is capable of committing murder for money. I'm going to leave but now I have my answer, so I can die happy.'
'Here, take it,' she said, handing him the gun. 'No one knows that I know you. All the details you gave in the hotel are false. You can leave when you want and, as I understand it, you can go anywhere you want to in the world. You don't need to have a good aim: all you have to do is point the shotgun in my direction and squeeze the trigger. Each cartridge is full of tiny bits of lead; as soon as they leave the barrel, they spread out into a cone shape. They can kill birds or human beings. You can even look the other way if you don't want to see my body being blown apart.'
The man curled his finger round the trigger, and Chantal was surprised to see that he was holding the gun correctly, like a professional. They stood like that for a long while, and she was aware that he had only to slip or be startled by an animal coming on them unexpectedly and his finger could move and the gun go off. She suddenly realised how childish her gesture had been, trying to defy someone merely for the pleasure of provoking him, saying that he was incapable of doing what he was asking others to do.
The stranger was still pointing the gun at her, staring at her unblinking, his hands steady. It was too late now - maybe deep down he thought it wouldn't be such a bad idea to end the life of this young woman who had dared to challenge him. Chantal was on the point of asking him to forgive her, but the stranger lowered the gun before she could say a word.
'I can almost touch your fear,' he said, handing her back the gun. 'I can smell the sweat pouring off you, despite the rain, and even though the wind is shaking the treetops and making an infernal racket, I can hear your heart thumping in your throat.'
'I'm going to do what you asked me to do this evening,' he said, pretending she hadn't heard the truths he was lline her. 'After all, you came to Viscos to learn about your own nature, to find out if you were good or evil. There's one thing I've just shown you: regardless of what I may have felt or stopped feeling just now, you could have pulled the trigger, but you didn't. Do you know why? Because you're a coward. You use others to resolve your own conflicts, but you are incapable of taking certain decisions.'
'A German philosopher once said: "Even God has a hell: his love of mankind". No, I'm not a coward. I've pressed many worse triggers than this one, or, rather, I have made far better guns than this and distributed them around the world. I did it all perfectly legally, got the transactions approved by the government, the export licences, paid all the necessary taxes. I married a woman who loved me, I had two beautiful daughters, I never stole a penny from my company, and always succeeded in recovering any money owed to me.
'Unlike you, who feel persecuted by destiny, I was always a man of action, someone who struggled with the many difficulties in my way, who lost some battles and won others, but always understood that victories and defeats form part of everyone's life - everyone, that is, except cowards, as you call them, because they never lose or win.
'I read a lot. I was a regular churchgoer. I feared God and respected His commandments. I was a highly paid director of a huge firm. Since I was paid commission on every deal we made, I earned more than enough to support my wife my daughters, and even my grandchildren and my greatgrandchildren; because the arms trade is the most profitable business in the world. I knew the value of every item I sold so I personally checked all our transactions; that way I uncovered several cases of corruption and dismissed those involved and halted the sales. My weapons were made to help defend order, which is the only way to ensure progress and development in this world, or so I thought.'
The stranger came up to Chantal and took her by the shoulders; he wanted her to look him in the eyes and know that he was telling the truth. 'You may consider arms manufacturers to be the lowest of the low. Perhaps you're right, but the fact is that man has used weapons ever since he lived in caves - first to kill animals, then to win power over others. The world has existed without agriculture, without domesticated animals, without religion, without music, but never without weapons.'
He picked up a stone from the ground.
'Here's the first of them, generously donated by Mother Nature to those who had to confront prehistoric animals. A stone like this doubtless saved the life of a man, and that man, after countless generations, led to you and me being born. If he hadn't had that stone, the murderous carnivore would have devoured him, and hundreds of millions of people would not have been born.'
The wind was blowing harder, and the rain was battering but neither of them looked away.
'Many people criticise hunters, but Viscos welcomes them with open arms because it lives off them; some people hate a hull in a bullring, but go and buy the meat from them, jeer's claiming that the animal had an "honourable" death. A lot of people are critical of arms manufacturers, but they will continue to exist until there's not a single weapon left on the face of the earth. Because as long as one weapon remains, there will always have to be another, to preserve the fragile balance.'
'What has all this got to do with my village?' Chantal demanded. 'What has it got to do with breaking the commandments, with murder, stealing, with the essence of human nature, with Good and Evil?'
At this, the stranger's eyes changed, as if overwhelmed by a deep sadness.
'Remember what I told you at the beginning. I always tried to do my
business according to the law; I considered myself what people usually term a "good man". Then one evening I received a phone call in my office: it was a woman's voice, soft but devoid of emotion. She said her terrorist group had kidnapped my wife and daughters. They wanted a large quantity of what they knew I could give them - weapons. They told me to keep quiet about it, they told me that nothing would happen to my family if I followed their instructions.
'The woman rang off saying that she would call again in half an hour and told me to wait for her call in a phone box at the train station. She said not to worry; my family was being well treated and would be freed within a few hours because all I had to do was send an electronic message to one of our subsidiaries in a certain country. It wasn't even real theft, more like an illegal sale that would go completely unnoticed in the company I worked for.
'Since I was a good citizen, brought up to respect the law and to feel protected by it, the first thing I did was to ring the police. A minute later, I was no longer the master of my own decisions, I was transformed into someone incapable of protecting his own family; my universe was suddenly filled with anonymous voices and frantic phone calls. When I
went to the designated phone box, an army of technicians had already hooked up the underground telephone cable to the most modern equipment available, so that they could instantaneously trace exactly where the call was coming from. There were helicopters ready to take off, police cars strategically positioned to block the traffic, trained men, armed to the teeth, on full alert.
'Two different governments, in distant continents, already knew what was going on and they forbade any negotiations; all I had to do was to follow orders, repeat what they told me to say and behave exactly as instructed by the experts.
'Before the day was out, the hiding place where they were keeping the
hostages had been discovered, and the kidnappers - two young men and a woman, all apparently inexperienced, simply disposable elements in a powerful political organisation - lay dead, riddled with bullets. Before they died, however, they had time to execute my wife and children. If even God has a hell, which is his love for mankind, then any man has his hell within easy reach, and that's his love for his family.'
The stranger fell silent; he was afraid of losing control of his voice and betraying an emotion he preferred to keep hidden. As soon as he had recovered, he went on:
'Both the police and the kidnappers used weapons made by my company. No one knows how the terrorists came to be in possession of them, and that's of no importance: they had them. Despite all my efforts, my struggle to ensure that everything was carried out according to the strictest regulations for their manufacture and sale, my family had been killed by something which I, at some point, had sold perhaps over a meal at an expensive restaurant, while I chatted about the weather or world politics.'
Another pause. When he spoke again, it was as if he were another person, as if nothing he was saying had anything to do with him.
'I know the weapon and the ammunition used to kill my family well. I know which part of the body they aimed at: the chest. The bullet makes only a small hole on entering about the size of your little finger. When it hits the first bone, though, it splits into four, and each of the fragments continues in a different direction, brutally destroying everything in its Path: kidneys, heart, liver, lungs. Every time it comes up against something solid, like a vertebra, it changes direction again, usually carrying with it sharp bone fragments and bits of torn muscle, until at last it finds a way out. Each of the four exit wounds is almost as big as a fist, and the bullet stil has enough force to spatter round the room the bits of
tissue flesh and bone that clung to it during its journey through the body. 'All of this takes less than two seconds; two seconds to die might not seem very long, but time isn't measured like that. You understand, I hope.' Chantal nodded.
'At the end of that year, I left my job. I travelled to the four corners of the earth, alone with my grief, asking myself how human beings can be capable of such evil. I lost the most precious thing a man can have: my faith in my fellow man. I laughed and I wept at God's irony, at the absurd way he had chosen to demonstrate to me that I was an instrument of Good and Evil.
'All my sense of compassion gradually vanished, and now my heart has entirely shrivelled up; I don't care whether I live or die. But first, for the sake of my wife and daughters, I need to grasp what happened in that hiding place. I can understand how people can kill out of hate or love, but why do it for no particular reason, simply over some business transaction? 'This may seem naive to you - after all, people kill each other every day for money - but that doesn't interest me, I'm only concerned with my wife and daughters. I want to know what was going on in the minds of those terrorists. I want to know whether, at any point, they might have taken pity on them and just let them leave, because their war had nothing to do with my family. I want to know if, when Good and Evil are with my family struggling against each other, there is a fraction of a second when Good might prevail.'
'Why Viscos? Why my village?'
'Why the weapons from my factory, when there are so many armaments factories in the world, some of them with no government controls? The answer is simple: chance. I needed a small place where everyone knew each other and eot on together. The moment they learned about the reward, Good and Evil would once again be pitted against each other, and
what had happened in that hiding place would happen in your village.
'The terrorists were already surrounded and defeated; nevertheless, they killed my family merely in order to carry out a useless, empty ritual. Your village has what I did not have: it has the possibility to choose. They will be tempted by the desire for money and perhaps believe they have a mission to protect and save their village, but even so, they still retain the ability to decide whether or not to execute the hostage. That's all. I want to see whether other people might have acted differently to those poor, bloodthirsty youngsters.
'As I told you when we first met, the story of one man is the story of all men. If compassion exists, I will accept that rate was harsh with me, but that sometimes it can be gentle with others. That won't change the way I feel in the slightest, It won't bring my family back, but at least it will drive away the devil that's always with me and give me some hope.'
'And why do you want to know whether I am capable of stealing the gold?' 'For the same reason. You may divide the world into trivial crimes and serious ones, but it isn't like that. I think the terrorists did the same. They thought they were killing for a cause, not just for pleasure, love, hate or money. If you took the gold bar, you would have to justify the crime to yourself and to me, and then I would understand how the murderers justified to themselves the killing of my loved ones. As you have seen, I have spent all these years trying to understand what happened. I don't know whether this will bring me peace, but I can't see any alternative.'
'If I did steal the gold, you would never see me again.'
For the first time during the almost thirty minutes they had been talking, the stranger smiled faintly.
'I worked in the arms industry, don't forget. And that included work for the secret service.'
The man asked her to lead him to the river - he was lost, and did not know how to get back. Chantal took the shotgun - she had borrowed it
from a friend on the pretext that she was very tense and needed to do a bit of hunting to try and relax - put it back in its bag, and the two of them set off down the hill.
They said nothing to each other on the way down. When they reached the river, the stranger said goodbye.
'I understand why you're delaying, but I can't wait any longer. I can also understand that, in order to struggle with yourself, you needed to get to know me better: now you do.
'I am a man who walks the earth with a devil at his side; in order to drive him away or to accept him once and for all, I need to know the answers to certain questions.'
'And why do you want to know whether I am capable of stealing the gold?' 'For the same reason. You may divide the world into trivial crimes and serious ones, but it isn't like that. I think the terrorists did the same. They thought they were killing for a cause, not just for pleasure, love, hate or money. If you took the gold bar, you would have to justify the crime to yourself and to me, and then I would understand how the murderers justified to themselves the killing of my loved ones. As you have seen, I have spent all these years trying to understand what happened. I don't know whether this will bring me peace, but I can't see any alternative.'
'If I did steal the gold, you would never see me again.'
For the first time during the almost thirty minutes they had been talking, the stranger smiled faintly.
'I worked in the arms industry, don't forget. And that included work for the secret service.'
The man asked her to lead him to the river - he was lost, and did not know how to get back. Chantal took the shotgun - she had borrowed it from a friend on the pretext that she
was very tense and needed to do a bit of hunting to try and relax - put it back in its bag, and the two of them set off down the hill.
They said nothing to each other on the way down. When they reached the river, the. stranger said goodbye.
'I understand why you're delaying, but I can't wait any longer. I can also understand that, in order to struggle with yourself, you needed to get to know me better: now you do.
The fork banged repeatedly against the wineglass. Everyone in the bar which was packed on that Friday night, turned towards the sound: it was Miss Prym calling for them to be silent.
The effect was immediate: never in all the history of the village had a young woman whose sole duty was to serve the customers acted in such a manner.
'She had better have something important to say,' thought the hotel landlady. 'If not, I'll get rid of her tonight, despite the promise I made to her grandmother never to abandon her.'
'I'd like you all to listen,' Chantal said. 'I'm going to tell you a story that everyone here, apart from our visitor, will know,' she said, pointing to the stranger. 'After that, I'll tell you another story that no one here, apart from our visitor, will know. When I've finished, it will be up to you to judge whether or not it was wrong of me to interrupt your wellearned Friday evening rest, after an exhausting week's work.'
'She's taking a terrible risk,' the priest thought. 'She doesn't know anything we don't know. She may be a poor orphan with few possibilities in life, but it's going to be difficult to persuade the hotel landlady to keep her on after this.'
'When the ceremony was over, people gathered together in various groups. Most of them believed that Ahab had been duped by the saint, that he had lost his nerve, and that he should be killed. During the days that followed, many plans were made with that objective in mind. But the plotters could not avoid the sight of the gallows in the middle of the square and they thought: What is that doing there? Was it erected in order to deal with anyone who goes against the new laws? Who is on Ahab's side
and who isn't? Are there spies in our midst?
'The gallows looked at the villagers, and the villagers looked at the gallows. Gradually, the rebels' initial defiance gave way to fear; they all knew Ahab's reputation and they knew he never went back on a decision. Some of them left the village, others decided to try the new jobs that had been suggested, simply because they had nowhere else to go or because they were conscious of the shadow cast by that instrument of death in the middle of the square. Before long, Viscos had been pacified and it became a large trading centre near the frontier, exporting the finest wool and producing top-quality wheat.
'The gallows remained in place for ten years. The wood withstood the weather well, but the rope occasionally had to be replaced with a new one. The gallows was never used. Ahab never once mentioned it. The mere sight of the gallows was enough to turn courage into fear, trust into suspicion, bravado into whispers of submission. When ten years had passed and the rule of law had finally been established in Viscos, Ahab had the gallows dismantled and used the wood to build a cross instead.' Chantal paused. The bar was completely silent apart from the sound of the stranger clapping.
'That's an excellent story,' he said. 'Ahab really underrate human nature: it isn't the desire to abide by the law hate makes everyone behave as society requires, but the fear of punishment. Each one of us carries a gallows inside us.'
'Today, at the stranger's request, I am pulling down the cross and erecting another gallows in the middle of the square,' Chantal went on.
'Carlos,' someone said, 'his name is Carlos, and it would be more polite to call him by his name than to keep referring to him as "the stranger".'
'I don't know his real name. All the details he gave on the hotel form are false. He's never paid for anything with a credit card. We have no idea where he came from or where he's going to; even the phone call to the
airport could be a lie.'
They all turned to look at the man, who kept his eyes fixed on Chantal. 'Yet, when he did tell you the truth, none of you believed him. He really
did work for an armaments factory, he really "as had all kinds of adventures and been all kinds of different People, from loving father to ruthless businessman. But because you live here in Viscos, you cannot comprehend how much richer and more complex life can be.'
'That girl had better explain herself,' thought the hotel landlady. And that's just what Chantal did:
'Four days ago, he showed me ten large gold bars. They are worth enough to guarantee the future of all the inhabitants of Viscos for the next thirty years, to provide for major improvements to the village, a children's playground, for example, in the hope that one day children will live here again. He then immediately hid them in the forest, and I don't know where they are.'
Everyone again turned towards the stranger, who, this time, looked back at them and nodded his head.
'That gold will belong to Viscos if, in the next three days, someone in the village is murdered. If no one dies, the stranger will leave, taking his gold with him.
'And that's it. I've said all I had to say, and I've re-erected the gallows in the square. Except that this time, it is not there to prevent a crime, but so that an innocent person can be hanged, so that the sacrifice of that innocent person will bring prosperity to the village.'
For the third time, all the people in the bar turned towards the stranger. Once again, he nodded.
'The girl tells a good story,' he said, switching off the recorder and putting it back in his pocket.
Chantal turned away and began washing glasses in the sink. It was as if time had stopped in Viscos; no one said a word. The only sound that could
be heard was that of running water, of a glass being put down on a marble surface, of the distant wind shaking the branches of leafless trees.
The mayor broke the silence: 'Let's call the police.'
'Go ahead,' the stranger said. 'I've got a recording here, and my only comment was: "The girl tells a good story."'
'Please, go up to your room, pack your things, and leave here at once,' said the hotel landlady.
'I've paid for a week and I'm going to stay a week. Even if you have to call the police.' 'Has it occurred to you that you might be the person to be murdered?'
'Of course. And it really doesn't matter to me. But if you did murder me, then you would have committed the crime, but you would never receive the promised reward.'
One by one, the regulars in the bar filed out, the younger ones first and the older people last. Soon only Chantal and the stranger were left.
She picked up her bag, put on her coat, went to the door and then turned to him.
'You're a man who has suffered and wants revenge,' she said. 'Your heart is dead, your soul is in darkness. The devil by your side is smiling because you are playing the game he invented.'
'Thank you for doing as I asked. And for telling me the true and very interesting story of the gallows.'
'In the forest, you told me that you wanted answers to Certain questions, but from the way you have constructed your plan, only Evil will be rewarded; if no one is murdered.
Good will earn nothing but praise. And as you know, praise cannot feed hungry mouths or help to restore dying villages You're not trying to find the answer to a question, you're simply trying to confirm something you desperately want to believe: that everyone is evil.'
A change came over the stranger's face, and Chantal noticed it.
'If the whole world is evil, then the tragedy that befell you is justified,'
she went on. 'That would make it easier for you to accept the deaths of your wife and daughters. But if good people do exist, then, however much you deny it, your life will be unbearable; because fate set a trap for you, and you know you didn't deserve it. It isn't the light you want to recover, it's the certainty that there is only darkness.'
'What exactly are you driving at?' he said, a slight tremor in his voice. 'The wager should be fairer. If, after three days, no one is murdered, the village should get the ten gold bars anyway. As a reward for the integrity of its inhabitants.'
The stranger laughed.
'And I will receive my gold bar, as a reward for my participation in this sordid game.'
'I'm not a fool, you know. If I agreed to that, the first thing you would do is to go outside and tell everyone.'
'Possibly. But I won't; I swear by my grandmother and by my eternal salvation.'
'That's not enough. No one knows whether God listens to vows, or if eternal salvation exists.'
'You'll know I haven't told them, because the gallows is hanging now in the middle of the village. It will be clear if there's been any kind of trickery. And anyway, even if I went there now and told everyone what we've just been talking about, no one would believe me; it would be the same as arriving in Viscos and saying: "Look, all this is yours, regardless of whether or not you do what the stranger is asking." These men and women are used to working hard, to earning every penny with the sweat of their brow; they would never even admit the possibility of gold just falling from heaven like that.'
The stranger lit a cigarette, finished off his drink and got up from the table. Chantal awaited his reply standing by the open door, letting the cold air into the room.
'I'll know if there's been any cheating,' he said. 'I'm used to dealing with people, just like your Ahab.'
'I'm sure you are. So that means "yes", then.' Again he nodded his agreement.
'And one more thing: you still believe that man can be good. If that weren't the case, you wouldn't have invented all this nonsense to convince yourself otherwise.'
Chantal closed the door and walked down the main street of the village - completely deserted at that hour - sobbing uncontrollably. Without wanting to, she had become caught up in the game; she was betting on the fact that people were basically good, despite all the Evil in the world. She would never tell anyone what she and the stranger had just been talking about because, now, she too wanted to know the answer.
She was aware that, although the street was empty, from behind the curtains in darkened rooms, the eyes of Viscos were watching as she walked back home. It didn't matter- It was far too dark for anyone to see her tears.
The man opened the window of his room, hoping that the cold would silence the voice of his devil for a few moments.
As expected, it did not work, because the devil was even more agitated than usual after what the girl had just said. For the first time in many years, the stranger noticed that the devil seemed weaker, and there were moments when he even appeared rather distant; however, he soon reappeared, no stronger or weaker than usual, but much as he always was. He lived in the left-hand side of the man's brain, in the part that governs logic and reasoning, but he never allowed himself to be seen, so that the man was forced to imagine what he must be like. He tried to picture him in a thousand different ways, from the conventional devil with horns and a tail to a young woman with blonde curls. The image he finally settled on was that of a young man in his twenties, with black trousers, a
blue shirt, and a green beret perched nonchalantly on his dark hair.
He had first heard the devil's voice on an island, where he had travelled after resigning from his job; he was on the beach, in terrible emotional pain, trying desperately to believe that his suffering must have an end, when he saw the most beautiful sunset he had ever seen. It was then that his despair came back in force, and he plumbed the depths of the deepest abyss in his soul precisely because such a sunset should also have been seen by his wife and children. He broke into uncontrollable sobs and felt that he would never climb up from the bottom of that pit.
At that moment, a friendly, companionable voice told him that he was not alone, that everything that had happened to him had a purpose, which was to show that each person's destiny is pre-ordained. Tragedy always happens, and nothing we do can alter by one jot the evil that awaits us. 'There is no such thing as Good: virtue is simply one of the many faces of terror,' the voice said. 'When man understands that, he will realise that this world is just a little joke played on him by God.'
Then the voice - which identified itself as the prince of this world, the only being who really knows what happens on Earth - began to show him the people all around him on the beach. The wonderful father who was busy packing things up and helping his children put on some warm clothes and who would love to have an affair with his secretary, but was terrified of his wife's response. His wife who would like to work and have her independence, but who was terrified of her husband's response. The children who behaved themselves because they were terrified of being punished. The girl who was reading a book all on her own beneath a sunshade, pretending she didn't care, but inside was terrified of spending the rest of her life alone. The boy running around with a racquet, terrified of having to live up to his parents' tennis fame for generations. The waiter serving tropical drinks to the rich experts, hurt and terrified that he could
be sacked at any time. The young girl who wanted to be a dancer, but who was studying law instead because she was terrified of what the neighbours might say. The old man who didn't smoke or drink and said he felt much better for it, when in truth it was the terror of death that whispered in his ears like the wind. The married couple who ran by, splashing through the surf, with a smile on their face but with a terror in their hearts telling them that they would soon be old, boring and useless. The man with the suntan who swept up in his launch in front of everybody and waved and smiled, but was terrified because he could lose all his money from one moment to the next. The hotel owner, watching the whole idyllic scene from his office, trying to keep everyone happy and cheerful, urging his accountants to ever greater vigilance, and terrified because he knew that however honest he was government officials would still find mistakes in his accounts if they wanted to.
There was terror in each and every one of the people on that beautiful beach and on that breathtakingly beautiful evening. Terror of being alone, terror of the darkness filling their imaginations with devils, terror of doing anything not in the manuals of good behaviour, terror of God's judgement, of what other people would say, of the law punishing any mistake, terror of trying and failing, terror of succeeding and having to live with the envy of other people, terror of loving and being rejected, terror of asking for a rise in salary, of accepting an invitation, of going somewhere new, of not being able to speak a foreign language, of not making the right impression, of growing old, of dying, of being pointed on because of one's defects, of not being pointed out because of one's merits, of not being noticed either for one's defects or one's merits.
Terror, terror, terror. Life was a reign of terror, in the shadow of the guillotine. 'I hope this consoles you a little,' he heard the devil say. 'They're all terrified; you're not alone. The only difference is that you
have already been through the most difficult part; your worst fear became reality. You have nothing to lose, whereas these people on the beach live with their terror all the time; some are aware of it, others try to ignore it, but all of them know that it exists and will get them in the end.'
Incredible though it may seem, these words did console him somewhat, as if the suffering of others alleviated his own. From that moment on, the devil had become a more and more frequent companion. He had lived with him for two years now, and he felt neither happy nor sad to know that the devil had completely taken over his soul.
As he became accustomed to the devil's company, he tried to find out more about the origin of Evil, but none of his questions received precise answers.
'There's no point trying to discover why I exist. If you really want an explanation, you can tell yourself that I am God's way of punishing himself for having decided, in an idle moment, to create the Universe.' The devil was reluctant to talk about himself, the man. Since the night, he
got every reference he could find to hell. He decided to look up the word that most religions have something called 'of punishment', where the immortal soul goes after emitting certain crimes against society (everything deemed to be seen in terms of society, rather than of the individual). Some religions said that once the spirit was separated from the body, it crossed a river, met a dog and entered hell by a gate of no return. Since the body was laid in a tomb, the place of punishment was generally described as being dark and situated inside the earth; thanks to volcanoes, it was known that the centre of the earth was full of fire, and so the human imagination came up with the idea of flames torturing sinners.
He found one of the most interesting descriptions of this punishment in an Arabian book: there it was written that once the soul had left the body, it had to walk across a bridge as narrow as a knife edge, with paradise on
the right and, on the left, a series of circles that led down into the darkness inside the earth. Before crossing the bridge (the book did not explain where it led to), each person had to place all his virtues in his right hand and all his sins in his left, and the imbalance between the two meant that the person always fell towards the side to which his actions on Earth had inclined him.
Christianity spoke of a place where there would be weeping and gnashing of teeth. Judaism described a cave with a room big enough for a finite number of souls - when this was full, the world would end. Islam spoke of the fire in which we would all burn 'unless God desires otherwise'. For Hindus, hell was never a place of eternal torment, since they believed that the soul would be reincarnated after a certain period of time in order to pay for its sins in the same place where they had been committed - in other words, in this world. Even so, there were no fewer than twenty-one of these places of punishment in what was usually referred to as 'the lower depths'.
The Buddhists also distinguished between the different kinds of punishment a soul might face; eight fiery hells and eight freezing ones, as well as a kingdom where the condemned soul felt neither heat nor cold, only infinite hunger and thirst.
Nothing though could compare to the huge variety that the Chinese had thought up; unlike everyone else - who placed hell deep down inside the earth - the Chinese believed that the souls of sinners went to a mountain range known as the Little Wall of Iron and surrounded by another mountain range known as the Great Wall. In the space between these two ranges, there were no less than eight large hells one on top of the other, each of which controlled sixteen smaller hells, which in turn controlled ten million hells beneath them. The Chinese also said that devils were made up of the souls of those who had already completed their punishment.
The Chinese were also the only ones to offer a convincing explanation of the origin of devils - they were evil because they had personal experience of evil, and now they wanted to pass it on to others, in an eternal cycle of vengeance.
'I had to grasp what is happening to me,' the stranger heard himself, remembering Miss Prym's words.
The devil remembered those words too and felt he had lost some of his ground. The only way he could regain it was to leave no room for doubt in the stranger's mind.
'All right, so you had a moment of doubt,' the devil said, 'but the terror remains. The story of the gallows was a good one, because it clearly shows that mankind is virtuous only because terror exists, but that men are still essentially bad, my true descendants.'
The stranger was shivering now, but decided to leave the window open a while longer. 'God, I did not deserve what happened to me. If you did that to me, I can do the same to others. That is justice.'
The devil was worried, but resolved to keep quiet - he could not show that he too was terrified. The man was blaspheming against God and trying to justify his actions, but this was the first time in two years he had heard him addressing the heavens.
It was a bad sign.
'A good sign,' was Chantal's first thought when she heard the baker's van sounding its horn. Life in Viscos was going on as usual. the bread was being delivered, people were leaving their houses, they would have the whole of Saturday and Sunday to discuss the insane proposition put before them, and then, with some regret, they would watch the stranger depart on Monday morning. Later that evening, she would tell them about the wager she had made, announcing that they had won the battle and were rich.
She would never become a saint like St Savin, but for many generations to come she would be remembered as the woman who saved the village from Evil's second visitation. Maybe they would make up legends about her; the village's future inhabitants might refer to her as a lovely young woman, the only one who had not abandoned Viscos because she knew she had a mission to fulfill. Pious ladies would light candles to her and young men would sigh passionately over the heroine they had never known.
She was proud of herself, but was aware that she should act on what she said and make no mention of the gold that belonged to her, otherwise they would end up convincing her that, in order to be considered a saint, she should also divide up her share.
In her own way she was helping the stranger to save his soul, and God would take this into account when he made a final reckoning of her deeds. The fate of the stranger mattered little to her, however; what she had to do now was to hope that the next two days passed as quickly as possible, for it was hard to keep a secret like that locked up in her heart.
The inhabitants of Viscos were neither better nor worse than those of neighbouring villages, but there was no way they would be capable of committing a murder for money - of that she was sure. Now that the story was out in the open, no man or woman could take the initiative alone. First, because the reward would have to be divided up equally, and she knew that no one would want to risk themselves purely so that others might gain. Second, because, if they were thinking what she deemed to be the unthinkable, they needed to be able to count on the full co-operation of all the others - with the exception, perhaps, of the chosen victim. If a single individual was against the idea - and if need be, she would be that person - the men and women of Viscos all ran the risk of being denounced and imprisoned. Better to be poor and honourable than rich and in jail.
Chantal went downstairs remembering that hitherto even the election of a mayor to govern this village with its three streets had provoked heated
arguments and internal divisions. When they wanted to make a children's playground in part of the village, there was such a fuss that the works were never begun - some said that the village playground had no children anyway, others roared that a playground would be just the thing to bring them back.
Their parents came to the village on holiday and saw things were changing. In Viscos they debated everything. The quality of the bread, the hunting regulations, the xistence (or not) of the rogue wolf, Berta's strange behaviour and, possibly, Miss Prym's secret meetings with some of the hotel guests, although no one would ever dare mention it to her face.
She approached the van with the air of someone who, for the first time in her life, was playing a leading role in the history of her village. Until then she had been the helpless orphan, the girl who had never managed to find a husband, a poor night-worker, a lonely wretch in search of company; they were losing nothing by waiting. In two days' time, they would come and kiss her feet and thank her for her generosity and for their affluence, they would perhaps insist upon her running for mayor in the coming elections (thinking it through, it might be good to stick around for a while longer and enjoy her newly won glory).
A group of people gathered around the van were buying their bread in silence. Everyone turned to look at her, but no one said a word.
What's going on in this place?' asked the lad selling the bread. 'Did someone die?'
'No,' replied the blacksmith, who was there too, despite it being a Saturday morning when he could sleep until late 'Someone's having a bad time and we're all rather worried'
Chantal couldn't understand what was happening.
'Go ahead and buy what you came to buy,' she heard someone say. 'The lad has to get going.'
Mechanically, she held out her money and took the bread. The baker's lad shrugged his shoulders - as if abandoning any attempt to understand what was going on - gave her the change, wished everyone good day and drove off.
'Now it's my turn to ask what's going on in this village,' she said, and fear made her speak more loudly than good manners usually permitted.
'You know what's going on,' the blacksmith said. 'You want us to commit a murder in return for money.'
'I don't want anything! I just did what the guy told me to! Have you all gone mad?'
'You're the one who's gone mad. You should never have allowed yourself to become that madman's mouthpiece! What on earth do you want? What are you getting out of it? Do you want to turn this place into a hell, just like it was in the Ahab stories. Have you lost all sense of honour and dignity?'
Chantal began to tremble.
'You really have gone mad! Did you actually take the wager seriously?' 'Just leave her,' said the hotel landlady. 'Let's go home and have breakfast.'
The group gradually dispersed. Chantal was still tremblutching her bread, rooted to the spot. Those people have never agreed about anything in their lives before up to now for the first time ever, in complete accord: she was the outv one. Not the stranger, not the wager, but her, Chantal, the instigator of the crime. Had the world turned upside down?
She left the bread by her door and set off towards the mountain; she wasn't hungry or thirsty, she didn't want anything. She had just understood something very important, something that filled her with fear, horror and utter terror.
No one had said anything to the baker's boy.
Something like this would normally be talked about, either with indignation or amusement, but the lad with the van, who delivered bread
and gossip to the various villages in the region, had left with no idea of what was going on. It was clear that everyone in Viscos was gathered there together for the first time that day, and no one had had time to discuss what had taken place the previous night, although everyone knew what had happened in the bar. And yet, unconsciously, they had all made a pact of silence.
In other words, each one of those people, in their heart of hearts, was thinking the unthinkable, imagining the unimaginable.
Berta called to her. She was still at her post, watching over the village, though to no avail, since the danger was already there was far greater than anyone could possibly have envisaged.
'I don't want to talk,' said Chantal. 'I can't think, react or say anything.' 'You can at least listen. Sit down here.'
Of all the people she had known, Berta was the only one who had ever treated her with any kindness. Chantal did not just sit down, she flung her arms around Berta. They stayed like that for a long while, until Berta broke the silence.
'Now go off into the forest and clear your head; you know you're not the problem. The rest of them know that too, but they need someone to blame.'
'It's the stranger who's to blame!'
'You and I know that, but no one else does. They all want to believe they've been betrayed, that you should have told them sooner, that you didn't trust them.'
'Betrayed?' 'Yes.'
'Why would they want to believe that?' 'Think about it.'
Chantal thought. Because they needed someone to blame. A victim.
'I don't know how this story will end,' said Berta. 'Viscos is a village of good people, although, as you yourself once said, they are a bit cowardly. Even so, it might be a good idea if you were to go somewhere far away
from here for a while.'
She must be joking. No one could possibly take the stranger's bet seriously. No one. And anyway, she didn't have any money and she had nowhere to go.
It wasn't true. A gold bar awaited her and it could let her go wherever in the world. But she didn't want to think about that.
That very moment, as if by some quirk of fate, the stranger walked past them and set off for his walk in the mountains, as he did every morning. He nodded and continued on his way. Berta followed him with her eyes, while Chantal tried to spot whether anyone in the village had noticed his greeting. They would say she was his accomplice. They would say there was a secret code between the two of them.
'He looks worried,' said Berta. 'There's something odd about him.' 'Perhaps he's realised that his little game has become reality.'
'No, it's something more than that. I don't know what, but... it's as if ... no, no, I don't know what it is.'
'I bet my husband would know,' Berta thought, aware of a nervous fidgeting to her left, but now was not the time to talk to him.
'It reminds me of Ahab,' she said to Chantal.
'I don't want to think about Ahab, about legends, about anything! All I want is for the world to go back to how it was, and for Viscos - for all its faults - not to be destroyed by one man's madness!'
It seems you love this place more than you think.'
Chantal was trembling. Berta hugged her again, placing her hand on her shoulder, as if she were the daughter she had never had.
'As I was saying, Ahab told a story about heaven and hell that used to be passed from parent to child, but has been forgotten now. Once upon a time, a man, his horse and his dog were travelling along a road. As they passed by a huge tree, it was struck by lightning, and they all died. But the man failed to notice that he was no longer of this world and so he
continued walking along with his two animal companions. Sometimes the dead take a while to register their new situation ...'
Berta thought of her husband, who kept insisting that she get rid of Chantal because he had something important to say. Maybe it was time to explain to him that he was dead, so that he would stop interrupting her story.
'It was a long, uphill walk, the sun was beating down on them and they were all sweating and thirsty. At a bend in the road they saw a magnificent marble gateway that led into a gold-paved square, in the centre of which was a fountain overflowing with crystal-clear water. The man went over to the guard at the entrance.
'"Good morning."
'"Good morning," the guard replied. '"What is this lovely place?" '"It's Heaven."
'"Well, I'm very glad to see it, because we're very thirsty."
'"You're welcome to come in and drink all the water you want." And the guard indicated the fountain.
'"My horse and dog are also thirsty."
'"I'm terribly sorry," said the guard, "but animals are not allowed in here." 'The man was deeply disappointed for he really was very thirsty, but he was not prepared to drink alone, so he thanked the guard and went on his way. Exhausted after trudging uphill, they reached an old gateway that led on to a dirt road flanked by trees. A man, his hat down over his face, was stretched out in the shade of one of the trees, apparently asleep. '"Good morning," said the traveller. 'The other man greeted him with a nod.
"'We're very thirsty - me, my horse and my dog."
'"There's a spring over there amongst those rocks," said the man indicating the spot. "You can drink all you want."
'The man, his horse and his dog went to the spring and quenched their
thirst. 'The traveller returned to thank the man.
'"Come back whenever you want," he was told. '"By the way, what's this place called?" '"Heaven."
'"Heaven? But the guard at the marble gateway told me that was Heaven!" '"That's not Heaven, that's Hell."
'The traveller was puzzled.
'"You shouldn't let others take your name in vain, you know! False information can lead to all kinds of confusion!"
"On the contrary, they do us a great favour, because the Ones who stay there are those who have proved themselves capable of abandoning their dearest friends."'
Berta stroked the girl's head. She could feel that inside that head Good and Evil were waging a pitiless battle, and she told her to go for a walk in the forest and ask nature which village she should go to.
'Because I have the feeling that our little mountain paradise is about to desert its friends.'
'You're wrong, Berta. You belong to a different generation; the blood of the outlaws who once populated Viscos runs thicker in your veins than in mine. The men and women here still have their dignity, or if they don't, they at least have a healthy mistrust of one another. And if they don't even have that, then at least they have fear.'
'OK, maybe I'm wrong. Even so, do as I tell you, and go and listen to what nature has to say.'
Chantal left. And Berta turned towards the ghost of her husband, asking him to keep quiet; after all, she was a grown woman, indeed, she was an elderly woman, who shouldn't be interrupted when she was trying to give advice to someone much younger. She had learned to look after herself, and now she was looking after the village.
Her husband begged her to take care. She should be wary of offering advice to the young woman because nobody knew where matters might end.
Berta was taken aback because she thought the dead knew everything - hadn't he been the one to warn her of the dangers to come? Perhaps he was getting too old and was beginning to get obsessive about other things besides always eating his soup with the same spoon.
Her husband retorted that she was the old one, for the dead never age, and that, although the dead knew things of which the living had no knowledge, it would take a long time before he gained admittance to the realm of the archangels. He, being only recently dead (having left Earth a mere fifteen years before), still had a lot to learn, even though he knew he could offer substantial help.
Berta enquired whether the realm of the archangels was more attractive and comfortable. Her husband told her not to be facetious and to concentrate her energies on saving Viscos. Not that this was a source of particular interest to him - he was, after all, dead, and no one had touched on the subject of reincarnation (although he had heard a few conversations concerning this eventuality), and if reincarnation did exist, he was hoping to be reborn somewhere new. But he also wanted his wife to enjoy some peace and comfort during the days still remaining to her in this world.
'So, stop worrying,' thought Berta. Her husband wouldn't take her advice; he wanted her to do something, anything. If Evil triumphed, even if it was in some small, forgotten place with only three streets, a square and a church, it could nevertheless go on to contaminate the valley, the region, the country, the continent, the seas, the whole world.
Although Viscos had 281 inhabitants, Chantal being the youngest and Berta the oldest, it was controlled by a mere half-dozen individuals: the hotel landlady, responsible for the wellbeing of tourists; the priest, responsible for the care of souls; the mayor, responsible for the hunting regulations; the mayor's wife, responsible for the mayor and his decisions; the
blacksmith, who had survived being bitten by the rogue wolf; and the owner of most of the lands around the village. It was he who had vetoed the idea of building a children's playground in the vague belief that Viscos would one day start growing again, and besides the site would be perfect for a luxury home.
It mattered little to the rest of the villagers what did or didn't happen to the place, for they had their sheep, their wheat and their families to take care of. They visited the hotel bar, attended Mass, obeyed the laws, had their tools repaired at the blacksmith's forge and, from time to time, acquired some land. The landowner never went to the bar. He had learned of the story through his maid, who had been there on the night in question and had left in high excitement, telling her friends and him that the hotel guest was a very rich man; who knows, perhaps she could have a child by him and force him to give her part of his fortune. Concerned about the future, or, rather, about the fact that Miss Prym's story might spread and drive away hunters and tourists alike, he decided to call an emergency meeting. The group were gathering in the sacristy of the small church, just as Chantal was heading for the forest, the stranger was off on one of his mysterious walks and Berta was chatting with her husband about whether or not to try and save the village.
'The first thing we have to do is call the police,' said the landowner. 'It's obvious the gold doesn't exist; and besides, I suspect the man of trying to seduce my maid.'
'You don't know what you're talking about, because you weren't there,' the mayor insisted. 'The gold does exist. Miss Prym wouldn't risk her reputation without concrete proof. Not that that alters things, of course, we should still call the police. The stranger must be a bandit, a fellow with a price on his head, trying to conceal his ill-gotten gains here.'
'Don't be idiotic!' the mayor's wife said. 'If he was, surely he'd be more
discreet about it.'
'All this is completely relevant. We must call the police straightaway.' Everyone agreed. The priest served a little wine to calm everyone's nerves. They began to discuss what they would say to the police, given that they had no actual proof that the
stranger had done anything; it might all end with Miss Prym being arrested for inciting a murder.
'The only proof is the gold. Without the gold, we can't do anything.' But where was the gold? Only one person had known of course.
The priest suggested they form search parties. The hotel landlady drew back the curtain of the sacristy window that looked out over the cemetery; she pointed to the mountains, to the valley below, and to the mountains on the on other side.
'We would need a hundred men searching for a hundred years to do that.' The landowner silently bemoaned the fact that the cemetery had been constructed on that particular spot; it had a lovely view, and the dead had no use for it.
'On another occasion, I'd like to talk to you about the cemetery,' he said to the priest. 'I could offer you a far bigger plot for the dead, just near here, in exchange for this piece of land next to the church.'
'Nobody would want to buy that and live on the same spot where the dead used to lie.'
'Maybe no one from the village would, but there are tourists desperate to buy a summer home; it would just be a matter of asking the villagers to keep their mouths shut. It would mean more income for the village and more taxes for the town hall.'
'You're right. We just have to ask the villagers to keep their mouths shut. That wouldn't be so hard.'
A sudden silence fell. A long silence, which nobody dared break. The two women admired the view; the priest polishing a small bronze statue; the
landowner took another sip of wine; the blacksmith tied and untied the laces on both boots; and the mayor kept glancing at his watch as if to suggest that he had other pressing engagements.
But nobody said a word; everyone knew that the people of Viscos would never say a word if someone were to express an interest in purchasing what had once been the cemetery. They would keep quiet purely for the pleasure of seeing another person coming to live in that village on the verge of disappearing. Even if they didn't earn a penny by their silence.
Imagine if they did though. Imagine if they earned enough money for the rest of their lives. Imagine if they earned enough money for the rest of their lives and their children's lives.
At that precise moment, a hot and wholly unexpected wind blew through the sacristy.
'What exactly are you proposing?' asked the priest after a long five minutes. Everyone turned to look at him.
'If the inhabitants really can be relied on to say nothing, I think we can proceed with negotiations,' replied the landowner, choosing his words carefully in case they were misinterpreted - or correctly interpreted, depending on your point of view.
'They're good, hardworking, discreet people,' the hotel landlady said, adopting the same strategy. 'Today, for example, when the driver of the baker's van wanted to know what was going on. Nobody said a thing. I think we can trust them.
There was silence. Only this time it was an unmistakably ccive silence. Eventually, the game began again, and the oppressive blacksmith said: 'It isn't just a question of the villagers' discretion, the fact that it's both immoral and unacceptable.'
'What is?'
'Selling off hallowed ground.'
A sigh of relief ran round the room; now that they had dealt satisfactorily with the practical aspects, they could proceed with the moral debate.
'What's immoral is sitting back and watching the demise of our beloved Viscos,' said the mayor's wife. 'Knowing that we are the last people to live here, and that the dream of our grandparents, our ancestors, Ahab and the Celts, will be over in a few years' time. Soon, we'll all be leaving the village, either for an old people's home or to beg our children to take in their strange, ailing parents, who are unable to adapt to life in the big city and spend all their time longing for what they've left behind, sad because they could not pass on to the next generation the gift they received from their parents.'
'You're right,' the blacksmith said. 'The life we lead is an unmoral one. When Viscos does finally fall into ruin, these houses will be abandoned or else bought up for next to nothing. Then machines will arrive and open up bigger and better ads. The houses will be demolished, steel warehouses will replace what was built with the sweat of our ancestors.
Agriculture will become entirely mechanised, and people will come in to work during the day and return at night to the' homes, far from here. How shaming for our generation; We let our children leave, we failed to keep them here with us'.
'One way or another, we have to save this village,' said the landowner, who was possibly the only one who stood to profit from Viscos' demise, since he was in a position to buy up everything, then sell it on to a large industrial company. But of course he certainly didn't want to hand over, for a price below market value, lands that might contain buried treasure. 'What do you think, Father?' asked the hotel landlady.
'The only thing I know well is my religion, in which the sacrifice of one individual saved all humanity.'
Silence descended for a third time, but only for a moment.
'I need to start preparing for Saturday Mass,' he went on. 'Why don't we meet up later this evening?'
Everyone immediately agreed, setting a time late in the day, as if they were all immensely busy people with important matters to deal with.
Only the mayor managed to remain calm.
'What you've just been saying is very interesting, an excellent subject for a sermon. I think we should all attend Mass today.'
I hesitated no longer. She headed straight for the Y-shaped thinking of what she would do with the gold as soon as she t Go home, get the money she kept hidden there, put on some sensible clothes, go down the road to the valley and hitch a lift Home more wagers: those people didn't deserve the fortune within their grasp. No suitcase: she didn't want them to know she was leaving Viscos for good - Viscos with its beautiful but pointless stories, its kind but cowardly inhabitants, the bar always crammed with people talking about the same things, the church she never attended. Naturally there was always the chance that she would find the police waiting for her at the bus station, the stranger accusing her of theft etc., etc. But now she was prepared to run any risk.
The hatred she had felt only half an hour before had been transformed into a far more agreeable emotion: vengeance. She was glad to have been the first to reveal to those people the evil hidden in the depths of their false, ingenuous souls. They were all dreaming of the chance to commit a murder - only dreaming, mind you, because they would never actually do anything. They would spend the rest of their lives asleep, endlessly telling themselves how noble they are, how incapable of committing an injustice, ready to defend the village's dignity at whatever cost, yet aware that terror alone had prevented them from killing an innocent They would congratulate themselves every morning on keening their integrity, and blame themselves each night for that missed opportunity.
For the next three months, the only topic of conversation in the bar would be the honesty of the generous men and women of the village. Then the hunting season would arrive and the subject wouldn't be touched upon - there was no need for visitors to know anything about it, they liked to
think they were in a remote spot, where everyone was friends, where good always prevailed, where nature was bountiful, and that the local products lined up for sale on a single shelf in the hotel reception - which the hotel landlady called her 'little shop' - were steeped in this disinterested love.
But the hunting season would come to an end, and then the villagers would be free to return to the topic. This time around, after many evenings spent dreaming about the riches they had let slip through their fingers, they would start inventing hypotheses to fit the situation: why did nobody have the courage, at dead of night, to kill useless old Berta in return for ten gold bars? Why did no hunting accident befall the shepherd Santiago, who drove his flock up the mountainside each morning? All kinds of hypotheses would be weighed up, first timidly and then angrily.
One year on and they would be consumed with mutual hatred - the village had been given its opportunity and had let it slip. They would ask after Miss Prym, who had left without trace, perhaps taking with her the gold she vanishes which the wretched stranger had hidden. They would say terrible things about her, the ungrateful orphan, the poor girl whom had all struggled to help after her grandmother's death, had got a job in the bar when she had proved incapable of getting herself a husband and leaving, who used to sleep with hotel guests, usually men much older than herself,and who made eyes at all the tourists just to get a bigger tip.
They would spend the rest of their lives caught between self-pity and loathing; Chantal would be happy, that was her revenge. She would never forget the looks those people around the van gave her, imploring her silence regarding a murder they would never dare to commit, then rounding on her as if she was to blame for all the cowardice that was finally rising to the surface.
'A jacket. My leather trousers. I can wear two tee shirts and strap the gold bar around my waist. A jacket. My leather trousers. A jacket.'
There she was, in front of the Y-shaped rock. Beside her lay the stick she
had used two days before to dig up the gold, For a moment she savoured the gesture that would transform her from an honest woman into a thief.
That wasn't right. The stranger had provoked her, and he also stood to gain from the deal. She wasn't so much stealing as claiming her wages for her role as narrator in this tasteless comedy. She deserved not only the gold but much, much more for having endured the stares of the victimless murderers standing round the baker's van, for having spent her entire life there, for those three sleepless nights, for the soul she had now lost - assuming she had ever had a soul to lose.
She dug down into the soft earth and saw the gold bar When she saw it, she heard a noise. Someone had followed her. Automatically, she began pushing the earth back into the hole, realising as she did so the futility of the gesture. Then she turned, ready to explain that she was looking for the treasure, that she knew the stranger walked regularly along this path, and that she had happened to notice that the soil had been recently disturbed.
What she saw, however, robbed her of her voice - for it had no interest in treasure, in village crises, justice or injustice, only in blood.
The white mark on its left ear. The rogue wolf.
It was standing between her and the nearest tree; it would be impossible to get past the animal. Chantal stood rooted to the spot, hypnotised by the animal's blue eyes. Her mind was working frantically, wondering what would be her next step the branch would be far too flimsy to counter the beast's attack. She could climb onto the Y-shaped rock, but that still wasn't high enough. She could choose not to believe the legend and scare off the wolf as she would any other lone wolf, but that was too risky, it would be wisest to recognise that all legends contain a hidden truth. 'Punishment.'
Unfair punishment, just like everything else that had happened in her life; God seemed to have singled her out and happened to demonstrate his hatred of the world.
Instinctively she let the branch fall to the ground and, in a moment that seemed to her interminably slow, brought her hand to her throat: she couldn't let him sink his teeth in. She regretted not wearing her leather trousers; the next best vulnerable part were her legs and the vein there, which, pierced would see you bleed to death in ten minutes once pierced. At least, that was what the hunters always said, to explain why they wore those high boots.
The wolf opened its mouth and snarled. The dangerous, pent-up growl of an animal who gives no warning, but attacks on the instant. She kept her eyes glued to his, even though her heart was pounding, for now his fangs were bared.
It was all a question of time; he would either attack or run off, but Chantal knew he was going to attack. She glanced down at the ground, looking for any loose stones she might slip on, but found none. She decided to launch herself at the animal; she would be bitten and would have to run towards the tree with the wolf's teeth sunk into her. She would have to ignore the pain.
She thought about the gold. She would soon be back to look for it. She clung to every shred of hope, anything that might give her the strength to confront the prospect of her flesh being ripped by those sharp teeth, of one of her bones poking through, of possibly stumbling and falling and having her throat torn out.
She prepared to run.
Just then, as if in a movie, she saw a figure appear behind the wolf, although still a fair distance away.
The beast sensed another presence too, but did not look away, and she continued to fix him with her stare. It seemed to be only the force of that stare that was averting the attack and she didn't want to run any further risks; if someone else was there, her chances of survival were increased -
even if, in the end, it cost her the gold bar.
The presence behind the wolf silently crouched down and moved to the left. Chantal knew there was another tree on that side, easy to climb. At that moment, a stone arched across the sky and landed near the wolf, which turned with phenomenal speed and hurtled off in the direction of this new threat.
'Run!' yelled the stranger.
She ran in the direction of her only refuge, while the man likewise clambered lithely up the other tree. By the time the rogue wolf reached him, he was safe.
The wolf began snarling and leaping, occasionally managing to get partway up the trunk, only to slip back down again.
'Tear off some branches!' shouted Chantal.
But the stranger seemed to be in a kind of trance. She repeated her instruction twice, then three times, until he registered what she was saying. He began tearing off branches and throwing them down at the wolf.
'No, don't do that! Pull off the branches, bundle them up, and set fire to them! I don't have a lighter, so do as I say!'
Her voice had the desperate edge of someone in real peril. The stranger grabbed some branches and took an eternity to light it and, a part of the previous day's storm had soaked everything in them; like this time of the year, the sun didn't penetrate into that part of the forest.
Chantal waited until the flames of the improvised torch begun to burn fiercely. She would have been quite happy have him spend the rest of the day in the tree, confronting his fear he wanted to inflict on the rest of the world, but she had to get away and so was obliged to help him.
'Now show me you're a man!' she yelled. 'Get down from the tree, keep a firm hold on the torch and walk towards the wolf!'
The stranger could not move.
'Do it!' she yelled again and, when he heard her voice, the man understood the force of authority behind her words - an authority derived from terror, from the ability to react quickly, leaving fear and suffering for later.
He climbed down with the burning torch in his hands, ignoring the sparks that occasionally singed his cheeks. When he saw the animal's foam-flecked teeth close, his fear increased, but he had to do something - something he should have done when his wife was abducted, his daughters murdered.
'Remember, keep looking him in the eye!' he heard the girl say.
He did as she said. Things were becoming easier with each passing moment; he was no longer looking at the enemy's weapons but at the enemy himself. They were equals, both Capable of provoking fear in each other. Then his enemy walked away.
'Don't talk to me.'
'I didn't say a word.'
Chantal considered crying, but didn't want to do so in front of him. She bit back her tears. 'I saved your life. I deserve the gold.'
'I saved your life. The wolf was about to attack you.' It was true.
'On the other hand, I believe you saved something else deep inside me,' the stranger went on.
A trick. She would pretend she hadn't understood; that was like giving her permission to take his fortune, to get out of there for good, end of story.
'About last night's wager. I was in so much pain myself that I needed to make everyone suffer as much as I was suffering; that was my one source of consolation. You were right.'
The stranger's devil didn't like what he was hearing at all. He asked Chantal's devil to help him out, but her devil was new and hadn't yet asserted total control.
'Does that change anything?'
'Nothing. The bet's still on, and I know I'll win. But I also know how wretched I am and how I became that way: because I feel I didn't deserve what happened to me.'
Chantal asked herself how they were going to get out or there; even though it was still only morning, they couldn't stay in the forest forever.
I think I deserve my gold, and I'm going to take it, don't stop me,' she said. 'I'd advise you to do something.
Neither of us needs to go back to Viscos; we can walk to the valley, hitch a ride, and then each of us head straight on.
Each can follow our own destiny, if you like. But at this very moment the villagers are deciding who should die.'
'That's as maybe. They'll devote a couple of days to it, till the deadline is up; then they'll devote a couple of years arguing about who should have been the victim. They are hopelessly indecisive when it comes to doing anything, and implacable when it comes to apportioning blame - I know my village. If you don't go back, they won't even trouble themselves to discuss it. They'll dismiss it as something I made up.'
'Viscos is just like any other village in the world, and whatever happens there happens in every continent, city, camp, convent, wherever. That's something you don't understand, just as you don't understand that this time fate has worked in my favour: I chose exactly the right person to help me. Someone who, behind the mask of a hardworking, honest young woman, also wants revenge. Since We Can never see the enemy - because if we take this tale to logical conclusion, our real enemy is God for putting us rough everything we've suffered - we vent our frustrations on everything around us. It's a desire for vengeance can never be satisfied, because it's directed against life itself.'
'What are we doing sitting around here talking?' asked Chantal, irritated because this man, whom she hated more than anyone else in the world, could see so clearly into her soul. 'Why don't we just take the money and
leave?'
'Because yesterday I realised that by proposing the very thing that most revolts me - a senseless murder, just like that inflicted on my wife and daughters - the truth is I was trying to save myself. Do you remember the philosopher I mentioned in our second conversation? The one who said that God's hell is His love for humanity, because human behaviour makes every second of His eternal life a torment?
'Well, that same philosopher said something else too, he said: Man needs what's worst in him in order to achieve what's best in him.'
'I don't understand.'
'Until now, I used to think solely in terms of revenge. Like the inhabitants of your village, I used to dream and plan day and night, but never do anything. For a while, I used to scour the newspapers for articles about other people who had lost their loved ones in similar situations, but who had ended up behaving in exactly the opposite way to myself: they formed victim support groups, organisations to denounce injustice, campaigns to demonstrate how the pain of loss can never be replaced by the burden of vengeance.
'I too tried to look at matters from a more generous perspective: I didn't succeed. But now I've gained courage; I've reached the depths and discovered that there is light at the bottom.'
'Go on,' said Chantal, for she too was beginning to see a kind of light.
I was trying to prove that humanity is perverse. What I was to do is to prove that I unconsciously asked for what I'm trying that happened to me. Because I'm evil, a total erate and I deserved the punishment that life gave me.'
'You're trying to prove that God is just.'
The stranger thought for a moment. 'Maybe.'
'I don't know if God is just. He hasn't treated me particularly fairly, and it's that sense of powerlessness that has destroyed my soul. I cannot be as
good as I would like to be, nor as bad as I think I need to be. A few minutes ago, I thought He had chosen me to avenge Himself for all the sadness men cause Him. I think you have the same doubts, albeit on a much larger scale, because your goodness was not rewarded.'
Chantal was surprised at her own words. The man's devil noticed that her angel was beginning to shine with greater intensity, and everything was beginning to be turned inside out.
'Resist!' he said to the other demon.
'I am resisting,' he replied. 'But it's an uphill struggle.'
Your problem isn't to do with God's justice exactly,' the stranger said. 'It's more the fact that you always chose to be a victim circumstance. I know a lot of people in your situation.'
'Like you, for example, I rebelled against something that happened to me and don't care whether others like my attitude or not. You, on the other hand, believed in your role as helpless orphan, someone who wants to be accepted at all costs. Since that doesn't always happen, your need to be loved was transformed into stubborn desire for revenge. At heart, you wish you were like the rest of Viscos' inhabitants - in other words, deep down we'd all like to be the same as everyone else. But destiny accorded you a different fate.'
Chantal shook her head.
'Do something,' said Chantal's devil to his colleague. 'Even though she's saying no, her soul understands and is saying yes.'
The stranger's devil was feeling humiliated because the new arrival had noticed that he wasn't strong enough to get the man to shut up.
'Words don't matter in the end,' the devil said. 'Let them talk, and life will see to it that they act differently.'
'I didn't mean to interrupt you,' the stranger said. 'Please, go on with what you were saying about God's justice.'
Chantal was pleased not to have to listen any more to things she didn't want to hear.
'I don't know if it makes sense. But you must have noticed that Viscos isn't a particularly religious place, even though it has a church, like all the villages in this region. That's because Ahab, even though he was converted to Christianity by St Savin, had serious reservations about the influence of priests. Since the majority of the early were bandits, he thought that all the priests cabitallts with their threats of eternal damnation, would be wooed back to their criminal ways. Men who have to show nothing to lose never give a thought for eternal life.
'Naturally, the first priest duly appeared, and Ahab knew what the real threat was. To compensate for it, he instituted something he had learned from the Jews Day of Atonement - except that he determined to establish a ritual of his own making.
'Once a year, the inhabitants shut themselves up in their houses, made two lists, turned to face the highest mountain and then raised their first list to the heavens.
'"Here, Lord, are all the sins I have committed against you," they said, reading the account of all the sins they had committed. Business swindles, adulteries, injustices, things of that sort. "I have sinned and beg forgiveness for having offended You so greatly."
'Then - and here lay Ahab's originality - the residents immediately pulled the second list out of their pocket and, still facing the same mountain, they held that one up to the skies too. And they said something like: "And here, Lord, is a list of all Your sins against me: You made me work harder than necessary, my daughter fell ill despite all my prayers, I was robbed when I was trying to be honest, I suffered more than was fair."
After reading out the second list, they ended the ritual I have been unjust towards You and You have been towards me. However, since today is the Day of Atonement, You will forget my faults and I will forget Yours and we can carry on together for another year."'
'Forgive God!' said the stranger. 'Forgive an implacable God who is constantly creating and destroying!'
'This conversation is getting too personal for my taste' said Chantal, looking away. 'I haven't learned enough from life to be able to teach you anything.'
The stranger said nothing.
'I don't like this at all,' thought the stranger's devil, beginning to see a bright light shining beside him, a presence he was certainly not going to allow. He had banished that light two years ago, on one of the world's many beaches.
In any number of legends, of Celtic and Protestant influence, given by certain unfortunate examples set by the Arab who had brought peace to the village, and given the constant of saints and bandits in the surrounding area, the priest knew that Viscos was not exactly a religious place, even though its residents still attended baptisms and weddings (although nowadays these were merely a distant memory), funerals (which, on the contrary, occurred with ever increasing frequency) and Christmas Mass. For the most part, few troubled to make the effort to attend the two weekly Masses - one on Saturday and one on Sunday, both at eleven o'clock in the morning; even so, he made sure to celebrate them, if only to justify his presence there. He wished to give the impression of being a busy, saintly man.
To his surprise, that day the church was so crowded that he had to allow some of the congregation up on to the altar steps, otherwise they could not have fitted everyone in. Instead of turning on the electric heaters suspended from the ceiling he had to ask members of the congregation to open the small side windows, as everyone was sweating; the wondered to himself whether the sweat was due to the heat or to the general tension.
The entire village was there, apart from Miss Prym, possibly ashamed of
what she had said the previous day and old Berta, whom everyone suspected of being a wand therefore allergic to religion.
'In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.'
A loud 'Amen' rang out. The priest began the liturgy of the introit, had the usual faithful church member read the lesson, solemnly intoned the responsory, and recited the Gospel in slow, grave tones. After which, he asked all those in the pews to be seated, whilst the rest remained standing.
It was time for the sermon.
'In the Gospel according to Luke, there is a moment when an important man approaches Jesus and asks: 'Good Master, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?' And, to our surprise, Jesus responds: 'Why callest thou me good? None is good, save one, that is, God.'
'For many years, I pondered over this little fragment of text, trying to understand what Our Lord was saying: That He was not good? That the whole of Christianity, with its concept of charity, is based on the teachings of someone who considered Himself to be bad? Finally, I saw what he meant: Christ, at that moment, is referring to His human nature. As man, He is bad, as God, He is good.'
The priest paused, hoping that the congregation understood his message. He was lying to himself: he still couldn't grasp what Christ was saying, since if his human nature was bad, then his words and actions would also be bad. But the in a discussion of no relevance just then; what was an explanation should be convincing, and that part of being human is to accept our baser, nature and know that the only reason that we were , damned to eternal damnation because of this base that Jesus sacrificed himself to save humanity.
The sacrifice of the son saved us all.
'I wish to close this sermon by mentioning the beginning of one of the
sacred books that together comprise the Bible, the Book of Job. God is sitting upon His celestial throne, when the Devil comes to speak to Him. God asks where he has been and the Devil replies that he has been "going to and fro in Earth".
'"Did you see my servant Job? Did you see how he worships me, and performs all his sacrifices?"
'The Devil laughs and replies: "Well, Job does, after all, have everything, so why wouldn't he worship God and make sacrifices? Take away the good You gave him, and see if he worships You then."
God accepts the challenge. Year after year he punishes the man who most loved Him. Job is in the presence of a war he cannot comprehend, whom he believed to be the
supreme Judge, but who is destroying his animals, killing his children and afflicting his body with boils. Then, after great Job rebels and blasphemes against the Lord. Only then God restored to him that which He had taken away.
'For years now we have witnessed the decay of our village I wonder now whether this might not be a divine punishment for our uncomplaining acceptance of whatever was dealt out to us, as if we deserved to lose the place we live in, the fields where we cultivate our crops and graze our sheep, the houses built by the dreams of our ancestors. Has not the moment come for us to rebel? If God forced Job to do as much, might He not be requiring us to do likewise?
'Why did God force Job to behave in that way? To show that he was by nature bad, and that everything that came to him was by grace and grace alone, and not as a reward for good behaviour. We have committed the sin of pride in believing ourselves to be better than we are - and that is why we are suffering.
'God accepted the Devil's wager and - so it seems - committed an injustice. Remember that: God accepted the Devil's wager. And Job
learned his lesson for, like us, he too was cornmitting the sin of pride in believing that he was a good man.
'None is good, says the Lord. No one. We should stop pretending to a goodness that offends God and accept our faults: if one day we have to accept a wager with the Devil, let us remember that our Father who is in heaven did exactly the same in order to save the soul of His servant Job.' The sermon was at an end. The priest asked everyone to stand up, and continued the Mass. He was sure that the message had been fully understood.
'Let each of us just go our own way, me with my gold bar and you ...' 'You mean my gold bar,' the stranger broke in.
'All you have to do is pack up your things and disappear. If I don't take the gold, I'll have to go back to Viscos. I'll be sacked from my job or stigmatised by the whole population. They'll think I lied to them. You can't, you simply can't do that to me. Let's say I deserve it as payment for all my work.'
The stranger rose to his feet and picked up some of the branches from the fire.
'The wolf will run away from the flames, won't it? Well, then, I'm off to Viscos. You do what you think best, steal the gold and run away if you want, I really don't care any more. I've got something more important to do.'
'Just a minute! Don't leave me here alone!' 'Come with me, then.'
Chantal looked at the fire before her, at the Y-shaped rock, at the stranger who was already moving off, taking some of the fire with him. She could do likewise: take some wood from the fire, dig up the gold and head straight down to the valley; there wasn't any need for her to go home and fetch the little money she had so carefully scraped together.
When she reached the town in the valley, she would ask the bank to value
the gold, she would then sell it, buy clothes and suitcases, and she would be free.
'Wait!' she called after the stranger, but he was still walking towards Viscos and would soon be lost to view.
'Think fast,' she told herself.
She didn't have much time. She too took some burning twigs from the fire, went over to the rock and once again duly picked up the gold. She picked it up, cleaned it off on her dress and studied it for the third time.
Then she was seized with panic. She took her handful of burning wood and, hatred oozing from her every pore, ran after the stranger, down the path he must have taken. She had met two wolves that day, one who could be scared off with fire, and another who wasn't scared of anything any more because he had already lost everything he valued and was now moving blindly forward, intent on destroying everything in his path.
She ran as fast as she could, but she didn't find him. His torch would have burned out by now, but he must still be in the forest, defying the rogue wolf, wanting to die as fiercely as he wanted to kill.
She reached the village, pretended not to hear Berta calling to her and met up with the congregation leaving Mass, amazed that virtually the entire population had gone to church. The stranger had wanted to provoke a murder and had ended up filling the priest's diary; it would be a week of confessions and penances - as if God could be hoodwinked.
They stared at her, but no one spoke to her. She met their stares because she knew that she was not to go their way. She had no need of confession, she was blameless, anyone in an evil game, one that she was slowly beginning gingerly to understand - and she didn't at all like what she saw.
She locked herself in her room and peeped through the window. The crowd had now dispersed, and again something strange was going on; the village was unusually empty for a Saturday. As a rule, people stood about
chatting in small groups in the square where once there had been a gallows and where now there was a cross.
She stood for a while gazing at the empty street, feeling the sun on her face, though it no longer warmed her, for winter was beginning. If people had been out in the square, that would have been their topic of conversation - the weather. The temperature. The threat of rain or drought. But today they were all in their houses, and Chantal did not know why.
The longer she gazed at the street, the more she felt she was the same as all those other people - she, who had always believed herself to be different, daring, full of plans that would never even occur to those peasant brains.
How embarrassing. And yet, what a relief too; she was no longer in Viscos by some cruel whim of destiny, but because she deserved to be there. She had always considered that she was herself to be different, and now she saw that she was the same as them. She had dug up the gold bar but had been incapable of actually running off with it. She had committed the crime in her soul, but had been unable to carry it out in the real world.
Now she knew that there was no way she could commit the crime, for it wasn't a temptation, it was a trap.
'Why a trap?' she wondered. Something told her that the gold bar she had seen was the solution to the problem the stranger had created. But, however hard she tried, she could not work out what that solution might be.
Her newly arrived devil glanced to one side and saw that Miss Prym's light, which before had seemed to be growing, was now almost disappearing again; what a shame his colleague wasn't there with him to celebrate the victory.
What he didn't know was that angels also have their strategies: at that moment, Miss Prym's light was hiding so as not to awaken a response in
its enemy. All that the angel required was for Chantal to rest a little so that he could converse with her soul without interference from the fear and guilt that human beings love to load themselves down with every day of their lives.
Chantal slept. And she heard what she needed to hear and understood what she needed to understand.
'Let's drop all this talk of land and cemeteries,' the mayor's wife said, as soon as they were all gathered again in the sacristy, let's talk plainly.'
The other five agreed.
'Father, you convinced me,' said the landowner. 'God justifies certain acts.' 'Don't be cynical,' replied the priest. 'When we looked through that window, we all knew what we meant. That's why that hot wind blew through here; it was the Devil come to keep us company.'
'Of course,' agreed the mayor, who did not believe in devils. 'We're all convinced. We'd better talk plainly, or we'll lose precious time.'
'I'll speak for all of us,' said the hotel landlady. 'We are thinking of accepting the stranger's proposal. To commit a murder.'
'To offer up a sacrifice,' said the priest, more accustomed to the rites of religion. The silence that followed showed that everyone was in agreement.
'Only cowards hide behind silence. Let us pray in a loud voice so that God may hear us and know that we are doing this for the good of Viscos. Let us kneel.'
They all reluctantly kneeled down, knowing that it was useless begging forgiveness from God for a sin committed in full consciousness of the evil they were doing. Then they remembered Ahab's Day of Atonement; soon, when that day came around again, they would accuse God of having placed them in terrible temptation.
The priest suggested that they pray together.
'Lord, You once said that no one is good; accept us then with all our
imperfections and forgive us in Your infinite generosity and Your infinite love. For as You pardoned the Crusaders who killed the Muslims in order to re-conquer the holy land of Jerusalem, as You pardoned the Inquisitors who sought to preserve the purity of Your Church, as You pardoned those who insulted You and nailed You to the cross, so pardon us who must offer up a sacrifice in order to save our village.'
'Let's get down to practicalities,' said the mayor's wife, rising to her feet. 'Who should be sacrificed? And who should carry it out?'
'The person who brought the Devil here was a young woman whom we have all always helped and supported,' commented the landowner, who in the not-too-distant past had himself slept with the girl he was referring to and had ever since been tormented by the idea that she might tell his wife about it. 'Evil must fight Evil, and she deserves to be punished.'
Two of the others agreed, arguing that, in addition, Miss Prym was the one person in the village who could not be rated because she thought she was different from everyone and was always saying that one day she would leave.
'Her mother's dead. Her grandmother's dead. Nobody would miss her,' the mayor agreed, thus becoming the third to approve the suggestion.
His wife, however, opposed it.
'What if she knows where the treasure is hidden? After all she was the only one who saw it. Moreover, we can trust her precisely because of what has just been said - she was the one who brought Evil here and led a whole community into considering committing a murder. She can say what she likes, but if the rest of the village says nothing, it will be the word of one neurotic young woman against us, people who have all achieved something in life.'
The mayor was undecided, as always when his wife had expressed her opinion: 'Why do you want to save her, if you don't even like her?'
'I understand,' the priest responded. 'That way the guilt falls on the head of the one who precipitated the tragedy. She will bear that burden for the rest of her days and nights. She might even end up like Judas, who betrayed Jesus and then committed suicide, in a gesture of despair and futility, because she created all the necessary preconditions for the crime.' The mayor's wife was surprised by the priest's reasoning; it was exactly what she had been thinking. The young woman was beautiful, she led men into temptation, and she refused to be contented with the typical life of an inhabitant of Viscos. She was forever bemoaning the fact that she had to stay in the village, which, for all its faults, was nevertheless made up of honest, hardworking people, a place where many people would love to spend their days (strangers, naturally, who would leave after discovering how boring it is to live constantly at peace).
'I can't think of anyone else,' the hotel landlady said, aware of how difficult it would be to find someone else to work in the bar, but realising that, with the gold she would receive, she could close the hotel and move far away. 'The peasants and shepherds form a closed group, some are married, many have children a long way from here, who might become suspicious should anything happen to their parents. Miss Prym is the only one who could disappear without trace.'
For religious reasons - after all, Jesus cursed those who condemned an innocent person the priest had no wish to nominate anyone. But he knew who the victim should be; he just had to ensure that the others came to the same conclusion.
'The people of Viscos work from dawn to dusk, come rain or shine. Each one has a task to fulfill, even that poor wretch of a girl whom the Devil decided to use for his own evil ends. There are only a few of us left, and we can't afford the luxury of losing another pair of hands.'
'So, Father, we have no victim. All we can hope is that another stranger turns up tonight, yet even that would prove risky, because he would
inevitably have a family who would miss him to the ends of the earth. In Viscos everyone works hard to earn the bread brought to us by the baker's van.'
'You're right,' said the priest. 'Perhaps everything we have been through since last night has been mere illusion. Everyone in this village has someone who would miss them, and none of us would want anything to happen to one of our own loved ones. Only three people in this village sleep alone: myself, Berta and Miss Prym.'
'Are you offering yourself up for sacrifice, Father?' 'If it's for the good of the community.'
The other five felt greatly relieved, suddenly aware that it was a sunny Saturday, that there would be no murder, only a martyrdom. The tension in the sacristy evaporated as if by magic, and the hotel landlady felt so moved she could have kissed the feet of that saintly man.
There's only one thing,' the priest went on. 'You would need to convince everyone that it is not a mortal sin to kill a minister of God.'
'You can explain it to Viscos yourself!' exclaimed the mayor enthusiastically, already planning the various reforms he could put in place once he had the money, the advertisements he could take out in the regional newspapers, attracting fresh investment because of the tax cuts he could make, drawlng in tourists with the changes to the hotel he intended to 'und, and having a new telephone line installed that would prove less problematic than the current one.
I can't do that,' said the priest. 'Martyrs offer themselves up when the people want to kill them. They never incite their own death, for the Church has always said that life is a gift from God. You'll have to do the explaining.'
'Nobody will believe us. They'll consider us to be the very worst kind of murderer if we kill a holy man for money, just as Judas did to Christ.'
The priest shrugged. It felt as if the sun had once again gone in, and tension returned to the sacristy.
'Well, that only leaves Berta,' the landowner concluded.
After a lengthy pause, it was the priest's turn to speak.
'That woman must suffer greatly with her husband gone. She's done nothing but sit outside her house all these years, alone with the elements and her own boredom. All she does is long for the past. And I'm afraid the poor woman may slowly be going mad: I've often passed by that way and seen her talking to herself.'
Again a gust of wind blew through the sacristy, startling the people inside because all the windows were closed.
'She's certainly had a very sad life,' the hotel landlady went on. 'I think she would give anything to join her beloved. They were married for forty years, you know.'
They all knew that, but it was hardly relevant now.
'She's an old woman, near the end of her life,' added the landowner. 'She's the only person in the village who does nothing of note. I once asked her why she always sat outside her house, even in winter, and do you know what she told me? She said she was watching over our village, so that she could see when Evil arrived.'
'Well, she hasn't done very well on that score.'
'On the contrary,' said the priest, 'from what I understand of your conversation, the person who let Evil enter in would also be the one who should drive it out.'
Another silence, and everyone knew that a victim had been chosen. 'There's just one thing,' the mayor's wife commented. 'We know when the sacrifice will be offered up in the interests of the well being of the village. We know who it will be. Thanks to this sacrifice, a good soul will go to heaven and find eternal joy, rather than remain suffering here on earth. All we need to know now is how.'
'Try to speak to all the men in the village,' the priest said to the mayor,
'and call a meeting in the square for nine o'clock tonight. I think I know how. Drop by here shortly before nine, and the two of us can talk it over.'
Before they left, he asked that, while the meeting that night was in progress, the two women should go to Berta's house and keep her talking. Although she never went out at night, it would be best not to take any risks.
Chantal arrived at the bar in time for work. No one was there.
'There's a meeting in the square tonight at nine,' the hotel landlady said. 'Just for the men.' She didn't need to say anything more. Chantal knew what was going on.
'Did you actually see the gold?'
'Yes, I did, but you should ask the stranger to bring it here. You never know, once he's got what he wants, he might simply decide to disappear.' 'He's not mad.' 'He is.'
The hotel landlady thought that this might indeed be a good idea. She went up to the stranger's room and came down a few minutes later.
'He's agreed. He says it's hidden in the forest and that he'll bring it here tomorrow.' 'I guess I don't need to work today, then.'
'You certainly do. It's in your contract.'
She didn't know how to broach the subject she and the others had spent the afternoon discussing, but it was important to gauge the girl's reaction.
'I'm really shocked by all this,' she said. 'At the same time, I realise that people need to think twice or even ten times before they decide what they should do.'
'They could think it over twenty or two hundred times and they still wouldn't have the courage to do anything.'
'You may be right,' the hotel landlady agreed, 'but if they do decide to make a move, what would you do?'
The woman needed to know what Chantal's reaction would be, and Chantal realised that the stranger was far closer to the truth than she was, despite her having lived in Viscos all those years. A meeting in the square! What a
pity the gallows had been dismantled.
'So what would you do?' the landlady insisted.
'I won't answer that question,' she said, even though she knew exactly what she would do. 'I'll only say that Evil never brings Good. I discovered that for myself this afternoon.'
The hotel landlady didn't like having her authority flouted, but thought it prudent not to argue with the young woman and risk an enmity that could bring problems in the future. On the pretext that she needed to bring the accounts up to date (an absurd excuse, she thought later, since there was only one guest in the hotel), she left Miss Prym alone in the bar. She felt reassured; Miss Prym showed no signs of rebellion, even after she had mentioned the meeting in the square, which showed that something unusual was happening in Viscos. Besides, Miss Prym also had a great need for money, she had her whole life ahead of her, and would almost certainly like to follow in the footsteps of her childhood friends who had already exited the village. And, even if she wasn't willing to cooperate, least she didn't seem to want to interfere.
She dined frugally then sat down alone on one of the church steps. The priest and other would be there in a few minutes.
She contemplated the whitewashed walls, the altar unadorned bv any important work of art, decorated instead with cheap reproductions of paintings of the saints who - in the dim and distant past - had lived in the region. The people of Viscos had never been very religious, despite the important role St Savin had played in resurrecting the fortunes of the place. But the people forgot this and preferred to concentrate on Ahab, on the Celts, on the peasants' centuries-old superstitions, failing to understand that it took only a gesture, a simple gesture, to achieve redemption: that of accepting Jesus as the sole Saviour of humanity.
Only hours earlier, the priest had offered himself up for martyrdom It had been a risky move, but he had been prepared to see it through and deliver himself over for sacrifice, had the others not been so frivolous and
so easily manipulated.
'That's not true. They may be frivolous, but they're not easily manipulated.' Indeed, through silence or words, they had made him say what they wanted to sacrifice that redeems, the victim who saves, decay transformed anew into glory. He had pretended to let himself be used by the others, but had only said what he himself believed.
He had been prepared for the priesthood from an early age, and that was his true vocation. By the time he was twenty-one, he had already been ordained a priest, and had impressed everyone with his gifts as a preacher and his skill as a parish administrator. He said prayers every evening, visited the sick and those in prison, gave food to the hungry just as the holy scriptures commanded. His fame soon spread throughout the region and reached the ears of the bishop, a man known for his wisdom and fairness.
The bishop invited him, together with other young priests, for an evening meal. They ate and talked about various matters until, at the end, the bishop, who was getting old and had difficulties walking, got up and offered each of them some water. The priest had been the only one not to refuse, asking for his glass to be filled to the brim.
One of the other priests whispered, loud enough for the bishop to hear: 'We all refused the water because we know we are not worthy to drink from the hands of this saintly man. Only one among us cannot see the sacrifice our superior is making in carrying that heavy bottle.'
When the bishop returned to his seat, he said: 'You, who think you are holy men, were not humble enough to receive and so denied me the pleasure of giving. Only this man allowed God to be made manifest.'
He immediately appointed him to a more important parish.
The two men became friends and continued to see each other often. Whenever he had any doubts, the priest would go to the person he called
'my spiritual father', and he was very satisfied with the answers he got. One evening, for example, he was troubled because he could no longer tell whether or not his actions were pleasing to God. He went to see the bishop and asked what he should do.
'Abraham took in strangers, and God was happy,' came the reply. 'Elijah disliked strangers, and God was happy. David was proud of what he was doing, and God was happy. The publican before the altar was ashamed of what he did, and God was happy. John the Baptist went out into the desert, and God was happy. Paul went to the great cities of the Roman Empire, and God was happy. How can one know what will please the Almighty? Do what your heart commands, and God will be happy.'
The day after this conversation, the bishop, his great spiritual mentor, died from a massive heart attack. The priest saw the bishop's death as a sign, and began to do exactly what he had recommended; he followed the commands of his heart. Sometimes he gave alms, sometimes he told the person to go and find work. Sometimes he gave a very serious sermon, at others he sang along with his congregation, "is behaviour reached the ears of the new bishop, and he was summoned to see him.
He was astonished to find that the new bishop was the same person who, a few years earlier, had made the comment about the water served by his predecessor.
'I know that today you're in charge of an important parish,' the new bishop said, an ironic look in his eye, 'and that over the years you became a great friend of my predecessor, perhaps even aspiring to this position yourself.'
'No,' the priest replied, 'aspiring only to wisdom.'
'Well, you must be a very wise man by now, but we heard strange stories about you, that sometimes you give alms and that sometimes you refuse the aid that our Church says we should offer.'
'I have two pockets, each contains a piece of paper with writing on it, but I only put money in my left pocket,' he said in reply.
The new bishop was intrigued by the story: what did the two pieces of paper say?
'On the piece of paper in my right pocket, I wrote: I am nothing but dust and ashes. The piece of paper in my left pocket, where I keep my money, says: I am the manifestation of God on Earth. Whenever I see misery and injustice, I put my hand in my left pocket and try to help. Whenever I come up against laziness and indolence, I put my hand in my right pocket and find I have nothing to give. In this way, I manage to balance the material and the spiritual worlds.'
The new bishop thanked him for this fine image of charity and said he could return to his parish, but warned him that he was in the process of restructuring the whole region.
Shortly afterwards, the priest received news that he was being transferred to Viscos. He understood the message at once: envy. But he had the Word to serve God wherever it might be, and so he set of to Viscos full o°f humility and fervour: it was a new challenge for him to meet.
A year went by. And another. By the end of five years, in spite all his efforts, he had not succeeded in bringing any new believers into the church; the village was haunted by a ghost from the past called Ahab, and nothing the priest said could be more important than the legends that still circulated about him. Ten years passed. At the end of the tenth year, the priest realised his mistake: his search for wisdom had become pride. He was so convinced of divine justice that he had failed to balance it with the art of diplomacy. He thought he was living in a world where God was everywhere, only to find himself amongst people who often would not even let God enter their lives.
After fifteen years, he knew that he would never leave Viscos. By then, the former bishop was an important cardinal working in the Vatican and quite likely to be named Pope and he could never allow an obscure country priest to spread the story that he had been exiled out of envy and
greed.
By then, the priest had allowed himself to be infected by the lack of stimulus - no one could withstand all those years of indifference. He thought that had he left the priesthood at the right moment, he could have served God better; but he "ad kept putting off the decision, always thinking that the Situation would change, and by then it was too late, he had lost all contact with the world.
After twenty years, he woke up one night in despair: his life had been completely useless. He knew how much he was capable of and how little he had achieved. He remembered the two pieces of paper he used to keep in his pockets and realised that now he always reached into his righthand pocket. He had wanted to be wise, but had been lacking in political skills. He had wanted to be just, but had lacked wisdom. He had wanted to be a politician, but had lacked courage.
'Where is Your generosity, Lord? Why did You do to me what You did to Job? Will I never have another chance in this life? Give me one more opportunity!'
He got up, opened the Bible at random, as he usually did when he was searching for an answer, and he came upon the passage during the Last Supper when Christ tells the traitor to hand him over to the Roman soldiers looking for him.
The priest spent hours thinking about what he had just read: why did Jesus ask the traitor to commit a sin?
'So that the scriptures would be fulfilled,' the wise men of the Church would say. Even so, why was Jesus asking someone to commit a sin and thus leading him into eternal damnation?'
Jesus would never do that; in truth, the traitor was merely a victim, as Jesus himself was. Evil had to manifest itself and fulfil its role, so that ultimately Good could prevail. If there was no betrayal, there could be no
cross, the words of the scriptures would not be fulfilled, and Jesus' sacrifice could not serve as an example.
The next day, a stranger arrived in the village, as so many strangers had before. The priest gave the matter no importance, did he connect it to the request he had made to Jesus, or the passage he had read in the Bible. When he heard the story of the models Leonardo da Vinci had used in his Last Supper, he remembered reading the corresponding text in the Bible, but dismissed it as a coincidence.
It was only when Miss Prym told them about the wager that he realised his prayers had been answered.
Evil needed to manifest itself if Good was finally to move the hearts of these people. For the first time since he had come to the parish, he had seen his church full to overflowing. For the first time, the most important people in the village had visited him in the sacristy. 'Evil needs to manifest itself, for them to understand the value of Good.' Just as the traitor in the Bible, soon after betraying Jesus, understood what he had done, so the people in the village would realise what they had done and be so overwhelmed by remorse that their only refuge would be the Church. And Viscos - after all these years - would once again become a Christian village.
His role was to be the instrument of Evil; that was the greatest act of humility he could offer to God.
The mayor arrived as arranged.
'I want to know what I should say, Father.'
'Let me take charge of the meeting,' the priest replied.
The mayor hesitated; after all, he was the highest authority in Viscos, and he did not want to see an outsider dealing in public with such an important topic. The priest, it was true, had been in the village now for more than twenty years but he had not been born there, he did not know all the old stories and he did not have the blood of Ahab in his veins.
'In matters as grave as this, I think I should be the one to speak directly to the people,' he said.
'Yes, you're right. It would probably be better if you didthings might go wrong, and I don't want the Church involved. I'll tell you my plan, and you can take on the task of making it public'
'On second thoughts, if the plan is yours, it might be fairer and more honest for you to share it with everyone.'
'Fear again,' thought the priest. 'If you want to control someone, all you have to do is to make them feel afraid.'
The Women reached Berta's house shortly before nine and found her doing some crochetwork in her tiny living room.
'There's something different about the village tonight,' the old woman said. 'I heard lots of people walking around, lots of footsteps going past. The bar isn't big enough to hold them all.'
'It's the men in the village,' the hotel landlady replied. 'They're going to the square, to discuss what to do about the stranger.'
'I see. I shouldn't think there's much to discuss though, is there? Either they accept his proposal or they allow him to leave in two days' time.'
'We would never even consider accepting his proposal,' the mayor's wife said indignantly.
'Why not? I heard that the priest gave a wonderful sermon today, explaining how the sacrifice of one man saved humanity, and how God accepted a wager with the Devil and punished his most faithful servant. Would it be so wrong if the people of Viscos decided to accept the stranger's proposal as - let's say - a business deal?'
'You can't be serious.'
'I am. It's you who are trying to pull the wool over my eyes.'
The two women considered getting up, there and then and leaving at once, but it was too risky.
'Apart from that, to what do I owe the honour of this visit? It's never
happened before.' 'Two days ago, Miss Prym said she heard the rogue wolf howling.'
'Now we all know that the rogue wolf is just a stupid story dreamed up by the blacksmith,' the hotel landlady said. 'He probably went into the forest with a woman from another village, and when he tried to grab her, she fought back, and that's why he came up with the story of the wolf. But even so, we decided we'd better come over here to make sure everything was all right.'
'Everything's fine. I'm busy crocheting a tablecloth, although I can't guarantee I'll finish it; who knows, I might die tomorrow.'
There was a moment of general embarrassment.
'Well, you know, old people can die at any time,' Berta went on. Things had returned to normal. Or almost.
'It's far too soon for you to be talking like that.'
'Maybe you're right; tomorrow is another day, as they say. But I don't mind telling you that it's been on my mind a lot today.'
'For any particular reason?' 'Do you think there should be?'
The hotel landlady wanted to change the subject, but she had to do so very carefully. By now, the meeting in the square must have begun and it would be over in a few minutes.
'I think that, with age, people come to realise that death is inevitable. And we need to learn to face it with serenity, wisdom and resignation. Death often frees us from a lot of senseless suffering.'
'You're quite right,' Berta replied. 'That's exactly what I was thinking this afternoon. And do you know what conclusion I came to? I'm very, very afraid of dying. I don't think my time has quite come.'
The atmosphere in the room was getting tenser and tenser, and the mayor's wife remembered the discussion in the sacristy about the land beside the church; they were talking about one thing, but meaning something else entirely.
Neither of the two women knew how the meeting in the square was going; neither of them knew what the priest's plan was, or what the reaction of the men of Viscos would be. It was pointless trying to talk more openly with Berta; after all, no one accepts being killed without putting up a fight. She made a mental note of the problem: if they wanted to kill the old woman, they would have to find a way of doing so that would avoid a violent struggle that might leave clues for any future investigation.
Disappear. The old woman would simply have to disappear. Her body couldn't be buried in the cemetery or left on the mountainside; once the stranger had ascertained that his wishes had been met, they would have to burn the corpse and scatter the ashes in the mountains. So in both theory and in practice, Berta would be helping their land become fertile again.
'What are you thinking?' Berta asked, interrupting her thoughts.
'About a bonfire,' the mayor's wife replied. 'A lovely bonfire that would warm our bodies and our hearts.'
'It's just as well we're no longer in the Middle Ages, because, you know, there are some people in the village who say I'm a witch.'
There was no point in lying, the old woman would only become suspicious, so the two women nodded their agreement.
'If we were in the Middle Ages, they might want to burn me alive, just like that, just because someone decided I must be guilty of something.'
'What's going on here?' the hotel landlady was wondering to herself. 'Could someone have betrayed us? Could it be that the mayor's wife, who's here with me now, came over earlier and told her everything? Or could it be that the priest suddenly repented and came to confess himself to this sinner?'
'Thank you so much for your visit, but I'm fine, really, in perfect health, ready to make every necessary sacrifice, including being on one of those stupid diets to lower my cholesterol levels, because I want to go on living
for a long while yet.'
Berta got up and opened the door. The two women said goodbye to her. The meeting in the square had still not finished.
'I'm so pleased you came. I'm going to stop my crocheting now and go to bed. And to tell you the truth, I believe in the rogue wolf. Now since you two are so much younger than me, would you mind hanging around until the meeting finishes and make quite sure that the wolf doesn't come to my door?'
The two women agreed, bade her goodnight, and Berta went in.
'She knows!' the hotel landlady whispered. 'Someone has told her! Didn't you notice the ironic tone in her voice? She knows we're here to keep an eye on her.'
The mayor's wife was confused.
'But how can she know? No one would be so crazy as to tell her. Unless ...'
'Unless she really is a witch. Do you remember the hot wind that suddenly blew into the sacristy while we were talking?'
'Even though the windows were shut.'
The hearts of the two women contracted and centuries of superstitions rose to the surface. If Berta really was a witch, then her death, far from saving the village, would destroy it completely.
Or so the legends said.
Berta switched off the light and stood watching the two women in the street out of a corner of her window. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry, or simply to accept her fate. She was sure of one thing, though, she had been marked out to die.
Her husband had appeared earlier that evening, and to her surprise, he was accompanied by Miss Prym's grandmother.
Berta's first reaction was one ofjealousy: what was he doing with that woman? But then she saw the worried look on both of their faces, and became even more troubled when she heard what they had to say about
what had gone on in the sacristy.
The two of them told her to run away at once.
'You must be joking,' Berta replied. 'How am I supposed to run away? My legs can barely carry me the hundred yards to church, so how could I possibly walk all the way down the road and out of the village? Please, sort this problem out up in heaven and do something to protect me! After all, why else do I spend my time praying to all the saints?'
It was a much more complicated situation than Berta could imagine, they explained: Good and Evil were locked in combat, and no one could interfere. Angels and devils were in the midst of one of the periodic battles that decide whether whole regions of the earth are to be condemned for a while or saved.
'I'm not interested; I have no way of defending myself, this isn't my fight, I didn't ask to be caught up in it.'
Nobody had. It had all begun two years earlier with a mistake made by a guardian angel.
During a kidnapping, two women were marked out to die, but a little three year-old girl was supposed to be saved. This girl, it was said, would be a consolation to her father and help him to maintain some hope in life and overcome the tremendous suffering he would undergo. He was a good man, and although he would have to endure terrible suffering (no one knew why, that was all part of God's plan, which had never been fully explained), he would recover in the end. The girl would grow up marked by the tragedy and, when she was twenty, would use her own suffering to help alleviate that of others. She would eventually do work of such vital importance that it would have an impact all over the world.
That had been the original plan. And everything was going well: the police stormed the hideout, shots started flying and the people chosen to die began to fall. At that moment, the child's guardian angel - as Berta knew, all three year-olds can see and talk to their guardian angels all the time -
signalled to her to crouch down by the wall. But the child did not understand and ran towards him so that she could hear better.
She moved barely a matter of inches, just enough to be struck by a fatal bullet. From then on, the story took a new twist. What was meant to become an edifying story of redemption, turned into a merciless struggle. The devil made his appearance, claiming that the man's soul should be his, being as it was full of hatred, impotence and a desire for vengeance. The angels could not accept this; he was a good man and had been chosen to help his daughter make great changes in the world, even though his profession was hardly ideal.
But the angels' arguments no longer rang true to him. Bit by bit, the devil took over his soul, until now he controlled him almost completely.
'Almost completely,' Berta repeated. 'You said "almost".'
They agreed. There was still a tiny chink of light left because one of the angels had refused to give up the fight But he had never been listened to until the previous night, when he had managed briefly to speak out. And his instrument had been none other than Miss Prym.
Chantal's grandmother explained that this was why she was there; because if anyone could change the situation, it was her granddaughter. Even so, the struggle was more ferocious than ever, and the stranger's angel had again been silenced by the presence of the devil.
Berta tried to calm them down, because they both seemed very upset. They, after all, were already dead; she was the one who should be worried. Couldn't they help Chantal change the course of things?
Chantal's devil was also winning the battle, they replied. When Chantal was in the forest, her grandmother had sent the rogue wolf to find her - the wolf did, in fact, exist, and the blacksmith had been telling the truth. She had wanted to awaken the stranger's good side and had done so. But apparently the argument between the two of them had got them nowhere;
they were both too stubborn. There was only one hope left: that Chantal had seen what they wanted her to see. Or rather, they knew she had seen it, but what they wanted was for her to understand what she had seen. 'What's that?' Berta asked.
They refused to say. Their contact with human beings had its limits, there were devils listening in to their conversation who could spoil everything if they knew of the plan in advance.
But they insisted it was something very simple, and Chantal was as intelligent as her grandmother said she would know how to deal with the situation.
Berta accepted this answer; the last thing she wanted was indiscretion that might cost her her life, even though she loved hearing secrets. But there was something she still wanted explained and so she turned to her husband:
'You told me to stay here, sitting on this chair all these years, watching over the village in case Evil entered it. You asked that of me long before that guardian angel made a mistake and the child was killed. Why?'
Her husband replied that, one way or another, Evil was bound to pass through Viscos, because the Devil was always abroad in the Earth, trying to catch people unawares.
'I'm not convinced.'
Her husband was not convinced either, but it was true. Perhaps the fight between Good and Evil is raging all the time in every individual's heart, which is the battleground for all angels and devils; they would fight inch by inch for thousands of millennia in order to gain ground, until one of them finally vanquished the other. Yet even though he now existed on a spiritual plane, there were still many things he did not understand - many more, in fact, than on Earth.
You've convinced me. Go and rest; if I have to die, it will be because my hour has come.' Berta did not say that she felt slightly jealous and would
like to be with her husband again; Chantal's grandmother had always been one of the most sought-after women in the village.
They left, claiming that they had to make sure the girl had understood what she had seen.
Berta felt even more jealous, but she managed to calm herself, even though she suspected that her husband only wanted to see her live a little longer so that he could enjoy the company of Chantal's grandmother undisturbed.
Besides, the independence he thought he was enjoying might well come to an end the very next day. Berta considered a little and changed her mind: the poor man deserved a few years' rest, it was no hardship to let him go on thinking he was free to do as he liked she was sure he missed her dreadfully.
Seeing the two women still on guard outside her house, she thought it wouldn't be so bad to be able to stay a while longer in that valley, staring up at the mountains, watching the eternal conflicts between men and women, the trees and the wind, between angels and devils. Then she began to feel afraid and tried to concentrate on something else - perhaps tomorrow she would change the colour of the ball of yarn she was using; the tablecloth was beginning to look distinctly drab.
Before the meeting in the square had finished, she was fast asleep, sure in her mind that Miss Prym would eventually understand the message, even if she did not have the gift of speaking with spirits.
'In church, on hallowed ground, I spoke of the need for sacrifice,' the Priest said. 'Here, on unhallowed land, I ask you to be prepared for martyrdom.'
The small, dimly lit square - there was still only one street lamp, despite the mayor's preelection promises to install more - was full to overflowing. Peasants and shepherds, drowsy-eyed because they were used to going to bed and rising with the sun, stood in respectful, awed silence. The priest
had placed a chair next to the cross and was standing on it so that everyone could see him.
'For centuries, the Church has been accused of fighting unjust battles, when, in reality, all we were doing was trying to survive threats to our existence.'
'We didn't come here to hear about the Church, Father,' a voice shouted. 'We came to find out about Viscos.'
'I don't need to tell you that Viscos risks disappearing off the map, taking with it you, your lands and your flocks. Nor did I come here to talk about the Church, but there is one thing I must say: only by sacrifice and penitence can we find salvation. And before I'm interrupted again, I mean the sacrifice of one Person, the penitence of all and the salvation of this village.'
'It might all be a lie,' another voice cried out.
The stranger is going to show us the gold tomorrow,' the mayor said, pleased to be able to give a piece of information of which even the priest was unaware. 'Miss Prym does not wish to bear the responsibility alone, so the hotel landlady persuaded the stranger to bring the gold bars here. We will act only after receiving that guarantee.'
The mayor took over and began telling them about the improvements that would be made to life in the village: the rebuilding work, the children's playground, the reduced taxes and the planned redistribution of their newly acquired wealth.
'In equal shares,' someone shouted.
It was time for the mayor to take on a commitment he hated to make; as if suddenly awoken from their somnolent state, all eyes were turned in his direction.
'In equal shares,' the priest said, before the mayor could respond. There was no other choice: everyone had to take part and bear the same
responsibility and receive the same reward, otherwise it would not be long before someone denounced the crime - either out ofjealousy or vengeance. The priest was all too familiar with both those words.
'Who is going to die?'
The mayor explained the fair process by which Berta had been chosen: she suffered greatly from the loss of her husband, she was old, had no friends, and seemed slightly mad, sitting outside her house from dawn to dusk, making absolutely no contribution to the growth of the village. Instead of her money being invested in lands or sheep, it was earning interest in some far-off bank; the only ones who benefited from it were the traders who, like the baker, came every week to sell their produce in the village.
Not a single voice in the crowd was raised against the choice. The mayor was glad because they had accepted his authority; but the priest knew that this could be a good or a bad sign, because silence does not always mean consent usually all it meant was that people were incapable of coming up with an immediate response. If someone did not agree, they would later torture themselves with the idea that they had accepted without really wanting to, and the consequences of that could be grave.
'I need everyone here to agree,' the priest said. 'I need everyone to say out loud whether they agree or disagree, so that God can hear you and know that He has valiant men in His army. If you don't believe in God, I ask you all the same to say out loud whether you agree or disagree, so that we will all know exactly what everyone here thinks.'
The mayor did not like the way the priest had used the verb 'need': 'I need' he had said, when it would have been more appropriate to say: 'we need', or 'the mayor needs'. When this business was over, he would have to re-impose his authority in whatever way was necessary. Now, like a good politician, he would let the priest take the lead and expose himself
to risk.
'I want you all to say that you agree.'
The first 'yes' came from the blacksmith. Then the mayor, to show his courage, also said 'yes' in a loud voice.
One by one, every man present declared out loud that they agreed with the choice - until they had all committed themselves. Some of them did so because they wanted to get the meeting over and done with so that they could go homesome were thinking about the gold and about the quickest way they could leave the village with their newly acquired wealth; others were planning to send money to their children so that they would no longer have to feel ashamed in front of their friends in the big city. Almost no one in the crowd believed that Viscos would regain its former glory; all they wanted were the riches they had always deserved, but had never had.
But no one said 'no'.
'108 women and 173 men live in this village,' the priest went on. 'Since it is the tradition here for everyone to learn how to hunt, each inhabitant owns at least one shotgun. Well, tomorrow morning, I want you each to leave a shotgun in the sacristy, with a single cartridge in it. I'm asking the mayor, who has more than one gun, to bring one for me as well.'
'We never leave our weapons with strangers,' a hunting guide shouted. 'Guns are sacred, temperamental, personal. They should never be fired by other people.'
'Let me finish. I'm going to explain how a firing squad works. Seven soldiers are chosen to shoot the condemned man.
Seven rifles are handed out to the squad, but only six of them are loaded with real bullets, the seventh contains a blank. The gunpowder explodes in exactly the same way, the noise is identical, but there's no lead to be fired into the victim's body.
'None of the soldiers knows which rifle contains the blank. In that way, each of them thinks that his gun contained the blank and that his friends were responsible for the death of the man or woman none of them knew, but whom they were forced to shoot in the line of duty.'
'So all of them believe they are innocent,' the landowner chimed in, speaking for the first time.
'Exactly. Tomorrow I will do the same: I'll take the lead out of eighty-seven of the cartridges and leave the other shotguns with live ammunition in them. All the weapons will go off at the same time, but no one will know which of them has pellets inside; in that way, all of you can consider yourselves innocent.'
Tired though the men were, they greeted the priest's idea with a huge sigh of relief. A different kind of energy spread through the crowd as if, from one hour to the next, the entire situation had lost its tragic air and had been transformed into a simple treasure hunt. Every man was convinced that his gun would carry the blank ammunition, and that he would not therefore be guilty; he was simply showuig solidarity with his fellows, who wanted to change their «ves and where they lived. Everyone was excited now; at test, Viscos had become a place where different, important things happened.
'The only weapon you can be sure will be loaded is mine, because I can't choose for myself. Nor will I keep my share of the gold. I'm doing this for other reasons.'
Again, the mayor did not like the way the priest spoke. He was trying to impress on the people of Viscos what a courageous man he was, a generous leader capable of any sacrifice. If the mayor's wife had been there, she would doubtless have said that the priest was preparing to launch himself as a candidate for the next elections.
'Wait until Monday,' he told himself. He would publish a decree announcing such a steep increase in tax on the church that it would be impossible for
the priest to stay on in the village. After all, he was the only one who claimed he didn't want to be rich.
'What about the victim?' the blacksmith asked.
'She'll be there,' the priest said. 'I'll take care of that. But I need three men to come with me.'
When no one volunteered, the priest chose three strong men. One of them tried to say 'no', but his friends stared him down, and he quickly changed his mind.
'Where will the sacrifice take place?' the landowner asked, addressing the priest. The mayor again sensed authority slipping away from him; he needed to regain it at once.
'I'm the one who decides that,' he said, shooting a furious look at the landowner. 'I don't want the earth of Viscos to be stained with blood. We'll do it at this same time tomorrow night up by the Celtic monolith. Bring your lanterns, lamps and torches, so that everyone can see clearly where they are pointing their shotgun, and nobody misses.'
The priest got down from his chair - the meeting was over. The women of Viscos once again heard footsteps in the street, the men returning to their houses, having a drink, staring out of the window, or simply collapsing into bed, exhausted. The mayor returned to his wife, who told him what had happened in Berta's house, and how frightened she had been. But after they - together with the hotel landlady had analysed every single word that had been said, the two women concluded that the old woman knew nothing; it was merely their sense of guilt making them think like that.
'Make-believe ghosts, like the rogue wolf,' the mayor said.
The priest went back to the church and spent the whole night in prayer. Chantal breakfasted on the bread she had bought the day before, since
the baker's van didn't come on Sundays. She looked out of her window and saw the men of Viscos leaving their houses, each carrying a weapon.
She prepared herself to die, as there was still a possibility that she would be the chosen victim; but no one knocked on her door instead, they carried on down the street, went into the sacristy, and emerged again, empty-handed.
She left her house and went down to the hotel, where the hotel landlady told her about everything that had happened the previous night: the choice of victim, what the priest had proposed and the preparations for the sacrifice. Her hostile tone had vanished, and things seemed to be changing in Chantal's favour.
'There's something I want to tell you; one day, Viscos will realise all that you did for its people.'
'But the stranger still has to show us the gold,' Chantal insisted. 'Of course. He just went out carrying an empty rucksack.'
Chantal decided not to go to the forest, because that would mean passing by Berta's house, and she was too ashamed to look at her. She went back to her room and remembered her dream of the previous night.
For she had had a strange dream in which an angel handed her the eleven gold bars and asked her to keep them.
Chantal told the angel that, for this to happen, someone had to be killed. But the angel said that this wasn't the case: on the contrary, the bars were proof that the gold did not exist.
That was why she had insisted to the hotel landlady that the stranger should show everyone the gold; she had a plan. However, since she had always lost every other battle in her life, she had her doubts as to whether she would be able to win this one.
Berta was watching the sun setting behind the mountains when she saw the priest and three other men coming towards her. She felt sad for three reasons: she knew her time had come; her husband had not appeared to console her (perhaps because he was afraid of what he would hear, or ashamed of his own inability to save her); and she realised that the
money she had saved would end up in the hands of the shareholders of the bank where she had deposited it, since she had not had time to withdraw it and burn it.
She felt happy for two reasons: she was finally going to be reunited with her husband, who was doubtless, at that moment, out and about with Miss Prym's grandmother; and although the last day of her life had been cold, it had been filled with sunlight - not everyone had the good fortune to leave the world with such a beautiful memory of it.
The priest signalled to the other men to stay back, and he went forward on his own to greet her.
'Good evening,' she said. 'See how great God is to have roade the world so beautiful.'
'They're going to take me away,' she told herself, 'but I will leave them with all the world's guilt to carry on their shoulders.'
'Think, then, how beautiful paradise must be,' the priest said, but Berta could see her arrow had struck home, and that now he was struggling to remain calm.
'I'm not sure about that, I'm not even sure it exists. Have you been there yourself, Father?'
'Not yet. But I've been in hell and I know how terrible that is, however attractive it might appear from the outside.'
Berta understood him to mean Viscos.
'You're mistaken, Father. You were in paradise, but you didn't recognise it. It's the same with most people in this world; they seek suffering in the most joyous of places because they think they are unworthy of happiness.' 'It appears that all your years spent sitting out here have brought you some wisdom.'
'It's been a long time since anyone bothered to come and chat with me, and now, oddly enough, everyone has discovered that I still exist. Just imagine, Father, last night, the hotel landlady and the mayor's wife
honoured me with a visit; and now here's the parish priest doing the same
- have I suddenly become such an important person?'
'Very much so,' the priest replied. 'The most important person in the village.' 'Have I come into money or something?'
'Ten gold bars. Future generations of men, women and children will give thanks to you. It's even possible they'll put up a statue in your honour.' 'I'd prefer a fountain, because as well as being decorative, it quenches people's thirst and soothes those who are worried.'
'A fountain it will be then. You have my word on it.'
Berta thought it was time to put an end to this farce and come straight to the point.
'I know everything, Father. You are condemning an innocent woman who cannot fight for her life. Damn you, sir, and damn this village and all who live in it.'
'Damned indeed,' the priest said. To more than twenty years, I've tried to bless this village, but no one heard my calls. For the same twenty years, I've tried to inculcate Good into men's hearts, until I finally realised that God had chosen me to be his left arm, and to show the evil of which men are capable. Perhaps in this way they will become afraid and accept the faith.'
Berta felt like crying, but controlled the impulse.
'Fine words, Father, but empty. They're just an excuse for cruelty and injustice.'
'Unlike all the others, I'm not doing this for the money. I know that the gold is cursed, like this whole place, and that it won't bring happiness to anyone. I am simply doing as God has asked me. Or rather, as he commanded me, in answer to my prayers.'
'There's no point arguing further,' Berta thought, as the priest put his hand in his pocket and brought out some pills.
'You won't feel a thing,' he said. 'Let's go inside.'
'Neither you nor anyone else in this village will set foot in my house while I'm still alive. Perhaps later tonight the door will stand wide open, but not now.'
The priest gestured to one of the men, who approached carrying a plastic bottle.
'Take these pills. You'll soon fall asleep and when you wake up, you'll be in heaven, with your husband.'
'I've always been with my husband and, despite suffering from insomnia, I never take pills to get to sleep.'
'So much the better; they'll take effect at once.'
The sun had disappeared, and darkness was beginning to fall on the valley, the church, and on the entire village.
'And what if I don't want to take them?' 'You'll take them just the same.' Berta looked at the three men and saw that the priest was right. She took
the pills from him, placed them in her mouth and drank the entire bottle of water. Water: it has no taste, no smell, no colour and yet it is the most important thing in the world. Just like her at that moment.
She looked once more at the mountains, now covered in darkness. She saw the first star come out and thought that she had had a good life; she had been born and would die in a place she loved, even though it seemed that her love was unrequited, but what did that matter? Anyone who loves in the expectation of being loved in return is wasting their time.
She had been blessed. She had never been to another country, but she knew that here in Viscos the same things happened as everywhere else. She had lost the husband she loved, but God had granted her the joy of continuing at his side, even after his death. She had seen the village at its height, had witnessed the beginning of its decline, and was leaving before it was completely destroyed. She had known mankind with all its faults and virtues, and she believed that, despite all that was happening to her
now, despite the struggles her husband swore were going on in the invisible world, human goodness would triumph in the end.
She felt sorry for the priest, for the mayor, for Miss Prym, for the stranger, for every one of the inhabitants of Viscos: Evil would never bring Good, however much they wanted to believe that it would. By the time they discovered the truth, it would be too late.
She had only one regret: never having seen the sea. She knew it existed, that it was vast and simultaneously wild and calm, but she had never been to see it or tasted the salt water on her tongue or felt the sand beneath her bare feet or dived into the cold water like someone returning to the womb of the Great Mother (she remembered that this was an expression favoured by the Celts).
Apart from that, she did not have much to complain about. She was sad, very sad, to have to leave like this, but she did not want to feel she was a victim: doubtless God had chosen this role for her, and it was far better than the one He had chosen for the priest.
'I want to talk to you about Good and Evil,' she heard him say, just as she began to feel a kind of numbness in her hands and feet.
'There's no need. You don't know what goodness is. You were poisoned by the evil done to you, and now you're spreading that plague throughout our land. You're no different from the stranger who came to visit us and destroy us.'
Her last words were barely audible. She looked up at the one star, then closed her eyes.
The stranger went into the bathroom in his hotel room, carefully washed each of the gold bars and replaced them in his shabby, old rucksack. Two days ago he had left the stage, and now he was returning for the final act
- he had to make a last appearance. Everything had been carefully planned: from the choice of a small, remote village with few inhabitants
down to the fact of having an accomplice, so that if things did not work out, no one could ever accuse him of inciting people to murder. The tape recorder, the reward, the careful steps he had taken, first making friends with the people in the village and then spreading terror and confusion. Just as God had done to him, so he would do unto others. Just as God had given him all that was good only to cast him into the abyss, so he would do the same.
He had taken care of every detail, except one: he had never thought his plan would work. He had been sure that when the moment came to choose, a simple 'no' would change the story; at least one person would refuse to take Part, and that person would be enough to prove that not everything was lost. If one person saved the village, the world itself would be saved, hope would still be possible, goodness would be strengthened, the terrorists would not have truly known the evil they were doing, there could be forgiveness, and his days of suffering would be but a sad memory that he could learn to live with and he could perhaps even seek happiness again. For that 'no' he would have liked to have heard, the village would have received its reward of ten gold bars, independently of the wager he had made with Chantal.
But his plan had failed. And now it was too late, he couldn't change his mind. Someone knocked at his door.
'Let's go,' he heard the hotel landlady say. 'It's time.' 'I'll be right down.' He picked up his jacket, put it on and met the landlady downstairs in the bar.
'I've got the gold,' he said. 'But, just so there's no misunderstanding, you should be aware that there are several people who know where I am. If you decide to change your victim, you can be sure that the police will come looking for me; you yourself saw me making all those phone calls.' The hotel landlady merely nodded.
The Celtic monolith was half an hour's walk from Viscos. For many
centuries, people had thought it was merely an unusually large stone, polished by the wind and the ice, which had once stood upright, but that had been toppled by a bolt of lightning. Ahab used to hold the village council there because the rock served as a natural open-air table.
Then one day the Government sent a team to write a survey of the Celtic settlements in the valley, and someone noticed the monument. Then came the archaeologists, who measured, calculated, argued, excavated and reached the conclusion that a Celtic tribe had chosen the spot as some kind of sacred place, even though they had no idea what rituals had been performed there. Some said it was a sort of observatory, others said that fertility rites - in which young virgins were possessed by priests - had taken place there. The experts discussed it for a whole week, but then left to look at something more interesting, without reaching any definite conclusions about their findings.
When he was elected, the mayor tried to attract tourism to Viscos by getting an article published in the regional press about the Celtic heritage of the village. But the paths through the forest were difficult, and the few intrepid visitors who came found only a fallen stone at the end of them, whereas other villages could boast sculptures, inscriptions and other far more interesting things. The idea came to nothing, and the monolith soon resumed its usual function as a weekend picnic table.
That evening, there were arguments in several households in Viscos all over the same thing: the men wanted to go alone, but their wives insisted on taking part in the 'ritual sacrifice', as the inhabitants had come to call the murder they were about to commit. The husbands argued that it was dangerous, a shotgun might go off by accident; their wives said that the men were just being selfish and that they should respect the women's rights, the world was no longer as they thought it was. In the end, the husbands yielded, and the wives rejoiced.
Now the procession was heading for the monolith, a chain of 281 points of light in the darkness, for the stranger was carrying a torch, and Berta was not carrying anything, so the number of inhabitants of the village was still exactly represented. Each of the men had a torch or lantern in one hand and, in the other, a shotgun, its breech open so that it would not go off by accident.
Berta was the only one who did not need to walk. She was sleeping peacefully on a kind of improvised stretcher that two woodcutters were struggling along with. 'I'm glad we won't have to carry this great weight back,' one of them was thinking, 'because by then, with all the buckshot in her, she'll weigh three times as much.'
He calculated that each cartridge would contain, on average, at Resist six small balls of lead. If all the loaded shotguns hit their target, the old woman's body would be riddled with 522 pellets, and would end up containing more metal than blood.
The man could feel his stomach churning. He resolved not to think any more about it until Monday.
No one said a word during the walk. No one looked at anyone else, as if this was a kind of nightmare they wanted to forget as quickly as possible. They arrived out of breath more from tension than from exhaustion - and formed a huge semicircle of lights in the clearing where the Celtic monument lay.
The mayor gave a signal, and the woodcutters untied Berta from the stretcher and laid her on the monolith.
'That's no good,' the blacksmith protested, remembering the war films he'd seen, with soldiers crawling along the ground. 'It's hard to shoot someone when they're lying down.' The woodcutters shifted Berta into a sitting position with her back against the stone. It seemed ideal, but then a sudden sob was heard and a woman's voice said:
'She's looking at us. She can see what we're doing.'
Berta could not, of course, see a thing, but it was unbearable to look at that kindly lady, asleep, with a contented smile on her lips, and to think that in a short while she would be torn apart by all those tiny pellets. 'Turn her round,' ordered the mayor, who was also troubled by the sight.
Grumbling, the woodcutters returned once more to the monolith and turned the body round, so that this time she was kneeling on the ground, with her face and chest resting on the stone. It was impossible to keep her upright in this position, so they had to tie a rope round her wrists, throw it over the top of the monument, and fasten it on the other side.
Berta's position was now utterly grotesque: kneeling, with her back to them, her arms stretched out over the stone, as if she were praying or begging for something. Someone protested again, but the mayor said it was time to do what they had come to do.
And the quicker the better. With no speeches or justifications; that could wait until tomorrow - in the bar, on the streets, in conversations between shepherds and farmers. It was likely that one of the three roads out of Viscos would not be used for a long while, since they were all so accustomed to seeing Berta sitting there, looking up at the mountains and talking to herself. Luckily, the village had two other exits, as well as a narrow short cut, with some improvised steps down to the road below. 'Let's get this over with,' said the mayor, pleased that the priest was now saying nothing, and that his own authority had been re-established. 'Someone in the valley might see these lights and decide to find out what's going on. Prepare your shotguns, fire, and then we can leave.' Without ceremony. Doing their duty, like good soldiers defending their village. With no doubts in their minds. This was an order, and it would be obeyed.
And suddenly, the mayor not only understood the priest's silence, he realised that he had fallen into a trap. If one day the story of what had happened got out, all the others could claim, as all murderers did in wartime, that they were merely obeying orders. But what was going on at that moment in their hearts? Did they see him as a villain or as their saviour?
He could not weaken now, at the very moment when he heard the shotguns being snapped shut, the barrels fitting perfectly into the breech blocks. He imagined the noise that guns would make, but by the time anyone arrived to see what was going on, they would be far away. Shortly before they had begun the climb up to the monolith, he had ordered them to extinguish all lights on the way back. They knew the route by heart, and the lights were simply to avoid any accidents when they opened fire.
Instinctively, the women stepped back, and the men took aim at the inert body, some fifty yards away. They could not possibly miss, having been trained since childhood to shoot fleeing animals and birds in flight.
The mayor prepared to give the order to fire. 'Just a moment,' shouted a female voice.
It was Miss Prym.
'What about the gold? Have you seen it yet?'
The shotguns were lowered, but still ready to be fired; no, no one had seen the gold. They all turned towards the stranger.
He walked slowly in front of the shotguns. He put his rucksack down on the ground and one by one took out the bars of gold.
'There it is,' he said, before returning to his place at one end of the semicircle. Miss Prym went over to the gold bars and picked one up.
'It's gold,' she said. 'But I want you to check it. Let nine women come up here and examine each of the bars still on the ground.'
The mayor began to get worried: they would be in the line of fire, and someone of a nervous disposition might set off a gun by accident; but nine women - including his wife went over to join Miss Prym and did as she asked.
'Yes, it's gold,' the mayor's wife said, carefully checking the bar she had in her hands, and comparing it to the few pieces of gold jewelry she possessed. 'I can see it has a hallmark and what must be a serial number, as well as the date it was cast and its weight. It's the real thing all right.' 'Well, hang on to that gold and listen to what I have to say.'
'This is no time for speeches, Miss Prym,' the mayor said. 'All of you get away from there so that we can finish the job.'
'Shut up, you idiot!'
These words from Chantal startled everyone. None of them dreamed that anyone in Viscos could say what they had just heard.
'Have you gone mad?'
'I said shut up!' Chantal shouted even more loudly, trembling from head to foot, her eyes wide with hatred. 'You're the one who's mad, for falling into this trap that has led us all to condemnation and death! You are the irresponsible one!'
The mayor moved towards her, but was held back by two men.
'We want to hear what the girl has to say,' a voice in the crowd shouted.
'Ten minutes won't make any difference!'
Ten or even five minutes would make a huge difference, and everyone there, men and women, knew it. As they became more aware of the situation, their fear was growing, the sense of guilt was spreading, shame was beginning to take hold, their hands were starting to shake, and they were all looking for an excuse to change their minds. On the walk there, each man had been convinced that he was carrying a weapon containing blank ammunition and that soon it would all be over. Now they were starting to fear that their shotguns would fire real pellets, and that the ghost of the old woman - who was reputed to be a witch - would come back at night to haunt them.
Or that someone would talk. Or that the priest had not done as he had promised, and they would all be guilty.
'Five minutes,' the mayor said, trying to get them to believe that it was he who was giving permission, when in fact it was the young woman who was setting the rules.
'I'll talk for as long as I like,' said Chantal, who appeared to have regained her composure and to be determined not to give an inch; she spoke now with an authority no one had ever seen before. 'But it won't take long. It's strange to see what's going on here, especially when, as we all know, in the days of Ahab, men often used to come to the village claiming to have a special powder that could turn lead into gold. They called themselves alchemists, and at least one of them proved he was telling the truth when Ahab threatened to kill him.
'Today you are trying to do the same thing: mixing lead with blood, certain that this will be transformed into the gold we women are holding. On the one hand, you're absolutely right. On the other, the gold will slip through your fingers as quickly as it came.'
The stranger could not grasp what the young girl was saying, but he willed her to go on; he had noticed that, in a dark corner of his soul, the forgotten light was once again shining brightly.
'At school, we were all told the famous legend of King Midas, who met a god who offered to grant him anything he wished for. Midas was already very rich, but he wanted more money, and he asked to have the power to turn everything he touched into gold.
'Let me remind you what happened: first, Midas transformed his furniture,
his palace and everything around him into gold. He worked away for a whole morning, and soon had a golden garden, golden trees and golden staircases. At noon, he felt hungry and wanted to eat. But as soon as he touched the succulent leg of lamb that his servants had prepared, that too was turned into gold. He raised a glass of wine to his lips, and it was instantly turned into gold. In despair, he ran to his wife to ask her to help him, for he was beginning to understand his mistake, but as soon as he touched her arm, she turned into a golden statue.
'The servants fled the palace, terrified that the same thing would happen to them. In less than a week, Midas had died of hunger and thirst, surrounded by gold on all sides.'
'Why are you telling us this story?' the mayor's wife wanted to know, putting her gold bar back on the ground and returning to her husband's side. 'Has some god come to Viscos and given us this power?'
'I'm telling you the story for one simple reason: gold itself has no value. Absolutely none. We cannot eat it or drink it or use it to buy more animals or land. It's money that's valuable, and how are we going to turn this gold into money?
'We can do one of two things: we can ask the blacksmith to melt the bars down into 280 equal pieces, and then each one of you can go to the city to exchange it for money. But that would immediately arouse the suspicions of the authorities, because there is no gold in this valley, so it would seem very odd if every Viscos inhabitant were suddenly to turn up bearing a small gold bar. The authorities would become suspicious. We would have to say we had unearthed an ancient Celtic treasure. But a quick check would show that the gold had been made recently, that the area round here had already been excavated, that the Celts never had this amount of gold - if they had, they would have built a large and splendid city on this site.'
'You're just an ignorant young woman,' the landowner said. 'We'll take in the bars exactly as they are, with the mayor at a bank and divide the money between us.'
'That's the second thing. The mayor takes the ten gold bars, goes to the bank, and asks them to exchange them for money. The bank cashier wouldn't ask the same questions as if each of us were to turn up with our own gold bar; since the mayor is a figure of authority, they would simply
ask him for the purchase documents for the gold. The mayor would say he didn't have them, but would point out - as his wife says that each bar bears a government hallmark, and that it's genuine. There's a date and a serial number on each one.
'By this time, the man who gave us the gold will be far from here. The cashier will ask for more time because, although he knows the mayor and knows he is an honest man, he needs authorisation to hand over such a large amount of money. Questions will be asked about where the gold came from. The mayor will say it was a present from a stranger after all, our mayor is an intelligent man and has an answer for everything.
'Once the cashier has spoken to his manager, the manager - who suspects nothing, but he is nevertheless a paid employee and doesn't want to run any risks - will phone the bank headquarters. Nobody there knows the mayor, and any large withdrawal is regarded as suspicious; they will ask the mayor to wait for two days, while they confirm the origin of the gold bars. What might they discover? That the gold had been stolen perhaps. Or that it was purchased by a group suspected of dealing in drugs.'
When she first tried to take her gold bar with her was now being shared by all of them. The story of one person is the story of all of humanity. 'This gold has serial numbers on it. And a date. This gold is easy to identify.' Everyone looked at the stranger, who remained impassive. 'There's no point asking him anything,' Chantal said. 'We would have to take it on trust that he's telling the truth, and a man who calls for a murder to be committed is hardly to be trusted.'
'We could keep him here until the gold has been changed into money,' the blacksmith said.
The stranger nodded in the direction of the hotel landlady.
'We can't touch him. He's got powerful friends. I overheard him phoning various people, and he's reserved his plane tickets; if he disappears, they'll know he's been kidnapped and come looking for him in Viscos.' Chantal put the gold bar down on the ground and moved out of the line of fire. The other women did the same.
'You can shoot if you like, but since I know this is a trap set by the stranger, I want nothing to do with this murder.'
'You don't know anything!' the landowner cried.
'But if I'm right, the mayor would soon be behind bars, and people would
come to Viscos to find out who he stole this treasure from. Someone would have to explain, and it's not going to be me.
'But I promise to keep quiet. I'll simply plead ignorance. And besides, the mayor is someone we know, not like the stranger who is leaving Viscos tomorrow. He might take all the blame on himself and say that he stole the gold from a man who came to spend a week in Viscos. Then we would all see him as a hero, the crime would go undiscovered, and we could all go on living our lives - somehow or other - but without the gold.'
'I'll do it,' the mayor said, knowing that this was all pure invention on the part of this madwoman.
Meanwhile, the noise of the first shotgun being disarmed was heard. 'Trust me!' the mayor shouted. 'I'll take the risk!'
But the only response was that same noise, then another, and the noises seemed to spread by contagion, until almost all the shotguns had been disarmed: since when could anyone believe in the promises of a politician? Only the mayor and the priest still had their shotguns at the ready; one was pointing at Miss Prym, the other at Berta. But the woodcutter - the one who, earlier on, had worked out the number of pellets that would penetrate the old woman's body - saw what was happening, went over to the two men and took their weapons from them: the mayor was not mad enough to commit a murder purely out of revenge, and the priest had no experience of weapons and might miss.
Miss Prym was right: it is very dangerous to believe in other people. It was as if everyone there had suddenly become aware of that, because they began to drift away from the clearing, the older people first, then the younger ones.
Silently, they all filed down the hillside, trying to think about the weather, the sheep they had to shear, the land that would soon need ploughing again, the hunting season that was about to start. None of this had happened, because Viscos is a village lost in time, where every day is the same.
They were all saying to themselves that this weekend had been a dream. Or a nightmare.
Only three people and two torches remained in the clearing - and one of those people was fast asleep, still tied to the stone.
'There's the village gold,' the stranger said to Chantal. 'It looks like I end
up without the gold and without an answer.'
'The gold doesn't belong to the village, it belongs to me. As does the bar buried beside the Y-shaped rock. And you're going to come with me to make sure it gets changed into money; I don't trust a word you say.'
'You know I wasn't going to do what you said I would do. And as for the contempt you feel for me, it's nothing more than the contempt you feel for yourself. You should be grateful for all that's happened, because by showing you the gold, I gave you much more than the possibility of simply becoming rich. I forced you to act, to stop complaining about everything and to take a stand.'
'Very generous of you, I'm sure,' said Chantal with a touch of irony in her voice. 'From the very start, I could have told you something about human nature; even though Viscos is a village in decline, it once had a wise and glorious past. I could have given you the answer you were looking for, if only I had thought of it.'
Chantal went over to untie Berta; she saw that Berta had a cut on her forehead, perhaps because of the way her head had been positioned on the stone, but it was nothing serious. Now they just had to wait there until morning for Berta to wake up.
'Can you give me that answer now?' the stranger asked.
'Someone must already have told you about the meeting between St Savin and Ahab.'
'Of course. The saint came, talked to him briefly, and the Arab converted to Christianity because he realised that the saint was much braver than him.'
'That's right. Except that, before going to sleep, the two of them talked together for a while. Even though Ahab had begun to sharpen his knife the moment the saint set foot in his house, safe in the knowledge that the world was a reflection of himself, he was determined to challenge the saint and so he asked him:
'"If, tonight, the most beautiful prostitute in the village came in here, would you be able to see her as neither beautiful nor seductive?"
'"No, but I would be able to control myself," the saint replied.
'"And if I offered you a pile of gold coins to leave your cave in the mountain and come and join us, would you be able to look on that gold and see only pebbles?"
'"No, but I would be able to control myself."
'"And if you were sought by two brothers, one of whom hated you, and the other who saw you as a saint, would you be able to feel the same towards them both?"
'"It would be very hard, but I would be able to control myself sufficiently to treat them both the same."
Chantal paused.
'They say this dialogue was important in Ahab's conversion to Christianity.' The stranger did not need Chantal to explain the story.
Savin and Ahab had the same instincts - Good and Evil struggled in both of them, just as they did in every soul on the face of the earth. When Ahab realised that Savin was the same as him, he realised too that he was the same as Savin.
It was all a matter of control. And choice. Nothing more and nothing less. Chantal looked for the last time at the valley, the mountains and the woods where she used to walk as a child, and she felt in her mouth the taste of the crystal-clear water, of the freshly-picked vegetables and the local wine made from the best grapes in the region, jealously guarded by the villagers so that no visiting tourist would ever discover it - given that the harvest was too small to be exported elsewhere, and that money might change the wine producer's mind on the subject.
She had only returned to say goodbye to Berta. She was wearing the same clothes she usually wore, so that nobody there would know that, in her short visit to the city, she had become a wealthy woman. The stranger had arranged everything, signing all the papers necessary for the transfer in ownership of the gold bars, so that they could be sold and the money deposited in Miss Prym's newly opened account. The bank clerk had been exaggeratedly discreet and had asked no questions beyond those necessary for the transactions. But Chantal was sure she knew what he was thinking: he assumed he was looking at the young mistress of an older man.
'What a wonderful feeling!' she thought. In the bank clerk's estimation, she must be extremely good in bed to be worth that immense amount of money.
She passed some of the local residents: none of them knew that she was about to leave, and they greeted her as if nothing had happened, as if
Viscos had never received a visit from the Devil. She returned the greeting, also pretending that that day was exactly the same as every other day in her life.
She did not know how much she had changed thanks to all she had discovered about herself, but she had time to find out. Berta was sitting outside her house - not because she was still on the watch for Evil, but because she didn't know
what else to do with her life.
'They're going to build a fountain in my honour,' she announced. 'It's the price for my silence. But I know the fountain won't last long or quench many people's thirst, because Viscos is doomed whichever way you look at it: not because of a devil who appeared in these parts, but because of the times we live in.'
Chantal asked what the fountain would look like. Berta had decided that it should be a sun spouting water into the mouth of a frog. She was the sun and the priest was the frog. 'I'm quenching his thirst for light and will continue to do so for as long as the fountain remains.'
The mayor had complained about the cost, but Berta would not listen, and so they had no choice. Building work was due to start the following week. 'And now you are finally going to do as I suggested, my girl. One thing I can tell you with absolute certainty: life can seem either very long or very short, according to how you live it.'
Chantal smiled, gave her a kiss, and turned her back on Viscos for the last time. The old woman was right: there was no time to lose, though she hoped that her life would be very long indeed.
The End
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Somersham, Cambridgeshire August 1818
"The duchess is so very… very… well, really, most charming. So…" With an angelic smile, Mr. Postlethwaite, the vicar of Somersham, gestured airily. "Continental, if you take my meaning."
Standing by the vicarage gate while she waited for the gig to be brought around, Honoria Wetherby only wished she could. Wringing information from the local vicar was always one of her first actions on taking up a new position; unfortunately, while her need for information was more acute than usual, Mr.
Postlethwaite's comments were unhelpfully vague. She nodded encouragingly—and pounced on the one point which might conceivably mean something. "Is the duchess foreign-born?"
"Dowager Duchess." Mr. Postlethwaite beamed. "She likes to be called that now. But foreign?" Head to one side, he considered the point. "I suppose some might call her so—she was French-born and
-bred. But she's been amongst us so long, she seems a part of our landscape. Indeed"—his eyes brightened—"she's something of a feature on our limited horizon."
That much, Honoria had gleaned. It was one reason she needed to know more. "Does the Dowager join the congregration here? I didn't see any ducal arms about." Glancing at the neat stone church beyond the vicarage, she recalled numerous commemorative inscriptions honoring the deceased from various lordly houses, including some scions of the Claypoles, the family whose household she joined last Sunday. But no ducal plaques, helpfully inscribed with name and title, had she discovered anywhere.
"On occasion," Mr. Postlethwaite replied. "But there's a private church at the Place, quite beautifully appointed. Mr. Merryweather is chaplain there. The duchess is always reliable in her devotions." He shook his head sadly. "Not, I'm afraid, a general characteristic of that family."
Honoria resisted a strong urge to grind her teeth. Which family? She'd been chasing that information for the past three days. Given that her new employer, Lady Claypole, seemed convinced that her daughter Melissa, now Honoria's charge, was destined to be the next duchess, it seemed the course of wisdom to learn what she could of the duke and his family. The family name would help.
By choice, she had spent little time amongst the haut ton but, thanks to her brother Michael's long letters, she was reliably informed of the current status of the families who made up that gilded circle—the circle into which she'd been bom. If she learned the name, or even the major title, she would know a great deal more.
However, despite spending an hour on Sunday explaining in excruciating detail just why Melissa was destined to be a duchess, Lady Claypole had not used the lucky duke's title. Assuming she would learn it easily enough, Honoria had not specifically questioned her ladyship. She'd only just met the woman;
advertising her ignorance had seemed unnecessary. After taking stock of Melissa and her younger sister Annabel, she'd vetoed any idea of asking them; showing ignorance to such was inviting trouble. The same reason had kept her from inquiring of the Claypole Hall staff. Sure that she would learn all she wished while being welcomed to the local Ladies Auxiliary, she'd arranged for her afternoon off to coincide with that most useful of village gatherings.
She'd forgotten that, within the local area, the duke and Dowager Duchess would always be referred to in purely generic terms. Their neighbors all knew to whom they referred—she still did not.
Unfortunately, the patent scorn with which the other ladies viewed Lady Claypole's ducal aspirations had made asking a simple question altogether too awkward. Undaunted, Honoria had endured a lengthy meeting over raising sufficient funds to replace the church's ancient roof, then scoured the church, reading every plaque she could find. All to no avail.
Drawing a deep breath, she prepared to admit to ignorance. "To which—"
"There you are, Ralph!" Mrs. Postlethwaite came bustling down the path. "I'm so sorry to interrupt, my dear." She smiled at Honoria, then looked at her spouse. "There's a boy come from old Mrs.
Mickleham—she's asking for you urgently." "Here you are, miss."
Honoria whirled—and saw the vicar's gardener leading the bad-tempered grey the Claypole Hall groom had harnessed to the gig. Shutting her lips, she nodded graciously to Mrs. Postlethwaite, then sailed through the gate the vicar held wide. Taking the reins with a tight smile, she allowed the gardener to assist her to the seat.
Mr. Postlethwaite beamed. "I'll look to see you on Sunday, Miss Wetherby."
Honoria nodded regally. "Nothing, Mr. Postlethwaite, could keep me away." And, she thought, as she set the grey in motion, if I haven't found out by then who this blessed duke is, I won't let go of you until I have!
Brooding darkly, she drove through the village; only as the last of the cottages fell behind did she become aware of the heaviness in the air. Glancing up, she saw thunderclouds sweeping in from the west.
Tension gripped her, locking her breath in her chest. Abruptly looking forward, Honoria focused on the intersection immediately ahead. The road to Chatteris led straight on, then curved north, into the path of the storm; the long lane to Claypole Hall gave off it three miles on.
A gust of wind plucked at her, whistling mockingly. Honoria started; the grey jibbed. Forcing the horse to a halt, Honoria berated herself for remaining out so long. A ducal name was hardly of earth-shattering importance. The approaching storm was.
Her gaze fell on the lane joining the road at the signpost. It wended away through stubbled fields, then entered a dense wood covering a low rise. She'd been told the lane was a shortcut, ultimately joining the Claypole Hall lane mere yards from the Hall gates. It seemed her only chance of reaching the Hall before the storm broke.
One glance at the roiling clouds growing like a celestial tidal wave to her right made up her mind. Stiffening her spine, Honoria clicked the reins and directed the grey left. The beast stepped out eagerly, carrying her past the golden fields, darkening as the clouds thickened.
A dull crack! cut through the heavy stillness. Honoria looked ahead, scanning the trees swiftly drawing
nearer. Poachers? Would they be out in such weather when the game was in deep cover, sheltering from a storm? She was still puzzling over the odd sound when the wood rose before her. The grey trotted on; the trees engulfed them.
Determined to ignore the storm, and the unease it raised within her, Honoria turned to contemplation of her latest employers, and the niggle of doubt she felt over their worth as recipients of her talents. Beggars couldn't be choosers, which was what any other governess would say. Fortunately, she wasn't just any governess. She was wealthy enough to live idly; it was by her own eccentric will that she eschewed a life of quiet ease for one which allowed her to use her skills. Which meant she could choose her employers, and usually did so most reliably. This time, however, fate had intervened and sent her to the Claypoles. The Claypoles had failed to impress.
The wind rose in a bansheelike screech, then died to a sobbing moan. Branches shifted and swayed; boughs rubbed and groaned.
Honoria wriggled her shoulders. And refocused her thoughts on the Claypoles—on Melissa, their eldest daughter, the prospective duchess. Honoria grimaced. Melissa was slight and somewhat underdeveloped, fair, not to say faded. In terms of animation, she had taken the "to be seen and not heard" maxim to heart—she never had two words to say for herself. Two intelligent words, anyway. The only grace Honoria had yet discovered in her was her carriage, which was unconsciously elegant—on all the rest she'd have to work hard to bring Melissa up to scratch. To a duke's scratch at that.
Taking comfort from her irritation—it distracted her from the thought of what she could not see through the thick canopy overhead—Honoria set aside the vexing question of the duke's identity to reflect on the qualities Lady Claypole had ascribed to the phantom.
He was thoughtful, an excellent landowner, mature but not old, ready, so her ladyship assured her, to settle down and begin filling his nursery. This paragon had no faults to which any might take exception. The picture her ladyship had painted was of a sober, serious, retiring individual, almost a recluse. That last was Honoria's addition; she couldn't imagine any duke other than a reclusive one being willing, as Lady Claypole had declared this one was, to apply for Melissa's hand.
The grey tugged. Honoria kept the ribbons taut. They'd passed the entrance to two bridle paths, both winding away into trees so dense it was impossible to glimpse anything beyond a few yards. Ahead, the lane swung left, around a virtually blind curve. Tossing his head, the grey paced on.
Honoria checked for the curve, noting that their upward climb had ended. As the weight of his load lessened, the grey surged. Honoria's grip slipped—the reins slithered through her fingers. Cursing, she grabbed wildly and caught the ribbons firmly; leaning back, she wrestled with the beast.
The grey shied. Honoria shrieked and yanked hard, for once uncaring of the horse's mouth. Her heart racing, she forced the grey to a halt. Abruptly, the horse stood stock-still, quivering, coat aflicker.
Honoria frowned. There'd been no thunderclaps yet. She glanced along the lane. And saw the body slumped beside the verge.
Time stood still—even the wind froze. Honoria stared. "Dear God."
At her whisper, the leaves sighed; the metallic taint of fresh blood wafted along the lane. The grey sidled; Honoria steadied him, using the moment to swallow the knot of shock in her throat. She didn't need to look again to see the dark, glistening pool growing beside the body. The man had been shot
recently—he might still be alive.
Honoria eased from the gig. The grey stood quietly, head drooping; edging to the verge, Honoria looped the reins about a branch and pulled the knot tight. Stripping off her gloves, she stuffed them in her pocket. Then she turned and, taking a deep breath, walked down the lane.
The man was still alive—she knew that the instant she knelt on the grass beside him; his breathing was rattly and harsh. He was lying on his side, slumped forward; grasping his right shoulder, she rolled him onto his back. His breathing eased—Honoria barely noticed, her gaze transfixed by the jagged hole marring the left side of his coat. With every ragged breath the man drew, blood welled from the wound.
She had to staunch the flow. Honoria looked down; her handkerchief was already in her hand. Another glance at the wound confirmed its inadequacy. Hurrying, she stripped off the topaz-silk scarf she wore over her dun-colored gown and wadded it into a pad. Lifting the sodden coat, she left the man's ruined shirt undisturbed and pressed her improvised dressing over the gaping hole. Only then did she glance at his face.
He was young—surely too young to die? His face was pale; his features were regular, handsome, still holding traces of youthful softness. Thick brown hair lay disheveled across a wide brow; brown brows arched over his closed eyes.
Sticky dampness rose beneath Honoria's fingers, her kerchief and scarf no match for the relentless flow. Her gaze fell on the youth's cravat. Unhooking the pin securing the linen folds, she unwound the cravat, folded it, then positioned the thick wad and carefully pressed down. She was bent over her patient when the thunder struck.
A deep resounding boom, it rent the air. The grey screamed, then shot down the lane, a sharp crack accompanying the thud of hooves. Heart pounding, Honoria watched in helpless dismay as the gig rushed past, the branch with the reins still wrapped about it bumping wildly in its wake.
Then lightning cracked. The flash was hidden by the canopy yet still lit the lane in garish white. Honoria shut her eyes tight, blocking her memories by sheer force of will.
A low moan reached her. Opening her eyes, she looked down, but her charge remained unconscious.
"Wonderful." She glanced around; the truth was impossible to avoid. She was alone in a wood, under trees, miles from shelter, without means of transport, in a countryside she'd first seen four days ago, with a storm lashing the leaves from the trees—and beside her lay a badly wounded man. How on earth could she help him?
Her mind was a comfortless blank. Into the void came the sound of hoofbeats. At first, she thought she was dreaming, but the sound grew steadily louder, nearer. Giddy with relief, Honoria rose. She stood in the lane, fingertips on the pad, listening as the hoofbeats drew rapidly nearer. At the last minute, she stood upright, turning and stepping boldly to the center of the lane.
The ground shook; thunder engulfed her. Looking up, she beheld Death.
A massive black stallion screamed and reared over her, iron-tipped hooves flailing within inches of her head. On the beast's back sat a man to match the horse, black-clad shoulders blocking out the twilight, dark mane wild, features harsh—satanic.
The stallion's hooves thudded to the ground, missing her by a bare foot. Furious, snorting, eyes showing
white, the beast hauled at the reins. It tried to swing its huge head toward her; denied, it attempted to rear again.
Muscles bunched in the rider's arms, in the long thighs pressed to the stallion's flanks. For one eternal minute, man and beast did battle. Then all went still, the stallion acknowledging defeat in a long, shuddering, horsy sigh.
Her heart in her throat, Honoria lifted her gaze to the rider's face—and met his eyes. Even in the dimness, she was sure of their color. Pale, lucent green, they seemed ancient, all-seeing. Large, set deep under strongly arched black brows, they were the dominant feature in an impressively strong face. Their glance was penetrating, mesmerizing—unearthly. In that instant, Honoria was sure that the devil had come to claim one of his own. And her, too. Then the air about her turned blue.
Chapter 2
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What in devil's own name are you about, woman?"
Ending a string of decidedly inventive curses, that question, delivered with enough force to hold back the storm itself, jerked Honoria's wits into place. She focused on the commanding figure atop the restless stallion, then, with haughty dignity, stepped back, gesturing to the body on the verge. "I came upon him a few minutes ago—he's been shot, and I can't stop the bleeding."
The rider's eyes came to rest on the still figure. Satisfied, Honoria turned and headed back to the injured man, then realized the rider hadn't moved. She looked back, and saw the broad chest beneath what she now recognized as a dark hacking jacket expand—and expand—as the rider drew in an impossibly deep breath.
His gaze switched to her. "Press down on that pad—hard."
Without waiting to see if she obeyed, he swung down from his horse, the movement so eloquent of harnessed power, Honoria felt giddy again. She hurriedly returned to her patient. "That's precisely what I was doing," she muttered, dropping to her knees and placing both hands on the pad.
The rider, busy tying the stallion's reins about a tree, glanced her way. "Lean over him—use all your weight."
Honoria frowned but shuffled closer and did as he said. There was a note in the deep voice that suggested he expected to be obeyed. Given that she was counting on him to help her deal with the wounded man, now, she decided, was not the time to take umbrage. She heard him approach, footsteps firm on the packed earth. Then the footfalls slowed, became hesitant, then stopped altogether. She was about to glance up when he started forward again.
He came to the other side of the wounded man, avoiding the large pool of blood. Hunkering down, he gazed at the youth.
From beneath her lashes, Honoria gazed at him. At closer range, the effect of his face diminished not one whit—if anything, the impact of strong, angular planes, decidedly patrician nose, and lips that were long, thin, and provocatively mobile was even more pronounced. His hair was indeed midnight black, thick and wavy enough to form large locks; his eyes, fixed on their common charge, were hooded. As for
the rest of him, Honoria decided it was wiser not to notice—she needed all her wits for helping the wounded man.
"Let me see the wound."
Was that a quaver she heard running through that dark voice, so deep it half resonated through her? Honoria glanced swiftly at her rescuer. His expression was impassive, showing no hint of any emotion—no, she'd imagined the quaver. She lifted the sodden wad; he bent closer, angling his shoulders to let light reach the wound. He grunted, then nodded, rocking back on his heels as she replaced the pad.
Looking up, Honoria saw him frown. Then his heavy lids lifted and he met her gaze. Again she was struck by his curious eyes, transfixed by their omniscient quality.
Thunder rolled; the echoes were still reverberating when lightning lit up the world.
Honoria flinched, struggling to control her breathing. She refocused on her rescuer; his gaze hadn't left her. Raindrops pattered on the leaves and spattered the dust of the lane. He looked up. "We'll have to get him—and ourselves—under cover. The storm's nearly here."
He rose, smoothly straightening his long legs. Still kneeling, Honoria was forced to let her eyes travel upward, over top boots and long, powerfully muscled thighs, past lean hips and a narrow waist, all the way over the wide acreage of his chest to find his face. He was tall, large, lean, loose-limbed yet well muscled—a supremely powerful figure.
Finding her mouth suddenly dry, she felt her temper stir. "To where, precisely? We're miles from anywhere." Her rescuer looked down, his disturbing gaze fixing on her face. Honoria's confidence faltered. "Aren't we?"
He looked into the trees. "There's a woodsman's cottage nearby. A track leads off a little way along the lane."
So he was a local; Honoria was relieved. "How will we move him?"
"I'll carry him." He didn't add the "of course," but she heard it. Then he grimaced. "But we should pack the wound better before shifting him."
With that, he shrugged off his jacket, tossed it over a nearby branch, and proceeded to strip off his shirt. Abruptly, Honoria transferred her gaze to the wounded man. Seconds later, a fine linen shirt dangled before her face, suspended from long, tanned fingers.
"Fold the body of the shirt and use the arms to tie it about him."
Honoria frowned at the shirt. Lifting one hand, she took it, then looked up, directly into his face, studiously ignoring the tanned expanse of his bare chest and the crisply curling black hair that adorned it. "If you can take over here and keep your eyes on the wound, I'll donate my petticoat. We'll need more fabric to bind against the hole."
His black brows flew up, then he nodded and hunkered down, placing long strong fingers on the pad. Honoria withdrew her hand and stood.
Briskly, trying not to think about what she was doing, she crossed to the other side of the lane. Facing the trees, she lifted the front of her skirt and tugged at the drawstring securing her lawn petticoat.
"I don't suppose you've a penchant for underdrawers?"
Stifling a gasp, Honoria glanced over her shoulder, but her devilish rescuer was still facing in the opposite direction. When she didn't immediately answer, he went on: "It would give us even more bulk."
Honoria's petticoat slithered down her bare legs. "Unfortunately not," she replied repressively. Stepping free, she swiped up her offering and stalked back across the lane.
He shrugged. "Ah, well—I can't say I'm a fan of them myself."
The vision his words conjured up was ridiculous. Then Honoria's wits clicked into place. The look she cast him as she dropped to her knees should have blistered him; it was wasted—his gaze was trained on the wounded man's face. Inwardly humphing, Honoria ascribed the salacious comment to ingrained habit.
Folding the petticoat, she combined it with the shirt; he removed his hand, and she applied the thick pad over her earlier insignificant one.
"Leave the sleeves hanging. I'll lift him—then you can reach under and tie them tight."
Honoria, wondered how even he would cope with the long, heavy weight of their unconscious charge. Amazingly well was the answer; he hefted the body and straightened in one fluid movement. She scrambled to her feet. He held the youth against his chest; with one sleeve in her hand she ducked and felt about for the other. Her searching fingertips brushed warm skin; muscles rippled in response. She pretended not to notice. Locating the wayward sleeve, she pulled it taut, tying the ends in a flat knot.
Her rescuer expelled a long breath through his teeth. For one instant, his strange eyes glittered. "Let's go. You'll have to lead Sulieman." With his head, he indicated the black monster cropping grass beside the lane.
Honoria stared at the stallion. "Sulieman was a treacherous Turk." "Indeed."
She transferred her gaze back to the man. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"We can't leave him here. If he gets loose, panicked by the storm, he could damage something. Or someone."
Unconvinced, Honoria retrieved his jacket from the branch. She studied the stallion. "Are you sure he won't bite?" When no answer came, she turned to stare, open-mouthed, at her rescuer. "You expect me to—?"
"Just take the reins—he'll behave himself."
His tone held enough irritated masculine impatience to have her crossing the lane, albeit with no good grace. She glared at the stallion; he stared levelly back. Refusing to be intimidated—by a horse—Honoria crammed the jacket under the saddle, then tugged the reins free. Holding them firmly, she started along the lane. And came to an abrupt halt when the stallion didn't budge. "Sulieman—walk."
At the command, the huge horse started forward. Honoria scurried ahead, trying to keep beyond the range of the monster's teeth. Her rescuer, after one comprehensive glance, turned and strode on.
They were deep within the densest part of the wood, thickly leaved canopies interwoven overhead. As if flexing its muscles, the wind gusted, riffling the leaves and flinging a shower of raindrops upon them.
Honoria watched as her rescuer angled his awkward burden through a tight curve. As he straightened, the muscles in his back shifted, smoothly rippling under taut skin. A single raindrop fell to tremble, glistening, on one tanned shoulder, then slowly slid down his back. Honoria tracked it all the way; when it disappeared beneath his waistband, she swallowed.
Why the sight affected her so, she couldn't understand—men's bare torsos, viewed from childhood in the fields and forge, had never before made it difficult to breathe. Then again, she couldn't recall seeing a chest quite like her rescuer's before.
He glanced back. "How did you come to be in the lane alone?" He paused, shifted the youth in his arms, then strode on.
"I wasn't exactly alone," Honoria explained to his back. "I was returning from the village in the gig. I saw the storm coming and thought to take a shortcut."
"The gig?"
"When I saw the body I went to investigate. At the first thunderclap, the horse bolted." "Ah."
Honoria narrowed her eyes. She hadn't seen him glance heavenward, but she knew he had. "It wasn't my knot that came undone. The branch I tied the reins to broke."
He glanced her way; while his face was expressionless, his lips were no longer perfectly straight. "I see."
The most noncommittal two words she had ever heard. Honoria scowled at his infuriating back, and trudged on in awful silence. Despite his burden, he was forging ahead; in her kid half boots, not designed for rough walking, she slipped and slid trying to keep up. Unfortunately, with the storm building by the second, she couldn't hold the pace he was setting against him.
The disgruntled thought brought her mentally up short. From the instant of encountering her rescuer, she'd been conscious of irritation, a ruffling of her sensibilities. He'd been abrupt, distinctly arrogant—quite impossible in some ill-defined way. Yet he was doing what needed to be done, quickly and efficiently. She ought to be grateful.
Negotiating a tangle of exposed tree roots, she decided it was his assumption of command that most irked—she had not before met anyone with his degree of authority, as if it was his unquestionable right to lead, to order, and to be obeyed. Naturally, being who she was, used to being obeyed herself, such an attitude did not sit well.
Finding her eyes once more glued to his back, entranced by the fluid flexing of his muscles, Honoria caught herself up. Irritation flared—she clung to its safety. He was impossible—in every way.
He glanced back and caught her black frown before she had a chance to wipe it from her face. His brows quirked; his eyes met hers, then he faced forward. "Nearly there."
Honoria released the breath that had stuck in her throat. And indulged in a furious scowl. Who the devil
was he?
A gentleman certainly—horse, clothes, and manner attested to that. Beyond that, who could tell? She checked her impressions, then checked again, but could find no hint of underlying unease; she was perfectly certain she was safe with this man. Six years as a governess had honed her instincts well—she did not doubt them. Once they gained shelter, introductions would follow. As a
well-bred lady, it wasn't her place to demand his name, it was his duty to make himself known to her. Ahead, the dimness beneath the trees lightened; ten more steps brought them into a large clearing.
Directly in front, backing onto the wood, stood a timber cottage, its thatch in good repair. Honoria noted the opening of two bridle paths, one to the right, one to the left. His stride lengthening, her rescuer headed for the cottage door.
"There's a stable of sorts to the side. Tie Sulieman in there." He flicked a glance her way. "To something unbreakable."
The glare she sent him bounced off his broad back. She quickened her pace, egged on by the rising whine of the wind. Leaves whirled like dervishes, clutching at her skirts; the black monster trotted at her heels. The stable was little more than a rude shack, built against the cottage wall.
Honoria scanned the exposed timbers for a hitching post. "I don't suppose it's what you're accustomed to," she informed her charge, "but you'll have to make do." She spied an iron ring bolted to the cottage wall. "Ah-hah!"
Looping the reins through, she hung on the ends to tighten the knot. She grabbed the jacket and was about to turn away when the huge black head swung toward her, one large eye wide, its expression strangely vulnerable. Briskly, she patted the black nose. "Stay calm."
With that sage advice, she picked up her skirts and fled for the cottage door. The storm chose that precise moment to rend the sky—thunder rolled, lightning crackled, the wind shrieked—so did Honoria.
She flew through the open door, whirled, and slammed it shut, then slumped back against it, eyes closed, hands clutching the soft jacket to her breast. Rain drummed on the roof and pelted the panels at her back. The wind shook the shutters and set the rafters creaking. Honoria's heart pounded; on the inside of her eyelids she saw the white light she knew brought death.
Catching her breath on a hiccup, she forced her eyes open. And saw her rescuer, the youth in his arms, standing beside a pallet raised on a crude frame. The cottage was dark, lit only by dim remnants of light leaking through the slatted shutters.
"Light the candle, then come and set the covers."
The simple command prodded Honoria into action. She crossed to the table that dominated the
single-roomed abode. A candle stood in a simple candlestick, tinder beside it. Laying the jacket aside, she struck a spark and coaxed the candle into flame. A soft glow spread through the room. Satisfied, she headed for the pallet. An odd assortment of furniture crowded the small cottage—an old wing chair sat beside the stone hearth, a huge carved chair with faded tapestry cushions facing it. Chairs, bed, and table took up much of the available space; a chest and two rough dressers hugged the walls. The bed stood out into the room, its head against one wall; Honoria reached for the neatly folded blankets left on its end. "Who lives here?"
"A woodsman. But it's August so he'll be in the woods by Earith. These are his winter quarters." He leaned forward, lowering his burden, as Honoria flipped the blanket out along the bed.
"Wait! He'll be more comfortable if we remove his coat."
Those unearthly eyes held hers, then he looked down at the body in his arms. "See if you can ease the sleeve off."
She'd been careful not to catch the coat when she'd secured their improvised bandage. Honoria gently tugged; the sleeve shifted inch by inch.
Her rescuer snorted. "Silly clunch probably took an hour to get into it."
Honoria looked up—this time she was sure. His voice had shaken on the "clunch." She stared at him, a dreadful premonition seeping through her. "Pull harder—he can't feel anything at the moment."
She did; between them, by yanking and tugging, they managed to free one arm. With a sigh of relief, he laid the body down, drawing the coat off as he eased his hands free. They stood and stared at the deathly pale face, framed by the faded blanket.
Lightning cracked; Honoria shifted and glanced at her rescuer. "Shouldn't we fetch a doctor?"
Thunder rolled, echoing and booming. Her rescuer turned his head; the heavy lids lifted, and his strange eyes met hers. In the clear green—timeless, ageless, filled with desolate bleakness—Honoria read his answer. "He's not going to recover, is he?"
The compelling gaze left her; his black mane shook in a definite negative. "Are you sure?" She asked even though she suspected he was right.
His long lips twisted. "Death and I are well acquainted." The statement hung in the suddenly chill air. Honoria was grateful when he elaborated: "I was at Waterloo. A great victory we were later told. Hell on earth for those who lived through it. In one day I saw more men die than any sane man sees in a lifetime. I'm quite certain—" Thunder crashed, nearly drowning out his words. "He won't see out the night."
His words fell into sudden silence. Honoria believed him; the bleakness that hung about him left no room for doubt.
"You saw the wound—how the blood kept pulsing? The ball nicked the heart—either that, or one of the big vessels close by. That's why we can't stop the bleeding." He gestured to where blood was staining the thick pad. "Every time his heart beats, he dies a little more."
Glancing at the youth's innocent face, Honoria drew in a slow breath. Then she looked at her rescuer. She wasn't sure she believed the impassive face he wore. His very stoicism fed her suspicion; compassion stirred.
Then he frowned, black brows slashing down as he held up the youth's coat. Honoria watched as he examined the button opposite the bloody hole. "What is it?"
"The button deflected the ball. See?" He held the button to the light so she could see the dent in its rim, the scorching beside it. Eyes measuring the coat against the youth, he added: "If it hadn't been for the button, it would have been a clean shot through the heart."
Honoria grimaced. "A pity perhaps." When he glanced her way, green eyes strangely empty, she gestured helplessly. "In the circumstances, I mean—a slow death, rather than a fast one."
He said nothing but continued to frown at the button. Honoria pressed her lips together, trying to deny the impulse, and failed. "But?"
"But…" He hesitated, then went on: "A clean shot through the heart with a long-barreled pistol—small bore, so it wasn't a shotgun or even horse pistol—at reasonable range—closer would have left more of a burn—is no mean feat. Pulling off such a shot takes remarkable skill."
"And remarkable cold-bloodedness, I imagine." "That, too."
Rain beat against the walls, the shutters. Honoria straightened. "If you light the fire, I'll heat some water and wash away the worst of the blood." The suggestion earned her a surprised look; she met it with implacable calm. "If he has to die, then at least he can die clean."
For an instant, she thought she'd shocked him—his gaze appeared truly arrested. Then he nodded, his permission so clearly implied she could not doubt that he considered the injured youth in his care.
She headed for the hearth; he followed, soft-footed for such a large man. Pausing before the fire, Honoria glanced over her shoulder—and nearly swallowed her heart when she found him directly beside her.
He was big—bigger than she'd realized. She was often referred to as a "Long Meg"; this man towered over her by a full head, cutting her off from the candlelight, his dramatic face in deep shadow, his black hair a dark corona about his head. He was the Prince of Darkness personified; for the first time in her life, she felt small, fragile, intensely vulnerable. "There's a pump near the stable." He reached past her; candlelight glimmered on the curved contours of his arm as he lifted the kettle from its hook. "I'd better check Sulieman, too, but I'll get the fire going first."
Honoria quickly shifted to the side. Only when he had crouched before the hearth, laying logs from the woodbox in the grate, did she manage to breathe again. At close range, his voice reverberated through her, a decidedly unnerving sensation.
By the time he had a blaze established, she had her attention firmly fixed on the dressers, discovering clean cloths and a canister of tea. She heard him move past; reaching high, he lifted a bucket from a hook. The latch clicked; Honoria glanced around—he stood in the doorway, bare to the waist, silhouetted by a searing flash of light—an elemental figure in an elemental world. The wind funneled in, then was abruptly cut off; the door shut and he was gone.
She counted seven rolls of thunder before he returned. As the door closed behind him, the tension gripping her eased. Then she noticed he was dripping wet. "Here." She held out the largest of the cloths she'd found and reached for the kettle. She busied herself by the fire, setting the kettle to boil, quite sure she didn't need to watch him drying that remarkable chest The kettle hissed; she reached for the bowl she'd set ready.
He was waiting by the bed; she considered ordering him to dry himself by the fire, then decided to save her breath. His gaze was fixed on the youth's face.
Setting the bowl on the chest by the bed, she squeezed out a cloth, then gently sponged the youth's face, removing the grit and dust of the lane. Cleanliness emphasized his innocence, and highlighted the obscenity of his death. Pressing her lips together, Honoria bent to her task. Until she came to the badly stained shirt.
"Let me."
She shifted back. Two well-judged rips, and the left side of the shirt was free. "Give me a cloth."
She squeezed one out and handed it over. They worked side by side in the flickering light; she was amazed by how gentle such large hands could be, was moved by how reverently one so powerfully alive dealt with the dying.
Then they were done. Settling another blanket over their silent charge, she gathered the soiled cloths and loaded them into the bowl. He proceeded her to the fire; she set the bowl on the table and straightened her back.
"Devil?"
The call was so faint she only just heard it. Honoria whirled and flew back to the bed. The youth's lids fluttered. "Devil. Need… Devil."
"It's all right," she murmured, laying her hand on his brow. "There's no devil here—we won't let him get you."
The youth frowned; he shook his head against her hand. "No! Need to see…"
Hard hands closed about Honoria's shoulders; she gasped as she was lifted bodily aside. Freed of her touch, the youth opened glazed eyes and struggled to rise.
"Lie back, Tolly. I'm here."
Honoria stared as her rescuer took her place, pressing the youth back to the bed. His voice, his touch, calmed the dying man—he lay back, visibly relaxing, focusing on the older man's face. "Good," he breathed, his voice thin. "Found you." A weak smile flickered across his pale face. Then he sobered. "Have to tell you—"
His urgent words were cut off by a cough, which turned into a debilitating paroxym. Her rescuer braced the youth between his hands, as if willing strength into the wilting frame. As the coughing subsided, Honoria grabbed up a clean cloth and offered it. Laying the youth down, her rescuer wiped the blood from the boy's lips. "Tolly?"
No answer came—their charge was unconscious again.
"You're related." Honoria made it a statement; the revelation had come the instant the youth opened his eyes. The resemblance lay not only in the wide forehead but in the arch of the brows and the set of the eyes.
"Cousins." Animation leached from her rescuer's harsh face. "First cousins. He's one of the younger crew—barely twenty."
His tone made Honoria wonder how old he was—in his thirties certainly, but from his face it was impossible to judge. His demeanor conveyed the impression of wordly wisdom, wisdom earned, as if experience had tempered his steel.
As she watched, he put out one hand and gently brushed back a lock of hair from his cousin's pallid face. The low moan of the wind turned into a dirge.
Chapter 3
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She was stranded in a cottage with a dying man and a man known to his intimates as Devil. Ensconced in the wing chair by the fire, Honoria sipped tea from a mug and considered her position. It was now night; the storm showed no sign of abating. She could not leave the cottage, even had that been her most ardent desire.
Glancing at her rescuer, still seated on the pallet, she grimaced; she did not wish to leave. She'd yet to learn his name, but he'd commanded her respect, and her sympathy.
Half an hour had passed since the youth had spoken; Devil—she had no other name for him—had not left his dying cousin's side. His face remained impassive, showing no hint of emotion, yet emotion was there, behind the facade, shadowing the green of his eyes. Honoria knew of the shock and grief occasioned by sudden death, knew of the silent waiting and the vigils for the dead. Returning her gaze to the flames, she slowly sipped her tea.
Sometime later, she heard the bed creak; soft footfalls slowly neared. She sensed rather than saw him ease into the huge carved chair, smelled the dust that rose from the faded tapestry as he settled. The kettle softly hissed. Shifting forward, she poured boiling water into the mug she'd left ready; when the steam subsided, she picked up the mug and held it out.
He took it, long fingers brushing hers briefly, green eyes lifting to touch her face. "Thank you." He sipped in silence, eyes on the flames; Honoria did the same.
Minutes ticked by, then he straightened his long legs, crossing his booted ankles. Honoria felt his gaze on her face.
"What brings you to Somersham, Miss…?"
It was the opening she'd been waiting for. "Wetherby," she supplied.
Instead of responding with his name—Mr. Something, Lord Someone—he narrowed his eyes. "Your full name?"
Honoria held back a frown. "Honoria Prudence Wetherby," she recited, somewhat tartly.
One black brow rose; the disturbing green gaze did not waver. "Not Honoria Prudence Anstruther-
Wetherby?"
Honoria stared. "How did you know?"
His lips quirked. "I'm acquainted with your grandfather."
A disbelieving look was her reply. "I suppose you're going to tell me I look like him?"
A short laugh, soft and deep, feathered across her senses. "Now you mention it, I believe there is a faint resemblance—about the chin, perhaps?"
Honoria glared.
"Now that," her tormentor remarked, "is very like old Magnus."
She frowned. "What is?"
He took a slow sip, his eyes holding hers. "Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby is an irascible old gentleman, atrociously high in the instep and as stubborn as bedamned."
"You know him well?"
"Only to nod to—my father knew him better."
Uncertain, Honoria watched him sip; her full name was no state secret—she simply didn't care to use it, to claim relationship with that irascible, stubborn old gentleman in London.
"There was a second son, wasn't there?" Her rescuer studied her musingly. "He defied Magnus over… I remember—he married against Magnus's wishes. One of the Montgomery girls. You're their daughter?"
Stiffly, Honoria inclined her head.
"Which brings us back to my question, Miss Anstruther
Wetherby. What the deuce are you doing here, gracing our quiet backwater?"
Honoria hesitated; there was a restlessness in the long limbs, a ripple of awareness—not of her, but of the body on the pallet behind them—that suggested conversation was his need. She lifted her chin. "I'm a finishing governess."
"A finishing governess?"
She nodded. "I prepare girls for their come-out—I only remain with the families for the year before."
He eyed her with fascinated incredulity. "What in all the heavens does old Magnus think of that?" "I've no idea. I've never sought his opinion." He laughed briefly—that same throaty, sensuous
sound; Honoria suppressed an urge to wriggle her shoulders. Then he sobered. "What happened to your
family?"
Inwardly, Honoria shrugged. It couldn't hurt to tell her tale, and if it distracted him, well and good. "My parents died in an accident when I was sixteen. My brother was nineteen. We lived in Hampshire, but after the accident, I went to stay with my mother's sister in Leicestershire." He frowned. "I'm surprised Magnus didn't intervene."
"Michael informed him of the deaths, but he didn't come down for the funeral." Honoria shrugged. "We hadn't expected him. After the falling-out between him and Papa, there'd been no contact." Her lips lifted fleetingly. "Papa swore he'd never ask for quarter."
"Stubbornness is clearly a family trait." Honoria ignored the comment. "After a year in Leicestershire, I decided to try my hand at governessing." She looked up, into far-too-perceptive green eyes. "Your aunt wasn't exactly welcoming?" Honoria sighed. "No—she was very welcoming. She married beneath her—not the mild mesalliance the Anstruther-Wetherbys got so heated over but truly out of her class." She paused, seeing again the rambling house filled with dogs and children. "But she was happy and her household was welcoming but…" She grimaced and glanced at the dark face watching her. "Not for me."
"Fish out of water?"
"Precisely. Once I came out of mourning, I considered my options. Funds, of course, were never a problem. Michael wanted me to buy a small house in some safe country village and live quietly but …"
"Again, not for you?"
Honoria tilted her chin. "I couldn't conceive of a life so tame. I think it unfair that women are forced to such mild existences and only gentlemen get to lead exciting lives."
Both black brows rose. "Personally, I've always found it pays to share the excitement."
Honoria opened her mouth to approve—then caught his eye. She blinked and looked again, but the salacious glint had disappeared. "In my case, I decided to take control of my life and work toward a more exciting existence."
"As a governess?" His steady green gaze remained ingenuously interested.
"No. That's only an intermediary stage. I decided eighteen was too young to go adventuring in Africa. I've decided to follow in Lady Stanhope's footsteps." "Good God!"
Honoria ignored his tone. "I have it all planned—my burning ambition is to ride a camel in the shadow of the Great Sphinx. One would be ill-advised to undertake such an expedition too young; governessing in a manner that requires spending only a year with each family seemed the ideal way to fill in the years. As I need provide nothing beyond my clothes, my capital grows while I visit various counties, staying in select households. That last, of course, eases Michael's mind."
"Ah, yes—your brother. What's he doing while you fill in your years?"
Honoria eyed her inquisitor measuringly. "Michael is secretary to Lord Carlisle. Do you know him?" "Carlisle? Yes. His secretary, no. I take it your brother has political ambitions?"
"Lord Carlisle was a friend of Papa's—he's agreed to stand as Michael's sponsor."
His brows rose fleetingly, then he drained his mug. "What made you decide on governessing as your temporary occupation?"
Honoria shrugged. "What else was there? I'd been well educated, prepared for presentation. Papa was adamant that I be presented to the ton, puffed off with all the trimmings—paraded beneath my grandfather's nose. He hoped I'd make a wonderful match, just to show Grandfather no one else shared his antiquated notions."
"But your parents were killed before you were brought out?"
Honoria nodded. "Lady Harwell, an old friend of Mama's, had a daughter two years younger than I. After putting off black gloves, I broached my idea to her—I thought with my background, my preparation, I could teach other girls how to go on. Lady Harwell agreed to a trial. After I finished coaching Miranda, she landed an earl. After that, of course, I never wanted for positions."
"The matchmaking mama's delight." An undercurrent of cynicism had crept into the deep voice. "And who are you coaching around Somersham?"
The question returned Honoria to reality with a thump. "Melissa Claypole."
Her rescuer frowned. "Is she the dark one or the fair one?"
"The fair one." Propping her chin in her hand, Honoria gazed into the flames. "An insipid miss with no conversation—God knows how I'm supposed to render her attractive. I was booked to go to Lady Oxley but her six-year old caught chicken pox, and then old Lady Oxley died. I'd declined all my other offers by then, but the Claypoles' letter arrived late, and I hadn't yet replied. So I accepted without doing my usual checks."
"Checks?"
"I don't work for just anyone." Stifling a yawn, Honoria settled more comfortably. "I make sure the family is good ton, well connected enough to get the right invitations and sufficiently beforehand not to make a fuss over the milliner's bills."
"Not to mention those from the modistes."
"Precisely. Well"—she gestured briefly—"no girl is going to snare a duke if she dresses like a dowd."
"Indubitably. Am I to understand the Claypoles fail to meet your stringent requirements?"
Honoria frowned. "I've only been with them since Sunday, but I've a nasty suspicion…" She let her words trail away, then shrugged. "Luckily, it appears Melissa is all but spoken for—by a duke, no less." A pause followed, then her rescuer prompted: "A duke?"
"So it seems. If you live about here you must know of him—sober, reserved, rather reclusive, I think. Already tangled in Lady Claypole's web, if her ladyship speaks true." Recollecting her burning question, Honoria twisted around. "Do you know him?"
Clear green eyes blinked back at her; slowly, her rescuer shook his head. "I can't say I've had the pleasure."
"Humph!" Honoria sank back in her chair. "I'm beginning to think he's a hermit. Are you sure—"
But he was no longer listening to her. Then she heard what had caught his attention—the rattly breathing of the wounded youth. The next instant, he was striding back to the bed. He sat on the edge, taking one of the youth's hands in his. From the chair, Honoria listened as the youth's breathing grew more ragged, more rasping. Fifteen painful minutes later, the dry rattle ceased. An unearthly silence filled the cottage; even the storm was still. Honoria closed her eyes and silently uttered a prayer. Then the wind rose, mournfully keening, nature's chant for the dead.
Opening her eyes, Honoria watched as Devil laid his cousin's hands across his chest. Then he sat on the pallet's edge, eyes fixed on the pale features that would not move again. He was seeing his cousin alive and well, laughing, talking. Honoria knew how the mind dealt with death. Her heart twisted, but there was nothing she could do. Sinking back in the chair, she left him to his memories.
She must have dozed off. When next she opened her eyes, he was crouched before the hearth. The candle had guttered; the only light in the room was that thrown by the flames. Half-asleep, she watched as he laid logs on the blaze, banking it for the night.
During their earlier conversation, she'd kept her eyes on his face or the flames; now, with the firelight sculpting his arms and shoulders, she looked her fill. Something about all that tanned male skin had her battling a fierce urge to press her fingers to it, to spread her hands across the warm expanse, to curve her palms about hard muscle.
Arms crossed, hands safely clutching her elbows, she shivered.
In one fluid motion he rose and turned. And frowned. "Here." Reaching past her, he lifted his soft jacket from the table and held it out.
Honoria stared at it, valiantly denying the almost overwhelming urge to focus, not on the jacket, but on the chest a yard behind it. She swallowed, shook her head, then dragged her gaze straight up to his face. "No—you keep it. It was just that I woke up—I'm not really cold." That last was true enough; the fire was throwing steady heat into the room.
One black brow very slowly rose; the pale green eyes did not leave her face. Then the second brow joined the first, and he shrugged. "As you wish." He resumed his seat in the old carved chair, glancing about the cottage, his gaze lingering on the blanket-shrouded figure on the bed. Then, settling back, he looked at her. "I suggest we get what sleep we can. The storm should have passed by morning."
Honoria nodded, immensely relieved when he spread his jacket over his disturbing chest. He laid his head against the chairback, and closed his eyes. His lashes formed black crescents above his high cheekbones; light flickered over the austere planes of his face. A strong face, hard yet not insensitive. The sensuous line of his lips belied his rugged jaw; the fluid arch of his brows offset his wide forehead. Wild locks of midnight black framed the whole—Honoria smiled and closed her eyes. He should have been a pirate.
With sleep clouding her mind, her body soothed by the fire's warmth, it wasn't hard to drift back into her dreams.
Sylvester Sebastian Cynster, sixth Duke of St. Ives, known as That Devil Cynster to a select handful of retainers, as Devil Cynster to the ton at large and simply as Devil to his closest friends, watched his wife-to-be from beneath his long lashes. What, he wondered, would his mother, the Dowager
Duchess, make of Honoria Prudence Anstruther-Wetherby? The thought almost made him smile, but the dark pall that hung over his mind wouldn't let his lips curve. For Tolly's death there was only one answer; justice would be served, but vengeance would wield the sword. Nothing else would appease him or the other males of his clan. Despite their reckless propensities, Cynsters died in their beds.
But avenging Tolly's death would merely be laying the past to rest. Today he had rounded the next bend in his own road; his companion for the next stretch shifted restlessly in the old wing chair opposite.
Devil watched her settle, and wondered what was disturbing her dreams. Him, he hoped. She was certainly disturbing him—and he was wide-awake.
He hadn't realized when he'd left the Place that morning that he was searching for a wife; fate had known better. It had placed Honoria Prudence in his path in a manner that ensured he couldn't pass her by. The restless dissatisfaction that had gripped him of late seemed all of a piece, part of fate's scheme. Jaded by the importunities of his latest conquest, he'd come to the Place, sending word to Vane to meet him for a few days' shooting. Vane had been due to join him that evening; with a whole day to kill, he'd thrown a saddle on Sulieman and ridden out to his fields.
The wide lands that were his never failed to soothe him, to refocus his mind on who he was, what he was. Then the storm had risen; he'd cut through the wood, heading for the back entrance to the Place.
That had put him on track to find Tolly—and Honoria Prudence. Fate had all but waved a red flag; no one had ever suggested he was slow to see the light. Seizing opportunity was how he'd made his name—he'd already decided to seize Honoria Prudence. She would do very well as his wife. For a start, she was tall, with a well-rounded figure, neither svelte nor fleshy but very definitely feminine. Hair
of chesnut brown glowed richly, tendrils escaping from the knot on the top of her head. Her face, heart-shaped, was particularly arresting, fine-boned and classical, with a small straight nose, delicately arched brown brows, and a wide forehead. Her lips were full, a soft blush pink; her eyes, her finest
feature, large, wide-set and long-lashed, were a misty grey. He'd told true about her chin—it was the only feature that reminded him of her grandsire, not in shape but in the determination it managed to convey.
Physically, she was a particularly engaging proposition—she'd certainly engaged his notoriously fickle interest.
Equally important, she was uncommonly level-headed, not given to flaps or starts. That had been clear from the first, when she'd stood straight and tall, uncowering beneath the weight of the epithets he'd so freely heaped on her head. Then she'd favored him with a look his mother could not have bettered and directed him to the matter at hand.
He'd been impressed by her courage. Instead of indulging in a fit of hysterics—surely prescribed practice for a gentlewoman finding a man bleeding to death in her path?—she'd been resourceful and practical. Her struggle to subdue her fear of the storm hadn't escaped him. He'd done what he could to distract her; her instantaneous response to his commands—he'd almost seen her hackles rising—had made distracting her easy enough. Taking his shirt off hadn't hurt, either.
His lips twitched; ruthlessly he straightened them. That, of course, was yet another good reason he should follow fate's advice.
For the past seventeen years, despite all the distractions the ton's ladies had lined up to provide, his baser instincts had remained subject to his will, entirely and absolutely. Honoria Prudence, however, seemed to have established a direct link to that part of his mind which, as was the case with any male Cynster, was constantly on the lookout for likely prospects. It was the hunter in him; the activity did not usually distract him from whatever else he had in hand. Only when he was ready to attend to such matters, did he permit that side of his nature to show.
Today, he had stumbled—more than once—over his lustful appetites.
His question over underdrawers was one example, and while taking off his shirt had certainly distracted her, that fact, in turn, had also distracted him. He could feel her gaze—another sensitivity he hadn't been prey to for a very long time. At thirty-two, he'd thought himself immune, hardened, too experienced to fall victim to his own desires.
Hopefully, once he'd had Honoria Prudence a few times—perhaps a few dozen times—the affliction would pass. The fact that she was Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby's granddaughter, rebellious granddaughter at that, would be the icing on his wedding cake. Devil savored the thought.
He hadn't, of course, told her his name. If he had, she wouldn't have fallen asleep, restlessly or otherwise. He'd realized almost immediately that she didn't know who he was. There was no reason she should recognize him. She would, however, recognize his name.
Her peculiar profession would make keeping up with ton gossip imperative; he had not a doubt that, had he favored her with his name, she would have made the connection and reacted accordingly. Which would have been trying for them both.
Convincing her that she had no reason to fret would have taken a great deal of effort, which he did not, at the moment, have to spare. He still had Tolly's murder to contend with—he needed her calm and composed. He found her directness, her unfussy, almost wifely matter-of-factness, refreshing and
strangely supportive.
The fire glowed, gilding her face. Devil studied the delicate curve of her cheek, noted the vulnerable softness of her lips. He would confess his identity in the morning—he wondered what she would say. The possibilities were, he judged, wide-ranging. He was mulling over the most likely when she whimpered and stiffened in her chair.
Devil opened his eyes fully. And simultaneously became aware of the renewed ferocity of the storm. Thunder rolled, rumbling ever nearer. The wind rose on a sudden shriek; a sharp crack echoed through the wood.
Honoria gasped and came to her feet. Eyes closed, hands reaching, she stepped forward. Devil surged from his chair. Grabbing her about the waist, he lifted her away from the fire.
With a wrenching sob, she turned and flung herself against him. Her arms slipped about him; she clung tightly, pressing her cheek to his chest. Reflexively, Devil closed his arms about her and felt the sobs that racked her. Off-balance, he took a step back; the old chair caught him behind his knee.
He sat down; Honoria did not slacken her hold. She followed him down, drawing up her legs; she ended curled in his lap. Sobbing silently.
Tilting his head, Devil peered at her face. Her eyes were closed but not tightly. Tears coursed down her face. She was, in fact, still asleep.
Trapped in her nightmare, she shuddered. She gulped down a sob, only to have another rise in its place.
Watching her, Devil felt a sharp ache twist through his chest. The tears welled from beneath her lids, gathered, then rolled slowly, steadily, down her cheeks.
His gut clenched. Hard. Gently, he tipped up her face. She didn't wake; the tears continued to fall. He couldn't stand it. Devil bent his head and set his lips to hers.
Engulfed in sorrow so black, so dense, not even lightning could pierce it, Honoria became aware of lips warm and firm pressed against her own. The unexpected sensation distracted her, breaking the hold of her dream. Blackness receded; she pulled back and caught her breath.
Strong fingers curved about her jaw; the distracting lips returned. Warmth seeped into her bones, her skin, driving out death's chill. The lips held to hers, reassuringly alive, a link from one dream to the next. She made the transition from nightmare to a sense of peace, of rightness, reassured by the strength surrounding her and the steady beat of a heart not her own.
She was no longer alone in misery. Someone was here, keeping her warm, holding the memories at bay. The ice in her veins melted. Her lips softened; tentatively, she returned the kiss.
Devil caught his baser instincts an instant before they bolted. She was still asleep—the last thing he intended was to scare her awake. The battle to resist his demons, clamoring for him to deepen the caress into something far from innocent, was furious, as ferocious as the storm. He won—but the effort left him shaking.
She drew back. Lifting his head, he heard her sigh softly.
Then, lips curving in a distinctly feminine smile, she shifted, settling herself in his lap.
Devil caught his breath; he bit his lip.
Pressing her cheek once more to his chest, she slid into peaceful slumber.
At least he'd stopped her tears. Jaw clenched, Devil reminded himself that that—and only that—had been his aim. Thanks to fate, he'd have time and more to claim recompense for the pain she was causing him, to claim a suitable reward for his remarkable rectitude. His halo, for once, ought to be glowing.
It took half an hour of thinking of something else before he could risk relaxing. By then she was deeply asleep. Shifting carefully, he settled more comfortably, then noticed the fire was dying. Reaching down, he snagged his jacket, then draped it carefully over his wife-to-be.
Lips curving, he rested his head against the chairback and closed his eyes. He woke with his cheek pillowed on her curls.
Devil blinked. Sunlight slanted through the shutters. Honoria was still asleep, snuggled against him, legs curled across his thighs. Then he heard the clop of hooves approaching. Vane, no doubt, come to seek him out.
Straightening, Devil winced as cramped muscles protested. His wife-to-be did not stir. Gathering her in his arms, he stood; Honoria mumbled, resettling her head against his shoulder. Devil gently deposited her in the wing chair, tucking his jacket about her. A frown fleetingly puckered her brows as her cheek touched the cold chintz, then her features eased and she slid deeper into sleep.
Devil stretched. Then, running his fingers across his chest, he headed for the door. Yawning, he opened it.
His breath hissed in through his teeth. "Hell and the devil!" Taking stock of the arrivals, he cursed beneath his breath. He'd been right about Vane—his cousin, mounted on a black hunter, had just pulled up. Another horseman halted alongside. Devil's features blanked as he nodded to his only older cousin, Charles—Tolly's half brother.
That, however, was not the worst. From the other bridle path, a party of four trotted forward—Lord Claypole, Lady Claypole, and two grooms.
"Your Grace! How surprising to come upon you here." A sharp-featured woman with crimped hair, Lady Claypole barely glanced at Vane and Charles before returning her gaze to Devil, her protruberant blue eyes widening.
"I was stranded by the storm." Bracing one forearm against the doorframe, Devil blocked the doorway.
"Indeed? Beastly night." Lord Claypole, a short, rotund gentleman, wrestled his bay to a halt. "Might I inquire, Your Grace, if you've seen anything of our governess? Took the gig out to Somersham yesterday—gig came home without her—haven't seen hide nor hair of her since."
Devil looked blank. "The storm was quite wild."
"Quite, quite." His lordship nodded briskly. "Daresay the horse got loose and bolted home. Testy brute. Sure to find Miss Wetherby safe and sound at the vicarage, what?" His lordship looked at his wife, still absorbed with the view. "Don't you think so, m'dear?"
Her ladyship shrugged. "Oh, I'm sure she'll be all right. So terribly inconsiderate of her to put us to all this
fuss." Directing a weary smile at Devil, Lady Claypole gestured to the grooms. "We felt we should mount a search, but I daresay you're right, my lord, and she'll be sitting snug at the vicarage. Miss Wetherby," her ladyship informed Devil archly, "comes with the highest recommendations."
Devil's brows rose. "Does she indeed?"
"I had it from Mrs. Acheson-Smythe. Of the highest calibre—quite exclusive. Naturally, when she learned of my Melissa, she set aside all other offers and—" Lady Claypole broke off, protruberant eyes starting. Her mouth slowly opened as she stared past Devil's bare shoulder.
Heaving an inward sigh, Devil lowered his arm, half-turning to watch Honoria's entrance. She came up beside him, blinking sleepily, one hand pressed to her back; with the other, she brushed errant curls from her face. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her topknot loose, releasing wispy tendrils of gold-shot brown to wreathe auralike about her head. She looked deliciously tumbled, her cheeks lightly flushed, as if they had indeed been entertaining each other in the manner the Claypoles were imagining.
Honoria looked past him—momentarily, she froze. Then she straightened, cool grace dropping like a cloak about her. Not a glimmer of consternation showed in her face. Devil's lips quirked—in approval, in appreciation.
"Well, miss!"
Lady Claypole's strident tones overflowed with indignant outrage. Devil fixed her with a clear, very direct glance that any sane person would have read as a warning.
Her ladyship was not so acute. "A fine broiling, indeed! Well, Miss Wetherby—if this is what you get up to when you say you're visiting the vicar, you need not think to cross the Claypole Hall threshold again!"
"Ahem!" More observant than his lady, Lord Claypole plucked at her sleeve. "My dear—" "To think that I've been so misled! Mrs. Acheson-Smythe will hear about—"
"No! Really, Margery—" One eye on Devil's face, Lord Claypole fought to restrain his wife from committing social suicide. "No need for any of that."
"No need?" Lady Claypole stared at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses. Shaking off his hand, she drew herself up and haughtily declaimed: "If you will send word of your direction, we'll send your boxes on."
"How kind." Devil's purring murmur held sufficient steel to succeed where Lord Claypole had failed. "You may send Miss Anstruther-Wetherby's boxes to the Place."
A long silence greeted his edict.
Lady Claypole leaned forward. "Anstruther-Wetherby?"
"The Place?" The soft echo came from Charles Cynster; his horse shifted and stamped.
Abruptly, Lady Claypole switched her gaze to Honoria. "Is this true, miss? Or is it merely a piece of flummery you've succeeded in coaxing His Grace to swallow?"
His Grace? For one discrete instant, Honoria's brain reeled. She glanced sideways at the devil beside her—his eyes, cool green, fleetingly met hers. In that moment, she would have given all she
possessed to rid herself of everyone else and take to him as he deserved. Instead, she lifted her chin and calmly regarded Lady Claypole. "As His Grace," she invested the title with subtle emphasis, "has seen fit to inform you, I am, indeed, one of the Anstruther-Wetherbys. I choose to make little of the connection, to avoid unwarranted, ill-bred interest."
The comment failed to rout her ladyship. "I really don't know how I'm going to explain this to my daughters."
"I suggest, madam,"—his gaze on Lady Claypole's face, Devil caught Honoria's hand, squeezing her fingers warningly as he raised them to his lips—"that you inform your daughters that they've had the honor of being instructed, albeit for so short a time, by my duchess."
"Your duchess!" The exclamation burst from three throats—of the gentry, only Vane Cynster remained silent.
Honoria's brain reeled again; the grip on her fingers tightened. Her expression serene, her lips gently curved, she glanced affectionately at her supposed fiance's face; only he could see the fell promise in her eyes.
"Really, Your Grace! You can't have considered." Lady Claypole had paled. "This matter hardly warrants such a sacrifice—I'm sure Miss Wetherby will be only too happy to reach some agreement…"
Her voice trailed away, finally silenced by the expression on Devil's face. For one, long minute, he held her paralyzed, then switched his chill gaze to Lord Claypole. "I had expected, my lord, that I could count on you and your lady to welcome my duchess." The deep flat tones held a definite menace.
Lord Claypole swallowed. "Yes indeed! No doubt of it—none whatever. Er…" Gathering his reins, he reached for his wife's. "Felicitations and all that—daresay we should get on. If you'll excuse us, Your Grace? Come, m'dear." With a yank, his lordship turned both his and his wife's horses; with remarkable speed, his party quit the clearing.
Relieved, Honoria studied the remaining horsemen. One glance was enough to identify the one nearest as a relative of… the duke called Devil. Her mind tripped on the thought, but she couldn't catch the connection. The horseman in question turned his head; hands negligently crossed on the pommel, he was strikingly handsome. His coloring—brown hair, brown brows—was less dramatic than Devil's, but he seemed of similar height and nearly as large as the man beside her. They shared one, definitive characteristic—the simple act of turning his head had been invested with the same fluid elegance that characterized all Devil's movements, a masculine grace that titillated the senses.
The horseman's gaze traveled rapidly over her—one comprehensive glance—then, lips curving in a subtle smile, he looked at Devil. "I take it you don't need rescuing?"
Voice and manner confirmed their relationship beyond question. "Not rescuing—there's been an accident. Come inside."
The horseman's gaze sharpened; Honoria could have sworn some unspoken communication passed between him and Devil. Without another word, the horseman swung down from his saddle.
Revealing his companion, still atop his horse. An older man with pale thinning hair, he was heavily built, his face round, his features more fleshy than the aquiline planes of the other two men. He, too, met Devil's eye, then he hauled in a breath and dismounted. "Who are they?" Honoria whispered, as the first man,
having secured his horse, started toward them.
"Two other cousins. The one approaching is Vane. At least, that's what we call him. The other is Charles. Tolly's brother."
"Brother?" Honoria juggled the image of the heavyset man against that of the dead youth.
"Half brother," Devil amended. Grasping her elbow, he stepped out of the cottage, drawing her with him.
It had been some time since anyone had physically compelled Honoria to do anything—it was certainly the first time any man had dared. His sheer presumption left her speechless; his sheer power rendered noncompliance impossible. Her heart, having finally slowed after the jolt he'd given it by kissing her fingers, started racing again.
Five paces from the door, he halted and, releasing her, faced her. "Wait over there—you can sit on that log. This might take a while."
For one pregnant instant, Honoria hovered on the brink of open rebellion. There was something implacable behind the crystal green, something that issued commands in the absolute certainty of being obeyed. She ached to challenge it, to challenge him, to take exception to his peremptory dictates. But she knew what he faced in the cottage.
Lips compressed, she inclined her head. "Very well."
She turned, skirts swirling; Devil watched as she started toward the log, set on stumps to one side of the clearing. Then she paused; without looking back, she inclined her head again. "Your Grace."
His gaze fixed on her swaying hips, Devil watched as she continued on her way. His interest in her had just dramatically increased; no woman before had so much as thought of throwing his commands—he knew perfectly well they were autocratic—back in his teeth. She'd not only thought of it—she'd nearly done it. If it hadn't been for Tolly's body in the cottage, she would have.
She reached the log. Satisfied, Devil turned; Vane was waiting at the cottage door. "What?"
Devil's face hardened. "Tolly's dead. Shot." Vane stilled, his eyes fixed on Devil's. "Who by?"
"That," Devil said softly, glancing at Charles as he neared, "I don't yet know. Come inside."
They stopped in a semicircle at the foot of the rude pallet, looking down on Tolly's body. Vane had been Devil's lieutenant at Waterloo; Charles had served as an adjutant. They'd seen death many times; familiarity didn't soften the blow. In a voice devoid of emotion, Devil recounted all he knew. He related Tolly's last words; Charles, his expression blank, hung on every syllable. Then came a long silence; in the bright light spilling through the open door, Tolly's corpse looked even more obscenely wrong than it had the night before.
"My God. Tolly!" Charles's words were broken. His features crumpled. Covering his face with one hand, he sank to the edge of the pallet.
Devil clenched his jaw, his fists. Death no longer possessed the power to shock him. Grief remained, but that he would handle privately. He was the head of his family—his first duty was to lead. They'd
expect it of him—he expected it of himself. And he had Honoria Prudence to protect.
The thought anchored him, helping him pull free of the vortex of grief that dragged at his mind. He hauled in a deep breath, then quietly stepped back, retreating to the clear space before the hearth.
A few minutes later, Vane joined him; he glanced through the open door. "She found him?"
Devil nodded. "Thankfully, she's not the hysterical sort." They spoke quietly, their tones subdued. Glancing at the bed, Devil frowned. "What's Charles doing here?"
"He was at the Place when I arrived. Says he chased Tolly up here over some business matter. He called at Tolly's rooms—Old Mick told him Tolly had left for here."
Devil grimaced. "I suppose it's as well that he's here." Vane was studying his bare chest. "Where's your shirt?"
"It's the bandage." After a moment, Devil sighed and straightened. "I'll take Miss Anstruther-Wetherby to the Place and send a cart."
"And I'll stay and watch over the body." A fleeting smile touched Vane's lips. "You always get the best roles."
Devil's answering smile was equally brief. "This one comes with a ball and chain." Vane's eyes locked on his. "You're serious?"
"Never more so." Devil glanced at the pallet. "Keep an eye on Charles." Vane nodded.
The sunshine outside nearly blinded him. Devil blinked and squinted at the log. It was empty. He cursed and looked again—a terrible thought occurred. What if she'd tried to take Sulieman?
His reaction was instantaneous—the rush of blood, the sudden pounding of his heart. His muscles had already tensed to send him racing to the stable when a flicker of movement caught his eye.
She hadn't gone to the stable. Eyes adjusting to the glare, Devil watched her pace back and forth, a few steps to the side of the log. Her dun-colored gown had blended with the boles of the trees, momentarily camouflaging her. His panic subsiding, he focused his gaze.
Honoria felt it—she looked up and saw him, bare-chested still, the very image of a buccaneer, watching her, unmoving, irritation in every line. Their gazes locked—a second later, she broke the contact. Nose in the air, she stepped gracefully to her right—and sat primly on the log.
He waited, sharp green gaze steady, then, apparently satisfied that she'd remain where she'd been put, he headed for the stable.
Honoria ground her teeth, and told herself that he didn't matter. He was an expert in manipulation—and in intimidation—but why should that bother her? She would go to this Place of his, wait for her boxes, and then be on her way. She could spend the time meeting the Dowager Duchess.
At least she'd solved one part of the mystery plaguing her—she'd met her elusive duke. The image she'd carried for the past three days—the image Lady Claypole had painted—of a mild,
unassuming, reclusive peer, rose in her mind. The image didn't fit the reality—the duke called Devil was not mild or unassuming. He was a first-class tyrant. And as for Lady Claypole's claim that he was caught in her coils, her ladyship was dreaming.
But at least she'd met her duke, even if she had yet to learn his name. She was, however, having increasing difficulty believing that the notion of introducing himself had not, at some point in the past fifteen hours, passed through his mind. Which was a thought to ponder.
Honoria wriggled, ruing the loss of her petticoat. The log was rough and wrinkly; it was making painful indentations in her flesh. She could see the stable entrance; from the shifting shadows, she surmised Devil was saddling his demon horse. Presumably he would ride to the Place and send conveyances for her and his cousin's body.
With the end of her unexpected adventure in sight, she allowed herself a moment's reflection. Somewhat to her surprise, it was filled with thoughts of Devil. He was overbearing, arrogant, domineering—the list went on. And on. But he was also strikingly handsome, could be charming when he wished and, she suspected, possessed a suitably devilish sense of humor. She'd seen enough of the duke to accord him her respect and enough of the man to feel an empathetic tug. Nevertheless, she had no desire to spend overmuch time in the company of a tyrant called Devil. Gentlemen such as he were all very well—as long as they weren't related to you and kept a respectful distance.
She'd reached that firm conclusion when he reappeared, leading Sulieman. The stallion was skittish, the man somber. Honoria stood as he neared.
Stopping in front of her, he halted Sulieman beside him; with the log immediately behind her, Honoria couldn't step back. Before she could execute a sideways sidle, Devil looped the reins about one fist—and reached for her.
By the time she realized his intention, she was perched precariously sidesaddle on Sulieman's back. She gasped, and locked her hands about the pommel. "What on earth…?"
Unloosing the reins, Devil threw her an impatient frown. "I'm taking you home."
Honoria blinked—he had a way with words she wasn't sure she appreciated. "You're taking me to your home—the Place?"
"Somersham Place." The reins free, Devil reached for the pommel. With Honoria riding before him, he wasn't intending to use the stirrups.
Honoria's eyes widened. "Wait!"
The look Devil cast her could only be achieved by an impatient man. "What?"
"You've forgotten your jacket—it's in the cottage." Honoria fought to contain her panic, occasioned by the thought of his chest—bare—pressed against her back. Even within a foot of her back. Within a foot of any of her.
"Vane'll bring it."
"No! Well—whoever heard of a duke riding about the countryside bare-chested? You might catch cold—I mean…" Aghast, Honoria realized she was looking into pale green eyes that saw far more than she'd thought.
Devil held her gaze steadily. "Get used to it," he advised. Then he vaulted into the saddle behind her.
Chapter 4
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The only benefit Honoria could discover in her position on Sulieman's back was that her tormentor, behind her, could not see her face. Unfortunately, he could see the blush staining not only her cheeks but her neck. He could also feel the rigidity that had gripped her—hardly surprising—the instant he'd landed in the saddle behind her, he'd wrapped a muscled arm about her and pulled her against him.
She'd shut her eyes the instant he'd touched her; panic had cut off her shriek. For the first time in her life she thought she might actually faint. The steely strength surrounding her was overwhelming; by the time she subdued her flaring reactions and could function rationally again, they were turning from the bridle path into the lane.
Glancing about, she looked down—and clutched at the arm about her waist. It tightened. "Sit still—you won't fall."
Honoria's eyes widened. She could feel every word he said. She could also feel a pervasive heat emanating from his chest, his arms, his thighs; wherever they touched, her skin burned. "Ah…" They were retracing the journey she'd taken in the gig; the curve into the straight lay just ahead. "Is Somersham Place your principal residence?"
"It's home. My mother remains there most of the year."
There was no duke of Somersham. As they rounded the curve, Honoria decided she had had enough. Her hips, her bottom, were wedged firmly between his rock-hard thighs.
They were exceedingly close, yet she didn't even know his name. "What is your title?"
"Titles." The stallion tried to veer to the side of the lane but was ruthlessly held on course. "Duke of St. Ives, Marquess of Earith, Earl of Strathfield, Viscount Wellsborough, Viscount Moreland…"
The recital continued; Honoria leaned back against his arm so she could see his face. By the time names ceased to fall from his lips, they'd passed the place of yesterday's tragedy and rounded the next bend. He looked down; she narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you quite finished?"
"Actually, no. That's the litany they drummed into me when I was in shortcoats. There are more recent additions, but I've never learned where they fit."
He glanced down again—Honoria stared blankly back at him. She'd finally caught the elusive connection.
Cynsters hold St. Ives. That was a line of the rhyme her mother had taught her, listing the oldest families in the ton. And if Cynsters still held St. Ives, that meant… Abruptly, she focused on the chiseled features of the man holding her so easily before him. "You're Devil Cynster?"
His eyes met hers; when she continued to stare in dumbfounded accusation, one black brow arrogantly rose. "You want proof?"
Proof? What more proof could she need? One glance into those ageless, omniscient eyes, at that face displaying steely strength perfectly melded with rampant sensuality, was enough to settle all doubts.
Abruptly, Honoria faced forward; her mind had reeled before—now it positively whirled.
Cynsters—the ton wouldn't be the same without them. They were a breed apart—wild, hedonistic, unpredictable. In company with her own forebears, they'd crossed the Channel with the Conqueror; while her ancestors sought power through politics and finance, the Cynsters pursued the same aim through more direct means. They were and always had been warriors supreme—strong, courageous, intelligent—men born to lead. Through the centuries, they'd thrown themselves into any likely-looking fray with a reckless passion that made any sane opponent think twice. Consequently, every king since William had seen the wisdom of placating the powerful lords of St. Ives. Luckily, by some strange quirk of nature, Cynsters were as passionate about land as they were over battle.
Added to that, whether by fate or sheer luck, their heroism under arms was matched by an uncanny ability to survive. In the aftermath of Waterloo, when so many noble families were counting the cost, a saying had gone the rounds, born of grudging awe. The Cynsters, so it went, were invincible; seven had taken the field and all seven returned, hale and whole, with barely a scratch.
They were also invincibly arrogant, a characteristic fueled by the fact that they were, by and large, as talented as they thought themselves, a situation which engendered in less-favored mortals a certain reluctant respect.
Not that Cynsters demanded respect—they simply took it as their due.
If even half the tales told were true, the current generation were as wild, hedonistic, and unpredictable as any Cynsters ever were. And the current head of the clan was the wildest, most hedonistic, and unpredictable of them all. The present duke of St. Ives—he who had tossed her up to his saddle and declared he was taking her home. The same man who'd told her to get used to his bare chest. The piratical autocrat who had, without a blink, decreed she was to be his duchess.
It suddenly occurred to Honoria that she might be assuming too much. Matters might not be proceeding quite as she'd thought. Not that it mattered—she knew where life was taking her. Africa. She cleared her throat. "When next you meet them, the Claypole girls might prove trying—they are, I'm sorry to say, their mother's daughters."
She felt him shrug. "I'll leave you to deal with them." "I won't be here." She made the statement firmly.
"We'll be here often enough—we'll spend some of the year in London and on my other estates, but the Place will always be home. But you needn't worry over me—I'm not fool enough to face the disappointed local aspirants without availing myself of your skirts."
"I beg your pardon?" Turning, Honoria stared at him.
He met her gaze briefly; his lips quirked. "To hide behind."
The temptation was too great—Honoria lifted an arrogant brow. "I thought Cynsters were invincible."
His smile flashed. "The trick is not to expose oneself unnecessarily to the enemy's fire."
Struck by the force of that fleeting smile, Honoria blinked—and abruptly faced forward. There was, after all, no reason she should face him unnecessarily either. Then she realized she'd been distracted. "I hate to destroy your defense, but I'll be gone in a few days."
"I hesitate to contradict you," came in a purring murmur just above her left ear, "but we're getting married. You are, therefore, not going anywhere."
Honoria gritted her teeth against the shivery tingles that coursed down her spine. Turning her head, she looked directly into his mesmerizing eyes. "You only said that to spike Lady Claypole's guns." When he didn't respond, just met her gaze levelly, she looked forward, shrugging haughtily. "You're no gentleman to tease me so."
The silence that followed was precisely gauged to stretch her nerves taut. She knew that when he spoke, his voice deep, low, velvet dark. "I never tease—at least not verbally. And I'm not a gentleman, I'm a nobleman, a distinction I suspect you understand very well."
Honoria knew what she was meant to understand—her insides were quaking in a thoroughly distracting way—but she was not about to surrender. "I am not marrying you."
"If you think that, my dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, I fear you've overlooked a number of pertinent points."
"Such as?"
"Such as the past night, which we spent under the same roof, in the same room, unchaperoned."
"Except by a dead man, your cousin, who everyone must know you were fond of. With his body laid out upon the bed, no one will imagine anything untoward occurred." Convinced she'd played a winning card, Honoria wasn't surprised by the silence which followed.
They emerged from the trees into the brightness of a late-summer morning. It was early; the crisp chill of the night had yet to fade. The track followed a water-filled ditch. Ahead, a line of gnarled trees lay across their path.
"I had intended to ask you not to mention how we found Tolly. Except, of course, to the family and the magistrate."
Honoria frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I'd rather it was thought that we found him this morning, already dead."
Honoria pursed her lips, and saw her defense evaporate. But she could hardly deny the request, particularly as it really mattered not at all. "Very well. But why?"
"The sensationalism will be bad enough when it becomes known he was killed by a highwayman. I'd rather spare my aunt, and you, as much of the consequent questioning as possible. If it's known he lived afterward and we found him before he died, you'll be subjected to an inquisition every time you appear in public."
She could hardly deny it—the ton thrived on speculation. "Why can't we say he was already dead when we found him yesterday?"
"Because if we do, it's rather difficult to explain why I didn't simply leave you with the body and ride home, relieving you of my dangerous presence."
"Given you appear impervious to the elements, why didn't you leave after he died?" "It was too late by then."
Because the damage to her reputation had already been done? Honoria swallowed an impatient humph. Between the trees, she could see a stone wall, presumably enclosing the park. Beyond, she glimpsed a large house, the roof and the highest windows visible above tall hedges. "Anyway," she stated, "on one point Lady Claypole was entirely correct—there's no need for any great fuss."
"Oh?"
"It's a simple matter—as Lady Claypole will not give me a recommendation, perhaps your mother could do so?"
"I think that's unlikely."
"Why?" Honoria twisted around. "She'll know who I am just as you did." Pale green eyes met hers. "That's why."
She wished narrowing her eyes at him had some effect—she tried it anyway. "In the circumstances, I would have thought your mother would do all she can to help me."
"I'm sure she will—which is precisely why she won't lift a finger to help you to another position as governess."
Stifling a snort, Honoria turned forward. "She can't be that stuffy." "I can't recall her ever being described as such."
"I rather think somewhere to the north might be wise—the Lake District perhaps?"
He sighed—Honoria felt it all the way to her toes. "My dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, let me clarify a few details. Firstly, the tale of us spending the night alone in my woodsman's cottage will out—nothing is more certain. Regardless of all injunctions delivered by her put-upon spouse, Lady Claypole will not be able to resist telling her dearest friends the latest scandal involving the duke of St.
Ives. All in absolute confidence, of course, which will ensure the story circulates to every corner of the ton. After that, your reputation will be worth rather less than a farthing. Regardless of what they say to your face, not a single soul will believe in your innocence. Your chances of gaining a position in a household of sufficient standing to set your brother's mind at rest are currently nil."
Honoria scowled at the trees, drawing ever nearer. "I take leave to inform you, Your Grace, that I'm hardly a green girl. I'm a mature woman of reasonable experience—no easy mark."
"Unfortunately, my dear, you have your cause and effect confused. If you had, indeed, been a
fresh-faced chit just out of the schoolroom, few would imagine I'd done anything other than sleep last night. As it is…" He paused, slowing Sulieman as they neared the trees. "It's well-known I prefer more challenging game."
Disgusted, Honoria humphed. "It's ridiculous—there wasn't even a bed."
The chest behind her quaked, then was still. "Trust me—there's no requirement for a bed."
Honoria pressed her lips shut and glared at the trees. The path wended through the stand; beyond stood the stone wall, two feet thick and eight feet high. An archway gave onto an avenue lined with poplars.
Through the shifting leaves, she sighted the house, still some way to the left. It was huge—a long central block with perpendicular wings at each end, like an E without the middle stroke. Directly ahead lay a sprawling stable complex.
The proximity of the stables prompted her to speech. "I suggest, Your Grace, that we agree to disagree over the likely outcome of last night. I acknowledge your concern but see no reason to tie myself up in matrimony to avoid a few months' whispers. Given your reputation, you can hardly argue." That, she felt, was a nicely telling touch.
"My dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby." His gentle, perfectly lethal purr sounded in her left ear; tingles streaked down her spine. "Let me make one point perfectly clear. I don't intend to argue. You, an Anstruther-Wetherby, have been compromised, however innocently, by me, a Cynster. There is, therefore, no question over the outcome; hence, there can be no argument."
Honoria gritted her teeth so tightly her jaw ached. The struggle to suppress the shudder that purring murmur of his evoked distracted her all the way to the stable arch. They rode beneath it, Sulieman's hooves clattering on the cobbles. Two grooms came running but pulled up short of where Devil reined in his black steed.
"Where's Melton?"
"Not yet about, Y'r Grace."
Honoria heard her rescuer—or was that captor?—curse beneath his breath. Entirely without warning, he dismounted—by bringing his leg over the pommel, taking her to the ground with him. She didn't have time to shriek.
Catching her breath, she realized her feet had yet to reach earth—he was holding her still, firmly caught against him; another shudder threatened. She drew breath to protest—on the instant, he gently set her down.
Lips compressed, Honoria haughtily brushed down her skirts. Straightening, she turned toward him—he caught her hand, grabbed the reins, and headed for the stable block, towing her and his black demon behind him.
Honoria swallowed her protest; she'd rather go with him than cool her heels in the stable yard, a prey to his grooms'
curiosity. Gloom, filled with the familiar smells of hay and horses, engulfed her. "Why can't your grooms brush him down?"
"They're too frightened of him—only old Melton can handle him." Honoria looked at Sulieman—the horse looked steadily back.
His master stopped before a large stall. Released, Honoria leaned against the stall door. Arms crossed, she pondered her predicament while watching her captor—she was increasingly certain that was a more accurate description of him—rub down his fearsome steed.
Muscles bunched and relaxed; the sight was positively mesmerizing. He'd told her to get used to it; she doubted she ever could. He bent, then fluidly straightened and shifted to the horse's other side; his chest came into view. Honoria drew in a slow breath—then he caught her eye.
For one instant, their gazes held—then Honoria looked away, first at the tack hanging along the stable wall, then up at the rafters, inwardly berating herself for her reaction, simultaneously wishing she had a fan to hand.
It was never wise to tangle with autocrats, but, given she had no choice, she needed to remember that it
was positively fatal to acknowledge he had any power over her.
Determined to hold her own, she ordered her mind to business. If he believed honor demanded he marry her, she'd need to try a different tack. She frowned. "I do not see that it's fair that, purely because I was stranded by a storm and took shelter in the same cottage as you, I should have to redirect my life. I am not a passive spectator waiting for the next occurrence to happen—I have plans!"
Devil glanced up. "Riding in the shadow of the Great Sphinx?" He could just imagine her on a camel—along with a hovering horde of Berber chieftains who looked remarkably like him and thought like him, too.
"Precisely. And I plan to explore the Ivory Coast as well—another exciting place so I've heard."
Barbary pirates and slave traders. Devil tossed aside the currying brush and dusted his hands on his breeches. "You'll just have to make do with becoming a Cynster—no one's ever suggested it's a mundane existence."
"I am not going to marry you."
Her flashing eyes and the set of her chin declared her Anstruther-Wetherby mind was made up; Devil knew he was going to seriously enjoy every minute it took to make her change it. He walked toward her.
Predictably, she backed not an inch, although he saw her muscles lock against the impulse. Without breaking stride, he closed his hands about her waist and lifted her, setting her down with her back against the stall wall. With commendable restraint, he removed his hands, locking one on the top of the
half-closed door, bracing the other, palm flat, on the wall by her shoulder.
Caged, she glared at him; he tried not to notice how her breasts rose as she drew in a deep breath. He spoke before she could. "What have you got against the proposition?"
Honoria kept her eyes locked on his—standing as he was, her entire field of vision was filled with bare male. Once her heart had ceased to thud quite so loudly, she raised her brows haughtily. "I have no desire whatever to marry purely because of some antiquated social stricture."
"That's the sum of your objections?" "Well, there's Africa, of course."
"Forget Africa. Is there any reason other than my motives in offering for you that in your opinion constitutes an impediment to our marriage?"
His arrogance, his high-handedness, his unrelenting authority—his chest. Honoria was tempted to start at the top of her list and work her way down. But not one of her caveats posed any serious impediment to their marriage. She searched his eyes for some clue as to her best answer, fascinated anew by their remarkable clarity. They were like crystal clear pools of pale green water, emotions, thoughts, flashing like quicksilver fish in their depths. "No."
"Good."
She glimpsed some emotion—was it relief?—flash through his eyes before his heavy lids hid them from view. Straightening, he caught her hand and headed for the stable door. Stifling a curse, she grabbed up her skirts and lengthened her stride. He made for the main archway; beyond lay his house, peaceful in the morning sunshine.
"You may set your mind at rest, Miss Anstruther-Wetherby." He glanced down, the planes of his face granite-hard. "I'm not marrying you because of any social stricture. That, if you consider it, is a nonsensical idea. Cynsters, as you well know, do not give a damn about social strictures. Society, as far as we're concerned, can think what it pleases—it does not rule us."
"But… if that's the case—and given your reputation I can readily believe it is—why insist on marrying me?"
"Because I want to."
The words were delivered as the most patently obvious answer to a simple question. Honoria held on to her temper. "Because you want to?"
He nodded.
"That's it? Just because you want to?"
The look he sent her was calculated to quell. "For a Cynster, that's a perfectly adequate reason. In fact, for a Cynster, there is no better reason."
He looked ahead again; Honoria glared at his profile. "This is ridiculous. You only set eyes on me yesterday, and now you want to marry me?"
Again he nodded. "Wry?"
The glance he shot her was too brief for her to read. "It so happens I need a wife, and you're the perfect candidate." With that, he altered their direction and lengthened his stride even more.
"I am not a racehorse."
His lips thinned, but he slowed—just enough so she didn't have to run. They'd gained the graveled walk that circled the house. It took her a moment to replay his words, another to see their weakness. "That's still ridiculous. You must have half the female population of the ton waiting to catch your handkerchief every time you blow your nose."
He didn't even glance her way. "At least half." "So why me?"
Devil considered telling her—in graphic detail. Instead, he gritted his teeth and growled: "Because you're unique."
"Unique?"
Unique in that she was arguing. He halted, raised his eyes to the heavens in an appeal for sufficient strength to deal with an Anstruther-Wetherby, then looked down and trapped her gaze. "Let me put it this way—you are an attractive Anstruther-Wetherby female with whom I've spent an entire night in private—and I've yet to bed you." He smiled. "I assume you would prefer we married before I do?"
The stunned shock in her eyes was balm to his soul. The grey orbs, locked on his, widened—then widened even more. He knew what she was seeing—the sheer lust that blazed through him had to be lighting his eyes.
He fully expected her to dissolve into incoherent, ineffectual, disjointed gibberings—instead, she suddenly snapped free of his visual hold, blinked, drew a quick breath—and narrowed her eyes at him.
"I am not marrying you just so I can go to bed with you. I mean—" She caught herself up and breathlessly amended, "So that you can go to bed with me."
Devil watched the telltale color rise in her cheeks. Grimly, he nodded. "Fine." Tightening his grip on her hand, he turned and stalked on.
All the way from the cottage, she'd shifted and wriggled against him; by the time they'd reached the stable, he'd been agonizingly aroused. How he'd managed not to throw her down in the straw and ease his pain, he had no idea. But he now had a roaring headache, and if he didn't keep moving—keep her moving—temptation might yet get the upper hand. "You," he stated, as they rounded the corner of the house, "can marry me for a host of sensible, socially acceptable reasons. I'll marry you to get you into my bed."
He felt her dagger glance. "That is—Good God!"
Honoria stopped; stock-still, she stared. Somersham Place lay spread before her, basking in the morning sunshine. Immense, built of honey-colored stone at least a century before, it sprawled elegantly before her, a mature and gracious residence overlooking a wide lawn. She was dimly aware of the lake at the bottom of the lawn, of the oaks flanking the curving drive, of the stone wall over which a white rose cascaded, dew sparkling on the perfumed blooms. The clack of ducks drifted up from the lake; the air was fresh with the tang of clipped grass. But it was the house that held her. Durable, inviting, there was grandeur in every line, yet the sharp edges were muted, softened by the years. Sunbeams glinted on row upon row of lead-paned windows; huge double oak doors were framed by a portico of classic design.
Like a lovely woman mellowed by experience, his home beckoned, enticed. He was proposing to make her mistress of all this.
The thought flitted through her mind; even though she knew he was watching, she allowed herself a moment to imagine, to dwell on what might be. For this had she been born, reared, trained. What should have been her destiny lay before her. But becoming his duchess would mean risking…
No! She'd promised herself—never again.
Mentally shutting her eyes to the house, the temptation, she drew a steadying breath, and saw the crest blazoned in stone on the portico's facade, a shield sporting a stag rampant on a ground of fleur-de-lis. Beneath the shield ran a wide stone ribbon bearing a carved inscription. The words were Latin—it took her a moment to translate. "To have… and to hold?"
Hard fingers closed about hers. "The Cynster family motto."
Honoria raised her eyes heavenward. An irresistible force, he drew her toward the steps. "Where are you taking me?" A vision of silk cushions and gauze curtains—a pirate's private lair—flashed into her mind.
"To my mother. Incidentally, she prefers to be addressed as the Dowager." Honoria frowned. "But you're not married."
"Yet. It's her subtle way of reminding me of my duty."
Subtle. Honoria wondered what the Dowager—his mother, after all—would do if she wished to make a point forcefully. Whatever, it was time and past to make a stand. It would be unwise to cross his threshold—beyond which, she had not the slightest doubt, he ruled like a king—without coming to some agreement as to their future relationship, or lack thereof.
They reached the porch; he halted before the doors and released her. Facing him, Honoria straightened. "Your Grace, we must—"
The doors swung inward, held majestically wide by a butler, one of the more imposing of the species. Cheated of her moment, Honoria only just managed not to glare.
The butler's eyes had gone to his master; his smile was genuinely fond. "Good morning, Your Grace." His master nodded. "Webster."
Honoria stood her ground. She was not going to cross his threshold until he acknowledged her right to ignore—as he did whenever it suited him—society's dictates.
He shifted to stand beside her, gesturing for her to precede him. Simultaneously, Honoria felt his hand at the back of her waist. Without her petticoat, only a single layer of fabric separated her skin from his hard palm. He didn't exert any great pressure; instead, seductively questing, his hand traveled slowly, very slowly, down. When it reached the curve of her bottom, Honoria sucked in a quick breath—and stepped quickly over the threshold.
He followed. "This is Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, Webster." He looked her way; Honoria glimpsed triumph in his eyes. "She'll be staying—her boxes should arrive this morning."
Webster bowed low. "I'll have your things taken to your room, miss."
Stiffly, Honoria inclined her head—her heart was still fluttering in her throat; her skin felt hot and cold in the strangest places. She couldn't fault the butler's demeanor; he seemed unsurprised by his master's lack of attire. Was she the only one who found his bare chest at all remarkable? Stifling an urge to sniff disbelievingly, she elevated her nose another inch and looked about the hall.
The impression created by the exterior extended within doors. A sense of graciousness pervaded the high-ceilinged hall, lit by sunlight pouring through the fanlight and the windows flanking the front doors. The walls were papered—blue fleur-de-lis on an ivory ground; the paneling, all light oak, glowed softly. Together with the blue-and-white tiles, the decor imparted an airy, uncluttered atmosphere. Stairs of polished oak, their baluster ornately carved, led upward in a long, straight sweep, then divided into two, both arms leading to the gallery above.
Webster had been informing his master of the presence of his cousins. Devil nodded curtly. "Where's the Dowager?"
"In the morning room, Your Grace."
"I'll take Miss Anstruther-Wetherby to her. Wait for me." Webster bowed.
The devil glanced down at her. With a languid grace that set her nerves on end, he gestured for her to accompany him. She was still quivering inside—she told herself it was due to indignation. Head high, she swept down the hall.
His instruction to his butler to wait had recalled what their sparring had driven from her mind. As they neared the morning-room door, it occurred to Honoria that she might have been arguing for no real reason. Devil reached for the doorknob, his fingers closing about hers—she tugged. He looked up, incipient impatience in his eyes.
She smiled understandingly. "I'm sorry—I'd forgotten. You must be quite distracted by your cousin's death." She spoke softly, soothingly. "We can discuss all this later, but there's really no reason for us to wed. I daresay, once the trauma has passed, you'll see things as I do."
He held her gaze, his eyes as blank as his expression. Then his features hardened. "Don't count on it." With that, he set the door wide and handed her through. He followed, closing the door behind him.
A petite woman, black hair streaked with grey, was seated in a chair before the hearth, a hoop filled with embroidery on her lap. She looked up, then smiled—the most gloriously welcoming smile Honoria had ever seen—and held out her hand. "There you are, Sylvester. I'd wondered where you'd got to. And who is this?"
His mother's French background rang clearly in her accent; it also showed in her coloring, in the hair that had once been as black as her son's combined with an alabaster complexion, in the quick, graceful movements of her hands, her animated features and the candid, appraising glance that swept Honoria.
Inwardly ruing her hideously creased skirts, Honoria kept her head high as she was towed across the room. The Dowager hadn't so much as blinked at her son's bare chest.
"Maman." To her surprise, her devilish captor bent and kissed his mother's cheek. She accepted the tribute as her due; as he straightened, she fixed him with a questioning glance every bit as imperious as he was arrogant. He met it blandly. "You told me to bring you your successor the instant I found her. Allow me to present Miss Honoria Prudence Anstruther-Wetherby." Briefly, he glanced at Honoria. "The Dowager Duchess of St. Ives." Turning back to his mother, he added: "Miss Anstruther-Wetherby was residing with the Claypoles—her boxes will arrive shortly. I'll leave you to get acquainted."
With the briefest of nods, he proceeded to do just that, closing the door firmly behind him. Stunned, Honoria glanced at the Dowager, and was pleased to see she wasn't the only one left staring.
Then the Dowager looked up and smiled—warmly, welcomingly, much as she had smiled at her son. Honoria felt the glow touch her heart. The Dowager's expression was understanding, encouraging. "Come, my dear. Sit down." The Dowager waved to the chaise beside her chair. "If you have been dealing with Sylvester, you will need the rest. He is often very trying."
Resisting the temptation to agree emphatically, Honoria sank onto the chintz.
"You must excuse my son. He is somewhat…" The Dowager paused, clearly searching for the right word. She grimaced. "Detresse."
"I believe he has a number of matters on his mind."
The Dowager's fine brows rose. "His mind?" Then she smiled, eyes twinkling as they rested once more on Honoria's face. "But now, my dear, as my so-detresse son has decreed, we will get acquainted. And as you are to be my daughter-in-law, I will call you Honoria." Again, her brows rose. "Is that not right?"
Her name became " 'Onoria"—the Dowager couldn't manage the "H." Honoria returned her smile, and sidestepped the leading question. "If you wish it, ma'am."
The Dowager's smile grew radiant. "My dear, I wish it with all my heart."
Chapter 5
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After an hour of subtle interrogation, Honoria escaped the Dowager, pleased that, while she'd parted with her life history, she'd successfully avoided all mention of Tolly's death. Shown to an elegant suite, she washed and changed; her self-confidence renewed, she descended—into mayhem.
The magistrate had arrived; while Devil dealt with him, Vane had broken the news to the Dowager. When Honoria entered the drawing room, the Dowager was in full histrionic spate. While grief was certainly present, it had been overtaken by indignant fury.
Instantly, the Dowager appealed to her for details. "You need not apologize for not telling me before. I know just how it was—that oh-so-male son of mine sought to keep the matter from me, Cynster that he is."
Waved to a chair, Honoria dutifully complied. She'd barely finished her tale when the scrunch of wheels on gravel heralded Devil's reappearance.
"What's the verdict?" Vane asked.
Devil met his gaze levelly. "Death through shooting by some person unknown. Possibly a highwayman." "A highwayman?" Honoria stared at him.
Devil shrugged. "Either that or a poacher." He turned to the Dowager. "I've sent for Arthur and Louise." Lord Arthur Cynster and his wife Louise proved to be Tolly's parents.
There followed a detailed discussion of who to notify, the appropriate arrangements, and how to accommodate the expected crowd, which encompassed a goodly proportion of the ton. While Devil undertook the first two aspects, organizing rooms and sustenance fell to the Dowager.
Despite her firm intention to remain aloof from Devil's family, Honoria simply could not stand by and allow such a weight to descend on the Dowager's fragile shoulders. Especially not when she was more than well qualified to lighten the load. As, however reluctantly, an Anstruther-Wetherby who had been present when Tolly had died, she would be expected to attend the funeral; she would need to remain at the Place at least until after that. That being so, there was no reason not to offer her aid. Besides which, to sit idly in her room while about her the household ran frantic, would be entirely beyond her.
Within minutes, she was immersed in lists—initial lists, then derived lists and eventually lists for cross-checking. The afternoon and evening passed in intense activity; Webster and the housekeeper, a matronly woman known as Mrs. Hull, coordinated the execution of the Dowager's directives. An army of maids and footmen labored to open up rooms. Helpers from the nearby farms tramped in to assist in the kitchens and stables. Yet all the bustle was subdued, somber; not a laugh was heard nor a smile seen.
Night fell, restless, disturbed; Honoria awoke to a dull day. A funereal pall had settled over the Place—it deepened with the arrival of the first carriage.
The Dowager met it, taking her grieving sister-in-law under her wing. Honoria slipped away, intending to seek refuge in the summerhouse by the side of the front lawn. She was halfway across the lawn when she caught sight of Devil, heading her way through the trees. He had gone with the chaplain, Mr.
Menyweather, and a party of men to mark out the grave. Devil had seen her; Honoria halted.
He came striding out of the shade, long legs encased in buckskin breeches and shiny top boots. His fine white shirt with billowing sleeves, opened at the throat, was topped by a leather waistcoat. Despite his less-than-conventional attire, with his dramatic coloring, he still looked impressive—and every inch a pirate.
His gaze traveled swiftly over her, taking in her gown of soft lavender-grey, a color suitable for half-mourning. His expression was set, impassive, yet she sensed his approval.
"Your aunt and uncle have arrived." She made the statement while he was still some yards away.
One black brow quirked; Devil didn't pause. "Good morning, Honoria Prudence." Smoothly collecting her hand, he placed it on his arm and deftly turned her back toward the house. "I trust you slept well?"
"Perfectly, thank you." With no choice offering, Honoria strolled briskly beside him. She suppressed an urge to glare. "I haven't made you free of my name."
Devil looked toward the drive. "An oversight on your part, but I'm not one to stand on ceremony. I take it Maman has my aunt in hand?"
Her eyes on his, Honoria nodded.
"In that case," Devil said, looking ahead, "I'll need your help." Another crepe-draped carriage came into view, rolling slowly toward the steps. "That will be Tolly's younger brother and sisters."
He glanced at Honoria; she exhaled and inclined her head. Lengthening their strides, they reached the drive as the carriage rocked to a halt.
The door burst open; a boy jumped down. Eyes wide, he looked dazedly toward the house. Then he heard their footsteps and swung their way. Slender, quivering with tension, he faced them, his face leached of all color, his lips pinched. Recognition flared in his tortured eyes. Honoria saw him tense to fly to Devil, but he conquered the impulse and straightened, swallowing manfully.
Devil strode to the boy, dropping a hand on his shoulder and squeezing reassuringly. "Good lad." He looked into the carriage, then beckoned to the occupants. "Come."
He lifted first one silently sobbing girl, then another, down. Both possessed a wealth of chestnut ringlets and delicate complexions, presently blotchy. Four huge blue eyes swam in pools of tears; their slender figures shook with their sobs. They were, Honoria judged, about sixteen—and twins. Without any show of consciousness or fear, they clung to Devil, arms locking about his waist.
One arm about each, Devil turned them to face her. "This is Honoria Prudence—Miss Anstruther-Wetherby to you. She'll look after you both." He met Honoria's gaze. "She knows how it feels to lose someone you love."
Both girls and the boy were too distressed to render the prescribed greeting. Honoria didn't wait for it but smoothly took her cue. Devil deftly detached himself from the girls' clinging arms; gliding forward, she took his place. Slipping a comforting arm around each girl, she turned them toward the house. "Come—I'll show you to your room. Your parents are already inside."
They allowed her to shepherd them up the steps. Honoria was aware of their curious glances.
On the porch, both girls paused, gulping back their tears. Honoria cast a swift glance behind and saw Devil, his back to them, one arm draped across the boy's slight shoulders, head bent as he spoke to the lad. Turning back, she gathered her now shivering charges and urged them on.
Both balked.
"Will we have to… I mean—" One glanced up at her.
"Will we have to look at him?" the other forced out. "Is his face badly damaged?"
Honoria's heart lurched; sympathy—long-buried empathy—welled. "You won't have to see him if you don't want to." She spoke softly, reassuringly. "But he looks wonderfully peaceful—just like I imagine he always did. Handsome and quietly happy."
Both girls stared at her, hope in their eyes.
"I was there when he died," Honoria felt compelled to add.
"You were?" There was surprise and a touch of youthful skepticism in their tones. "Your cousin was there as well."
"Oh." They glanced back at Devil, then both nodded.
"And now we'd better get you settled." Honoria glanced back; a maid had hopped down from the carriage; footmen had materialized and were unstrapping boxes from the boot and the roof. "You'll want to wash your faces and change before the rest of the family arrives."
With sniffs and watery smiles for Webster, encountered in the hall, they allowed her to usher them upstairs.
The chamber allotted to the girls was near the end of one wing; promising to fetch them later, Honoria left them in their maid's care and returned downstairs.
Just in time to greet the next arrivals.
The rest of the day flew. Carriages rolled up in a steady stream, disgorging matrons and stiff-necked gentlemen and a goodly sprinkling of bucks. Devil and Vane were everywhere, greeting guests, fielding questions. Charles was there, too, his expression wooden, his manner stilted.
Stationed by the stairs, Honoria helped the Dowager greet and dispose of family and those friends close enough to claim room within the great house. Anchored to her hostess's side, the keeper of the lists, she found herself introduced by the Dowager, with a gently vague air.
"And this is Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, who is keeping me company."
The Cynster cousin to whom this was addressed, presently exchanging nods with Honoria, immediately looked intrigued. Speculation gleamed in the matronly woman's eyes. "Indeed?" She smiled, graciously coy. "I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, my dear."
Honoria replied with a polite, noncommittal murmur. She'd failed to foresee her present predicament when she'd offered her aid; now she could hardly desert her post. Fixing a smile on her lips, she resolved to ignore her hostess's blatant manipulation. The Dowager, she'd already realized, was even more stubborn than her son.
The family viewing of the body was held late that afternoon; remembering her promise, Honoria went to fetch Tolly's sisters from the distant wing.
They were waiting, pale but composed, intensely vulnerable in black muslin. Honoria ran an experienced eye over them, then nodded. "You'll do." They came forward hesitantly, clearly dreading what was to come. Honoria smiled encouragingly. "Your cousin omitted to mention your names."
"I'm Amelia, Miss Anstruther-Wetherby." The closest bobbed a curtsy. Her sister did the same, equally gracefully. "I'm Amanda."
Honoria raised her brows. "I presume calling 'Amy' will bring you both?" The simple sally drew two faint smiles. "Usually," Amelia admitted.
Amanda had already sobered. "Is it true—what Devil said? About you knowing about losing one you love?"
Honoria met her ingenuous gaze levelly. "Yes—I lost both my parents in a carriage accident when I was sixteen."
"Both?" Amelia looked shocked. "That must have been terrible—even worse than losing a brother."
Honoria stilled, then, somewhat stiffly, inclined her head. "Losing any family member is hard—but when they leave us, we still have to go on. We owe it to them—to their memory—as much as to ourselves."
The philosophical comment left both girls puzzling. Honoria seized the moment to get them headed downstairs, to the private chapel off the gallery.
Halting in the doorway, the twins nervously surveyed the black-clad ranks of their aunts and uncles and older male cousins, all silent, most with heads bowed.
Both girls reacted as Honoria had hoped: their spines stiffened—they drew deep breaths, straightened their shoulders, then paced slowly down the quiet room. Hand in hand, they approached the coffin, set on trestles before the altar.
From the shadows by the door, Honoria watched what was, in essence, a scene from her past. The somber peace of the chapel held her; she was about to slip into the back pew when Devil caught her eye. Commandingly formal in black coat and black trousers, white shirt and black cravat, he looked precisely what he was—a devilishly handsome rake—and the head of his family. From his position beyond the coffin, he raised one brow, his expression a subtle melding of invitation and challenge.
Tolly was no relative of hers, but she'd been present when he died. Honoria hesitated, then followed Tolly's sisters down the aisle.
Clinging to each other, the twins moved on, slipping into the pew behind their weeping mother. Honoria paused, look ing down on an innocence not even death could erase. As she had said, Tolly's face was peaceful, serene; no hint of the wound in his chest showed. Only the grey pallor of his skin bore witness that he would not again awake.
She'd seen death before, but not like this. Those before had been taken by God; they had only needed to be mourned. Tolly had been taken by man—a vastly different response was required. She
frowned.
"What is it?" Devil's voice came from beside her, pitched very low.
Honoria looked up. Frowning, she searched his eyes. He knew—how could he not? Why, then…? A chill touched her soul—she shivered and looked away.
"Come." Devil took her arm; Honoria let him hand her to a pew. He sat beside her; she felt his gaze on her face but did not look his way.
Then Tolly's mother rose. Supported by her husband, she placed a white rose in the coffin; the viewing was at an end. No one spoke as they slowly filed out, following the Dowager and Tolly's parents to the drawing room.
In the front hall, Devil drew Honoria aside, into the shadows of the stairs. As the last stragglers passed, he said, his voice low: "I'm sorry—I shouldn't have insisted. I didn't realize it would remind you of your parents."
Honoria looked up, directly into his eyes. They were not, she realized, particularly useful for hiding
emotions—the clear depths were too transparent. Right now, they looked contrite.
"It wasn't that. I was simply struck—" She paused, again searching his eyes. "By how wrong his death was." Impulsively, she asked: "Are you satisfied with the magistrate's verdict?"
His face hardened into a warrior's mask. His lids lowered, screening those too-revealing eyes, his lashes a distracting veil. "Perfectly." Languidly, he gestured toward the drawing room. "I suggest we join the others."
His abrupt dismissal was not quite a slap in the face, but it certainly gave Honoria pause. Cloaked in her customary poise, she allowed him to lead her into the drawing room, then inwardly cursed when so many eyes swung their way.
Their entrance together, separate from the earlier crowd, supported the image Devil and the Dowager were intent on projecting—the image of her as Devil's bride. Such subtle nuances were life and breath to the ton, Honoria knew it—she was usually adept at using such signals to her own advantage, but, in the present case, she was clearly fencing with a master.
Make that two masters, simultaneously—the Dowager was no newcomer to the game.
The drawing room was full, crowded with family, connections and close acquaintances. Despite the subdued tones, the noise was substantial. The Dowager was seated on the chaise beside Tolly's mother. Devil steered Honoria to where Amelia and Amanda were nervously conversing with a very old lady.
"If you need help with names or connections, ask the twins. It'll make them feel useful."
Honoria inclined her head and coolly returned: "Much as I'd like to distract them, there's really no need. It is, after all, unlikely I'll meet any of your family again." Regally aloof, she raised her head—and met the dark, frowning glance Devil sent her with implacable calm.
Amanda and Amelia turned as they came up, an identical look of pleading in their eyes.
"Ah—Sylvester." The old lady put out a crabbed hand and gripped Devil's sleeve. "A shame it has to be such a sad occasion on which I see you again."
"Indeed, Cousin Clara." Fluidly, Devil drew Honoria into their circle, trapping her hand on his sleeve the instant before she removed it. "I believe," he drawled, "that you've already met…" An untrustworthy gleam lit his eyes; inwardly aghast, her gaze locked with his, Honoria held her breath—and saw his lips curve as he looked down at Cousin Clara. "Miss Anstruther-Wetherby?"
Honoria almost sighed with relief. Her serene smile somewhat strained, she trained it on Clara.
"Oh, yes! Dear me, yes." The old lady visibly brightened. "Such a great pleasure to meet you, dear. I've been looking forward to—" Catching herself up, Clara glanced impishly at Devil, then smiled sweetly at Honoria. "Well—you know." Reaching out, she patted Honoria's hand. "Suffice to say we're all perfectly delighted, my dear."
Honoria knew one person who was less than perfectly delighted, but, with Amanda and Amelia looking on, she was forced to allow Clara's transparent supposition to pass with nothing more than a gracious smile. Looking up, she fleetingly met Devil's gaze—she could have sworn she detected a satisfied gleam in his eyes.
He immediately broke the contact. Releasing her, he covered Clara's hand with his, stooping so she did not have to look up so far. "Have you spoken to Arthur?"
"Not yet." Clara glanced about. "I couldn't find him in this crush." "He's by the window. Come—I'll take you to him."
Clara beamed. "So kind—but you always were a good boy." With brief nods to the twins, and a gracious one for Honoria, the old lady allowed Devil to lead her away.
Honoria watched them go, Devil so large and powerful, so arrogantly commanding, making not the smallest fuss over the creases Clara's sparrowlike claws were leaving in his sleeve. A good boy? She inwardly humphed.
"Thank goodness you came." Amanda swallowed. "She wanted to talk about Tolly. And I—we—didn't know how to…"
"Stop her?" Honoria smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry—it's only the very old who'll ask such questions. Now—" She glanced around—"tell me who the younger ones are:—Devil told me their names, but I've forgotten."
That was untrue, but the exercise served to distract the twins. Aside from themselves, Simon, and their two younger sisters, Henrietta and Mary, ten and three, they had three younger cousins.
"Heather's fourteen. Elizabeth—we call her Eliza—is thirteen, and Angelica's ten, the same as Henrietta."
"They're Uncle Martin's and Aunt Celia's daughters. Gabriel and Lucifer are their older brothers."
Gabriel and Lucifer? Honoria opened her mouth to request clarification—simultaneously, the Dowager caught her eye.
The Dowager's expression was an outright appeal for help. Her sister-in-law's hands still gripped hers tightly. With her eyes, the Dowager signaled to Webster, standing unobtrusively before the door. The tension in his stately figure conveyed very clearly that something was amiss.
Honoria looked back at the Dowager—she understood what was being asked of her, and that a
positive response would be interpreted as confirmation of another understanding—a matrimonial understanding between Devil and herself. But the appeal in the Dowager's eyes was very real, and of all the ladies present, she was unquestionably in the best state to deal with whatever disaster had befallen.
Torn, Honoria hesitated, then inwardly grimaced and nodded. She stepped toward the door, then remembered the twins. She glanced over her shoulder. "Come with me."
She swept regally across the room. Webster opened the door and stood back; Honoria sailed through. After waiting for her two escorts to pass, Webster followed, closing the door behind him.
In the hall, Honoria found Mrs. Hull waiting. "What's happened?"
Mrs. Hull's gaze flicked to Webster's face, then returned to Honoria's. The significance of that glance was not lost on Honoria; Webster had confirmed that she'd been deputed by the Dowager.
"It's the cakes, miss. What with all we've had to do, we sent out for them to the village. Mrs. Hobbs is excellent with cakes. We've often used her in such circumstances."
"But this time she hasn't lived up to expectations?"
Mrs. Hull's face tightened. "It's not that, miss. I sent two grooms with the gig, like I always do. Hobbs had the cakes ready—the boys loaded them in their trays. They were most of the way back"—Mrs. Hull paused to draw in a portentous breath—"when that demon horse of the master's came racing up, rearing and screaming, and spooked the old mare in the gig. The cakes went flying"—Mrs. Hull's eyes narrowed to flinty shards—"and that devil horse ate most of them!"
Pressing her fingers to her lips, Honoria looked down. Then she glanced at Webster. His face was expressionless.
"His Grace did not have time to ride the horse today, miss, so the head stableman turned him out for a run. The track from the village runs through the stable paddock."
"I see." Honoria's jaw ached. Despite all—the solemnity of the occasion and the impending crisis—the vision of Sulieman chomping on delicate petit fours was simply too much.
"So, you see, miss, I don't know what we're to do, with all these visitors and not even enough biscuits to go around." Mrs. Hull's expression remained severe.
"Indeed." Honoria straightened, considering possibilities. "Scones," she decided. "Scones, miss?" Mrs. Hull looked surprised, then her expression turned calculating.
Honoria glanced at the clock on the wall. "It's just four—they won't be expecting tea for at least half an hour. If we arrange some distraction…" She looked at Webster. "What time were you intending to serve dinner?"
"Seven, miss."
Honoria nodded. "Put dinner back to eight—notify the valets and ladies' maids. Mrs. Hull, you've an hour to produce scones in quantity. Take whatever helpers you need. We'll have plain scones with jam—do you have any blackberry jam? That would be a nice touch."
"Indeed, miss." Mrs. Hull was transformed. "We have our own blackberry jam—there's no other
like it."
"Very good—we'll have cream for those that wish it, and we'll have cheese scones and spiced scones as well."
"I'll get onto it immediately, miss." With a quick bob, Mrs. Hull sped back to her kitchen. "You spoke of a distraction, miss—to gain half an hour for Mrs. Hull?"
Honoria met Webster's eye. "Not an easy task, given the cause of this gathering." "Indeed not, miss."
"Can we help?"
Both Honoria and Webster turned to view the twins. Amanda colored. "With the distraction, I mean."
Slowly, Honoria's brows rose. "I wonder…?" She looked along the hall. "Come with me."
With Webster following, they entered the music room, next to the drawing room. Honoria waved at the instruments ranged along one wall. "What do you play?"
Amelia blinked. "I play the pianoforte." "And I play the harp," Amanda supplied.
Excellent examples of both instruments stood before them; Webster hurried to maneuver the required pieces into place. Honoria turned to the girls. "You play together?" They nodded. "Good. What pieces can you play? Think of slow, mournful pieces—requiems or sections thereof."
To her relief, the twins were true to their class, well taught and with decent repertoires. Five minutes later, she'd also discovered they possessed considerable skill.
"Excellent." Honoria exchanged a relieved glance with Webster. "Don't let anyone distract you—we need you to play for at least forty minutes. Start at the beginning of your list and start repeating once you've finished. You can stop when the tea trolley arrives."
The girls nodded, and commenced a liturgical excerpt. "Shall I open the doors, miss?" Webster whispered.
"Yes—the ones to the terrace as well." Both the music room and the drawing room gave onto the long terrace. Webster set the two doors flanking the fireplace wide, joining the two rooms. Heads turned as the haunting chords flowed over the conversations.
Gradually, tempted by the music, both ladies and gentlemen strolled in. The twins, used to performing before their elders, did not falter. There were chairs aplenty; gentlemen obligingly set them out, the ladies subsiding in groups, the gentlemen standing beside them.
From her position by the open terrace door, Honoria watched her distraction take hold. Suddenly, she felt a familiar presence behind her.
"This was inspired."
Glancing back, she met Devil's green eyes; they scanned her face. "What was wrong?"
Honoria wondered if there was anyone in the entire assembly who had missed her assumption of the Dowager's authority. She'd been prepared to swear Devil had been deep in conversation at the far side of the room at the time. "Your devil-horse ate the tea cakes. Mrs. Hull is not impressed. I believe she has visions of turning your steed into cat's meat."
He was close, his shoulder propped against the doorframe behind her; she felt his chest quake with suppressed laughter. "Hully wouldn't do that."
"Just mention your horse and watch her reach for her cleaver."
He was silent, looking out over the room. "Don't tell me you don't play?"
Honoria caught herself just in time—and reframed her answer. "I play the harpsichord, but I'm not Tolly's sister. Incidentally," she continued, in the same mild tone, "I give you fair warning that regardless of whatever imbroglio you and your mother concoct, I will not be marrying you."
She felt his gaze on her face; when he spoke, the words feathered her spine. "Would you care to wager on that?"
Honoria lifted her chin. "With a reprobate like you?" She waved dismissively. "You're a gamester." "One who rarely loses."
The deep words reverberated through her; Honoria abandoned speech and opted for a haughty shrug. Devil didn't move. His gaze swept her face, but he said nothing more.
To Honoria's relief, her strategem worked. The tea, when it arrived, was perfect, the scones fresh from the oven, the jam sweet. The twins retired to subdued but sincere applause; one glance at their faces showed just how much their contribution had meant to them.
"We'll get them to play again tomorrow," Devil murmured in her ear. "Tomorrow?" Honoria fought to quell an unhelpful shiver.
"At the wake." Devil met her eyes. "They'll feel better to be doing something useful again."
He left her musing—and returned with a cup of tea for her. She took it, only then realizing how much in need of refreshment she was. Other than understanding her too well, Devil behaved himself, smoothly introducing her to family friends. Honoria didn't need to exercise her imagination over how the company viewed her—their deference was marked.
The events of the afternoon, orchestrated by Devil and the Dowager, aided and abetted by Devil's demon horse, had conveyed a clear message—that she was to be Devil's bride.
The evening passed swiftly; dinner, attended by everyone, was a somber meal. No one was inclined to entertainment; most retired early. A brooding, melancholy silence descended over the house, as if it mourned, too.
In her chamber, cocooned in down, Honoria thumped her pillow and ordered herself to fall asleep. Five minutes of restless rustling later, she turned onto her back, and glared at the canopy.
It was all Devil's fault, his and his mother's. She'd tried to avoid acting as his duchess-to-be, unfortunately unsuccessfully. Worse, as Devil had stated, on a superficial level, she was perfect for the position, a fact apparently obvious to any who considered the matter. She was starting to feel like she was fighting fate.
Honoria shuffled onto her side. She, Honoria Prudence Anstruther-Wetherby, was not going to be pressured into anything. It was patently obvious both Devil and the Dowager would do everything possible to tempt her, to convince her to accept his proposal—the proposal he hadn't made. That last was not a fact she was likely to forget—he'd simply taken it for granted that she would marry him.
She'd known from the first he was impossible, even when she'd thought him a mere country squire; as a duke, he was doubly—triply—so. Aside from anything else—his chest, for example—he was a first-class tyrant. Sane women did not marry tyrants.
She clung to that eminently sound declaration, drawing strength from its unarguable logic. Keeping Devil's image in mind helped enormously—one glance at his face, at the rest of him, was all it took to reinforce her conclusion.
Unfortunately, that image, while helpful on the one hand, brought the source of her deeper unease into stronger focus. No matter how she tried, she couldn't escape the conclusion that for all his vaunted strength of character, for all his apparent family feeling, even despite his Cousin Clara's belief, Devil was turning his back on his dead cousin. Sweeping his death under the proverbial rug, presumably so it wouldn't interfere with his hedonistic pursuit of pleasure.
She didn't want to believe it, but she'd heard him herself. He'd stated that Tolly had been killed by a highwayman or a poacher. Everyone believed him, the magistrate included. He was the head of the family, one step removed from a despot; to them and the ton, what Devil Cynster, duke of St. Ives, stated, was.
The only one inclined to question him was herself. Tolly hadn't been shot by a highwayman, nor a poacher.
Why would a highwayman kill an unarmed young man? Highwaymen ordered their victims to stand and deliver; Tolly had carried a heavy purse—she'd felt it in his pocket. Had Tolly been armed and, with the impetuosity of youth, attempted to defend himself? She'd seen no gun; it seemed unlikely he could have flung it far from him while falling from the saddle. A highwayman did not seem at all likely.
As for a poacher, her devilish host had narrowed the field there. Not a shotgun, he had said, but a pistol. Poachers did not use pistols.
Tolly had been murdered.
She wasn't sure when she had reached that conclusion; it was now as inescapable as the dawn.
Honoria sat up and thumped her pillow, then fell back and stared into the night. Why was she so incensed by it—why did she feel so involved? She felt as if a responsibility had been laid upon her—upon her soul—to see justice done.
But that wasn't the cause of her sleeplessness.
She'd heard Tolly's voice in the cottage, heard the relief he'd felt when he'd realized he'd reached Devil. He'd thought he'd reached safety—someone who would protect him. In the cottage, she would
have sworn Devil cared—cared deeply. But his behavior in ignoring the evidence of Tolly's murder said otherwise.
If he truly cared, wouldn't he be searching for the murderer, doing all he could to catch him? Or was his "caring" merely an attitude, only skin-deep? Beneath that facade of strength, was he truly weak and shallow?
She couldn't believe it. She didn't want to believe it. Honoria closed her eyes. And tried to sleep.
Chapter 6
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It was an illusion—all an illusion—a typically arrogant sleight of hand. The scales fell from Honoria's eyes late the next morning, right in the middle of Tolly's funeral.
The crowd attending was considerable. A short service had been held in the church in the grounds, a stone building ringed by ancient trees shading monuments to Cynsters long gone.
Then the pallbearers—Devil and his cousins—had carried the coffin to the grave, set in a small clearing beyond the first circle of trees. Contrary to her intention to merge with the crowd, Honoria had been partnered first by Vane, who had given her his arm, thus including her in the family procession to the church, then later claimed by Amanda and Amelia, who had steered her to the grave, admitting they were acting on Devil's orders. A funeral was no place to make a stand. Resigned, Honoria had capitulated, accepting a position behind the twins at the graveside.
It was then the truth struck her.
The males of the family lined the other side of the grave. Directly opposite stood Tolly's brothers, Charles, with Simon beside him. Devil stood next to Simon; as Honoria watched, he placed a hand on Simon's shoulder. The boy looked up; Honoria witnessed their shared glance, that silent communication at which Devil excelled.
Vane stood next to Devil; behind and around them stood a solid phalanx of male Cynsters. There was no doubt of their connection—their faces, seen all together, held the same unyielding planes, their features the same autocratic cast. They numbered six, not counting Simon and Charles, both set apart, one by age, the other by character. Between the six, hair color varied, from Devil's black to light chestnut; eye color, too, differed. Nothing else did.
There was enormous strength in the group facing her—powerful, masculine, it emanated from them. Devil was their leader yet they were a group of individuals, each contributing to the whole.
Elsewhere about the grave, grief was amorphous. The grief of Tolly's male cousins held purpose, melding into a cohesive force, directed, focused.
Focused on Tolly's grave.
Honoria narrowed her eyes. People were still shifting, finding places in the crowd; both Amelia and Amanda were tense. Honoria leaned forward and whispered: "Tell me the names of your older male cousins."
The twins glanced at her, then across the grave. Amelia spoke first. "Vane's next to Devil, but you know him."
"That can't be his real name."
"His real name's Spencer," Amanda whispered. "But don't ever call him that."
"The one behind Devil is Richard—he's called Scandal. He's Devil's brother." "And the one behind Vane is his younger brother, Harry. They call him Demon." "Demon Harry?"
"That's right." Amanda nodded. "The one next to Vane is Gabriel." "His real name's Rupert—he's Uncle Martin's eldest son."
"And I suppose the one behind Gabriel is Lucifer?" Honoria asked. "His brother?" "That's right—he's really Alasdair."
Straightening, Honoria spent one minute wondering how they'd come by their pseudonyms—one question she was not about to ask the twins. She looked across the grave at those six male faces, and saw them clearly. No force on earth would stop them bringing Tolly's murderer to justice.
Being Cynsters, they could be counted on to avenge Tolly's death. Also being Cynsters, they would ensure their womenfolk, their elders and juniors—all those they considered in their care—were not disturbed or touched by such violence. Death and vengeance was their province, the home fires for the rest.
Which was all very well, but…
The last prayer was said; earth struck the coffin. Tolly's mother sagged in her sisters-in-law's arms; her husband hurried to her side. Amelia and Amanda tugged at Honoria's hands. Reluctantly, she turned from the grave—from the tableau on its opposite side.
Charles and the older Cynsters had left, but Simon, Devil, and the five others remained, their gazes still locked on the coffin. Just before she turned, Honoria saw Simon look up, into Devil's face, a question in his wide eyes. She saw Devil's response, the tightening of his hand on Simon's shoulder, the quiet promise he bent his head to give.
She had no doubt of the substance of that promise.
In company with the twins, Honoria crossed the lawns, musing on her situation. She would send for her brother Michael tomorrow, but he would take some days to reach her. Those days could be useful.
She needed to see justice done; she had a duty to avenge innocence—that was doubtless why Tolly's face haunted her. Impossible to send adult Cynster males to avenge innocence; their vengeance would be fueled by their warriors' reasons—the defending of their family, their clan. She would be the defender of innocence—she had a role to play, too.
She'd been looking for excitement, for adventure and intrigue—fate had landed her here. Far be it from her to argue.
The wake was a crush. Many of the bucks and bloods who had come up from London stayed for the
final scene. In half an hour, Honoria had been introduced to more dangerous blades than she'd thought to meet in a lifetime. Luckily, her inclusion within the family group had sent a clear message; she was not troubled by any of the visitors.
The twins again took to their instruments; the crowd filled the music room and the drawing room and overflowed onto the terrace.
While chatting with Cynster relatives and tonnish family acquaintances, Honoria kept a careful eye on Devil and his five accomplices. A pattern was soon apparent. Devil stood in the drawing room, his back to the open terrace doors; the others roamed the crowd, every now and then either stopping by Devil's side quietly to impart some information or catching his eye.
She could do nothing to intercept that silent communication; as for the other, however… Honoria focused on Lady Sheffield, her present interrogator.
"Of course," her ladyship intoned, "this distressing business will delay matters somewhat." Deliberately vague, Honoria raised her brows. "Indeed?"
Lady Sheffield eyed her consideringly. "Three months of mourning—that makes it December."
"Winter," Honoria helpfully observed. She smiled at Lady Sheffield, and gave her something for her pains. "Pray excuse me, ma'am—I must speak with Webster."
With a smile, she glided to the door, quite certain how her words would be interpreted. In the hall, she wove through the knots of guests. Plates piled with tiny sandwiches sat waiting on a sideboard; picking one up, she proceeded through the music room and onto the terrace.
Reaching the spot immediately behind Devil's back, she took up her position, her back to the drawing room. The sandwiches on her plate instantly attracted suitable cover.
"Lady Harrington," an older lady introduced herself. "Know your grandfather well, miss. Haven't seen him for a while. Daresay he's keeping well?"
"I daresay," Honoria replied, keeping her voice low. "Hurst knows nothing, nor does Gilford."
Without turning around and risking one of Devil's cousins noticing her, Honoria couldn't tell which one was reporting. But she knew Devil's voice. "Vane's checked with Blackwell. Try Gelling."
"Nice sandwiches, these." Lady Harrington took another. "There's Lady Smallworts—she knows your grandfather, too. Here—Dulcie!"
Lady Harrington waved at another bedizened lady; behind Honoria, another report was coming in. "Nothing from
Dashwood and yes, I leaned heavily. He's not holding anything back. Not his style, this sort of caper." There was silence, then Devil asked: "Anyone else here from that part of town?"
"I'll try Giles Edgeworth."
Some older gentleman approached Devil, and he was forced to converse; Honoria grasped the opportunity to give her attention to Lady Smallworts.
"Dear me, yes!" Lady Smallworts was examining her face through lorgnettes. "There's a definite likeness there, don't you think, Arethusa? About the chin."
Making a mental note to examine her chin when next she glanced in her mirror, Honoria plastered a smile on her lips and set herself to getting the two old dames chatting. Then she tuned her ears to the activity behind her.
"No luck with Farnsworth, nor Girton either."
Devil sighed. "There has to be something, somewhere."
"Must be—we'll just have to keep looking until we find it." After a pause, whichever cousin it was said: "I'll try a touch on Caffrey."
"Careful—I don't want this all over town by morning." "Trust me."
Honoria could almost see the Cynster smile that went with the words.
Again Devil's attention was claimed by others; Honoria put her tuppence worth into the discussion over whether sprigged muslin would still be all the rage next Season.
It was some time before another of his cousins came to Devil's side. Guests were starting to depart when Vane reported; Honoria recognized his voice. "Forget Hillsworth or, I suspect, any of that ilk. If the problem's in that line, we'll need to get Harry to dig deeper."
"Speak of the Demon…" "No go with any of my lot."
"Here come the others," Vane said.
"Not a whisper—not so much as a twitch." "No luck."
"Not so much as a hint of a suspicion."
"Which means," Devil said, "that we'll have to go hunting." "But in which direction?"
"In all directions." Devil paused. "Demon, you take the tracks and all connected enterprises. Vane, the guards and the taverns. Gabriel, the dens and finance in general. Scandal—you can do what you do best—chat up the ladies. Which leaves the catteries to Lucifer."
"And you?" Vane asked. "I'll take the local angle."
"Right—I'm for London tonight." "So am I."
"And me—I'll give you a lift if you like. I've got a prime 'un between the shafts."
Their deep voices faded, blending with the murmurs of the crowd. Lady Smallworts and Lady Harrington had moved onto the mysteries of the latest poke bonnets. It was time for Honoria to retreat—she'd heard all she needed. "If you'll excuse me, ladies?"
"Actually, my dear." Lady Harrington grasped Honoria's wrist. "I had meant to ask whether it's true." "True?"
On the word, Honoria heard from behind her: "Dear me, coz—what trouble you do get into when you don't have me covering your back."
It was Vane's drawl; Honoria knew the instant Devil turned and saw her—she felt his gaze on her neck, her shoulders. She stiffened. She longed to swing about, but her ladyship clung tight.
"Why, yes." Lady Harrington smiled. "About you and—" She broke off, gaze lifting to a point beyond Honoria's left shoulder, eyes widening with delight. "Ah—good afternoon, St. Ives."
"Lady Harrington."
It wasn't his voice, and the subtle menace beneath it, that sent shock waves coursing through Honoria—it was the large hand that curved possessively about her waist.
Devil captured the hand Lady Harrington freed. Honoria watched her fingers, trapped in his, rise inexorably toward his long lips. She steeled herself to feel his lips on her fingers.
He reversed her hand and pressed his lips to her wrist. If she'd been a weaker woman, she'd have fainted.
Smoothly, Devil turned to Lady Harrington. "You were saying, ma'am?"
Lady Harrington beamed. "Nothing of any importance—think you've given me all the answer I need." She all but winked at Honoria, then jabbed Lady Smallworts in the arm. "Come along, Dulcie—I saw Harriet on the lawn. If we hurry, we might catch her before she leaves. Your Grace." Her ladyship nodded to Honoria. "We'll see you in town, my dear. Give my regards to your grandfather."
"Yes, of course," Honoria half gasped. Her lungs had seized, courtesy of the long fingers spread over her ribs. If he kissed her wrist again, she would faint.
"Wave to their ladyships," her tormentor instructed. "With what," she hissed back. "The plate?"
"I really don't think you need the plate anymore—Thomas will take it."
A footman appeared and relieved her of the plate. There were few people left on the terrace. Honoria waited, but the grip on her waist did not ease. Instead, Devil wrapped his other arm about her waist, too, her hand still held in his. She could feel him, his chest, his thighs, steely-hard behind her, his arms an unbreakable cage about her.
"Did you learn much, out here on the terrace?" The words, soft, deep and low, tickled her ear. "Reams about sprigged muslin. And did you know that the latest poke bonnets have a niched rim?"
"Indeed? What next?"
"Precisely what Lady Smallworts wanted to know." "And what do you want to know, Honoria Prudence?"
He had a distinctly lethal way of saying her name—he rolled the "r"s, just slightly, so the perfectly prim English words transformed into something more sensuous. Honoria fought down a shiver. "I want to know what you're about."
She felt him sigh. "What am I to do with you, you meddlesome woman?" He rocked her, slightly, to and fro.
The sensation of losing touch with the earth made Honoria gasp. He hadn't even shifted his grip. "You can put me down for a start!"
She was saved by the Dowager. "Sylvester! What on earth are you doing? Put Honoria down at once!"
He obeyed—reluctantly; the second Honoria's feet touched earth, the Dowager took her arm. "Come, my dear—there's someone I want you to meet."
Without a backward glance, Honoria escaped with the Dowager.
She took care to play least-in-sight for the rest of the day. While most guests left directly after the wake, many of the family lingered. Honoria had no intention of finding herself unexpectedly alone with Devil in his present mood. The summerhouse, a white-timber hexagon wreathed by a yellow rambler, became her refuge.
Her embroidery in her lap, she watched the carriages roll down the drive—watched Devil play the host and wave them on their way. Afternoon was fading to evening when Charles Cynster descended the front steps and started across the lawn, heading straight for the summerhouse.
Inclining his head gravely, he entered. "Good evening, my dear. I wanted to speak with you before I left—Sylvester told me where to find you."
So much for her refuge. Honoria studied Tolly's older brother critically. He was certainly older than Devil, which made him the oldest of the Cynster cousins. He cut an impressive figure, six feet tall and solidly built, but lacked the lean Cynster lines. His face was rounder, with heavy jowls. His eyes, resting on her, were plain brown; given his recent loss, Honoria was surprised by how intent his expression was.
The summerhouse boasted a long wickerwork settee with chintz cushions, and nothing else. With a wave, she invited Charles to sit; somewhat to her relief, he declined the settee to settle on a windowsill. Facing her. Honoria raised a polite brow. Presumably, Devil had sent Charles to persuade her to leave Tolly's death to the Cynsters.
"I wanted to thank you for aiding Tolly. Sylvester mentioned you'd helped." Charles's lips twisted in a fleeting smile. "To use his phrase, 'above and beyond what might reasonably be expected of a lady of your station.'"
Graciously, Honoria inclined her head. "Despite your cousin's beliefs, I did nothing more than any lady of practical sensibilities."
"Be that as it may…" Charles's words trailed away; Honoria glanced up and met his gaze. "My dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, I hope you will excuse me if I speak plainly?"
"I would prefer you did so." Setting aside her embroidery, Honoria folded her hands and gave him her full attention.
"It appears to me that, rather than being rewarded for your help, you have been placed in an invidious position." Charles glanced at her. "Forgive me—this is a delicate subject. But I understand that, by virtue of rendering assistance to Tolly and thus being stranded by the storm, you were forced to spend the night in company with Sylvester, and thus now find yourself compromised and, not to put too fine a point on it, forced to accept his offer."
Honoria opened her lips—Charles raised his hand. "No, if you please—allow me to finish. I realize that many ladies would be aux anges over becoming the duchess of St. Ives, whatever the circumstances. I can see, however, that you are not of that giddy ilk. You're an Anstruther-Wetherby, daughter of an old and ancient line—quite as proud as we Cynsters. You are a woman of sound sense, independence, and—as you acknowledged—of a practical bent.
"You have, I believe, chosen to live life quietly—it hardly seems fair that in return for your good offices, you should be forced to become Sylvester's wife, a role that will not only be demanding but also very likely less than rewarding." He paused, then added: "For a lady of sensitivity." He hesitated, weighing his words, then continued: "Sylvester bears a very specific reputation, as do most of the Cynsters. It seems unlikely that a leopard so devoted to hunting will readily change his spots."
He looked at Honoria; she raised her brows haughtily. "There is little in your assessment with which I would argue, Mr. Cynster."
Charles's brief smile did not light his eyes. "Indeed, my dear, I believe we are two who would understand each other well, which is why I hope you will understand my motives in proposing an alternative solution to your undeserved predicament."
"An alternative?" Honoria was conscious of increasing unease. She had not expected Charles to undermine Devil; she was truly surprised that he had.
"A more acceptable alternative to a lady of your sensibility." Honoria looked her question.
"Marrying Sylvester would not be in your best interests—anyone with understanding can see that. You stand, however, in need of an offer, in restitution if nothing else. As Tolly was my brother, in order to retrieve your standing, I would be happy to offer you my hand. My estate, of course, is nothing compared to Sylvester's; it is, however, not inconsiderable."
Honoria was stunned; only years of training kept the fact from her face. She did not have to think to frame her reply—the words came spontaneously to her lips. "I thank you for your offer, sir, but I am not of a mind to marry—not for this nor, indeed, any other foreseeable reason."
Charles's face blanked. After a moment, he asked, "You don't intend to accept Sylvester's offer?"
Lips compressed, Honoria shook her head. "I have no intention of marrying at all." With that firm declaration, she reached for her embroidery.
"You will be pressured to accept Sylvester's offer—both by the Cynsters and your own family."
Honoria's eyes flashed; she raised her brows haughtily. "My dear sir, I am not at all amenable to unwarranted interference in my life."
Silence ensued, then Charles slowly stood. "I apologize, Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, should I have given offense." He paused, then added: "However, I urge you to remember that, should a time come when you feel it necessary to marry to escape the situation arising from Tolly's death, you have an alternative to marrying Sylvester."
Engrossed in jabbing her needle into her canvas, Honoria did not look up.
"Your humble servant, Miss Anstruther-Wetherby." Barely glancing at Charles's bow, Honoria stiffly inclined her head. Charles turned on his heel and descended the steps; Honoria watched, narrow-eyed, as he returned to the house. When he disappeared, she frowned and wriggled her shoulders.
If she ever had to marry a Cynster, she'd rather try taming the tyrant. The tyrant came knocking on her door late that evening.
Devil's uncles, aunts, and younger cousins had stayed for dinner, then all except Tolly's family had departed, letting the staff catch their collective breath. A cloak of calm had settled over the Place, a restful silence only found in those houses that had seen birth and death many times.
Leaving the Dowager and Tolly's parents swapping bittersweet memories, Honoria had retired to her chamber. She had intended to compose her letter to Michael. Instead, the peace outside drew her to the window; she sank onto the window seat, her mind sliding into the night.
The knock that interrupted her undirected reverie was so peremptory she had no doubt who was there. She hesitated, then, stiffening her spine, rose and crossed to the door.
Devil was standing in the corridor, looking back toward the stairs. As she set the door wide, he turned and met her gaze. "Come for a walk."
He held out his hand; Honoria held his gaze steadily—and slowly raised one brow. His lips twitched, then he fluidly sketched a bow. "My dear Honoria Prudence, will you do me the honor of strolling with me in the moonlight?"
She preferred his order to his request; the effortless charm lurking beneath his words, uttered in that soft, deep voice, was enough to turn any lady's head. But it needed no more than the blink of an eye to decide why he was here. "I'll get my shawl."
The swath of fine Norwich silk lay on a chair; draping it about her shoulders, Honoria pinned the ends, then headed for the door. She intended making it plain that she was not about to pull back from her interest in Tolly's murder.
Devil took her hand and drew her over the threshold and shut the door, then settled her hand on his sleeve. "There's another stairway that gives onto the side lawn."
In silence, they left the house to stroll beneath the huge trees dotting the lawn, passing from shadow to moonlight and back again.
The silence was soothing; the pervasive tang of leaves, green grass, and rich earth, scents Devil always associated with his home, was tonight spiced with a subtle fragrance, an elusive scent he had no difficulty placing.
It was her—the fragrance of her hair, of her skin, of her perfume—lily of the valley with a hint of rose—an expensive, alluring mix. Beneath all wafted the heady scent of woman, warm and sensual, promising all manner of earthly delights. The evocative scent teased his hunter's senses and
heightened the tension gripping him.
Tonight, he was prey to two driving desires—at the moment, he could pursue neither goal. There was nothing he could do to avenge Tolly's death—and he could not take Honoria Prudence to his bed. Not yet. There was, however, one point he could address—he could do something about her chin.
He had no intention of letting her involve herself with Tolly's murder, but his action on the terrace had been ill-advised. Intimidation would not work with this particular lady. Luckily, an alternative strategy lay to hand, one much more to his liking. Using it would kill two birds with one stone. Cloaked in shadow, Devil smiled—and turned their steps toward the summerhouse.
She lost patience before they reached it. "What steps are you taking to apprehend your cousin's killer?" "The matter will be dealt with—rest assured of that."
He felt her glare. "That's not what I asked." "That is, however, all the answer you need."
She stiffened, then sweetly inquired: "Has anyone informed you, Your Grace, that you are without doubt the most arrogant man in Christendom?"
"Not in those precise words."
The comment robbed her of speech long enough for him to lead her up the summerhouse steps. He halted in the pavillion's center, releasing her. Shafts of moonlight streaked the floor, patterned with the shadows of the leaves. Through the dimness, he saw her breasts swell.
"Be that as it may—"
Honoria's words ended on a half squeak; one instant, her tormentor was standing, loose-limbed and relaxed, before her—the next, long fingers had firmed about her chin. And he was suddenly much closer. "What are you doing?" Her eyes had flown wide; she was breathless. She didn't try to free her chin; his grip felt unbreakable.
His lids lifted; his eyes, even paler in the weak light, met hers. "Distracting you."
His deep murmur was certainly distracting; Honoria felt it in her bones. Other than on her chin, he wasn't touching her, yet she felt herself sliding into his hold. He drew her upward and she stretched, her head tilting further, her heart tripped, then started to race. His eyes held hers, mesmerizing in the moonlight, ageless, seductive, all-knowing. His head slowly lowered—her lips softened, parted.
She could not have pulled back had the heavens fallen.
The first touch of his lips sent an aching shudder through her; his arms immediately closed about her, drawing her against him. Hardness surrounded her; muscles with less give than steel caged her. His head angled; the pressure of his lips increased.
They were hard, like the rest of him—commanding, demanding; a heartbeat later they were warm, enticing, seductively persuasive. Honoria stilled, quivering, on some invisible threshold—then he tugged and she plunged forward, into the unknown.
It was not the first time she'd been kissed, yet it was. Never before had there been magic in the air, never
before had she been taken by the hand and introduced to a world of sensation. Pleasure rose, warm and enthralling, then whirled through her, a kaleidoscope of delight, leaving her giddy. Pleasurably giddy.
What little breath she managed to catch, he took, weaving his web until she was caught beyond recall. The tip of his tongue traced her lips, a beguilingly artful caress. She knew she'd be wise to ignore it; be was leading her into realms beyond her knowledge, where he would be her guide. A most unwise situation—a dangerous situation.
His lips firmed; heat welled, melting all resistance. On a sigh, she parted her lips farther, yielding to his arrogant demand.
He took what he wanted—the intimate caress sent sensation streaking through her, a bolt of lightning striking to her core. Shocked, Honoria drew back on a gasp.
He let her retreat—just so far. Stunned, her wits reeling, she searched his face. One black brow slowly arched; his arms tightened.
"No." Honoria braced against his hold—or tried to; her muscles had the consistency of jelly. "There's no need to panic—I'm only going to kiss you."
Only? Honoria blinked wildly. "That's bad enough. I mean—" She hauled in a breath and tried to focus her wayward wits. "You're dangerous."
He actually chuckled; the sound shredded her hard-won control—she shivered.
"I'm not dangerous to you." His hands stroked soothingly, seductively, down her back. "I'm going to marry you. That puts the shoe on the other foot."
Had her wits been completely addled? Honoria frowned. "What shoe—and which foot?"
His teeth gleamed. "According to all precepts, Cynster wives are the only beings on earth of whom Cynster men need be wary."
"Really?" He was pulling her leg. Honoria tried to whip up her indignation, an impossible task given he had bent his head and was gently nibbling her lips.
"Just kiss me." He whispered the words against her lips as he drew her hard against him. The contact set her nerves quivering again; his lips, lightly teasing, left her mind in no state to quibble.
Devil kissed her again, waiting with the patience of one who knew, until she yielded completely. Her melting surrender was all the more sweet, knowing as he did that she would prefer it was otherwise. Too wise, too experienced, he did not push her too far, keeping a tight rein on his passions. She lay softly supple in his arms, her lips his to enjoy, the sweet cavern of her mouth his to taste, to plunder, to claim; for tonight, that would have to be enough.
He would much rather have claimed her—taken her to his bed and filled her, celebrated life in that most fundamental of ways—a natural response to death's presence. But she was innocent—her skittering reactions, her quiescence, spoke to him clearly. She would be his and his alone—but not yet.
The reality of his need impinged fully on his mind; Devil mentally cursed. Her softness, pressed from breast to thigh against him, was a potent invocation, feeding his demons, calling them, inciting them. He drew back; chest swelling, he studied her face, wondering… even while he shackled his desires.
Her eyes glinted beneath her lashes.
Her mind still adrift, Honoria let her gaze roam his face. There was no softness in his features, no hint of gentleness, only strength and passion and an ironclad will. "I am not going to many you." The words went directly from her brain to her lips—an instinctive reaction.
He merely raised a brow, irritatingly supercilious.
"I'm going to send for my brother tomorrow to come and escort me home."
His eyes, silver in the night, narrowed fractionally. "Home—as in Hampshire?" Honoria nodded. She felt unreal, out of touch with the world.
"Write a note for your brother—I'll frank it tomorrow." She smiled. "And I'll put it in the post myself."
He smiled back—she had a premonition he was laughing at her though his chest, so close, was not quaking. "By all means. We'll see what he thinks of your decision."
Honoria's smile turned smug; she felt quite lightheaded. He, Cynster that he was, thought Michael would support his cause. Michael, of course, would agree with her—he would see, as instantly as she had, that for her, marrying Devil Cynster was not a good idea.
"And now, if we've settled your immediate future to your satisfaction…" His lips brushed hers; instinctively, Honoria tracked them.
A twig cracked.
Devil raised his head, every muscle tensing. He and Honoria looked out into the night; the sight that met their incredulous eyes had him straightening. "What the…?"
"Sssh!" Honoria pressed her hand to his lips.
He frowned and caught her hand, but remained silent as the small procession drew nearer, then passed the summerhouse. Through moonlight and shadow, Amelia, Amanda and Simon led the little band.
Henrietta, Eliza, Angelica and Heather with Mary in tow followed. Each child carried a white rose. Devil's frown deepened as the dense shadow of the trees swallowed them; of their destination there could be little doubt. "Wait here."
Honoria stared at him. "You must be joking." She picked up her skirts and hurried down the steps.
He was on her heels as they slipped from shadow to shadow, trailing the small band. The children halted before Tolly's freshly filled grave. Honoria stopped in the deep shadows beneath an oak; Devil stopped behind her. Then his hands gripped her waist; he lifted her to put her aside.
She twisted in his hold and flung herself against him. "No!" Her furious whisper made him blink. Her hands gripping his shoulders, she whispered: "You mustn't!"
He frowned at her, then lowered his head so he could whisper in her ear: "Why the hell not? They're not frightened of me."
"It's not that!" Honoria frowned back. "You're an adult—not one of them."
"So?"
"So this is their moment—their time to say good-bye. Don't spoil it for them."
He searched her face, then his lips thinned. Lifting his head, he looked at the contingent lined up at the foot of the grave but made no further move to join them.
Honoria wriggled and he let her go; she turned to watch. The chill beneath the trees penetrated her thin gown—she shivered. The next instant, Devil's arms came around her, drawing her back against him. Honoria stiffened, then gave up and relaxed, too grateful for his warmth to quibble.
A conference had taken place at the graveside; now Amelia stepped forward and threw her rose on the mound. "Sleep well, Tolly."
Amanda stepped up. "Rest in peace," she intoned, and flung her rose to join her twin's. Next came Simon. "Good-bye, Tolly." Another rose landed on the grave.
One by one, the children added their roses to the small pile, each bidding Tolly farewell. When they were done, they looked at each other, then re-formed their procession and hurried back to the house.
Honoria held Devil back until the children passed by. He sent her an unreadable, distinctly Cynster look when she finally let him loose, then took her hand; together, they trailed the children back to the lawn.
There was dew on the grass; it was heavy going, particularly for little Mary. Devil grunted and lengthened his stride—Honoria flung herself at him again. "No!" She glared furiously and pressed him back under the trees.
Devil glared back. "They'll get wet feet—I can carry two of them."
He gripped her waist: Honoria clung to his shoulders. "They'll guess you know where they've been—they'll guess you watched. It'll spoil it for them. A little water won't hurt them—not if they're true Cynsters."
A gleam marked Devil's reluctant smile. He waited, grudgingly, until the children disappeared through the side door, then, her hand locked in his, strode for the house. The children were still negotiating the stairs when they reached the foot. Devil went straight on, treading close by the wall. When they reached the upper landing, the children were only partway up the next flight—Devil yanked Honoria into an alcove.
She gasped as she landed against his chest. One arm locked about her; hard fingers lifted her face. His lips were on hers before she drew breath; she tried to hold firm, but beneath the pleasure he lavished upon her, her resistance wilted, then melted away.
To be replaced by something so insidious, so soul-stealingly compulsive, so innately enthralling, she couldn't pull back. He was hungry—she sensed it in the leashed passion that hardened his lips, that, when she opened to him, set him plundering more rapaciously than before. The tension investing his every muscle spoke of rigid control; the turbulence behind it frightened and fascinated. His tongue tangled with hers, intimately enticing, then settled to a slow, repetitive, probing rhythm. Her mouth was his; his possession set her senses whirling—no man had touched her like this. A warm flush rushed through her, a sweet fever unlike anything she'd known. Beyond that and the shocking intimacy of his caress, she knew only one thing. He was ravenously hungry—for her. The sudden, almost overwhelming impulse to give herself to him, to assauge that rampant need, shook her to the core—and still she could not pull back.
How long they stood locked together in the dark she had no idea; when he lifted his head, she'd lost touch with the world.
He hesitated, then brushed her lips with his. "Do I frighten you?"
"Yes." In a way he did. Wide-eyed, her pulse tripping, Honoria searched his shadowed eyes. "But it's not you I'm frightened of." He was making her feel, making her yearn. "I—" Frowning, she stopped, for once lost for words.
In the dark, Devil smiled crookedly. "Don't worry." He took her mouth in one last, searching kiss before putting her from him. "Go. Now." It was a warning—he wasn't sure she understood.
She blinked up at him through the dimness, then nodded. "Good night." She slipped out of the alcove. "Sleep well."
Devil nearly laughed. He wouldn't have a good night—he wouldn't sleep well. He could feel another headache coming on.
Chapter 7
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Next morning, Honoria attended Sunday service in the church in the grounds, then strolled back with Louise Cynster. Tolly's mother thanked her for helping her son; Honoria politely disclaimed. With little encouragement, Louise spoke of Tolly and his relationship with Devil. Hero worship seemed the most apt description.
The object of Tolly's reverence had not seen fit to attend church. When the ladies reached the breakfast table, it was apparent he'd been there before them. Honoria made quick work of tea and toast, then headed upstairs.
Devil, she felt sure, would have gone riding. It was a perfect day—he would be out surveying his fields astride his cake-eating demon. Which should leave nearer precincts clear.
It was the work of three minutes to don her stylish topaz riding habit. Her clothes were the one item she'd always insisted lived up to her Anstruther-Wetherby background. She flicked the feather on her matching toque so that it draped rakishly over one temple, then headed for the door.
There was no one in the stable yard. Unperturbed, she entered the main stable. The stall walls were high; she couldn't see over them. The tack room was at the end—she stepped purposefully down the aisle.
A large hand reached out and hauled her into a stall.
"What…?" Warm steel encircled her. Honoria focused—and realized her danger. "Don't you
dare kiss me—I'll scream if you do!" "And who do you imagine will rescue you?"
Honoria blinked—and tried to think of the right answer. "Anyway, you won't be able to scream while I'm kissing you."
She parted her lips and hauled in a deep breath.
By the time she realized that was not a wise move, it was too late—he'd taken full advantage. A vague notion of struggling wafted into her mind—then out, as heat, warmth and insidious pleasure burgeoned within her. His lips moved on hers, arrogantly confident; his tongue slid between in a deliciously languid caress, an unhurried caress that went on and on, until she was heated through. Honoria felt the fever rise—she tried to tell herself this was wrong—scandalously wrong—while every sense she possessed purred in appreciation.
She couldn't think or hear when he kissed her. She made that discovery when Devil finally raised his head; up until the instant his lips left hers, her mind had been thought-free, blissful in its vacancy. The sounds of the stable rushed in on her, compounding her breathlessness. Her bones had liquefied, yet she was still upright—then she realized it was due to him that she was so. He was holding her against himself; her toes only just touched the floor.
"Great heavens!" Blinking wildly, she lowered her heels to earth. Had she labeled him dangerous? He was lethal.
"Good morning, Honoria Prudence." His deep purr sent a shiver down her spine. "And where are you headed?"
"Ah…" Gazing, wide-eyed, into his too-knowing green eyes, Honoria marshaled her wits. "I was looking for a horse. Presumably you have more than one?"
"I believe there's a hoity, wilful mare that should suit. But where were you thinking of riding?"
"Oh—just out about the lanes." He was holding her too securely for her to pull away; she tried to ease back—his hold gave not an inch.
"You don't know this country—you'll get lost. You'll be safer riding with me."
Dispensing with all subtlety, Honoria reached behind her and tried to pry his arms loose. He chuckled and let her tug—all to no avail. Then he bent his head and feathered delicate kisses about her left ear.
Breathless, quite ridiculously flustered, Honoria glared. "Whoever called you Devil had the right of it!" "Hully?"
Honoria blinked, directly into his eyes. "Mrs. Hull gave you your nickname?"
He grinned—devilishly. "She used to be my nursemaid. I was three when she christened me 'That Devil Cynster.'"
"You must have been a tyrant even then." "I was."
A furious clearing of a throat spared Honoria the necessity of replying. Devil looked around, then released her, turning so he hid her from view. "What is it, Martin?"
"Sorry t'interrupt, Y'r Grace, but one of the flanges on the North Number One's split—Mister Kirby was a-wondering if you'd swing past that way. He was hoping you'd check the lay before he reset the blade."
The message made no sense to Honoria; she peered around Devil's shoulder. A workman, his cap in his hands, stood waiting in the aisle. She glanced up—and discovered his master's green gaze on her.
"Tell Kirby I'll be there within the half-hour." "Yes, Y'r Grace." Martin hurried out.
Honoria straightened. "What was that about?" "One of the windmills is out of action."
"Mills?" Honoria recalled numerous windmills dotting the fields. "There seem to be a lot about."
Devil's lips twitched. He reached for her hand. "This is fen country, Honoria Prudence—the mills drive pumps which drain the land."
"Oh." Honoria found herself being towed down the aisle. "Where are you taking me?" He raised both brows at her. "To find a horse. Wasn't that what you wanted?"
Ten minutes later, atop a frisky chestnut mare, Honoria clattered out of the stable yard—in Devil's wake. The notion of a surreptitious detour occurred only to be dismissed; he'd overtake her in an instant.
They left the park by a different route from that which led through the woods; beyond the park walls, the clack of windmills became noticeable, steadily increasing as they headed north. The mill in question was a large one; Devil dismounted in its shadow to confer with his foreman.
For Honoria, their discussion held little interest. As they cantered back to the Place, she took the devil by the horns. "Have you any idea who the 'highwayman' might be?" It seemed a clear enough question.
His response was a dissertation on the mechanics of fen drainage. By the time they reached the stable yard, Honoria had heard enough to verify the adage about Cynsters being as passionate about their land as they were in their other pursuits. She'd also gained a very firm idea of what her host thought of her interest in his cousin's murder.
The next morning, she watched from her window until she saw her nemesis ride out. Then she headed for the stables. The grooms saw nothing odd in her request that the mare be saddled again. When she
passed under the arch leading out of the park, Honoria whooped with delight. Smiling inanely, she headed for the wood.
She ended going the long way around via the village. It was an hour and more before she finally reached the straight where Tolly had been shot. The mare seemed to sense the fatal spot; Honoria drew rein and slid from the saddle, tethering the horse some yards down the lane.
Brisk and full of purpose, she crossed the lane—the rumble of hoofbeats reached her. Halting, she listened; the unknown horseman was heading her way. "Damn!" She whisked about and hurried back to the mare.
She couldn't remount. In disbelief, Honoria looked right and left. The hoofbeats drew steadily nearer. In that moment, she would have traded her entire wardrobe for a suitable log; none was to be found.
The unknown presence was likely some local no more threatening than Mr. Postlethwaite. Honoria stepped to the mare's head and assumed a haughty, nonchalant expression. If she wished to stand beside her horse in the lane, who had the right to gainsay her?
The oncoming horse rounded the curve and burst into view. The rider wasn't Mr. Postlethwaite. The black demon halted beside her; Devil looked down at her. "What are you doing here?"
Honoria opened her eyes wide—even wider than they already were. "I stopped to stretch my legs." He didn't blink. "And admire the view?" They were hemmed in on all sides by the wood. Honoria narrowed her eyes at him. "What are you doing here?"
Devil met her look, his expression implacable, then swung down from the saddle. Jaw set, he knotted the reins about a tree; without a word, he turned and strode to the spot where Tolly had fallen.
Honoria marched determinedly in his wake. "You don't believe it was a highwayman any more than I do—and it certainly wasn't a poacher."
Devil snorted. "I'm not daft." He shot her a piercing glance, then looked away, flexing his shoulders as if throwing off some restraint.
Honoria watched him study the ground. "Well? Who do you think did it?" "I don't know, but we'll find out."
"We'll?" Honoria was perfectly certain he didn't mean her and him. "You're all searching, aren't you—you and your cousins?"
The look he cast her brimmed with masculine long suffering; his short sigh underscored it. "As you've so accurately deduced, it wasn't a highwayman; nor was it a poacher—Tolly was murdered. Behind such a murder there must be a reason—we're looking for the reason. The reason will lead us to the man."
"From what I heard, you haven't any clue as to what the reason might be." His glance, razor-sharp, touched her face; Honoria tried not to look conscious.
"Tolly lived a full life. While I'm going over the ground here, the others are quartering London—the balls, the hells—anywhere a Cynster might have been."
Recalling the assignments he'd delegated to his cousins, Honoria frowned. "Was Tolly particularly partial to cats?" Devil stared at her, his expression utterly blank.
"The catteries?"
He blinked, slowly, then his gaze, devoid of expression, met hers. "The salons. Of the demimonde." Honoria managed to keep the shock from her eyes. "He was only twenty."
"So?" The word dripped arrogance. "Cynsters start young."
He was the archetype—presumably he knew. Honoria decided to leave that subject—Devil had stepped into the undergrowth. "What are you looking for? A gun?"
"Tolly didn't carry a gun."
"So?" Her version dripped impatience.
His lips thinned. "I'm looking for anything that shouldn't be here." He stopped and looked around. "The wind could have blown things either side of the lane."
It was a daunting task. While Devil tramped back the undergrowth close by where Tolly had fallen, Honoria peered and poked at the verges farther along the lane. A strong stick in one hand, she followed in his wake, prodded likely-looking clumps of grass and lifted leaf mold. Devil glanced around and grunted, then continued more swiftly, scanning the area as he went, leaving the finer details to her.
When they'd covered an area going back a yard from the lane, Honoria straightened and pushed back the feather trying to poke her in the eye. "Why do you think Tolly was in the lane?"
Devil answered without looking up. "I assume he was coming to the Place." "Your aunt thought it likely he was coming to seek your advice."
He looked up at that. "You asked Aunt Louise?"
His tone had Honoria straightening to attention. "We were just chatting—she doesn't suspect anything." His censorious expression didn't alter; gesturing airily, she shrugged. "You said it was a highwayman, so it was a highwayman. Everyone believes it—even your mother."
"Thank God for that." With a last, saber-edged glance, Devil returned to his search. "The last thing I need is females interfering."
"Indeed?" Wielding her stick, she scattered a pile of leaves. "I suppose it never occurred to you that we females might contribute something?"
"If you saw the contribution my mother thought of making you wouldn't ask. She penned a note to the magistrate that would have made his hair stand on end—if he could have deciphered it."
Honoria flicked over a clod. "If we weren't left feeling so frustratingly helpless—set to one side and told to knit mittens—perhaps we wouldn't react quite so wildly." Swinging about, she waved her stick at him. "Just think how frustrated you would feel if you knew you, personally, could never achieve anything."
He looked at her—steadily—for what seemed a long tune. Then his features hardened; he gestured at the ground. "Just keep searching."
Though they searched both sides of the lane, they found precisely nothing. Remounting, they cantered through the fields, then through the gate into the park, both absorbed with thoughts of Tolly's death.
As they rode between the ranks of golden poplars, Honoria glanced at Devil. "Your aunt intends to give you the silver hip flask you gave Tolly for his birthday as a keepsake—he had it on him when he was shot." When he merely nodded, his gaze fixed ahead, she added somewhat tartly: "It seems the 'highwayman' forgot it."
That got her a glance—a warning one.
"Your aunt also mentioned," she plowed on, "that if he was in trouble, Tolly would turn to you first, as head of the family, rather than to his father or Charles. Do you think that the reason he was killed could be the same as his reason for seeking you?"
Devil's gaze sharpened; in that instant, Honoria knew triumph. She'd beaten him to that conclusion, and he thought she was right. He said nothing, however, until they reached the stable yard. Lifting her down, he held her before him. "Don't say anything to Maman or Aunt Louise—there's no need to start hares."
Honoria met his gaze with one of bland hauteur.
"And if you should hear or discover anything, tell me."
She opened her eyes innocently wide. "and you'll tell me whatever you discover?" His expression turned grim. "Don't press your luck Honoria Prudence."
Chapter 8
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Two mornings later, Devil descended the main stairs, tugging on his driving gloves. As he started down the last flight, Webster appeared, heading for the front door.
"Your curricle should be waiting, Your Grace."
"Thank you." Reaching the front door, Devil looked back.
Hand on the latch, Webster paused. "Is anything amiss, Your Grace?"
Devil turned as Webster opened the door—revealing his curricle drawn up before the steps, along with a figure in pale lilac. Devil smiled. "No, Webster—everything's as I expected."
Strolling out, Devil paused in the shadows of the porch to relish the picture Honoria presented. His bride-to-be had a certain style, an innate elegance. Her hair was piled high in a fashionable knot, fine errant curls wreathing her face. A frilled parasol protected her complexion; her hands and feet were encased in tan leather. Her lilac carriage dress had been cut with skill, neatly fitting her slender waist, emphasizing the ripe swell of her hips and the generous curves of her breasts. It took conscious effort to wipe the wolfish smile from his face.
Adopting a bland, impassive expression, he strolled down the steps.
Twirling her parasol, Honoria watched him approach. "I gather you intend driving to St. Ives, Your Grace. I wonder if I might accompany you? I have a keen interest in old chapels—I believe the bridge-chapel at St. Ives is a particularly fine example of its kind."
"Good morning, Honoria Prudence." Halting before her, Devil claimed her right hand; smoothly raising it, he pressed his lips to her inner wrist, left bare by her glove.
Honoria nearly dropped her parasol. She shot him a glare and tried to calm her racing heart. "Good morning, Your Grace."
Without another word—without the argument she had primed herself to win—he led her to the curricle's side and lifted her to the seat. Effortlessly. She had to calm her wayward heart all over again. Shifting along, she clung to the rail as the seat tipped as he climbed up. Once it resettled, she rearranged her skirts, then fussed with her parasol.
Devil took the reins, dismissed his groom, then they were bowling down the drive. Honoria drew a deep breath; the cool air beneath the oaks revived her wits—and brought the last minutes into sharper focus. Abruptly narrowing her eyes, she turned them on Devil. "You knew!"
He glanced her way, his expression mildly indulgent. "I'm generally considered a fast learner."
An unnerving suspicion leapt to mind. "Where are you taking me?"
This time his expression was innocence incarnate. "To St. Ives—to see the bridge-chapel."
Honoria looked into his eyes—they were crystal-clear. Twisting about, she looked behind—and saw a horse on a leading rein following the curricle. She turned back. "You're going to St. Ives to return the horse Tolly was riding the afternoon he was shot."
Devil's gaze turned sharp, his expression irritated. "I don't suppose I can persuade you to leave the matter in my hands?"
Honoria frowned. "Is it Tolly's horse—or could it be the murderer's?"
Devil's jaw firmed. "It must be the horse Tolly was riding—it was found fully saddled in a field near the wood the day after the storm. It's from the stables Tolly usually used. And the murderer presumably left the scene on horseback." A straight stretch lay before them; he slowed his matched bays and looked at Honoria. "Honoria Prudence, you might have come upon Tolly a few minutes before I did, but there's no reason you should take an active role in tracking down his killer."
Honoria put her nose in the air. "I take leave to disagree, Your Grace."
Devil scowled."For God's sake, stop 'Your Gracing' me—call me Devil. We are, after all, going to be man and wife."
"That," Honoria declared, her chin rising another notch, "is unlikely."
Devil eyed the tip of her chin, and debated the wisdom of arguing. Instead, he said, his tone edged but even: "Honoria, I'm the head of this family—my shoulders are broader than yours and my back is a good deal stronger. Finding Tolly's murderer is my responsibility—rest assured I'll fulfill it."
She looked at him. "You do realize you've just contradicted yourself? One minute, you declare I'm to be your bride—the next you forbid me to act as either your wife or your bride should."
"As far as I'm concerned my wife, prospective or actual, which is to say you, should refrain from all dangerous activities." Forced to look to his horses, Devil heard his own growl; his frown deepened. "Murder is violent; tracking a murderer is dangerous. You should not be involved."
"Entrenched opinion states that a wife should give her husband aid and succor in all his enterprises." "Forget the aid—I'll settle for the succor."
"I'm afraid you cannot separate the two—they come as a package. Besides," Honoria added, her eyes widening, "if I'm to stay away from all danger, however could we wed?"
He glanced at her, his expression arrested; he searched her face, then narrowed his eyes. "You know you stand in no danger from me. You wouldn't be here if you did."
That, Honoria inwardly admitted, was true; he was far too potent a force to challenge without cast-iron assurances. But her position was unassailable—given he viewed her as his bride, he would uphold her honor, even against himself. She could have no more formidable protector. Secure in that knowledge, she smiled serenely. "Have your cousins learned anything yet?"
He muttered something and looked ahead—she didn't try too hard to catch his words. His jaw was set—granite would have been softer. He took the next turn at speed, then whipped up his
horses. Unperturbed, she sat back, idly scanning the flat fields past which they flew. Devil barely checked his team for Somersham,
Honoria glimpsed Mr. Postlethwaite by the vicarage. She waved; he blinked, then smiled and waved back. Had it really been only a week since she'd taken the lane through the wood?
Tolly's family had left the previous day, having spent the days since the funeral coming to terms with their grief. She had taken the twins in hand, encouraging them to turn their thoughts to the futures that lay before them. She had also broken one of her golden rules and taken the younger girls, Henrietta and little Mary, under her wing; there'd been no one else suited to the task. Supporting Tolly's sisters had only strengthened her resolution to ensure that his killer was brought to justice.
The roofs of St. Ives lay ahead before Devil finally spoke. "Vane sent a messenger yesterday—no one has unearthed the smallest clue or heard the slightest whisper. Nothing to suggest what sent Tolly this way or why he might have been killed."
Honoria studied his profile. "You were expecting more, weren't you?"
"I put off returning the horse, hoping to have a description of the man we're seeking. He must have got to the wood somehow. If he followed Tolly or came earlier from London, he may have hired a horse in St. Ives."
"Perhaps he drove?"
Devil shook his head. "If he had, he would have had to drive out of the wood away from Somersham. Otherwise, he would have encountered you. There was a group of my laborers in the fields below the wood—any carriage going that way would have passed them. None did."
"What about a horseman?"
"No, but the wood's riddled with bridle paths. There are any number a horseman could have taken." "Is it possible to ride up from London?"
"Possible but not likely." Devil checked his pair; the first houses of St. Ives were before them. "A horse ridden that far at any reasonable speed could not have participated in any subsequent flight."
They'd reached the main street; Devil slowed the bays to a walk.
"So," Honoria concluded, "we're looking for a man, identity and description unknown, who hired a horse on the day of the shooting."
She felt Devil's gaze on her face—and heard the short, irritated, aggravated sigh he gave before saying: "We're looking for precisely that."
Five minutes later, sitting in the curricle, listening as he questioned the stablemaster, Honoria was still struggling with her triumph. She knew better than to let it show—the last thing she wanted was to bruise his masculine sensibilities and have him rescind his decision. Yet victory was so sweet it was hard to keep the smile from her lips—every time she was sure he couldn't see it, she gave in to the urge and smiled.
The curricle rocked as Devil climbed up. "You heard?"
"No horseman except Tolly. Are there other stables in town?"
There were two, but the answers there were the same as at the first. No man had hired a horse on that day—no one had noticed any horseman riding through. "What now?" Honoria asked as Devil headed his team back up the main street.
"I'll send men to check at Huntingdon, Godmanchester, and Ely. Chatteris as well, though that's even less likely."
"What about Cambridge?'
"That," Devil stated, "is the main chance. It's closer to town, and the coaches are more frequent on that route."
Honoria nodded. "So when are we going there?"
Devil flicked her a glance. "We aren't—any more than we're going to the other towns." Honoria narrowed her eyes at him—only to see his lips twitch.
"I'm too well known to ask questions without inviting comment. St. Ives is different—it's the family town and has few other major families living close. And you can't ask either. But my grooms can chat up the ostlers over a pint or two and learn all we need without anyone being the wiser."
"Hmm." Honoria eyed him suspiciously. "I'll send Melton to Cambridge."
"Your head stableman?" "So to speak."
Honoria had yet to sight the man. "He doesn't seem to be much about." "Melton is never around when I need him. It's a point of honor with him." Honoria stared. "Why do you put up with him?"
Devil shrugged. "He's old." "That's it? Because he's old?" "No."
Intrigued, Honoria watched the hard face soften, not a great deal, but enough to show.
"Melton put me on my first pony—you could say he taught me to ride. He's been at the Place all his life, and no one knows more about horses—not even Demon. I couldn't turn him out to grass, not after a lifetime in the position. Luckily, his son-in-law, Hersey, is a sensible man—he's my understableman and actually does all the work. Other than on special occasions—and with handling Sulieman—Melton's position is purely titular."
"But he never turns up when you bring Sulieman in."
"Or when I take him out. As I said, it's a point of honor with him." Devil glanced at Honoria, his lips twisting wryly. "To make sure I don't forget all he's taught me. According to him, just because I'm a duke doesn't excuse me from currying my horse."
Honoria choked, then gave up and laughed unrestrainedly. Devil cast her a disgusted glance—and drove on.
She was wiping her eyes, still racked by the occasional giggle, when he checked his team. They were a mile or so short of Somersham; Honoria sobered when Devil turned the horses off the road, eased them along a narrow lane, then swung onto a wide grassy patch and reined in.
"Behold—north Cambridgeshire."
She could hardly miss it—the county lay spread before her, a tapestry of greens and golds, edged with the darker hues of woods and hedgerows.
"This is the closest we come to a lookout in these parts."
Honoria studied the landscape—while her wariness escalated in leaps and bounds. They were on a grassy plateau, a stand of trees screening them from the road. Essentially private.
"Over there," Devil pointed to the right, "you can see the roofs of Chatteris. The first dark green line beyond is the Forty-Foot Drain, the second is the Old Nene."
Honoria nodded; she recalled the names from his earlier lecture on the fens. "And now…" Devil secured the reins. "It's time for lunch."
"Lunch?" Honoria swung around, but he'd already leapt down from the curricle. An instant later, she heard him rummaging in the boot. He reappeared, a rug in one hand, a picnic basket in the other.
"Here." He tossed the rug at her. Reflexively, she caught it—then caught her breath as his free arm snaked about her waist and he swung her to the ground. He smiled down at her, pure wolf in his eyes. "Why don't you chose a suitable place to spread the rug?"
Honoria glared—she couldn't speak; her heart was blocking her throat, her breathing had seized. She barely had enough strength to whisk herself free of his encircling arm. Marching across the grass as determindedly as her suddenly shaky limbs allowed, all too aware he prowled close behind, she spread the rug over the first reasonable patch, then, remembering her parasol, returned to the safety of the curricle to retrieve it.
The move gave her time to calm her senses, to take a firm grip on her wayward wits—to remind herself of how safe she really was. As long as she didn't allow him to kiss her again, all would be well.
She could hardly be held responsible for the previous kisses he'd stolen—like the buccaneer he reminded her of, he'd surprised her, captured her and taken what he wished. This time, however, while she might unwittingly have walked into his trap, she did know it was a trap. He hadn't sprung it yet—as a virtuous lady it was clearly her duty to ensure his planning came to nought.
His kisses, and the desire behind them, were far from innocent; she could not, in all conscience, indulge in such scandalous dalliance.
Which made her role very clear—circumspection, caution, and unassailable virtue. She headed back to the rug, repeating that litany. The sight of the repast he'd unpacked—the two wineglasses, the champagne, cool in a white linen shroud, the delicacies designed to tempt a lady's palate—all bore testimony to his intent. She narrowed her eyes at him. "You planned this."
Lounging on the rug, Devil raised his brows. "Of course—what else?"
He caught her hand and gently tugged; she had no choice but to sink, gracefully, onto the other half of the rug. She was careful to keep the basket between them. "You didn't even know I was going to join you."
His answer was a single raised brow and a look so outrageously patronizing she was literally lost for words.
He grinned. "Here." He reached into the basket. "Have a chicken leg."
Honoria drew in a deep breath. She looked at the portion he held out, the bone wrapped neatly in a napkin—then reached out, took it, and sank her teeth into it.
To her relief, he made no effort to converse. She shot a glance his way. He lay stretched on the rug, propped on one elbow as he worked steadily through the basket. Honoria took a long draft of champagne—and focused on distracting them both.
"Why," she asked, "did Tolly come by way of St. Ives rather than Cambridge? If he wanted to see you, why didn't he come by the faster route?"
Devil shrugged. "All of us travel via St. Ives." "For obvious reasons?"
He grinned. "We do, of course, feel a certain link with the town." He caught Honoria's eye. "One of my ancestors built the bridge-chapel, after all."
The chapel she had entirely forgotten to demand a glimpse of. Honoria humphed. "As a penance, no doubt."
"Presumably." Devil sipped his champagne.
Honoria returned to her cogitations. "When did Charles arrive at the Place?"
"I don't know—Vane said he was there when he arrived, late that evening, just before the worst of the storm."
Honoria frowned. "If Charles followed Tolly from town, why didn't he come upon us in the lane?" "Charles wouldn't come that way."
"I thought all Cynsters travel via St. Ives?"
"All except Charles." Sitting up, Devil started to repack the basket. He glanced at Honoria, then reached for her glass. He drained it in one gulp. "Charles, in case you hadn't noticed, is not really one of the pack."
Pack—a good word to describe them, the Cynster pack of wolves. "He does seem…" leaning on one arm, Honoria gestured, "in something of a different mold."
Devil shrugged. "He takes after his mother in looks and in disposition. Barely a Cynster trait to be discerned."
"Hmm." Honoria settled more comfortably, a warm glow spreading through her. "When did his mother die?"
"Twenty or so years ago."
"So your uncle remarried almost immediately?"
The basket repacked, Devil stretched out, crossed his arms behind his head, closed his eyes—and watched Honoria through his lashes. "Uncle Arthur's first marriage was little short of a disaster. Almira Butterworth did what no other has in the history of the family—she trapped a Cynster into marriage, much good did it do her. After twelve years of marital discord, she died of consumption—Arthur married Louise a bare year later."
"So how would Charles, not being a dyed-in-the-wool Cynster, have come to the Place? Did he drive?"
"He doesn't drive—don't ask me why. He always comes via Cambridge, hires a horse, then comes riding up the main drive. He once said something about a master always coming to the front door, rather than the back."
Charles, Honoria decided, sounded as insufferable as she'd thought him. "So it's unlikely he saw anything?"
"He said he didn't see anyone about."
Honoria tried to think, but could find no focus for further questions. It was pleasant in the sunshine. Her parasol lay furled in the grass beside her; she should open it, but could not summon the strength. A deliciously warm, relaxed sense of peace pervaded her—she was loath to break the spell.
Glancing at Devil, she noted his closed eyes, black lashes feathering his high cheekbones. Briefly, she let her gaze skim his long frame, conscious, as always, of the deep tug she'd never previously experienced, never felt for any other man. A frisson of pure excitement, it heightened every sense, sensitized every nerve, and set her pulse racing. Simultaneously, at some fundamental level, it drew her like a magnet, a potent attraction all too hard to deny. Every instinct she possessed screamed he was dangerous—specifically dangerous to her. Perversely, those selfsame instincts insisted that with him, she was safe. Was it any wonder she felt giddy?
Yet the last was as true as the first. Not even Michael eased her mind to the same degree nor conveyed the same certainty of inviolable protection. The devil might be a tyrant, an autocrat supreme, yet he was also to be relied on, predictable in many ways, rigid in his honor.
Her eyes once more on his face, Honoria drew in a slow breath. He was dangerous indeed, but the basket sat, large and cumbersome between them. Lips gently curving, she looked away, into the soft haze of the early afternoon to the green fields of his domain.
No field came close to the pale, clear green of his eyes.
She'd reached that conclusion when the horizon abruptly fell, leaving her flat on her back, gazing up at the cloudless sky. An instant later, half the sky vanished, replaced by a black mane, hard, angular features and a pair of eyes that saw far too much. And a pair of long, mobile lips, their contours reflecting the same laughing triumph she could see in his green eyes.
The basket was no longer between them. Nothing was.
Honoria's breath caught—her gaze locked on his. Her heart thudded wildly; an uncharacteristic panic streaked through her. Could he read minds? It seemed that he could—the green gaze grew more intense, the line of his lips deepened. Then his lids lowered; slowly, deliberately, he bent his head.
Anticipation rose, an insidious temptation, stealing through her, unlocking her defenses. Honoria felt the fever rise, felt the longing grow. Each time he kissed her, it waxed stronger, more willful, harder to deny. She felt herself sinking under its influence, her lips softening. "No." The word was a whisper—all she could manage. Her heartbeat filled her; her pulse all but deafened her.
He heard her and stopped, eyes glinting from under heavy lids. "Why not?" His brows quirked—his smile grew as he searched her eyes, her face. "You like it when I kiss you, Honoria Prudence."
Her name, uttered in his deep, velvety dark voice, the 'r's gently rolled, was a sensual caress. Honoria struggled to hold back a shiver—she lost the fight when he raised one finger and traced her lower lip.
"You like my kisses—and I like kissing you. Why deny ourselves such innocent pleasure?"
Innocent? Honoria's eyes widened—she might be safe with him, but his notion of safety and hers were not the same. "Ah… that's not the point."
The curve of his lips deepened. "Which point is that?" She hadn't the faintest idea. Honoria blinked blankly up at him—and saw his pirate's smile flash. His head swooped—his lips covered hers.
This time, she ought to struggle. The thought flashed into her mind—and was lost in the same instant, as anticipation exploded and wiped her mental slate clean. Further thought was beyond her; his kiss connected with some other being—a sensual, sensate being—hidden deep inside her. It was that being who reveled in the long-drawn caress, in the hard pressure of his lips on hers, that being who opened her lips, brazenly inviting him beyond, to taste, to sample, to plunder to his heart's content.
Other than through his lips, and the long fingers that framed her face, he did not touch her, yet she was surrounded by his strength, by his will, bent like a reed to his passion. Her body—skin, quivering flesh, even her bones—was achingly aware of him—of his strength, of the tense, sharply defined muscles mere inches away, of the hardness to match her melting softness.
Their lips melded, their tongues twined, sliding sensuously together. The kiss was as heady as the fine wine they'd drunk, as warm as the sunshine about them. He shifted, leaning over her as he deepened the kiss; Honoria tasted his desire. The compulsion to feed his hunger rose, flaring like a fever, an impetus steadily growing with each deep beat of her heart, a driving need to twine her arms about him, about his shoulders, his neck—to run her fingers through his thick hair. Her fingers literally itched. One hand had fallen on his upper arm, the other on his shoulder; clinging to caution, she flexed her fingers, sinking them deep in a desperate bid to deny the urge to touch, to feel, to explore.
Instead, the steely feel of him, harder than she'd imagined, something akin to warm resilient rock, seduced her; caught by her discovery, she flexed her fingers again, enthralled when his muscles shifted beneath her hands.
Immediately, his lips hardened; in a heartbeat, their kiss changed from merely hungry to ravenous. He was closer, his weight tantalizingly near yet not upon her; Honoria's senses leapt. Their lips parted; she hauled in a gasping breath. Before she could open her eyes, he took her mouth again, commanding, demanding, ravaging her senses. His hand closed over her breast.
The shock of his touch, of the sliding caress of long, strong fingers, was muted by the cambric of her carriage dress. There was nothing to mute the shock of her reaction—like lightning it speared through her, incandescent fire arcing through her veins. Beneath his hand, her breast swelled; her nipple
had tightened to a firm bud even before his fingers found it. Honoria tried to gasp, but he was still kissing her; in desperation, she took her breath from him—and discovered that she could.
His fingers stroked, gently kneaded, and her abandoned senses sang. While the warmth of his caresses spread through her, heating her, heightening the melting sensation deep inside, Honoria mastered the art of breathing through their kiss—suddenly, she was no longer so giddy.
Suddenly she could think enough to know what she felt. Enough to appreciate the quivering excitement that held her, the thrill of anticipation that invested every nerve, every square inch of her skin. Enough to recognize the desire that thrummed heavily in her veins—the compulsion to actively return his kiss, to draw his hard body to hers, to invite, incite—do whatever she could—to quench and fill the molten void within her.
The knowledge rocked her, shocked her—and gave her the strength to draw back.
Devil sensed her withdrawal. Beneath his hand, her breast was hot and swollen, the furled bud of her nipple a hard button against his palm. Yet her retreat was obvious—in their kiss, in the sudden sinking of her senses. He knew women too well, too thoroughly, to miss the battle she waged—the battle to block her own inclination, to suppress the desire that had welled within her in answer to his need. Inwardly, he cursed; she was causing him no end of pain. He was sorely tempted to open her bodice and slide his hand in—to show her what that would do to her, what more there was yet to come. But her innocence was a cross he'd steeled himself to bear—the knowledge that he would be the one to school her in love's ways, the only man she would ever know intimately, was a powerful inducement.
She was no prude—she was attracted to him at a level so deep it excited him just to know it. She was ripe for seduction, by him; she would be his—his wife—there was no way he'd let her escape him. Raising his head, he watched as her lids fluttered, then rose, revealing misty grey eyes still silvered with passion. He trapped her gaze. "I should warn you that I've made myself four promises."
His voice, deepened by passion, gravelly with frustration, rumbled between them. Honoria blinked dazedly; Devil suppressed a feral grin. "I'm going to enjoy watching your face the first time I pleasure you." Dipping his head, he brushed her lips with his. "And the second and third time as well." He drew back—Honoria's eyes were wide, startled. "Pleasure…?"
"When I make that molten heat inside you explode." "Explode?"
"In a cataclysmic starburst." Devil tightened the fingers that still lay about her breast, then let them slide in a languid caress, his thumb circling her ruched nipple. A quivering shiver raced through her. Deliberately, he caught her eye. "Trust me—I know all about it."
She searched his eyes, her own widening; suddenly, she drew a breath.
"And," Devil said, bending to taste her lips again, cutting off whatever she'd thought to say, "my fourth promise will be the culminating event."
He drew back and watched her debate her next move; eventually, she cleared her throat and asked: "What else have you promised yourself?"
Devil's face hardened. "That I'll be watching your face as I fill you, as you take me inside you, as you give yourself to me."
Honoria stilled—it took all her strength to suppress her reaction, a flaring impulse to passion and possession, a lancing desire so thrillingly vital, so compelling it literally stole her breath. The unexpected insight—into herself, into what might be—was shocking. Most shocking of all was the fact it didn't scare her. But she knew where her future lay—it couldn't be with him. Her eyes locked on his, she shook her head. "It won't happen. I'm not marrying you."
She pushed against him; he hesitated, then drew back, letting her sit up. The instant she did, his fingers closed about her chin; he turned her to face him. "Why not?"
Honoria looked into his narrowed eyes, then haughtily lifted her chin from his hold. "I have my reasons." "Which are?"
She shot him a resigned glance. "Because you are who you are for a start." His frown turned black. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Honoria struggled to her feet—instantly, his hand was there to help. He followed her up. She bent and picked up the rug. "You're a tyrant, an unmitigated autocrat, utterly used to your own way. But that's beside the point." The folded rug in her arms, she faced him. "I have no ambition to wed—not you, not any man."
She met his gaze and held it; he continued to frown. "Why not?" The demand, this time, was less aggressive.
Honoria swiped up her parasol and started toward the curricle. "My reason is my own and not one I need share with you." He was a duke—dukes required heirs. Reaching the curricle, she glanced back—basket in hand, he was trailing in her wake, his expression frowningly intent. When he stopped in front of her, she looked him in the eye. "Please understand, I won't change my mind."
He held her gaze for an instant, then he reached for the rug, tossed it into the boot, and swung the basket after it. Letting down the flap, he followed her to the side of the carriage. Honoria turned and waited; she caught her breath as his hands slid about her waist.
They firmed, but he didn't lift her. Suddenly breathless, Honoria looked up—into crystal green eyes that belonged to a conqueror.
He held her, held her gaze, for a full minute, before saying: "We have a standoff, it seems, Honoria Prudence."
Honoria attempted a look of hauteur. "Indeed?"
His lips lengthened, compressed to a line. "Indeed—for I have no intention of changing my mind, either."
For one finite instant, Honoria met his gaze, then she raised her brows and looked away.
Jaw clenched, Devil lifted her to the carriage seat, then followed her up. A minute later, they were back on the road; he let his horses have their heads, the whipping wind soothing his overheated brain.
Possessiveness had never gripped him so hard, never sunk its talons so deep. Fate had given her to him, to have and to hold. He would have her—take her to wife—there was no alternative.
She had a reason, she said—one she wouldn't tell him. So he'd find out and eradicate it. It was that or go mad.
Chapter 9
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"Yes?" Devil looked up from a ledger as Webster entered the library.
"Chatham just rode in, Your Grace—the gentleman you were expecting is waiting as directed." "Good." Shutting the ledger, Devil stood. "Where is Miss Anstruther-Wetherby?"
"I believe she's in the rose garden, Your Grace."
"Excellent." Devil headed for the door. "I'm going riding, Webster. I'll be back in an hour with our guest." "Very good, Your Grace."
Two grooms ran up as Devil strode into the stable yard. "Saddle up the bay and get Melton to saddle Sulieman."
"Ah—we've not sighted Melton since early, Y'r Grace."
Devil raised his eyes to the skies. "Never mind—I'll get Sulieman. You fig out the bay."
When he led Sulieman into the yard, the bay was waiting. Mounting, Devil accepted the bay's reins and rode out. Six days had passed since Honoria had dispatched her summons to her brother.
Cresting a low rise, he saw a carriage halted in the road ahead, one of his grooms chatting to the coachman. Beside the carriage, a gentleman paced impatiently. Devil's eyes narrowed, then he sent Sulieman down the road.
The gentleman glanced up at the sound of hooves. He straightened, head rising, chin tilting to an angle Devil recognized instantly. Drawing rein, he raised a brow. "Michael Anstruther-Wetherby, I presume?"
The answering nod was curt. "St. Ives." Michael Anstruther-Wetherby was in his mid-twenties, of athletic build, with the same steady assurance, the same directness, that characterized his sister. Used to sizing men up in an instant, Devil rapidly readjusted his image of his prospective brother-in-law. Honoria's smugness had painted her brother as weaker than she, perhaps lacking the true Anstruther-Wetherby character. Yet the man eyeing him straitly, challenge and skepticism very clear in his blue eyes, had a decidedly purposeful chin. Devil smiled. "I believe we have matters to discuss. I suggest we take a ride beyond the reach of interruptions."
The blue eyes, arrested, held his, then Michael nodded. "An excellent idea." He reached for the bay's reins, then he was in the saddle. "If you can guarantee no interruptions, you'll have achieved a first."
Devil grinned, and set course for a nearby hillock. He halted on the crest; Michael drew up alongside. Devil glanced his way. "I've no idea what Honoria wrote, so I'll start at the beginning."
Michael nodded. "That might be wise."
Gazing over his fields, Devil outlined the events leading to Honoria's presence at the Place. "So," he concluded, "I've suggested that getting married is appropriate."
"To you?"
Devil's brows flew. "Whom else did you have in mind?"
"Just checking." Michael's grin surfaced briefly, then he sobered. "But if that's the case, why have I been summoned to escort her to Hampshire?"
"Because," Devil replied, "your sister imagines she's so long in the tooth that a reputation is neither here nor there. She plans to be the next Hester Stanhope."
"Oh, lord!" Michael cast his eyes heavenward. "She's not still set on Africa, is she?"
"It's her dearest wish, so I've been informed, to ride in the shadow of the Sphinx, pursued, no doubt, by a horde of Berber chieftains, then to fall victim to Barbary Coast slave traders. I understand she believes she's starved of excitement and the only way she'll get any is to brave the wilds of Africa."
Michael looked disgusted. "I'd hoped she'd grown out of that by now. Or that some gentleman would appear and give her mind a new direction."
"As to the first, I suspect she'll grow more determined with age—she is, after all, an
Anstruther-Wetherby, a family renowned for its stubbornness. But as to giving her mind a new direction, I already have that in hand."
Michael looked up. "Has she agreed to marry you?" "Not yet." Devil's expression hardened. "But she will."
There was an instant's silence, then Michael asked: "Free of any coercion?" Devil's eyes met his; one brow lifted superciliously. "Naturally."
Michael studied Devil's eyes, then his features relaxed. He looked out over the fields; Devil waited patiently. Eventually, Michael looked his way. "I'll admit I would be glad to see Honoria safely wed, especially to a man of your standing. I won't oppose the match—I'll support it however I can. But I won't agree to pressure her into any decision."
Devil inclined his head. "Aside from anything else your sister is hardly a biddable female." "As you say." Michael's gaze turned shrewd. "So what do you want of me?"
Devil grinned. "My brand of persuasion doesn't work well at a distance. I need Honoria to remain within reach." With a gesture, he indicated that they should ride on, and touched his heels to Sulieman's flanks.
Michael cantered alongside. "If Honoria's set on returning home, I'll need some reason to gainsay her." Devil shot him a glance. "Is she her own mistress?"
"Until she's twenty-five, she's in my care." "In that case," Devil said, "I have a plan."
By the time they cantered into the stable yard, Michael was entirely comfortable with his brother-in-law to be. It appeared that his sister, usually an irresistible force, had finally met a sufficiently immovable object. He matched his stride to Devil's as they headed for the house.
"Tell me," Devil said, his gaze roving the house, checking for impending interruptions. "Has she always been frightened of storms?"
He glanced at Michael in rime to see him wince. "They still make her twitch?"
Devil frowned. "Rather more than that."
Michael sighed. "Hardly surprising, I suppose—I still get edgy myself." "Why?"
Michael met his eyes. "She told you our parents were killed in a carriage accident?" Devil searched his memory. "That they were killed in an accident."
"There was rather more to it than that." Michael drew a deep breath. "Neither Honoria nor I are frightened of storms—at least, we weren't. On that day, our parents took the other two for a drive."
"Other two?" Devil slowed his pace.
Michael looked up. "Meg and Jemmy. Our brother and sister." Devil halted, his expression blank. Michael stopped and faced him. "She didn't tell you about them?"
Devil shook his head; abruptly, he focused on Michael. "Tell me exactly what happened."
Michael looked away, across the lawns toward the house. "The pater wanted to take Mama for a drive—it started as a lovely day. Mama had been ill—she was going through one of her better patches—Papa wanted her to get some air. The little ones went with them. Honoria and I stayed home—we couldn't fit and we both had studies to attend to. Then the storm blew up—raced in out of nowhere. Honoria and I loved watching the clouds roll in. We ran up to the schoolroom to watch."
He paused, his gaze distant, fixed in the past. "The schoolroom was in the attics, overlooking the drive. We stood at the window and looked out. We never dreamed…" He swallowed. "We were laughing and joking, listening for the thunder, trying to spot the flashes. Then there was a massive crash overhead. In the same instant, we saw the curricle come racing up the drive. The children were frantic, clinging to Mama. The horses had panicked—Papa had his hands full managing them." He paused. "I can see them so clearly, even now. Then the lightning struck."
When he said nothing more, Devil prompted: "The carriage?"
Michael shook his head. "The bolt hit a huge elm beside the drive. It fell." Again he paused, then, drawing a deep breath, went on: "We watched it fall. The others didn't see it at first—then they did." He shuddered. "I closed my eyes, but I don't think Honoria did. She saw it all."
Devil gave him a moment, then asked: "They were killed?"
"Instantly." Michael drew a shaky breath. "I can still hear the horses screaming. We had to put them down."
Very gently, Devil said: "Go back—what happened to Honoria?"
Michael blinked. "Honoria? When I opened my eyes, she was standing, absolutely still, before the window. Then she stretched out her hands and stepped forward. I grabbed her and pulled her away. She clung to me then." He shivered. "That's the one thing I remember most vividly—how she cried. She
made no sound—the tears just rolled down her cheeks, as if her sorrow was so deep she couldn't even sob." After a pause, he added: "I don't think I'll ever forget how helpless her crying made me feel."
Devil didn't think he'd ever forget either.
Shoulders lifting on a deep breath, Michael glanced fully at Devil. "That's the sum of it—we sorted things out and got on with our lives. Of course, the loss was worse for Honoria." He fell in beside Devil as they continued toward the house. "As Mama had been so ill, Honoria had become more mother than sister to the younger two. Losing them was like losing her own children, I think."
Devil was silent as they crossed the last of the lawn; he glanced up as they neared the portico, briefly studying the inscription on its facade. Then he glanced at Michael. "You need a drink." He needed one, too. Then he needed to think.
Honoria was descending the main staircase, a frown puckering her brows, when the front door opened and her brother walked in.
"Michael!" Face clearing, she hurried down. "I've been expecting you for hours." Hugging him, she returned his affectionate buss. "I saw a carriage arrive and thought it must be you, but no one came in. I was wondering—" She broke off as a large shadow darkened the doorway.
Michael looked over his shoulder. "St. Ives was good enough to meet me. He's explained the situation."
"He has? I mean—" Her gaze trapped in crystal green, Honoria fought the urge to gnash her teeth. "How very helpful." She noted Devil's expression of guileless innocence—it sat very ill on his piratical features.
"You're looking well." Michael scanned her amethyst morning gown. "Not browbeaten at all."
Even with her gaze firmly fixed on her brother's teasing face, Honoria was aware of Devil's raised brow—and of the color that seeped into her cheeks. Tilting her chin, she linked her arm in Michael's. "Come and meet the Dowager." She steered him toward the drawing room. "Then we'll go for a walk in the grounds." So she could set the record straight.
To her chagrin, Devil strolled after them.
The Dowager looked up as they entered. With a brilliant smile, she laid aside her embroidery and held out her hand. "Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby—it is good to meet you at last. I trust your journey was without mishap?"
"Entirely, ma'am." Michael bowed over her hand. "It's indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Bon!" The Dowager beamed at him. "And now we can be comfortable and talk, can we not?" Indicating the chaise beside her, she glanced at Devil, "Ring for tea, Sylvester. Now, Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby, you are with Carlisle, is that right? And how is the good Marguerite?"
Subsiding into an armchair, Honoria watched as her brother, who she could have sworn was impervious to all forms of flattery, fell under the Dowager's fire. Even more disturbing, time and again, she saw Michael exchange a glance with Devil; by the time Webster brought in the tea, it was clear that, somehow, Devil had succeeded in securing her brother's approval. Honoria bit into a cucumber sandwich and tried not to glower.
She dragged her brother from mother and son's seductive influence as soon as she possibly could.
"Let's go down by the lake." Tightening her hold on Michael's arm, she steered him along the terrace. "There's a seat, near the shore—it's peaceful and private there."
"It's a truly magnificent house," was Michael's only comment as they strolled down the lawn. They reached the seat, and she settled herself upon it; Michael hesitated, looking down at her, then sat beside her. "You could be very comfortable here, you know."
Honoria met his gaze levelly. "Just what has that devil told you?" Michael grinned. "Not all that much—just the bare facts."
Honoria drew a relieved breath. "In that case, it should be clear that there's no need for any talk of marriage between myself and St. Ives."
Michael's brows rose. "Actually, that's not the impression I received." "Oh?" Honoria made the syllable a challenge.
Michael tugged at his earlobe. "Perhaps we'd better retread events."
She was very ready to do so. While she recited her well-rehearsed version of events, Michael listened intently. "And then he left me with the Dowager," she concluded.
Michael met her eye. "That's what he told me."
Honoria had a premonition she'd just taken a wrong step.
Michael straightened, one hand clasping hers. "Honoria, you're an unmarried lady of twenty-four, of impeccable lineage and unblemished reputation. In this instance, I must agree with St.
Ives—there's really no course open to you other than to accept his offer. He's behaved precisely as he should—no one could hold either of you to blame, yet the circumstances remain and require the prescribed response."
"No." Honoria made the word a statement. "You can't seriously imagine me happily married to Devil Cynster."
Michael raised his brows. "Actually, I find that easier to imagine than any other outcome." "Michael! He's a tyrant! An unmitigatingly arrogant despot."
Michael shrugged. "You can't have everything, as Mama was wont to tell you."
Honoria narrowed her eyes; she let a pregnant moment pass before stating, categorically: "Michael, I do not wish to marry Devil Cynster."
Letting go of her hand, Michael leaned back against the seat. "So what do you see as an alternative?"
Honoria knew relief—at least they were discussing alternatives. "I'd thought to return to Hampshire—it's too late to get another post this year."
"You'll never get another post, not once this gets out. And it will. St. Ives is right about that—if you marry him, the only whispers will be jealous ones; without his ring on your finger, they'll be malicious.
Destructively so."
Honoria shrugged. "That's hardly a disaster. As you know, I care little for society."
"True." Michael hesitated, then added: "You might, however, have a care for our name, and our parents' memory."
Slowly, Honoria turned to face him, her eyes very narrow. "That was uncalled for."
His expression stern, Michael shook his head. "No—it had to be said. You cannot simply walk away from who you are and the fact that you have family connections together with the responsibility that entails."
Honoria felt chilled inside, like a general informed he'd just lost his last ally. "So," she said, haughtily tilting her chin, "you would have me marry for the sake of the family—for the sake of a name I've never claimed?"
"I would see you wed first and foremost for your own sake. There's no future for you in Hampshire, or anywhere else for that matter. Look about you." He gestured to the sprawling bulk of the Place, displayed like a jewel in the grounds before them. "Here you could be what you were supposed to be. You could be what Papa and Mama always intended you to be."
Honoria pressed her lips tightly together. "I cannot live my life according to the precepts of ghosts."
"No—but you should consider the reasons behind their precepts. They may be dead, but the reasons remain."
When she said no more but sat mulishly looking down at her clasped hands, Michael continued, his tone more gentle: "I daresay this may sound pompous, but I've seen more of our world than you—that's why I'm so sure the course I urge you to is right."
Honoria shot him an irate glance. "I am not a child—"
"No." Michael grinned. "If you were, this situation wouldn't exist. But—!" he insisted, as she opened her mouth to retort, "just hold on to your temper and listen to what I have to say before you set your mind in stone." Honoria met his eyes. "I only have to listen?" Michael nodded. "To the proposition St. Ives put to me—and the reasons why I think you should agree to it." Honoria's jaw fell. "You discussed me with him?" Michael closed his eyes for an instant, then fixed her with a distinctly male look. "Honoria, it was necessary he and I talked. We've both lived in society much longer than you—you've never done more than stick a toe in society's sea. That's a point St. Ives, thank heavens, is aware of—it's that that's behind his proposition."
Honoria glared. "Proposition? I thought it was a proposal."
Michael closed his eyes tight. "His proposal's on the table and will remain there until you make your decision!" He opened his eyes. "His proposition concerns how we should go on until you do."
"Oh." Faced with his exasperation, Honoria shifted, then looked across the lake. "So what is this proposition?"
Michael drew a deep breath. "Because of his cousin's death, a wedding could not be held inside three months—the Dowager will be in full mourning for six weeks, then half-mourning for another six. As you have no suitable family with whom to reside, what would normally occur is that you would remain with the Dowager and she would introduce you to the ton as her son's fiancee."
"But I haven't agreed to marry him."
"No—so in this case, you'll simply remain under the Dowager's wing. She intends going to London
in a few weeks—you'll go with her and she'll introduce you to the ton. That will give you a chance to see society from a perspective you've never had—if, after that, you still wish to refuse St. Ives's offer, he and I will accept your decision and try to come up with some acceptable alternative."
His emphasis made it clear he did not expect to find one. Honoria frowned. "What explanation will be given for my presence with the Dowager?"
"None—Cynsters don't need to tender explanations any more than Anstruther-Wetherbys." Honoria looked skeptical. "Surely people will wonder?"
"People will know, of that you may be sure. However, given the Dowager's involvement, they'll imagine an announcement is in the offing and comport themselves appropriately." Michael grimaced. "I should warn you, the Dowager is something of a force to be reckoned with."
Honoria raised a questioning brow.
Michael waved at the house. "You saw her just now. She's a consummate manipulator." Honoria's lips twitched. "I had wondered whether you'd noticed."
"I noticed, but there's precious little point trying to resist. You called St. Ives a tyrant—I don't doubt he is, but that's probably just as well. Within the ton, his mother's considered a holy terror—of inestimable help if her sympathies lie with you, an enemy to be feared if they don't. No one's going to invite her ire by circulating possibly groundless rumors concerning her son and the lady who might be his duchess. There's no safer place for you than under the Dowager's wing."
Honoria could see it; slowly, she nodded, then looked frowningly at Michael. "I still think it would be much simpler for me to retire to Hampshire until all this blows over, Even if I don't get another post, as you pointed out, I am twenty-four. It's time I started on my travel plans."
Michael sighed, and looked away. "You can't stay in Hampshire alone—we'll have to get Aunt Hattie down."
"Aunt Hattie?" Honoria wrinkled her nose. "She'll drive me distracted inside of a week."
Michael pursed his lips. "Can't think of anyone else, and you can't live alone, especially once your sojourn in the woods with Devil Cynster becomes public. You'll find your self dealing with all manner of unwanted visitors."
Honoria shot him a darkling glance, then frowned, very hard, at the lake. Michael preserved a stoic silence.
Minutes ticked past; eyes narrowed, Honoria reviewed her options. She had, indeed, regretted sending for Michael so precipitously; it was clearly going to take time to track Tolly's murderer down. Devil, initially a large hurdle to her plans, had been overcome; he now behaved as a reluctant but resigned coconspirator. The idea of them, together, unmasking Tolly's killer was attractive—quite aside from the compulsion she felt to see justice done, the situation looked set to provide the excitement she'd craved all her life. Leaving now would see all that lost.
There was also the small matter of her burgeoning desire to experience—just once—the pleasure Devil had alluded to. His words, his caresses, like Tolly's face, now haunted her. He'd made it clear physical possession and pleasure were independent events—although the thought was guaranteed to bring a blush to her cheek, she was aware of an increasing compulsion to learn what he
could teach her. Of pleasure. Possession, in this case, was out of the question, beyond all possibility. Cynsters never let go anything that became theirs—she was far too wise to become his on any level.
Given she'd determined never to wed, her virtue would never be in question. It seemed wise to gain some experience of the pleasure possible between a man and a woman before she set off on her travels. And there was no denying the pleasure she'd thus far experienced at Devil Cynster's hands had held an excitement all its own.
With all that on offer, currently on her plate, but for Devil's matrimonial fixation, her present situation suited her admirably. She didn't want to go to Hampshire but with him so set on marriage, it hadn't seemed possible to stay.
Now, however, with his devilish proposition, the devil himself had cleared her path. She could remain in his household, in his mother's care, safe from him and any other gentleman, for three full months—surely, by that time, they would have laid Tolly's murderer by the heels? And she would have learned all she'd need to know of pleasure.
Which left only one quibble—was she strong enough, clever enough, to avoid any traps Devil might set for her?
Honoria straightened, and summoned a resigned grimace. "Very well." She turned and met Michael's eye. "I'll agree to remain under the Dowager's wing for three months." Michael grinned—Honoria narrowed her eyes. "After that, I'll go to Hampshire."
With a long-suffering groan, Michael rose and drew her to her feet. Arm in arm, they strolled back to the house.
Later that evening, Honoria was seated in an armchair in the drawing room, her lap full of embroidery silks, when a shadow fell across her. The Dowager was on the chaise, similarly occupied in sorting brilliant hanks. Michael, pleading tiredness, had retired early; Devil had retreated to the library. The tea trolley had come and gone; the evening had slipped silently into night.
Stymied in her attempt to discriminate between azure and turquoise, Honoria looked up—all the way up to Devil's face. He stood directly before her, his expression inscrutable. For a long moment, he simply held her gaze, his own shadowed, impossible to read. Then he held out his hand. "Come for a walk, Honoria Prudence."
From the corner of her eye, Honoria noted that the Dowager had been struck deaf.
Devil's lips softened fleetingly; his gaze remained intense, focused on her face. "I promise not to bite."
Honoria considered the pros and cons—she needed to talk to him, to make sure, while Michael was still here, that their bargain—his proposition—was precisely as she thought. She searched his face. "Not to the summerhouse." She might wish to learn more of pleasure, but she wanted the lessons under her control.
This time, his pirate's smile materialized fully if briefly. "Only on the terrace—I wouldn't want to distract you."
Honoria quelled an incipient shiver, elicited by the deep purring tones of his voice, and shot him a disbelieving glance.
He raised his brows resignedly. "Word of a Cynster."
And in that she could trust. Gathering her silks, Honoria set them aside, then placed her hand in his. He drew her to her feet, then settled her hand on his arm. The Dowager ignored them, apparently absorbed in lilac silks to the exclusion of all else. They strolled to where long windows stood open to the terrace, the night a curtain of black velvet beyond.
"I wished to speak to you," Honoria began the instant they gained the flags. "And I to you." Looking down at her, Devil paused.
Regally, Honoria inclined her head, inviting his comment.
"Michael has informed me you've agreed to remain with my mother for the next three months."
Reaching the balustrade, Honoria lifted her hand from his sleeve and swung to face him. "Until the period of mourning is over."
"After which time, you'll become my duchess."
She tilted her chin. "After which time, I'll return to Hampshire."
He'd halted directly before her, no more than a foot away. With the light behind him, it was all she could do to discern his expression—arrogantly impassive; his eyes, hooded and shadowed, fixed on hers, she couldn't read at all. Honoria kept her head high, her gaze unwavering, determined to impress on him how inflexible she was.
The moment stretched—and stretched; she started to feel light-headed. Then one of his brows rose.
"We appear to have a problem, Honoria Prudence." "Only in your mind, Your Grace."
The planes of his face shifted; his expression held a warning. "Perhaps," he said, exasperation clear beneath the polite form, "before we decide what will occur at the end of the three months, we should agree on the three months themselves?"
Haughtily, Honoria raised her brows. "I've agreed to remain with your mother." "And seriously consider my proposal."
The message in his tone was unmistakable—a bargain, or no deal. Drawing in a quick breath, she nodded. "And seriously consider the prospect of becoming your wife. I should, however, inform you that I am unlikely to change my stance on that matter."
"In other words, you're bone stubborn—and I have three months to change your mind."
She did not at all like the way he said that. "I am not a vacillating female—I have no intention of changing my mind."
His teeth flashed in his pirate's smile. "You've yet to experience my powers of persuasion."
Honoria shrugged; nose in the air, she shifted her gaze beyond his shoulder. "You may persuade away—I won't be marrying, you or anyone."
Again, silence was his ally, slowly stretching her nerves taut. She nearly jumped when hard fingertips slid
beneath her chin, turning her face back to him.
Even in the dark she could sense the piercing quality of his gaze, feel its potency. "Women have been known, on occasion, to change their minds." He spoke slowly, softly, his tones deep and purring. "How much of a woman are you, Honoria Prudence?"
Honoria felt her eyes widen. His fingertips slid across the sensitive skin beneath her chin; sharp slivers of sensation shivered through her. Her lungs had seized; it took considerable effort to lift her chin free of his touch. Haughtily, she stated: "I'm too wise to play with fire, Your Grace."
"Indeed?" His lips curved. "I thought you wanted excitement in your life?" "On my terms."
"In that case, my dear, we'll have to negotiate." "Indeed?" Honoria tried for airy nonchalance. "Why so?"
"Because you're shortly to become my duchess—that's why."
The glance she bent on him held every ounce of exasperation she could summon, then, with a swish of her skirts, she turned and stepped out of his shadow, following the balustrade. "I've warned you—don't later say I haven't. I am not going to marry you at the end of three months." She paused, then, head rising; eyes widening, she swung back and waved a finger at him. "And I am not a challenge—don't you dare view me as such."
His laughter was that of a pirate—a buccaneer, a swash buckling rogue who should have been safely on a deck in the middle of some ocean—nowhere near her. The sound, deep, rolling, and far too sure, held a threat and a promise; it enveloped her, caught her up, and held her—then he was there, before her once more.
"You are challenge personified, Honoria Prudence." "You are riding for a fall, Your Grace."
"I'll be riding you before Christmas."
The deliberate reference shocked Honoria, but she wasn't about to let it show. Keeping her chin high, she narrowed her eyes. "You aren't, by any chance, imagining you're going to seduce me into marriage?"
One arrogant black brow rose. "The thought had crossed my mind."
"Well it won't work." When his second brow joined the first, Honoria smiled, supremely confident. "I cut my eye-teeth long ago—I know perfectly well you won't press me while I'm residing under your roof, in your mother's care."
For a long moment, he held her gaze. Then he asked: "How much do you know of seduction?"
It was Honoria's turn to raise her brows. Taking another step along the terrace, she shrugged lightly. "You won't be the first to try it."
"Possibly not, but I'll be the first to succeed."
Honoria sighed. "You won't, you know." Glancing up, she saw him frown. She narrowed her eyes. "
Succeed, I mean." The frown disappeared. He paced slowly beside her as she strolled the flags. "I know
you won't force me—I'll simply call your bluff."
She felt his glance; oddly, it was less intense, less disturbing than before. When he spoke, she detected faint amusement in his tone. "No force, no bluff." He met her gaze as she glanced up. "There's a lot you have to learn about seduction, Honoria Prudence, and this time, you'll be dealing with a master."
Honoria shook her head despairingly. Well, she'd warned him. He was so arrogantly confident it would do him good to be taken down a peg or two—to learn that not all things on this earth would meekly bow to his rule.
The evening reached chill fingers through her gown; she shivered. Devil's hand on her arm halted her. "We should go in."
Honoria half turned—and found herself facing him. As she watched, his expression hardened; abruptly, he leaned closer. With a stifled shriek, she backed—into the balustrade. He set his hands on the stone parapet, one on either side of her, caging her between his arms.
Breathless, her heart racing, she blinked into his eyes, now level with hers. "You promised not to bite."
His expression was graven. "I haven't—yet." His eyes searched hers. "As you've been so ingenuously frank, the least I can do is return the favor—so that we understand each other fully." He held her gaze steadily; Honoria felt the full weight of his will. "I will not permit you to turn your back on who you are, on the destiny that was always intended to be yours. I will not let you turn yourself into a governessing drudge, nor an eccentric to titillate the ton.
Honoria's expression blanked.
Devil held her gaze ruthlessly. "You were born and bred to take a position at the head of the ton —that position now lies at your feet. You have three months to reconcile yourself to the reality. Don't imagine you can run from it."
Pale, inwardly quivering, Honoria wrenched her gaze from his. Turning, she yanked at his sleeve.
Letting go of the balustrade, Devil straightened, leaving her escape route clear. Honoria hesitated, then, her expression as stony as his, she turned and looked him straight in the eye. "You have no right to decree what my life is to be."
"I have every right." Devil's expression softened not at all; his gaze was mercilous. "You will be what you were meant to be—mine."
The emphasis he placed on that single word shook Honoria to her toes. Barely able to breathe, she walked quickly back to the drawing room, head high, skirts shushing furiously.
Chapter 10
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Three days later, Devil stood at the library windows, his gaze, abstracted, fixed on the summerhouse. Behind him, open ledgers littered his desk; a pile of letters begged for attention. He had a lot of unfinished business on his plate.
No trace had been found of Tolly's killer, and the simple task of securing his bride was proving remarkably complicated. The latter was more bothersome than the former—he was sure they'd eventually track Tolly's murderer down. He was also unshakably convinced Honoria would be his bride—he was simply no longer so sanguine about what state he'd be in by the wedding.
She was driving him demented. What power had goaded him into declaring his hand so forcefully, there, on the terrace in the moonlight? It had been sheer madness to act the tyrant as he had—yet he could feel the same emotion, the urge to conquer, to seize, to hold, flaring even now, simply at the thought of her.
Luckily, her stubbornness, her defiance, her unquenchable pride had forbidden her to flee before his heavy-handed declaration. She'd let Michael depart alone. Now, with her nose in the air, wrapped in a cloak of chill civility, she held him at a distance.
After learning of her past, common sense suggested he at least reconsider. Common sense stood not a chance against the deep-seated conviction that she was his. Where she was concerned he felt like one of his conquering ancestors preparing to lay siege to a much-desired prize. Given what he now suspected, her surrender, when it came, would need to be proclaimed from the battlements.
He'd wondered how she'd reached a succulently ripe twenty-four still unwed. Even hidden away as a governess, not all men were blind. Some must have seen her and appreciated her worth. A determination on her part to remain a spinster, childless, could, in this case, explain the inexplicable. Her stubbornness was a tangible thing.
In this case, her stubbornness would need to surrender. He wasn't going to let her go. Ever.
At least she couldn't later say that he hadn't warned her.
His gaze, still on the summerhouse, sharpened; Devil straightened and reached for the handle of the French doors.
Honoria saw him coming; her hand froze in midair, then she looked down and resumed her stitching. Devil climbed the steps two at a time; she looked up and met his gaze squarely. Slowly, she raised her brows.
He held her gaze, then glanced at the seat beside her.
She hesitated, then carefully gathered up her strewn silks. "Did your man learn anything in Chatteris?" Devil stared at her.
Honoria laid the silks in her basket. "I saw him ride in."
Swallowing his irritation, Devil sat beside her, angling his shoulders so he faced her. "Nothing—no horseman came by way of Chatteris." Perhaps he should grow screening hedges about the summerhouse? She'd adopted it as her lair; he could see a number of pertinent advantages.
Honoria frowned. "So that's all the towns 'round about—and no gentleman hired a horse anywhere."
"Except for Charles, who came by way of Cambridge."
"Is there any other place—a tavern, or some such—where horses might be hired?"
"My people checked all the hedge-taverns within reach. Short of borrowing a horse, something we can't rule out, it seems likely the murderer rode away on his own horse."
"I thought you said that was unlikely?" "Unlikely but not impossible."
"The storm came up shortly after. Wouldn't he have had to take shelter?"
"The others checked all the inns and taverns on their way back to London. No likely gentleman took refuge anywhere. Whoever shot Tolly was either exceedingly lucky or he covered his tracks exceptionally well."
"Riding his own horse, he could have come from anywhere, not just London. He might have been a hired assassin."
Devil looked at her, silently, for a full minute. "Don't complicate things."
"Well, it's true. But I had meant to ask you…" She paused to snip a thread; in the silence that followed, Devil got her message. She'd meant to ask him before he'd acted the despot. Setting aside her shears, she continued: "Was it common knowledge that Tolly habitually took the lane through the wood?"
Devil grimaced. "Not common knowledge, but widespread enough to be easily learned." Honoria set another stitch. "Have your cousins discovered anything in London?"
"No. But there must be something—some clue—somewhere. Young gentlemen don't get murdered on country lanes for no reason." He looked out across the lawns—and saw his mother approaching. With a sigh, he uncrossed his legs and stood.
"Is this where you are hiding, Sylvester?" The Dowager came up the steps in a froth of black lace. She held up her face for a kiss.
Devil dutifully obliged. "Hardly hiding, Maman."
"Indeed—you are a great deal too large for this place." The Dowager prodded him. "Sit—don't tower."
As she promptly took his place beside Honoria, Devil was reduced to perching on a windowsill. The Dowager glanced at Honoria's work—and pointed to one stitch. Honoria stared, then muttered unintelligibly, set down her needle, and reached for her shears.
Devil grabbed the opportunity. "I wanted to speak to you, Maman. I'll be leaving for London tomorrow."
"London?" The exclamation came from two throats; two heads jerked up, two pairs of eyes fixed on his face.
Devil shrugged. "Purely business."
Honoria looked at the Dowager; the Dowager looked at her.
When she turned back to her son, the Dowager was frowning. "I have been thinking, cheri, that I should
also go up to London. Now that I have dear 'Onoria to keep me company, I think it would be quite
convenable."
Devil blinked. "You're in mourning. Full mourning."
"So?" The Dowager opened her eyes wide. "I'll be in full mourning in London—so appropriate—it is always so grey there at this time of year."
"I had thought," Devil said, "that you would want to remain here, at least for another week or so."
The Dowager lifted her hands, palms upward. "For what? It is a little early for the balls, I grant you, but I am not suggesting we go to London for dissipation. No. It is appropriate, I think, that I introduce 'Onoria, even though the family is in black. She is not affected; I discussed it with your aunt 'Oratia—like me, she thinks the sooner the ton meets 'Onoria, the better."
Devil glanced, swiftly, at Honoria; the consternation in her eyes was a delight to behold. "An excellent idea, Maman" Silver glinted in Honoria's eyes; he hurriedly looked away. "But you'll have to be careful not to step on the tabbies' tails."
The Dowager waved dismissively. "Do not teach your mother to suck eggs. Your aunt and I will know just how to manage. Nothing too elaborate or such as will… how do you say it?—raise the wind?"
Devil hid his grin. "Raise a dust—the wind is money."
The Dowager frowned. "Such strange sayings you English have."
Devil forebore to remind her that she'd lived in England for most of her life—and that her grasp of the language always deteriorated when she was hatching some scheme. In this case, it was a scheme of which he approved.
"Everything will be tout comme il faut," the Dowager insisted. "You need not concern yourself—I know how conservative you are growing—we will do nothing to offend your sensibilities."
The comment left Devil speechless.
"Indeed, just this morning I was thinking that I should be in London, with your aunt Louise. I am the matriarch, no? And a matriarch's duty is to be with her family." The Dowager fixed her undeniably matriarchal gaze on her silent son. "Your father would have wished it so."
That, of course, signaled the end to all argument—not that Devil intended arguing. Manufacturing an aggravated sigh, he held up his hands. "If that's what you truly wish, Maman, I'll give orders immediately. We can leave tomorrow at midday and be in town before nightfall."
"Bon!" The Dowager looked at Honoria. "We had best start our packing."
"Indeed." Honoria put her needlework in her basket, then glanced briefly, triumphantly, at Devil.
He kept his expression impassive, standing back as she and his mother exited the summerhouse. Only when they were well ahead did he descend the steps, strolling languorously in their wake, his gaze on Honoria's shapely curves, smug satisfaction in his eyes.
St. Ives House in Grosvenor Square was a great deal smaller than Somersham Place. It was still large enough to lose a battalion in, a fact emphasized by the odd individual of military mien who presided over
it.
Honoria nodded at Sligo as she crossed the hall, and wondered at Devil Cynster's idiosyncracies. On arriving at dusk two days before, she'd been taken aback to find the stoop-shouldered, thin, and wiry Sligo acting as majordomo. He had a careworn face, moon-shaped and mournful; his attire was severe but did not quite fit. His speech was abrupt, as if he was still on a parade ground.
Later, she'd questioned the Dowager; Sligo, it transpired, had been Devil's batman at Waterloo. He was fanatically devoted to his erstwhile captain; on disbanding, he'd simply continued to follow him. Devil had made him his general factotum. Sligo remained at St. Ives House, acting as its caretaker when the family was not in residence. When his master was in residence, Honoria surmised, he reverted to his previous role.
Which, she suspected, meant that Sligo would bear watching. A footman opened the breakfast-parlor door.
"There you are, my dear." The Dowager beamed gloriously from one end of the elegant table. Honoria bobbed a curtsy, then inclined her head toward the head of the table. "Your Grace."
The devil nodded back, his gaze roving over her. "I trust you slept well?" With a wave, he summoned Webster to hold a chair for her—the one beside his.
"Tolerably well, thank you." Perforce ignoring the nine other empty chairs about the immaculately laid table, Honoria settled her skirts, then thanked Webster as he poured her tea. The previous day had gone in unpacking and settling in. A rain squall had cut short the afternoon; she'd got no closer to the park in the Square than the drawing-room windows.
"I have been telling Sylvester that we plan to visit the modistes this morning." The Dowager waved a knife at her. "He tells me that these days the ton selects modistes by age."
"Age?" Honoria frowned.
Busy with toast and marmalade, the Dowager nodded. "Apparently, it is quite convenable that I continue with my old Franchot, but for you it must be…" She glanced at her son. "Qu'est-ce que?"
"Celestine," Devil supplied. Honoria turned her frown on him.
He met her look with one of ineffable boredom. "It's simple enough—if you want bombazine and turbans, you go to Franchot. If frills and furbelows are your fancy, then Madame Abelard's is more likely to suit. For innocent country misses," he paused, his gaze briefly touching Honoria's fine lace fichu, "then I've heard Mademoiselle Cocotte is hard to beat. For true elegance, however, there's only one name you need know—Celestine."
"Indeed?" Honoria sipped her tea, then, setting down her cup, reached for the toast. "Is she on Bruton Street?"
Devil's brows flew. "Where else?" He looked away as Sligo approached, carrying a silver salver piled with letters. Taking them, Devil flicked through the stack. "I daresay you'll find any number of modistes that might take your fancy if you stroll the length of Bruton Street."
From the corner of her eye, Honoria watched him examine his mail. He employed a small army of agents;
one had followed on their heels from the Place and spent all yesterday closeted with his master. Running estates as extensive as those of the dukedom of St. Ives would keep any man busy; thus far, from all she'd seen, business had prevented Devil from pursuing his investigations.
Reaching the bottom of the pile, he shuffled the letters together, then glanced at his mother. "If you'll excuse me, Maman." Briefly, his eyes touched Honoria's. "Honoria Prudence." With a graceful nod, he stood; absorbed with his letters, he left the room.
Honoria stared at his back until the door hid it from view, then took another sip of her tea.
The St. Ives town carriage had just rumbled around the corner, bearing the Dowager and Honoria to Bruton Street, when Vane Cynster strolled into Grosvenor Square. His stride long and ranging, he crossed the pavements; cane swinging, he climbed the steps to his cousin's imposing door. He was about to beat an imperious tattoo when the door swung inward. Sligo rushed out.
"Oh! Sorry, sir." Sligo flattened himself against the doorjamb. "Didn't see you there, sir." Vane smiled. "That's quite all right, Sligo."
"Cap'n's orders. An urgent dispatch." Sligo tapped his breast—rustling parchment testified to his cause. "If you'll excuse me, sir?"
Released by Vane's bemused nod, Sligo hurried down the steps and ran to the corner. He flagged down a hackney and climbed aboard. Vane shook his head, then turned to the still-open door. Webster stood beside it.
"The master is in the library, sir. I believe he's expecting you. Do you wish to be announced?"
"No need." Surrendering his cane, hat and gloves, Vane headed for Devil's sanctum. He opened the door, instantly coming under his cousin's green gaze.
Devil sat in a leather chair behind a large desk, an open letter in one hand. "You're the first." Vane grinned. "And you're impatient."
"You're not?"
Vane raised his brows. "Until a second ago, I didn't know you had no news." He crossed the room and dropped into a chair facing the desk.
"I take it you have no insights to offer either?" Vane grimaced. "In a word—no."
Devil grimaced back; refolding his letter, he laid it aside. "I just hope the others have turned up something."
"What's Sligo up to?" When Devil looked up, Vane elaborated: "I bumped into him on the steps—he seemed in a tearing hurry."
Devil waved dismissively. "A small matter of forward strategy."
"Speaking of which, have you managed to convince your bride-to-be that investigating murder is not a suitable hobby for a gentlewoman?"
Devil smiled. "Maman can always be counted on to visit the modistes within forty-eight hours of arriving in town."
Vane raised his brows. "So you haven't succeeded in striking murder from Miss Anstruther-Wetherby's agenda?"
Devil's smile turned feral. "I'm directing my fire at a different target. Once that falls, her agenda will no longer apply."
Vane grinned. "Poor Honoria Prudence—does she know what she's up against?" "She'll learn."
"Too late?"
"That's the general idea."
A brief rap on the door heralded the appearance of Richard "Scandal" Cynster; he was followed by Gabriel and Demon Harry, Vane's brother. The comfortably spacious room was suddenly very full of very large men.
"Why the delay?" Harry asked, lowering his long frame to the chaise. "I expected to be summoned yesterday."
"Devil had to make sure the coast was clear," Vane replied—and earned a hard look from Devil.
"Lucifer sends his regrets," Gabriel informed the room at large. "He's exhausted from his efforts to discover any news of Tolly's peccadilloes—which efforts have thus far been completely unrewarding."
"That," Harry returned, "I find exceedingly hard to believe." "Unrewarding in terms of our investigation," Gabriel amended. "As to that," Harry continued, "I know exactly how he feels."
Despite considerable effort in their delegated spheres, none had uncovered any evidence that Tolly had been in trouble. Devil put forward the idea that Tolly might not personally have been in trouble at all. "He may have unwittingly stumbled on something he wasn't supposed to know—he might unsuspectingly have become a threat to someone."
Gabriel was nodding. "That scenario sounds a lot more like Tolly."
Harry snorted. "Silly beggar would have got all fired up with innocent zeal and hared off to lay the evidence at your feet."
"Before demanding that you fix it." Richard's smile went slightly awry. "That plot rings truer than any other."
His eyes on Richard's, Devil said, "The very fact that he was coming to see me may have been what led to his death."
Vane nodded. "That would explain why he was killed at Somersham."
"We'll have to recanvass all Tolly's friends." Under Devil's direction, Gabriel, Harry, and Richard agreed
to take on the task.
"And me?" Vane raised his brows. "What fascinating piece of detecting am I to undertake?" "You get to wring out Old Mick."
"Old Mick?!" Vane groaned. "The man drinks like a fish."
"You've the hardest head of the lot of us, and someone's got to speak to him. As Tolly's man, he's our most likely lead."
Vane grumbled, but no one paid him any heed.
"We'll meet here again in two days." Devil stood; the others followed suit. Gabriel, Harry, and Richard headed for the door.
"It's occurred to me," Vane said, as he strolled after the others, "that the latest addition to the family might not be so amenable to bowing to your authority."
Devil arched a brow. "She'll learn."
"So you keep saying." At the door, Vane glanced back. "But you know what they say—beware of loose cannon."
The look Devil sent him embodied arrogance supreme; Vane chuckled and left, closing the door behind him.
Wringing information from a devil was not an easy task, especially when he evinced no interest in her company. Poised at the top of the stairs, Honoria debated her next move.
She'd taken Devil's advice and visited Celestine's salon. Her suspicious nature had reared its head when a note, directed in bold black script and carrying a red seal, had arrived for Celestine hard on their heels. While Honoria tried on subtly understated morning gowns, fashionable carriage dresses, and delectably exquisite evening gowns, the modiste, in constant attendance from the instant she'd read the note, had made comments enough on monsieur le duc's partialities to confirm her suspicions. But by then she'd seen too many of Celestine's creations to contemplate cutting off her nose to spite her face.
Instead, she'd bought an entire wardrobe, all for the express purpose of setting monsieur le duc back on his heels. Celestine's evening gowns, while unquestionably acceptable, were subtly scandalous—her height and age allowed her to wear them to advantage. Nightgowns, peignoirs, and chemises, all in silks and satins, were similarly stunning. Everything, naturally, was shockingly expensive—luckily, her pocket was more than deep enough to stand the nonsense.
She'd spent the ride back to Grosvenor Square imagining the look on Devil's face when he saw her in a particularly provoking nightgown—only as the carriage reached St. Ives House did the anomaly in her thinking strike her. When would Devil see her in her nightgown?
Never if she was wise. She'd bundled the thought from her mind.
For the past two mornings, she'd entered the breakfast-parlor wearing an encouraging smile and one of Celestine's more fetching creations; while the devil had noticed her, other than a certain glint in his green eyes, he'd shown no inclination to commit himself beyond an absentminded nod. On both mornings, in an unflatteringly short space of time, he'd excused himself and taken refuge in his study.
She could imagine that he might be busy; she was not prepared to accept that as an excuse to ignore her, particularly as he must by now have learned something about his cousin's death.
Drawing a determined breath, she started down the stairs. Direct action was called for—she would beard the lion in his den. Or was that the devil in his lair? Luckily, his lair was also the library. Hand on the doorknob, she paused; no sound came from within. Mentally girding her loins, she plastered a breezily unconscious smile on her face, opened the door, and walked briskly in.
Without looking up, she closed the door and turned, taking two steps before letting her gaze reach the desk. "Oh!" Lips parting, eyes widening, she halted. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize…" She let her words trail away.
Her devilish host sat behind the large desk, his correspondence spread before him. By the windows, Sligo was sorting ledgers. Both men had looked up; while Sligo's expression was arrested, Devil's was unreadable.
With a longing glance at the bookshelves, Honoria conjured an apologetic smile. "I didn't mean to intrude. Pray excuse me."
Gathering her skirts, she half turned—a languid gesture halted her. "If it's distraction you seek, then by all means, seek it here."
Devil's eyes met hers; while his accompanying wave indicated the volumes and tomes, Honoria was not at all certain they were the distraction to which he referred. Lifting her chin, she inclined her head graciously. "I won't disturb you."
She already had. Devil shifted in his chair, then rearranged his letters. From the corner of his eye, he watched Honoria scan the shelves, pausing artistically here and there to raise a hand to this book or that. He wondered who she thought she was fooling.
The past two days had been difficult. Resisting the invitation in her eyes had required considerable resolution, but he'd won too many campaigns not to know the value of having her approach him. At last she'd weakened—impatience mounting, he waited for her to get to the point.
Picking up his pen, he signed a letter, blotted it, and laid it aside. Glancing up, he surprised her watching him—she quickly looked away. A sunbeam lancing through the windows burnished the gleaming chestnut knot atop her head; wispy tendrils wreathed her nape and forehead. In her cream-colored morning gown, she looked good enough to eat; for a ravenous wolf, the temptation was great. Devil watched as she put a hand to a heavy tome, one on agricultural practices; she hesitated, then pulled it out and opened it. She was vacillating.
Realizing what she was reading, she abruptly shut the book and replaced it, then drifted back to the shelves nearer the door, selecting another book at random. With an inward sigh, Devil put down his pen and stood. He didn't have all day—his cousins were due later that afternoon. Rounding the desk, he crossed the carpet; sensing his approach, Honoria looked up.
Devil lifted the book from her hands, shut it, and returned it to the shelf—then met her startled gaze. "What's it to be—a drive in the park or a stroll in the square?"
Honoria blinked. She searched his eyes, then stiffened and raised her chin. "A drive." The park might be crowded but on the box seat of his curricle she could interrogate him without restriction.
Devil's eyes didn't leave hers. "Sligo—get the bays put to."
"Aye, Capt'n Y'r Grace." Sligo darted for the door.
Intending to follow, Honoria found herself trapped, held, by Devil's green gaze. Forsaking her eyes, it slid down, lingering briefly but with a weight that sent heat rising to her cheeks.
He looked up. "Perhaps, my dear, you had better change—we wouldn't want you to catch cold."
Like she'd caught cold trying to fool him? Haughtily, Honoria raised her chin another inch. "Indeed, Your Grace. I shouldn't keep you above half an hour."
With a swish of her skirts, she escaped. Even forcibly dragging her heels, she was back in the hall in under ten minutes; to her relief, the devil forebore to comment, merely meeting her eye with a glance too arrogantly assured for her liking. His gaze swept her, neat and trim in green jaconet, then he gave her his arm; nose still high, she consented to be led down the steps.
Devil lifted her to the seat. They were bowling through the park gates, the carriages of the ton lining the curved avenue ahead, before she registered that a groom had swung up behind. Glancing back, she beheld Sligo.
Devil saw her surprise. "You'll no doubt be relieved that I've decided to observe the strictures wherever possible."
Honoria gestured behind. "Isn't that rather excessive?"
"I wouldn't let it dampen your enthusiasms, Honoria Prudence." He slanted her a glance. "Sligo's half-deaf."
A quick glance confirmed it; despite the fact Devil had not lowered his voice, Sligo's expression remained blank. Satisfied, Honoria drew a deep breath. "In that case—"
"That's the countess of Tonbridge to your right. She's a bosom-bow of Maman's."
Honoria smiled at the grande dame lounging in a brougham drawn up by the verge; a quizzing glass magnifying one protuberant eye, the countess inclined her head graciously. Honoria nodded back. "What—"
"Lady Havelock ahead. Is that a turban she's wearing?"
"A toque," Honoria replied through her smile. "But—" "Mrs. Bingham and Lady Carstairs in the landau."
It was difficult, Honoria discovered, to smile with clenched teeth. Her breeding, however, dictated her behavior, even in such trying circumstances; calmly serene, she smiled and nodded with gracious impartiality—the truth was, she barely focused on those claiming her attention. Not even the sight of Skiffy Skeffington in his customary bilious green had the power to divert her—her attention was firmly fixed on the reprobate beside her.
She should have chosen the square. After the first three encounters, the interest directed their way registered; the glances of the ladies whose nods she returned were not idle. They were sharp, speculative—keenly acute. Her position beside Devil was clearly making some statement; Honoria had a strong suspicion it was not a statement she'd intended to make. Nodding to a beaming Lady Sefton, she asked: "How long is it since you last drove a lady in the park?"
"I don't."
"Don't?" Honoria turned and stared. "Why not? You can hardly claim you're misogynous."
Devil's lips twitched; briefly he met her eye. "If you think about it, Honoria Prudence, you'll see that appearing beside me in the park is tantamount to a declaration—a declaration no unmarried lady has previously been invited to make and one which no married lady would care to flaunt."
Lady Chetwynd was waiting to be noticed; by the time she was free again, Honoria was simmering. "And what about me?"
Devil glanced her way; this time, his expression was harder. "You are different. You're going to marry me."
An altercation in the park was unthinkable; Honoria seethed, but couldn't let it show, other than in her eyes. Those, only he could see, much good did her fury do her; with an infuriatingly arrogant lift to his brows, he turned back to his horses.
Denied the interrogation she'd planned and the tirade he deserved, Honoria struggled, not simply to contain her wrath but to redirect it. Losing her temper was unlikely to advance her cause.
She slanted a glance at Devil; his attention was on his horses, his profile clear-cut, hard-edged. Eyes narrowing, she looked ahead, to where a line of carriages had formed, waiting to turn. Devil drew in at the end; Honoria saw her chance and took it. "Have you and your cousins learned anything of the reason behind Tolly's murder?"
One black brow quirked upward. "I had heard…" Breath bated, Honoria waited.
"That Aunt Horatia intends giving a ball in a week or so." Blank green eyes turned her way. "To declare the family once more on the town, so to speak. Until then, I suspect we should curb our excursions—the park and such mild entertainments are, I believe, permissible. Later…"
In utter disbelief, Honoria listened to a catalogue of projected diversions—the usual divertissements favored by the ton. She didn't bother trying to interrupt. He'd accepted her help in the lane; he'd told her that his people had turned up no clues in the towns about Somersham. She'd thought he'd capitulated—understood and accepted her right to involve herself in the solving of the crime, or, at the very least, accepted her right to know what had been discovered. As the litany of pleasures in store for her continued, Honoria readjusted her thinking.
Very straight, her expression blank, she held her tongue until, the turn accomplished, he ran out of entertainments. Then, and only then, did she glance sideways and meet his eye. "You are not being fair."
His features hardened. "That's the way our world is."
"Perhaps," Honoria declared, tilting her chin, "it's time our world changed."
He made no answer; flicking the reins, he sent the horses back along the avenue.
Honoria's head was so high she nearly missed seeing the gentleman standing by the verge; he raised his cane in greeting, then waved it.
Devil checked his team, drawing them to a stamping halt by the lawn's edge. "Good afternoon, Charles."
Charles Cynster inclined his head. "Sylvester." His gaze traveled to Honoria. "Miss Anstruther-Wetherby."
Resisting an instinctive retreat to haughtiness, Honoria returned his nod. "Sir. Might I inquire how your family is faring?" Charles wore the customary black armband, easily seen against his brown coat. Devil likewise wore the badge of mourning, virtually invisible against his black sleeve. Honoria leaned down and gave Charles her hand. "I've yet to meet your brother and sisters since coming to town."
"They are…" Charles hesitated. "Well, I think." He met Honoria's eyes. "Recovering from the shock. But how are you? I admit to surprise at seeing you here. I had thought your plans were otherwise?"
Honoria smiled—feelingly. "They are. This"—she gestured airily—"is merely a temporary arrangement. I've agreed to remain with the Dowager for three months. After that, I plan to begin my preparations for Africa. I'm considering a prolonged sojourn—there's so much to see." Her smile grew brittle. "And do."
"Indeed?" Charles frowned vaguely. "I believe there's a very good exhibition at the museum. If Sylvester's too busy to escort you, pray call on me. As I assured you before, I'll always hold myself ready to assist you in any way I can."
Regally, Honoria inclined her head.
After promising to convey their regards to his family, Charles stepped back. With a flick of his wrist, Devil set his horses trotting. "Honoria Prudence, you would try the patience of a saint."
Irritation ran beneath his smooth tones. "You," Honoria declared, "are no saint." "A point you would do well to bear in mind."
Quelling a most peculiar shiver, Honoria stared straight ahead.
They ran the gauntlet—the long line of stationary carriages holding the grandes dames of the ton —once more, then Devil turned his horses for home. By the time they reached Grosvenor Square, Honoria had refocused on her day's objective. The objective she had yet to attain.
Devil drew up before his door. Throwing the reins to Sligo, he alighted and lifted Honoria down. By the time she caught her breath, she was on the porch; his front stoop, she decided, was no place for an argument.
The door opened; Devil followed her inside. The hall seemed crowded; as well as Webster, Lucifer was there.
"You're early."
Honoria glanced at Devil, surprised by the disapproval she detected in his tone. Lucifer's brows had quirked in surprise, but he smiled charmingly as he bowed over her hand. Straightening, he looked at Devil. "In recompense, if you will, for my previous absence."
Previous absence? Honoria looked at Devil.
His expression gave nothing away. "You'll have to excuse us, my dear. Business demands our attention." Business her left foot. Honoria raced through her options, searching for some acceptable way to remain
with them. There wasn't one. Swallowing a curse, she inclined her head regally, first to her nemesis, then to his cousin, then turned and glided up the stairs.
"I hesitate to state the obvious, but we're getting nowhere. I, for one, am finding failure a mite tedious." A general growl of agreement greeted Gabriel's pronouncement. All six cousins were present, long limbs disposed in various poses about Devil's library.
"Speaking personally," Vane drawled, "I'd prefer to have failure to report. As it is, Old Mick, longtime servitor to the second family, has departed these fair shores."
Harry frowned. "He's left England?"
"So Charles informs me." Vane flicked a speck of lint from his knee. "I went to Tolly's lodgings and found them relet. According to the landlord, who lives downstairs, Charles turned up the day after Tolly's funeral. No one had told Mick about Tolly—he was, needless to say, cut up."
Richard whistled soundlessly. "He'd been with the family forever—he was devoted to Tolly."
Vane inclined his head. "I assumed Charles would have ensured Mick was told in time to come up for the funeral—he must have been more distraught than we realized. As it transpired, there was something of a scene. According to the landlord, Mick stormed out. According to Charles, Mick was so cut up over Tolly's death that he decided to quit London and return to his family in Ireland."
Harry looked wary. "Do we know Mick's surname?" "O'Shannessy," Richard supplied.
Devil frowned. "Do we know where his family live?" Vane shook his head.
Harry sighed. "I'm due in Ireland within the week to look over some brood mares. I could see if I can ferret out our Mick O'Shannessy."
Devil nodded. "Do." His features hardened. "And when you find him, aside from our questions, make sure Charles took proper care of him. If not, make the usual arrangements and have the accounts sent to me."
Harry nodded.
"Incidentally," Vane said, "Charles's man, Holthorpe, has also left for greener fields—in his case, to America."
"America?" Lucifer exclaimed.
"Apparently Holthorpe had saved enough to visit his sister there. When Charles returned from Somersham, Holthorpe was gone. Charles's new man has rather less presence than Sligo and goes by the name of Smiggs."
Harry snorted. "Sounds like he'll suit Charles." Lucifer sighed. "So where do we search next?"
Devil frowned. "We must be overlooking something."
Vane grinned wryly. "But not even the devil knows what it is."
Devil humphed. "Unfortunately not. But if Tolly stumbled on someone's illegal or scandalous secret, then, presumably, if we try hard enough, we can learn that same secret."
"And whose secret it is," Gabriel, somewhat grimly, added.
"It could be anything," Lucifer said. "Tolly could have heard it from a man on a corner or from some silly chit in a ballroom."
"Which is why we'll need to cast our net wide. Whatever it is must be out there somewhere—we'll have to trawl." Devil scanned their dissatisfied but still-determined faces. "I can't see that we have any choice other than to keep searching until we have some facts to work on."
Gabriel nodded. "You're right." He stood and met Devil's eye, a lilting smile curving his lips. "None of us are about to desert."
The others nodded; unhurriedly, they left, restrained impatience in their eyes. Devil saw them out. He turned back to the library, then hesitated. Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder. "Webster—"
"I believe Miss Anstruther-Wetherby is in the upstairs parlor, Your Grace."
Devil nodded and started up the stairs. Their lack of progress hung heavily on his mind; Honoria's wish to involve herself in the hunt was an added irritant—seducing her to his side was proving difficult enough without that complication. Gaining the top of the stairs, he smiled, grimly. There was more than one way of spiking a gun—presumably the same held true for loose cannon.
The parlor door opened noiselessly; Honoria was pacing before the hearth. She didn't hear him enter. She was muttering in distinctly forceful fashion; as Devil neared, he caught the words "fair" and "stubborn beast."
Honoria glanced up—and jumped back. Devil caught her by the elbows and yanked her to him, away from the fire.
Breathless, her heart in her mouth, Honoria pushed him away. He released her instantly; her inner shaking didn't stop. Furious, on any number of points, she put her hands on her hips and glared. "Don't do that!" She batted aside a distracting curl. "Hasn't anyone ever told you it's unacceptable to sneak up on people?"
"I wasn't sneaking." Devil's expression remained mild. "You didn't hear me—you were too busy rehearsing your lecture."
Honoria blinked; caution belatedly seeped into her mind.
"Now I'm here," Devil continued, "why don't you deliver it?" The invitation was the opposite of encouraging. "On the other hand," his brows quirked, "you might care to hear what my cousins had to report."
Honoria was bottling up so much spleen, she felt she might explode. There was, she understood, an "either or" buried in his words. If she poured out the tirade she'd spent the last hour preparing, she wouldn't hear what had been learned of Tolly's killer. Her head hurt. "Very well—tell me what you and your cousins have found out."
Devil gestured to the chaise; he waited until she sat, then settled his long frame in the opposite corner.
"Unfortunately, thus far, despite considerable effort, we've turned up precisely nothing. No hint whatever of what it was that set Tolly on the road to Somersham."
"Nothing?" Honoria searched his face; there was no hint of evasion in his eyes. "Where did you look and what were you searching for?"
Devil told her; she drank in his description of the others' particular strengths and the gamut of their investigations. She was confident he wasn't lying; she did wonder if he was telling her the whole truth. She quizzed him, but his answers remained consistent. "So what now?"
In the distance, they heard the dinner gong boom. "Now," he said, rising gracefully and holding out his hand, "we keep searching." He'd explained they were looking for someone else's secret. "Until we have a scent to follow, we can do nothing more."
Honoria wasn't so certain of that. She allowed him to draw her to her feet. "Perhaps—"
One long finger slid beneath her chin; Devil tipped her face up to his. "I'll keep you informed of developments, Honoria Prudence."
His voice deepened on her name. Mesmerized, Honoria saw the color of his eyes change, a gleam silvering their depths. His gaze shifted, dropping to her lips; she felt them soften, part, felt her lids grow heavy.
"Ah… yes." Breathless, she lifted her chin from his finger and stepped sideways, bringing the door into view. "I'd better change."
One black brow rose, but beyond that and a quizzical glance, he made no comment, escorting her to the door and holding it while she made good her escape. It was only when, half an hour later, she sat before her mirror for her maid, Cassie, to do her hair, that understanding dawned.
He'd told her what they'd discovered—nothing. He'd promised to keep her apprised of developments—eyes narrowing, Honoria realized he meant after they'd been acted upon. Even more telling, he'd prevented her from offering to assist—so that he wouldn't have to refuse and make it plain that she was still not permitted any meaningful involvement.
When she entered the drawing room, she was poised and assured, able to meet Devil's eye with calm serenity. Throughout the meal, she remained distant, listening to the conversation with but half an ear, her mind busy formulating her investigative strategy.
Nothing useful had yet been discovered, which left the field wide open. As for His Grace's antiquated notions, she was sure that, when she discovered the vital secret, he wouldn't be able to deny her. How could he?—she wouldn't tell him until after, until it was too late for him to exclude her.
Chapter 11
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Investigating Tolly's murder proved more difficult than she'd thought. While his cousins had entree to Tolly's largely male world, Honoria did not. Likewise, they knew Tolly, his habits, his interests. On the other hand, she reasoned, she could view his last days impartially, the facts uncolored by preconceived notions. Besides, women were notoriously more observant than men.
Tolly's youngest aunt, Celia, had been elected by the conclave of Cynster wives to give the first "at home," a declaration to the ton that the family had emerged from deepest mourning. Even Louise was present, still in deadest black, her composure a shield against those proffering their condolences.
At St. Ives House, black crepe had wreathed the knocker ever since they had come up to town; on the Dowager's orders, it had been removed this morning. Their first week in the capital had been spent quietly, eschewing all social functions, but it was now three weeks since Tolly's death; his aunts had decreed their time in deep mourning past. They all still wore black and would for another three weeks, then they would go into half-mourning for another six weeks.
Honoria circulated amongst Celia's guests, noting those whose acuity might prove useful. Unfortunately, as it was the first time she'd ventured into society, there were many eager to claim her attention.
"Honoria." Turning, Honoria found Celia beside her, a plate of cakes in her hand, her eye on a chaise on the opposite side of the room. "I hate to ask, but I know you can handle it." With a smile, Celia handed her the plate. "Lady Osbaldestone—she's a veritable tartar. If I go, she'll shackle me to the chaise, and I'll never get free. But if one of the family doesn't appear to appease her curiosity, she'll batten on Louise. Here, let me take your cup."
Relieved of her empty teacup, Honoria was left with the cake plate. She opened her lips to point out she wasn't "family"—but Celia had disappeared into the crowd. Honoria hesitated, then, with a resigned sigh, straightened her shoulders and bore down on Lady Osbaldestone.
Her ladyship greeted her with a basilik stare. "And about time, too." A clawlike hand shot out and snaffled a petit four. "Well, miss?" She stared at Honoria. When she simply stared back, politely vacant, her ladyship snorted. "Sit down, do! You're giving me a crick. Daresay that devil St. Ives chose you for your height—I can just imagine why." This last was said with a definite leer—Honoria swallowed an urge to request clarification. Instead, she perched, precisely correct, on the edge of the chaise, the cake plate held where Lady Osbaldestone could reach it.
Her ladyship's black eyes studied her carefully while the petit four was consumed. "Not just in the usual way and an Anstruther-Wetherby to boot, heh? What's your grandfather say to this match, miss?"
"I have no idea," Honoria answered calmly. "But you're laboring under a misapprehension. I'm not marrying anyone."
Lady Osbaldestone blinked. "Not even St. Ives?"
"Particularly not St. Ives." Deciding she might as well eat, Honoria selected a small tea cake and nibbled delicately.
Her declaration had struck Lady Osbaldestone dumb. For a full minute, her black eyes, narrowed, rested on Honoria's profile, then her ladyship's face cracked in a wide smile; she cackled gleefully. "Oh, you'll do. Keep up that pose, miss, and you'll do for Devil Cynster nicely."
Haughtily, Honoria looked down her nose. "I have no interest in His Grace of St. Ives."
"Oh-ho!" Her ladyship poked her arm with a bony finger. "But has His Grace an interest in you?"
Her eyes trapped in her ladyship's black gaze, Honoria wished she could lie. Lady Osbaldestone's grin grew wider. "Take my advice, girl—make sure he never loses it. Never let him take you for granted. The best way to hold such men is to make them work for their pleasure."
Adopting a martyred expression, Honoria sighed. "I really am not going to marry him."
Lady Osbaldestone, suddenly terrifyingly sober, looked at Honoria through old black eyes. "Girl—you don't have a choice. No—!" She pointed a skeletal finger. "Don't poker up and stick that Anstruther-Wetherby chin in the air. There's no benefit in running from fate. Devil Cynster has all but declared he wants you—which means he'll have you—and if that chin is any guide, it'll be a good thing, too. And as he's too experienced to pursue where there's no reciprocating sentiment, you needn't think to deny it." Her ladyship snorted. "You'd have to be dead to be immune to his temptation—and you don't look too desiccated to me."
A blush stole into Honoria's cheeks; Lady Osbaldestone nodded. "Your mother's dead—so's your grandmother—so I'll give you the right advice in their stead. Accept fate's decree—marry the devil and make it work. Handsome may be as handsome is, but underneath it all he's a good man.
You're a strong woman—that's the way it should be. And despite any thoughts of yours, the devil, in this case, is right. The Cynsters need you; the Anstruther-Wetherbys, strange to tell, need you as a Cynster, too. Fate has landed you precisely where you're supposed to be."
Leaning forward, she held Honoria's gaze mercilously. "And besides, if you don't take him on, who do you imagine will? Some namby-pamby chit with more hair than wit? Do you hate him so much you'd condemn him to that—a marriage with no passion?"
Honoria couldn't breathe. A gust of laughter reached them; the rustle of silk heralded an approaching lady. "There you are, Josephine. Are you grilling poor Miss Anstruther-Wetherby?"
Lady Osbaldestone finally consented to release Honoria; she glanced up at the newcomer. "Good afternoon, Emily. I was merely giving Miss Anstruther-Wetherby the benefit of my experienced counsel." She waved Honoria to her feet. "Off you go—and remember what I said. And take those cakes away—they're fattening."
Shaken, her features stiff, Honoria bobbed a curtsy to Emily, Lady Cowper, then, head high, let the crowd swallow her. Unfortunately, many ladies were waiting to waylay her, to quiz her on her new relationship.
"Has St. Ives taken you to Richmond yet? The trees are quite lovely at present." "And where are you planning to spend the festive season, my dear?"
Sidestepping such inquiries required tact and skill, difficult with her mind reeling from Lady Osbaldestone's lecture. Spying Amanda and Amelia half-hidden by a palm, Honoria sought refuge with them. Their eyes lit up when they saw the cake plate; she handed it over without comment.
"Mama said we should come and see what 'at homes' are like," Amanda said around a miniature currant bun.
"We're to be brought out next year," Amelia added. Honoria watched them eat. "How are you?"
Both girls looked up, openly, without any trace of pain. They both screwed up their faces in thought, then Amanda offered: "All right, I think."
"We keep expecting him to come for dinner—just like he always did." Amelia looked down and picked up a last crumb.
Amanda nodded. "Laughing and joking, just like that last night."
Honoria frowned. "Last night?" "The night before he was shot."
Honoria blinked. "Tolly came to dinner the night before he died?"
Amelia nodded. "He was in great spirits—he usually was. He played spillikins with the young ones, then after dinner, we all played Speculation. It was great fun."
"That's…" Honoria blinked again. "Nice—I mean, that you have such good memories of him."
"Yes." Amanda nodded. "It is nice." She appeared to dwell on the fact, then looked at Honoria. "When are you going to marry Devil?"
The question hit Honoria right in the chest. She looked into the twins' eyes, four orbs of innocent blue, and cleared her throat. "We haven't decided."
"Oh," they chorused, and smiled benignly.
Honoria beat a hasty retreat and headed for an empty alcove. Inwardly, she cursed. First Lady Osbaldestone, now Tolly's sisters. Who else was lining up to shake her resolution? The answer was unexpected.
"How are you coping with being absorbed into the clan?"
The soft question had Honoria turning, to meet Louise Cynster's still-weary eyes. Tolly's mother smiled. "It takes a little getting used to, I know."
Honoria drew a deep breath. "It's not that." She hesitated, then, encouraged by Louise's calm expression, forged on: "I haven't actually agreed to marry Devil—just to consider the idea." With a gesture that encompassed the room, she added: "I feel like a fraud."
To her relief, Louise didn't laugh or turn the comment lightly aside. Instead, after a moment scrutinizing her face, she put a hand on her arm. "You're not certain, are you?"
"No." Her voice was barely a whisper. After a minute, she added: "I thought I was." It was the truth—plain, unvarnished; the realization left her stunned. What had he—they—done to her? What had happened to Africa?
"It's normal to feel hesitant." Louise spoke reassuringly, with no hint of condescension. "Especially in such a case, where the decision is so much your own." She glanced at Honoria. "My own case was similar.
Arthur was there, ready to lay his heart and all that came with it at my feet—everything hung on my whim." Her lips curved, her gaze becoming lost in reminiscence. "It's easy to make decisions when no one but yourself is involved, but when there are others to consider, it's natural to question your judgment. Particularly if the gentleman concerned is a Cynster." Her smile deepened; she glanced again at Honoria. "Doubly so if he's Devil Cynster."
"He's a tyrant," Honoria declared.
Louise laughed. "You'll get no argument from me on that score. All the Cynsters are dictatorially inclined, but Devil dictates to all the rest."
Honoria humphed. "He's inflexible—and far too used to getting his own way."
"You should ask Helena about that someday—she has stories that will curl your hair. You won't need the tongs for a week."
Honoria frowned. "I thought you were encouraging me."
Louise smiled. "I am—but that doesn't mean I can't see Devil's faults. But for all those—and you won't find a Cynster wife who's not had to cope with the same—there's a great deal to be said for a man who will unfailingly be there to shoulder the burdens, who, regardless of all else, is devoted to his family. Devil may be the leader of the pack—the president of the Bar Cynster—but give him a son or a daughter, and he'll happily sit in Cambridgeshire and play spillikins every night."
Unbidden, the image Louise's words conjured up took shape in Honoria's mind—a large, black-haired, harsh-featured male sprawled on a rug before a blazing fire with a child in petticoats clambering over him. Watching the scene, she felt a warm glow of pride, of satisfaction; she heard the child's shrill giggles over a deeper rumbling laugh—she could almost reach out and touch them.
She waited—waited for the fear that had always dogged her to rise up and swallow the image whole, to banish it to the realm of unattainable dreams. She waited—and still the image glowed.
Firelight sheened on both black heads, unruly locks thick and wild. It gilded the child's upturned face—in her mind, Honoria stretched out her hand to the man's familiar shoulder, hard and stable as rock beneath her fingers. Unable to help herself, fascinated beyond recall, she reached, hesitantly, so hesitantly, for the child's face. It shrieked with laughter and ducked its head; her fingers touched hair like silky down, soft as a butterfly's wing. Emotion welled, unlike any she'd known. Dazed, she shook her head.
Then she blinked rapidly and hauled in a quick breath. She focused on Louise, idly scanning the crowd. What had she said? "The Bar Cynster?"
"Ah!" Louise sent her an arch look, then glanced about. No one was close enough to hear. "They think we don't know, but it's a standing joke among the gentlemen about town. Some wit coined the term when Richard and Harry followed Devil and Vane to London, supposedly to denote a…certain rite of passage. With Richard and Harry, of course, there was never any doubt that they would follow Devil and Vane into the customary Cynster pursuits." Her emphasis and the look in her eye left no doubt as to what those pursuits were. "Later, when Rupert and Alasdair went on the town, it was merely a matter of time before they, too, were called to the Bar Cynster."
"Like a barrister being called to Temple Bar?" Honoria kept her mind focused on the point. "Precisely." Louise's smile faded. "Tolly would have been next."
It was Honoria's turn to lay a hand on Louise's arm and squeeze reassuringly. "I'd imagined the name derived from the heraldic term."
"The bar sinister?" Louise shook off her sorrow and pointedly met Honoria's gaze. "Between you, me, and the other Cynster ladies, I'm quite certain many gentlemen about town refer to our sons as 'noble bastards.' " Honoria's eyes widened; Louise grinned. "That, however, is not something anyone, gentleman or lady, would be willing to admit in our presence."
Honoria's lips twitched. "Naturally not." Then she frowned. "What about Charles?" "Charles?" Louise waved dismissively. "Oh, he was never part of it."
Two ladies approached to take their leave; when the handclasps were over and they were private once
more, Louise turned to Honoria. "If you need any support, we're always here—the others in a similar bed. Don't hesitate to call on us—it's an absolute rule that Cynster wives help each other. We are, after all, the only ones who truly understand what it's like being married to a Cynster."
Honoria glanced over the thinning crowd, noting the other family members, not just the Dowager, Horatia, and Celia, but other cousins and connections. "You really do stick together."
"We're a family, my dear." Louise squeezed Honoria's arm one last time. "And we hope very much that you'll join us."
*****
"There!" Heaving a relieved sigh, Honoria propped the parchment inscribed with her brother's direction against the pigeonholes of the escritoire. Describing her doings to Michael without letting her troubled state show had proved a Herculean task. Almost as difficult as facing the fact that she might be wrong—and that Devil, the Dowager, Michael, and everyone else might be right.
She was in the sitting room adjoining her bedchamber. The windows on either side of the fireplace overlooked the courtyard below. Propping her elbow on the desk, she put her chin in her hand and stared outside.
Eight years ago she'd suffered her loss; seven years ago she'd made up her mind never to risk losing again. Until three days past, she hadn't reviewed that decision—she'd never had reason to do so. No man, no circumstance, had been strong enough to force a reevaluation.
Three days ago, everything had changed. Lady Osbaldestone's sermon had shaken her, setting the consequences of refusing Devil firmly in her mind.
Louise and the twins had compounded her uncertainty, showing her how close to the family she'd already become.
But the most startling revelation had been the image evoked by Louise, the image she'd resurrected in every spare moment since—the image of Devil and their child.
Her fear of loss was still there, very real, very deep; to lose again would be devastating—she'd known that for eight years. But never before had she truly wanted a child. Never before had she felt this driving need—a desire, a want, that made her fear seem puny, something she could, if she wished, brush aside.
The strength of that need was unnerving—not something she could readily explain. Was it simple maternal desire gaining strength because Devil would be so protective, that, because he was so wealthy, their child would have every care? Was it because, as Cynsters, both she and their child would be surrounded by a loving, supportive clan? Or was it be cause she knew that being the mother of Devil's child would give her a position no other could ever have?
If she gave Devil a child, he would worship at her feet.
Drawing a deep breath, she stood and walked to the window, gazing unseeing at the weeping cherry, drooping artistically in the courtyard. Was wanting Devil, wanting him in thrall, the reason she wanted his child? Or had she simply grown older, become more of a woman than she had been at seventeen? Or both? She didn't know. Her inner turmoil was all-consuming, all-confusing; she felt like an adolescent finally waking up, but compared to growing up this was worse.
A knock on the door startled her. Straightening, she turned. "Come!"
The door swung inward; Devil stood on the threshold. One black brow rose; inherently graceful, he strolled into the room. "Would you care for a drive, Honoria Prudence?"
Honoria kept her eyes on his, refusing all other distractions. "In the park?" His eyes opened wide. "Where else?"
Honoria glanced at her letter, in which she'd carefully skirted the truth. It was too early to make any admission—she wasn't yet sure where she stood. She looked at Devil. "Perhaps you could frank my letter while I change?"
He nodded. Honoria moved past him; without a backward glance, she retreated to her bedchamber.
Ten minutes later, clad in topaz twill, she returned to find him standing before one window, hands behind his back, her letter held between his long fingers. He turned as she approached. As always, whenever he saw her anew, his gaze swept her, possessively, from head to toe.
"Your letter." He presented the folded parchment with a flourish.
Honoria took it, noting the bold black script decorating one corner. It was, she would swear, the same script that had adorned the note Celestine had, so opportunely, received.
"Come. Webster will put it in the post."
As they traveled the long corridors, Honoria inwardly frowned. Celestine had not sent in her bill. It was over a week since the last gowns had arrived.
With her letter entrusted into Webster's care, they headed for the park, Sligo, as usual, up behind. Their progress down the fashionable avenue was uneventful beyond the usual smiles and nods; her appearance in Devil's curricle no longer created any great stir.
As they left the main knot of carriages, Honoria shifted—and glanced frowningly at Devil. "What are they going to say when I don't marry you?" The question had been bothering her for the past three days.
The look he shot her matched her own. "You are going to marry me."
"But what if I don't?" Honoria stubbornly fixed her gaze on his equally stubborn profile. "You ought to start considering that." The ton could be quite vicious; until Lady Osbaldestone's sermon, she'd viewed him as an adversary comfortably impervious to the slings and arrows of society. Her ladyship had changed her perspective; she was no longer comfortable at all. "I've warned you repeatedly that I'm unlikely to change my mind."
His sigh was full of teeth-gritted impatience. "Honoria Prudence, I don't give a damn what anyone says except you. And all I want to hear from you is 'Yes.' And as for our wedding, its occurrence is far more likely than you getting within sight of Cairo, let alone the Great Sphinx!"
His accents left no doubt that the subject was closed. Honoria stuck her nose in the air and stared haughtily down at a group of innocent passersby.
Grim silence reined until, the turn accomplished, they headed back toward the fashionable throng. Slanting a glance at Devil's set face, Honoria heard Lady Osbaldestone's words: make it work. Was it possible? Fixing her gaze in the distance, she airily inquired: "Was Tolly particularly good at hiding his feelings?"
Devil stared at her—she could feel his green gaze, sharp and penetrating; stubbornly, she kept her face averted. The next instant, they were drawing in to the verge. The carriage rocked to a halt; Sligo rushed to the horses' heads.
"Hold 'em—wait here." With that terse command, Devil tied off the reins, stood, stepped past her, and jumped to the ground. Fluidly, he turned and plucked her from the seat. Ignoring her gasp, he set her on her feet, hauled her hand through his arm, and strode off across the lawn.
Honoria hung on to her hat. "Where are we going?"
Devil shot her a black glance. "Somewhere we can talk freely." "I thought you said Sligo was half-deaf?"
"He is—others aren't." Devil scowled discouragingly at a party of young people. The fashionable throng was rapidly thinning, left behind in their wake. "Anyway, Sligo knows all about Tolly and our search."
Honoria's eyes narrowed—then flew wide. The rhododendron walk loomed ahead. "I thought you said we were to observe the strictures?"
"Wherever possible," Devil growled, and whisked her into the deserted walk. Screened by the thick bushes, he halted and swung to face her. "Now!" Eyes narrowed, he captured her gaze. "Why the devil do you want to know if Tolly was a dab hand at hiding his feelings?"
Chin up, Honoria met his gaze—and tried not to notice how very big he was. He was tall enough and broad enough to screen her completely—even if someone strolled up on them, all they would see of her was a wisp of skirt. She tipped her chin higher. "Was he—or wasn't he?"
The eyes boring into hers were crystal-clear, his gaze sharp as a surgeon's knife. She saw his jaw clench; when he spoke, his voice was a deep feral growl. "Tolly couldn't dissemble to save himself. He never learned the knack."
"Hmm." Honoria shifted her gaze to the bushes. "Why did you want to know?"
She shrugged. "I just…" She glanced up—her glib reply died on her lips, slain by the look in his eye. Her heart leapt to her throat; determinedly, she swallowed it. "I just thought it was of interest that he spent the evening before he was shot playing with his brother and sisters, apparently in excellent spirits." Elevating her nose, she let her gaze drift over the glossy green leaves.
Devil stared at her. "He did?"
Honoria nodded. Silence stretched; eyes on the bushes, she waited, barely breathing. She could feel his gaze, still intense, on her face; she knew when he looked away. Then, with a deep resigned sigh that seemed to come from his boots, he set her hand back on his sleeve, and turned her along the walk. "So—tell me—what have you learned?"
It wasn't the most gracious invitation to collusion, but Honoria decided it would do. "The twins mentioned their last dinner with Tolly when I saw them on Wednesday." Strolling beside him down the secluded walk, she related the twins' description. "I had the impression Tolly and the twins were close. If he was agitated, even if he was trying to hide it, I would have thought they'd have noticed."
Devil nodded. "They would have—they're as sharp as tacks." He grimaced. "Uncle Arthur told me Tolly went there for dinner. He gave me the impression Tolly was somewhat reserved. I'd forgotten how young men react to their fathers—it was probably no more than that."
He fell silent, pacing slowly down the serpentine path; Honoria held her tongue, content to let him ponder her findings. Although he walked by her side, she felt surrounded by his strength. What had Louise said? Unfailingly protective? That was, she had to admit, a comforting trait.
Eventually the rhododendrons ended; the walk debouched onto a wide sweep of lawn. "Your information," Devil said, as they stepped clear of the walk, "narrows the field rather drastically."
"Whatever Tolly learned, whatever sent him to find you, he must have stumbled on it after he left the family that evening." She looked up and saw Devil grimace. "What is it?"
He glanced at her, lips thin, his gaze considering. Then he answered. "Tolly's man went home to Ireland before we could talk to him. He'll know if Tolly was in the boughs when he came in that night." Honoria opened her mouth. "And yes—we're tracking him down. Demon's over there now."
Honoria glanced around, noting the many nursemaids and governesses, charges in tow, dotted across the lawn. "Where are we?"
Devil stopped. "In the nursery section. The rhododendrons keep the darlings out of sight and sound of their fond mamas." He half turned to retrace their steps—an earsplitting cry rent the peace.
"Deyyyyyyyy-vil!"
All heads turned their way, most displaying disapproving expressions. Devil turned back in time to catch Simon as he flung himself against his cousin.
"Hello! Didn't'spect to see you here!"
"I didn't expect to see you either," Devil returned. "Make your bow to Honoria Prudence."
Simon promptly complied. Smiling in return, Honoria noted the boy's ruddy cheeks and bright eyes, and marveled at the resilience of youth. She looked up as two women, the twins, Henrietta, and little Mary came bustling up in Simon's wake. Devil made her known to Mrs. Hawlings, the younger girls' nurse, and Miss Pritchard, the twins' governess.
"We'd thought to take advantage of the weather while we may," Mrs. Hawlings explained. "The fogs and rains will be here soon enough."
"Indeed." Honoria saw Devil draw Simon aside. She could guess the subject under discussion. Left to deal with—or was that distract?—the governess and nurse, she exchanged polite nothings with a facility born of long practice. The expectant look in the twins' bright eyes as they glanced from her to Devil and back again did not escape her. She could only be thankful they did not voice the question clearly exercising their minds.
The sun found a chink in the clouds and beamed down; the twins and Henrietta fell to weaving daisy chains. Little Mary, her fingers too plump to manage the slim stems, sat beside her sisters on the grass, big blue eyes studying first the three women chatting nearby, then Devil, still talking to Simon. After a long, wide-eyed scrutiny, she picked up her doll and, on sturdy legs, stumped up to Honoria's side.
Honoria didn't know she was there until she felt a small hand slip into hers. Startled, she glanced down. Mary looked up and smiled—confidently, openly trusting—then tightened her
pudgy-fingered grip and, looking back at her sisters, leaned against Honoria's legs.
It took all Honoria's years of practice to preserve her composure, to look back at Mrs. Hawlings and Miss Pritchard and continue to converse as if nothing had happened. As if there wasn't a hot, soft hand snuggled into hers, as if there wasn't a soft weight propped against her legs, a soft cheek pressed against her thigh. Luckily, neither woman knew her well enough to know that her expression was not normally so blank.
Then Devil strolled up, one hand on Simon's shoulder. He saw Mary and glanced at Honoria. She kept her expression bland, determinedly uninformative under his sharp-eyed scrutiny; he looked down and held out a hand. Mary dropped Honoria's hand and went to him. Devil swung her up in his arms; Mary clung and snuggled her head down on his shoulder.
Honoria breathed deeply, her gaze locked on little Mary clinging close; the emotions rolling through her, sharp need, poignant desire swamping all fear, left her giddy.
Devil declared it was time for them to go. They made their farewells; as Mrs. Hawlings turned away, Mary in her arms, the little girl wriggled about to wave a pudgy hand. Honoria smiled softly and waved back.
"Come—Sligo's probably organizing a search by now."
Honoria turned; Devil took her hand and tucked it into his elbow, leaving his fingers, warm and strong, over hers. She found his touch both comforting and disturbing as, frowning slightly, she tried to settle her emotions. They walked briskly back to the main carriageway.
The curricle was in sight when Devil spoke. "As a governess, did you ever have younger children in your care?"
Honoria shook her head. "As a finishing governess, my role was specifically restricted to girls a year from their come-out. If the families I worked with had younger children, they always had another, ordinary governess to take charge of them."
Devil nodded, then looked ahead.
The drive back to Grosvenor Square gave Honoria time to marshal her thoughts. Their outing had been unexpectedly productive.
She'd verified Lady Osbaldestone's theory that she was strong enough to influence Devil, even over something he had a deep antipathy to—like her involvement in the search for Tolly's murderer. She'd had it confirmed that she did, very definitely, want to have his child. Of all men, he had to be the best-qualified mate for a woman with her particular fear—and she most assuredly wanted him, arrogant tyrant that he was, worshiping at her feet.
There remained one piece of Lady Osbaldestone's vision she had yet to verify, although he had, from the first, stated that he was marrying her to get her into his bed. Did that qualify as passion? Was that what lay between them?
Ever since their interlude on the terrace at the Place, she'd given him no chance to draw her close; his " mine" had effectively quashed her pursuit of his "pleasure." Over the last three days, however, her interest in the subject had returned. Even grown.
Webster opened the door; Honoria swept over the threshold. "If you have a moment, Your Grace, there's a matter I wish to discuss." Head high, she headed straight for the library door. A footman sprang
to open it for her; she glided through—into the devil's lair.
Devil watched her go, his expression unreadable. Then he handed his driving gloves to Webster. "I suspect I won't want to be disturbed."
"Indeed, Your Grace."
Waving aside the hovering footman, Devil entered the library and shut the door.
Honoria stood before the desk, tapping her fingers on its edge. She heard the latch click; turning, she watched Devil slowly approach. "I want to discuss the ton's likely reaction when it learns I'm not marrying you." That seemed a sufficiently goading topic.
Devil's brows rose. "Is that what this is about?"
"Yes." Honoria remembered to frown when he did not halt but continued his prowling advance. "It's pointless to close your eyes to the fact that such an outcome will cause a considerable stir." She turned to stroll, as slowly as he, around the edge of his desk. "You know perfectly well it will affect not just yourself but the family as well." Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him some steps behind her, following in her wake. She kept walking. "It's simply not sensible to allow the expectation to build."
"So what do you suggest?"
Rounding the desk, Honoria continued toward the fire place. "You could hint that matters were not settled between us."
"On what grounds?"
"How should I know?" She flung a glance over her shoulder. "I'm sure you're imaginative enough to invent something."
From six feet behind, Devil's gaze remained steady. "Why?" "Why?"
"Why should I invent something?"
"Because…" Gesturing vaguely, Honoria walked into the corner of the room. She stopped and stared at the volumes level with her nose. "Because it's necessary." She drew a deep breath, mentally crossed her fingers, and swung around. "Because I don't want anyone held up to ridicule because of my decision."
As she'd hoped, Devil was no longer six feet away. His eyes held hers, mere inches distant. "I'm the only one risking the ton's ridicule. And I'm not about to run shy."
Honoria narrowed her eyes at him, and tried not to notice she was trapped. "You are without doubt the most impossibly arrogant, conceited—" His eyes dropped from hers—Honoria caught her breath.
"Have you finished?"
The question was uttered in a conversational tone. His lids lifted and he met her gaze; Honoria managed a nod.
"Good." Again his gaze lowered; one hand rose to frame her face, then he bent his head.
Honoria's lids fell; in the instant his lips closed over hers, she gripped the bookshelves behind her tightly, fighting down her triumph. She'd got her wolf to pounce, and he hadn't even realized he'd been baited.
The thrill of success met the thrill of delight his kiss sent racing through her; she parted her lips, eager to learn of his passion, eager to experience again the pleasure she'd found in his arms. He shifted; she thought he groaned. For one instant, his weight pressed against her as his lips forced hers wider, his tongue tasting her voraciously. The sudden surge of desire surprised her; immediately, he shackled it, drawing back to a slow, steady plundering designed to reduce any resistance to dust.
That instant of raw, primitive emotion spurred Honoria on—she wanted to know it, taste it again; she needed to learn more. Her hands left the bookshelves and slid beneath his coat. His waistcoat effectively shielded his chest; the buttons, thankfully, were large. Her fingers busy, she angled her head against the pressure of his kiss. Their lips shifted, then locked; tentatively, then with greater confidence, she kissed him back.
It had been far too long since he'd kissed her.
Devil knew that was true; he was so famished, so caught up in drinking in the heady taste of her, that long minutes passed before he realized she was responding. Not passively allowing him to kiss her, not even merely offering her lips, her soft mouth. She was kissing him back. With untutored skill maybe, but also with the same determined forthrightness that characterized all she did.
The realization mentally halted him. She pressed closer, deepening the kiss of her own volition—shaking off his distraction, he took all she offered and greedily angled for more. Then he felt her hands on his chest. Palms gliding, fingers spread, she traced the heavy muscles, the fine linen of his shirt no real barrier to her touch.
She was setting him alight! Abruptly, Devil straightened, breaking off their kiss. It didn't work—Honoria's hands slid over his shoulders as she stretched upward against him; who initiated the next kiss was moot. With a groan, Devil took all she gave, his arms closing possessively about her. Did she know what she was doing?
Her eagerness, the alacrity with which she pressed herself against him, suggested she'd forgotten every maidenly precept she'd ever learned. It also suggested it was time to draw her deeper. Setting aside restraint, Devil kissed her deeply, hungrily, as ravenously as he wished, deliberately leaving her breathless. Raising his head, he drew her to the large armchair before the hearth; her hand in his, he freed the last two buttons on his waistcoat, then sat. Looking up at her, he raised one brow.
Her senses whirling, her hand clasped in his, Honoria read the question in his eyes. He'd asked it of her once before: How much of a woman are you? Her breasts, already heated, swelled as she drew breath. Deliberately, she stepped about his knees and sat, turning to him, sliding her hands over his chest, pushing his waistcoat wide.
Under her hands, his chest expanded; his lips found hers as he lifted her, settling her in his lap. A fleeting thought impinged on Honoria's mind—that she'd been here, like this, before. She dismissed it as nonsense—she could never have forgotten the sensation of being surrounded by him, his thighs hard beneath her, his arms a cage about her, his chest a fascinating wall of hard, shifting muscle bands over even harder bone. She pressed her hands against it, then slid them around, reaching as far as she could. His hands at her back urged her closer; her breasts brushed his chest. Then he changed the angle of their kiss and shifted her, laying her back against one arm.
Immediately, the tenor of their kiss changed; his tongue glided sensuously over hers, then alongside—she sensed his invitation. Responding, she was drawn deep into an intimate game, of
thrust and parry, of artlessly evocative caresses, of steadily escalating desire. When his hand closed over her breast, she arched; his long fingers found her nipple, tantalizingly circling it before closing in a firm caress, which only left her aching for more.
Instead, his hand left her; her lips trapped beneath his, Honoria was considering pulling away to protest, when she felt her bodice give. An instant later, his hand slid beneath the twill, cupping her breast fully.
Heat seared her; as his fingers closed, then stroked, her breast grew heavy. Honoria tried to break their kiss to catch her breath; he refused to let her go, deepening the kiss instead as she felt his fingers tangle with the silk ribbons of her chemise. Giddy, her senses reeling, she felt the ribbons give, felt the silk shift and slide—then his hand, his fingers, stroked her bare skin, intimately, unhurriedly.
Sweet fever rose and spread through her; her senses sang. Every particle of awareness she possessed was fixed on where he caressed her. With each questing sweep of his fingers, he knew her more.
Devil broke their heady kiss so that he could move her back slightly and shift his attentions to her other breast. She dragged in a shuddering breath, but kept her eyes shut and didn't protest; lips curving, he gave her what she wanted. Her skin was smooth as satin, rich to the touch; his fingertips tingled as he stroked her, his palm burned when he cupped the soft weight. Her height belied her curvaceousness; each breast filled his palm, a satisfyingly sensual sensation. His only complaint was that he couldn't see what his fingers traced; her carriage dress was too stiff, the style too well cut, to brush her bodice aside.
He returned to the first breast; his fingers tightened. Honoria's eyes glinted from beneath her lashes. He caught her gaze. "I want you, sweet Honoria." Gravelly with leashed desire, his voice was very deep. "I want to watch you, naked, writhing in my arms. I want to see you, naked, spread beneath me."
Honoria couldn't stop the shiver that raced through her. Eyes trapped in his, she struggled to draw breath, struggled to steady her giddy head. The planes of his face were hard-edged; desire glowed in his eyes. His fingers shifted; a shaft of pure delight streaked through her. She shivered again.
"There's much more that I can teach you. Marry me, and I'll show you all the pleasure I can give you—and all that you can give me."
If she'd needed any warning of how dangerous he was, how intent he was, it was there in that last phrase; Honoria heard his possessiveness ring. Any pleasure he gave her she would pay for—but would possessing her truly be such pleasure to him? And, given all she now knew, was being possessed, by him, any longer a destiny to be feared? Breathing shallowly, she raised her hand and sent it skating over his chest. Muscles shifted, then locked. Other than a hardening of his features, his face showed no reaction.
Honoria smiled knowingly; raising her hand, she boldly traced his jaw, traced the sensual line of his lips. "No—I will go upstairs, I think."
They both froze, eyes locked on the other's. The Dowager's voice carried clearly from the hall as she issued instructions to Webster, then heels clicked as she swept past the library door.
Eyes wide, excruciatingly aware that his hand lay firm about her naked breast, Honoria swallowed. "I think I'd better go up." How long had they been here, scandalously dallying?
Devil's smile turned devilish. "In a minute." It wasn't one, but ten. When she finally climbed the stairs, Honoria felt like she was floating. Reaching the gallery, she frowned. Devil's pleasure, she suspected, could be seriously addictive; of his possessiveness she had not a doubt. But passion?—that should
be intense, uncontrollable, explosively powerful; Devil had been in control throughout. Her frown deepening, she shook her head and headed for the morning room.
Chapter 12
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"I don't believe it!" Seated before her escritoire, Honoria stared at the single sheet of parchment in her hand. For the third time, she read the simple message, then, her jaw setting ominously, she rose and, letter in hand, headed for the library.
She didn't knock. She flung the door wide and marched in. Devil, seated in his accustomed place, raised his brows.
"I take it there's a problem."
"Indeed." Honoria's eyes glittered. "This!" With a flourish, she deposited her letter on the desk. "Explain
that, if you would, Your Grace."
Devil picked up the letter and scanned it, lips firming as he realized its content. Dropping it on the blotter, he leaned back, studying Honoria still standing before the desk, arms crossed, eyes flashing—the very image of an intemperate virago. "I didn't actually think you'd ask."
"Didn't think I'd ask?" The look she bent on him overflowed with incredulous scorn. "When I spend a small fortune at a modiste's, I expect to receive a bill. Of course I asked!"
Devil glanced at the letter. "It appears you received an answer."
"Not an answer I wished to receive." Turning to pace, skirts swishing, Honoria paused long enough to inform him through clenched teeth: "It is, as you very well know, totally unacceptable for you to pay for my wardrobe."
"Why?"
Dumbfounded, she stopped and stared. "Why?" Then she narrowed her eyes at him. "You've been dealing with ladybirds too long, Your Grace. While it may be de rigueur to lavish Celestine's best on such women, it is not accepted practice for gentlemen to provide wardrobes for ladies of character."
"While I naturally hesitate to contradict you, Honoria Prudence, you're wrong on both counts." With unruffleable sangfroid, Devil picked up his pen, and his next letter. "It's perfectly acceptable for gentlemen to provide wardrobes for their wives. Ask any of Maman's acquaintances—I'm sure they'll verify that fact." Honoria opened her mouth—he continued before she could speak: "And as for the other, I haven't."
Honoria frowned. "Haven't what?"
Devil looked up and met her eye. "Haven't lavished Celestine's best on any of my ladybirds." Honoria's expression blanked; he lifted one brow. "That's what you meant, wasn't it?"
Honoria drew herself up. "That's irrelevant. What is relevant is the fact that I'm not your wife."
Devil looked down. "A minor inconsistency time will no doubt correct." With a series of bold strokes, he
signed his letter.
Drawing a deep breath, Honoria clasped her hands before her and addressed the air above his head. "I am afraid, Your Grace, that I cannot acquiesce to the present situation. It is entirely inappropriate." Glancing down her nose, she watched as he reached for another letter. "Any reasonable being would instantly see, and acknowledge, that fact." With unimpaired calm, Devil picked up his pen and dipped it in the inkstand. Honoria set her teeth. "I must request that you inform me of the total of Celestine's bill and allow me to recompense you for the sum."
Devil signed his name, blotted it, set the pen back in its rack—and looked up. "No."
Honoria searched his eyes—his green gaze was jewel-clear, hard, and uncompromising. Her breasts swelled as she drew a portentous breath; she pressed her lips tightly together, then nodded. "Very well. I'll send everything back."
She turned on her heel and headed for the door.
Devil swallowed an oath and came out of his chair. He was around the desk and striding in Honoria's wake long before she reached the middle of the room. She was reaching for the doorknob when he picked her up.
"What—!" Honoria batted at his hands, fastened about her waist. "Put me down, you arrogant oaf!"
Devil complied, but only long enough to swing her about so that she faced him. He kept his hands locked about her waist, holding her at a distance. For her own safety. The effect she had on him when in haughty mood was bad enough; haughty and angry together wound his spring far too tight. One unwary touch and he might unwind—which would certainly surprise her.
"Stop wriggling. Calm down." That advice was greeted with a furious glare. Devil sighed. "You know you can't send Celestine's things back—as I've already paid for them, she'll simply send them back here again. All you'll achieve is to inform Celestine, her staff, and my staff that you're throwing some incomprehensible tantrum."
"I am not throwing a tantrum," Honoria, declared. "I am behaving with exemplary reticence. If I gave vent to my feelings, I'd be screaming!"
Devil tightened his hold. "You are."
Honoria's glare turned baleful. "No I'm not. I can scream much louder than that."
Devil winced—and locked the muscles in his arms. He was definitely going to put that claim to the test. Later. He trapped her irate gaze in his. "Honoria, I am not going to divulge to you a figure you do not need to know, and you are not going to attempt to return Celestine's gowns."
Honoria's grey gaze turned steely. "You, my lord, are the most arrogant, overbearing, high-handed, tyrannical, dictatorial despot it has ever been my misfortune to meet."
Devil raised a brow. "You forgot autocratic."
She stared at him; he could feel the frustration mounting within her, swelling like a barely capped volcano.
"You are impossible!" The word came out in a hiss—like steam escaping. "I bought those gowns—I have a right and a duty to pay for them."
"Wrong—as your husband, that right and duty is mine."
"Only if I request your assistance! Which I haven't! And even if I did need help, I couldn't ask you
because" Honoria drew a deep breath and carefully enunciated, "we're… not… married!" "Yet."
Capping that terse syllable should have been impossible; Honoria resorted to a seething glare of operatic proportions and carried on regardless. "If you have some vague notion that I'm unable to pay such an amount, you're wrong. I'm perfectly willing to introduce you to Robert Child, of Child's Bank, who handles my estate. I'm sure he'll be happy to inform you that I'm no pauper!" She pushed again at Devil's arms; frowning, he let her go.
"I didn't pay because I thought you couldn't."
Honoria glanced at him; his eyes declared he was telling the truth. "Well," she said, somewhat mollified, "if that wasn't the reason, what was?"
Devil's jaw hardened. "I told you."
Honoria had to think back, then, her own features hardening, she shook her head. "No, no, no! Even if we were married, you have no right to pay bills that are mine, not unless I ask you to. In fact, I can't think why Celestine sent the bill to you at all." She tripped on the last words, and looked up, directly into his eyes. Abruptly, she narrowed hers. "It was you, wasn't it? Who sent that note to Celestine?"
Exasperated, Devil frowned at her. "It was just an introduction."
"As what? Your wife?" When he didn't answer, Honoria ground her teeth. "What on earth am I to do
with you?"
Devil's features hardened. "Marry me." His voice was a frustrated growl. "The rest will follow naturally."
Honoria tilted her chin. "You are being deliberately obtuse. May I please have my account from Celestine?"
His frown deepening, darkening his eyes, Devil looked down at her. "No." The single syllable was backed by centuries of undisputed power.
Honoria held his gaze steadily—and felt her temper swell, felt indignation soar. Gazes locked, she could feel their wills, tangible entities, directly opposed, neither giving an inch. Slowly, she narrowed her eyes. "How," she inquired, her voice steely calm,"do you imagine I feel knowing that every stitch I have on was paid for by you?"
Instantly, she saw her mistake—saw it in his eyes, in the subtle shift that lightened the green, in the consideration that flashed through their depths.
He shifted closer. "I don't know." His voice had dropped to a gravelly purr; his gaze grew mesmerically intent. "Tell me."
Inwardly railing, Honoria saw any chance of getting Celestine's bill evaporate. "I do not believe we have anything further to discuss, Your Grace. If you'll excuse me?"
She heard her own words, cool and distant. His gaze hardened; his expression was as controlled as her own. He searched her eyes, then, rigidly formal, inclined his head, and stepped aside, clearing her path to
the door.
Honoria's breath caught as she tried to draw it in. She bobbed a curtsy, then, regally erect, glided to the door, conscious of his gaze, shimmering heat on her back, until the door swung closed between them.
She shut the door with a definite click.
The weather, mimicking the atmosphere within St. Ives House, turned decidedly chilly. Three nights later, ensconced in one corner of the St. Ives town carriage, Honoria looked out on a dark and dreary landscape whipped by wind and incessant rain. They were on their way to Richmond, to the duchess of Richmond's ball; all the haut ton would be present, the Cynsters included. None of the family would dance, but appearance was mandatory.
It was not, however, the prospect of her first real ball that had knotted her nerves. The tension that held her was entirely attributable to the impressive figure, clothed in black, lounging directly opposite, his inner tension, a match for hers, radiating through the darkness. The Lord of Hell could not have had more complete command of her awareness.
Honoria's jaw tensed; her stubbornness swelled. Her gaze glued to the misery beyond the window, she conjured up an image of the Great Sphinx. Her destiny. She had started to waver, to wonder whether, perhaps… until his demonstration that a tyrant never changed his spots. It was, she acknowledged, deep disappointment that had left the odd emptiness inside her, as if a treat had been offered and then withdrawn.
Richmond House, ablaze with lights, shone through the darkness. Their carriage joined the long queue leading to the portico. Innumerable stop-start jerks later, the carriage door was opened; Devil uncoiled his long length and stepped down. He assisted the Dowager up the porch steps, then returned. Avoiding his eye, Honoria placed her fingers in his and allowed him to hand her down, then escort her in the Dowager's wake.
Negotiating the stairs proved an unexpected trial; the unyielding press of bodies forced them close. So close she could feel the heat of him reach for her, feel his strength envelop her. The flimsiness of her lavender-silk gown only heightened her susceptibility; as they reached the head of the stairs, she flicked open her fan.
The duchess of Richmond was delighted to receive them. "Horatia's near the conservatory." The duchess touched a scented cheek to the Dowager's, then held out a hand to Honoria. "Hmm—yes." Surveying her critically as she rose from her curtsy, the duchess broke into a beaming smile. "A pleasure to meet you, my dear." Releasing Honoria, she glanced archly at Devil. "And you, St. Ives? How are you finding life as an almost-affianced gentleman?"
"Trying." His expression bland. Devil shook her hand.
The duchess grinned. "I wonder why?" Slanting a laughing glance at Honoria, the duchess waved them on. "I'll rely on you, St. Ives, to ensure Miss Anstruther-Wetherby is suitably entertained."
With stultifying correctness, Devil offered his arm; in precisely the same vein, Honoria rested her fingertips upon it and allowed him to steer her in the Dowager's wake. She kept her head high, scanning the crowd for familiar faces.
Many were too familiar. She wished she could take her hand from Devil's sleeve, take just one step away, enough to put some distance between them. But the ton had grown so used to the idea she was his duchess-in-waiting, that she was his, that any hint of a rift would immediately focus every eye on them,
which would be even worse.
Her serene mask firmly in place, she had to leave her nerves to suffer his nearness.
Devil led her to a position just beyond the chaise where the Dowager and Horatia Cynster sat, surrounded by a coterie of older ladies. Within minutes, they were surrounded themselves, by friends, acquaintances, and the inevitable Cynsters.
The group about them swelled and ebbed, then swelled and ebbed again. Then a suavely elegant gentleman materialized from the crowd to bow gracefully before her. "Chillingworth, my dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby." Straightening, he smiled charmingly. "We've not been introduced, but I'm acquainted with your brother."
"Michael?" Honoria gave him her hand. She'd heard of the earl of Chillingworth; by reputation, he was Devil Cynster's match. "Have you seen him recently?"
"Ah—no." Chillingworth turned to greet Lady Waltham and Miss Mott. Lord Hill and Mr. Pringle joined the group, distracting the other two ladies; Chillingworth turned back to Honoria. "Michael and I share the same club."
And very little else, Honoria suspected. "Indeed? And have you seen the play at the Theatre Royal?" Lady Waltham had waxed lyrical about the production but couldn't remember its title.
The earl's brows rose. "Quite a tour de force." He glanced at Devil, absorbed with Lord Malmsbury. "If St. Ives is unable to escort you, perhaps I could get up a party, one you might consent to join?"
Classically handsome, well set, tall enough to look down into her eyes, Chillingworth was a damsel's dream—and a prudent mama's nightmare. Honoria opened her eyes wide. "But you've already seen the play, my lord."
"Watching the play would not be my aim, my dear."
Honoria smiled. "But it would be my aim, my lord, which might disappoint you."
An appreciative gleam lit Chillingworth's eyes. "I suspect, Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, that I wouldn't find you disappointing at all."
Honoria raised a brow; simultaneously, she felt a stir at her side. Chillingworth looked up, and nodded. "St. Ives."
"Chillingworth." Devil's deep drawl held a subtle menace. "What cast of the dice landed you here?"
The earl smiled. "Pure chance—I stopped to pay my respects to Miss Anstruther-Wetherby." His smile deepened. "But speaking of gaming, I haven't seen you at the tables recently. Other matters keeping you busy?"
"As you say." Devil's tone was noncommittal. "But I'm surprised you haven't gone north for the hunting. Lord Ormeskirk and his lady have already left, I hear."
"Indeed—but one shouldn't cram one's fences, as I'm sure you appreciate." Devil raised a brow. "Assuming one still has fences to overcome."
Honoria resisted an urge to raise her eyes to the heavens. The following five minutes were a revelation;
Devil and Chillingworth traded quips as sharp-edged as sabers, their rivalry self-evident. Then, as if they'd satisfied some prescribed routine, the conversation swung to horseflesh and thus into a more amicable vein. When that subject failed, Chillingworth turned the talk to politics, drawing her into the conversation. Honoria wondered why.
A squeaky screech was her first warning of impending difficulty. Everyone looked toward the dais at the end of the room. A whine followed by a handful of plucked notes confirmed the general supposition; a hum rose along with a bustling rush as partners were claimed for the first waltz.
Looking back at Chillingworth, Honoria saw him smile.
"Can I tempt you to the dance floor, Miss Anstruther-Wetherby?"
With that simple question, he put her on the spot. Fairly and squarely, with no room for maneuver. As she studied Chillingworth's quizzical hazel eyes, Honoria's mind raced, but she didn't need to think to know Devil's opinion. The arm under her fingers was rigid; while he appeared as languidly bored as ever, his every muscle had tensed.
She wanted to dance, had intended to dance—had looked forward to her first waltz in the capital.
And she'd known that Devil, still wearing a black armband, would not take the floor. Until Celia's
"at-home," she'd fully intended to waltz with others, thus making a clear statement that she would live her own life, make her own decisions, that she was her own mistress, not his. This waltz was to have been her declaration—and what better partner with which to underscore her point than Chillingworth?
He was waiting, outwardly charming but watching her like a hawk; the musicians were still tuning their strings. Devil was also watching her—he might be hedonistic, he might be unpredictable, but here, in the duchess of Richmond's ballroom, he was helpless to prevent her doing as she wished. So what did she wish?
Calmly, Honoria held out her hand. "Thank you, my lord." Satisfaction flared in Chillingworth's eyes; Honoria lifted a brow. "But I do not dance this evening."
To give him his due, the light in his eyes didn't fade although his triumphant expression certainly did. For an instant, he held Honoria's gaze, then glanced at the other ladies in their group. Looking back at Honoria, he raised a resigned brow. "How exceedingly cruel of you, my dear."
His words were too soft for anyone beyond Honoria or Devil to hear. Chillingworth raised his brows fleetingly at Devil, then, with a last nod to Honoria, he turned and, with faultless grace, solicited Miss Mott's hand.
Devil waited until the end of the dance to catch his mother's eye. She grimaced at him but when he persisted, reluctantly conceded. Setting his hand over Honoria's fingers, still resting on his sleeve, he turned her toward the chaise. Puzzled, she glanced up at him.
"Maman wishes to leave."
Collecting the Dowager, they took leave of their hostess. Taking Honoria's cloak from a footman, Devil draped it about her shoulders, fighting the urge to rest his hands, however briefly, on the smoothly rounded contours. His mother commandeered the Richmonds' butler, leaving him to lead Honoria down the steps and hand her into the carriage.
The door shut upon them, cloaking him in safe darkness; harness jingled, and they were on their way home. And he was still sane. Just.
Settled in his corner, Devil tried to relax. He'd been tense on the way to Richmond House, he'd been tense while there. He was still tense now—he didn't entirely know why.
But if Honoria had accepted Chillingworth, all hell would have broken loose. The possibility that she had refused the invitation purely to spare his feelings was almost as unacceptable as his relief that she had.
Protectiveness he understood, possessiveness he understood—both were an entrenched part of his makeup. But what the hell was this he was experiencing now—this compulsion she made him feel? He didn't know what it was but he knew he didn't like it. Vulnerability was a part of it, and no Cynster could accept that. Which begged one question—what was the alternative?
The carriage rumbled on. Devil sat in his corner, his shadowed gaze fixed on Honoria's face, and pondered the imponderable.
He'd reached no conclusion when the carriage rocked to a halt before his door. Footmen ran down the steps; his mother exited first, Honoria followed. Climbing the steps in her wake, Devil entered his hall on her heels.
"I am going straight up—I will see you tomorrow, my dears." With a regal wave, the Dowager headed up the stairs.
Cassie came running to relieve Honoria of her heavy cloak; Webster appeared at Devil's side. Devil shrugged off his evening cape.
"Master Alasdair is waiting in the library, Your Grace."
Webster delivered his message sotto voce but as he turned to look at his butler, Devil caught a glimpse of Honoria's face—and her arrested expression.
"Thank you, Webster." Resettling his sleeves, Devil turned to Honoria. "I bid you a good night, Honoria Prudence."
She hesitated, her eyes touching his briefly, then stiffly inclined her head. "And I bid you a good night, Your Grace."
With cool hauteur, she turned and climbed the stairs. Devil watched her ascend, hips swaying gently; when she passed from view, he hauled in a deep breath, slowly let it out—then headed for the library.
Wringing blood from a stone would doubtless be easier, but Honoria was not about to allow Devil to deny her the latest news. She wasn't going to marry him—she'd warned him repeatedly she would not—but she was still committed to unmasking Tolly's killer. She'd shared the information she had found; it was his turn to reciprocate.
She heard the latch of the morning-room door click; swinging to face it, she straightened. Devil entered and shut the door. His gaze swept her, then returned to her face; with his customary languid prowl, he approached.
"I've been told you wished to see me." His tone, and the elevation of one dark brow, suggested mild boredom.
Regally, Honoria inclined her head and kept her eyes on his. All the rest of him—his distant expression, his movements so smoothly controlled, all the elements of his physical presence—were calculated to underscore his authority. Others might find the combination intimidating; she simply found it
distracting. "Indeed." He halted before her. Lifting her chin she fixed him with a gaze as incisive as his was bland. "I wish to know the latest news in the search for Tolly's murderer. What did Lucifer learn?"
Devil's brows rose higher. "Nothing of any importance."
Honoria's eyes narrowed. "He waited until one in the morning to see you to report 'nothing of any importance'?"
Devil nodded. Honoria searched his eyes; her own eyes widened. "You're lying!"
Inwardly, Devil cursed. What was it that gave him away? "There was nothing Lucifer discovered that might lead us to Tolly's murderer."
Honoria stared at him. "That's not true either."
Closing his eyes, Devil swore beneath his breath. "Honoria—"
"I can't believe it! I helped you—it was I who discovered Tolly was untroubled when he left his parents' house."
Opening his eyes, Devil saw her chin tilt, her gaze shift. Before she could begin her usual peregrinations, he locked both hands on the mantelpiece, one on either side of her. Caging her. Incensed, she glared at him.
"Believe me," he said, trapping her heated gaze, "I'm grateful for your help. The others are concentrating on discovering where Tolly went after he left Mount Street. What Lucifer came to report was something else entirely." He paused, choosing his words with care. "It may be nothing, but it's not anything you can help investigate."
Honoria considered the evidence of his eyes—they remained crystal-clear. Whenever he lied, they fogged. She nodded. "Very well. I shall continue with my own investigations, in my own way."
Devil's hands clenched on the mantelpiece. "Honoria, we're discussing tracking a murderer—a cold-blooded killer—not discovering who stole the Queen of Hearts's tarts."
"I had assimilated that fact, Your Grace." Honoria tilted her chin higher. "Indeed, before I leave for Africa, I intended seeing the villain taken in charge."
Devil's jaw set. "You are not going to Africa, and you'll stay well clear of this villain."
Her eyes flashed; she lifted her chin one last notch. "You're very good at giving orders, Your Grace, but you've forgotten one pertinent point. I am not subject to your authority. And never shall be."
Those last four words were Devil's undoing; lightning-fast, he straightened, hauled her into his arms, and set his lips to hers. In his present state, it was sheer madness to try to coerce her, to attempt to enforce his will in that way.
Sheer unmitigated madness.
It snatched Honoria up, buffeting her senses, ripping her from reality. Only her fury and an intuitive grasp of his aim allowed her to resist. His lips were hard, demanding, searching—for a response she longed to—ached to—give. She locked her lips against him.
His arms locked about her; unyielding steel, they tightened, impressing her soft flesh with the male hardness of his. Sensation streaked through her; her skin tingled. Still she held firm, holding to her anger,
using it as a shield.
He tilted his head, his lips moved on hers, a powerful, elemental call to her senses. Inwardly reeling, Honoria clung to lucidity, sure of only one thing. He was kissing her into submission. And succeeding.
Fragment by fragment, she lost her grip on her fury; familiar heat flooded her. She felt herself soften, felt her lips lose their resolution, felt all resistance melt. Desperation gripped her. Surrender was too galling to contemplate.
Which left attack her only option. Her hands were trapped against his chest; sliding them up, she found the hard planes of his face. He stilled at her touch; before he could react, she framed his jaw—and kissed him.
His lips were parted—she slid her tongue between to tangle challengingly with his. He tasted powerful—wonderfully, elementally male—a mind-whirling sensation gripped her. He hadn't moved—instinctively she deepened the caress, angling her lips against his.
Passion.
It burst upon her, upon her senses, in a hot flood tide. It rose from within him, from between them, pouring through her, cascade upon cascade of exquisite sensation, of deep, swirling emotion, of soul-stealing compulsion.
On one heartbeat, she was the leader, on the next, he resumed command, his lips hard, his body a steel cage surrounding her. A cage she no longer wished to escape. She surrendered, gladly yielding; ravenous, he stole her very breath. Breasts aching, heart thundering, Honoria stole it back.
Between them, desire smoldered, flared, then exploded, flames licking greedily, devouring all reticence. Honoria gave herself up to them, to the beckoning pleasure, to the thrill of desire, to the urge of molten need.
She pressed herself against him, flagrantly enticing, hips shifting in unconscious entreaty. Fingers sliding into his thick hair, she reveled in the raw hunger that rose, naked, elemental, between them.
Their lips parted briefly, for less than a heartbeat; who pressed the next kiss was moot. They were lost together, trapped in the vortex, neither in control, both beyond reason. Hunger welled, swelled; urgency mounted, inexorable, compelling.
An almighty crash shook them to their senses.
Devil lifted his head, arms tightening protectively as he looked toward the door. Gasping, literally reeling, Honoria clung to him; dazed, she followed his gaze.
From beyond the door came sounds of calamity—wails and recriminations exchanged between two maids—then Webster's sonorous tones cut across the commotion, bringing the plaints to an end. The sound of tinkling glass and the scrape of a whisk on the polished boards followed.
Honoria could barely make out the sounds over the thundering in her ears. Her heart thudded heavily; she had yet to catch her breath. Eyes wide, she looked into Devil's face—and saw the same driving desire, the same inchoate longing gripping her, reflected in his silvered eyes. Flames lit the crystal cores; sparks flew.
His breathing was as ragged as hers. Every muscle in his body was taut, coiled. Like a spring about to break.
"Don't—move."
He bit the words out; his eyes blazed. Light-headed, barely able to drag in her next breath, Honoria didn't even think of disobeying. The planes of his face had never looked so hard, so graven. His eyes held hers steadily; she dared not blink as, rigid, he battled the force that threatened to consume them—the passion she had unleashed.
Degree by painful degree, the tension holding them decreased. His lids lowered, long lashes veiling the subsiding tempest. Gradually, his locked muscles eased; Honoria breathed again.
"The next time you do that, you'll end on your back."
There was no threat in his words; they were a statement of fact.
Hedonistic, unpredictable—she'd forgotten about the wild. A peculiar thrill shot through Honoria, immediately swamped beneath a tide of guilt. She had seen the effort her naive tactic had cost him; remnants of their passion still shimmered about them, licking at her nerves, shivering over her skin. His lids slowly rose; she met his gaze unflinchingly.
And put up a hand to touch his cheek. "I didn't know—" Turbulence engulfed them as he brusquely drew back.
"Don't—" His features hardened; his gaze transfixed her. "Go. Now."
Honoria looked into his eyes—and obeyed. She stepped out of his arms; they fell from her but not readily. With one last, hesitant glance, she turned away; head high, shaken to her toes, she left him.
The three days that followed were the hardest Honoria had ever faced. Distracted, her nerves permanently on edge, her stomach a hard knot of reaction, she struggled to find some way out of the impasse that faced her. Hiding her state from the Dowager left her drained, yet being alone was not a desirable alternative; once free, her mind dwelled incessantly on what she had seen, what she had felt, what she had learned in the morning room.
Which only added to her distraction.
Her only consolation was that Devil seemed as distracted as she. By mutual consent, they met each other's eyes but briefly; each touch—when he took her hand or she placed it on his arm—rocked them both.
He'd told her from the first that he wanted her; she hadn't understood what he meant. Now she knew—instead of frightening her or shocking her, the physical depth of his need thrilled her. She gloried in it; at some fundamental level, her heart positively sang.
Which left her feeling exceedingly wary.
She was standing before her sitting-room window, mulling over her state, when a knock fell on the door. Her heart skipped a beat. She straightened. "Come."
The door swung inward; Devil stood on the threshold. He raised a brow at her. Honoria raised a brow back.
Lips thinning, he entered the room, shutting the door behind him. His expression was
unreadable—not impassive so much as deliberately uninformative. "I'm here to apologize."
Honoria met his gaze steadily, certain the word "apologize" rarely passed his lips. Her feelings took flight, only to plummet a second later. Her stomach hollow, her heart in her throat, she asked: "For what?
His quick frown was genuinely puzzled, then it evaporated; his gaze grew hard. "For appropriating Celestine's bill." His tone made it clear that if she wished for an apology for what had transpired in the morning room, she'd be waiting until hell froze.
Honoria's unruly heart sang. She fought to keep a silly—totally unnecessary—smile from her lips. "So you'll give me the bill?"
He studied her eyes, then his lips compressed. "No."
Honoria stared. "Why apologize if you won't give me the bill?"
For a long moment, he looked at her, frustration seeping into his expression. "I'm not apologizing for paying Celestine's account—I am apologizing for stepping on your independent toes—that was not my intention. But as you so rightly pointed out, the only reason such a bill would cross my desk was if you, as my wife, had referred it to me." His lips twisted. "I couldn't resist."
Honoria's jaw nearly dropped; rescuing it in time, she swallowed a gurgle of laughter. "You signed it… pretending to be my husband?" She had to struggle to keep a straight face.
The aggravation in Devil's eyes helped. "Practicing to be your husband."
Abruptly, Honoria sobered. "You needn't practice that particular activity on my account. I'll pay my bills, whether I marry you or not."
Her crisp "or not" hung between them; Devil straightened and inclined his head. "As you wish." His gaze wandered to the landscape above the fireplace.
Honoria narrowed her eyes at his profile. "We have yet to come to terms over this bill you inadvertently
paid, Your Grace."
Both description and honorific pricked Devil on the raw. Bracing one arm along the mantelpiece, he trapped Honoria's gaze. "You can't seriously imagine I'll accept recompense—monetary recompense—from you. That, as you well know, is asking too much."
Honoria raised her brows. "I can't see why. If you'd paid a trifling sum for one of your friends, you'd allow them to repay you without fuss."
"The sum is not trifling, you are not 'one of my friends,' and in case it's escaped your notice, I'm not the sort of man to whom a woman can confess to being conscious of owing every stitch she has on, to him, and then expect to be allowed to pay him back."
Honoria's silk chemise suddenly grew hot; tightening her arms over her breasts, she tilted her chin. His conqueror's mask, all hard planes and ironclad determination, warned her she would win no concessions on that front. Searching his eyes, she felt her skin prickle. She scowled. "You… devil!"
His lips twitched.
Honoria took two paces into the room, then whirled and paced back. "The situation is beyond
improper—it's outrageous!"
Pushing away from the mantelpiece, Devil raised an arrogant brow. "Ladies who dice with me do find situations tend to end that way."
"I," Honoria declared, swinging to face him and meeting his eyes, "am far too wise to play games with you. We need some agreement over this bill."
Devil eyed her set face, and inwardly cursed. Every time he glimpsed a quick escape from the dilemma his uncharacteristically fanciful self-indulgence had landed him in, she blocked it. And demanded he negotiate. Didn't she realize she was the besieged and he the besieger? Evidently not.
From the moment he'd declared his intention to wed her, she'd flung unexpected hurdles in his path. He'd overcome each one and chased her into her castle, to which he'd immediately laid siege. He'd succeeded in harrying her to the point where she was weakening, considering opening her gates and welcoming him in—when she'd stumbled on his moment of weakness and turned it into a blunt weapon. Which she was presently wielding with Anstruther-Wetherby stubbornness. His lips thinned. "Can't you overlook it? No one knows about it other than you and me."
"And Celestine."
"She's not going to alienate a valuable customer." "Be that as it may—"
"Might I suggest," Devil tersely interpolated, "that, considering the situation between us, you could justifiably set the matter of this bill aside, to be decided after your three months have elapsed? Once you're my duchess, you can justifiably forget it."
"I haven't yet agreed to marry you." "You will."
Honoria heard the absolute decree in his words. She eyed his stony face, then raised one brow. "I can hardly accept a proposal I haven't heard."
Conquerors didn't make polite requests; his instinct was to seize what he wanted—the more he wanted, the more forceful the seizure. Devil looked into her eyes, calmly watching, calmly waiting; he read the subtle challenge in her face, the underlying stubbornness in the tilt of her chin. How much did he want this prize?
He drew a deep breath, then stepped closer and reached for her hand; his eyes on hers, he brushed his lips across her fingertips. "My dear Honoria Prudence, will you do me the honor of being my wife, my duchess—" He paused, then deliberately added: "The mother of my children?"
Her gaze flickered; she looked away. Placing one fingertip under her chin, Devil turned her face back.
After a fractional hesitation, Honoria lifted her lids and met his eyes. "I haven't yet made up my mind." He might not be able to lie—she could. But he was too potent a force to surrender to without being absolutely certain. A few more days would give her time to check her decision.
He held her gaze; between them, passion lingered, shivering in the air. "Don't take too long."
The words, uttered softly, could have been a warning or a plea. Retrieving her fingers from his clasp, Honoria lifted her chin free of his touch. "If I married you, I would want to be assured no incident similar to the present contretemps would occur again."
"I've told you I'm not daft." Devil's eyes glinted. "And I'm certainly no advocate of self-torture." Ruthlessly, Honoria suppressed her smile.
The planes of Devil's face shifted; he caught her hand. "Come for a drive."
"One more point…" Honoria held firm. She met the aggravation in his eyes, and tried not to feel the warmth, the seductive strength in the fingers and palm clasping hers. "Tolly's murder."
Devil's jaw firmed. "I will not let you involve yourself in the search for his killer."
Honoria met his gaze directly; again, she sensed their wills locking, this time without heat. "I wouldn't need to actively search for clues if you told me what you and your cousins discover as soon as you discover it." She'd exhausted all avenues open to her; she needed his cooperation to go on.
He frowned, then looked away; she'd started to wonder what he was thinking before he looked back. "I'll agree on one condition."
Honoria raised her brows.
"That you promise that under no circumstances whatever will you personally go searching for Tolly's killer."
Honoria promptly nodded. Her ability to come up with any male felon was severely limited by the social code; her contribution to the investigation would have to be primarily deductive. "So what did Lucifer learn?"
Devil's lips thinned. "I can't tell you." Honoria stiffened.
"No!" He squeezed her hand. "Don't rip up at me—I said 'can't,' not 'won't.'" Honoria narrowed her eyes. "Why 'can't'?"
Devil searched her face, then looked down at their linked hands. "Because what Lucifer learned casts a far from flattering light on one of the family, probably Tolly. Unfortunately, Lucifer's information was rumor—we've yet to establish the facts." He studied her slim digits entwined with his, then tightened his grip and looked up. "However, if Tolly was involved, then it suggests a possible scenario whereby someone—someone capable of the act or of procuring the same—might have wanted him dead."
Honoria noted the fastidiousness that had crept into his expression. "It's something disreputable, isn't it?" She thought of Louise Cynster.
Slowly, Devil nodded. "Exceedingly disreputable."
Honoria drew in a long breath—then gasped as a tug set her on course for the door.
"You need some air," Devil decreed. He shot her a glance, then admitted through clenched teeth: "So do I."
Towed in his wake, Honoria grinned. Her gown was too thin, but she could don her pelisse at the front door. She had won a host of concessions; she could afford to be magnanimous. The day was fine; her heart was light. And her wolf had reached the end of his tether.
Chapter 13
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"I make it 334." Honoria restacked the lists in her lap and started counting again.
His gaze on her profile, Devil raised his brows. They were in the morning room, Honoria at one end of the chaise while he sprawled elegantly at the other; she was adding up the acceptances for the grand ball his aunt Horatia was to host in Berkeley Square the next night, to declare the family out of mourning.
Smiling, Devil retrieved a list from the floor. "That's a goodly number for this time of year. The weather's put back the shooting, so many have stayed in town. Like Chillingworth—it appears my aunt has seen fit to invite him."
"He is an earl." Honoria glanced up, frowned, then reached over and tugged at the list. "But I gather you've known him forever."
"It certainly seems like forever. We were at Eton together." "Rivals from your earliest years?"
"I wouldn't class Chillingworth as a rival—more like a nuisance."
Honoria looked down, hiding her grin. Devil had taken to joining her in the morning room in the
post-luncheon hour during which the Dowager habitually rested. He would stay for half an hour, long limbs disposed in the opposite corner of the chaise, his presence filling the room, dominating her senses. They would chat; if he had information from his cousins, he would tell her, simply and straightforwardly, without evasion.
From her own efforts, she'd learned nothing more. The Dowager had fulfilled her stated intention of introducing her to the ton; through a mind-numbing round of morning calls, "at-homes," and afternoon teas, she had met all the major hostesses and been accepted as one of their circle. But in all the gossip and scandalmongering abounding amongst the female half of the ton, not a single scrap had she heard regarding Tolly.
She looked up. "Have you heard anything?"
"As it happens, I have." Honoria opened her eyes wide; Devil's lips quirked wryly. "Don't get your hopes up, but Demon's back."
"Did he find Tolly's man?"
"Yes. Mick remembered that last night clearly—Tolly, to use Mick's words, was 'in a right spate' when he came in. Unfortunately, Tolly refused to tell him anything concerning the who, the why, or the what."
Honoria frowned. "Refused?" "Mick—being Mick—asked."
"And?"
"Uncharacteristically got told, in no uncertain terms, to mind his own business." "That was odd?"
Devil nodded. "Mick had been with Tolly since Tolly was in shortcoats. If he was troubled over something, the most likely occurrence is that Tolly would have talked it over, without reservation, with Mick."
"So." Honoria considered. "What sort of secret would Tolly refuse to discuss with Mick?"
"That, indeed, is the question." His gaze on her face, on the slight frown disturbing the sweeping arch of her brows, Devil added: "Along with the puzzle of the time."
"The time?"
"That night, Tolly got in less than an hour after he left Mount Street."
They'd assumed Tolly had been out half the night, at some function at which he'd learned the secret that led to his death. Honoria's frown deepened. "Is Mick sure?"
"Positive—he remembers particularly as he hadn't expected Tolly back so soon." Honoria nodded. "How far is it from Mount Street to Tolly's lodgings?"
"His lodgings were in Wigmore Street—about twenty minutes from my uncle's house."
"Was there any particular house—of a friend, perhaps—where he might have stopped along the way?"
"Nothing directly in his path. And none close that we haven't checked. None of his friends saw him that night."
Honoria caught Devil's eye. "How does such a short time fit with Lucifer's discreditable rumor?"
"Not well." Devil hesitated, then added, "It doesn't rule it out, but it makes it unlikely. If Tolly had gone—" He broke off, then continued: "If what we thought had happened, then it most likely happened at some earlier date, which doesn't explain why Tolly only got agitated after he left Mount Street."
Studying his face, more revealing now that he didn't guard his expression in her presence, Honoria inwardly frowned. He remained disturbed by the discreditable rumor, even though it might now be unlinked to Tolly's death. "What is it?"
Devil looked up, then grimaced. "It's merely that, as the head of the family, I don't appreciate the idea of some skeleton not safely locked in a cupboard."
Honoria's lips softened; she looked away.
They sat silent for some minutes, Honoria puzzling over the questions Mick's recollections had raised, Devil outwardly relaxed, his gaze, gently pensive, resting on her face. Then Honoria looked at Devil. "Have you told the others?"
"They were on the doorstep with Demon. While I wrestle with our discreditable rumor, they're trying to
shake information from any tree they can find. Richard and Demon have gone after the local jarveys; Gabriel, believe it or not, is hobnobbing with street sweepers. Vane and Lucifer are combing the likeliest taverns in the hope they might stumble upon some drunk who saw where Tolly went."
"That seems a very long bow to draw."
Devil sighed and leaned his head back against the chaise.
"It is." After a moment of staring at the ceiling, he added: "I find it hard to credit but they seem as frustrated as I am." Slowly, he turned his head and looked at Honoria.
She met his gaze levelly. "Matters won't always fall into line just because you decree it."
His eyes on hers, Devil raised his brows. "So I apprehend." There was an undercurrent of subtle
self-deprecation in his voice; it was followed almost immediately by a tangible ripple in the atmosphere about them. They stilled, then Devil smoothly reached out and lifted the topmost sheet from the piled lists. "I presume," he said, ostensibly scanning the list, "that every last one of the grande dames will be present?"
"Naturally." Equally smoothly, Honoria followed his lead, ruthlessly ignoring the breathlessness that had afflicted her. They spent the next five minutes trading inconsequential quips, while the restless hunger simmering between them subsided.
No matter how easy in each other's company they became, that flame still smoldered, ready to flare at the slightest touch, the least unwary comment. Honoria was sorely tempted to confess that she'd reached her decision, finally and firmly, incontrovertibly. She'd thought long and hard; she could see all the difficulties. She could also see the benefits, and the possibilities; she'd decided to accept the challenge.
And what better way than to start as she meant to go on? She'd determined to use Horatia's ball as the stage for her acceptance. Her speech was well rehearsed…
She blinked and returned to reality—and realized her voice had died in mid-sentence. Devil's gaze was on her face, too perceptive, too knowing. Heat rose in her cheeks.
He smiled—wolfishly—and fluidly rose. "I'd better see Hobden—he's come up from St. Ives with the tillage tallies." He met Honoria's eyes, then bowed elegantly. "I'll wish you a good afternoon, my dear."
"And I you, Your Grace." Honoria graciously inclined her head. As Devil strolled to the door, the black armband he still wore caught her eye. Honoria frowned. The six weeks the family had decreed as full mourning ended that night; presumably, tomorrow, he'd leave off his black armband.
Her frown deepened. He had better leave it off tomorrow night.
For Honoria, the next evening started auspiciously. Nerves wound tight, she descended the stairs, gowned for conquest. As usual, Webster materialized in the hall before she reached the last step; he crossed to the drawing-room door and placed a hand on the knob before glancing her way.
His jaw dropped—only momentarily, but the sight did wonders for Honoria's confidence. "Good evening, Webster. Is His Grace down?"
"Indeed, ma'am—I mean, miss." Webster drew in a quick breath and relocated his usual mask. "His Grace is waiting." With a deep bow, he set the door wide.
Smoothly, serenely, inwardly so tight she felt she might break, Honoria glided forward.
Standing before the fireplace, Devil swung around as she entered. As always, his gaze skimmed her, top to toe. Tonight, when he reached her silver sandals, peeking from beneath her hem, he stopped, then, excruciatingly slowly, traced his way back up her length, over the sweep of eau de Nil silk clinging sleekly to her long limbs. His eyes dwelled successively on each flatteringly draped curve, then rose higher, to caress her shoulders, concealed only where the simple, toga-style gown was anchored by a gold clasp on her left shoulder. The spangled silk shawl she carried over her elbows was flimsy; no real distraction. She wore no jewelry other than the gold comb in her hair, itself piled high, curl upon gleaming curl. Honoria felt the sudden intensity in his gaze.
Her breath caught.
With long, prowling stride, he crossed the room, his gaze steady on hers. As he neared, he held out one hand; without hesitation, she laid her fingers across his. Slowly, he turned her; dutifully, she twirled. She could feel the heat of his gaze as, at close quarters, it roamed her body, shielded only by gossamer silk. As she completed her revolution and faced him again, she saw his lips curve. His eyes met hers. "Celestine has my gratitude."
His voice reverberated through her; Honoria arched one brow. "Celestine?" She let her gaze linger on his. "And what, pray tell, do I receive?"
"My attention." On the words, Devil drew her closer. His gaze lifted to her curls, then dropped to her eyes, then fell to her lips. "Unreserved."
Obedient to the pressure of his hand at her back, Honoria arched closer, lifting her lips to his. He met her halfway, yet she was sure she was floating as his lips settled, warm and firm, on hers.
It was the first kiss they'd shared since their confrontation in the morning room; beyond the fact their lips touched, this caress bore no relation to that previous embrace. This was all pleasure and warmth, delight spiced with enthralling fascination as lips melded and held, then firmed again.
Honoria's restless hands came to rest on Devil's lapels; his free hand curved possessively over one silk-clad hip. Beneath his palms, her skin burned, two layers of fine silk no real barrier to his touch. Willingly, she sank into his arms, yielding to the persuasion of his lips and her own flaring desire.
A form of magic held them fast; how many minutes they spent in that soul-stealing kiss neither could have said. The click of heels on the hall tiles brought it to an end.
Devil raised his head and looked at the door; Honoria waited, but he did not step away. His only concession as the door swung wide and his mother appeared in the doorway, was to remove his hand from her hip and, with the hand at her back, gently turn her to the door. Not by word nor, it was clear, even by deed, did he intend concealing the fact he'd been kissing her.
Honoria blinked. She was slow in following Devil's lead; when the Dowager's gaze reached them, she was still half-stretched on her toes, one hand lying on his chest. The Dowager, grande dame that she was, pretended not to notice. "If you are ready, my dears, I suggest we leave. There's no point waiting in this drawing room."
Inclining his head, Devil offered Honoria his arm; she placed her fingertips upon it. A great deal warmer than when she had entered, she left the room by his side.
The journey to Lord George Cynster's house in Berkeley Square took a bare five minutes. Another five
saw Honoria, with Devil by her side, surrounded by Cynsters. The drawing room was full of them; tall, commandingly arrogant gentlemen and briskly imperious ladies, they threw the other members of the haut ton invited to dinner into the proverbial shade.
Her gown caused a stir—she hadn't been sure what to expect. What she received were wide smiles and nods of encouragement from the other Cynster ladies—and arrested looks from all the Cynster males. It was Lucifer who translated those looks into words. He shook his dark head at her. "You do realize, don't you, that if Devil hadn't snapped you up, you'd be facing a concerted siege?"
Honoria tried to look innocent.
Dinner had been moved forward to seven; the ball would start at nine. Across the sound of twenty conversations, Webster, borrowed for the occasion, announced that the meal was served.
Devil led his aunt into the dining room, leaving Honoria to be escorted thence by Vane. Remembering a like occasion, Tolly's funeral, Honoria glanced at Vane. "Do you always stand in for him?"
The look he sent her was startled, then his lips lifted. "It would," he murmured, with the cool hauteur that was his most notable characteristic, "be more accurate to say that we cover each other's backs. Devil's only a few months older than I am—we've known each other all our lives."
Honoria heard the devotion beneath the smooth tones and inwardly approved. Vane led her to the chair next to Devil's, taking the chair beside hers. Flanked by such partners, she looked forward to the dinner with unalloyed anticipation.
The conversation about her revolved about politics and the issues of the day; Honoria listened with an interest she hadn't previously known, registering Devil's views, reconciling them with what she knew of His Grace of St. Ives. While the second course was being served, she idly glanced around the table. And noticed the black strip about the arm of each of the Cynster cousins. Devil's left arm was by her side; she turned her head—the black band, barely noticeable against his black coat, was level with her chin.
Looking down at her plate, she swallowed a curse.
She bided her time until they were strolling the huge ballroom, ostensibly admiring the decorative wreaths. They were sufficiently private; the ball guests were only just arriving in the hall below. As they neared the ballroom's end, she slipped one finger beneath the black band and tugged. Devil looked down—and raised a brow.
"Why are you still wearing this?"
He met her gaze; she sensed his hesitation. Then he sighed and looked forward. "Because we haven't yet caught Tolly's murderer."
Given the dearth of clues, they might never catch Tolly's murderer; Honoria kept that thought to herself. "Is it really necessary?" She glanced at his stern profile. "Surely one little waltz won't addle your wits?"
His lips twisted as he glanced down, but he shook his head. "I just feel…" His words trailed away; frowning, he looked ahead. "I'm sure I've forgotten something—some key—some vital clue."
His tone made it clear he'd changed tack; Honoria followed without quibble. She could understand that he felt guilty over his inability to bring Tolly's killer to justice; she didn't need to hear him admit it. "Do you remember anything about this clue?"
"No—it's the most damnable thing. I'm sure there's something I've seen, something I've already learned, but I simply can't fasten on it. It's like a phantom at the edge of my vision—I keep turning my head to look but can never bring it into view."
Frustration rang clearly in his tone; Honoria decided to change the subject. "Tell me, is Lady Osbaldestone a Cynster connection?"
Devil glanced to where her ladyship, gimlet gaze fixed on them, sat ensconced in one corner of a nearby
chaise. "An exceedingly distant one." He shrugged. "But that description covers half the ton."
They strolled, chatting with those they came upon, their perambulation slowing as the ton rolled up, all eager to be seen at the only Cynster ball of the season. In a short half hour, the ballroom was awash with silks and satins; perfume hung heavy on the air. The sheen of curls was fractured by the sparkle and glint of jewels; hundreds of tongues contributed to the polite hum. Being on Devil's arm guaranteed Honoria space enough to breathe; none were game to crowd her. There were, however, a definite number who, sighting her, were impelled to pay their compliments. Some, indeed, looked set to worship at her feet, even in the teeth of the very real threat of receiving a swift and well-aimed kick from her escort.
Fixed by Honoria's side, compelled to witness her effect on other males, Devil set his jaw, and tried not to let it show. His mood was steadily turning black—not a good sign, given what he had yet to endure. He'd toyed with the idea of asking her not to dance, but she was not yet his wife. He'd transgressed once; she had, by some benign stroke of fate, consented to forgive him. He was not about to try for twice.
And she liked to dance. He knew that without asking; her attention to the music was proof enough. How he would force himself to let her waltz with some other gentleman, he did not know. He'd planned to get his cousins to stand in his place; instead, like him, they'd held to their resolution. Which left him wrestling with a rampant possessiveness he didn't at all wish to tame.
To his disgust, the musicians appeared early. Through the inevitable squeaks and plunks, Lord Ainsworth declaimed: "My dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, I would be most honored, indeed, overcome with gratification, should you consent to favor me with your hand and allow me to partner you in this measure." His lordship capped his period with a flourishing bow, then looked earnestly, with almost reverent devotion, at Honoria.
Devil tensed, ruthlessly denying the urge to plant his fist in Ainsworth's vacuous face. Tightening his hold on every wayward impulse, he steeled himself to hear Honoria's acceptance—and to let her go without causing a scene. Honoria held out her hand; Devil felt his control quake.
"Thank you, my lord." Her smile serene, Honoria barely touched fingers with Ainsworth. "But I won't be dancing tonight."
"My dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, your actions bear testimony to your exquisite sensibilities. Forgive me, dear lady, for being so gauche as to even suggest…"
Lord Ainsworth spouted on; Devil hardly heard him. When it finally dawned that the woman on his arm was in all likelihood not listening either, he cut his lordship's performance short. "Sorry, Ainsworth, but we must catch up with Lady Jersey."
As Sally Jersey had a well-developed dislike of the pompous Ainsworth, his lordship did not offer to accompany them. Crestfallen, he took his leave of them; the others in their circle smiled and dispersed, many taking to the floor as the strains of a waltz filled the room.
Devil placed his hand over Honoria's and ruthlessly drew her away. As they strolled the edge of the dance floor, their pace enough to discourage idle encounters, he searched for words, finally settling for: "There's no reason you can't dance."
His tone was dark; his delivery flat. He looked down; Honoria looked up. She studied his eyes; the smile that slowly curved her lips held understanding spiced with feminine satisfaction. "Yes, there is."
Her eyes challenged him to deny it; when he said nothing, her smile deepened and she looked ahead. "I think we should stop by Lady Osbaldestone, don't you?"
Devil didn't; the old tartar was guaranteed deliberately to bait him. On the other hand, he needed a major distraction. Dragging in a deep breath, he nodded, and set course for her ladyship's chaise.
*****
"If there was ever any doubt, that—" with a nod, Vane indicated the group about the chaise on the opposite side of the ballroom, "settles it."
Standing beside Vane, one shoulder propped against the wall, Gabriel nodded. "Indubitably. Lady Osbaldestone hardly qualifies as a desirable interlocutor."
Vane's gaze was fixed on Devil's broad back. "I wonder what Honoria said to get him there?" "Whatever," Gabriel said, pausing to drain his glass, "it looks like we've lost our leader." "Have we?" Vane narrowed his eyes. "Or is he, as usual, leading the way?"
Gabriel shuddered. "What a hideous prospect." He wriggled his broad shoulders. "That felt like someone walked over my grave."
Vane laughed. "No point in running from fate—as our esteemed leader is wont to say. Which raises the intriguing subject of his fate. When do you think?"
Considering the tableau opposite, Gabriel pursed his lips. "Before Christmas?" Vane's snort was eloquent. "It damn well better be before Christmas."
"What had better be before Christmas?"
The question had them turning; instantly, restraint entered both their expressions. "Good evening, Charles." Gabriel nodded to his cousin, then looked away.
"We were," Vane said, his tone mild, "discussing impending nuptials." "Indeed?" Charles looked politely intrigued. "Whose?"
Gabriel stared; Vane blinked. After an instant's pause, Vane replied: "Devil's, of course."
"Sylvester's?" Brow furrowing, Charles looked across the room, then his features relaxed. "Oh—you mean that old business about him marrying Miss Anstruther-Wetherby."
"Old business?"
"Good heavens, yes." His expression fastidious, Charles smoothed his sleeve. Looking up, he saw his cousins' blank faces—and sighed. "If you must know, I spoke to Miss Anstruther-Wetherby at
some length on the matter. She's definitely not marrying Sylvester."
Vane looked at Gabriel; Gabriel looked at Vane. Then Vane turned back to Charles. "When did you speak to Honoria Prudence?"
Charles lifted a supercilious brow. "At Somersham, after the funeral. And I spoke with her shortly after she came up to town."
"Uh-huh." Vane exchanged another look with Gabriel.
Gabriel sighed. "Charles, has anyone ever pointed out to you that ladies are prone to change their minds?"
Charles's answering glance was contemptuous. "Miss Anstruther-Wetherby is an exceedingly well-educated lady of superior sensibilities."
"Who also happens to be exceedingly well-structured and as such is an exceedingly likely target for Devil's attentions, in this case, honorable." Gabriel gestured to the distant chaise. "And if you won't believe us, just open your eyes."
Following his gesture, Charles frowned. Honoria, her hand on Devil's arm, leaned close to say something; Devil bent his head the better to hear her. Their stance spoke eloquently of intimacy, of closeness; Charles's frown deepened.
Vane glanced at Charles. "Our money's on Devil—unfortunately, we haven't found any takers."
"Mmm." Gabriel straightened. "A wedding before Christmas," he slanted a questioning glance at Vane, "and an heir before St.Valentine's Day?"
"Now that," Vane said, "might find us some action."
"Yes, but which way should we jump?" Gabriel headed into the crowd. Vane followed. "Fie on you—don't you have any faith in our leader?"
"I've plenty of faith in him, but you have to admit there's rather more to producing an heir than his sire's performance. Come and talk to Demon. He'll tell you…"
Their words faded. Left behind, Charles continued to frown, staring fixedly at the couple before Lady Osbaldestone's chaise.
Chapter 14
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As the evening wore on, the gaiety increased. Supper was served at one o'clock. Seated beside Devil at one of the larger tables, Honoria laughed and chatted. Smiling serenely, she studied Devil's cousins and their supper partners and knew what those ladies were feeling. The same expectation tightened her nerves, heightened her senses. Laughing at one of Gabriel's sallies, she met Devil's eye—and understood precisely why ladies of the ton deliberately played with fire.
The musicians summoned them back to the ballroom. The others all rose; Honoria fussed with her shawl, then untangled the ribbons of her fan. She'd intended informing Devil of her decision while sharing their
first waltz; denied that opportunity, she was sure that, if she quietly suggested she had something to tell him, he would create another.
She looked up—Devil stood beside her, patient boredom in his face. She held out a hand; smoothly, he drew her to her feet. She glanced around; the supper room was empty. She turned to Devil—only to have him turn her still further, away from the ballroom. Startled, she looked up at him.
He smiled, all wolf. "Trust me."
He led her to a wall—and opened a door concealed within the paneling. The door gave onto a minor corridor, presently deserted. Devil handed her through, then followed. Blinking, Honoria looked around; the corridor ran parallel to the ballroom, leading toward its end. "Where…?"
"Come with me." Taking her hand, Devil strode down the corridor.
As usual, she had to hurry to keep up; before she could think of a sufficiently pointed comment, they reached a set of stairs. Somewhat to her surprise, he took the downward flight. "Where are we going?" Why she was whispering she didn't know.
"You'll see in a minute," he whispered back.
The stairs debouched into another corridor, parallel to the one above; Devil halted before a door near its end. Opening it, he looked in, then stepped back and handed her over the threshold.
Pausing just inside, Honoria blinked. Behind her, the lock clicked, then Devil led her down three shallow stone steps and onto a flagged floor.
Eyes wide and widening, Honoria gazed about. Huge panes of glass formed half the roof, all of one wall and half of each sidewall. Moonlight, crystal white, poured in, illuminating neatly trimmed orange trees in clay pots, set in two semicircles about the room's center. Slipping her hand from Devil's, she entered the grove. In the moonlight, the glossy leaves gleamed; she touched them—their citrus scent clung to her fingers. In the grove's center stood a wrought-iron daybed piled with silk cushions. Beside it on the flags sat a wickerwork basket overflowing with embroideries and lace.
Glancing back, she saw Devil, a silvered shadow prowling in her wake. "It's an orangery." She saw his lips twitch. "One of my aunt's fancies."
The tenor of his voice made her wonder what his fancy was. An expectant thrill shot through her—a violin rent the peace. Startled, she looked up. "We're under the ballroom?"
Devil's teeth flashed as he reached for her. "My dance, I believe."
She was in his arms and whirling before she realized his intent. Not that she wished to argue, but a soupcon of warning might have helped, might have made the sudden impact of his nearness a little easier to absorb. As it was, with arms like iron about her and long thighs hard as oak parting hers, she immediately fell prey to a host of sensations, all distractingly pleasant. He waltzed as he did most things—masterfully, his skill so assured she need do nothing but glide and twirl. They precessed down the grove, then slowly revolved about its perimeter. As they passed the entrance to the enchanted circle, he looked down, into her eyes—and deliberately drew her closer.
Honoria's breath caught; her heart stuttered, then picked up its pace. The pale silk covering her breasts shifted against his coat; she felt her nipples tingle. Their hips met as they turned, silk shushing softly,
sirenlike in the night. Hardness met softness, then slid tantalizingly away, only to return, harder, more defined, a heartbeat later. The ebb and sway of the dance teased her senses; they ached—for him. Eyes wide, her gaze trapped in the clear green of his, Honoria felt the silvery touch of the moonlight and tipped up her head. Her lips, parted, were oddly dry; they throbbed to her heartbeat.
Her invitation could not have been clearer. Caught in the moment, Devil did not even think of refusing. With practised ease, he lowered his head and tasted her, confident in his mastery, only to find his head swimming as she drew him in. With an inward curse, he hauled hard on his reins and wrested back control, settling to languidly sample the riches she offered, subtly stoking her flame.
They waltzed between the orange trees; the music stopped and still they revolved. Gradually, their steps slowed; they halted by the daybed.
Honoria quelled a shiver of anticipation. Their kiss unbroken, Devil released her hand; he slid both palms over her silk-clad curves until one rested on each hip, burning through her flimsy gown. Slowly, deliberately, his hands slid further, cupping her bottom, drawing her fully against him. Honoria felt his blatant need, his desire—an answering heat blossomed within her. Her breath was his; caught in their kiss, she lifted her arms and twined them about his neck. She pressed herself against him, soothing her aching breasts against the wall of his chest. The deep shudder that passed through him thrilled her.
She'd rehearsed an acceptance speech—this was even better; actions, after all, spoke far louder than words. With a sigh of pure delight, she sank deeper into his embrace, returning his kiss with unfeigned eagerness.
Tension gripped him. He lifted her; their kiss unbroken, he lowered her to the daybed. And followed her down; Honoria's breath fled. She knew his body was hard, but she'd never had it pressed against her, limb to limb, down her entire length. The shock was delicious; with a stifled gasp, she pushed aside his coat and eagerly spread her hands over his chest.
And felt the sudden hitch in his breathing, sensed his sudden surge of desire. From deep within, she answered it, flagrantly enticing his tongue to duel and dance with hers. She set her long legs tangling with his; her hands reached further. She would be no passive spectator; she wanted to feel, to experience, to explore.
Which was more encouragement than Devil could stand. Abruptly, he pulled back, caught her hands and anchored them over her head. Immediately, he recaptured her lips, desire growing, escalating wildly, barely restrained. Ravenous, he deepened the kiss, searching for appeasement, fighting, simultaneously, to retain control.
Half-trapped beneath him, Honoria arched, responding to the intimacy, the steadily growing heat. Desire, a palpable entity, welled and swelled; she squirmed, silk sliding sensuously between them, then moaned and tugged against his hold. He broke their kiss only long enough to say: "No."
Twisting her head, she avoided his lips. "I only want to touch you."
"Forget it," he grated. He was dangerously overheated, driven by a desire he'd seriously underestimated; her wandering hands would be the last straw.
"Why?" Honoria tested his grip, then twisted, trying to gain greater purchase; one soft thigh pressed close, then slid downward, provocatively stroking that part of his anatomy he was desperately trying to ignore.
His breath hissed in; she pressed closer—Devil forgot why—forgot everything bar the need
to assuage the driving force that filled him. Desire crystallized, hardening every muscle. Tightening every nerve. Obliterating the last remnants of caution. He caught her chin and captured her mouth in a searing kiss. He shifted, one leg trapping hers, using his weight to subdue her.
Not that she was struggling. Her lips clung to his, passionately enticing. She moaned again, this time in abandoned entreaty; her body arched, caressing his, inviting, inciting.
His hand dropped from her jaw to possessively cup one breast; he kneaded the firm mound, then rolled its tip to a tight bud.
Honoria gasped; her breast throbbed, then ached as his fingers played. She writhed, savoring his tensed muscles, shifting in response. His body was close—she ached to have him closer. Much closer. Heat flared wherever he touched her; she needed his hardness to quench the flame, to satisfy the fever that sang in her veins.
She wanted him, needed him—there was no longer any reason she couldn't have him. Desperately, she tugged at his grip—it firmed. His hand left her breast—before she could protest, she heard a muffled click. She stilled—the bodice of her gown peeled away. Her heart thudded, then raced. The drawstring of her chemise pulled tight, then released—the gossamer-fine fabric floated down, leaving her breasts bare.
Devil lifted his head; Honoria drew in a shuddering breath. She felt the cool touch of the moonlit air, felt the heat of his gaze. Her nipples crinkled tight. Lifting lids suddenly heavy, she looked up. His face was graven, harsh planes sharp-edged. Her breasts throbbed painfully; as if he could sense it, he bent his head.
And touched his lips to her heated skin. Honoria stiffened; her senses leapt. Devil dropped hot kisses around one aureole, then drew the soft flesh into his mouth. She tensed. He suckled—and she thought she would die. Sensation streaked through her; her toes curled. She gasped, her body tightening, lifting against him. Her fingers, still locked above her head, clenched tight.
He tortured her soft flesh until she cried out, then turned to her other breast. Only when that, too, was aching fiercely, when her body felt molten, pulsing with need, did he raise his head. From beneath her lashes, Honoria watched as he skimmed his hand down, possessively caressing the smooth curve of her hip, then tracing the long sweep of her thigh. Her lungs seized when his fingers slid beneath her hem; her heart stopped when, in one, smooth motion, he swept her skirts up to her waist.
Honoria trembled. Cool air caressed her fevered flesh; his gaze, hot as the sun, dispelled the chill, roaming comprehensively, surveying what he intended to possess. Then he turned his head and met her gaze. His hand tightened about her bare hip, then slid lower in a tantalizing caress, hard palm and long fingers stroking knowingly down, then up.
Her gaze trapped in his, Honoria shuddered. He leaned closer; she shut her eyes as his lips found hers. She gave herself up to him, up to their kiss, surrendered to the sweet wildfire that rose between them.
Devil's conqueror's soul relished the victory—he pressed on, eager for the final conquest. The long sweep of her ivory thighs was a potent attraction, her skin warm satin to his touch. Her softly rounded belly tensed beneath his hand; he slid his palm over her hip, his fingers curving about one firm buttock.
Knowingly, he traced, caressed; tangling his fingers in the soft curls at the apex of her thighs, he gently teased. Beneath him, Honoria shifted restlessly, her lips clinging to his. He drew back, fleetingly studying her face, passion-blank. At his whispered command, she parted her thighs—then gasped as he touched her, then cupped her. Only when that first flaring shock of awareness had died did he caress her,
intimately stroking the delicate swollen folds, parting them to find the bud of her desire, already hard and throbbing. He circled it, and felt her passion rise—he found her slickness and gently probed, deliberately inciting the wave of desire building between them.
The higher the wave, the headier the ride, the more profound the final crash. Bringing years of experience to bear, he fed her passion until it became a raging tide.
Caught on the crest, Honoria knew nothing beyond her violent need, centered in the swollen, throbbing flesh he so knowingly stroked, so tantalizingly caressed. Then one long finger slid deeper, circled, then pressed deeper still. She caught her breath on a moan; her body lifted, helplessly seeking. He stroked—the heat within her ignited.
Again and again came that intimate invasion; eyes closed, senses raging, she wanted more. He knew her need; his lips returned to hers, his tongue claiming her mouth in the same, mesmerizingly languid rhythm with which he probed her heated body.
Her breasts swollen and heavy, Honoria arched against him, trying to ease their ache. Abruptly, he released her lips; a second later, his mouth fastened about one nipple.
A strangled shriek escaped her—lightning streaked through her; the conflagration within her roared. The hand locked about hers disappeared. Devil shifted; using one hand to ease the ache of one breast, he caressed the other with lips and tongue. Between her thighs, his fingers slid deep, and still deeper.
Her hands free, Honoria reached for him.
Immediately, events became more heated, more urgent. She wrestled his cravat from him, then set about undoing the buttons of his shirt. Frantic, she stopped halfway and, shifting, squirming and panting, struggled with his coat. Devil struggled to hold her still. With a muttered curse, he suddenly pulled back and shrugged, then flung his coat and waistcoat aside. Honoria welcomed him back with open arms, thrilled to her toes when she finally made contact with his naked chest. His muscles tensed, shifted—greedily, she explored. Crisp hair tangled about her fingers; beneath her palms, he burned.
Devil felt her yank his shirt free of his waistband, felt her small hands slide about him, reaching to caress the broad muscles of his back. He raised his head. She tightened her hold—the twin peaks of her breasts pressed against his bare chest; the heat between her thighs scalded him. That naked embrace left him shaking, gasping, struggling to regain any glimmer of control. Every instinct he possessed urged him on, urged him to take all she offered, to sink into her slick heat and take her, claim her beyond recall. The pressure of that instinct was overwhelming; his fingers were on the buttons of his trousers, his rake's instincts running a final cursory check—when he remembered her fear.
Her reason for not marrying.
He stilled. Then blinked. He heard his ragged breathing, felt his chest swell. Raging desire pounded at his senses; passion, unleashed, fought for release. But… In that crazed instant, lust and will collided.
The shock was almost physical. The wrenching effort required to draw his hands from Honoria, to roll away and sit up, left him giddy.
With a whimper, Honoria pulled him back. Or tried to. She couldn't get a grip on his body—clenching her hands in his loose shirt, she tugged desperately. All she did was rock herself.
Devil didn't shift. Gently, he caught her hands and disengaged her fingers. "No."
"No?" The question came out as a muted wail; in utter disbelief, Honoria stared at him. "You're a rake—rakes don't say 'No'!"
He had the grace to grimace. "This isn't right."
Honoria drew a deep breath; her senses were whirling, clamoring with need. "You've been bedding women for God knows how long—you must by now know what to do!"
The look Devil cast her was exceedingly sharp. "What I meant was, this isn't how I intend bedding you." Honoria opened her eyes wide. "Does it matter?"
"Yes!" His expression grim, he shook his head. "This wasn't supposed to happen yet!"
Her hands still trapped in his, Honoria stared at him. "Why did you bring me down here, then?" "Believe it or not, I had merely envisaged an illicit waltz—not a full-scale seduction." "Then what are we doing on this daybed?"
Devil clenched his jaw. "I got carried away—by you!"
"I see." She narrowed her eyes. "You're allowed to seduce me, but I'm not allowed the reciprocal privilege?"
The eyes that met hers were mere green shards. "Precisely. Seduction is an art best left to the experts."
"I'm obviously a quick learner—I've had an excellent teacher." Her hands immobilized in his, she tugged, trying to topple him back down; if she could just get him back on the bed alongside her…
"No!" Abruptly, Devil let go of her hands and stood; grimly, he looked down at her. She hadn't seduced him—something in him had accomplished that. Whatever it was, he didn't trust it—that force that whispered within him, urging him to capitulate, to toss aside his careful plans and fall in, lustily, with hers. "When you come to me as my wife, I want you to come of your own free will. Because you've made the decision to become my duchess. That's not a decision you've yet made."
Staggered, Honoria stared at him. "What do you imagine this is all about?" Her gesture encompassed her seminaked sprawl.
Devil narrowed his eyes. "Curiosity."
"Curi…?" Honoria's mouth fell open, then shut; lips setting ominously, she came up on one elbow.
Devil spoke before she could. "Even if it wasn't—even if you'd made up your mind in cold blood—how the hell could I tell now, when you're so heated you're almost simmering?"
Honoria met his eyes—and wished she had an answer. "You're all but drunk with passion—don't try to deny it."
She didn't—couldn't; just sitting up had nearly made her swoon. Her pulse thundered in her ears; she felt flushed one instant, then desperate for heat—his heat—the next. There was a curious, molten void pulsing within her; her breathing was so shallow it was difficult to think.
Devil's gaze, on her face, became more intent, then flicked down, swiftly scanning. The folds of her gown
had slipped down, the hem floating on her thighs. Instantly, his eyes switched back to her face; she saw his jaw set, saw the iron shackles of his control lock.
He spoke through clenched teeth, frustration in his voice. "It's important to me to know that you've made a conscious decision—that you've decided to become my wife, the mother of my children, for your own reasons, not because I've seduced, coerced, or manipulated you into it."
"I've made my decision." Honoria struggled to her knees. "How can I convince you?"
"I need to hear you say it—state it—when you're fully compos mentis." Devil held her gaze. "I want to hear you declare that you'll be my duchess, that you want to bear my children."
Through the haze of her passion, Honoria glimpsed an unexpected light. She narrowed her eyes. "Just why do you need this declaration?"
Devil looked down at her—and narrowed his eyes back.
"Can you deny you've avoided marrying because of your decision not to risk losing children—like you lost your brother and sister?"
Stunned, she stared at him. "How did you know?"
Devil's jaw firmed. "Michael told me about your brother and sister. The rest's obvious. You must have had a reason for not marrying—you avoid young children."
His presumption in guessing her most private fear—correctly—was infuriating; Honoria knew she should react—do something to put him in his place. Instead, their talk of children had evoked a far stronger response, a surging, primitive urge to put him in his place, in quite a different way.
Their discussion had done nothing to quench the desire beating steady in her veins. They were both half-naked, both breathing rapidly; passion still throbbed between them. His every muscle was sharply defined, locked against that driving need. She had no such defense.
Realization swept her—and left her quivering. "I…" She searched his eyes, her own widening. She spread her arms helplessly. "You can't leave me like this."
Devil looked into her eyes—and mentally cursed—himself, her—and Celestine's damned gown, gathered in sheening folds about her waist, draping her thighs in silken splendor. As he watched, a telltale shiver racked her, an almost-imperceptible quiver rippling beneath her skin.
Reaching out, she locked her fingers in his shirt and pulled. Reluctantly, he shifted closer. He'd purposely aroused her, deliberately pushed her to a state bordering on the frantic.
"Please?" The soft plea lay on her bruised lips; it glowed in her eyes.
What could a gentleman do? With one last mental curse, Devil gathered her into his arms and set his lips to hers.
She opened to him instantly, sinking against him. He gave her what she wanted, steadily fanning her flames, holding himself rigidly aloof. His demons were once more under his control—he wasn't about to let the reins slip again.
Honoria sensed his decision; the muscles that surrounded her remained locked and unyielding. She would not be his wife tonight. But she had no will left to rail against fate—her entire being was focused on
the fire that raged within her. Wave upon flaming wave it seared through her, leaving her empty and yearning, weak with need. How he was going to sate her hunger she did not know; adrift, she gave herself up to his kisses, surrendered to the inferno and put herself in his hands.
When he lifted his head she was reeling, and hotter than she'd been in her life. Her whole being was one heated, aching void. Gasping, she clung to his shoulders.
"Trust me."
He whispered the words against her throat, then trailed wicked kisses down one blue vein. Honoria let her head fall back, then shuddered. The next instant, he swung her into his arms. She waited to be laid on the daybed—instead, he carried her around it; his back to it, he set her on her feet before him, facing the long mirror on the wall.
Honoria blinked. The moonlight found her skin and set it shimmering; behind her, Devil appeared a dense shadow, his hands dark against her body. Honoria licked her lips. "What are you going to do?"
He bent his head and traced one earlobe with his tongue. "Satisfy you. Release you." His eyes met hers in the mirror. "Pleasure you."
The deep purring murmur sent a sharp thrill racing through her; his hands slid around to cup both breasts—his fingers tightened and she shuddered. "All you have to do is do exactly as I say." Again he met her gaze. "Keep your eyes open and watch my hands—and concentrate on what you feel, on the sensations…"
His words were low, hypnotic; Honoria couldn't drag her eyes from his hands, rhythmically kneading her breasts. She watched his long fingers reach for her nipples; they swirled, then squeezed—sharp shivers lanced through her. She sucked in a short breath and leaned back—and felt his bare chest behind her, crisp hair rasping against her bare shoulders.
His hands left her breasts—she refocused on the mirror. One dark hand splayed across her midriff, holding her against him; the other gripped her gown, gathered in folds about her hips. She realized his intention and stiffened—protest welled, but never made it past her lips. He drew both gown and chemise down, over her hips, baring her, then let them slither to the floor. The costly fabrics pooled about their feet—Honoria ignored them, shocked, entranced, mesmerized by the sight of dark hands freely roaming her body.
She heard a low moan, and knew it was hers. Her head fell back against his shoulder; her spine arched. Her senses, fully alive, registered every touch, every knowing caress; from under weighted lids, she watched every erotic move. Then he shifted, his arms coming around her, surrounding her, his left hand cupping her right breast, his right hand splaying over her stomach. From behind, his knee pressed hers apart; head bent, his lips grazed the soft skin beneath her ear. "Keep watching."
Honoria did—she watched as his hand slid lower, long fingers tangling in her curls, then sliding further, pressing inward. He touched her softness, found her molten heat and stroked. Breathless, aching, she felt the muscles in his arm shift as he reached further, felt the pressure of his hand between her thighs, felt the slow inexorable invasion as one long finger entered her.
Sensation upon sensation crashed through her; the hand at her breast fondled, fingers finding, then tightening about her budded nipple. Of their own volition, her hands found his, fastening over his broad wrists. The crisp hair of his forearms rasped the soft skin of her inner arms; beneath her fingers, hard muscle and steely sinew played.
Between her thighs, his hand shifted; as one finger slid deep, his thumb pressed, caressed.
Lightning, wildfire—pure streaks of elemental sensation lanced through her; her body tightened, arched; Honoria gasped. His caresses continued, increasingly forceful; within her, sensations swirled, then rose—a vortex of feeling.
"Keep watching."
Naked, on fire, she dragged her lids open—and saw his hand push deep between her thighs.
A starburst took her—exploded within her. Sensation crystallized, soared, then fractured, a million silver shards raining down, shooting through her, flying down overstretched nerves to melt, tingling, beneath her skin.
Release.
It swept her, washing away her tension, replacing it with a pleasure so deep she thought she'd died. She felt his lips at her temple, felt his hands soften in soothing, intimate caresses. Sweet oblivion claimed her.
When her wits reconnected with reality, Honoria discovered herself fully dressed, leaning against the daybed's back. Before her, Devil stood before the mirror, tying his cravat. She watched his fingers deftly crease and knot the wide folds, and smiled.
In the mirror, Devil's eyes met hers. Her smile widened; he raised a brow.
"I just realized," she said, leaning more heavily against the daybed, "why you don't have a valet. Being a rake necessarily means you can't rely on the services of a servant to turn you out in trim."
Settling the ends of his cravat, Devil cast her a jaundiced glance. "Precisely." He turned. "And if you've returned to the living enough to think that through, we'd better get back to the ballroom."
He stooped to snatch his coat from the floor; Honoria opened her lips to inform him that she had, indeed, made up her mind, then thought better of it. They'd been away from the ball for too long as it was—this was no longer the time and place. Tomorrow morning would do.
She felt like she was floating, in some strange way sundered from reality. She watched Devil shrug into his coat. As he settled the lapels, something caught her eye. Turning, she peered between the orange trees.
"What is it?" Devil followed her gaze.
"I thought I saw someone, but it must have been a shifting shadow."
Devil took her hand. "Come—the gossipmongers will have enough to talk about as it is."
They walked swiftly through the orange grove; a moment later, the latch clicked and all was still. The moon continued to lay its gentle beams in wide swaths across the flagged floor.
A shadow broke the pattern.
The outline of a man was thrown across the grove, distorted to menacing proportions. Then the figure slipped away, around the corner of the orangery, and the shadow was no more.
Moonlight bathed the scene in soft white light, illuminating the orange trees, the wickerwork basket, and the daybed with its rumpled cushions.
Chapter 15
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"Thank you, Emmy." Standing, arms folded, before her sitting-room window, Honoria watched the tweeny tidy her luncheon tray. "Has His Grace returned to the house?"
"I don't believe so, miss." Emmy straightened, hefting her burden. "I could ask Webster, if you like?" "No—thank you, Emmy." Honoria fabricated a smile. "It was merely an idle question."
Very idle. Turning back to the window, Honoria wondered how much more idleness she could take. They'd returned from Berkeley Square well after three o'clock; sleep, deep and dreamless, had claimed her. Devil's pleasure had obviously agreed with her; on waking, she'd determined to waste no time claiming more. Gowned in one of Celestine's most fetching creations, she'd headed downstairs.
Only to discover the breakfast room empty. Devoid of wolves. Webster informed her that His Grace had broken his fast early and departed for a long drive. After breakfasting in solitary splendor—the Dowager had, the night before, declared her intention of not rising until the afternoon—she'd retreated to her sitting room. To wait. Impatiently.
How dare he demand a declaration from her and then go for a drive? She set her teeth and heard the front door slam. The sound of raised voices reached her. Frowning, she went to the door, opened it, and recognized Webster's voice raised in exclamation.
Webster shaken from his habitual imperturbability? Honoria headed for the stairs. Surely nothing short of catastrophe—
Her breath caught; eyes widening, she picked up her skirts and ran.
Reaching the gallery, she leaned over the rail. The sight that met her eyes was the opposite of reassuring. In the hall below, footmen milled about a ragged figure, supporting, exclaiming. It was Sligo, pale, shaken, one arm in a makeshift sling, cuts and abrasions all over his face.
Her heart in her mouth, Honoria started down the stairs—and heard Devil's voice, deep, strong, a forcefully coherent rumble. Relief hit her so strongly she had to lean on the balustrade to let the giddiness pass. Drawing a steadying breath, she continued down.
Devil strode out of the library; Honoria clutched the banister again. His coat was ripped in countless places, in jagged little tears. His buckskin breeches, usually immaculate, were scraped and dusty, as were his boots. Disheveled black locks framed his frowning face; an angry scratch ran along his jaw. "Get the sawbones in for Sligo—that shoulder needs setting."
"But what about you, m'lord?" Webster, following on his heels, raised his hands, as if tempted to seize hold of his master.
Devil swung about—and saw Honoria on the stairs. His gaze locked on hers. "There's nothing wrong with me bar a few scratches." After a moment, he glanced to his left, frowning at Webster. "Stop fussing—Cynsters are invincible, remember?" With that, he set his boot on the first stair. "Just send up some hot water—that's all I need."
"I'll bring it up directly, Your Grace." With injured dignity, Webster headed for the kitchens.
Devil climbed the stairs; Honoria waited. There were slivers of wood, some painted, caught in the tears in his coat. Her chest felt so tight it hurt. "What happened?"
Drawing abreast of her, Devil met her gaze. "The axle on my phaeton snapped."
There were small bloodstains on his shirt; he was moving briskly but without his usual fluid grace. He kept climbing; Honoria turned and followed. "Where?"
"Hampstead Heath." Without waiting for her next question, he added: "I needed some air, so I went out there and let the horses have their heads. We were flying when the axle went."
Honoria felt the blood drain from her face. "Went?"
Devil shrugged. "Snapped—there was an almighty crack. We might have hit something, but I don't think we did."
Reaching the top of the stairs, he turned and strode down the corridor; picturing the scene, and not liking what she saw, Honoria hurried in his wake. "Your horses—the bays?"
"No." Devil threw her a glance. "I had a pair of young blacks put to—to try out their paces." His features contorted. "I shot one immediately, but I only carry one pistol. Luckily, Sherringham came along—I borrowed his pistol, then he drove us back here."
"But—" Honoria frowned. "What actually happened?"
A decidedly testy glance found her. "The axle snapped under the box seat—essentially, the phaeton came apart. By hell's own luck, both Sligo and I were thrown free. I bounce better than he does."
"The carriage?" "Is kindling."
They'd reached the end of the long corridor; opening the heavy oak door at its end, Devil strode on. He stopped in the middle of the room, in the center of a richly hued carpet. Lifting one shoulder, he started to ease off his coat—and caught his breath on an indrawn hiss.
"Here." Behind him, Honoria reached over his shoulders and gently tugged, freeing first one shoulder, then the other, then easing the sleeves off. "Great heavens!" Dropping the ruined coat, she stared.
His shirt was badly torn, the fine linen shredded down the side of his back that had taken the brunt of his fall. The abrasions had bled, as had numerous little cuts. Thankfully, his breeches and boots had provided sterner protection; there were no rips below his waist.
Before she could react, Devil pulled the shirt free of his breeches and hauled it over his head. And froze. Then his head snapped around. "What the devil are you doing here?"
It took a moment to shift her gaze from his bleeding back to his face. The look in his eyes didn't, immediately, make sense, then she looked past him—to the massive, fully canopied four-poster bed that dominated the room. In one swift glance, she took in the sumptuous hangings, all in shades of green, the ornately carved headboard and barley-sugar posts, the silk sheets and thick featherbed and the abundance of soft pillows piled high. Her expression mild, she looked back at him. "Your cuts are bleeding—they need salving."
Devil swore beneath his breath. "You shouldn't be in here." He wrestled with his shirt, trying to free his arms.
"Don't be ridiculous." Honoria caught his hands, now thoroughly tangled; deftly, she unlaced his cuffs. "The circumstances excuse the impropriety."
Devil stripped the shirt from his wrists and flung it aside. "I am not on my deathbed." "You are, however, badly scraped." Honoria met his gaze calmly. "You can't see it."
Devil narrowed his eyes at her—then twisted, trying to look over his shoulder. "It doesn't feel that bad—I can take care of it myself."
"For goodness sake!" Honoria planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. "Stop acting like a six-year-old—I'm only going to bathe the cuts and apply some salve."
Devil's head whipped back. "That's just the point—I'm not a six-year-old—and I'm not dead, either."
"Naturally." Honoria nodded. "You're a Cynster—you're invincible, remember?"
Devil gritted his teeth. "Honoria, if you want to play ministering angel, you can damn well marry me first."
Honoria lost her temper—she'd been waiting to make the declaration he wanted and he turned up like this! Stepping forward, she planted her index finger in the center of his bare chest. "If," she declared, emphasizing the word with a definite jab. "I do decide to marry you." She tried another jab; when he instinctively stepped back, she closed the distance. "I would want to be assured." Another jab, another step. "That you will behave reasonably." Her finger was starting to ache. "In—all— situations!" Three quick jabs, three quick steps; Devil's legs hit the end of his bed. Honoria pounced. "Like now!" Glaring defiantly up at him, she prodded him one last time. "Sit!"
The face she looked into was uncompromisingly set; his eyes, shadowed green, smoldered darkly. They stood, gazes locked, toe-to-toe, will against will—abruptly, Devil's gaze shifted to the door.
Honoria grabbed the moment. Placing both palms on the heavy muscles of his chest, she pushed. Hard. With a muffled expletive, Devil toppled—and sat.
"Your water, Your Grace." Webster elbowed open the door, which had swung half-shut behind them. Turning, Honoria held out her hands. "I'll need some salve, Webster."
"Indeed, miss." Without a blink, Webster relinquished the bowl into her care. "I'll fetch some immediately."
The instant he'd gone, Honoria turned—straight into a furious glower. "This is not a good idea."
She raised a brow, then bent and placed the bowl on the floor. "Stop complaining—you'll survive."
Devil watched her gown draw tight over her bottom—abruptly, he shook his head. "Maybe—but will I be sane?"
Wringing out a cloth, Honoria cast him a measuring glance. Rising, she folded the cloth, then stepped up
beside him, her legs almost touching his thigh. Placing one hand on his shoulder, she drew it forward, bringing a deep cut into view. Under her fingers, his skin was warm, resilient, very much alive. "Think of something else." Carefully, she started to bathe the cut.
Closing his eyes, Devil drew a deep breath. Think of something else. Just as well he was sitting, or she'd know for a fact just what his "else" was. His cuts and scrapes barely rated on his scale of afflictions; his major hurt was throbbing steadily, and was only going to get worse. She was so close, leaning over, reaching around his shoulder; her perfume surrounded him, wreathing his senses, leaving him giddy with need.
Small hands touched gently, hesitantly; she started when his muscles shifted, flickering beneath her fingers. Clenching his fists, Devil anchored them to his knees; when Webster returned, salve-pot in hand, he all but sighed with relief. "How's Sligo?"
It was an effort, but he managed to keep his butler talking until, with every last scratch bathed and salved, Honoria finally stepped back.
"There." Wiping her hands on the towel Webster held for her, she slanted him a questioning glance.
Devil returned it with a blank stare. He waited while Webster gathered ruined clothes, towels, salve, and basin, then swept magisterially out. Honoria turned to watch him go—silently, Devil rose and moved up behind her. He'd lost the battle with his demons five minutes before.
"Now!" Honoria turned—straight into Devil's arms. "What—?" Her words died as she looked into his eyes. A feeling of being about to be devoured washed over her. She felt his hand at the base of her throat. It rose, framing her jaw as his head lowered.
He waited for no permission, implied or otherwise, but took her mouth rapaciously. Honoria felt her bones melt; beneath that onslaught, resistance fled. He shifted and moved her; her legs hit the bed end. Lifting her against him, he knelt on the bed, then they were toppling together. She landed on her back—he landed on top of her. Directly on top of her.
Any thought of struggling vanished; the hunger that roared through him, the sheer muscled weight of him, tense, rigid, and ready to claim her, lit her fires instantly. Honoria wrapped her arms about his neck and feverishly kissed him back.
He pressed his hands into the down covers and slid them beneath her hips, fingers firming, then tilting her against him. More definite, more fascinating than before, she felt the rigid column of his desire ride against her. Instinctively, she writhed beneath that throbbing weight—wanting, needing. "God Almighty!"
Devil's weight left her—she was plucked rudely from the bed. Trapped in his arms in a froth of petticoats, blinking wildly, Honoria saw the door approaching; juggling her, Devil swung it wide. And deposited her on her feet in the corridor.
"What…?" Breasts swelling, Honoria whirled to face him, the rest of her question writ large in her eyes.
Devil pointed a finger at her nose. "Your declaration." He looked wild, dark hair disheveled, black brows slashing down, lips a thin, hard line. His chest rose and fell dramatically.
Honoria drew in a deep breath.
"Not now!" Devil scowled. "When you've thought it over properly."
With that, he slammed the door.
Honoria's jaw dropped; she stared at the oak panels. Abruptly snapping her mouth shut, she reached for the doorknob.
And heard the lock fall home.
In utter disbelief, she stared at the door, her mouth open once more. Then she gritted her teeth, screwed her eyes tight and, fists clenched, gave vent to a frustrated scream.
She opened her eyes—the door remained shut.
Jaw setting ominously, Honoria swung on her heel and stalked off.
*****
Devil escaped from his house and sought refuge at Manton's. It was late afternoon, a time when many of his peers still in town could be counted on to look in, to spend an hour or two culping wafers in convivial company.
Scanning those occupying the shooting stalls, his gaze alighted on one dark head. He strolled forward, waiting until his mark discharged his pistol before drawling: "You haven't quite corrected for the kick, brother mine."
Richard turned his head—and raised one brow. "You offering to teach me, big brother?"
Devil's teeth gleamed. "I gave up teaching you years ago—I was thinking more along the lines of a little friendly competition."
Richard grinned back. "A tenner each wafer?" "Why not just make it a monkey the lot?" "Done."
In perfect amity, they set to culping wafer after wafer; acquaintances strolled up, making
none-too-serious suggestions, to which the brothers replied in like vein. No one, seeing them together, could doubt their relationship. Devil was the taller by an inch or so; although Richard lacked his more developed musculature, much of the difference lay in the four years between them. Their faces, seen separately, were not obviously alike, Devil's features being leaner, harder, more austere, yet when seen side by side, the same patriarchal planes, the same arrogant nose and brow line, the same aggressive chin, were readily apparent.
Standing back to let Richard take his shot, Devil smiled to himself. Other than Vane, who was as familiar as his shadow, no one was closer to him than Richard. Their similarity went deep, much deeper than the physical. Of all the Bar Cynster, Richard was the one he could predict most easily—because Richard always reacted as he did.
The retort of Richard's pistol echoed in the stall; Devil looked up, noting the hole an inch to the left of the target's center. They were using a brace plus one of Manton's specials, wicked, long-barreled specimens. While well balanced, over the distance they were shooting, the longest permitted in the gallery, there was a definite difference between the guns; using the three in rotation meant they had to constantly readjust their aim.
The assistant waiting on them had reloaded the next pistol; Devil weighed it in his hand. Richard shifted positions; Devil swung into place and raised his arm. His shot holed the wafer between the center and Richard's shot.
"Tsk, tsk! Always impulsive, Sylvester—taking a fraction more time would yield a better result."
Richard, who'd been lounging against the stall wall, stiffened, then straightened, his previously relaxed expression leaching to impassivity. He nodded briefly to Charles, then turned to supervise the reloading.
In contrast, Devil's smile broadened wickedly. "As you know, Charles, wasting time's not my style." Charles's pale lashes flickered; a frown showed fleetingly in his eyes.
Devil noted it; unfailingly urbane, he picked up a freshly loaded pistol. "Care to show us how?" Swinging the gun about, he laid the barrel across his sleeve and presented the butt to Charles.
Charles reached for it—his hand stopped in midair. Then his jaw firmed; wrapping his fingers about the polished butt, he hefted the pistol. Stepping past Devil, Charles took up his stance. He flexed his shoulders once, then lifted his arm. He sighted, taking, as he'd said, only a moment longer than Devil, before firing.
The wafer's center disappeared.
With a sincere "Bravo," Devil clapped Charles on the shoulder. "You're one of the few who can do that intentionally." Charles looked up; Devil grinned. "Care to join us?"
Charles did; despite his initial stiffness, even Richard studied his eldest cousin's style. Shooting was one of the few gentlemanly pursuits Charles shared with the members of the Bar Cynster; pistol shooting was an activity at which he excelled. Charles accepted Devil's easy compliments as his due, but after twenty minutes recalled another engagement and took his leave.
Watching Charles's retreating back, Richard shook his head. "If he wasn't such a prig, he might be bearable."
Devil studied the score sheets. "What's the tally?"
"I lost count when Charles appeared." Richard glanced at the sheets, then grimaced. "You probably won—you usually do."
"Let's declare it a draw." Devil laid the pistols aside. "For me, it served its purpose." "Which was?" Brows rising, Richard followed Devil from the stall.
"Distraction." With a nod for Manton, who smiled and bowed in return, Devil led the way from the gallery.
Richard ambled in his wake, coming up with him on the pavement. Glancing into Devil's frowning face, Richard raised his brows higher. "Well, you're certainly that."
Devil blinked and focused. "What?" "Distracted."
Devil grimaced. "It's just that… I've forgotten something—something about Tolly's murder."
Instantly, Richard sobered. "Something important?"
"I've an ominous feeling it might be crucial, but every time I try to catch hold of it, it slips back into the mist."
"Stop trying so hard." Richard clapped him on the shoulder. "Go talk to Honoria Prudence—distract yourself some more." He grinned. "Your vital clue will probably come to mind in the most unlikely situation."
Stifling the impulse to inform his brother that it was Honoria Prudence he needed distracting from, Devil nodded. They parted, Richard heading for his lodgings, Devil striding along the pavements toward Grosvenor Square. In his present condition, the walk wouldn't hurt.
The wind had risen by the time Devil reached his front door in the small hours of the morning. After leaving Richard, he'd returned home only to dress for the evening. Like most of his recent evenings, the past night had been devoted to what, borrowing Honoria's description, he now mentally dubbed "Lucifer's discreditable rumor." It was not something he or his cousins could investigate directly—their views were too widely known. No one would talk openly in their presence for fear of repercussions. Which meant he'd had to find a pawn to do their investigating for them—he'd finally settled on one Viscount Bromley. His lordship was bored, dissipated, a hardened gamester, always on the lookout for distraction.
A renowned cardplayer himself, Devil had found no difficulty in dangling the right lure before his lordship's nose. As of tonight, the viscount was well on the way to losing his shirt. After which, his lordship was going to prove exceedingly helpful. And after that, he'd probably never play piquet again.
Grinning grimly, Devil paused, latchkey in hand; eyes narrowing, he scanned the night sky. It was dark, but not so dark he couldn't see the thunderheads rolling in, lowering blackly over the housetops.
He quickly let himself in. He hoped Webster had remembered his instructions. The storm broke with an almighty crash.
It flung Honoria straight into hell. Only this time, it was a different hell, with a different scene of carnage.
From above, she looked down on the wreck of a carriage, all splintered wood and crushed leather seats. The horses, tangled and torn, were screaming. Beside the carriage lay the figure of a man, sprawled, long limbs flung in impossible angles. Black locks covered his eyes; his face was pale as death.
He lay unmoving, with the absolute stillness of one gone from this world.
The black misery that welled from Honoria's heart was stronger than ever before. It caught her, effortlessly whirled her, then dragged her down into a vortex of desolation, the vale of unending tears.
He was gone—and she couldn't breathe, couldn't find voice to protest, could find no strength to call him back. With a choking sob, hands outstretched, beseeching the gods, she stepped forward.
Her fingers met solid flesh. Warm flesh. "Hush."
The nightmare shattered; despair howled, then slid away, slinking back into the darkness, relinquishing its hold. Honoria woke.
She was not in her bed but standing before the window, her feet cold on the boards. Outside, the wind shrieked; she flinched as rain stung the pane. Her cheeks were wet with tears she couldn't recall shedding; her fine lawn nightgown was no match for the room's chill. She shivered.
Warm arms surrounded her, steadied her. Wonderingly, she looked up—for one instant, she wasn't sure which was reality and which the dream—then the heat reaching through his fine shut registered. With a sob, she flung herself against him.
"It's all right." Devil closed his arms about her; with one hand, he stroked her hair. She was quivering; her fists, tight balls, clutched his shirt. Slipping his hand beneath the heavy fall of her hair, he stroked her nape, leaning his cheek against the top of her head. "It's all right."
She shook her head furiously. "It's not all right." Her voice was choked, muffled in his chest. Devil felt her tears, hot against his skin. Gripping his shirt, she tried, ineffectually, to shake him. "You were killed!
Dead."
Devil blinked. He'd assumed her nightmare concerned her parents' and siblings' deaths. "I'm not dead." He knew that for certain; she was wearing nothing bar a single layer of fine lawn, a fact his rakish senses had immediately noted. Luckily, he'd come prepared. Reaching out, he snagged the blanket he'd left on the window seat. "Come—sit by the fire." She was tense, cold and shivering; she wouldn't sleep until she was relaxed and warm.
"There's no fire—one of the footmen put it out. There's something wrong with the chimney." Honoria imparted the information without lifting her head. She had no idea what was going on; her heart was thumping wildly, sheer panic walked her nerves.
Devil turned her to the door. "In the sitting room."
He tried to set her from him; when she wouldn't let go, he heaved a sigh and draped the blanket about her back and shoulders, tucking it about her as best he could.
Honoria accepted his ministrations meekly—just as long as she didn't have to let go.
She felt him hesitate; he muttered something incomprehensible, then stooped and swung her into his arms. The movement broke her hold; she clutched two fresh handfuls of his shirt and pressed her cheek to his chest, relieved beyond measure when his arms tightened about her. The turbulence inside her was frightening.
As if she was a child, he carried her into the sitting room and sat in a large armchair facing the blazing fire. He settled her in his lap; she immediately curled close, pressing tightly into his hard body. Both chair and fire had changed since she'd retired, a fact she noted, but that was the most minor aspect of the confusion clouding her mind.
Her heart was still racing, high in her throat; her lips were dry. There was a metallic taste in her mouth; her skin felt coldly clammy. Her mind was awhirl, thoughts and fears, present and past, jostling for prominence, demanding responses. Reality and fearful fancy merged, then separated, then merged again, partners in a giddy dance.
She couldn't think, couldn't talk—she didn't even know what she felt.
Devil asked no questions but simply held her, stroking her hair, her back, his large palms moving slowly, hypnotically, yet without any sensual intent. His touch was pure comfort.
Honoria closed her eyes and leaned into his strength; a shuddering sigh escaped her, some of her tension
drained. For countless minutes, she lay in his arms, listening to his heart, steady and sure, beating beneath her cheek. Like a rock, his strength anchored her; under its influence, the kaleidoscope of her emotions slowed, then settled—suddenly, everything was clear.
"Your phaeton." Twisting, she looked up at him. "It wasn't an accident—you were meant to die."
The flames lit his face; she could see his frown clearly. "Honoria, it was an accident. I told you—the axle broke."
"Why did it break? Do axles usually break—especially in carriages from the sort of carriagemaker you patronize?"
His lips firmed. "We might have hit something." "You said you hadn't."
She felt his sigh. "Honoria, it was an accident—the rest is all nightmare. The fact is, I'm alive."
"But you're not supposed to be!" She struggled to sit up but his arms firmed, holding her still. "I don't have nightmares about deaths that didn't happen. You were meant to be killed. The only reason you're alive is…" Lost for words, she gestured.
"I'm a Cynster," he supplied. "I'm invincible, remember?"
He wasn't—he was a flesh-and-blood man, no one knew that better than she. Honoria set her lips mutinously. "If someone tampered with the axle, wouldn't it show?"
Devil looked into her eyes, unnaturally bright, and wondered if sleepwalkers got fevers. "The whole carriage, axle and all, was reduced to splinters." What could he, what should he, say to ease her mind? "Why would anyone want to kill me?"
He realized, instantly, that that wasn't a wise choice. Fighting his hold, Honoria squirmed and sat straighten "Of course!" Eyes wide, she stared at him. "Tolly—Tolly was coming to warn you. Whoever's trying to kill you had to kill him before he did."
Briefly, Devil closed his eyes—in pain. Opening them, he lifted her and resettled her, clamping his arms about her. Then he met her gaze. "You are weaving this from whole cloth—and from the remnants of your nightmare. If you like, we can discuss this in the morning, when you can examine the facts in the cold light of day."
Even in her present state, he could sense the rebellion within her. Her chin firmed, then tilted. Turning her head, she settled back against his chest. "As you wish."
Too wise to take exception to her tone, he waited, patiently, for some of her haughty tension to leave her, then tightened his arms again.
Staring into the leaping flames, Honoria reexamined her newfound certainty and could not fault it. She knew what she knew, even if he refused to see it. He was a Cynster male—he believed he was invincible. She'd no intention of arguing the point, any more than she intended to change her perspective. Her "facts" might not appear all that substantial in daylight, but she wasn't about to deny them.
Her life, her purpose, was now crystal-clear. She knew, absolutely, with complete and utter conviction, precisely what she had to do. He'd challenged her to face her deepest fear; fate was now challenging her to face a deeper truth—the truth of what she felt for him.
She would give him what he asked, all he asked, and more; she would let nothing—no one
—take him from her. She might be his, but he was hers. Nothing under heaven could change that.
Last time death had threatened those she loved, she'd been helpless, unable to save them. This time, she would not stand by; she would not let any mere mortal steal her destiny from her.
Conviction, total certainty, infused her. Her earlier confusion had passed; she felt calm, in control. Focused. Aware. She frowned. "Why are you here?"
He hesitated, then answered: "You always sleepwalk during storms." "Always?" Then she remembered the night Tolly died. "In the cottage?"
She felt Devil nod. Safe in his arms, she considered, then snook tier head. "That can't be right. It's been eight years since the accident. I haven't woken anywhere other than in my bed and I've slept in so many different houses, through so many different storms." It had only been when violent death had hovered close—at the cottage, and now, in the aftermath of his accident. Honoria mentally nodded, her conclusion confirmed. If death's presence was what evoked her nightmare, then death had stalked him that morning.
Behind her, Devil shrugged. "You walked tonight—that's all that matters. I'll stay until you sleep."
Her gaze on the flames, Honoria raised her brows. And considered that in some detail. Increasingly salacious detail. Then she grimaced. His muscles were locked, not tensed with passion but holding it at bay.
Turning her head, she looked up, into his face, all hard angles and austere planes. Raising a hand, she traced one lean cheek; at her touch, he froze. "I don't suppose you'd consider taking me to bed?"
His jaw locked; flames danced in his eyes. "No." "Why not?"
Devil met her gaze; when he spoke, his tone was flat. "You're upset—distraught. And you haven't made your decision yet."
Honoria sat up and twisted to face him. "I'm not upset now. And I have made up my mind."
Devil winced. Teeth gritted, he lifted her and set her bottom back on his thigh. "I'm not taking you to bed—to wife—purely because you're afraid of lightning!"
Honoria narrowed her eyes at him—his expression was not encouraging. "This is ridiculous." She felt soft, warm and empty inside.
"Forget it." Devil ground the words out. "Just—sit—still."
Honoria stared at him, then uttered a strangled, disgusted sound and slumped back against his chest. "Go to sleep."
She bit her tongue. In the orangery, she'd surprised him; after the accident, her tending him had simply been too much. He wouldn't again make the mistake of letting her touch him—without that, she stood no chance of getting his body to change his mind.
The warmth surrounding her had unlocked her muscles. Safe, certain—determined to
prevail—she slid into untroubled slumber.
She woke the next morning neatly tucked in her bed. Blinking her eyes wide, she was almost at the point of dismissing her memories of the night as dreams when her gaze alighted on the odd blanket draped across the bed's corner. She narrowed her eyes at the inoffensive plaid; her recollections became much clearer.
With a disgusted humph, she sat up and threw back the covers. It was clearly time she had a long talk with his Obstinate Grace of St. Ives.
Gowned appropriately, she swept into the breakfast parlor primed to declare herself won—only to discover he'd left the house early, ostensibly on business. He was not expected to return until shortly before dinner, after which he would escort her to the Theater Royal.
She amended her plans—he invited some country neighbors passing through town to join them in their box. The Draycotts were charming, and utterly unshakable. At Devil's invitation, Lord Draycott accompanied them back to Grosvenor Square, the better to discuss repairs to the Five-Mile fence.
There was no storm that night.
The next morning, Honoria rose early, determined to catch her worm. He didn't even appear, taking breakfast in his library, in the protective presence of his steward.
By evening, she'd reached the end of her tether. Why he was avoiding her she had no idea, but his actions left her no choice. There was one approach guaranteed to gain his complete and undivided attention—as far as she was concerned, there was no reason she couldn't employ it.
Chapter 16 Contents - Prev | Next Donnnnnnng.
Devil spared not a glance for the long-case clock as he passed it on the stairs. Crossing the gallery, he lifted his candle in insouciant salute to his father's portrait, then strode on, into the long corridor that led to his rooms.
His sire, he was sure, would applaud his night's work.
In his pocket lay three notes inscribed with Viscount Bromley's square script. Bromley was already deep in debt, although by how much he was probably unaware. Of course, the last hand had seen the luck change. Devil smiled. He'd have Bromley tied tight in less than a week.
Despite his success, as he drew nearer his door, he tensed; the frustration he continually held at bay exerted its power. An ache settled in his gut; muscle after muscle turned heavy, as if he was fighting himself. Grimacing, he reached for the doorknob. As long as he limited his time with Honoria to public, social venues, he could cope.
He'd told her the truth—he was more than capable of manipulating, coercing, or seducing her into marriage. Indeed, his very nature compelled him to do so, which was why he felt like a wild beast caged. He was a born conqueror—taking what he wanted came naturally. Subtleties, sensitivities, were usually of little consequence.
His expression hardening, he entered his room. Shutting the door, he crossed to the tallboy; setting the candlestick by the mirror on its top, he untied his armband, unbuttoned his waistcoat, then eased the diamond pin from his cravat.
Reaching out to lay the pin in its box, his gaze slid past his reflection—white glimmered in the shadows behind him.
His head snapped around. Then, his tread utterly silent, he crossed to the chair by the fire.
Even before he touched the silk, he knew to whom it belonged. The fire, a mere glow of coals, was still warm enough to send her scent rising, wafting upward to ensorcel him. He only just stopped himself from lifting the soft silk to his face, from inhaling the beguiling fragrance. Stifling a curse, he dropped the peignoir as if it was as hot as the fire's coals. Slowly, he turned to the bed.
He couldn't believe his eyes. Even from this distance, he could see her hair, a rippling chesnut wave breaking across his pillows. She lay on her side, facing the center of the bed. The sight drew him like a lodestone. He was beside the bed, looking down on her, before he knew he'd moved.
No woman had ever slept in his bed—at least not during his tenure. His father had been of the stated opinion that a duke's bed was reserved for his duchess; he had agreed—no other woman had lain between his silken sheets. To return late at night to discover those sheets warmed by the one woman he wanted to find asleep there, breathing gently, soft, sleek limbs sunk deep into the down, left him reeling.
He couldn't think.
The realization left him shaking, battling a too-powerful urge to put aside all explanations and react—act—do what he wished with all his conqueror's soul to do.
But he needed to think—to be sure, certain, that he wasn't being led by the nose—no, not his nose, but another protuberant part of his anatomy—into committing a deed he would later regret. He'd taken his stance, one he knew was right. Demanding her knowing commitment, heart, mind, and soul, might not be a customary requirement, yet for him, with her, it simply had to be.
His gaze roamed her face, softly flushed, then slid lower, filling in what the sheet concealed. Swallowing a savage curse, he swung away. He fell to pacing, his footfalls cushioned by the carpet. Why the hell was she here?
He cast a glittering glance her way—it fell on her lips, slightly parted. He heard again the urgent, intensely feminine moans she'd uttered in the orangery while writhing beneath his hands. With a muted oath, he paced to the other side of the bed. From there, the view was less torturing.
Three minutes later, he still couldn't marshal a single un-lustful thought. Muttering one last, disgusted expletive, he swung back to the bed. Sitting on it was too dangerous, given her hands and her propensity to get them on him. Standing beside the carved post at one end, he reached across and, through the covers, grasped her ankle. He shook it.
She muttered and tried to wriggle free. Devil closed his hand, locked his fingers about her slim bones and shook her again.
She opened her eyes—blinking sleepily. "You're back."
"As you see." Releasing her, Devil straightened. Folding his arms, he leaned against the bedpost. "Would you care to explain why, of all the beds in this house, you chose mine to fall asleep in?"
Honoria raised a brow. "I would have thought that was obvious—I was waiting for you." Devil hesitated; his faculties remained fogged by seething lust. "To what purpose?"
"I have a few questions."
His jaw firmed. "One o'clock in the morning, in my bed, is neither a suitable nor wise choice of time and venue to ask questions."
"On the contrary"—Honoria started to sit up—"it's the perfect place."
Devil watched the covers fall, revealing her shoulders, clearly visible through translucent silk, revealing the ripe swell of her breasts—"Stop!" His jaw clenched hard. "Honoria, just—sit—still."
Tartly, she hauled the covers up as she sat, then folded her arms beneath her breasts. She frowned at him. "Why have you been avoiding me?"
Devil returned the frown. "I would have thought that was obvious. You've a decision to make—I cannot conceive that private meetings between us, at present, would help. They certainly wouldn't help me." He'd intended giving her time—a week at least. The three days so far had been hell.
Honoria held his gaze. "About that decision—you've told me it's important to you—you haven't told me why."
For a long moment, he didn't move, didn't speak, then his folded arms lifted as he drew a deep breath. "I'm a Cynster—I've been raised to acquire, defend, and protect. My family is the core of my existence—without a family, without children, I'd have nothing to protect or defend, no reason to acquire. Given your past, I want to hear your decision declared. You're an
Anstruther-Wetherby—given all I know of you, if you make a declaration, you'll stick by it. Whatever the challenge, you won't back down."
Honoria held his gaze steadily. "Given what you know of me, are you sure I'm the right wife for you?" The answer came back, deep and sure. "You're mine."
Between them, the atmosphere rippled; ignoring the breathlessness only he could evoke, Honoria raised her brows. "Would you agree that, at present, I'm free of your seductive influence? Free of coercion or manipulation?"
He was watching her closely; he hesitated, then nodded.
"In that case—" She flung back the covers and scrambled across the bed. Devil straightened—before he could move away, Honoria grabbed the front of his shirt, and hauled herself up on her knees. "I have a declaration to make!"
Locking her eyes on his, locking both hands in his shirt, she drew a deep breath. "I want to marry you. I want to be your wife, your duchess, to face the world at your side. I want to bear your children." She invested the last with all the conviction in her soul.
He'd stilled. She tugged and he moved closer, until his legs hit the bed. He stood directly before her as she knelt, knees wide, on the bed's edge.
"Most importantly of all." She paused to draw another breath; her eyes on his, she spread her hands across his chest. "I want you. Now." In case he hadn't yet got her message, she added: "Tonight."
Devil felt desire soar, triumphant, compelling. Excruciatingly aware of her hands sliding as his chest swelled, he forced himself to ask: "Are you sure?" Exasperation flared in her eyes; he shook his head. "I mean about tonight." Of the rest, he had not a doubt.
Her exasperation didn't die. "Yes!" she said—and kissed him.
He managed not to wrap his arms about her and crush her, managed to cling grimly to his reins as she wound her arms about his neck, pressed herself to him in utter abandon and flagrantly incited his possession. He locked his hands about her waist, steadying her—then responded to her invitation. She opened to him instantly, her mouth softening, a sweet cavern to fill, to explore, to claim.
She took him in and held him, took his breath, then gave it back. Devil set his hands skimming, fingers finning, thumbs pressing inward at the tops of her thighs. Her nightgown was a mere cobweb of gossamer silk; he let his hands fall, tracing her sleek thighs before closing one hand above each knee. Slowly, he slid his fingers upward, feeling the silk slide over satiny skin, his thumbs drawing lazy circles along her inner thighs. Higher and higher, inch by inch, he raised his hands—the long muscles of her thighs tensed, then locked, then quivered.
He stopped with his thumbs just below her soft curls. Drawing back from their kiss, he watched her—and waited for her lids to rise. When they did, he trapped her gaze with his—and drew two more circles. She shivered.
"Once I take you, there'll be no turning back." Determination flared, steely blue in her eyes. "Hallelujah."
Their lips met again; Devil loosened his reins. Desire, hot and urgent, rose between them; passion rode in its wake.
Honoria sensed the change in him, felt his muscles harden, felt his hands, still gripping her thighs, tighten. An expectant quiver ran through her tensed muscles. He released them. One hand slid around to spread across her bottom; her skin turned feverish at his touch. He caressed her in slow, sensuous circles—her senses followed, distracted by the silk shifting between hand and naked skin.
Then his hand finned, cupping her bottom—in the same instant, she felt his other hand slide between her parted thighs.
His head angled over hers; his kiss became more demanding. He stroked her through the gossamer silk, stroked and caressed and teased until the silk clung, a second skin, muting his touch, tantalizing her senses. Honoria tensed, fingertips sinking into the muscles of his back. She felt his hand shift; one long finger slid into her, probing gently, then more deliberately.
Suddenly, she couldn't breathe. She pulled back with a gasp—he let her go, his hands leaving her. Grasping her waist, he toppled her back on the bed.
"Wait."
Devil crossed to the door to his dressing room, opened it, confirmed Sligo had not waited up, then locked it. Striding back across the room, he shrugged out of his coat and threw it on the chair. Flicking the intricate folds of his cravat undone, he tugged the yard-long strip from his neck, then stripped off his waistcoat and sent it to join his coat, before unlacing his cuffs and pulling off his shirt. The flame from the candle on the tallboy gilded the muscles of his back, then he turned and picked up the candlestick.
Sprawled, breathless, across his bed, Honoria watched as he set flame to the two five-armed candelabra
upon the mantelpiece. Concentrating on each graceful movement, on the play of the flames over his sculpted frame, she held back her thoughts, too scandalous for words. Anticipation had soared; excitement shivered over her skin. Her lungs had seized; a delicious panic had tightened every nerve.
Leaving the single candle on the mantelpiece, Devil carried one candelabra to the side of the bed, tugging the bedside table forward so that the candles' light fell across the covers. Blinking, aware that in the light she'd appear next to naked, Honoria watched as he placed the second candelabra similiarly on the bed's opposite side. She frowned. "Isn't it usually night? I mean dark?"
Devil met her gaze. "You've forgotten something."
Honoria couldn't think what and wasn't sure she cared; her gaze roamed his chest as he walked toward the bed, bathed in golden light. He stopped by her feet, then turned and sat. While he pulled off his boots, she distracted herself with his back. His cuts and scrapes had healed; she reached out a hand and traced one. His skin flickered at her touch; he muttered something beneath his breath. Honoria grinned and spread her fingers—he stood, casting one black glance back at her before stripping off his trousers. He sat to pull them free of his feet; Honoria stared at the long, broad muscles framing his spine, tailing into twin hollows below his waist. He reached, and muscles shifted; the view was almost as good as his chest.
Free of his last restriction, Devil half turned and fell back on the bed. He knew what would happen—Honoria didn't. With a valiantly smothered shriek, she rolled into him, into his arms, unable to gain any purchase on the slippery sheets. He lifted her over him, her legs tangling with his, her hair fanning over his naked chest.
He expected her to be shocked, expected her to hesitate—this had to be the first time she'd touched a naked male. The shock was certainly there—he saw it in her stunned expression; hesitation followed—it lasted a split second.
In the next, their lips met—there was no longer any distinction between him kissing her and her kissing him. He felt her hands on his chest, greedily exploring; he ravaged her mouth—and felt her fingers sink deep. He spread his hands over the firm mounds of her derriere and held her against him, easing the throbbing ache of his erection against her soft belly. She writhed, heated and eager, thin silk no barrier to his senses.
Some women were catlike, elusively seductive—she was far too bold to be a cat. She was demanding, aggressive, intent on, not just fraying his reins, but shredding them. Deliberately invoking his desire, his demons—all the possessiveness in his soul. Which, given she was a virgin, qualified as abject madness.
Breathing raggedly, he pulled back from their kiss. "For God's sake, slow down!"
Engrossed in caressing one flat nipple, Honoria didn't look up. "I'm twenty-four—I've wasted enough time."
She wriggled; Devil gritted his teeth. "You're twenty-four—you should know better. You should at least have some measure of self-preservation." Intent on impaling herself on her fate, she seemed to have no concept of how much he could hurt her, of how much his strength overshadowed hers, of how much harder than her he was.
She was intent on learning—her hands reached lower, exploring the ridges of his lower chest. Devil felt desire rise, full-blown, ravenous—too strong for her to handle. Releasing her buttocks, he grasped her upper arms.
Just as she grasped him.
The shock that lanced through him nearly shattered his control. He froze. So did Honoria.
She looked into his face—his eyes were shut, his expression graven. Carefully, she curled her fingers again, utterly fascinated by her discovery. How could something so hard, so rigid, so ridged, so blatantly, elementally male, be so silky smooth, so soft? Again, she touched the smoothly rounded head—it was akin to stroking hot steel through the finest peach silk.
Devil groaned; he reached down and closed his hand over hers—not to pull it away but to curl her fingers more tightly. Eagerly, she followed his unspoken instructions, obviously much more to her taste than slowing down.
He let her caress him until he thought his jaw would break—he had to pull her hand away. She fought him, squirming all over him, soft, hot, silk-encased flesh writhing over his by-now-painful erection.
With an oath, he caught her hands, one in each of his, and rolled, trapping her beneath him. He anchored her hands to the bed and kissed her, deeply and yet more deeply, letting his weight sink fully onto her—until she had no breath left to fight him, no strength to defy him.
They both stilled; in that instant, she was open to him, heated, her thighs spread, soft and welcoming, her hips a cradle in which he already lay. All he needed to do was reach down and rip the thin silk from between them, then sink his throbbing staff into her softness and claim her.
Simple.
Gritting his teeth, Devil let go of her hands and lifted away. He moved back. Knees spread, he sat back on his ankles in the middle of the bed. Locking his eyes on hers, he beckoned with both hands. "Come here."
Her eyes widened; they searched his, then fell—jaw locked, he suffered her scrutiny, saw the age-old question form in her eyes.
Giddy, not only from breathlessness, Honoria slowly blinked, then raised her eyes to his face. He looked like some god, seated in the candlelight, his maleness so flagrantly displayed. The soft light gilded the muscles of his arms, his chest—and the rest of him. She drew in a deep breath; her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Slowly, she rose on one elbow, then freed her legs from the folds of her nightgown and came up on her knees, facing him.
He took her hands in his and drew her closer, then closed his hands about her waist and lifted her. As he set her down astride his thighs, Honoria frowned into his eyes. "If you tell me we have to wait, I'll scream."
The planes of his face looked harder than granite. "You'll scream anyway." She frowned harder—and saw his lips twitch.
"With pleasure."
The idea was new to her—she was still puzzling as Devil drew her closer. High on her knees as she was, her hips grazed his lower chest.
"Kiss me."
He didn't need to ask twice; willingly, she twined her arms about his neck and set her lips to his.
One hand at her back holding her upright, Devil deepened the kiss, skimming his other hand upward, over her taut abdomen, before closing it about her breast. The already heated flesh swelled and firmed; he kneaded and heard her moan. He drew back from the kiss; she let her head fall back, the exposed curve of her throat an offering he didn't refuse. He trailed hot kisses down the pulsing vein; she inched closer, pressing her breast to his palm.
Bending her back, he lowered his head. She stilled, her breathing harried. One long lick dampened the silk covering one nipple. She gasped as his lips touched the niched peak—he suckled lightly and felt her melt.
He couldn't even remember the last time he'd bedded a virgin—even then, whoever she was, she hadn't been a gently reared, twenty-four-year-old capable of unexpected enthusiasms. He harbored no illusions over how difficult the next half hour would be; for the first time in his lengthy career, he prayed he'd be strong enough to manage—her, and the passion she unleashed in him. Head bent, he tortured one tightly budded nipple, then turned his attention to its mate.
Sinking her fingers into his upper arms, Honoria gasped and swayed. With her bones transmuted to warm honey, her weak grip, his hand at her back and the tantalizing tug of his lips were all that was keeping her upright. Hot and wet, his lips, his mouth, moved over her breasts, teasing first one aching peak, then the other until both were swollen tight. She ached to touch him, to send her hands searching, but didn't dare let go. His lips left her; a second later, his teeth grazed one crinkled nipple.
Sharp sensation lanced through her; she gave a muted cry. His lips returned, soothing her flesh, then he suckled hard—and within her heat rose. Wave upon wave, it answered his call, a primal urge building, swelling, surging ever stronger. With a long-drawn moan, she swayed forward, into his kiss.
It caught her, anchored her, as his hands roved her body, heated palms burning. Every curve she possessed, he traced; every square inch of her skin tingled, then ached for more. Her back, her sides, the curve of her stomach, the long muscles of her thighs, her arms, her bottom—none escaped his attention; her skin was flushed, dewed, when he lifted the edge of her gown.
The shiver that racked her came from deep within, a final farewell to the virgin she was but would be no more. His hands rose and he released her lips. From under weighted lids, Honoria saw the silk in his hands, already above her waist. Dragging in a huge breath that, for all her effort, was insufficient to steady her giddy head, she lifted her arms. The gown whispered from her. It screened the candles as it floated out beyond the bed; she traced its fall, feeling the air, then his hands, on her skin.
His arms closed about her.
Heat, warm skin, hard muscle surrounded her; his crisp mat of midnight black hair rasped her sensitized nipples. Hard lips found hers, demanding, commanding, ravishing her senses—no surrender requested, no quarter considered—he would take her, body and soul, and more.
For one instant, the onslaught swept her before it, then she shuddered in his arms, set her feet against desire's tide—and met his demands with her own. Passion stirred, stretched, unfolded between them; splaying her fingers, she sank the tips into his chest, and felt his muscles lock. She kissed him with a fervor to match his own, reveling in the urgency building between them, glorying in the heady rush, the growing vortex of their need.
Excitement whirled as their lips melded, each breath the other's, tongues entwined. She sank into his heat, drank it in, and felt it flood her. His hands roamed, as urgently demanding as his lips, hard palms
sculpting, fingers flexing, possessing. Still on her knees, her thighs locked on either side of his, her hips pressed to his abdomen, she felt his hands curve and cup her bottom. One remained, holding her high, the other slid lower, long fingers questing. They found her heat and slid further, pressing between her thighs, probing the hot, slick folds, caressing, then pressing deep.
And deeper, igniting her fire.
The wild rush of flames seared her; she ached and burned. His only response was to deepen their kiss, holding her captive as the flames roared on. His fingers stroked slowly, deliberately—the flames grew in intensity, to a sheet, then a wall, finally erupting into an inferno, fueled by urgent need.
The inferno pulsed to her heartbeat; the same beat rang in her veins, in her ears, a tattoo of desire driving her on.
Abruptly, Devil drew back from their kiss. His fingers left her; he cupped her bottom with both hands. "Slide down."
Honoria couldn't believe the strength of the compulsion that gripped her—she needed him inside her more than she needed to breathe. Even so… She shook her head. "You're never going to fit."
His hands firmed about her hips. "Just slide."
She did, sinking lower, his hands guiding her. She felt the first touch of his staff, hot and hard, and stopped. He slipped his fingers between her thighs and opened her; she felt the first intimate intrusion of his body into hers. Catching her breath on a strangled gasp, she sank lower, and felt the rounded head slip inside.
He felt large, much larger than she'd expected. She sucked in a breath; under the weight of his hands, she sank still lower. Hard as forged iron, hot as unquenched steel, he pressed into her. She shook her head again. "This is not going to work."
"It will." She felt his words within her; he was, if anything, even tenser than she, rock-hard muscles flickering. "You'll stretch to take me—women's bodies are built that way."
He was the expert. Through the maelstrom of emotions besetting her—uncertainty, desire, and giddy need, laced with distant remnants of modesty, all subsumed beneath the most desperate longing she'd ever known—Honoria clung to that fact. The inferno inside her swelled; she sank down.
And stopped.
Immediately, Devil lifted her, not quite losing her clinging heat. "Sink down again." She did, until her maidenhead again impeded their progress. Under his hands, she repeated the maneuver again and again.
She was hot, slick and very tight; once she was moving freely, he brushed his lips against her temple. "Kiss me."
She lifted her head immediately, swollen lips parted, eager for more. He took her mouth voraciously, struggling to harness the wild passion that drove him, battling to remain in control long enough to avoid unnecessarily hurting her. He was going to hurt her enough as it was.
On the heels of the thought came the deed. One, powerful upward thrust, timed to meet her downward slide, enforced by the pressure of his hands on her hips, and it was done. He breached her in that single movement, forging deep into her body, filling her, stretching her.
She screamed, the sound smothered by their kiss. Her body tensed; so did his.
Focusing completely on her, waiting for her softening, the first sign of acceptance that he knew would come, Devil grimly denied the primal urge to lose himself in her heat, to plunder the scalding softness that clasped him, to assuage his driving need.
Their lips had parted; they were both breathing raggedly. From under his lashes, he watched as she moistened her lips with her tongue.
"Was that the scream you were talking about?"
"No." He touched his lips to the corner of hers. "There'll be no more pain—from now on, you'll only scream with pleasure."
No more pain. Her senses awash, overloaded with sensation, Honoria could only hope. The memory of the sharp agony that had speared her was so intense she could still feel it. Yet with every breath, with every heartbeat, the heat of him, the glow suffusing her, eased the ache. She tried to shift; his hands firmed, holding her still.
"Wait."
She had to obey. Until that moment, she hadn't appreciated how completely in his control she was. The hard, throbbing reality that had invaded her, intimately filling her, impinged fully on her mind. Vulnerability swept her, rippling through her, all the way to…
Her senses focused on the place where they joined. She heard Devil groan. Blinking, she looked up; his eyes were shut, his features like stone. Under her hands, the muscles of his shoulders were taut, locked in some phantom battle. Inside her, the steady throb of him radiated heat and a sense of barely reined urgency. Her pain had gone. On the thought, the last of her tension ebbed; the last vestiges of resistance fell away. Tentatively, her gaze on his face, she eased from his hold, and rose slowly on her knees.
"Yes." The single word was heavy with encouragement.
He stopped her at the precise point beyond which their contact would break. She sensed his eagerness, the same compelling urgency that welled within her; she needed no direction to sink slowly down, enthralled by the feel of his steely hardness sliding, slick and hot, deep into her.
She did it again, and again, head falling back as she slid sensuously down, opening her senses completely, savoring every drawn-out second. Their guidance no longer required, his hands roved, reclaiming her breasts, the full curves of her bottom, the sensitive backs of her thighs. All awkwardness, all reticence, had vanished; lifting her head, Honoria draped her arms about his neck and sought his lips with hers. The glide of their bodies, uniting in a rhythm as old as the moon, felt exquisitely right. She gave him her mouth; as he claimed it, she tightened her arms, pressing herself to him, drawn to the promise contained within his powerful body, flagrantly demanding more.
He drew back from the kiss; under his lashes, she saw his eyes gleam. "Are you all right?"
His hands traced mesmerizing circles over her bottom. At the peak of her rise, Honoria held his gaze—and slowly, concentrating on the rigid hardness invading her, sank down.
She felt his rippling shudder and saw his jaw firm. His eyes flashed. Greatly daring, she licked the vein pulsing at the base of his throat. "Actually, I find this quite…" She was so far past breathless her
words shook.
"Surprising?" His voice was a rumble almost too low to be heard. Catching a desperate breath, Honoria closed her eyes. "Enthralling."
His laugh was so deep she felt it in her marrow. "Trust me." His lips traced the curve of her ear. "There's a great deal more pleasure to come."
"Ah, yes," Honoria murmured, trying desperately to cling to sanity. "I believe you claim to be a past master at this exercise." Dragging in a tight breath, she rose upon him. "Does that make me your mistress?"
"No." Devil held his breath as she sank, excruciatingly slowly, down. "That makes you my pupil." It would make her his slave, but he'd no intention of telling her that, nor that, if she applied herself diligently, the connection might just work both ways.
On her next downward slide, she pressed lower; he nudged deeper. Her breath hitched; instinctively, she tightened about him. Devil set his teeth against a groan.
Eyes wide, she looked up at him, her breathing shallow and fast. "It feels… very strange… to have you… inside me." Breasts rising and falling, brushing his chest, she moistened her lips. "I really didn't think… you'd fit."
Devil locked his jaw—along with every other muscle he possessed. After a moment of fraught silence, he managed to say: "I'll fit—eventually."
"Event…?"
Her eyes grew round—he didn't wait for more. He caught her lips in a ravishing kiss and, anchoring her hips against him, tumbled her back onto the pillows.
He'd chosen their earlier position to breach her, placing a limit on how deep he could go, helpful given the force of his instincts. But the time for limits had passed; his swift rearrangement landed her on her back among the pillows, his hips between her thighs, his staff still within her.
She tensed as his weight trapped her; instantly, he lifted his chest and shoulders from her, straightening his arms, his hands sinking into the down on either side. Their kiss broken, her eyes flew open.
He trapped her gaze in his. Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew from her, then, fluidly flexing his spine, he entered her.
Inexorably, inch by inch, he claimed her; heated and slick, her body welcomed him, stretching to take him in. He watched her eyes widen, the blue-grey transmuting to silver, then fracturing as he surged deeper. He sheathed himself in her softness, sinking into her to the hilt, nudging her womb. He came to rest embedded within her; she held him in a scorching silken vice.
Gazes locked, they both held still.
Honoria couldn't breathe, he filled her so completely; she could feel the steady beat of him at the base of her throat. Staring up at his face, she saw the hard planes shift, sharp-edged with reined passion. A conqueror looked down on her, green eyes dark, ringed with silver—the conqueror she'd given herself to. A sense of possession swamped her; her heart swelled, then soared.
He was waiting—for what? Some sign of surrender? On the thought, certainty bloomed within her; a glorious confidence filled her. She smiled—slowly, fully. Her hands had come to rest on his forearms; lifting them, she reached up and drew his face to hers. She heard him groan in the instant their lips met. He came down on his elbows, his hands flicking her hair aside, then framing her face.
He deepened their kiss and her senses went spinning; his body moved on her, within her, and pleasure bloomed.
Like waves piling on the shore, they surged together. Sensations swelled like the incoming tide, rolling ever higher. She caught the rhythm and matched him, letting her body welcome him, holding him tight for a heartbeat before reluctantly releasing him. Again and again they formed that intimate embrace; each time, each devastatingly thorough thrust pushed her higher, further, onward toward some beckoning shore she could only barely perceive. Her mind and senses merged, then soared, locked in dizzying flight. Heat and light spread through her, running down each vein, irradiating each nerve. Then heat changed to fire and light to incandescent glory.
Fed by their striving bodies, by each panting breath, by each soft moan, each guttural groan, the sunburst swelled, larger, brighter, more intense.
It exploded between them—Honoria lost herself in the primal energy, all fire and light and glorious, heart-stopping sensation. Blind, she couldn't see; deaf, she couldn't hear. All she could do was feel—feel him under her hands and know he was with her, feel the warmth that filled her and know she was his, feel the emotion that held them, forged strong in the sunburst's fire—and know nothing on earth could ever change it.
The sunburst died and they drifted back to earth, to the earthly pleasures of silk sheets and soft pillows, to sleepy murmurs and sated kisses, and the comfort of each other's arms.
Devil stirred as the last candle guttered. Even before he lifted his head, he'd assimilated the fact that there was a woman, sleeping the sleep of the sated, more or less beneath him. Before he levered his shoulders away from her and looked down, he'd recalled who that woman was.
The knowledge swelled the emotion that gripped him; his gaze roved her face, gently flushed, swollen lips slightly parted. Her bare breasts rose and fell; she was deeply asleep. Triumph roared through him; smug self-satisfaction swaggered in its wake. With a grin she would probably have taken exception to, had she been in any condition to see it, he lifted from her, careful not to wake her. He'd tried to withdraw from her earlier, before he'd succumbed, but she'd clung to him fiercely and muttered an injuction he'd had insufficient strength to disobey. Despite his weight, she'd wanted to prolong their intimacy, not an aim he could argue against with any conviction.
Their intimacy had been spectacular. Superb. Sufficiently remarkable to startle even him.
He settled on his stomach, feeling her soft weight against his side. The sensation had its inevitable effect; determinedly, he ignored it. He had time and more to explore the possibilities—the rest of his life, in fact. Anticipation had replaced frustration; from the first, he'd sensed in her an underlying awareness, a sensual propensity rare in women of her kind. Now he knew it was real, he would take care to nuture it; under his tutelage, it would blossom. Then he would have time and more to reap the rewards of his control, his care, his expertise, to slake his senses in her, with her—to make her his slave.
Turning his head on the pillow, he studied her face. Lifting his hand, he brushed a stray lock from her cheek; she snuffled, then wriggled onto her side, snuggling against him, one hand searching, coming to rest on his back.
Devil stilled; the emotion that stirred within him was not one he recognized—it stole his breath and left him curiously weak. Oddly shaken. Frowning, he tried to bring it into focus, but by then it had subsided. Not left him, but sunk deep again, into the depths where such emotions dwelled.
Shaking off the sensation, he hesitated, then, very gently, slid one arm across Honoria's waist. She sighed in her sleep, and sank more heavily against him. Lips curving gently, Devil closed his eyes.
When next he awoke, he was alone in his bed. Blinking fully awake, he stared at the empty space beside him in abject disbelief. Then he closed his eyes, dropped his head back into the pillows, and groaned.
Damn the woman—didn't she know…? Obviously not—it was a point of wifely etiquette on which he'd have to educate her. She wasn't supposed to leave their bed until he did—by which time she wouldn't be able to. That was the way things were. Would be. From now on.
This morning, however, he'd have to go for a long ride.
Chapter 17
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Success bred success. Late the next night, as he let himself into his hall, Devil reflected on that maxim. He'd successes on more than one front to celebrate; only one major item on his personal agenda remained unfulfilled—and he was making slow progress even there.
Picking up the waiting candlestick, he headed for the library, crossing directly to his desk. A folded letter sat prominently displayed. He broke the plain seal. In the flickering candlelight, he scanned the single sheet, and the enclosures, then smiled. Heathcote Montague, his man of business, had, as usual, delivered the goods.
Devil drew the two notes of hand he'd extracted from Viscount Bromley that evening from his waistcoat pocket and dropped them on the blotter; selecting a key from his watch chain, he opened the middle drawer of the desk, revealing a stack of twelve other notes of hand bearing Bromley's signature. They joined the others—and the six notes discreetly bought by Montague from other gentlemen who, having observed Bromley taking a tilt at him, had been only too glad to convert the viscount's promises to hard cash.
Flicking through the stack, Devil calculated the total, then compared it with Montague's assessment of Bromley's true worth. It wasn't difficult to gauge where the viscount now stood—in the mire, well on the way to being helplessly adrift on the River Tick. Precisely where he wanted him.
With a satisfied smile, Devil placed both letter and notes back in the desk drawer, locked it, and stood. Picking up the candlestick, he left the library and headed upstairs. To celebrate one victory he'd already won.
The house lay silent about him as he strode swiftly to his room. By the time he reached his door, anticipation had dug in its spurs; he was thoroughly aroused. Opening the door, he stepped through, shutting it behind him, his eyes immediately searching the shadows of his bed.
An instant later, his fist connected with the oak panels; he swore—violently. She wasn't there. Breathing deeply, he stood stock-still, his gaze on the undisturbed covers, struggling to free his mind of
the fog of disappointment, frustration—and a nagging discomfort centered in his chest. He needed to think. Again.
Crossing to the tallboy, he plunked the candlestick atop it; and scowled at the bed. A familiar tension took hold.
Devil swore. Closing his eyes, he uttered one, comprehensive, utterly applicable oath, then, features hardening, shrugged out of his coat. It took less than a minute to strip. Donning a robe, he glanced down at his bare feet. He hesitated, then cinched the belt of the long robe tight. Cooling his overheated blood might help. Leaving the candle wavering on his tallboy, he closed his door and strode, purposefully, down the dark corridors.
He was finished with thinking. Whatever Honoria's reasons for not being in his bed, waiting, as he'd spent the whole evening fantasizing she would be, he did not wish to know. He wasn't going to argue or even discuss it. But surely not even a well-bred, gently reared twenty-four-year-old barely ex-virgin could imagine that once was enough? That he could survive until their wedding night going on as before—not after he'd sampled her body, her passion, the challenge of her untutored wantonness?
As he marched past his ancestors, Devil cast them a narrowed-eyed look. He left the gallery, then swung left, into the corridor leading to Honoria's rooms.
And collided with a wraith in ivory satin.
She would have bounced off him but he caught her, trapping her against him. His body knew her instantly. Desire lanced painfully through him, her satin-clad curves stroking him to throbbing life as he juggled her. Her instinctive shriek never made it past a first gasp—he stopped it, sealing her lips with his.
Instantly, she relaxed, wriggling her arms free, then twining them about his neck. She pressed closer, kissing him back, flagrantly inciting. She offered her mouth—he took it rapaciously. Swaying seductively, she caressed his chest with her breasts; one arm tightening about her, Devil closed his hand about one firm mound, finding it already swollen, the peak a hard pebble against his palm.
With a gasp, she sank against him, a melting surrender so delicious it left him reeling. Her hands slid beneath his robe, searching out the muscles of his chest, fingers tangling in the crisp hair. Each touch was driven, invested with urgency, the same urgency coursing his veins.
Swallowing a guttural groan, Devil cupped her bottom and drew her hard against him. He lifted her, tilting her hips so his aching erection rode heavily against her. Suggestively, he rocked her, his tongue mimicking the rhythm; she closed her lips and held him, warm and wet, soft and slick.
The deliberate temptation, the flagrant promise in the intimate caress, set his demons raging; the gentle tug as her fingers found the tie of his robe sounded a belated alarm.
Stunned, staggered, his control in shreds, Devil couldn't summon enough strength for even an inward groan. She was going to kill him. The door to his mother's bedroom lay across the corridor.
If she'd been more experienced, he'd have been tempted to do it anyway—to set her bottom on the top of the side table by his mother's door and bury himself between her thighs. The illicit pleasure, knowing they dared not make a sound, would have wound them both tight.
But they were already tight enough—and even if she could handle the position, she would never be able to keep quiet. She'd screamed last night, more than once, an achingly sweet sound of feminine
release. He wanted to hear it again—and again. Tonight. Now. But not here. Breaking their kiss, Devil scooped her up in his arms.
"What—?"
"Sssh," he hissed. His robe had parted; if he'd waited a second longer, she'd have touched him—and God only knew what might have happened then. Striding rapidly down the corridor, he made for her rooms.
Juggling her, he threw open the door to her sitting room and strode through. He turned to shut the door; Honoria wriggled in his hold until she was stretched against him, her arms about his neck. The door locked, Devil turned back—directly into her kiss.
He set her on her feet; relinquishing all restraint, he let his hands have their way. They already knew her—knew her intimately—and wanted to know her again. The caresses he pressed on her were blatant, expressly gauged to set her need soaring. His followed; in self-preservation he fended off her hands. Their caresses—his successful, hers less so—quickly degenerated into a panting, heated game, rapidly fueling the conflagration that already had them in its grip.
With a sound of keen frustration, Honoria drew back from their kiss. "I want—"
"Not here," Devil ground out. "The bedroom." He took her mouth again; the game resumed, neither willing to break free.
In desperation, with a sound close to a scream, Honoria wrenched away from his roving hands. Her skin was alight, on fire, her body no less so. If he didn't fill her soon, she'd swoon. Grabbing one of his hands, she hauled him to her bedchamber door. Ringing it open, she dropped his hand and entered.
Halting in the pool of moonlight streaming through the window, she faced him; tugging the bow of her translucent overrobe undone, she shrugged the sheer garment from her shoulders. As it pooled at her feet, she held out her hands—Devil had closed the door, then paused. She felt his gaze, hot as the sun, slide over her body, still shielded by soft satin.
Devil kept his hand on the cool metal of the doorknob and clung to the moment like a drowning man. He tried to remind himself about control, and that he'd taken her only once, that she might still be sore, that she would certainly still need time to adjust to his invasion. The facts registered with his conscious mind, the small remnant that still functioned. The rest was centered on her, on the throbbing ache in his loins—on his desperate need to claim her.
Her nightgown was a fascinating creation—solid satin with slits to her hips. The long line of her legs had showed briefly, tantalizingly, then she'd halted, and the skirts had fallen primly straight—an illusion of virtuous womanhood.
Her fingers flickered in entreaty—slowly, he strolled forward, letting his robe fall to the ground behind him. Naked, he ignored her hands, letting her touch him as she would. With his own, he cupped her face, then, slowly, stretching each moment until they both quivered, he bent his head and set his lips to hers.
He kissed her deeply, ravenously—forcefully—he needed to stay in control. He locked his muscles as her hands slid about his waist. They halted, gripping him as she accepted his kiss, opening herself to it without restraint. Then she slid her hands over his back; she pressed herself briefly against him, then, to his surprise, pulled away. Puzzled, Devil let her go.
Her gaze shadowed, mysterious, she took his hand and led him to the canopied bed. Halting beside it, she faced him; her eyes on his, she raised her hands and opened the shoulder clasps that anchored her gown. It slithered down, revealing the full globes of her breasts, pale ivory in the moon's faint light. The gown gathered at her waist; with a wriggle, she freed it, letting it whisper to the floor.
With no hint of reticence, of coyness or shyness—with a directness that stole his breath and much more—she stepped close. She placed her hands on his ribs, then sent them gliding upward; she stretched sensuously against him, wrapping her arms about his neck, lifting her lips for his kiss, pressing her breasts to his chest, sinking her hips against his thighs. Offering herself to him.
Something inside him shattered.
He reached for her and she was there—he wasn't certain if he'd hauled her hard against him or if she'd pressed closer. Her lips were under his, open and eager; their tongues twined, invoking all the devils of passion that ever were. Nothing else mattered.
Completion, fulfillment, was their only aim—the only thought in their fevered brains. Devil knew his horses had bolted but could summon no will to haul on their reins. She commanded his senses, his strength, every particle of his awareness; her needs, heightening to near frenzy, were the perfect counterpart of his own.
The desire to join flowed strongly through them, a powerful, fiery force. It beat in their veins, found expression in their gasping breaths; it invested each touch, each bold caress, with pleasure so intense it was close to pain.
Pulling back on a gasp, Honoria lifted one knee to the bed; Devil lifted her and placed her upon it, letting her draw him down. He let her feel his weight, reveling in the supple softness of the arms that slid around him, of her body undulating beneath him. She parted her thighs; he drew away only enough to reach down and stroke her, feeling the slickness of her need, the heat of her arousal.
An incoherent plea left her lips; she tilted her hips in unmistakable invitation. Her hands wandered down; they reached his ribs before Devil, settling fully upon her, his hips cradled between her thighs, caught them, one in each of his.
Her eyes, glinting from beneath weighted lids, met his. Deliberately, Devil anchored first one hand, then the other, on either side of her head. He was beyond thought, far beyond any concept of control—the force that drove him, consumed him, compelled him to possess her. Completely.
Utterly.
The slick heat between her thighs bathed his throbbing staff; he nudged her thighs wider—she complied, but even in that, she managed to shake him, settling her hips deeper, perfectly positioned for his penetration, letting her thighs relax, leaving herself open. Vulnerable. Inviting him to take her.
The emotion that rolled through him was so powerful, so deep, Devil had to close his eyes briefly, holding back the storm. Opening them, he drew a deep breath, his chest pressing against her breasts, and bent his head to hers.
Their lips met, then melded; their fires ignited. With one powerful thrust, he joined with her—and the conflagration began.
He moved on her, within her; she moved beneath him, about him. Her body caressed him in so many ways, he lost the distinction between him and her. He stroked deeply within her and felt her rise, felt the fiery flight start.
Honoria surrendered to it, to the elemental heat that burned between them. It consumed them, a pure fire that burned away all pretense, leaving only truth and emotion forged in its searing flames. She felt him within her and accepted him eagerly, taking him in, both possessed and possessing. The sunburst rose and drew rapidly nearer; their bodies strove, racing to their fate.
Then it was upon them. It caught them in its heat, in its unquenchable delight, in sensation so exquisite she screamed. She clutched him tightly and he was with her. Locked together, they soared, gasped, then fractured—into a selfless void of aching peace beyond the reach of human senses.
Devil returned to the mortal plane first. Slowly, every muscle heavy with sated lust, he lifted away, then settled the pillows about them. His gaze roamed Honoria's face, serene, softly glowing. Gently, he smoothed her hair, drawing his fingers through the silken mass, letting it slip free to lie across the crisp linen. For long moments, silent and still, he studied her face. Then his gaze drifted down, skimming her body, fair skin glowing in the silvery light.
Seconds later, he reached for the covers, drawing them up to her chin. He settled on his back beside her, one arm behind his head, a frown tangling his black brows.
He was in that pose when Honoria stirred; from under heavy lids, she studied his face, dark features etched by the moonlight. He seemed pensive. Pensive herself, she let her gaze roam the broad expanse of his chest, dark hairs shading its width, each muscle band sharply defined. The covers reached to his waist; beneath them, she could feel the hair-dusted hardness of his leg beside hers.
She smiled, a cat savoring cream. Her skin was warmly flushed, her limbs deliciously weighted. She felt at peace, fulfilled—possessed. Deeply, thoroughly, possessed. Just the thought sent a frisson of pleasure through her.
The day was behind her. The unsettling uncertainty which had seized her the minute she'd regained her room after scurrying like a wanton maid through the corridors in the half light of dawn, had disappeared, eradicated by the night's fire. Her lips curved; she could still feel the inner glow. On the thought, she glanced up—Devil was watching her.
His hesitation was palpable, then he shifted, raising a hand to lift a lock of hair from her forehead. "Why weren't you in my bed?"
Honoria held his gaze, even though his eyes were too shadowed for her to see. "I didn't know whether you wanted me there."
Fleetingly, his frown deepened, then eased. But his lips did not curve as, with one finger, he lightly brushed her cheek. "I want you—and I want you there."
The deep words all but shimmered in the moonlight; Honoria smiled. "Tomorrow." She heard him sigh and saw his quick grimace.
"Unfortunately not." He lay back, his eyes still on hers. "While I'd much rather have you in my bed, until we marry, I'll have to suffer the restrictions of yours." He lifted one foot, demonstrating that even high on the pillows as he was, his feet reached the footboard.
Honoria frowned. "Why can't we sleep in your bed?" "Propriety."
She opened her eyes wide. "This is propriety?" Her sweeping gesture encompassed his naked presence, which took up quite half of her bed.
"You can't be seen wandering the corridors in your peignoir every morning—the servants wouldn't approve. If they see me wandering about in my robe, they'll accept the sight with unimpaired aplomb—this is, after all, my house."
Honoria humphed. Wriggling about, she settled on her side, facing away from him. "I suppose you know all the correct procedures."
She felt him shift; a second later, warm limbs surrounded her. The light stubble of his jaw grazed her bare shoulder; his lips touched her ear.
"Believe it." He settled behind her. "And speaking of correct procedures, I should send a notice to The Gazette, stating our wedding day."
Honoria studied the shadows. "When should it be?"
He kissed her nape. "That's for you to say—but I'd hoped for December first." Four weeks away. Honoria frowned. "I'll need a gown."
"You can command any modiste—they'll scramble for the honor."
"Celestine will do." Honoria saw no reason not to avail herself of Celestine's flair just because he'd commanded the modiste's attention.
"All the other arrangements you can leave to Maman and my aunts."
"I know," Honoria replied with feeling. "I spent a wretchedly awkward morning—your mother decided to visit the old housekeeper who ran the Place when your parents married. The entire conversation concerned the hows and wheres of arranging a wedding at Somersham."
Devil chuckled. "How did she know?"
"I don't know," Honoria lied. It was, she was sure, her odd, utterly inexplicable blushes that had given her away. "I'll need to write to Michael."
"I'll be writing to him tomorrow—give me your letter and I'll enclose it with mine." Devil studied the back of her head. "Incidentally, I spoke to old Magnus this morning."
Honoria swung about. "Grandfather?" Incredulous, she stared. "Why?" Devil raised his brows. "He is the head of your family."
"You don't need his permission to marry me."
"No." His lips quirked. "However, the Anstruther-Wetherbys and Cynsters go back a long way. We've been scoring points off each other since the Ark beached."
Honoria studied his face. "How did he take the news?"
Devil grinned. "Philosophically, in the end. He knew you were living within my household, so it wasn't a total shock."
Honoria narrowed her eyes, then humphed and turned her back on him.
Devil's grin dissolved into a smile. Leaning forward, he planted a kiss behind her ear. "Go to
sleep—you'll need your strength."
His words held a definite promise. Smiling, Honoria settled her cheek into her pillow, snuggled her back against his chest—and did as she was bid.
The next day, their letters to Michael were duly dispatched. The day after, a notice announcing the marriage of Honoria Prudence Anstruther-Wetherby, eldest daughter of Geoffrey Anstruther-Wetherby and his wife Heather, of Nottings Grange, Hampshire, to Sylvester Sebastian Cynster, duke of St. Ives, appeared in The Gazette. The marriage would take place on December 1 at Somersham Place.
Despite the haut ton's preoccupation with departing London, the news spread like wildfire. Honoria gave thanks that the only social events remaining were small, select afternoon teas and
"at-homes"—farewells to friends before society adjourned to the shires for the shooting and subsequently to their estates for Christmas. The dustcovers had been placed over the chandeliers—the ton was in retreat from London and would not return until February.
As she and Devil had foreseen, his mother and the other Cynster ladies threw themselves into organizing the wedding with undisguised relish. The Dowager warned Honoria that it was family tradition that the bride, while making all the final decisions, was not allowed to do anything—her sole role, according to all precepts, was to appear to advantage and keep her husband in line. Honoria quickly decided there was much to be said for tradition.
Devil watched from a distance, reassured by her readiness to take on the position of his wife. She'd already impressed his aunts; with their encouragement, she took up the matriarchal reins—his mother was ecstatic.
By the end of five whirlwind days, they were ready to leave London; Devil's final chore was to reel in Viscount Bromley.
When the enormity of his losses, the perilous nature of his finances, was fully explained, Bromley, a hardened case, philosophically shrugged and agreed to Devil's terms. He was in a position to ascertain the truth of "Lucifer's discreditable rumor," to identify the Cynster involved and learn all the facts. All this he agreed to do—by the first of February.
Satisfied, on every count, Devil laid aside his black armband and, with his wife-to-be on his arm, retired to Somersham Place.
Chapter 18
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The ballroom at Somersham Place was filled to overflowing. Afternoon sunlight poured through the long windows, striking glints from the curls and coifs of damsels and dowagers, rakes and rogues, gentlemen and haughty matrons. Gowns of every hue vied with bright jewels and equally bright eyes. The full flower of the ton was present—to see, to witness, to appreciate.
"She's the last marriageable Anstruther-Wetherby female and as rich as bedamned—isn't it just like Devil to have such a pearl fall into his lap."
"Such a handsome couple—Celestine designed her gown expressly."
Surrounded by such comments, by felicitations and congratulations, Honoria circulated through the
throng, smiling, graciously inclining her head, exchanging the required words with all those who'd come to see her wed.
She was now the duchess of St. Ives. The past months of consideration, the last weeks of frenetic activity, had culminated in a simple service in the chapel in the grounds. The church had been packed, the overflow surrounding it like a jeweled sea. Mr. Merryweather had pronounced them man and wife, then Devil had claimed his kiss—a kiss she'd remember all her life. The sun had broken through as the crowd surged forth, forming a long aisle. Bathed in sunshine, they'd run a gauntlet of well-wishers all the way to the ballroom.
The wedding banquet had commenced at noon; it was now close to three o'clock. The musicians were resting—only six waltzes had been scheduled, but she'd already danced more. The first had been with Devil, an affecting experience. She'd been starved of breath by its end, only to be claimed by Vane, then Richard, followed by Harry, Gabriel, and Lucifer in quick succession. Her head had been spinning when the music finally ceased.
Scanning the crowd, Honoria spied Devil talking to Michael and her grandfather, seated near the huge fireplace. She headed toward them.
Amelia bobbed up in her path. "You're to bring Devil to cut the cake. They're setting up the trestles in the middle of the room—Aunt Helena said Devil would toe the line more easily if you ask."
Honoria laughed. "Tell her we're on our way." Thrilled to be involved, Amelia whisked herself off.
Devil saw her long before she reached him; Honoria felt his gaze, warm, possessively lingering, as she dealt with the continual claims on her attention. Reaching his side, she met his eyes briefly—and felt her tension tighten, felt anticipation streak through her, the spark before the flame. They'd shared a bed for four weeks, yet the thrill was still there, the sudden breathlessness, the empty ache of longing, the need to give and take. She wondered if the feeling would ever fade.
Serenely, she inclined her head, acknowledging her grandfather. At Devil's behest, they'd met briefly before leaving London; focused on her future, she'd found it unexpectedly easy to forgive the past.
"Well, Your Grace!" Leaning back, Magnus looked up at her. "Here's your brother going to stand at the next election. What d'you think about that, heh?"
Honoria looked at Michael; he answered her unvoiced question. "St. Ives suggested it." He looked at Devil.
Who shrugged. "Carlisle was ready to put your name forward, which is good enough for me. With the combined backing of the Anstruther-Wetherbys and the Cynsters, you should be assured of a sound constituency."
Magnus snorted. "He'll get a safe seat, or I'll know the reason why."
Honoria grinned; stretching up, she planted a kiss on Michael's cheek. "Congratulations," she whispered.
Michael returned her affectionate kiss. "And to you." He squeezed her hand, then released it. "You made the right decision."
Honoria raised a brow, but she was smiling. Turning, she met Magnus's eye. "I am come to steal my husband away, sir. It's time to cut the cake."
"That so? Well—lead him away." Magnus waved encouragingly. "I wouldn't want to miss witnessing this phenomenon—a Cynster in tow to an Anstruther-Wetherby."
Honoria raised her brows. "I'm no longer an Anstruther-Wetherby."
"Precisely." Devil met Magnus's gaze, a conqueror's confidence in his eyes as he raised Honoria's hand to his lips. He turned to Honoria. "Come, my dear." He gestured to the room's center. "Your merest wish is my command."
Honoria slanted him a skeptical glance. "Indeed?"
"Indubitably." With polished efficiency, Devil steered her through the throng. "In fact," he mused, his voice deepening to a purr, "I'm anticipating fulfilling a goodly number of your wishes before the night is through."
Smiling serenely, Honoria exchanged nods with the duchess of Leicester. "You're making me blush."
"Brides are supposed to blush—didn't they tell you?" Devil's words feathered her ear. "Besides, you look delightful when you blush. Did you know your blush extends all the way—"
"There you are, my dears!"
To Honoria's relief, the Dowager appeared beside them. "If you'll just stand behind the cake. There's a knife there waiting." She shooed them around the table; family and guests crowded around. Their wedding cake stood in pride of place, seven tiers of heavy fruitcake covered with marzipan and decorated with intricate lace. On the top stood a stag, pirouetting on the Cynster shield.
"Good God!" Devil blinked at the creation.
"It's Mrs. Hull's work," Honoria whispered. "Remember to mention it later." "Make way! Make way!"
The unexpected commotion had all turning. Honoria saw a long thin package waved aloft. Those at the edge of the crowd laughed; comments flew. A corridor opened, allowing the messenger through. It was Lucifer, his mission to deliver the package to Vane, standing before the table opposite Devil. With exaggerated ceremony, Vane accepted the package—a sword in its scabbard—reversing it and presenting it to Devil. "Your weapon, Your Grace."
The ballroom erupted with laughter.
His smile beyond devilish, Devil reached for the hilt. The blade—his cavalry saber—came singing from its sheath. To cheers and all manner of wild suggestions, he brandished it aloft—a piratical bucanneer in the heart of the elegant ton.
Then his eyes met Honoria's. One swift step and he stood behind her, his arms reaching around her. "Wrap your hands about the hilt."
Bemused, Honoria did so, gripping the thick-ridged rod of the hilt with both hands. Devil wrapped his hands about hers—Honoria suddenly felt faint.
A deep, soft chuckle sounded in her right ear. "Just like last night."
Last night—when he'd spent the final night of his bachelorhood with his cousins. Sighting Webster carrying a cask of brandy to the library, Honoria had resigned herself to spending her last night as a
spinster alone. She'd retired to her bed and tried to fall asleep, only to discover that she'd become too used to having a large, warm, very hard body in the bed beside her. That same large, warm, very hard body had slipped quietly into her room in the small hours of the morning—and slid beneath the covers. She'd pretended to be asleep, then decided cutting off her nose to spite her face was no fun. She'd made her wishes known.
Only to be informed in a deep, sleepy chuckle, that he was too inebriated to mount her. Fiend that he was, he'd suggested she mount him—and had proceeded to teach her how. One lesson she would never forget.
Only when, utterly exhausted, sated to her toes, she'd collapsed on top of him, only to have him take control, pushing her on, possessing her so completely she had all but lost her mind, had she realized that, in keeping with the rest of their bodies, Cynster males also had hard heads. Not thick, not dense—just hard.
The memories poured through her, leaving her weak. Turning her head slightly, she met Devil's eyes—and was immensely glad she hadn't seen his smugly triumphant smile last night; she was seeing enough of it now. It took immense effort to stiffen her spine and close her hands, beneath his, about the saber's hilt, without recalling what it reminded her of. Drawing a deep breath, she poured every ounce of warning she could into her eyes, then looked at the cake. With his help, she raised the saber high.
The blade came singing down; guiding the swing, Devil drew her back, ensuring the saber cut a neat slice in each of the seven layers. Cheers and clapping erupted on all sides; ribald comments flew.
Her knees weak, Honoria fervently prayed everyone present thought those comments were the cause of her flaming cheeks. She prayed even harder that none bar the reprobate she'd married had noticed just where the rounded knob at the end of the sabre's hilt had finally come to rest. Hemmed in by the crowd behind them, they hadn't been able to move far enough back; the knobbed end of the hilt had slipped into the hollow between her thighs.
And for once, she couldn't blame him—the stillness that gripped him, the quick indrawn breath that hissed past her ear, exonerated him; he was as shaken as she. Their eyes met—were hers as nakedly wanting as his? Carefully, he drew the sword from her slackened grasp and handed it to Vane—then swiftly bent his head and brushed her lips with his. "Later."
The whispered word was a promise; Honoria shivered and felt an answering ripple pass through him. Again their eyes met—they both blinked, both drew breath—and turned aside, putting distance between their overcharged bodies.
In a daze, Honoria did the rounds of her Anstruther-Wetherby relations—the uncles and aunts she'd never known, the cousins who now regarded her with something akin to awe. It was a relief to return to the Cynster circle, to the warm smiles, openly affectionate, to the reassuring nods and the unflagging support. She stopped beside Louise; Arthur stood beside her.
Arthur took Honoria's hand. "You make a fine duchess, my dear." Despite the lines grief had etched in his face, as he raised her hand to his lips, Honoria glimpsed the debonair, devil-may-care gentleman he must once have been. "Sylvester's a lucky man."
"I'm sure your nephew appreciates Honoria as he ought," Louise put in from between them.
Arthur smiled—a typical, slow Cynster smile. "Never heard him described as a slow-top." He looked past Honoria. "Ah—here's Charles."
Honoria turned, regally acknowledging Charles as he joined them.
"And there's Lady Perry!" Louise put her hand on Arthur's arm. "Honoria—please excuse us. We must talk to her ladyship before she leaves."
With a smile for Honoria and a cool "Charles" to his son, Arthur yielded to his wife's directions and steered her into the crowd.
Bowing correctly, Charles watched them go, then turned to Honoria. "I'm glad to have a moment to speak with you, Miss—" His features hardened. "Your Grace."
Honoria didn't trust his smile. Their subsequent meetings had not allayed her first instinctive dislike. He was the only Cynster who affected her so—all the rest she instinctively liked. "I had hoped to have the pleasure of a dance with you, sir, but I believe all the dances are done."
He raised a brow, haughty arrogance one of the few Cynster traits he possessed. "I'm afraid you forget, Your Grace—I'm still in mourning." He smoothed his black armband. "The others, of course, have forgotten Tolly, but his loss still greatly affects me."
Biting her tongue, Honoria inclined her head. Of all the Cynsters present, only Charles and his father still wore black armbands.
"But I believe congratulations are de rigueur."
Charles's odd phrasing had her regarding him in surprise. He nodded superciliously. "I'm sure you recall the substance of our earlier conversation—in light of the reservations I expressed to you then, I most sincerely hope you do not live to regret your new state." Honoria stiffened.
Scanning the crowd, Charles didn't notice. "But however that may be, I do wish you well—if knowing Sylvester all his life makes me hesitant as to his constancy, I ask you to believe that that circumstance in no way lessens the sincerity of my hopes for your happiness."
"Yet, if I understand you correctly, you don't believe such happiness likely." Honoria watched as her words sank in—slowly, Charles brought his gaze back to her face. His eyes were pale, cold, oddly expressionless.
"Your actions have been most unwise. You should not have married Sylvester."
Quite what she would have replied to such an outrageous assertion Honoria never discovered—Amelia and Amanda, both still in alt, came rushing up in a froth of muslin skirts.
"Aunt Helena says you should move to the door—some of the guests are starting to leave." Honoria nodded. From the corner of her eye, she saw Charles draw back.
"By your leave, Your Grace." With a half-bow to her and a curt nod for his half sisters, he turned on his heel and walked off.
Amanda pulled a face at his back, then linked her arm in Honoria's. "He's such a stuffy old shirt—he never enjoys anything."
"Sententious," Amelia pronounced, taking Honoria's other arm. "Now—where should you stand, do you think?" The short December day drew swiftly to a close; when the clock on the stairs chimed five, it was full dark outside. Standing on the porch by Devil's side, waving the last of the carriages away,
Honoria inwardly sighed. Meeting Devil's eyes, she smiled and turned back to the hall. He fell in beside her, capturing her hand, long fingers twining. Most of the family would remain until the next day; they'd retreated to the drawing room, leaving them to do the honors alone. Immediately before the door, Devil halted. Honoria perforce halted, too, and looked up. A slow smile greeted her. Raising her hand, Devil brushed a kiss across her knuckles. "Well, my dear duchess?" With his other hand, he tipped her chin up—and up; automatically she rose on her toes.
He bent his head and kissed her, gently at first, then more deeply. When he lifted his head, they were both heated once more.
Honoria blinked at him. "There's dinner yet."
His smile deepened. "They're not expecting us to show." He drew her across the threshold. "This is where we slip away."
Honoria's lips formed a silent "Oh"; the hall, empty but for Webster, busy closing the door, suggested that her husband, as usual, had the procedure right. When he raised a brow, she acquiesced with a nod; calmly serene, she climbed the stairs by his side. They'd retired together often enough in the past weeks for her to feel no qualms.
A state of affairs that lasted all the way to the top of the stairs. That was when she turned right, toward the corridor that led to her rooms.
Devil's hold on her hand brought her up short. She turned in surprise—only to see him lift one brow, his gaze very green. He shook his head. "Not anymore."
Realization hit. Honoria nodded. Head high, outwardly assured, she allowed him to lead her through the gallery, into the corridor leading to the ducal apartments. Inwardly, her nerves had come alive, fluttering in ever-decreasing spirals until they tensed into knots.
It was ridiculous, she told herself, and struggled to ignore the sensation.
She'd been to the duchess's apartments only once, to approve the new color scheme—all rich creams, soft topaz, and old gold, complementing the warm patina of polished oak. Opening her door, Devil ushered her in; Honoria blinked at the blaze that greeted her.
Lighted candelabra graced the dressing table, the mantelshelf, a chest of drawers, an escritoire against one wall, and a tantalus set before one window. In their glare, the room appeared much as she'd last seen it, with the huge, canopied bed in pride of place between the long windows. The only new items were the urn of flowers, all yellow and white, that sat upon one chest, her brushes, gleaming silver on the polished dressing table, and her nightgown of ivory silk with its matching peignoir, laid out upon the bed.
Cassie must have put it there; Honoria certainly hadn't thought of it. She wondered if the candelabra were Cassie's idea, too—then noticed Devil seemed unsurprised. Strolling into the room, drawing her with him, he stopped before the fireplace, and drew her smoothly into his arms.
Any doubt of his intent fled before his kiss, full of barely restrained hunger and an ardor to set her alight. She sank against him, his instantaneous response driving her to take the pleasure he offered and return it fullfold. Her head was swimming, her limbs turned to water, when he raised his head. "Come. Our children can be born in your bed—we'll beget them in mine."
He swung her into his arms; Honoria twined her arms about his neck. With impatient stride, he carried her to a paneled door, left ajar, shouldering it open, revealing the short corridor that led to his room.
"What was that all about?" she asked. "The candelabra?"
Devil glanced down at her; the corridor was dim, but she saw his teeth gleam. "Diversionary tactics."
She would have asked for clarification, but all thoughts of candles went winging from her head as he carried her into his room.
His room in London was large—this room was immense. The bed that stood against the near wall was the biggest she'd ever seen. Long windows marched along both sides and filled the wall opposite the bed; this room was at the end of the wing—with the curtains open, it was flooded with moonlight, turning the pale greens of the furnishings to muted silver.
Devil carried her around the bed, setting her on her feet where the moon cast a shimmering swath across the floor. Her wedding gown, layer upon layer of wide Mechlin lace, sparkled and shivered. He straightened, his gaze drawn to where the lace rose and fell; he cupped one soft mound and felt it firm.
His fingers searched, finding the tightening peak and caressing it to pebbled hardness.
Honoria's breath caught; her lids fell as she swayed toward him. Devil supported her against his chest, his hand still at her breast, gently kneading. She shifted restlessly, turning so he could reach her back. "The laces are hidden beneath the lace."
Devil grinned and set to work, one hand caressing first one breast then the other, lips trailing kisses along the side of her throat. When the last knotted lace fell free and the gown, with his help, slithered to the floor, Honoria was soft and supple in his arms, arching back against him. He loved her like this, soft and womanly, abandoned but knowingly so—later, she'd be even more abandoned, but by then she would be beyond knowing anything other than the fever singing in her veins. Reaching around her, he filled both hands with her breasts, covered by a single layer of filmy silk—a low murmur of appreciation escaped her. When he rubbed the niched peaks between thumb and forefinger, she shifted her hips suggestively against him.
"Not yet," he murmured. "Tonight should be an experience you'll never forget."
"Oh?" The single syllable was breathless. She turned and, twining her arms about his neck, pressed herself against him. "What are you intending to do?"
He smiled, slowly. "Extend your horizons."
She tried to look haughty, but only succeeded in looking fascinated. Devil stepped back, shrugging out of his coat and waistcoat. He let them fall and reached for her. She came into his arms like the siren she was—the siren he'd spent the past weeks releasing from the shackles of convention. She was still wildly innocent in so many ways, yet whatever he taught her she mastered with a wholehearted enthusiasm that sometimes left him weak. From where he now stood, his view colored by experience, the years ahead looked rosy indeed.
He was looking forward to every one of them. Right now, he was looking forward to tonight.
Her lips were open under his, her tongue twining, inciting, enticing. She stretched against him, on her toes, her body shielded only by her fine chemise. Letting desire have its way, he molded her to him, allowing his hands to know her curves again. When he slipped his palms under the back of her chemise, her skin was dewed.
Two heated minutes later, the chemise floated to the ground to puddle, ignored, in the moonlight.
Devil deepened their kiss—Honoria met him, urging and urgent. Her hands slipped from his nape
and started to roam, splaying across his chest, then searching through the folds of his shirt to knead the muscles of his back, then firming about his waist, his hips, dropping lower.
Abruptly, Devil shifted, capturing her hands, forcing them to her back, locking them there in one of his. Their kiss unbroken, he drew her hard against him, letting her feel his strength, letting her know the seductive quality of her own vulnerability. He bent her back slightly, over the arm at her waist, her hips pressed hard to his. She moaned, the sound trapped in their kiss, and wriggled—not to win free but to get closer.
The restless shifting of her hips against him was more than he could stand. Breaking their kiss, he scooped her up and deposited her on the silk sheets. She stretched, her eyes on him, her hands questing.
Quickly he drew back, out of her reach. "If you love me, keep your hands to yourself." He'd fantasized about tonight for the past week; if he let her enthusiasm get the better of him—as it had on more than one occasion—he would have no chance of converting fantasy to reality.
Stretching luxuriously, draping her arms above her head, Honoria fixed him with a sultry gaze. "I only want to touch you." She watched as he stripped off his cravat. "You liked it last night."
"Tonight is going to be different."
His eyes left her only momentarily as he pulled off his shirt. Honoria smiled, shifting seductively under the heat of his gaze, relishing the sense of power his fascination with her naked form gave her. He'd made it very plain that he liked seeing her naked, totally nude, without any hint of modesty. Being that naked had been difficult at first, but familiarity and his abiding obsession had built her confidence so that now, being wantonly, wickedly naked with him seemed natural—how it should be—at least between them.
"How?" she inquired, as he sat on the bed to remove his boots.
He flicked her a glance, his gaze sliding over her breasts, then down over her stomach and thighs. "Tonight it's going to be my pleasure to lavish pleasure upon you."
Honoria eyed him consideringly. He could make her scream—scream and moan and sob with pleasure. She was the novice—he the master. "Just what are you planning?"
He grinned and stood, unbuttoning his trousers. "You'll see—or rather," he amended, his voice deepening, "you'll feel."
The anticipation simmering in her veins abruptly heightened; Honoria's nerves flickered. That familar tension had hold of her again, a sweet vise locking tight. A second later, as naked as she, he came onto the bed in a prowling crawl. Elementally male, fully aroused, on hands and knees he straddled her, then lowered his body to hers.
Honoria's breath fled. Eyes wide, she studied his, glittering in the weak light. Then his lids fell and he lowered his head; his lips found hers.
His searching kiss reached deep—deep to where her wanton self dwelled. He called her forth and she came, eagerly seeking his pleasure. She opened to him, enticing him in, her body softening beneath his; she murmured his name and shifted beneath him, but he made no move to claim her. His hands locked about hers, one on either side of her head; as the kiss went on, her skin burned for his touch.
Driven, she arched beneath him but his weight held her trapped; his legs outside hers, he held her immobile, granting her no relief from the heat building between them.
Then his lips left hers, trailing hot kisses down the column of her throat. Panting, Honoria pressed her head back into the pillows, eager for much more. He shifted and his lips traced her collarbone, then returned by way of her shoulder and upper breast. He repeated the maneuver, this time following the curve of her arm to her elbow, then on to her wrist, eventually ending with her fingertips.
Tickled by his lips, by the abrasion of his chest and chin against her smooth skin, Honoria giggled; she saw his brow quirk, but he said nothing, merely lifting her hand and draping her arm over his shoulder. He repeated the entire exercise on her other arm, until it, too, went to join its fellow. Locking her fingers at his nape, she settled back expectantly, and waited to see what came next.
His lips on her breasts was a familar sensation, sweet and full of promise. When his mouth fastened over one nipple and he suckled, she gasped; the caress continued, hot and wet, pulsing wildfire down her veins. She moaned, hips restlessly lifting, seeking. But he'd shifted lower; she could make no contact with that part of his anatomy most susceptible to persuasion. Premonition bloomed—his "tonight" would be a long-drawn affair.
He'd told her more than once that she rushed ahead too fast, that, if she let him spin out their time, the sensations would be better—more heightened, more intense. As she could barely cope with what she felt as it was, she wasn't at all sure "slower" was such a good idea. He was used to it—she was not. She wasn't even sure the exercise affected him in the same, mind-dazzling, soul-shattering, heart-twisting way in which it affected her.
His lips left her breasts; panting she waited, then felt him nuzzling beneath their fullness. His lips swept across her sensitive midriff and down to the hollow of her waist.
She was so caught by the novel sensations, by the heated tingling of her skin, that he'd flipped her onto her stomach before she had a chance to protest. He shifted, rising over her then lowering his body along the length of hers. His lips found her nape—he proceeded to cover her back with kisses, soft and warm across her shoulders, changing to soft nips as he worked his way down. Her fires had died to smouldering embers, but when he reached the full swell of her bottom, anticipation exploded into flame again. She squirmed, her breath coming in soft gasps. One heavy arm across her waist kept her still; when he pushed her knees wide apart and held them so, Honoria dragged in a shuddering breath—and waited. He was lying beside her, his weight no longer upon her. Cool air caressed her heated skin; she longed for him to cover her. Expectation welled; she willed him to shift and come between her thighs.
Instead, she felt the soft brush of his hair and the light graze of his stubble as he laid a line of warm kisses down the back of one thigh. He paid homage to the sensitive spot at the back of her knee, first one, then the other, then worked his way back up her other thigh. Honoria slowly exhaled, and waited to be allowed to roll over.
The next instant, her breath hissed in—and in. Her hands clenched on the pillow. In stunned disbelief, she felt tiny tender kisses dot their inexorable way up the inside of one thigh. Her skin shivered and flickered; as the kisses steadily neared the place where she burned, she let out a small shriek, stifled in the pillow.
She felt, rather than heard his deep chuckle. He swung over her and repeated the exercise on the inside of her other thigh. Honoria gritted her teeth, determined not to repeat her shriek; her whole body quivered with mounting need. When he reached the limit of his trail, pressing one last lingering kiss to skin that had never before felt a man's lips, she sighed—then shrieked, as his tongue swept tender, pulsing flesh—just once, but it was more than enough.
He seemed to think so, too; he drew back, rolling her onto her back, his weight pinning her again as his lips returned to hers, his kiss searing, conflagrationary—exactly as she wished it. Wrapping her arms about his neck, Honoria gave him back fire for flame, passion for desire, in a frenzy of escalating need. This time, her thighs were spread and he lay between; she could feel his throbbing staff nudging her thigh.
Abruptly, he drew back, onto his knees. Dazed, she saw him seize a fat pillow. Lifting her, he wedged it under her hips, then, leaning over her, he found her lips again. When he lifted his head she was panting in earnest, every nerve in her body alive, every vein afire. One hand was on her breast; swiftly, he lowered his head and suckled until she moaned.
"Please—now." Honoria reached for him but he shifted back. "Soon."
He lowered his body to hers again, but too low—his head was at her breasts. He laved each burning peak until she could take no more, then trailed kisses to her navel. He circled the dimple with his tongue, then probed; the slow, repetitive thrusting brought tears of frustration to her eyes. She twisted and arched, her hips lifted high by the pillow.
"Soon." He whispered the word across the sensitive skin of her stomach, and followed it with a kiss. And another and another, slowly descending; when the first kiss fell amongst her soft curls, Honoria's eyes flew wide.
"Devil?"
The sensations streaking through her were unlike any she'd yet experienced, sharper, stronger, fiercer. More kisses followed the first and she gasped, hands reaching, fingers locking in his hair.
"Oh God!" The exclamation was wrung from her as his lips touched her softness. The sudden bolt of sensation was enough to melt her mind. "No." She shook her head.
"Soon," came the answer.
His lips left her swollen flesh to trail kisses along the inside of her thighs, lifting them as he slid still lower, draping a knee over each shoulder.
Well-nigh mindless, Honoria felt his breath caress her throbbing flesh. Speech was beyond her; she was going to die. From excitement—from pleasure so intense it was frightening. Gripping the sheets convulsively, she hauled in a huge breath, and shook her head violently.
Devil took no notice. Deliberately, he set his lips to her soft flesh, hot and swollen, intimately caressing each soft fold; a strangled sound, neither shriek nor scream, was his reward. He found her throbbing nubbin, already swollen and tight; he laved it gently, swirling his tongue, first this way then that, about the sensitive spot. He wasn't surprised by the subsequent silence; he could hear her ragged breathing, could feel the tension that gripped her. As usual, she was rushing—he set himself to slow her down, bringing her to that plane where she could appreciate his expertise, savor all he could give her, rather than fly headlong to her fate.
He repeated his caresses, again and again, until she grew familiar with each new sensation. Her breathing slowed, deepened; her body softened beneath his hands. She moaned softly and twisted in his hold, but she no longer fought him; she floated, senses alive to each explicit caress, receptive to the pleasures he wished her to know.
Only then, deploying every ounce of his considerable expertise, did he open the door and introduce her to all that might be. With lips and tongue, he pressed on her caresses that sent her soaring, anchoring her with an intimacy that could not be denied. Again and again, she rose to the heavens; again and again, he drew her back. Only when she could take no more, when her breathing grew frantic and every muscle in her body quivered, begging for release, did he let her fly free, filling her with his tongue, feeling her hands clench tight in his hair—then relax as ecstasy washed through her. He savored her, taking pleasure in the warm piquancy that was her, letting her essence sink to his bones. When the last of her rippling shudders had died, he slowly rose over her.
Pressing her thighs wide, he settled between—with one slow, powerful thrust he filled her, feeling her softness, slick and hot, stretch to take him, feeling her body adjust to his invasion, to being his.
She was fully relaxed, fully open; he moved within her, powerfully plundering, unsurprised when, scant moments later, she stirred and, eyes glinting beneath weighted lids, joined him in the dance. He watched her until he was sure she was with him, then, closing his eyes, letting his head fall back, he lost himself in her.
The explosion that took them from the mortal plane was stronger than any he'd felt before—just as he had known it would be.
Hours later, he awoke. Honoria lay soft and warm by his side, her hair a tangled mass on his pillow. Devil allowed himself a smile—a conqueror's smile—then carefully edged from the bed.
In her room, the candles were still burning. Warmed by recent memory, he padded, naked, to the tantalus before the window. Watered wine had been left waiting, along with suitable sustenance. He poured a glass of wine and swallowed half, then lifted the lid of the serving dish, grimaced and replaced it. He was hungry, but not for food.
On the thought, he heard a sound behind him—turning, he watched Honoria emerge, blinking, from his room.
Wrapped in one of his robes, her hand shading her eyes, she squinted at him. "What are you doing?" He held up the glass.
Lowering her hand, she came forward, holding the robe closed with one hand. "I'll have some, too."
*****
In the garden below all was silent and still. From the distant wilderness, six pairs of startled eyes fastened on the lit window of the duchess's bedchamber, screened by lacy gauze. Six men saw Devil turn and raise his glass in salute; all six lost their breaths when Honoria joined him. The idea of what was happening in that brilliantly lit chamber exercised all six minds.
They watched, breath bated, as Honoria, cloaked in a flowing robe, her hair an aureole about her head, took the glass from Devil and sipped. She handed the glass back; Devil drained it. Setting the glass down, he lowered his head as Honoria went into his arms.
Eyes on stalks, six watched their cousin and his wife share a lengthy, amazingly thorough kiss; five shifted uncomfortably when it ended, then were struck to stillness, paralyzed anew, when Honoria raised her hands and let her robe fall. Her shadow merged again with Devil's, her arms about his neck, his head bent to hers as they resumed their kiss.
Silence filled the wilderness—not even an owl hooted. Then Devil's head rose. His arm about
Honoria, their shadows still one, they moved away from the window. "God!" Harry's stunned exclamation said it all.
Richard's eyes were alight. "You didn't seriously imagine Devil married purely to ensure the succession?"
"By the looks of it," Gabriel dryly observed, "the succession's in no danger. If they've got that far in five hours, then St. Valentine's Day's odds-on for our wager."
Vane's deep chuckle came out of the dark. "I hesitate to mention it, but I don't believe Devil started from scratch five hours ago."
Four heads turned his way.
"Ah-hah!" Lucifer turned to his brother. "In that case, I'll sport my blunt on St. Valentine's Day definitely. If he's got a head start, then he'll have more than three months to accomplish the deed—more than enough."
"True." Gabriel fell into step beside Lucifer as the party turned toward the house. Their impromptu stroll had been unexpectedly revealing. "Given Devil's reputation, it's fair to assume anyone could guess as much, so we don't need to be overly concerned about taking bets against St. Valentine's Day as the limit for conception."
"I think," Richard said, following in Gabriel's wake, "that we should be rather careful about letting any of the ladies learn about our book—they're unlikely to appreciate our interest."
"Too true," Harry replied, joining the straggling line back through the bushes. "The female half of the species has a distinctly skewed view of what's important in life."
Vane watched them go, then raised his eyes to the blazing windows in the east wing. After a moment, he shifted his gaze to the unlit windows of the large bedroom at the end of the wing. Silent and still in the dark, he considered the sight, his grin deepening to a smile. Hands in his pockets, he turned—and froze. His eyes, adjusted to the dark, picked out the square figure of a man moving slowly through the wilderness, heading toward the house.
Then the tension left his shoulders. Hands still in his pockets, he strolled forward. "What ho, Charles? Getting a breath of fresh air?"
The heavy figure came to a sudden halt, swinging to face him. Then Charles inclined his head. "As you say."
It was on the tip of Vane's tongue to ask whether Charles had caught the ducal exhibition; Charles's propensity to lecture kept the words from his lips. Falling into step as Charles gained the path back to the house, he asked instead; "You planning to stay for a few days?"
"No." Charles walked a few steps before adding: "I'll be returning to town tomorrow. Do you have any idea when Sylvester plans to return?"
Vane shook his head. "I haven't heard it mentioned, but I'd be surprised to see them up before Christmas. It's to be held here as usual."
"Really?" There was genuine surprise in Charles's voice.
"So Sylvester intends to take on the role of 'head of the family' at all levels?"
Vane sent him a cool glance. "When has he not?" Charles nodded vaguely. "True—very true."
Chapter 19
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When, years later, Honoria looked back on the first months of her marriage, she wondered what benevolent fate had ordained they would marry on December 1. The season was perfect, fine-tuned to her needs—December and January, cold and snowy, kept society at bay; the week of Christmas, when the whole family descended, was a happy interlude. Those quiet winter months gave her time to find her feet, to assume the mantle of the duchess of St. Ives, to learn what she needed to go on.
Taking up the reins of the ducal household was of itself easy enough. The staff was excellent, well trained and well disposed; she faced few difficulties there. However, the decisions it fell to her to make were wide-ranging, from cows to flower beds to preserves to linens. Not just for the Place, but for the three other residences her husband maintained. The organizational logistics were absorbing. Within the family, she was expected to play the matriarch, a demanding yet satisfying role.
All this and more fell to her lot in that first December and January, yet throughout that time, the aspect of her life that commanded her deepest attention remained her interaction with Devil.
Quite what she'd expected, she couldn't have said—she had come to her marriage with no firm view of what she wanted from it beyond the very fact of laying claim to the role, of being the mother of his children. Which left, as she discovered during those long quiet weeks, a great deal to be decided. By them both.
Time and again, as their wills crossed in daily life, their eyes would meet and she would see in his an expression of arrest, of calculation, consideration—and know the same emotions were visible in her eyes.
There were adjustments in other spheres, too. Like finding time to be alone, to be easy in each other's company, to discuss the myriad matters affecting their now-mutual life, all within the framework of who they were and what they were and what they could both accept. Some adjustments came easily, without conscious effort; others required give-and-take on both sides.
And if their nights remained a constant, an arena where the lines had already been drawn, where they'd already made their decisions, even there, while their physical need of each other continued, a steady, unquenchable flame, with each night that passed, their involvement deepened, became more profound, more heavily invested with meaning.
By the time January waned and the thaws set in, they were both conscious of, not only change, but the creation of something new, some palpable entity, some subtle web within which they both now lived. They never discussed it, nor in any way alluded to it. Yet she was conscious of it every minute of the day—and knew he felt it, too.
"I'm for a ride."
Seated at a table by one window, a pile of chandler's accounts before her, Honoria looked up to see Devil strolling across the back parlor.
His gaze swept her, then returned to her face. "The going will be heavy—very slow. Do you care to chance it?"
The ice in the lanes and the general bad weather had vetoed riding for the past few weeks. But today the sun was shining—and if he was the one suggesting it, riding had to be safe once more. "I'll need to change." Forsaking her accounts without a second thought, Honoria rose.
Devil grinned. "I'll bring the horses to the side door."
They were away ten minutes later. In perfect amity, they rode across his fields, taking a roundabout route to a nearby rise. They returned by way of the village, stopping to chat with Mr. Postlethwaite, as ever in the vicarage garden. From there, their route home was via the track through the wood.
Gaining the straight at the top of the rise, they fell silent, slowing from a canter to a walk. They passed the spot where Tolly had fallen; reaching the track to the cottage, Devil drew rein.
He glanced at Honoria—halting beside him, she held his gaze. He searched her eyes, then, without a word, turned Sulieman down the narrow track.
In winter, both cottage and clearing appeared very different. The undergrowth was still dense, impenetrable, but the trees had lost their leaves. A dense carpet of mottled brown blanketed the earth, muffling hoofbeats. The cottage was neater, tidier, the stone before the door scrubbed; a wisp of smoke curled from the chimney.
"Keenan's in residence." Devil dismounted and tied his reins to a tree, then came to Honoria's side.
As he lifted her down, she recalled how distracted she'd felt when he'd first closed his hands about her waist. Now his touch was reassuring, a warmly familiar contact. "Will he be inside?"
"Unlikely. In winter, he spends his days in the village."
He secured her reins, and together they walked to the cottage. "Is it all right to go in?"
Devil nodded. "Keenan has no real home—he simply lives in the cottages I provide and keeps my woods in trim."
Opening the door, he led the way in; Honoria followed. She watched as he crossed the small room, his ranging stride slowing as he neared the raised pallet on which Tolly had died. He came to a halt at its foot, looking down on the simple grey blanket, his face a stony mask.
It had been a long time since she'd seen his face that way—these days, he rarely hid his feelings from her. She hesitated, then walked forward, stopping by his side. That was where she belonged—sometimes he needed reminding. With that aim in mind, she slid her fingers across his palm. His hand remained slack, then closed, strongly, firmly.
When he continued to stare at the uninformative bed,
Honoria leaned against him. That did the trick—he glanced at her, hesitated, then lifted his arm and drew her against him. And looked frowningly back at the pallet. "It's been six months, and we've not got him yet."
Honoria rested her head against his shoulder. "I don't imagine the Bar Cynster are the sort to accept defeat."
"Never."
"Well, then." She glanced up and saw his frown deepen.
He met her gaze, the tortured frown darkening his eyes. "That something I've forgotten—it was something about how Tolly died. Something I noticed—something I should remember." He looked back at the pallet. "I keep hoping it'll come back to me."
The intensity in his eyes, his words, precluded any light reassurance. A minute later, Honoria felt his chest swell, felt his arm tighten briefly about her, then he released her and gestured to the door. "Come—let's go home."
They rode slowly back through the gathering dusk. Devil did not mention Tolly's killer again; they parted in the hall, he heading for the library, Honoria climbing the stairs, considering a bath before dinner.
Attuned as she now was to his moods, she knew immediately when he returned to the subject. They were in the library, he in a well-stuffed armchair, she on the chaise, her embroidery on her lap. The fire burned brightly, warming the room; the curtains were drawn against the night. Webster had supplied Devil with a glass of brandy, then retreated; the Dowager had gone up.
From beneath her lashes, Honoria saw Devil take a long sip of brandy, then he looked at her. "I should return to London."
She looked up, studied his face, then calmly asked: "What information do you have regarding Tolly's death that necessitates our going back now?"
His gaze locked on hers. She held it steadily, calmly, without challenge, even when the green eyes narrowed and his lips compressed. Then he grimaced and leaned back against the chair, his gaze shifting to the ceiling. Setting aside her needlework, Honoria waited.
Devil thought long and hard, then thought again, yet she was his duchess—and too intelligent and too stubborn to swallow any glib tale. He lowered his gaze to her face. "Viscount Bromley is currently working for me."
Honoria frowned. "Do I know him?"
"He's not the sort of gentleman you need to know." "Ah—that sort of gentleman."
"Precisely. The Viscount is currently endeavoring to discover the truth of 'Lucifer's discreditable rumor.' He's due to report next week."
"I see." Frowning, Honoria looked at the fire, then, absentmindedly, gathered her silks. "We have no engagements here—I'll speak to Mrs. Hull and Webster immediately." She rose, then glanced back. "I assume we'll be leaving tomorrow?"
Devil held her wide gaze for a pregnant moment, then, sighed and inclined his head. "Tomorrow. After lunch."
With a nod, Honoria turned away; Devil watched her hips sway as she walked to the door. When it closed behind her, he drained his glass—and wondered, not for the first time, just what had come over him.
"How far beyond his limit did Bromley go?"
Vane asked the question as he eased into the chair before Devil's desk. Viscount Bromley had left a bare minute before, looking decidedly green.
Locking the viscount's notes of hand back in his desk drawer, Devil named a sum; eyes widening, Vane whistled. "You really did him up in style."
Devil shrugged. "I like to be thorough."
The door opened; glancing up, Devil deduced from the distracted expression in Honoria's eyes that she'd overheard his last remark. His smile when he met her gaze was unambiguously rakish. "Good morning, my dear."
Honoria blinked, then inclined her head regally.
He watched while she exchanged greetings with Vane; she was dressed to go out in a golden merino pelisse, a velvet bonnet with a niched rim dangling by its ribbons from her hand. The same hand, gloved in ivory kid, carried a muff of golden velvet lined with swansdown; the inner face of her pelisse's upstanding collar was trimmed with the same expensive stuff. Her hair was swept up in a sleek knot—no longer the wild tangle it had been that morning when he'd left her in their bed. The memory raised a warm glow, which he knowingly allowed to infuse his smile.
Tucking the key to the desk drawer into his waistcoat pocket, he strolled, smugly satisfied, to her side. She turned as he approached—and raised her brows. "Did the viscount have the information you expected?"
Devil halted, his eyes steady on hers. He didn't need to look to be aware of Vane's surprise. "As it happens, no. Bromley needs more time."
"And you gave it to him?"
After a fractional hesitation, Devil nodded.
Honoria raised her brows. "If his lordship's so tardy, isn't there someone else you could employ in his place?"
"It's not that simple." Forestalling the question he could see in her eyes, Devil went on: "Bromley has certain attributes that make him ideal for the job."
Honoria looked even more surprised. "I only caught a brief glimpse, but he didn't strike me as the sort to inspire any great confidence." She paused, frowning slightly, looking up at Devil's uninformative face. "Now we're here, couldn't you dispense with Bromley and investigate the matter yourself? There's quite a crowd already in residence; if you tell me what it is you need to know, I might be able to learn something myself."
Vane choked—and tried to disguise it as a cough. Honoria stared at him; capturing Vane's gaze, Devil frowned.
Witnessing that silent exchange, Honoria narrowed her eyes. "What, precisely, is Bromley investigating?"
The question brought both men's gazes to her face; Honoria met their eyes, read their instinctive response and lifted her chin. Devil eyed the sight for a bare second, then flicked a loaded glance at Vane.
Suavely, Vane smiled at Honoria. "I'll leave you to your questions." She gave him her hand; he bowed over it, then, with a speaking look for Devil, he turned to the door.
As it closed behind him, Devil looked down, into Honoria's eyes. Her expression spoke of unshakable resolve. "You don't need to know the details of Bromley's task."
He would have shifted nearer, but her quiet dignity held him back. She searched his eyes—what she read there he couldn't tell; despite all, he was conscious of admiration of a sort he'd never thought to feel for a woman—he fervently hoped it didn't show.
Honoria straightened, her chin lifting fractionally. "I'm your wife—your duchess. If something threatens our family, I need to know of it."
Devil noted her emphasis; she did not look away but continued to face him with unwavering resolution.
The moment stretched, charged, thick with unspoken argument. She was challenging his authority and she knew it—but she would not back down. Her eyes said so very clearly.
Devil narrowed his eyes. "You are an exceedingly stubborn woman." Haughtily, Honoria raised a brow. "You knew that before we wed."
He nodded curtly. "Unfortunately, that trait was an integral part of the package."
His clipped accents stung; Honoria tilted her chin. "You accepted me—for better or worse." Devil's eyes flashed. "You did the same."
Again, their gazes locked; after a moment's fraught silence, Honoria, very slowly, lifted an imperious brow. Devil eyed the sight with undisguised irritation—then, with a low growl, gestured to the chaise. "The matter is hardly one fit for a lady's ears."
Hiding her triumph, Honoria obediently sat; Devil sat beside her. Briefly, concisely, he told her the essence of Lucifer's rumor—how a number of contacts had reported that a Cynster had been frequenting the "palaces."
"Palaces?" Honoria looked blank.
Devil's jaw set. "Brothels—highly exclusive ones."
Honoria looked him in the eye. "You don't believe it's one of the Bar Cynster."
A statement, not a question; grimly, Devil shook his head. "I know it isn't one of us. Not one of us would cross the threshold of such a place." He saw no reason to edify Honoria with details of what transpired at the "palaces"—the worst excesses of prostitution was not something his wife needed to know. "It's possible Tolly attended out of curiosity and, while there, saw or heard something that made him a threat to someone." He met Honoria's eyes. "Patrons of the 'palaces' are necessarily wealthy, most are powerful in the true sense of the word. The sort of men who have secrets to hide and the capability to silence those who learn them."
Honoria studied his face. "Why do you need Bromley?"
Devil's lips twisted. "Unfortunately, the opinions of the Bar Cynster on that particular topic are widely known. The proprietors are careful; none of us could get answers."
After a moment, Honoria asked: "Do you really think it was Tolly?"
Devil met her gaze, and shook his head. "Which leaves…" He frowned, then grimaced. "But I believe that even less than that it was Tolly."
They both frowned into space, then Honoria focused—and glanced at the clock. "Great heavens—I'll be late." Gathering her muff, she rose.
Devil rose, too. "Where are you going?"
"To call on Louise, then I'm due at Lady Colebourne's for lunch." "Not a hint of any of this to Louise—or Maman."
The glance Honoria sent him was fondly condescending. "Of course not."
She turned to the door—Devil halted her with one finger beneath her chin, turning her back to face him, tilting her head up. He looked into her eyes, waited until he saw awareness blossom, then bent his head and touched his lips to hers.
As a kiss, it was a whisper, a tantalizing, feathering touch, too insubstantial to satisfy yet too real to ignore.
When he raised his head, Honoria blinked wildly, then she saw his smile and only just stopped her glare. She drew herself up and regally inclined her head. "I will bid you a good day, my lord."
Devil smiled, slowly. "Enjoy your day, my lady."
Throughout her afternoon, Honoria cursed her husband—and the lingering effects of his devilish kiss. Unable to explain the occasional shivers that racked her, she was forced to humor Louise's supposition and drink a glass of ratafia to drive away her chill. Seated on the chaise in Louise's drawing room, the twins on footstools at her feet, she grasped the opportunity to air the idea that had taken root in her mind. "I'm thinking of giving a ball." She felt it imperative to publicly stamp her claim as the new duchess of St. Ives—an impromptu ball seemed the perfect solution.
"A ball?" Amanda's eyes grew round. She swung to face her mother. "Will we be allowed to attend?"
Observing her daughters' glowing faces, Louise struggled to hide a smile. "That would depend on whether you were invited and what sort of ball it was to be."
Amanda and Amelia swung back to face Honoria; she pretended not to notice, and spoke to Louise. "I believe it should be an impromptu ball—just for family and friends."
Louise nodded. "Not many of the ton are yet in residence—it would hardly do for the duchess of St. Ives to hold her first formal ball when fully half of society is still on the hunting field."
"Indeed—tantamount to social indiscretion. A sure way of putting the grandes dames' noses out of joint. Too many would be offended if I held my first formal ball now—but an impromptu ball should raise no ire."
Louise sat back, gesturing magnanimously. "As business has necessitated your return to town, no one would question your right to a little informal entertainment. And, of course, Helena has yet to come up—you couldn't hold your first formal ball without her."
"Precisely." Honoria nodded; the Dowager had gone to visit friends and was not expected to join them
until the start of the Season proper. "And if it's just for friends…" "And family," Louise added.
"Then," Honoria mused, "it could be held quite soon."
Amanda and Amelia looked from one distant expression to the other. "But will we be invited!" they wailed.
Honoria blinked and regarded them with apparent surprise. "Good heavens! You've put up your hair!" Louise laughed; the twins pulled faces at Honoria, then leapt up from their footstools to flank her on the
chaise.
"We promise to be models of decorum."
"The most proper young ladies you ever did see."
"And we've plenty of cousins to dance with, so you won't need to be forever finding us partners."
Honoria studied their bright eyes, and wondered how they would view their magnificant cousins once they saw them in their true colors, their true setting, prowling a ton ballroom. Her hesitation earned her two abjectly imploring looks; she laughed. "Of course you'll be invited." She glanced from one ecstatic face to the other. "But it will be up to your mama to decide if you should attend or not."
They all looked at Louise; she smiled fondly but firmly at her daughters. "I'll reserve my decision until I've spoken with your father but, given you're to be presented this Season, an impromptu family ball, particularly one at St. Ives House, would be an excellent start to your year."
Expectation took flight; the twins glowed with delight.
Leaving them in alt, already badgering Louise over their ball gowns, Honoria traveled on to Lady Colebourne's town house, to partake of luncheon amidst a host of young matrons. Any lingering reservations over the need for her ball were swiftly laid to rest. Considering gleams appeared in too many eyes at the news that her husband had returned to town, a married gentleman now, far safer, in terms of dalliance, than the unattached rake he used to be.
Smiling serenely, Honoria considered stamping her claim on him, too. Perhaps with a tattoo?—on his forehead, and another relevant part of his anatomy. The ton's bored matrons could look elsewhere for entertainment. Devil was hers—she had to fight an urge to declare the point publicly.
By the time she climbed into her carriage to return to Grosvenor Square, rampant possessiveness had taken firm hold. The strength of the feeling shocked her, but she knew well enough from whence it sprang. Within the ton, there was more than one way to lose a husband.
Not since the night of the storm, when she'd woken to find him in her room, had she thought again of losing him. Despite her fears, despite the fact Sligo and Devil's head stableman had shared her suspicions, nothing further had occurred—it now seemed likely that Devil had been right, and the disintegration of his phaeton nothing more than freakish accident.
Staring at the streetscape, Honoria felt a totally unexpected determination well. She recognized it for what it was—it surprised her, but she did not fight it. Too many people had told her that it was her fate to be his bride.
Which meant he was hers—she intended keeping it that way.
*****
Devil lunched with friends, then dropped in at White's. It was their third day back in the capital; despite the acquisition of a wife, the comfortable regime of former days was slowly settling into place. "The only difference," he explained to Vane as they strolled into the reading room, "is that I no longer need to exert myself over the matter of warming my bed."
Vane grinned. Nudging Devil's elbow, he nodded to two vacant armchairs.
They settled companionably behind newssheets. Devil gazed at his, unseeing. His mind was full of his wife and her stubbornness. Quite how he had come to marry the one woman in all the millions impervious to intimidation, he did not know. Fate, he recalled, had arranged the matter—his only option seemed to be to hope fate would also provide him with the means to manage her without damaging the subtle something growing between them.
That was unique, at least in his experience. He couldn't define it, could not even describe it—he only knew it was precious, too valuable to risk.
Honoria was also too valuable to risk, at any level, in any way.
He frowned at the newssheet—and wondered what she was doing.
Later that afternoon, having parted from Vane, Devil strolled home through the gathering dusk. He crossed Piccadilly and turned into Berkeley Street.
"Ho! Sylvester!"
Devil halted and turned, then waited until Charles joined him before strolling on. Charles fell into step; he had lodgings in Duke Street, just beyond Grosvenor Square.
"Back to your old haunts, I take it?" Devil smiled. "As you say."
"I'm surprised—I thought Leicestershire would hold you rather longer. They've had excellent sport, so I've heard."
"I didn't go to the Lodge this season." Manor Lodge was the ducal hunting box. "I went out with the Somersham pack but the runs were hardly worth it."
Charles looked puzzled. "Is Aunt Helena well?"
"Perfectly." Devil shot him a sidelong glance; his lips twitched. "I've had other distractions to hand." "Oh?"
"I married recently, remember?"
Charles's brows rose briefly. "I hadn't imagined marriage would cause any change in your habits."
Devil merely shrugged. They circumnavigated Berkeley Square, then turned down a alleyway that ran between two houses, connecting the square with Hays Mews.
"I take it Honoria remained at Somersham?" Devil frowned. "No. She's here—with me."
"She is?" Charles blinked. After a moment, he murmured: "I must remember to pay my respects."
Devil inclined his head, unwilling to commit Honoria to any transports of delight. He knew perfectly well how his other cousins viewed Charles; for his part, he'd always tried for tolerance. They strode on, eventually halting at the corner of Grosvenor Square. Duke Street lay ahead; Devil was but yards from his door.
Abruptly, Charles swung to face him. "I hesitate to allude to such a delicate matter, but I feel I must speak."
Coolly, Devil raised his brows—and took a firm grip on his tolerance.
"Bringing Honoria to London, so early in her tenure, to require her to countenance your wider liaisons within months of your marriage, is unnecessarily cruel. She may not be experienced in tonnish behavior but her understanding is, I believe, superior. She will doubtless realize you're bestowing your interest elsewhere. Women are sensitive to such matters—if you had left her at Somersham, she would not be exposed to such hurt."
His expression blank, Devil looked down at Charles; he'd lost all touch with tolerance—instead, he was battling to keep the lid on his formidable temper. If Charles had not been family, he'd be choking on his teeth. It took concerted effort to keep a snarl from his face. "You mistake the matter, Charles. It was Honoria's wish that she accompany me, a wish I saw no reason to deny." His rigidly even tone had Charles stiffening; his gaze would have frozen hell. "Furthermore, you appear to be laboring under a misapprehension—at present, I have no intention of seeking any 'wider liaison'—my wife holds my interest to the exclusion of all others."
It was the truth, the literal truth, stated more clearly than he'd allowed his own mind to know it. Charles blinked—he looked stunned.
Devil's lips twisted in chilly self-deprecation. "Indeed—there's more to marriage than even I foresaw. You should try it—I can recommend it as a challenging experience."
With a curt nod, he strode for his door, leaving Charles, blank-faced, staring after him.
Chapter 20
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The next morning, as soon as he was free of his most urgent business, Devil climbed the stairs to the morning room.
Honoria looked up as he entered; she smiled warmly. "I thought you'd be busy for hours." "Hobden's on his way back to the Place." Devil strolled to the chaise and sat on the arm beside her.
Resting one arm along the chaise's back, he picked up one of the lists from Honoria's lap. "Our guests?"
She peeked. "That's the connections. These are the friends."
Devil took the lists and scanned them. They'd discussed her notion of an impromptu ball the evening before. Reasoning that the exercise would keep her occupied—distracted from Bromley and his doings—he'd readily concurred. "There are a few names you might add."
Honoria picked up a pencil and dutifully scribbled as he reeled off a short list of his own. When he said "Chillingworth" she looked up in surprise. "I thought the earl was no favorite of yours?"
"On the contrary—he's a prime favorite." Devil smiled, one of his Prince of Darkness smiles. "Who would I taunt if I didn't have Chillingworth by?"
Honoria looked her reply but left the earl on the list. Chillingworth could look after himself. "I had wondered," Devil said, studying her profile, "if you were free to come for a drive?"
Honoria looked up, her arm brushing his thigh. Her eyes touched his, then she grimaced. "I can't." She gestured to the writing materials on the table. "If the ball's to be next Friday, I need to send the invitations out today."
Devil had never written a ball invitation in his life. He was about to suggest he might learn, when Honoria continued: "Louise is bringing the twins by to help."
With a swift smile, Devil uncoiled his long legs. "In that case, I'll leave you to your endeavors."
His fingers trailed against her cheek as he stood, then he grinned and strolled to the door; Honoria watched it close behind him. She stared at the panels, her expression wistful, then she grimaced and went back to her lists.
The next morning, when the morning room door opened, Honoria looked up with an eager smile. Only to discover it was Vane who sought an audience.
"Devil said I'd find you here." Smiling charmingly, he strolled forward. "I've a request to make."
The gleam in his eye suggested just what that request might be; Honoria eyed it with matriarchal disapproval. "Who?" she asked.
"Lady Canterton. And Harry suggested Lady Pinney."
Honoria held his gaze for a pregnant moment, then reached for her pencil. "I'll send the invitations today." "Thank you."
"With one proviso." She looked up in time to see wariness creep into his eyes. "What proviso?"
There was a hint of steel in the question; Honoria ignored it. "You will each dance one dance with each of the twins."
"The twins?" Vane stared at her. "How old are they?"
"Seventeen. They'll be presented this year—Friday will be their first ball." Vane shuddered.
Honoria raised a brow. "Well?"
He looked at her, grim resignation in his eyes. "Very well—one dance each. I'll tell Harry." Honoria nodded. "Do."
Her next visitors followed in quick succession, all on the same errand. Gabriel succeded Vane; Lucifer followed. The last through the morning-room door was Richard. "I know," Honoria said, reaching for her much-amended list. "Lady Grey."
"Lady Grey?" Richard blinked. "Why Lady Grey?"
Honoria blinked back. She'd seen him slip away from Horatia's ball with the dark-haired, alabaster-skinned beauty. "Isn't she…?" She gestured with her pencil.
"Ah, no." Richard's grin was reminiscent of Devil at his worst. "That was last year. I was going to ask for Lady Walton."
Ask for—like a treat. And, like a treat, Lady Walton would doubtless fall, a ripe plum into his lap. Honoria decided it was useless disapproving; she added Lady Walton to her list.
"And I dutifully promise to stand up with both Amanda and Amelia." "Good." Honoria looked up in time to witness Richard's insouciant bow.
"A very good idea, this ball of yours." He paused at the door, a Cynster smile on his lips. "We were all looking for a way to get the Season rolling. Nothing could be better than an impromptu ball."
Honoria shot him a warning look; chuckling, he left.
She went on with her planning, trying not to listen for footsteps beyond the door, trying not to wonder whether Devil would drop by to hear of his cousins' selections, to ask her what she was doing, to offer his views.
He didn't.
When she entered the breakfast parlor the next morning, she was pleased to find Devil still present, sipping coffee and scanning The Gazette. Her place was now at the table's other end, an expanse of polished mahogany between them. Taking her seat, she beamed a warm smile across the silver service.
Devil returned the gesture, the expression more evident in his eyes than on his lips. Folding The Gazette, he laid it aside. "How are your plans progressing?"
Although he'd dined at home the previous night, he'd been preoccupied with business; he had come to bed late, conversation very far from his mind. Between sipping tea and nibbling toast, Honoria filled him in.
He listened attentively, interpolating comments, ending with: "You're setting a new fashion, you know. I've already heard of two other hostesses who are planning early, impromptu entertainments."
Smiling radiantly, Honoria shrugged. "Where St. Ives leads, the others will follow."
He grinned appreciatively, then his eyes locked on hers. "I've had the horses brought up from the Place. It's fine outside—I wondered if you'd care to ride?"
Honoria's heart leapt—she sorely missed their private hours. "I—"
"Your pardon, Your Grace."
Turning, Honoria watched as Mrs. Hull bobbed a curtsy to Devil, then faced her. "The caterers have arrived, ma'am. I've put them in the parlor."
"Oh—yes." Happiness deflating like a pricked balloon, Honoria smiled weakly. "I'll join them shortly." The florists were also due that morning, as were the musicians.
Mrs. Hull withdrew; Honoria turned back to meet Devil's eyes. "I'd forgotten. The supper menu needs to be decided today. I won't have time to ride this morning."
With a suave smile, Devil waved dismissively. "It's of no account."
Honoria held back a frown—that smile did not reach his eyes. But she could think of nothing appropriate to say; with an apologetic smile, she stood. "By your leave."
Devil inclined his head, his superficial smile still in place. He watched Honoria leave, then set down his cup and stood. Slowly, a frown replaced his smile. He walked into the hall; behind him, Webster gave orders for the parlor to be cleared. An instant later, he appeared at his elbow.
"Shall I send for your horse, Your Grace?"
Devil focused, and found his gaze resting on the stairs up which Honoria had gone. "No." When he rode alone, he rode early, before others were about. His features hardening, he turned to the library. "I'll be busy for the rest of the morning."
*****
The day of the duchess of St. Ives's impromptu ball dawned crisp and clear. In the park, wispy mist wreathed beneath the trees; shrill birdcalls echoed in the stillness.
Devil rode along the deserted tan track, the heavy thud of his horse's hooves drumming in his ears. He rode with single-minded abandon, fast yet in absolute control, his body and his mount's in fluid concert as they flew through the chill morning. At the end of the track, he hauled the snorting chestnut's head about—and rode back even faster.
Nearing the end of the tan, he eased back, pulling up before a stand of oak. The deep-chested horse, built for endurance, blew hard, and dropped his head. Devil loosened the reins, chest swelling as he drew the air deep.
There was no one in sight, nothing but trees and well-tended lawns. The tang of damp grass rose as the chestnut shifted, then settled to crop. Devil filled his chest again, and felt the cold reach his brain. And, as often happened in this solitude, his unease, the nagging disquiet that had gnawed at him for days, crystallized, clarified. The insight was not encouraging.
The idea that he was irritated because his wife was so busy organizing her ball that she had no time for him did not sit well—yet denying his jealousy, the waiting, the wanting to be with her, was pointless. Even now, he could feel the black emotion roiling inside. Yet he had no justifiable cause for complaint. Duchesses were supposed to give balls. Honoria was behaving precisely as a wife should—she'd made no awkward demands, no requests for attention he didn't wish to give. She hadn't even accepted the attention he'd been only too willing to bestow.
That fact rankled. Deeply.
Frowning, Devil shook his shoulders. He was being unreasonable—he'd no right to expect his wife to be different, to comport herself by some different code—one he couldn't, even now, define. Yet that was precisely what he did want, the desire at the heart of his dissatisfaction.
Unbidden, his mind conjured up that moment when, in his woodsman's cottage, she'd leaned against him. He'd looked down, seen the warmth and understanding in her eyes, and felt her weight, soft and womanly, against him. And realized just how much he now had that Tolly would never have, never have a chance to experience.
He drew a deep breath; the crisp cold sang through his veins. He wanted Honoria—had wanted her from the first—but his want was not quite what he'd thought it. The physical want, the possessive want, the protective want, the need for her loyalty, her commitment—all these he'd fulfilled. What remained?
Something, certainly—something strong enough, powerful enough, to unsettle him, to obsess him, to undermine effortlessly his normally unassailable control. Something beyond his experience.
Brows quirking, he examined that conclusion and could not fault it. Lips firming, he took up his reins. He wasn't going to get any real peace until he fulfilled this want, too.
Both he and the chestnut had cooled. Leaning forward, he patted the horse's sleek neck and dug in his heels. The chestnut obediently stepped out, shifting fluidly into a loping canter.
The bark of the tree before which they'd stood splintered. The sound reached Devil; glancing back, he saw the fresh lesion in the trunk, level with his chest. In the same instant, a telltale "cough" reached his ears.
He didn't stop to investigate; he didn't rein in until he reached the park gate where others were now gathering for their morning ride.
Devil halted to let the chestnut settle. Guns were not permitted in the park. The keepers were exempt, but what would they shoot at—squirrels?
The chestnut had calmed; deadly calm himself, Devil headed back to Grosvenor Square.
*****
The duchess of St. Ives's impromptu ball was an extravagant success. Held, not in the large ballroom, but in the relative intimacy of the music room, the evening overflowed with laughter, dancing, and an easy gaiety not often encountered within the rigid confines of the ton.
Many present, of course, were related; the rest were longstanding acquaintances. The tone was set from the first, when the duke and duchess led the company in a vigorous, breathless waltz. All hundred guests took the hint, setting themselves to enjoy the relaxed atmosphere, the champagne that flowed freely, the excellent supper and the similarly excellent company. Some five hours after the first had arrived, the last guests, weary but smiling, took their leave. Webster shut the front door, then set the bolts.
In the center of the hall, Devil looked down at Honoria, leaning on his arm. Lights still danced in her eyes. He smiled. "A signal success, my dear."
Honoria smiled back, resting her head against his arm. "It went very well, I think."
"Indeed." His hand over hers where it lay on his sleeve, Devil turned her toward the library. It had become their habit to end their evenings there, sipping brandy, exchanging comments. They halted on the
threshold; footmen and maids were clearing glasses and straightening furniture. Devil glanced at Honoria. "Perhaps, tonight, we should take our drinks upstairs."
Honoria nodded. Devil accepted a lighted candelabrum from Webster; together they started up the stairs. "Amelia and Amanda were exhausted."
"For quite the first time in their lives."
Honoria smiled fondly. "They danced every dance bar the waltzes. And they would have danced those if they could have." Glancing up, she noted the slight frown marring her husband's handsome countenance; looking forward, she inwardly grinned. The twins' presence had triggered an intriguing reaction in their male cousins—repressive looks had been de rigueur. She could foresee certain interesting scenes as the Season unfolded.
The thought reminded her of another interesting scene, one in which she'd participated. "Incidentally, I give you fair warning, I will not again invite Chillingworth if you behave as you did tonight."
"Mel" The look of innocence Devil sent her would have done credit to a cherub. "I wasn't the one who started it."
Honoria frowned. "I meant both of you—he was no better."
"I could hardly let him get away with casting a slur on my ability to satisfy you." "He didn't! It was you who twisted his words that way."
"That was what he meant."
"Be that as it may, you didn't have to inform him that I—" Honoria broke off, cheeks flaming—again. She caught the gleam in Devil's green eyes. Pulling her hand from under his, she pushed him away; he didn't even stagger. "You're incorrigible." Lifting her skirts, she climbed the last stairs. "I don't know why you insisted on inviting him when all the conversation you exchanged was a litany of thinly veiled insults."
"That's why." Retaking her arm, Devil drew it through his as they crossed the gallery. "Chillingworth's the perfect whetstone to sharpen my wit upon—his hide's as thick as a rhinoceros's."
"Humph!" Honoria kept her chin high. "I did let him waltz with you."
"Only because I made it impossible for you to do otherwise." She'd used the waltz to separate the two dueling reprobates—unsuccessfully as it transpired.
"Honoria, if I do not wish you to waltz with a particular gentleman, you won't."
She looked up, a protest on her lips. The undercurrent beneath his words registered, she met his eye—and decided it was safer simply to humph again.
When she looked forward, Devil grinned. He'd enjoyed the evening without reservation; even the emergence of the twins as budding Aphrodites couldn't tarnish his mellow mood. As they turned toward the ducal apartments, he slid his arm about Honoria and drew her against him.
Honoria let him, enjoying his nearness. She remained puzzled by his relationship with Chillingworth. While
waltzing with Vane, she'd asked his opinion; he'd smiled. "If they weren't so busy being rivals, they'd be friends." Their rivalry, now she'd viewed it at close quarters, was not entirely facetious, yet neither was it serious. From any distance, however, they appeared deadly rivals.
"Is Charles always so subdued?" She'd noticed him watching as she waltzed with Chillingworth; his expression had been oddly blank.
"Charles? Now there's one who won't approve your innovation—unfettered gaiety was never his strong suit."
"Your other cousins reveled in 'unfettered gaiety.' " Honoria cast him a pointed glance. "Totally unfettered." Each one of the Bar Cynster, excepting only Devil, had disappeared from the festivities at some point, reappearing later with smug, cat-who-had-found-the-cream smiles.
Devil grinned. "Gabriel tendered his felicitations along with the firm hope that you'll make your impromptu ball a yearly event."
Honoria opened her eyes wide. "Are there really that many accommodating ladies within the ton?" "You'd be surprised," Devil held his door wide.
Honoria threw him a speaking glance, then, nose high, swept over the threshold. But she was smiling as she glided deeper into the room, lit by a fire burning cheerily in the grate. The candelabra held high, dispelling the shadows, Devil crossed to the tallboy, setting the candlestick beside a silver tray holding a crystal decanter and two glasses.
Pouring brandy into one glass, he handed it to Honoria. Warming the glass between her hands, she waltzed to the armchair by the hearth and sank onto its well-stuffed arm. Raising the glass, she breathed in the fumes.
And froze. She blinked. Across the rim of her glass, she saw Devil grasp the second glass, half-full of amber liquid. He raised it.
"No!"
Her breathless shout made him turn. But the glass still rose—any second, he'd swallow his usual first gulp.
Honoria dropped her glass; it fell, amber liquid splashing across the jewel-hued rug. Vocal cords paralyzed, she flung herself at Devil, striking the glass from his grasp. It shattered against the tallboy.
"What—?" Devil lifted her, swinging her clear of the shards raining down. White-faced, Honoria clung to him, her gaze fixed on the liquid dripping down the tallboy.
"What's wrong?" Devil stared at her; when she didn't answer, he looked around, then, grasping her arms, set her from him and looked into her face. "What?"
She drew a shaky breath, then looked into his face. She gulped. "The brandy." Her voice was weak, quavery; she hauled in another breath. "Bitter almonds."
Devil froze—literally. The cold started at his feet and spread upward, claiming muscle after muscle until he was chilled through. His hands fell from Honoria as she pressed close, sliding her arms around him, clinging so tight he could barely breathe. Breathing, indeed, was an effort. For one instant, he stopped altogether—the instant when he realized he'd handed her a glass of poison. His gut
clenched tight. He closed his eyes, resting his cheek against her curls, closing his arms about her. Her perfume reached him; he tightened his hold, feeling her body, warm and alive, against his.
Suddenly, Honoria looked up, nearly hitting his chin with her head. "You were nearly killed!" It was an accusation. Her expression mutinous, she clutched his waistcoat, and tried to shake him. "I told you before—I warned you! It's you they're trying to kill."
A conclusion he could hardly argue. "They didn't succeed. Thanks to you." Devil tried to draw her back into his arms. Honoria resisted.
"You were one gulp away from death—I saw you!"
Her eyes were fever-bright, her cheeks flushed. Devil bit back a curse—not at her, but at his would-be murderer. "I'm not dead."
"But you nearly were!" Her eyes flashed blue fire. "How dare they?" Devil recognized shock when he heard it. "We're both alive."
His calming words fell on deaf ears; Honoria swung away and started to pace. "I can't believe it!" She threw out one hand. "This is utterly wrong!"
Devil followed as she paced toward the bed.
"I won't allow it—I forbid it! You're mine—they can't have you." She swung around; finding him close, she grabbed his lapels. "Do you hear?" Her eyes were silver saucers, sheened with tears. "I am not going to lose you, too."
"I'm here—you won't ever lose me." Devil slid his arms about her; she was so tense she was quivering. "Trust me."
She searched his eyes; tears spangled her lashes. "Hold me," he commanded.
She hesitated, then obeyed, slowly unclenching her fists, sliding her arms about him. She rested her head against his shoulder but remained tense, taut—determined.
Framing her jaw, Devil lifted her face, looked down on pale cheeks, at eyes awash with tears, then he bent his head and kissed her set lips. "You'll never lose me," he whispered. "I'll never leave you."
A shudder rippled through her. Damp lashes lowered, Honoria lifted her face, offering her lips. Devil took them, then took her mouth. The caress lengthened, deepened, slowly, inexorably spiraling into passion. He needed her—she needed him—an affirmation of life to chase away death's specter.
Honoria drew back only long enough to wrap her arms about his neck. She clung to him, to the vibrant life enshrined in their kiss. His arms locked about her, his chest hard against her breasts, his heartbeat a heavy, repetitive thud reverberating through her. Her defensive tension shifted, transmuted; she pressed herself to him. She answered his kiss and desire rose, not in passionate frenzy, but as a swelling presence impossible to deny. Like rivers unleashed, it welled from them both, merging to a torrent, carrying all thought, all conscious will before it, impelling, compelling, not with need but with the need to give.
Neither questioned its rightness, neither attempted to fight it—a force more than strong enough to
deny the deaths they'd faced. Surrendering, to it, to each other, they stripped, barely aware of the clothes they left strewn across the floor. The touch of skin against warm skin, of hands searching, of lips and tongues caressing, played on their senses, feeding the swelling crescendo.
Naked, aroused, they took to their bed, limbs twining, then parting, only to close intimately again. Soft murmurs rose, Devil's deep rumble beneath Honoria's breathless gasps. Time stretched; with freshly opened eyes and heightened senses, they learned each other anew. Devil revisted every soft curve, every square inch of Honoria's ivory skin, every fluttering pulse point, each and every erogenous zone. No less ensorcelled, Honoria rediscovered his hard body, his strength, his perception, his unfailing expertise. His commitment to her fulfilment—matched only by hers to his.
Time suspended as they explored, lavishing pleasure on each other, their murmurs transmuting to soft cries and half-suppressed groans. Only when there was no more left to give did Devil lie back, lifting Honoria over him. Straddling him, she arched and took him in, sinking slowly down, savoring every second, until he was buried deep.
Time fractured. A crystal moment, it hung between them, quivering, invested with sensation. Gazes locked, they both held still, then Honoria let her lids fall. Heart thundering, hearing—feeling—his heartbeat deep within her, she savored the strength that had invaded her, silently acknowledging the power that held her in its coils. Beneath her, Devil closed his eyes, his mind awash with the softness that had accepted him, that now held him so powerfully he could never break free.
Then they moved, their bodies in perfect communion, their souls committed beyond will or thought. Too experienced to rush, they savored each step down the lengthy road, until the gates of paradise opened before them. Together, they entered in.
*****
"Under no circumstances is Her Grace to be left unattended at any time." Devil reinforced that edict with a flat look, trained impartially on the three retainers ranged before him on the library rug.
All three—Webster, poker-straight, his expression more impassive than ever, Mrs. Hull, rigidly upright, lips pinched with concern, and Sligo, his face more mournful than ever—looked uncertain.
Grudgingly, Devil amended: "Other than in our apartments."
That was where Honoria presently was and, if experience was any guide, where she'd remain for a good few hours yet. She'd been deeply asleep when he'd left her—after fully sating his senses and hers; the exercise had left him feeling more vulnerable than he'd ever felt before. But she was safe in their rooms, given the burly footman stationed within sight of the door.
"When I'm absent from the house, Webster, you'll admit no one other than one of my aunts or Vane. If any call, Her Grace is indisposed. We will not be entertaining in the immediate future—not until this matter is resolved."
"Indeed, Your Grace."
"Both you and Mrs. Hull will ensure no one has any chance to tamper with any food or provisions. Incidentally," Devil's gaze fixed on Webster's face, "did you check the rest of that brandy?"
"Yes, Your Grace. The rest of the bottle was uncontaminated." Webster straightened. "I can assure Your Grace I did not fill that decanter with poisoned spirits."
Devil met his gaze directly. "So I had assumed. I take it we've hired no new staff lately?"
Webster's stiffness eased. "No, Your Grace. As is our habit, we brought up more of our people from Somersham to assist last night, hands already familiar with our ways. There were no strangers amongst the staff, m'lord." Fixing his gaze on a point above Devil's head, Webster continued: "Last night, every member of the staff had some prescribed activity they had to perform at virtually any given time." Webster let his gaze drop to meet Devil's eyes. "The long and the short of it is that none of our staff were missing from their duties long enough to have reached your apartments and returned undetected. We must assume, I believe, that some guest aware of the location of the ducal apartments introduced the poison, my lord."
"Quite." Devil had already thought through that point, that and a great deal more; he shifted his gaze to Sligo. "You, Sligo, will accompany Her Grace wherever she goes. If she should decide to walk in public, you will be by her side—not behind her." He met Sligo's gaze levelly. "You're to guard her with your life."
Sligo nodded; he owed Devil his life several times over and saw nothing odd in the request. "I'll make sure no one gets to her. But…" He frowned. "If I'm to be with Her Grace, who's to be with you?"
"I've faced death before—this is no different."
"If I could suggest, Your Grace," Webster intervened. "At least a footman—"
"No." The single word cut off all protest. Devil eyed his servitors straitly. "I'm more than capable of protecting myself." His tone dared them to contradict him; naturally, none of them did. He nodded a dismissal. "You may go."
He stood as they filed to the door; Webster and Sligo left, but Mrs. Hull hung back. When, tight-lipped, she looked at him, Devil, resigned, lifted a brow.
"You're not really invincible, you know."
Devil's lips twisted wryly. "I know, Hully, I know. But for God's sake, don't tell Her Grace."
Mollified by his use of his childhood name for her, Mrs. Hull sniffed. "As if I would. You just busy yourself finding whoever was so lost to all proper feeling as to put poison in that decanter—we'll look after Her Grace."
Devil watched her leave, and wondered if any of the three had any idea how much he was entrusting to their care. He'd told them true—he'd faced death many times. Honoria's death he couldn't face at all.
"I'm putting my trust in you to ensure that no harm comes to His Grace." Pacing before the morning-room windows, Honoria sent a raking glance over the three servitors lined up on the rug—Webster, Mrs. Hull, and Sligo. "I assume he's already spoken to you regarding the incident last night?"
All three nodded; Webster acted as spokesman. "His Grace gave us orders to ensure no repetition of the incident, ma'am."
"I'm sure he did." Devil had left the house before she'd awoken, an occurrence delayed by him. He'd kept her awake into the small hours—she'd never known him so demanding. When he'd stirred her awake at dawn, she'd applied herself wholeheartedly to appeasing his considerable appetite, assuming, with what little wit she'd been able to command, that it was some long-overdue realization of his mortality that made him so hungry for life.
She'd expected to discuss the shocking incident of the poison with him over breakfast—instead, she'd missed breakfast altogether.
"It is not my intention to counteract any of His Grace's orders—whatever he has decreed must be done. However"—pausing, she glanced at the three faces before her—"am I right in assuming he gave no orders for his own protection?"
Webster grimaced. "We did make the suggestion, ma'am—unfortunately, His Grace vetoed the idea."
"Flat," Sligo corroborated, his tone making it clear what he thought of that decision. Mrs. Hull's lips thinned to a prim line. "He always was exceedingly stubborn."
"Indeed." From the way all three were watching her, Honoria knew she had only to say the word. The context, however, was somewhat delicate—she could not, in all conscience, contradict her husband's edicts. She looked at Webster. "What was the suggestion His Grace vetoed?"
"I suggested a footman as a guard, ma'am."
Honoria raised her brows. "We have other suitable men in our employ, do we not—men who are not footmen?"
Webster blinked only once. "Indeed, ma'am. From underbutlers to scullery boys." "And there's the grooms and stablelads, too," Sligo added.
Honoria nodded. "Very well." She met each pair of eyes. "To preserve my peace of mind, you will ensure you are always in a position to tell me where His Grace is at any time while he is absent from this house. Nothing, however, must be done against His Grace's expressed wishes. I trust that's clear?"
Webster bowed. "Indeed, ma'am. I'm sure His Grace would expect us to do all possible to keep you from fretting."
"Precisely. Now, do you have any idea where he is at present?"
Webster and Mrs. Hull shook their heads. Sligo looked at the ceiling. "I believe" he said"—he rocked slightly on his toes—"that the Cap'n's with Mister Vane." Lowering his gaze, he met Honoria's eyes. "At his lodgings in Jermyn Street, ma'am." When Honoria, along with both his peers, looked their question, Sligo opened his eyes wide. "A lad from the stables had to go that way with a message, ma'am."
"I see." For the first time since smelling bitter almonds, Honoria felt a touch of relief. She had allies. "Do you think this stablelad might still be about his business when His Grace leaves his cousin?"
Sligo nodded. "Very likely, ma'am."
Honoria nodded back, decisively, dismissively. "You have your orders, from both myself and His Grace. I'm sure you will carry them out diligently."
Sligo nodded; Mrs. Hull curtsied. Webster bowed low. "You may rely on us, Your Grace."
Chapter 21
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Vane stared at Devil, unfeigned horror in his face. "Just how many attempts on your life have there been?"
Devil raised his brows. "If Honoria's supposition is correct, three. There's still nothing to suggest my phaeton was tampered with, but, given these other two episodes, I'm inclined to think she may be right." They were in Vane's parlor; seated at the table, Devil raised a tankard of ale and took a long sip.
Standing before the windows, Vane was still staring."The phaeton, the poison—what was the third?"
"Someone took a shot at me in the park yesterday morning." "You were out early?"
Devil nodded. Vane's gaze blanked; he turned to stare, unseeing, out of the window. Devil waited. After the dramatic events of the night, he felt deadly calm. In between making love to his wife, he'd spent the night thinking. Near death was a wonderful focuser—nearly losing Honoria had eradicated all pretense, exposed all the logical reasons he'd used to justify their marriage as the facade they actually were. What he felt for his wife had nothing to do with logic.
Abruptly, he shifted, and glanced at Vane—then inwardly, mockingly, shook his head. At himself. Whenever his thoughts even touched on that point—that emotion he could not, would not, define—he pulled back, edged away. That unnameable emotion left him feeling so vulnerable he found it near impossible to countenance, to even admit its existence. It opened up a gaping hole in his defenses; his instinctive response was to rebuild his walls with all speed.
But he would have to face it soon. Insecurity lay, a leaden weight in his gut; the uncertainty was driving him insane. Honoria cared for him—last night had proved that. She might even care in the way women sometimes did, at some different level from any sexual interest. On some other plane. He desperately needed to know.
Finding out without asking, without revealing his intense interest in the answer, was a challenge he intended to devote his entire attention to—just as soon as he'd dealt with his would-be murderer.
Who'd very nearly murdered his wife.
He looked up as Vane turned, fixing him with a worried look. "This is more than serious." Vane started to pace. "Why only in London?" He shot a glance at Devil. "There weren't any other suspicious happenings at the Place?"
Devil shook his head. "London because it's safer—more people about. Cambridgeshire is open country, and my fields are rather full of my workers."
"That didn't help us locate Tolly's killer."
Devil looked down, swirling the ale in his tankard.
"To sabotage your phaeton, they had to get into your stables undetected, know which carriage, and how best to make it look like an accident, which presupposes some knowledge of your driving habits.
Whoever shot at you in the park must have known you make a habit of riding that early. And whoever
put the poison in the decanter"—his expression grim, Vane met Devil's eye—"whoever did that had to know where the ducal appartments lie as well as your peculiar method of drinking."
Devil nodded. "If they hadn't known that, they'd have been far more circumspect in their dosage—there was enough in one mouthful to fell an ox, which was why Honoria detected it so easily."
"So," Vane said, "whoever it is knew all the above, but—" He broke off and looked at Devil. Who grimaced. "But didn't know that Honoria shares my brandy as well as my bed."
Vane grimaced back. "Even I didn't know that, so it doesn't help us thin the ranks." He paused, then asked: "So was Tolly killed because he was coming to warn you?"
Slowly, Devil nodded. "That scenario makes sense of what he said at the cottage as well as, if not better, than any other."
Both fell silent, then Vane asked: "What will you do?"
"Do?" Devil raised his brows. "Precisely what I was planning before, only with both eyes fully open." "And with me to cover your back."
Devil grinned. "If you insist."
It was a familiar sally between them; some of Vane's tension eased. He sat in the chair opposite Devil's. "So, has Bromley finally turned up trumps?"
"Not yet—but he thinks he's laid his hand on a winning card. He came by yesterday with the offer of a meeting—the madam in question wanted certain guarantees. I told him what she could have—he's gone off to negotiate time and date."
"Place?"
"The palace itself."
Vane frowned. "You'll go?"
Devil shrugged. "I can see why she'd want it that way." "It could be a trap."
"Unlikely—she's got more to lose by siding against me rather than with me. And Bromley's too enamored of his comforts to encourage any double-dealing."
Vane didn't look convinced. "I don't like any of this."
Draining his tankard, Devil shook his head. "No—but I'd rather not miss any clue for want of looking." He glanced at Vane. "I still haven't remembered that something I've forgotten about Tolly's murder."
"You're still positive it's something vital?"
"Oh, yes." His expression grim, Devil rose. "It was something so vital I noticed it particularly, but Tolly dying wiped it from my mind."
Vane grimaced. "It'll come back."
Devil met his eyes. "But will it come back in time?"
*****
Firm footsteps approached the morning room; Honoria left the window and sat on the chaise. She'd spent the day methodically analyzing the attempts on Devil's life. And had reached the only logical conclusion. While her immediate impulse was to lay her findings before Devil, further consideration had suggested he might not, in this case, accept her conclusion readily. After considerable cogitation, she'd sent a message to the one person she knew he trusted without question.
Her "Come in" coincided with a peremptory knock. The door opened; Vane strolled in. His gaze found her; closing the door, he strolled forward, his gait reminiscent of Devil's prowl. "How are you?"
Honoria grimaced. "Distracted."
He nodded and sat in the chair facing her. "How can I help?" One brown brow rose. "Your note said the matter was urgent."
Lips compressed, Honoria studied his face. "I've been thinking over all that's happened. There has to be a reason someone's trying to kill Devil."
His gaze on her face, Vane nodded. "Go on."
"There's only one compelling reason I know of connecting Devil and a person who would know enough to tamper with his phaeton and put poison in his brandy. The inheritance—which, after all, is more than considerable. That might also explain why the attacks only started after it became obvious we would wed."
Light dawned in Vane's face. "Of course. I've been concentrating on Tolly—I didn't think of that angle."
"You agree?" Honoria leaned forward. "You agree it must be Richard?" Vane stared in blank astonishment. "Richard?"
Honoria frowned. "Devil's heir."
"Ah." Swiftly, Vane searched her face. "Honoria, your logic's impeccable—unfortunately, Devil's neglected to give you all the details necessary to arrive at the correct outcome." He hesitated, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, but it's not my place to explain—you'll have to ask Devil."
Honoria eyed him straitly. "Ask him what?"
Vane's eyes turned hard. "Ask him who his heir is." "It's not Richard?"
Lips compressed, Vane rose. "I must go—but promise me you'll tell Devil your conclusions." Honoria's eyes flashed. "I can give you an absolute assurrance on that point."
"Good." Vane met her gaze. "If it makes it any easier, I'd wager he's already followed the same train of thought."
"You think he knows?" Honoria held out her hand.
"He knows, but, as he does with such matters, he won't say until he's sure—until he has proof." Vane released Honoria's hand. "By your leave, I've an idea to pursue—the sooner we get your husband the proof he requires, the sooner we'll be free of this murderer."
Unwilling to do anything to delay that outcome, Honoria nodded and let him go. Long after the door had closed behind him, she sat staring at the panels, unable to make head or tail of what was going on.
Cynsters—a law unto themselves. With a disgusted humph, she stood and headed upstairs to change.
His Grace of St. Ives dined at home that evening. Honoria waited until they retired, then stripped off her gown, donned her nightgown, scurried like an eager chambermaid into the ducal chamber, dropped her peignoir, kicked off her slippers, and scrambled beneath the covers.
From the other side of the room, engaged in untying his cravat, Devil watched her performance with interest—an interest she ignored. Propped against the pillows, she fixed her gaze on his face. "I've been thinking."
Devil's hands stilled, then he drew the white linen from about his throat. Unbuttoning his waistcoat, he approached the bed. "What about?"
"About who would want you dead."
He shrugged out of his waistcoat, then sat on the bed to pull off his boots. "Did you reach any conclusion?"
"Yes—but Vane told me my conclusion wasn't right." Devil looked up. "Vane?"
Honoria explained. "Naturally, I thought your heir was Richard."
"Ah." Devil dropped his second boot. He stood, stripped off his shirt and trousers, then slid beneath the covers. Honoria tumbled against him; he settled her beside him. "I suppose I should have told you about that."
Honoria squinted through the shadows; she was almost sure he was grinning. "I suspect you should have. What is it I don't know?"
Devil lay back against the pillows. "You know Richard's nickname?" "Scandal?"
Devil nodded. "Like mine being a shortened form of 'That Devil Cynster,' Richard's is also a truncation. His full sobriquet is 'The Scandal That Never Was.'"
"He's a scandal?"
"Richard's my brother, but he's not my mother's son."
Honoria blinked. "Ah." Then she frowned. "But you look so alike."
"We look like my father—you've seen his portrait. Only our coloring, and in my case my eyes,
come from our respective mothers—Richard's was also dark-haired."
This was scandal on a major scale—Richard was younger than Devil. Yet Honoria had detected not the slightest whiff of disapprobation in any of the ton's dealings with Richard Cynster. "I don't understand." She looked up in time to see Devil's teeth gleam.
"The truth of Richard's birth has been an open secret for three decades—it's very old news.
Maman, of course, is the key."
Honoria crossed her arms on his chest and fixed her gaze on his face. "Tell me."
Devil settled his arms about her. "When I was three, my father was asked to undertake a diplomatic mission to the Highlands. There'd been an outbreak of dissaffection and the Court boffins wanted to rattle sabers without sending troops. Sending a Cynster was considered the next best thing. Maman decided not to accompany him. She was told at my birth that she wouldn't be able to have more children, so she was hideously overprotective of me, much to my disgust. So m'father went north alone. The laird he was sent to…" He paused, searching for words.
"Intimidate?" Honoria suggested.
Devil nodded. "This laird, a redhead, had recently married—an arranged marriage with a lowlands beauty."
"She would be a beauty," Honoria muttered.
Devil glanced at her. "We Cynsters have standards, you know." Honoria humphed and poked his chest. "What happened next."
"Strangely enough, we're not entirely sure. We do know my father's mission was a success; he was home within four weeks. Richard appeared twelve months later."
"Twelve months?"
"His mother died a few months after his birth. Whether she confessed or whether her husband simply assumed from his coloring that Richard was none of his, we don't know. But there was no doubt, even then, that Richard was my father's—he looked exactly like me at the same age, and there were enough about who remembered. Whatever, Richard's fate was sealed when Webster picked him up from before the front door—a carriage had driven up, the wrapped bundle deposited, and the horses whipped up immediately. No message—just Richard. Webster carried him in and Richard immediately started squalling."
"The sound was horrendous—I remember because I hadn't heard it before. Maman was brushing my hair in the nursery—we heard it all the way up there. She dropped the brush and rushed downstairs. She beat me down. I reached the last landing to see her descend on Webster and my father, who were trying to hush Richard. Maman plucked him out of their arms—she cooed and Richard stopped crying. She just smiled—brilliantly—you know how she can."
Her chin on his chest, Honoria nodded.
"I realized immediately that Richard was a godsend—Maman was so caught up with him she forgot about the knots in my hair. From that moment, Richard had my full support. My father came up—I think he was about to attempt an explanation—in retrospect I'm sorry I didn't hear it, even if I wouldn't have understood it then. But Maman immediately told him how immensely clever he
was to have provided her with the one, truly most important thing she wanted—another son.
Naturally, he kept quiet. From there on, Maman
rolled over any objections—she'd been my father's duchess for five years and was an eminent social power. She publicly decreed Richard was her son—none were game, then or now, to contradict her." Honoria heard the smile in his voice.
"There's no doubt that having Richard to rear really did make Maman happy. The matter caused no one any harm; my father acknowledged him and made provision for him in his will." Devil drew a deep breath. "And that's the story of the Scandal That Never Was."
Honoria lay still; Devil's hand stroked her hair. "So now you know Richard's not my heir." His hand slid to her nape. "He's not the one trying to kill me."
Honoria listened to the steady thud of his heart. She was glad it wasn't Richard—she liked him, and knew Devil was fond of him. Without lifting her head, she murmured: "Your mother's a fascinating woman."
Devil rolled, rolling her under him; on his elbows, he brushed her hair from her face. "She certainly fascinated my father." Honoria felt his eyes on her face, then his head dipped. His lips brushed hers. "Just as my duchess fascinates me."
They were the last logical words said that night.
She needed to have a long, serious talk with her husband. Clad in a translucent ivory peignoir trimmed with feathers, Honoria paced the ducal bedchamber and waited for him to appear.
They'd met at breakfast and again at dinner, but she could hardly interrogate him in front of the servants. He was presently at White's, meeting with Viscount Bromley. That much she knew, that much he'd told her. What he hadn't told her was what he thought, who he suspected.
As Richard was illegitimate, he couldn't inherit, not with so many legitimate males in the family. After learning how Scandal had come by his name, she hadn't needed to ask who Devil's heir was. In the weeks before their marriage, she'd questioned Horatia about Devil's father—in passing, Horatia had mentioned that George, her husband, Vane's father, was a bare year younger than Devil's father. Which meant that, with Richard ineligible, George was Devil's heir, with Vane next in line.
Not in her wildest dreams could she imagine George as the villain of the piece. Devil treated him as a surrogate father, an affection George openly returned. And Vane's devotion to Devil was beyond question. So the killer wasn't Devil's heir, but as soon as she'd drawn Vane's attention to the point, he'd seen a blinding light.
With a frustrated growl, Honoria kicked her feathered hem aside. "So what is it about the heir that makes all obvious?"
Devil knew; Vane was sure he'd followed the same reasoning and come up with an answer. Presumably, as it wasn't the heir, some process of elimination illuminated the true killer. Who was…
Honoria glared at the clock. And tried not to think of the other reason she was pacing, eager to set eyes on her husband again. Someone was trying to kill him. This house was a safe haven; he was safe here. But outside…?
She wanted him here, safe in her arms.
Honoria shivered; she wrapped her arms about her and, frowning, looked at the clock again. Lips setting, she made for the door. Opening it, she listened; as the clock on the mantel had correctly foretold, the clock on the stairs whirred, then chimed. Twelve deep booms resonated through the house.
Midnight—and Devil was still not back.
She was closing the door when the front knocker sounded—a curt, peremptory summons. Honoria paused, her frown deepening. Who would come calling at midnight? Devil had a latchkey, so…
The blood drained from her face. Her heart stuttered, then started to race. She was halfway down the corridor before she realized she'd moved. Then she picked up her skirts and flew.
She raced through the gallery to the top of the stairs. Breathless, she clutched the wide banister and looked down. Webster swung the door wide, revealing a shadowy figure. The figure stepped forward; the light from the hall lamps burnished Vane's chestnut locks.
He handed his cane to Webster. "Where's Devil?"
Accepting the cane, Webster shut the door. "His Grace has not yet returned, sir." "He hasn't?"
Even from the top of the stairs, Honoria heard Vane's surprise. "I believe he went to White's, sir."
"Yes, I know." Vane sounded vague. "I left before him—I had to call at a friend's, but he intended leaving on my heels. I would have thought he'd be here by now."
Her heart thumping, Honoria watched the men stare at each other—the black specter she'd held at bay all day suddenly swirled closer. She leaned over the banister. "Vane?"
He looked up, then blinked. Surprise leached from his face, leaving it curiously blank. Webster glanced up, too, but immediately lowered his gaze.
Vane cleared his throat, and tried not to focus. "Yes, Honoria?"
"Go and look for him. Please?" The last word was heavy with latent fear.
Vane tried an unfocused frown. "He probably fell in with some friends and was delayed."
Honoria shook her head violently; inside, a familiar panic was rising. "No—something's happened. I know it." Her fingers tightened on the banister; her knuckles showed white. "Please—go now!"
Vane was reaching for his cane before her last words had died—the emotion investing her "please" was compelling. Infected by her concern, her fear overriding the logical excuses his mind freely concocted, he turned to the door.
Webster, reacting with similar speed, opened it. Swiftly, Vane descended the steps. His stride lengthening, he mentally retraced Devil's habitual route home from his favorite club. Ten yards from the steps, Vane remembered the alleyway between Berkeley Square and Hays Mews. Cursing, he broke into a run.
Back inside St. Ives House, Honoria clutched the banister and fought down her panic.
Closing the door, Webster briefly glanced her way. "By your leave, ma'am, I'll notify Sligo."
Honoria nodded. "Please do." She remembered she'd ordered Devil watched—with relief, she grasped that branch and hung on. Sligo, protective, watchful Sligo, would have made sure his "Cap'n" was well guarded.
Beneath her, the baize door was flung open, crashing against the wall. Sligo rushed into the hall, flung open the front door and raced down the steps. As he disappeared, Honoria felt the slim branch she'd clutched ripped from her grasp—and found herself facing the black pit of her fears again.
*****
"Hah!" Devil didn't waste breath putting much force into the shout—the alleyway was long and narrow; there were no windows in the tall brick walls. Swinging the thin blade of his swordstick in a wide arc, he grabbed the moment as his three attackers flinched back to reach down and tug the body slumped on the alley's cobbles within his guard.
Leaving room for his feet, he straightened immediately, sword flicking back and forth, steel tip scenting blood. In his other hand, he held the empty scabbard, the rigid rod a foil against another weapon. With a feral grin, he gestured with the scabbard. "Well, gentlemen? Who'll be first?"
His challenging glance swept the faces of the men sent to kill him. They'd waited until he was in the alley, striding along, thinking of other things. Two had followed him in, the third had closed from the other end. All three were brawny, hulking brutes—sailors from their ill-fitting garments. All three carried swords—not slim blades like the one keeping them at bay but long, straight, single-sided weapons.
His gaze steady, his expression taunting, Devil mentally searched for escape. And found none. Chance—in the form of two large barrels left in the usually empty alley, and a man who'd chased the sailors into the dimly lit passage—had kept him alive this far. With a yell, the man had thrown himself at the pair, alerting him to their presence. The man's intervention had been more heroic than wise; after momentarily grappling with him, one sailor had raised his arm and, with his sword grip, struck him down.
But by then he'd had his back against the wall, unsheathed sword and scabbard in his hands, the barrels immediately to his left restricting the front he had to defend. "Come along," he taunted, waving them forward. "No need to feel reticent about dying."
Their eyes shifted one to the other, each waiting to see who'd be first. It was his only hope—to keep them hanging back in indecision. From the corners of his eyes, he kept watch on the ends of the alley, lit by the flares in the street and square beyond. If anyone passed, their shadows would be thrown in—he'd have to hold his attackers back until that happened, and he could call for help.
Unfortunately, it was past midnight in an area of fashionable residences with the Season yet to start. There were few people abroad.
Feet shifted on the cobbles; the largest of the sailors, the one directly in front, tried a slashing thrust. Devil blocked, catching the blade on his scabbard, sword hissing forward to slice the man's forearm. With a curse, the man jumped back, scowling, piggy eyes considering.
Devil prayed he wouldn't consider too hard—one on one, he could win, or hold them off forever. They were all heavier, but he was taller and had a longer, more flexible reach. If they rushed him all at once, they'd have him. Indeed, he couldn't understand why they hadn't already overwhelmed him; despite his black coat, his snowy cravat and white cuffs marked him clearly. Then he saw all three exchange another wary glance; inspiration dawned. He smiled, devilishly. "Hell's not such a bad place—take
my word for it. Fiendishly hot, of course, and the pain never ends, but I can guarantee you'll all be found a place."
The three exchanged another glance, then the leader tried a less-than-successful sneer. "You may look like Satan, but you ain't him. You're just a man—your blood'll run free enough. 'Tisn't us slated to die tonight." He glanced at the others. "C'arn—let's get this done."
So saying, he raised his sword.
His warning, of course, was not wise. Devil met them, front and right; the man on his left, impeded by the barrels, predictably hung back. Sparks flew as one sword met the sweetly tempered steel of the swordstick and slid away; blocking the leader's stroke with his scabbard, Devil followed up with a swift thrust that pierced flesh.
He disengaged, simultaneously blocking the leader's second blow; the sword, wielded with force, sheered along the polished wood and struck his hand, clenched around it. The cut was not serious, he'd been pulling back at the time, but the scabbard quickly turned sticky beneath his fingers. Suppressing all reaction to the wound, Devil sent his thin blade reaching for the leader. The man jumped back as the fine point pricked his chest.
Devil cursed; the man to his left pressed closer, anxious to be in on the kill. The three assassins regrouped, all raising their weapons.
"Hi! Hold hard!"
A tall figure blocked out the light from Hays Mews. Running footsteps echoed from the walls; a second figure followed the first.
Devil grabbed the moment, striking cleanly at the leader.
The man yelped, then staggered back, clutching his right arm. His sword dropped from nerveless fingers. The clatter shocked his comrades—they looked around, then dropped their weapons. All three turned and fled.
Devil started in pursuit—and tripped over the slumped form of his would-be savior, still lying at his feet.
Vane, his own scabbard and unsheathed sword in his hands, skidded to a halt beside him. "Who the hell were they?"
Side by side, the cousins watched the three burly shadows disappear into the glare of Berkeley Square. Devil shrugged. "We didn't exchange introductions."
Vane looked down. "You got one." Bending down, he turned the man onto his back.
"No." Devil peered at his comatose good Samaritan. "He tried to help and got a clout over the ear for his pains. Strange to tell, I think he's one of my undergrooms."
Puffing, Sligo clattered up. His gaze swept Devil, then he slumped against the wall. "You all right?"
Devil raised his brows, then sheathed his swordstick, clicking the blade into place. Transferring the innocent-looking cane to his right hand, he examined his left. "Other than a cut, which doesn't seem serious."
"Thank Gawd for that." Propped against the wall, Sligo closed his eyes. "The missus would never forgive me."
Devil frowned—first at Sligo, then at Vane.
Vane was studying the three discarded swords. "Funny business." Bending, he scooped them up. "Not your usual backstreet weapon."
Devil took one of the swords and hefted it. "Odd indeed. They look like old cavalry issue." After a moment, he added: "Presumably they knew I carry a swordstick and would use it."
"They also knew they'd need three to get the job done."
"If it hadn't been for him," Devil indicated the man on the ground, "they'd have succeeded." He turned to Sligo. "Any idea what he's doing here?"
The tone of the question was mild; Sligo clung to the shadows and shook his head. "Most likely out for the evening and on his way home. Saw you and the others—you're easy enough to recognize."
Devil humphed. "You'd better get him home and make sure he's cared for. I'll see him tomorrow—such timely devotion shouldn't go unrewarded."
Making a mental note to explain to the second undergroom that he'd had the night off, Sligo hefted the man over his shoulder. Wiry and used to such loads, he started off up the alley, plodding steadily.
Devil and Vane strolled in his wake. As they left the alley, Devil glanced at Vane. "Speaking of opportune events, what brought you two here?"
Vane met his look. "Your wife."
Devil's brows rose. "I should have guessed."
"She was frantic when I left." Vane glanced at him. "She worries about you."
Devil grimaced; Vane shrugged. "She may jump to conclusions, but too often they've proved right. I decided not to argue. The alley was an obvious place for an ambush."
Devil nodded. "Very obvious."
Vane looked ahead; Sligo was making his way about Grosvenor Square. Vane slowed. "Did Honoria speak to you about your heir?"
Devil sent him a sidelong glance. "Yes."
Eyes narrowing, Vane sent the glance right back. "How long have you known?"
Devil sighed. "I still don't know—I suspect. I can't say exactly when I realized—I just suddenly saw the possibility."
"So?"
Devil's features set. "So I want to find out what I can from this madam—tie up that loose end, if loose end it proves. Bromley confirmed the where and when of the meeting. After that—" He grimaced. "We've precious little evidence—we may need to draw him into the open."
"A trap?" Devil nodded.
Vane's expression hardened. "With you as bait?"
They'd reached the steps of St. Ives House. Devil looked up at his door. "With me—and Honoria Prudence—as bait."
The suggestion stunned Vane; when he refocused, Devil was climbing the steps. Webster opened the door as Sligo, lugging his burden, reached it. Setting the door wide, Webster called for assistance, then helped Sligo.
Pacing in the gallery, wringing her hands with frustrated impotence, Honoria heard the commotion. In a froth of silk and feathers, she rushed to the balustrade. The sight that met her eyes was not designed to reassure.
Webster and Sligo were carrying a body.
Honoria paled. For one instant, her heart stopped; her chest squeezed so tight, she couldn't breathe. Then she realized the body wasn't Devil's—relief hit her in a dizzying wave. The next instant, her husband strolled over his threshold, ineffably elegant as always. Vane followed.
Vane was carrying three swords and his walking cane.
Devil was carrying his silver-topped cane. The cane was streaked with blood; the back of his left hand was bright red.
Honoria forgot everything and everyone else. In a whisper of silk, feathers scattering in her wake, she flew down the stairs.
Sligo and two footmen had the unconscious groom in charge; Webster was closing the door. It was Vane who saw her first; he jogged Devil's elbow.
Devil looked up—and only just managed not to gape. His wife's peignoir was not transparent but left little to the imagination; the soft, sheer silk clung to gently rounded contours and long sleek limbs.
Abruptly, his face set; biting back a curse, he strode for the stairs. He only had time to toss his cane to Webster before Honoria flung herself against him.
"Where are you hurt? What happened?" Frantic, she ran her hands across his chest, searching for wounds. Then she tried to draw back and examine him.
"I'm fine." With his right arm, Devil locked her to him. Lifting her, he continued up the stairs, his body shielding her from the hall below.
"But you're bleedingl" Honoria wriggled, trying to pursue her investigation of his hurts.
"It's just a scratch—you can tend it in our room." Devil gave the last three words definite emphasis. Reaching the top of the stairs, he glanced down at Vane. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Vane met his gaze. "Tomorrow."
"Is the wound on your hand or your arm?" Honoria half tipped in Devil's hold, trying to see.
Devil swallowed a curse. "On my hand. Stay still." Tightening his hold, he headed for their chamber. "If
you're going to work yourself into a frenzy waiting up for me, you'll need to invest in more suitable nightwear."
The terse comment didn't even impinge on Honoria's consciousness.
Resigned, Devil set her down in their room and surrendered to the inevitable. Obediently stripping off his shirt, he sat on the end of the bed and let her bathe his cut. He answered all her questions—truthfully; she'd hear the details from her maid tomorrow anyway.
Mrs. Hull appeared with a pot of salve and bandages. She joined Honoria in clucking over him. Together, they bandaged the cut, using twice as much bandage as he deemed necessary. However, he kept his tongue between his teeth and submitted meekly; Mrs. Hull cast him a suspicious glance as she left. Honoria rattled on, her voice brittle and breathless, her gaze skittish.
"Swords! What sort of ruffians attack gentlemen with swords?" She gestured wildly. "It shouldn't be allowed."
Devil stood, caught her hand and towed her across the room. He stopped before the tallboy, poured two glasses of brandy, then, taking both in one hand, towed Honoria, her litany of exclamations gradually petering out, to the armchair before the fire. Dropping into the chair, he drew her down onto his lap, then handed her one glass.
Taking it, she fell silent. Then she shivered. "Drink it." Devil guided the glass to her lips.
Cradling the glass in both hands, Honoria took a sip, then another. Then she shuddered, closed her eyes and leaned against him.
His arm about her, Devil held her close. "I'm still here." He pressed his lips to her temple. "I told you I won't leave you."
Dragging in a breath, Honoria snuggled closer, settling her head in the hollow of his shoulder.
Devil waited until she'd drained her glass, then carried her to their bed, divesting her of her peignoir before putting her between the sheets. Moments later, he joined her, drawing her into his arms. And set about demonstrating in the most convincing way he knew that he was still hale and whole, still very much alive.
Honoria slept late the next morning, yet when she awoke she felt far from refreshed. After tea and toast on a tray in her chamber, she headed for the morning room. Her head felt woolly, her wits still skittish. Settling on the chaise, she picked up her embroidery. Fifteen minutes later, she'd yet to set a stitch.
Sighing, she put the canvas aside. She felt as fragile as the delicate tracery she should have been creating. Her nerves were stretched taut; she was convinced a storm was brewing, roiling on her horizon, poised to sweep in and strike—and take Devil from her.
He meant so much to her. He was the center of her life—she couldn't imagine living without him, arrogant tyrant though he was. They were growing together so well, yet someone was not content to let them be.
The thought made her frown. She might think of the murderer as a black cloud, billowing ever higher, yet he was only a man.
She'd woken early to find Devil sitting beside her on the bed, stroking her hair. "Rest," he'd said. "There's no reason you need be up and about." He'd searched her face, then kissed her. "Take care. I won't approve if I find you peaked and wan." With a twisted smile, he'd stood.
"Will you be about?" she'd asked. "I'll be back for dinner."
Which was all very well, but dinner was hours away.
Honoria stared at the door. Something was about to happen—she could feel it in her bones. A chill stole down her spine; she shivered, but didn't let go of her disturbing thoughts. Yet she could identify no action, nothing she could do to avert the impending doom. She was impotent. Helpless.
A tap on the door interrupted her dismal reverie. Sligo entered, balancing a tray. "Mrs. Hull thought as you might like her special tea. Makes it up herself, she does." He set the tray on the sidetable and deftly poured a cup.
Honoria's instant reaction was a definite veto—her stomach felt as fragile as her mental state. The soothing aroma that rose with the steam changed her mind.
"Chamomile, it is." Sligo handed her the cup.
Honoria took it and sipped, then remembered the groom. "How is Carter?"
"Better. Got a lump the size of an egg, but the Cap'n thanked him special this morning—Carter says as how he hardly feels it now."
"Good. Please convey my thanks to him as well." Honoria sipped. "Did Carter have any idea where the men who attacked His Grace hailed from?"
Sligo fiddled with the doily on the tray. "Not as such. He did say they looked like sailors." Honoria fixed her gaze on his face. "Sligo—did Carter overhear anything?"
Sligo shifted. "He heard the two he followed agree to meet up later at the Anchor's Arms." "The Anchor's Arms?"
"A tavern by the docks."
A demon prodded Honoria to act; she ignored it. "Has His Grace been informed of Carter's recollections?"
"No, ma'am. Carter only fully came to his wits an hour ago."
Honoria chose the course of wisdom. "Inform His Grace immediately of Carter's information." Sligo bit his lip and shifted his weight.
Honoria studied his unprepossessing features in dawning disbelief. "Sligo—where is he?"
Sligo straightened. "The Cap'n must've fallen to our plan. When the lads set out to follow 'im this morning, he lost 'em. Neat as you please."
"Neat!" Honoria sat bolt upright. "There's nothing neat about it."
Here they were, with a potentially valuable avenue to explore, and her husband had taken himself off. Away from their watchful eyes. She handed Sligo her teacup, inwardly congratulating herself on not having thrown it. She wasn't so lost to all sense as to wax hysterical over someone trying to kill Devil in the middle of London during the day. She did, however, want his would-be-murderer caught without delay. Narrow-eyed, she considered Sligo. "Where does His Grace normally lunch?"
"One of his clubs, ma'am—White's, Waitier's, or Boodles."
"Send footmen to wait at all three. They are to inform His Grace immediately he arrives that I wish to speak with him as soon as may be."
"Very good, ma'am."
Chapter 22
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By two, Honoria had started to pace. At four, she summoned Sligo. "Have you located His Grace?"
"No, ma'am. I've men at White's, Waitier's, and Boodles—we'll know the instant he shows." "Would Carter recognize the ruffians he followed?"
"Aye—he'll know them again, so he says." "How long do ships normally remain at the docks?" "Two, three days at most."
Honoria drew a deep breath. "Have the carriage brought around—the unmarked one." Sligo blinked. "Ma'am?"
"I presume Carter's well enough to assist us?" "Assist us?" Sligo's expression blanked.
Honoria frowned. "To identify the men who attacked His Grace should they be at the Anchor's Arms." "The Anchor's Arms?" Horror replaced Sligo's blankness. "You can't go there, ma'am."
"Why not?"
"You… you simply can't. It's a dockside tavern—not the sort of place you'd feel comfortable."
"At present, my comfort is not of great importance." Sligo grew desperate. "The Cap'n wouldn't approve."
Honoria transfixed him with a look as baleful as any of his master's. "Sligo, your 'Cap'n' isn't here. He's slipped his leash and taken himself off God knows where. We are presently in receipt of information
which, if acted on promptly, might identify his would-be killer. If we wait until your Cap'n deigns to return, our opportunity might have sailed with the evening tide. In His Grace's absence, we—you and I—will accompany Carter to the Anchor's Arms. I trust I've made myself clear?" Sligo opened his mouth—then shut it. Honoria nodded. "The carriage. I'm going to change." Ten minutes later, attired in a deep brown carriage dress, she crossed the gallery. Mrs. Hull was standing by the stairs. "Begging your pardon, ma'am, but I heard as you were planning to visit that inn by the docks. A terrible rough area, it is. You don't think, perhaps, that it would be better to wait…?"
"Mrs. Hull, you can't expect me to allow my husband's would-be murderer to continue to stalk him for want of a little courage. The Anchor's Arms may be all you fear, but I'm sure I'll survive."
Mrs. Hull grimaced. "I'd do the same meself, ma'am—but the master's not going to like it."
Honoria started down the stairs. Webster was waiting on the landing; he fell into step beside her. "I would like to suggest, ma'am, that you permit me to go in your stead. If we discover the blackguards who attacked His Grace, Sligo and I will persuade them to return here and speak with His Grace."
"There!" Mrs. Hull, following on Honoria's heels, leaned forward. "That's another way to scour the pot."
Honoria stopped on the last stair. Sligo stood waiting by the newel post. "Webster, neither you nor Sligo can offer sufficient inducement to secure such men's cooperation. Should we discover them at the Anchor's Arms, it is my intention to offer them a sizeable reward if they will swear to the name of the man who hired them. They will not fear me because I'm a female—they'll consider my proposition.
When they ask for the reward, it's my intention to repair to Child's Bank. Mr. Child will assist me in any negotiations." She paused, her gaze touching each concerned face. "While His Grace is unlikely to approve of my involvement, I do not approve of someone trying to kill him. I would rather face His Grace's displeasure than risk His Grace's death." She stepped down from the stair. "I'm taking you into my confidence because I appreciate your concern. I am, however, determined on my course."
After an infinitesimal hesitation, Webster followed her. "Indeed, ma'am. But please—take care."
With a haughty nod, Honoria swept out of the door and down the steps. Sligo had to scurry to open the carriage door because, at that moment, there was not a single footman, or groom, left within St. Ives House.
The hitch in Honoria's plan became apparent the instant they reached the Anchor's Arms, in a mean, narrow street close by the docks. Sulfurous fog, dense and thick, wreathed the inn's low eaves. A rumble of male voices rolled out through the open door, punctuated by occasional female shrieks.
Sligo and Carter had traveled up top; descending nimbly to the cobbles, Sligo glanced around, then eased open the carriage door.
Her face lit by one of the carriage lamps, Honoria raised a brow. "There's a problem."
"Problem?" Honoria glanced through the door at the inn beyond. The carriage's leather window flaps were down. "What problem?"
"This area's not safe." Sligo scanned the shadows. 'We should have brought more men."
"Why? I'll remain here while you and Carter go in. If the men are there, bring them out to me here." "Who's going to watch over you while we're in the inn?"
Honoria blinked. "John Coachman's up top." Even as she said it, Sligo's unease reached her.
He shook his head. "He'll have his hands full with his team. If any wanted to grab you, all they need do is spook the horses. And I don't want to send Carter in alone. If those men are there, he might not come back."
Honoria understood, yet she had to find out if the men were there. "I'll come in with you. It's not particularly well-lit—if I cling to the shadows, no one will pay any attention to me." On the words, she left her seat.
Sligo gaped—Honoria scowled and he let down the steps. Defeated he handed her down, then beckoned Carter closer. "If we walk in front, shoulder to shoulder, you'll be less noticeable, ma'am."
Honoria nodded curtly. She followed close on Sligo's heels as he and Carter crossed the tavern's threshold.
They entered a smoke-filled, low-ceilinged room—a deathly silence fell. Every conversation was suspended, instantly cut off. Sligo and Carter halted; Honoria sensed their defensiveness. Men lounged, slumped over a long counter; others sat on crude benches about rough tables. All heads had snapped their way; eyes used to sifting shadows focused without difficulty on her. The expression on some faces was surprised; most quickly turned calculating. Some turned malevolent. Danger, palpable, cloying, hung on the smoky air. Honoria tasted it, felt it crawl across her skin.
The barman, a harrassed-looking individual, reacted first. "You've come to the wrong place." He shooed them back. "We don't have what you want."
"Now, now." A beefy arm stopped him in his tracks. A body to match the arm heaved its way off a bench. "Don't be so hasty, Willie. Who's to say wha' the fancy want?"
The leer that went with this, directed at Honoria, convinced her the barman was right.
"Tha's right. Lady walks in—must know what she's a-lookin' for." Another grinning navvy, wide as a tug, lumbered to his feet. "Any number of us 'ere might have wha' she's after."
Honoria looked him in the eye. "You're quite right." The only way out was through sheer, brazen bluff. Pushing Carter aside, she stepped forward. "You might well be able to assist me. However"—she let her gaze roam the tables—"I must warn you that my husband and his cousins—the Bar Sinister, as they're called—are presently on their way here. All six of them." She considered the navvy. "They're all taller than you."
She turned to the barman: "I daresay you can imagine how their group got its name. And now they've learned that three of your patrons attacked one of them last night. They're coming for revenge, but when they get here, they're not going to waste time on identification."
Barman and patrons struggled through her words; Honoria inwardly sighed. "I think they're going to wreck this tavern—and everyone in it as well."
The navvies bristled; rebellious rumblings flew. "If it's a rough-house they're after, we'll give it 'em," one brawny salt declared.
"I'll complain to the magistrate," the barman bleated.
Honoria eyed the navvies measuringly. "Six of them—all rather large. And…" She looked at the barman. "Did I mention my husband's a duke?" The man's face blanked; she smiled. "His nickname's
Devil. Lucifer and Demon will be with him." She peered out through the open door. "I didn't see the Watch out there."
The navvies exchanged glances. Tales of the forays mounted by the less civilized of society's males were commonplace; the poorer classes bore the brunt of such destructive routs. The crowd in the Anchor's Arms were too old to risk getting their skulls cracked unnecessarily.
The man who'd spoken first eyed her challengingly. "And just what might you be a-doing 'ere, then? A duchess an'all?"
Honoria looked down her nose at him. "My dear man, surely you've heard that duchesses are required to do charitable deeds? Saving the Anchor's Arms is my deed for today." She paused. "Provided, of course, that you tell me what I need to know."
The navvy glanced at his cronies—many nodded. Still suspicious, he turned back to her. "How d'we know if'n we help you, you'll be able to stop this 'ere Devil from laying waste anyway?"
"You don't." Honoria held his gaze. "You can only hope." "What'd you want to know?" came from the back of the room.
Honoria lifted her head. "Three sailors met here recently. I need to talk to them. Carter—describe the two you saw."
Carter did; more than a few remembered them.
"In here yesterday evenin'—off the Rising Star." "Rising Star upped anchor this mornin' for Rotterdam."
"You're sure?" Confirmation came from several points in the room.
Then silence fell. Dense, cold, it chilled the air. Even before she turned, Honoria knew Devil had arrived.
She swung to face him—and only just stopped her blink. She swallowed instead. It was him, but not the man she habitually saw. This man filled the space before the door with a menacing presence; barely restrained aggression poured from him in waves. His elegant attire did nothing to conceal his powerful frame, nor the fact that he was fully prepared to annihilate anything or anyone unwise enough to give him the slightest excuse. He fitted the image she'd created to perfection.
His eyes, cold and flat, left her, scanning the room, holding not challenge but a promise, an intent every man could feel. Vane stood at his shoulder; just the two of them made the tavern seem uncomfortably overcrowded.
As Devil's gaze fastened on the wide-eyed barman, Honoria conjured a smile and swept into the breach. "There you are, my lord. I fear the men you seek are not here—they sailed this morning."
Devil didn't blink. His gaze fastened on her face—flames replaced the chill in his eyes but they remained oddly flat. One brow rose fractionally. "Indeed?"
The single word, uttered in his deep voice, gave no hint of his thoughts. For one definable instant, me entire tavern held its breath. Then he nodded at the barman. "In that case, you must excuse us."
On the words, Devil turned, catching Honoria's arm, propelling her over the threshold, lifting her through the carriage door Sligo raced to open and into the safety beyond.
Vane swung out of the inn behind them; he loomed at Devil's shoulder as he paused, one boot on the carriage steps. "I'll take the hackney." Vane nodded to where the small carriage waited.
His expression beyond grim, Devil nodded—he followed Honoria into the carriage. Sligo slammed the door; John Coachman flicked the reins.
It took three tense, silent minutes before the coach maneuvered its way free of the narrow street. And a further, equally silent half-hour before it drew up in Grosvenor Square. Devil alighted. He waited until Sligo let down the steps, then held out his hand. Honoria placed hers in it; he helped her down and led her up the steps.
Webster opened the door, his relief so intense it showed in his face. Then he saw his master's face—immediately his expression leached to impassivity. Gliding into the hall, her fingers on an arm more like rock than human flesh, Honoria held her head high.
Devil halted in the hall. "If you'll excuse me, my dear, I must speak with Sligo." His tone was glacial, bleak, and not quite steady, the icy surface rippling with barely suppressed rage. "I'll join you shortly. Upstairs."
For the first time that evening, Honoria saw his face clearly, lit by the chandelier high above. It was paler than usual, each harsh plane starkly edged, the whole no more animated than a death mask in which his eyes burned oddly dark. She met that black gaze directly. "Sligo was acting on my orders."
Devil raised a brow, his expression cold. "Indeed?"
Honoria studied his eyes, then inclined her head. And turned for the stairs. In the mood he was in, saying anything further might be counterproductive.
Rigid, Devil watched her ascend. When she passed from sight, he switched his gaze to Sligo. "In the library."
Sligo scurried in; Devil followed more slowly. Crossing the threshold, he paused; a footman closed the door. Sligo stood at attention to one side of the desk. Devil let silence stretch before slowly closing the distance.
Normally, he would have sat at his desk; tonight, the rage consuming him would not let him rest. He halted before the long windows giving onto the dark courtyard.
Words filled his head, jostled for prominence on his tongue, a ranting rave of fury clamoring to spill free. Jaw clenched, he fought to hold it back. Never before could he recall such rage—so fraught he was chilled to the marrow, so powerful he could barely contain it.
He glanced at Sligo. "I was informed by a footman who chanced upon me in St. James that Her Grace was on her way to the Anchor's Arms. Before I could summon a hackney, three others of my household appeared, bearing like tidings. It appears that fully half my staff were scouring the streets for me, instead of obeying my orders and looking after my wife! How the devil did she even hear about the Anchor's Arms?"
Sligo flinched. "She asked—I told her."
"What in all the saints' names did you mean by taking her there?"
The door opened at the height of that roar. Devil glared balefully at Webster. "I do not wish to be disturbed."
"Indeed, Your Grace." Webster stepped around the door, held it open for Mrs. Hull, then closed it. "Mrs. Hull and I wished to make sure you were not laboring under any misapprehension."
"It is exceedingly difficult to misapprehend discovering my wife in a dockside tavern."
The words had an edge like cut glass; Webster paled but persevered. "I believe you wish to learn how that came about, my lord. Sligo did not act on his own. We were all, myself, Mrs. Hull, and Sligo, aware of Her Grace's intent. We all attempted to dissuade her, but, having heard her reasons, we couldn't legitimately stand in her way."
His fists clenched so tight they hurt, his jaw all but locked, Devil spoke through his teeth. "What reasons?"
Webster outlined Honoria's plan; Mrs. Hull elucidated her reasons. "Perfectly understandable, to my mind." She sniffed defensively. "She was worried—as were we. It seemed a perfectly sensible thing to do."
Devil swallowed the tirade that leapt to his tongue. His temper seething, roiling behind the flimsy facade of civilized behavior, he eyed them narrowly. "Out! All of you."
They went, carefully shutting the door. Swinging around, Devil stared into the night. Sligo didn't approve of tonnish women, Webster was as starchily devoted as they came, and Mrs. Hull was an
arch-conservative—yet all had been suborned by his wife. And her reasons.
Ever since marrying Honoria Prudence Anstruther-Wetherby, he'd been knee-deep in reasons—her reasons. He had reasons, too—good, sound, solid reasons. But it wasn't his staff he need to share them with. Having reached that conclusion, Devil swung on his heel and stalked out of the library.
Striding toward the ducal apartments, he reflected that Honoria had succeeded in shielding her three
co-conspirators from his anger, without even being present. Of course, if he'd been able to lose some of the red-hot fury swirling inside him by venting it on them, she wouldn't be about to face it all herself. As it was…
Reaching the end of the corridor, he threw open the door, then slammed it shut behind him.
Honoria didn't even jump. She stood before the fireplace, head erect, unshakable resolve in every line. The skirts of her brown velvet carriage dress were gilded by the fire behind her; the soft chestnut curls atop her head glowed. Her hands were loosely clasped before her; her face was pale but composed, her eyes wide, the soft blue-grey showing no hint of trepidation. Her neatly rounded, Anstruther-Wetherby chin was set.
Deliberately, Devil stalked toward her, watching her chin rise as she kept her eyes on his. He stopped directly before her. "You gave me your word you would not actively pursue Tolly's killer."
Calmly, Honoria raised a brow. "Tolly's killer—I gave no undertaking to sit idly by while someone tried to kill you."
Shadows flitted through Devil's darkened eyes. He inclined his head. "Very well—you may give me such an undertaking now."
Honoria straightened. Devil still towered over her. "I can't do that."
His eyes mere slits, more black than green, he shifted closer. "Can't—or won't?"
Honoria held her ground. "Can't." Her eyes on his, her jaw slowly firmed. "And won't. You can't seriously expect it of me."
For three heartbeats, Devil held her gaze. "I'm deathly serious." He braced one hand on the mantelpiece, his body settling closer, his face nearer hers. "Women—wives—are supposed to sit quietly at home and embroider, not actively hunt villains. They're supposed to be at home when their husbands get in, not out courting danger on the docks!" Briefly closing his eyes, he fought down the impulse to roar. Then he trapped Honoria's gaze and continued: "I want your promise that you will not again indulge in any escapade such as today's, that you will remain safely at home and that you will not further concern yourself with tracking anyone's killer." His eyes locked on hers, he raised one black brow. "Well?"
Honoria held his gaze steadily. "Well what?"
Devil only just managed to hold back a roar. "Well give me your promise!"
"When hell freezes!" Honoria's eyes flashed. "I will not sit tamely by while someone tries to take you from me. I'm your duchess—not some disinterested spectator. I will not sit quietly embroidering, waiting for news when that news could tell of your death. As your wife, I have a duty to help you—if in this case that means walking a dangerous path, so be it." Her chin, defiantly high, rose another notch. "I'm an Anstruther-Wetherby—I'm every bit as capable of facing danger and death as you are. If you wanted a tame, complaisant wife, you shouldn't have married me."
Momentarily stunned, more by her vehemence than her words, Devil stared at her. Then, his frown deepening, he shook his head. "No."
Honoria frowned back. "No what?"
"No to all the above, but most especially no, you do not have a duty to assist me in hunting a murderer. As my wife, you have no duties other than those I deem proper. In my eyes, there's nothing—no duty, no reason whatever—that could justify you placing yourself in danger."
Their faces were six inches apart; if Honoria had not sensed the throttled fury investing his large frame, radiating from it, she could not have missed the jagged edge to his words. Her eyes narrowed. "That I do not accept." She was not about to bow before his rage.
Devil's lips curved slightly; his voice, when he spoke, was mesmerically low. "That you will accept."
It was an effort not to shiver, to submissively shift her gaze from his, so penetrating, so compelling, it resembled a physical force. By sheer will, sheer stubbornness, Honoria met that intimidating gaze levelly. "You're wrong on all counts. I've lost others before, to forces I could not influence—I couldn't help them, I couldn't save them." Her jaw set; momentarily, her teeth clenched. "I will not sit by and let you be taken from me."
Her voice quavered; flashes of silver lit Devil's eyes. "Damn it!—do you think I'm going to let
myself be taken?"
"Not intentionally, but it was me who detected the poison."
Devil waved that aside. "That was here." He studied her face, her eyes. "Within this house, you may watch over me to your heart's content, but you will stay away from all danger. You spoke of duty—it's my duty to protect you, not yours to protect me."
Honoria went to shake her head; Devil caught her chin on the edge of his hand and trapped her gaze with his. "Promise me you'll do as I ask."
Honoria drew as deep a breath as her tight chest would allow, then shook her head. "No—leave duty aside—we spoke also of reasons, a reason to justify my doing all and anything to safeguard your life." She spoke quickly, breathlessly; she had to make him understand. "My reason is one that will stand against any objection."
Devil's face hardened. His hand fell; he drew back. Her eyes locked on his, Honoria clung to the contact, refusing to let him withdraw totally behind his mask. She drew a swift breath, and let it out on the words: "I love you—more than I've ever loved anyone. I love you so profoundly it goes beyond all reason. And I could never let you go—let you be taken from me—that would be the same as letting life itself go, because you are life to me."
Devil stilled. For one, heart-stopping moment, he looked into Honoria's eyes; what he saw there locked his chest. He wrenched his gaze free and swung away. He paced toward the door, then stopped. Hands in fists by his sides, chest swelling, he dropped his head back, and stared at the ceiling. Then exhaling, he looked down. He spoke without turning. "Your reason's not good enough."
Honoria lifted her chin. "It is to me."
"Damn it woman!" Furious, Devil turned on her. "How by all that's holy do you imagine I'm supposed to function, knowing that, at any instant, you may be courting heaven knows what danger—all in the name of keeping me safe?" His voice rose to a bellow that literally shook the chandelier. Gesticulating violently, he paced viciously, like some trapped jungle cat. "Do you have any idea what I felt when I learned where you'd gone today?" Brilliant with accusation, his eyes raked her. "Can you even conceive what I felt when I walked in that tavern door?" He halted directly before her.
Honoria caught her breath as his eyes locked on hers.
"Do you know what might have happened in such a place?" His voice had lowered, his tones chillingly prophetic.
Honoria didn't move.
"They could have knifed Sligo and Carter—killed them without a qualm. Then they'd have raped you—one after another. If you'd survived, they'd have slit your throat."
Devil spoke with deadpan conviction; it was the truth—a truth he'd had to face. The muscles across his shoulders rippled; he tensed, holding back his reactive rage, clinging grimly to the reality of the woman standing slim, straight, and unharmed before him. A second later he caught himself reaching for her—abruptly, he swung away, pacing again, then he stopped.
His back to Honoria, he dragged in a deep breath. "How the hell do you think I would have felt then
!—if anything had happened to you?" He paused, then flatly stated: "I cannot countenance you putting yourself in danger over me. You can't ask that of me."
Silence fell; Devil looked back at Honoria. "Will you give me your word you will not knowingly go into danger?"
Honoria held his gaze, then, slowly, shook her head. "I can't."
He looked forward immediately, his fury clearly delineated in the rigid lines of his back, clearly expressed in a single, violent expletive.
"I simply can't." Honoria spread her hands. "I'm not trying to be wilful, but you must see I can't—" Her words were drowned out by a half-strangled roar; the next instant,
Devil flung open the door. Honoria stiffened. "Where are you going?" "Downstairs."
"Don't you dare leave." If he did, would he come back? "I haven't finished—"
His hand on the doorknob, Devil turned, his green gaze impaling her. "If I don't leave, you won't sit comfortably for a sennight."
Before she could react, he slammed the door shut. Honoria listened to his footsteps, uncharacteristically heavy, retreat. She stood before the fire, her gaze fixed unseeing on the panels of the door, for a very long time.
Reaching the library, Devil flung himself into an armchair. An instant later, he sprang up and fell to pacing. He never paced—the action was too indicative of lost control for his liking. If he kept on as he was, he'd wear a track in the rug.
Uttering a long-drawn groan, he halted; eyes closed, he dropped his head back and concentrated on breathing, on letting his impotent rage settle. Into the morass of emotions that swirled inside him, all called forth by the woman he'd taken to wife.
Both jaw and fists clenched; then again he forced himself to relax. One by one, tensed muscles uncoiled; eventually, he stood easy. Eyes still closed, he looked inward, sifting through his reactions to what lay beneath.
When he saw what it was, he wasn't impressed.
Honoria was dealing with this unexpected development far better than he. Then again, she'd been through it before, albeit unhappily. He'd never experienced the like before.
He hadn't, in fact, known real fear, even on the battlefield. He was a Cynster; fate took care of Cynsters. Unfortunately, he wasn't sanguine enough to assume fate's benevolence extended to Cynster wives.
Which left him battling a fear he'd no idea how to combat.
Exhaling slowly, he opened his eyes. Spreading his fingers, he studied them. They were almost steady. His muscles, tensed for so long, now felt chilled. He glanced at the decanter, then grimaced. Switching his gaze to the flames cheerily dancing in the hearth, he paused, then, deliberately, opened the door of his memory. And let Honoria's words warm him.
He stared at the flames for so long that when he heaved a long sigh and turned to the door, they still danced before his eyes.
Honoria shivered beneath the unfamiliar covers of her bed. After much mental debate, she'd returned to her apartments, undressed, and climbed between the sheets. She hadn't had any dinner—not that it mattered; she'd lost her appetite. Whether she'd find it again was moot, but if she could relive her scene with Devil, she would not change one word she'd said.
Her declaration had been necessary—she hadn't expected him to like it. She had no idea how he viewed her confession—he'd turned from her the instant he'd seen her words confirmed in her eyes.
Frowning, she stared into the dark, trying, for the umpteenth time, to make consistent sense of his reaction. On the surface, he'd appeared his usual tyrannical, domineering self, insisting without quarter that she fall in with his dictates, resorting to intimidation when she stood firm. Yet not all he'd said fitted
that image—the mere thought of her being in danger had agitated him to a remarkable degree. It was almost as if…
The nebulous thought went round and round in her head, and followed her into sleep. She woke to find a very large, dense shadow looming over her.
"Damn fool woman—what the devil are you doing here?"
His tone made it clear the question was rhetorical; Honoria valiantly stifled a giggle. He sounded so put upon—poor aggrieved male—not one of the most powerful men in the land. Her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw him, hands on hips, shake his head. Then he leaned over her.
He loosened her covers, then pressed down on the soft mattress and slid his hands under her. He lifted her easily; Honoria played dead.
"And a bloody nightgown."
The disgust in his voice made her jaw ache. "What the hell does she think she's about?"
He shouldered through the door into the short corridor; seconds later, very gently, she was deposited in his bed. Honoria decided a murmur and a wriggle were required for authenticity.
She heard him humph, then listened to the familiar sounds of him undressing, her mind supplying what she could not see.
The relief she felt when he slid into bed beside her, curling around her, warm, hard, reassuringly solid, made her chest ache. Carefully, he slid one arm over her waist; his hand gently pushed between her breasts, long fingers draping possessively over the lower.
She felt him heave a long, deep sigh; the last of his tension left him.
Minutes later, before she could decide whether or not to "wake up," his breathing deepened. Smiling, still wondering, Honoria closed her eyes.
Chapter 23
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The next morning, Honoria woke late, alone, Devil long gone, up and about his business. His unflagging energy struck her as unfair—the events of the night had left her drained. Her gaze, unfocused, fell on the swath of ivory silk adorning the richly hued carpet. Her nightgown.
They'd engaged in a midnight tussle—half-asleep, she'd been reluctant to relinquish the gown's warmth. He, however, had insisted, then compensated admirably. Even now, she felt pleasurably aglow, inside and out. Smiling, she sank deeper into the bed, luxuriating in the lingering sense of warm fulfilment.
Who'd made the first move she neither knew nor cared; they'd turned to each other and let their bodies seal their unvoiced commitment that, regardless of any differences, they remained man and wife, their alliance rock-solid, as enduring as the Place.
The door from her apartments cracked open; Cassie peeked, then bustled in. "G'morning, ma'am." She swiped up the nightgown. "It's nearly eleven."
"Eleven?" Honoria blinked her eyes wide.
"Webster asked if you wanted any breakfast kept. Having missed dinner and all."
Honoria sat up. "We ate later." An hour after her nightgown had hit the floor, Devil's mind had turned to food. She'd been sound asleep again; he'd made a trip to the kitchens, then ruthlessly harried her awake, insisting she eat morsels of chicken, ham, and cheese, all washed down with white wine.
"There's kedgeree, boiled eggs, and sausages." Honoria wrinkled her nose. "I'll take a bath."
The bath suited her mood: lazy, disinclined to move. She stared through the steam, reviewing the previous evening—and heard in her mind, in the depths of the night, her husband's deep voice as, sated, replete, he'd slumped beside her. "You can't fear losing me half as much as I fear losing you." It had been a grudging admission; he'd thought her already asleep.
Why would he fear losing her even more than she feared losing him?
The minutes ticked by, the water grew cold, and still she could find only one answer. As she rose from the bath, her spirits soared—she spent the next half hour sternly lecturing herself on the unwisdom of leaping to conclusions, especially conclusions like that.
She retired to the morning room but couldn't settle, idly drifting between window and fireplace, consumed by a longing to see her husband again. To look into his face; to study his clear eyes. Mrs. Hull brought up a pot of herbal tea. Grateful, she accepted a cup, but it grew cold while she stared at the wall.
Louise and the twins provided a welcome diversion; they came to lunch, the girls eager to describe their latest gowns. Honoria toyed with a portion of steamed fish and listened with half an ear. She'd canceled all her other engagements, although the news that the new duchess of St. Ives was indisposed was certain to lead to speculation.
In this instance, speculation would be accurate. She'd hesitated to let the thought form in her mind, but it now seemed beyond question. Her dullness every morning, her fragile appetite, all testified to the fact.
She was carrying Devil's child.
The very thought made her giddy with happiness, with eager anticipation tinged only by understandable apprehension. Real fear had no chance of intruding, not with Devil and his family so constantly about her.
As if to emphasize that last, with the twins on the front steps, Louise glanced at her affectionately. "You're looking well, but if you have any questions, there's me or Horatia or Celia—we've all been there before you."
"Oh—yes." Honoria blushed—she hadn't told Devil; she could hardly tell his aunts first. "That is—" She gestured vaguely. "If…"
Smiling, Louise patted her arm. "Not if, my dear. When." With a nod and a wave, she left, the twins falling in behind her.
Climbing the stairs, Honoria debated just how to tell Devil the news. Every time she imagined doing so,
the specter of his would-be murderer intruded. They were closing in; before he'd left that morning, Devil had told her that he and Vane were searching for proof, precisely what he hadn't said. He'd promised to reveal all tonight. The last thing they needed now was a distraction—announcing the impending birth of his heir would create a major stir, focusing society's rabid interest on them.
Entering the morning room, Honoria inwardly shook her head. She would inform Devil of his impending fatherhood after they'd caught his would-be killer. Until then, his safety consumed her—not even his child meant more to her than he. Besides, she wanted the telling to be a happy event, a memorable moment between them, not overshadowed by a killer.
As she sank onto the chaise, Webster knocked and entered. "A message, ma'am." He proffered a silver salver.
Lifting the folded sheet, Honoria saw black lettering, conservative, precise, not her husband's extravagant scrawl. "Thank you, Webster." Breaking the plain seal, she returned the knife to the tray and nodded a dismissal. Webster left as she unfolded the note.
To Her Grace, the duchess of St. Ives:
Should you wish to learn more of he who intends your husband ill, come at once to No. 17 Green Street. Come alone—tell no one of your errand, else all will be lost. Most especially destroy this note that none may
chance upon it and follow you, scaring away the little bird that would whisper in your ear. A Well-wisher.
For a long moment, Honoria stared at the note, then she reread it. Then, drawing a steadying breath, she sank back against the chaise.
Devil wouldn't want her to go. But if she didn't?
There was clearly a potential threat to herself, but that she dismissed out of hand; far more relevant was how Devil would react. Not, of course, that such a consideration would sway her—her fear was more compelling than his.
Glancing at the note's thick black script, she grimaced. Devil's words of the night replayed in her mind; if she understood them correctly, then his fear was a mirror image of hers. There was only one emotion which gave rise to such fear. That emotion, if he felt it, demanded her consideration, her care. The same emotion impelled her to go to Green Street. How to do both?
Five minutes later, she stood and crossed to the escritoire. Fifteen minutes later, she shook sand across her letter, folded it, and sealed it with the seal Devil had given her—the Cynster stag rampant imposed on the Anstruther-Wetherby chevrons. Blowing on the wax, she rose, crossed the room, and tugged the bellpull three times.
Sligo answered her summons. "Yes, ma'am?"
Honoria glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Nearly three o'clock. "Where is His Grace at present?"
"At White's with Master Vane." Sligo almost smiled. "He didn't try to lose the men I set to follow him today."
"Good." Honoria held out her letter. "I want this delivered into His Grace's hands with all possible
speed."
"Right away, ma'am." Accepting the letter, Sligo turned for the door. "And have Webster call up a hackney for me."
"A hackney, ma'am?" Sligo turned back, his expression watchful. "John Coachman can have the carriage around in a trice."
"No." Honoria let authority tinge her tone. "A hackney.
I'm only going a short distance—there's no need to get the carriage out." With a regal nod, she dismissed Sligo. "Tell Webster I wish to leave in ten minutes."
Sligo departed. Honoria picked up the letter from her "well-wisher." She glanced at it again, then, folding it neatly, headed upstairs.
Ten minutes later, arrayed in her golden pelisse and clutching an ivory-beaded reticule, she settled in one corner of the hackney. The footman bowed and started to close the door. It was wrenched from his grasp—Sligo bundled himself into the carriage, then shrank back in the other corner. Honoria stared at him. "Where's my letter?"
Sligo watched her like a chicken shut in with a vixen. "On its way—I sent Daley with it. He'll see it into His Grace's hands, just like you wanted."
"Indeed? And what are you doing here?"
"Ah…" Sligo blinked. "I thought as how it wasn't right you going about alone—you might get lost, not being used to Lunnon an' all."
Lips compressed, Honoria straightened her skirts. "I'm only going a few streets away to visit an acquaintance."
Sligo swallowed. "Be that as it may, ma'am, I'll go with you—if you don't mind."
Looking up, Honoria was about to inform him that she did mind, when suspicion dawned. "Did His Grace order you to stay with me?"
Glumly, Sligo nodded.
Honoria sighed. "Very well—but you'll have to remain in the carriage."
The hatch above opened; the jarvey peered down. "We goin' somewhere? Or did you just want to use me carriage for a chat?"
Honoria silenced him with a glare. "Green Street. Drive along it slowly—I'll tell you where to stop." "Right you are." The jarvey dropped the hatch; an instant later, they were off.
Green Street was where her grandfather lived, at Number 13. Number 17 was closer to the park. The jarvey walked his horse along; Honoria studied the facades. Number 17 was an elegant residence, a gentleman's abode. She waited until they'd passed two more houses before saying: "Have the jarvey pull up. Wait for me here."
Sligo relayed her orders. The hackney drew up; Sligo leapt down and helped her out. Beside the
hackney, screened from Number 17 on the other side of the road, Honoria fixed Sligo with a commanding look. "Wait for me here—inside the carriage."
Sligo blinked. "Shouldn't I walk you to the door?"
"Sligo, this is Green Street, not Billingsgate. You will stay in the carriage."
Mournfully, Sligo nodded; Honoria waited until he resumed his seat, then turned on her heel, walked back a short distance, and swiftly crossed the road. Briskly determined, she climbed the steps of Number 17. Reaching for the knocker, she froze, her hand in midair. The brass knocker was a sylph—a naked sylph. Honoria frowned, then closed her gloved hand about the indiscreet figure and beat an imperious tattoo.
She waited, clutching her reticule, trying not to think of the expletives her husband would utter when he read her letter—she hoped the committee of White's would understand. Then footsteps approached on the other side of the door. Not the measured tread of a well-trained butler but a slow, familiar, prowling gait. Even before the door opened, Honoria knew she would not be facing a butler.
When she saw who held the door wide, her jaw dropped. The earl of Chillingworth's jaw dropped, too.
For one instant, they stood stock-still, staring at each other. Honoria mentally reeled, possibilities and conjectures whirling wildly.
Then Chillingworth scowled. "For God's sake, don't just stand there! Someone might see you."
Honoria blinked dazedly and remained rooted to his front step. Smothering a growl, Chillingworth grabbed her arm and hauled her inside. He shut the door, then faced her.
Although he was not as tall as Devil, Chillingworth was not a small man. In the narrow hall, Honoria was acutely conscious of that fact. Straightening, without a clue as to what was going on, she fixed him with an imperious look. "Where's your butler?"
Chillingworth returned her look with one she found unreadable. "My butler is out. As are the rest of my staff." Honoria's eyes widened; grimly, Chillingworth shook his head. "I can't believe you're serious." He searched her face, her eyes.
Honoria tilted her chin defiantly. "Of course I'm serious."
Chillingworth's expression showed a medley of disbelief and disillusionment, then hardened into a mask very like his greatest rival's. Fluidly, he shrugged. "If you insist."
Without further ado, he bent his head to Honoria's. Uttering a strangled shriek, she jerked back and hit him.
*****
Just before two o'clock, Devil had absentmindedly climbed the steps of White's. On the threshold, he'd literally run into Vane.
"There you are!" Vane had dropped back. "Where in all hell have you been? I've been looking all over." Devil had grinned. "Surprising you didn't find me then, for that's where I've been. All over."
Frowning, Vane opened his lips—Devil waved the question aside. "Have you eaten?"
Still frowning, Vane nodded. Devil handed his cane to the doorkeeper; Vane did the same. "I'll talk while you eat."
The dining room was companionably crowded with gentlemen lingering over their brandies. Served with remarkable promptness, Devil started on the sole—and lifted an inquiring brow.
Vane grimaced at the bodies about them. "I'll tell you later."
Devil nodded and applied himself to his meal, pleased to have an excuse not to talk. Explaining why he'd spent the whole morning roaming the town, exercising the two grooms Sligo had set to tail him, was beyond him. He suspected it would always be beyond him—his affliction wasn't improving with time. And he could hardly tell Vane he was avoiding his wife because she'd said she loved him.
Said it, declared it, in unequivocal terms, with absolute conviction. Pausing, Devil quaffed half his glass of wine.
It was heady stuff, to know your wife felt that way. About you. That she would face danger without a blink, and refuse to back down, even when faced with sufficient intimidation to break a troop sergeant—all because she loved you.
There was only one snag, one fly in the ointment.
Taking another sip of wine, he returned to his sole. And the dilemma with which he'd spent all morning wrestling. If he told Honoria how he felt about her loving him, if he even acknowledged her declaration, he would simultaneously acknowledge the validity of her "justification" for going into danger. Which was something he could never do.
In times of trouble, as far as he and, he was quite sure, all his ancestors were concerned, Cynster wives were supposed to retreat to the donjon, there to remain in safety while their husbands manned the walls. Honoria's vision was apparently different—she wanted to be on the walls with him.
He understood her point—he simply couldn't accept it.
Explaining that was not going to be easy, not even after he'd made the confession he'd convinced himself he was honor-bound to make.
Feeling vulnerable was bad enough—admitting to vulnerability, out loud, in words, was infinitely worse. And, once said, the words couldn't be taken back. He would, in essence, be handing her a carte blanche of a kind he'd never used before. Given how she reacted to his being in danger, he wasn't at all sure that was wise.
Whether she suspected his state he did not know—he did know he couldn't count on her remaining in blissful ignorance for long. Not his Honoria Prudence. Which meant that the only way he could keep her out of danger was to remove the danger—by laying Tolly's killer by the heels.
Pushing aside his plate, he looked at Vane. "What have you learned?" Vane grimaced. "Let's go into the smoking room."
They found a deserted nook and settled in; Vane began without preamble. "Basically, I was right. My source has checked every—"
"Excuse me, Your Grace."
They both looked up; one of the club's footmen stood at Devil's elbow, proffering a salver bearing a folded note. "This arrived a moment ago, Your Grace. The man was most insistent it be delivered to you immediately."
"Thank you." Taking the letter, Devil broke the seal, absentmindedly nodding a dismissal. Unfolding the letter, he scanned it—Vane saw his face harden. Devil's eyes flicked back up to the start of the letter, his face unreadable, he read it through again.
"Well?" Vane asked, when Devil looked up.
Devil's brows rose. "Something's come up." He didn't meet Vane's eyes. "An unexpected development." Refolding the letter, he rose. "You'll have to excuse me—I'll send for you as soon as I'm free."
With that, he turned and, putting the letter in one pocket, walked out.
Stunned, Vane stared after him. Then his face hardened. "Honoria Prudence—what the devil have you got up to now?"
*****
"No! Wait! You can't just walk out the door." "Why not?" Honoria swung around.
Holding a cold compress to the bridge of his nose, Chillingworth followed her up the hall. "Because there's no sense in taking unnecessary chances. Your husband's not going to appreciate this as it is—there's no sense in making things worse." Setting the compress down on the hall table, he looked her over. "Your bonnet's not straight."
Lips compressed, Honoria swung to face the mirror. Adjusting her bonnet, she studied Chillingworth's reflection. He was still very pale; she wasn't sure it was wise to leave him—his servants had not yet returned. On the other hand, she could understand his insistence that she leave without delay. "There!" She turned. "Does that meet with your approval?"
Chillingworth narrowed his eyes. "You'll pass." He met her gaze. "And don't forget—show that note to Devil as soon as you see him. Don't wait for him to ask."
Honoria lifted her chin.
Chillingworth eyed it with open disapproval. "Thank the heavens you're his and not mine. Wait here while I check if anyone's about. Like your grandfather or his butler."
Honoria watched as he opened the door; standing on the front step, he looked up and down the street. "All clear." Chillingworth held the door open. "Other than your hackney, there's no one in sight."
Head high, Honoria swept out, then stopped and looked back. She frowned. "Don't forget to lie down with your feet higher than your head. And for goodness sake put that compress back, or your eye will be worse than it need be."
For the second time that day, Chillingworth's jaw dropped. Momentarily. Then he glowered. "Good God, woman—get going!"
Honoria blinked. "Yes, well—take care of yourself." With that, she turned and briskly descended the steps. Gaining the pavement, she saw her hackney waiting. She glanced the other way—a black carriage rolled slowly around the corner into Green Street. Behind her, Chillingworth's latch clicked. It was after four; dusk was drawing in. As Chillingworth had said, there was no one about. With an inward sigh, Honoria started along the pavement.
She didn't see the dark figure, cloaked in black, who emerged from the area stairs beside Chillingworth's steps. She had no inkling, felt no presentiment of danger, when the figure drew close, looming behind her. Harness jingled, hooves clacked as the black carriage drew abreast of her, blocking out the hackney.
Honoria glanced at the carriage—a black pall dropped over her, cutting off the light, wrapping her in impenetrable folds. She gasped, and grasped the material, only to feel it wind tighter. She opened her mouth to scream; a hard hand clapped over her lips.
Honoria froze. An arm like steel wound about her waist and lifted her.
She didn't struggle but patiently waited for Devil to set her down. He eventually did—on the carriage seat. The carriage jerked and picked up speed. "Wait!" Still enveloped in what she assumed was Devil's cloak, Honoria struggled to break free. "What about Sligo?"
Silence.
Then, "Sligo?" Devil sounded as if he couldn't believe his ears.
"You ordered him to watch over me, remember?" Honoria wrestled with the cloak. The next instant, it was lifted from her—she let out an explosive breath, and discovered her husband watching her with an expression she couldn't read at all. "He's in the hackney, waiting for me."
Devil stared at her, then, frowning dazedly, shook his head. "Wait here."
He tapped on the hatch and ordered John Coachman to pull over, then leapt down. Honoria heard him stride back along the pavement. She couldn't see anything; the flaps were all down.
Two minutes later, the carriage dipped as Sligo scrambled up behind.
"Around the park until I say otherwise." Devil yanked open the door, climbed in, closed the door, then resumed his seat beside her.
The carriage lurched into motion; Devil met Honoria's wide, totally open gaze. He drew a careful breath, trying to disguise the tension that still held him. "Perhaps you'd better tell me what's going on."
He'd obviously made a horrendous mistake—he didn't want her to guess what he'd thought, how he'd felt, when he'd seen Chillingworth, stripped to his shirt, look out of his door, then seen her come waltzing out, turning back for a few last words before strolling away.
From the depths of the area, he hadn't been able to hear her words; his imagination, however, had supplied words enough, with actions to match. Her betrayal had chilled him; the thought that her declaration of love had been worthless—mere words without meaning—had struck him to the heart. Black rage had consumed him, far beyond mere temper; he could barely remember following her. He could remember the instant when he'd held her trapped before him—and thought how easy it would be to put an end to the torment before it began. The recollection left him chilled, even as relief poured through him. Guilt over his lack of trust made him inwardly ache.
Honoria was watching him, a frown forming in her eyes. Devil cleared his throat. "Sligo said you got a note?"
He threw out the question to get her talking—instead, she frowned more definitely. "I told you about the note in my letter."
Devil slowly blinked. "What letter?"
Rummaging in her reticule, Honoria dragged a sheet from the clutter. "I got this— Devil took it and scanned it, then glanced accusingly at her.
She tilted her chin. "It said I had to come immediately, so I wrote you a letter explaining and asked Sligo to deliver it; he knew you were at White's. I didn't know you'd ordered him to stay by me—he sent Daley to deliver my letter so he could obey your orders."
Devil frowned, then looked down at the note. "I didn't get your letter—I must have left before Daley arrived." The admission was past his lips before he'd considered.
"But—" Honoria's brow was a mass of furrows. "If you didn't get my letter, why are you here?"
Devil stilled. A minute passed; slowly, he lifted his head and met Honoria's puzzled gaze. She searched his face—abruptly, he looked down. "I came because I got this." He forced himself to draw the folded note from his pocket. He didn't want to give it to her, but her straightforwardness, her honesty—her love—left him no choice. His heart a leaden weight in his chest, he handed it over.
Honoria unfolded the note, then read it. When she got to the end, she paused and drew an unsteady breath. A vise locked painfully about her chest; her heart beat heavily. Without lifting her head, she read the note again.
As she worked out what must have happened, her hands, holding the note, shook—she fought to steady them. Then, very slowly, she raised her head—and looked straight at Devil, into those eyes that usually saw too much but could also be blinded by fury. Time stretched; she stared into his eyes, her own full of pleading and disbelief. "It's not true—I would never do that. You know I wouldn't." In a painfully soft whisper, she added: "I love you."
Devil closed his eyes. "I know." His jaw clenched; savage rage swirled within him, directed at his
would-be killer who had struck through the one, truly vulnerable chink in his armor—and hurt her. He dragged in a huge breath; opening his eyes, he locked them on hers. "I didn't think—I reacted. When I got that note, I couldn't think. Then I saw you come out of Chillingworth's—" He broke off; his jaw clenched tighter, but he forced himself to hold Honoria's gaze. Very low, he said: "I care for you—too much."
His words reached Honoria; what she saw in his eyes wiped away her pain. The vise about her chest eased; she drew a deep breath. "That's only fair." Shifting along the seat, she slid her arms about him and laid her head against his chest. "I love you so much it hurts, too."
If he couldn't say the words, she'd say them for him; the truth was there, shining in his eyes. His arms closed about her, then locked painfully tight; after a moment, he rested his cheek on her curls. He was so tense, his muscles flickered. Gradually, as the carriage rolled on, she felt his tension ease, felt the muscles in his arms unlock.
His warmth enveloped her; his heart beat steadily beneath her cheek. He drew in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled; long fingers found her chin and tipped her face up.
Their eyes met, and held, then he lowered his head. Honoria's lashes fell as Devil touched his lips to hers
in a gentle, inexpressibly sweet kiss.
He drew back, one brow rising. "I don't suppose you'd like to tell me just what did happen?"
No command or demand, just a mild request; Honoria couldn't help but grin. "Actually, Chillingworth was very insistent that I tell you all, which must be a first."
"Very likely. Start at the beginning—when you knocked on his door. Was he expecting you?"
"Not exactly." Honoria wriggled upright. "He'd received a note, too—I saw it. Written in the same hand as ours." She placed the note she still held next to the one on the seat beside Devil. "See? You can't tell if it's a man or a woman."
"Hmm—so he knew you were coming to see him?"
"No." Honoria spoke distinctly, mindful of Chillingworth's instructions—and her husband's propensities. "His note was from a mysterious unnamed lady, making an assignation for this afternoon. It was quite…" she gestured airily, "titillating."
Devil narrowed his eyes. "By which you mean Chillingworth was raring to go—what did he say when you arrived on his front stoop?"
Honoria shot Devil a mischievous look. "Actually, I think he was even more surprised than I was. He was almost disapproving."
Devil raised his brows skeptically. "And?"
"What followed was actually my fault—he told me I couldn't possibly be in earnest. Naturally, I assured him I was."
"And?"
Honoria held Devil's gaze. "He tried to kiss me—and I hit him." Devil blinked—then blinked again. "You hit him?"
Honoria nodded. "Michael taught me how before he allowed me to go governessing." She frowned. "I suppose I should have used my knee, but I didn't think of it at the time."
Devil only just managed not to choke. "I think," he said, his voice not entirely steady, "that Chillingworth is probably quite grateful you hit him." Honoria was uncommonly tall, and Chillingworth was shorter than he was. Devil's lips twitched. "I must remember to inform him of his close escape."
Honoria frowned. "Yes, well—unfortunately that's not all. When I hit him, his nose started to bleed."
It was too much; Devil succumbed to gales of laughter. "Oh, God," he said, when he could speak again. "
Poor Chillingworth."
"He seemed to think so, too. His waistcoat was ruined."
One hand pressed to his aching ribs, Devil fisted Honoria's left hand. "You must have used your left." Honoria nodded. "How did you know?"
Devil's grin was pure devilish delight. "I caught him with a left at Eton—the same thing happened. He bled like a stuck pig."
"Precisely." Honoria sighed. "I'm afraid he's feeling rather put-upon." "I can imagine."
Devil's tone had hardened; Honoria looked up inquiringly. He met her eyes. "He and I will have to sort this out." Honoria straightened. "What do you mean?" Devil's lips softened as he drew her back into his arms.
"Just that we'll need to make sure we've got our stories straight in case someone noticed or starts a rumor." He hugged Honoria close. "Don't worry—I'm hardly likely to call a man out because my wife bloodied his nose."
Honoria frowned. "Yes—but is he likely to call you out because I bloodied his nose?"
Devil's chest quaked. "I really don't think that's likely." Grinning, he tilted Honoria's face up. "You're a remarkably resourceful woman, you know."
She blinked her eyes wide. "Naturally—I was raised an Anstruther-Wetherby." Smiling, Devil lowered his head. "You were raised to be a Cynster."
He kissed her—and kept kissing her. The carriage rolled slowly through the gathering gloom, through the quiet shadows beneath the trees.
Breathless moments later, Honoria discovered that he could be remarkably resourceful, too. "Great heavens!" She had barely enough breath to whisper the words. "We can't—" Her hands closed tightly about Devil's wrists; her head fell back as she struggled for breath. "Where are we?"
"In the park." Intent on what he was doing, Devil didn't raise his head. "If you look outside, you'll see a number of carriages slowly rolling around the circuit."
"I can't believe—" A burst of pleasure stripped the thought from Honoria's mind; she struggled to hold back a moan. The thought that replaced the first had her blinking her eyes wide. "What about John and Sligo?" On a gasp, she met Devil's eyes. "Won't they realize?"
The grin on her husband's lips could only be described as devilish. "The trick's in the timing—trust me, they won't feel a thing."
They didn't—but she, and he, certainly did.
It seemed like hours—an infinite number of panting, gasping, desperately silent minutes later—when, slumped against Devil's chest, Honoria wriggled, then wriggled again. Frowning, she sat up and examined the buttons on his coat.
"Horrible things—they're sticking into me." She turned the mother-of-pearl buttons about. "They're not as big as the ones Tolly had, but they're quite bad enough."
Devil's eyes, closed in blissful peace, snapped open. "What?" "These buttons—they're too large."
"No—what else did you say?"
Honoria frowned even more. "That they're like the ones on Tolly's coat?"
Devil stared into the distance, then he closed his eyes—and closed his arms about Honoria, drawing her close. "That's it." He spoke the words into her hair. "That's what I've been trying to remember about Tolly's death."
Honoria held him. "The button deflecting the ball? Does it help?"
His chin resting in her hair, Devil nodded. "It helps. It's the final nail in our would-be-murderer's coffin." Honoria tried to look at Devil's face, but he held her too tightly. "You're sure who it is?"
Devil sighed. "Beyond doubt."
Three minutes later, their clothes precisely correct once more, the duke and duchess of St. Ives headed back to Grosvenor Square.
Chapter 24
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Vane was waiting in the library when Honoria and Devil entered. He searched their faces, then relaxed. "The end is nigh." Devil handed Honoria to the chaise, then sat beside her.
Vane sat in an armchair. "What happened?"
Devil gave him a severely edited account, proffering only the note Honoria had received. "The one I got was in the same hand." Vane studied the note, then frowned. Devil suggested: "Look at the writing itself, not the style."
Vane's face cleared. "The nib! He always uses those wide nibs so his writing looks heavier. We've got him!"
"Yes, and no. Everything we've discovered is circumstantial. Given what I've remembered today—"
"And my news, which I've yet to tell you," Vane cut in.
"Put it together," Devil continued, "and the murderer's identity's obvious. Obvious, however, isn't proof."
Vane grimaced; Devil's expression was bleak. Honoria glanced from one to the other. "But who is it?" When they looked at her blankly, she nearly ground her teeth. "You haven't told me yet."
Devil blinked. "But it was you who told me. You were the first to put it into words." "I thought it was Richard, remember? You both told me I was wrong."
"Well, you were," Vane said. "It isn't Richard."
"You suggested the murderer was my heir." Devil waited until Honoria looked his way. "Effectively, he is."
Honoria's eyes flew wide. She glanced at Vane, then looked back at Devil. "But… You mean
George…?" "George?"
"Father?"
Devil and Vane stared at her. "Why George?" Devil asked. "He's not my heir."
"He's not?" It was Honoria's rum to stare. "But Horatia told me he's a bare year younger than your father was."
"He is," Vane corroborated.
"Great heavens!" Honoria's eyes couldn't get any wider. "How many Cynster skeletons are there? Is George another Cynster like Richard?"
"You've missed a vital point—George and Arthur are twins." Devil caught Honoria's gaze. "Arthur's the elder twin—and no, it's not him either."
"Charles?" Honoria's expression blanked, then hardened. "How…" For a full minute, words failed her, then her eyes flashed. "How cowardly." She met Devil's eyes. "He killed his younger brother."
"Half brother," Devil corrected. "As he used to be very quick to point out. He's also now tried to kill me." "Several times," Vane put in.
"He's also tried to kill you." Devil reached for Honoria's hand. "And it now looks like he's killed his previous man, Holthorpe."
Devil and Honoria looked at Vane. "What did you discover?" Devil asked.
"Circumstantial evidence still, but I've had all the shipping lists checked—no Holthorpe embarked for America, or anywhere else. Holthorpe never left England."
Devil frowned. "Let's start at the beginning. Tolly left Mount Street the evening before he died. As far as we can tell, he headed home on foot. His lodgings were in Wigmore Street, so he'd walk past here.
According to Sligo, he called in and learned I'd gone up to the Place. He continued on in good spirits—"
"And stopped in to see Charles," Vane said. "Around the corner in Duke Street."
"Given Holthorpe's disappearance, that seems a reasonable assumption." Devil's frown grew. "Presumably Tolly learned something, possibly overheard something—something that told him Charles was planning to kill me. Let's take that as read—what would Tolly do?"
"Tax Charles with it," Vane replied. "Tolly wouldn't have paused to think of any danger—he was too open and honest and naive to imagine others might be less so."
"We'll presume Charles didn't recant, so Tolly left."
"Probably saying enough on his way out to seal Holthorpe's fate." Vane looked grim. "The next morning, as soon as he could, Tolly left for the Place."
"But Charles took the faster route—we know he did. We didn't find anyone who could place
Charles near the lane when Tolly was shot, but we did exhaustively prove no one else was in the area. No other gentleman arrived from London that day." Devil glanced at Vane.
"Right. So Charles shot Tolly—"
"That's what I'd forgotten. The button on Tolly's coat." Vane looked puzzled. "What about it?"
Devil sighed. "The shot that killed Tolly was nothing short of perfect—the only reason he didn't die immediately with a hole through his heart was because one of his coat buttons"—Devil glanced down at the buttons on his coat—"like these, only larger, deflected the shot." He met Vane's eyes, then glanced at Honoria. "Charles's one real talent is that he's an exceptional marksman."
"Particularly with a long-barreled pistol." Vane nodded. "All right—so we have Tolly dead. Charles "arrives" at the Place then plays the grieving brother the next day."
"Very convincingly." Devil's face hardened.
"He must have got one hell of a shock when he realized Tolly had lived long enough to talk to you." Devil nodded. "But he kept mum and saw it through, Tolly's funeral and all."
"But then came the biggest shock of all." Vane looked from Devil to Honoria. "Charles learned you were going to marry Honoria."
Honoria frowned. "Actually, no. Not then. I put him off." When Devil looked his question, she grimaced. "He came to see me in the summerhouse after the wake. He offered to marry me in your stead, assuming I was concerned over protecting my name."
"He what?" Devil stared at her.
Honoria shrugged. "I told him I'd no intention of marrying you or anyone."
"He believed you," Vane said. "He was taken aback later, at Mama's ball, when Gabriel and I suggested you'd changed your mind."
"Hardly surprising." Devil glanced at Honoria. "He'd stopped us in the park not long before and you as good as assured him you were off to Africa in a few weeks."
Honoria shrugged again.
"And that," Vane said, "was when the attacks on you started." "Your phaeton accident." Honoria paled.
Devil squeezed her hand. "An impulsive first attempt. I was very busy after that, then came our wedding."
Honoria shivered. "I just remembered—Charles warned me on our wedding day that I shouldn't have married you."
Devil drew her against him. "While we remained at the Place, he didn't attempt anything." "Too dangerous," Vane said. "Too likely he'd be spotted there."
"But as soon as we returned to town, he started plotting in earnest." Devil looked at Honoria. "First, he
tried to convince me to send you back to the Place." His lips twisted. "I'm afraid I told him precisely where you stood in my affections. So, from then on, you, too, were in his sights—he wouldn't risk a posthumous heir."
Turning to Vane, Devil missed Honoria's startled expression. "The episode with the brandy came next, then the three sailors with swords who knew my route home. Both attempts were well within Charles's capabilities."
Vane held Devil's gaze. "That brandy should have done for you, you know."
Feeling Honoria shiver, Devil shot him a warning glance. "But it didn't, so he persevered. The sailors, I suspect, was an opportunity he couldn't pass up—he's walked home with me from White's often enough."
Vane frowned. "What about this business with the palaces? Where does that fit?"
Devil grimaced. "It might not—but I'll wager it'll turn out to be Charles. Whatever, I'll find out tonight."
"Tonight?" Vane blinked. "What with everything else, I'd forgotten. What's our plan?"
Devil glanced at Honoria; absorbed with her own thoughts, she eventually felt his gaze. Looking up, she blushed. "I was just recalling," she said, her eyes locking on Devil's, "something Lady Herring mentioned."
Devil's expression blanked. "Lady Herring?"
Honoria nodded. "She said Charles approached her—something about replacing her last paramour. She refused him—from the sound of it, quite contemptuously."
"Hmm." Devil looked thoughtful.
"That wouldn't have helped Charles at all." Vane shook his head. "He always resented your successes—apparently on that level, too."
The look Devil shot him was sharply reproving; Vane simply raised his brows. "It might explain why he started frequenting the palaces—the timing's right. A Cynster couldn't patronize such places for long without us hearing of it, and we heard of it soon after Tolly's funeral."
Devil nodded. "But I still want to know definitely." "When's the meeting?"
"Midnight."
Vane looked at the clock. "I'll drive—Sligo can travel behind. Lucifer'll keep watch from the street—Scandal'll be at the corner." Devil stared; Vane raised his brows. "You didn't seriously imagine we'd let you waltz in there without pickets?"
Honoria kept her lips firmly shut on the response she knew Devil would not, in this instance, appreciate—"Thank God for the Bar Cynster" was not what he was thinking.
Devil scowled. "What else have you organized?"
"Nothing." Vane's expression was mild. "But there's no earthly use imagining we'll let Charles take another easy crack at you. If you die, he'll be the head of the family—there's not one of us can
stomach the thought."
Devil glanced at Honoria; when she said nothing, he looked back at Vane. "All right. But I don't want the cavalry charging in before the bugle sounds—we need to let Charles run with his master plan and let him take enough rope to hang himself."
"His master plan." Vane glanced at the note in his lap. "Is that what this is?"
Devil nodded. "It fits. I'd worried that all the other attempts were too simple, too spontaneous—simply not like Charles. You know how he thinks. Any plan of his is convoluted and complicated. He's also very conservative, socially rigid. This latest effort has his character stamped all over it. Involved, heavy with intrigue, and solidly based in society's view of me, Honoria, and Chillingworth."
"Chillingworth?" Vane frowned. "Why him?" "Because he appears to be the perfect goad." "For what?"
Devil smiled—chillingly. "My temper."
Vane blinked, remembering the note Devil had received, the note he hadn't been allowed to see. His expression leached. "Oh."
"Indeed. This time, Charles has outdone himself—it's really a very good plan. It might have worked." Devil glanced at Honoria. "If things had been otherwise."
Studying his eyes, she raised a brow. "I'm not well acquainted with Charles's mental processes—could you explain his master plan to me?"
Devil's lips twisted; raising her hand, he brushed a kiss across her knuckles. "Charles needs to kill me—and now you as well—to take the title. He's tried to avoid direct action; the phaeton, the brandy, the sailors—there's no way of connecting them with him. But such chancy methods haven't succeeded. So, consider—he needs both me and you dead with a reason. After Tolly's death, accidental shooting of even one of us would cause a furore."
"No one would swallow that twice," Vane put in. "And he knows the rest of us wouldn't let your death under suspicious circumstances rest."
"Which is why he's focused on the one type of death for both of us that society will swallow without a qualm, and, even more importantly, the family will not only accept, but work with him to hide."
Vane's jaw firmed. "I don't like what I'm thinking, but if that's how he's set it up, he's read us very well." Devil nodded. "He's clever. Not wise, but clever."
"I still don't understand," Honoria said. "What exactly is this death Charles has planned for us?"
Devil looked at her, his expression bleak. "Charles has known me all my life. He knows of my temper, of the scope of my rage; he has a reasonable idea of what might touch it off. With his three carefully structured notes, he arranged for me to find you coming out of Chilling worth's house."
"I'd worked that much out."
"From there on, he's relying on me—and my rage—to set the scene. He's counting on me to enact the role of jealously furious husband to the hilt, so he can kill us both and blame it on my sufficiently well-known temper."
Honoria held his gaze. "He's going to make it appear that you killed me in a jealous rage, and then killed yourself?"
Devil nodded.
Honoria's eyes narrowed, then flashed. Her chin firmed. "Charles," she declared, "is clearly not a Cynster." She looked at Devil. "How do we plan to catch him?"
"The only way we can—by letting him show his hand."
"So what's our next move?" Vane handed the note back to Devil.
"Our next move is to make our own plans, which must include all the right actions to make Charles believe his plan is succeeding. In any good play, the villain only reveals himself in the last scene; Charles won't appear unless we, the intended victims, play out the earlier scenes correctly." Devil glanced at Vane, leaning forward, intent, then looked at Honoria, calmly expectant by his side. He smiled, coldly. "We've already completed the opening scene in our melodrama. For the next…"
At six o'clock the next morning, wreathed in mist, two tall figures, pistol in hand, faced each other on Paddington Green. Their seconds stood aside; a scrap of white drifted down. Two shots rang out. One of the principals crumpled to the ground; the other, clothed in black, waited while the doctor swooped down on his patient, then handed his pistol to his second and stiffly turned away.
He and his second climbed into a black, unmarked carriage and departed the scene. The third scene in the tragedy was played out later that morning.
Gentlefolk taking their morning stroll in Grosvenor Square—nurses and their charges, governesses and young misses, old and young alike—all witnessed the unexpected sight of the St. Ives traveling carriage rolling into the square. It drew up before St. Ives House; an army of footmen descended to strap on a mountain of luggage.
Diverted, many watched, wondering, then the door opened; His Grace of St. Ives, his face like stone, appeared, leading a heavily veiled woman. Given her height, there were few who did not recognize his duchess; her stiff manner and the way she held her head led most to speculate that there'd been some falling-out, some possibly scandalous rift in what had, until then, appeared a remarkably felicitous relationship.
Before a host of round eyes, the duke handed the duchess into the carriage and followed her in. A footman shut the door; the coachman whipped up his horses.
The word was winging, on whispers uttered with wide eyes, on hushed confidences traded behind elegantly gloved hands, long before the carriage had quit the fashionable precincts. The St. Iveses had left London unexpectedly, just before the beginning of the Season. What was the ton to think?
Predictably, the ton thought—and said—precisely what had been intended.
Four powerful blacks drew the St. Ives carriage rapidly into Cambridgeshire. Leaning against Devil's shoulder, Honoria watched the countryside flash by. "I've been thinking."
Devil opened his eyes only enough to look down at her. "Oh?"
"We'll have to give a formal ball as soon as we return to town. To dispel the mistaken impression we've been at such pains to instill."
Devil's lips twitched. "You'll have to invite Chillingworth, of course." Honoria flicked him a warning glance. "I suppose, that's unavoidable."
"Quite." Devil studied the weak sunlight playing across her features. "Incidentally, I should warn you that, despite its being midnight, it's possible someone might have seen me at the palace last night." The unknown Cynster had proved to be Charles; the madam's story had been utterly convincing.
Honoria lifted a haughty shoulder. "If any should think to mention your presence there to me, I can assure you they'll meet with a very cool reception."
Observing the imperious tilt of her chin, Devil decided it was unlikely even the most thick-skinned gabblemonger would dare—his wife was fast becoming as matriarchally intimidating as his mother.
"Do you think anyone was watching at Paddington Creep this morning?" Honoria asked. "Gabriel spotted a fellow resembling Charles's new man, Smiggs."
"So we assume Charles knows you and Chillingworth met?"
"It's a reasonable bet." Devil settled her more comfortably against him. "Try to rest." When she looked at him blankly, he added: "Tomorrow might be exhausting."
Honoria frowned vaguely. "I'm not sleepy." She looked away and so missed Devil's exasperated grimace.
After a moment, he ventured: "I just thought—' "When do you think Charles'll appear?"
Devil inwardly sighed. "Either tonight, in which case he'll come up to the house and announce his presence, or sometime tomorrow, in which case he might not." When was she going to tell him? "I'll send a couple of grooms to Cambridge, to warn us the instant he arrives there."
"You think he'll use his usual route?"
"There's no reason for him to do otherwise." Studying her profile, noting her firm, not to say resolute, chin, Devil stated: "Incidentally, whatever transpires, you'll need to keep one point uppermost in your mind."
Tilting her head, Honoria blinked up at him. "What?"
"You're to obey my orders without question. And if I'm not about, then I'll have your promise that you'll do what Vane tells you, without giving him a headache in the process."
Honoria searched his eyes, then looked forward. "Very well. I'll abide by your edicts. And Vane's in your absence."
Devil drew her back against him and touched his lips to her hair. "Thank you." Beneath his confident facade, he was deeply uneasy. The need to allow Charles to act and thus incriminate himself, to have to
follow his lead and so enter the fray with no plan at all, was risky enough; having Honoria involved made it a hundred times worse. Tightening his hold on her, he settled his cheek on her hair. "We'll need to work together—rely on each other, and Vane—if we're going to spike Charles's guns."
Clasping her hands over his at her waist, Honoria humphed. "Given guns are Charles's favorite weapon, we may literally have to do so."
Devil closed his eyes and prayed it wouldn't come to that. To his relief, Honoria nodded off, lulled by the swaying of the carriage and the mild sunshine bathing the countryside. She woke as the carriage halted before the front steps of the Place.
"Ho-hum." Stifling a yawn, Honoria allowed Devil to lift her down. Webster was there to greet them. "No trouble, Your Grace?"
"None." Devil glanced around. "Where's Vane?" Vane had left for Cambridgeshire the instant they'd quit Paddington Green; Webster and Mrs. Hull had left Grosvenor Square at first light.
"Trouble with the windmill at Trotter's Field." Webster directed the footmen to the luggage. "Master Vane was here when Kirby reported it—he went to take a look."
Devil met Honoria's eye. "I should go and check. It's only a few fields away—I won't be long."
Honoria waved him away. "Go and shake the fidgets from that black demon of yours. He's probably scented your return—he'll be pawing up the pasture with impatience."
Devil chuckled. Capturing her hand, he pressed a kiss to her wrist. "I'll be back within the hour."
Honoria watched him stride away, then, with a contented sigh, trod up the steps to her home. And it was home—she felt it immediately she entered. Throwing off her bonnet, she smiled at Mrs. Hull, passing with a bowl of open bulbs for the drawing room. Drawing a deep breath, she felt calm strength infuse her—the strength of generations of Cynster women.
She took tea in the back parlor, then, restless, wandered the downstairs rooms, reacquainting herself with the views. Returning to the hall, she paused. It was too early to change for dinner.
Two minutes later, she was climbing the summerhouse steps. Settling on the wickerwork settee, she studied the house, the imposing facade that had so impressed her at first sight. Recalling how Devil had hauled her along that day, she grinned. The thought of her husband increased her restlessness; he'd been gone for nearly an hour.
Rising, she left the summerhouse and headed for the stables. There was no one about when she entered the yard, but the stables were never unmanned. The stablelads would be out exercising her husband's prize cattle; the older men were probably assisting with the broken mill. Melton, however, would be hiding somewhere; he would come if she called, but otherwise tended to remain out of sight.
Honoria entered the main stable block—neither Devil nor Sulieman was there. Unperturbed, she spent the next five minutes communing with her mare. Then she beard hoofbeats. Lifting her head, she listened—a horse clattered into the yard. Smiling, she fed the mare one last dried apple, then, dusting her hands on her skirts, walked quickly back down the stable and swung through the archway into the yard. And ran into a man.
She fell back, eyes widening, a shriek stuck in her throat. "Your pardon, my dear. I didn't mean to startle you." With a brief, self-deprecatory smile, Charles stepped back.
"Ah…" One hand pressed to her palpitating heart, Honoria couldn't think what to say. Where was Devil? Or Vane? They who were supposed to tell her the plan? "I… er…" Charles frowned. "I've truly overset you. I apologize. But I fear I bring grave news."
The blood drained from Honoria's face. "What news?"
"I'm afraid…" Lips pinched, Charles's gaze swept her face. "There's been an accident," he finally said. "Sylvester's hurt—he's asking for you."
Eyes wide, Honoria searched his face. Was it true—or was this the first step in his final scene? If Devil was hurt, she didn't care—she would go to him regardless. But was Charles lying? She steadied her breathing, and tried to rein in her racing heart. "Where? Where is he?"
"At the cottage in the wood." She blinked. "The one where Tolly died?"
"Alas, yes." Charles looked grave. "An unhappy place." Indeed—but the broken windmill was in the opposite direction. "Oh dear." Striving for blankness, Honoria wrung her hands, something she'd never done in her life. In Devil's and Vane's absence, she'd have to script the scene herself. Delaying tactics came first. "I feel quite faint."
Charles frowned. "There's no time for that." When she tottered sideways and slumped against the stable wall, his frown deepened. "I wouldn't have thought you the sort to have the vapors."
Unfortunately, Honoria had no idea what succumbing to the vapors entailed. "What—what happened? To Devil?"
"He's been shot." Charles scowled with what was obviously supposed to be cousinly feeling. "Clearly some blackguard with a grudge against the family is using the wood as his cover."
The blackguard was facing her; Honoria struggled to hide her reaction. "How badly is he hurt?" "Severely." Charles reached for her. "You must come quickly—God knows how long he'll last."
He grasped her elbow; Honoria fought the impulse to twist free. Then she felt the strength in his grip and was not sure she could. Half-lifting her, Charles propelled her into the stables. "We have to hurry. Which horse is yours?" Honoria shook her head. "I can't ride."
Charles glanced at her sharply. "What do you mean?" Pregnant women did not ride. Honoria blinked blankly. "I'm nervous of horses." As far as she could recall, Charles had never seen her ride. "And Devil's horses are impossible." She managed to wriggle her elbow free. "We'll have to take the gig."
"Gig!" Charles's scowl was quite real. "There's no time for that!"
"But—but—then I won't be able to go!" Honoria stood in middle of the stable and stared at him helplessly. Pathetically. Charles glared at her; she wrung her hands.
He ground his teeth. "Oh—very well!" He flung out of the stable and headed for the barn.
Honoria stopped in the yard. As soon as Charles disappeared into the barn, she searched, scanning the connecting yards, peering into the dimness of the opposite stable block. Where was Melton? Then she heard the rumble of wheels. "Damn!"
She scurried back across the yard. Her role was clear—she should go along with Charles's plan and let him incriminate himself. Panic feathered her nerves and tickled her spine; mentally, she stiffened it.
They had to catch Charles—he was like a sword hanging over their heads, Devil's, hers, and the child she carried. But how would Devil rescue her if he didn't know where she was? Weakly, she slumped against the stable wall.
And saw Melton in the shadows of the stable directly opposite.
Honoria swallowed a whoop of joy; she hurriedly blanked her features as Charles maneuvered a light gig from the barn.
He threw her a black scowl. "Come hold the shafts while I fetch a horse."
Softening her chin, hiding any hint of resolution, Honoria limply complied. Charles entered the stable; Honoria glanced at the one opposite. Melton's cap was just visible through the open stable door; he was hugging the shadows to one side of the entrance.
Then Charles was back, leading a strong grey. "Hold the shafts steady."
Honoria dropped them once, then surreptitiously jostled the horse so he shouldered them loose again. Face set grimly, Charles worked frantically, buckling the harness, clearly conscious of time passing.
Honoria fervently hoped she'd judged that commodity correctly, and that Devil would not decide to go for a longer ride.
Charles tugged on the final buckle, then stood back, scanning the rig. For one instant, his expression was unguarded—the smile that twisted his lips, oozing anticipation, Honoria could have done without. In that instant, she saw the killer behind the mask.
Melton might be old but his hearing was acute, which was how he so successfully avoided Devil. Honoria fixed Charles with her most helpless look. "Is Keenan with Devil?" She kept her expression vague, distracted. "You did say he's at Keenan's cottage, didn't you?"
"Yes, but Keenan's not there." Charles sorted the reins. "You mean he's alone?" Honoria let her eyes grow round. "Dying in Keenan's cottage all alone?"
"Yes!" Charles grabbed her arm and all but forced her into the gig. "He's dying there while you're having hysterics here." He shoved the reins into her hands. "We have to hurry."
Honoria waited until he was mounted on his chestnut, turning toward the stable entrance before asking: "Are you going to ride back direct?" Charles frowned back at her. "Direct?"
"Well…" She gestured weakly at the gig. "This can't go through the arch in the wall—I'll have to leave by the main gate and then find the bridle path back to the cottage." Charles audibly ground his teeth. "I had better," he said, enunciating slowly, "stay with you. Or else you might get lost."
Dumbly, Honoria nodded. Meekly, she clicked the reins and set the gig rolling. She'd done all she could—delayed by all means she dared. The rest was up to Devil.
Chapter 25
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Devil knew something was desperately wrong the instant he spied Melton, standing beneath the stable yard arch, wildly waving his cap. Cursing, he set his heels to Sulieman's sides; Vane's exclamation died
behind him, then hooves thundered as Vane followed in his wake. "What?" he asked, hauling Sulieman to a sliding halt.
"Master Charles." Melton clutched his cap to his chest. "Your lady went with him—he told her you were shot and a-dying in Keenan's cottage."
Devil swore. "How long since they left?"
"Five minutes, no more. But your lady's a bright one—she insisted on taking the gig." "The gig?" Devil sat back. "Charles went with her?"
"Aye—he wanted to make sure she didn't lose her way."
Slamming a mental door on the chill fear that howled inside him, Devil flicked a glance at Vane. "Coming?"
"Nothing on earth could stop me."
They made straight for the cottage; there was no one there. Tethering their horses down the bridle path leading south, opposite the one Charles and Honoria would use, they scouted the area. Within the wood facing the cottage, they discovered a ditch, deep enough to hide them. It ringed the clearing on either side of the track from the lane. They were considering how best to use it when hoofbeats approached.
Scrambling into the ditch, they watched.
Charles rode up. He dismounted by the stable, checked that Honoria was still following, then led his horse inside.
Halting the gig before the cottage, Honoria made no attempt to leave it. The instant Charles was out of sight, she looked wildly about. Both action and expression spoke of real fear.
In the ditch twenty-five yards away, Devil swore softly. "This time, I am going to beat you!" He didn't dare wave; he would bet his entire fortune Charles had come armed. Both he and Vane had loaded weapons in their hands, but he wanted no shooting with Honoria in the line of fire.
Dusting his hands, Charles came out of the stable. He frowned when he saw Honoria still in the gig, the reins lax in her hands. "I would have thought you'd be eager to see your husband." He waved to the cottage.
Honoria met his cold gaze. "I am keen to see him." She knew in her bones Devil was not in the cottage—for one fleeting instant, she'd thought he was in the wood, close, but she'd seen nothing. But he had to be coming—and she'd gone far enough with Charles. Charles slowed, his frown deepening. Drawing a deep breath, Honoria straightened her shoulders. "But he's not in the cottage."
Charles stilled; for one instant, there was no expression of any sort on his face. Then his brows rose, condescendingly superior. "You're overset." Stepping to the gig's side, he reached for her arm.
"No!" Honoria jerked back. The planes of Charles's face shifted. What she saw in his eyes had her swallowing her panic; this was no time to lose her head. "We know. Did you think we wouldn't realize? We know you've been trying to kill Devil—we know you killed Tolly."
Charles paused; as she watched, the veneer of civilization peeled, layer by layer from his face, revealing an expression of blank calculation, dead to any human emotion. "Knowing," Charles said, his voice
unnaturally level, "isn't going to save you."
Honoria believed him—her only hope was to keep him talking until Devil arrived. "We know about your man Holthorpe—and about the sailors you set on Devil, about the poison in the brandy." What else did they know? Her recital wouldn't hold Charles for long. Fired by fear, she tilted her head and frowned. "We know everything you've done, but we don't know why you did it. You killed Tolly so he wouldn't warn Devil that you planned to kill him. But why are you so intent on taking the title?"
Desperate, she called up everything she'd ever felt about Charles, every intuitive hint she'd gleaned. "It isn't for money—you're rich enough as it is. You want the title, but you hold the family in contempt. Why, then, do you want to be their head?" She paused, hoping he would read true interest in her face. "What deep reason drives you?"
Charles regarded her without expression; Honoria felt her heart slow. Then he lifted one brow in typically arrogant Cynster style. "You're very perceptive, my dear." He smiled, a slight curve of his lips. "And, as you'll die shortly, I don't suppose there's any harm telling you." He looked directly into her eyes. "My name may be Cynster, but I've never been one of them—I've always felt closer to my mother's family. They're all dead now."
Bracing one hand on the gig, Charles looked into the wood, his eyes glowing. "I'm the last of the Butterworths—an infinitely superior breed, not that any Cynsters would admit that." His lips curved mockingly. "Soon, they won't have a choice. Once I take over the reins, I plan to change the family entirely—not just in the behavior associated with our name, but I'll change the name, too." He looked at Honoria. "There's nothing to stop me."
Honoria stared in openmouthed amazement. Smiling, Charles nodded. "Oh, yes—it can be done. But that was how it was meant to be—the Butterworths were destined to become the main line; my mother was to be the duchess. That's why she married Arthur."
"But—" Honoria blinked. "What about…"
"Sylvester's father?" Charles's expression turned petulant. "Mama didn't expect him to many. When she married Arthur, it seemed all clear—eventually Arthur would inherit, then his son. Me." His frown grew black. "Then that slut Helena wriggled her hips and Uncle Sebastian fell for it, and Sylvester was born. But even then, my mother knew all would eventually be well—after Devil, Helena couldn't have any more brats, which left father, then me, next in line." Charles trapped Honoria's gaze. "Do you want to know why
I left it so long? Why I waited until now to make away with Sylvester?" Honoria nodded.
Charles sighed. "I was explaining that point to Mama, to her portrait, when Tolly came in that night. I didn't hear him—that cretin Holthorpe let him show himself in. Fitting enough that because of his laziness, Holthorpe had to die." His voice had turned vicious; Charles blinked, then refocused on Honoria. "As I told Mama, I needed a reason—I couldn't simply kill Sylvester and hope no one noticed. When he was young, Vane was always with him—the accidents I engineered never worked. I waited, but they never grew apart. Worse—Richard joined them, then the rest." Charles's lips curled. "The Bar Cynster." His voice strengthened, his features hardened. "They've been a thorn in my side for years. I want Sylvester dead in a way that will wean them, and the rest of the family, from their adulation. I want the title—I want the power." His eyes glowed. "Over them all."
Abruptly, his face changed, his features leaching of all expression. "I promised Mama I'd take the title, even if she wasn't here to see it. The Butterworths were always meant to triumph—I explained to her why I'd held off for so long and why I thought, perhaps, with Devil becoming so restless, the time
might, at last, have come."
Again, he was with his past; Honoria sat perfectly still, content to have his attention elsewhere. The next instant, he turned on her viciously. "But then you came—and my time ran out completely!"
Honoria shrank back; the horse shifted, coat flickering. Charles's eyes blazed; for an instant, she thought he might strike her.
Instead, with a visible effort, he drew back, struggling to control his features. When he was again composed, he continued, his tone conversational: "Initially, I thought you too intelligent to fall for Devil's tricks." His gaze flicked her contemptuously. "I was wrong. I warned you marrying Sylvester was a mistake. You'll lose your life because of it, but you were too stupid to listen. I'm not going to risk being moved further from my goal. Arthur's old—he'll be no trouble. But if you and any son you bear survive Devil, I'll have all the rest of them to contend with—they'll never let Devil's son out of their sight!"
Clutching the back of the gig tightly, Honoria kept her eyes locked on Charles's, and prayed that either Devil or Vane had arrived in time to hear at least some of his ranting. He'd taken the rope she'd handed him and run, unreeling enough to hang himself twice over.
Charles drew a deep breath and looked away, into the woods. He straightened; letting go of the gig, he tugged his coat into place.
Honoria grabbed the moment to look around—she still had the feeling someone was watching. But not even a twig shifted in the wood.
She'd achieved her primary objective. Her disappearance and death would give proof enough of Charles's guilt; Melton could testify Charles had lured her away. Devil would be safe—free of Charles and his endless machinations. But she'd much rather be alive to share the celebrations, and to enjoy their child. She definitely didn't want to die.
Charles grabbed her—Honoria shrieked. Dropping the reins, she struggled, but he was far too strong. He hauled her from the gig.
They wrestled, waltzing in the leaves carpeting the clearing. Snorting, the grey backed; Charles bumped the gig. The horse bolted, the gig rattling behind it. Honoria saw it go, caught by a sense of deja vu.
Another grey horse bolting with another gig, this time leaving her stranded with the murderer, not his victim. She was to be the next victim.
Locking one arm about her throat, Charles hauled her upright.
"Charles!"
Devil's roar filled the clearing; Honoria nearly fainted. She looked wildly about; holding her before him, Charles swung her this way, then that, but couldn't locate Devil's position. Charles cursed; the next instant, Honoria felt the hard muzzle of a pistol pressing beneath her left breast.
"Come out, Sylvester—or do you want to see your wife shot before your eyes?"
Pushing her head back, Honoria glimpsed Charles's face, full of gloating, his eyes glittering wildly. Frantic, she tried struggling; Charles squeezed her throat. Raising his elbow, he forced her chin up; she had to stretch on her toes, losing all purchase on the ground.
"Devil?" Honoria spoke to the sky. "Don't you dare come out—do you hear? I'll never forgive you
if you do—so don't." Panic gripped her, sinking its talons deep; black shadows danced across her eyes. "I don't want you to save me. You'll have other children, there's no need to save me." Her voice broke; tears choked her. A dull roaring filled her ears. She didn't want to be saved if the price was his life.
In the ditch, Devil checked his pistol. Vane, brows nearly reaching his hairline, stared at him. "Other children?"
Devil swore through his teeth. "Fine time she picks to announce her condition." "You knew?"
"One of the prime requirements of being a duke—you have to be able to count." His face grimly set, Devil stuck his pistol into the back of his waistband and resettled his coat. "Make for the other end of the ditch, beyond the track."
Honoria was babbling hysterically; he couldn't afford to listen. He pulled Tolly's hip flask from his pocket; he'd carried it since Louise had given it back to him, a reminder of his unavenged cousin. Working feverishly, he wriggled the flask into the inside left breast pocket of his coat; swearing softly, he carefully ripped the lining—finally, the flask slid in. Resettling his coat, he checked the position of the flask. Vane stared. "I don't believe this."
"Believe it," Devil advised. He looked up; Honoria was still in full spate. Charles, his pistol at her breast, scanned the wood.
"I don't suppose there's any point trying to talk you out of it?" On his back, Vane checked his pistol. When Devil made no reply, he sighed. "I didn't think so."
"Sylvester?" "Here, Charles."
The answer allowed Charles to face in their general direction. "Stand up. And don't bring any pistol with you."
"You do realize," Vane hissed, wriggling onto his stomach, "that this wild idea of yours has the potential to severely dint the family's vaunted invincibility?"
"How so?" Devil unbuttoned his coat, making sure the buttons hung well clear of his left side.
"When Charles kills you, I'll kill Charles, then your mother will kill me for allowing Charles to kill you. This madness of yours looks set to account for three of us in one fell swoop."
Devil snorted. "You're starting to sound like Honoria." "A woman of sound sense."
Getting ready to stand, Devil shot a last glance at Vane. "Cover my back?"
Vane met his gaze. "Don't I always?" Then he swung about; crouched low, he started for the far end of the ditch.
Devil watched him go, drew in a long breath, then stood. Charles saw him—he tightened his hold on Honoria.
"Let her go, Charles." Devil kept his voice even; the last thing he wanted was to panic Charles—the one he was counting on to shoot straight. "It's me you want, not her." He started forward, stepping over the scrubby undergrowth, sidestepping new canes and saplings. He didn't look at Honoria.
"Go back!" she screamed. "Go away!" Her voice broke on a sob. "Please… no." She was crying in earnest. "No…No!" Shaking her head, she gulped back sobs, her eyes pleading, her voice trailing away.
Devil walked steadily forward. He neared the edge of the clearing and Charles smiled—a smugly victorious smile. Abruptly, he flung Honoria away.
She screamed as she fell; Devil heard the scuffling of leaves as she frantically tried to free her feet from her skirts. Calmly, he stepped into the clearing. Charles raised his arm, took careful aim—and shot him through the heart.
The impact was greater than he'd expected; it rocked him back on his heels. He staggered back, hung motionless for a split second—the second in which he realized he was still alive, that Charles had clung to habit and aimed for his heart, not his head, that Tolly's hip-flask had been up to the task—then he let himself fall, slipping his right hand under the back of his coat as he went down. He landed on his left hip and shoulder; beneath him, his right hand held his pistol, already free of his waistband. Artistically, he groaned and rolled onto his back, his boots closest to Charles. All that remained was for Honoria—for once in her life—to behave as he expected.
She did; her scream all but drowned out the shot—the next instant, she flung herself full length upon him. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she framed his face; when he didn't respond, she sobbed and frantically searched—for the wound he didn't have.
Beyond thought, beyond all rational function, Honoria pushed aside Devil's coat—and found nothing but unmarked white shirt covering warm hard flesh. Gasping, her throat raw from her scream, her head pounding, she couldn't take it in. Devil was dead—she'd just seen him shot. She pulled his coat back—a wet stain was starting to spread. Her fingers touched metal.
She stilled. Then her eyes flicked up to Devil's; she saw green gleam beneath his long lashes. Beneath her hand, his chest lifted fractionally.
"Such a touching scene."
Honoria turned her head. Charles strolled closer, stopping ten paces away. He'd dropped the pistol he'd used to shoot Devil; in his hand was a smaller one. "A pity to put an end to it." Still smiling, Charles raised the pistol, pointing it at her breast.
"Charles!"
Vane's shout had Charles spinning around. Devil half rolled, coming up on his left elbow, freeing his right arm, simultaneously flinging Honoria to the ground, shielding her with his body.
Charles's head snapped back; his lips curled in a feral snarl. He raised his pistol. And paused for an infinitesimal second to correct his aim.
Neither Devil nor Vane hesitated. Two shots rang out; Charles jerked once. The look on his face was one of stunned surprise. He staggered back; his arm slowly fell. The pistol slid from his fingers; his eyes closed—slowly, he crumpled to the ground.
Devil swung around—a stinging blow landed on his ear.
"How dare you?" Honoria's eyes spat fire. "How dare you walk out to be killed like that!" Grabbing his shirt, she tried to shake him. "If you ever do that again, I'll—"
"Me? What about you? Happily going off with a murderer. I should tan your hide—lock you in your room—"
"It was you he shot—I nearly died!" Honoria hit his chest hard. "How the hell do you think I could live without you, you impossible man!"
Devil glared. "A damned sight better than I could without you!"
His voice had risen to a roar. Their gazes locked, sizzling with possessive fury. Honoria searched his eyes; he searched hers. Simultaneously, they blinked.
Honoria dragged in a breath, then flung her arms about him. Devil tried to cling to righteous fury, then sighed and wrapped his arms about her. She was hugging him so tightly he could barely breathe. He lifted her into his lap. "I'm still here." He stroked her hair. "I told you I'll never leave you." After a moment, he asked: "Are you all right? Both of you?"
Honoria looked up, blue-grey eyes swimming; she searched his face, then hiccupped. "We're all right." "You didn't get hurt when you fell?"
She shook her head. "I don't think so. Nothing feels amiss."
Devil frowned. "I'll take you home." To Mrs. Hull, who knew about such things. "But first…" He glanced at Charles, sprawled on the leaves.
Honoria looked, then, sniffing, flicked her skirts straight and struggled up. Devil helped her up, then stood. Drawing a deep breath, he stepped forward—Honoria pressed close. Devil hesitated, then put his arm around her and felt hers slide about his waist. Together, they walked to where Vane stood, looking down on Charles.
Two bullets ripping into it from different angles had made a mess of Charles's chest. It was instantly apparent he couldn't survive. But he hadn't yet died. When Devil halted at his right hip and looked down, Charles's lids flickered.
"How?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.
Devil pulled Tolly's flask from his pocket. It would never hold liquid again; the ball had pierced one side and lodged in the other. He held it out.
Charles stared. Recognition dawned; his features twisted. "So," he gasped, each word a fight. "My little half brother won through in the end. He was so set on saving you—" A cough cut him off.
Devil quietly said: "Tolly was a far better man than you." Charles tried to sneer.
"If I was you," Vane said, "I'd use what time you have left to make your peace with God. Heaven knows, you'll never make it with the Cynsters." So saying, he walked away.
His expression supercilious, Charles opened his mouth to comment—his features contorted, his
eyes opened wide. He stiffened. Then his lids fell; his head lolled to one side.
Honoria tightened her hold on Devil, but did not take her eyes from Charles's face. "Is he dead?" Devil nodded. "It's finished."
Hoofbeats approached, coming from the south. Vane came out of the cottage and looked at Devil. Devil shrugged. They moved to intercept the newcomers. Honoria moved with Devil; she wasn't yet ready to let him go.
Horsemen appeared on the bridle path, riding briskly. The next instant, the clearing was overflowing with Cynsters.
"What are you doing here?" Devil asked.
"We came to help," Richard replied, in the tone of one offended to be asked. Looking at the body sprawled on the ground, he humphed. "Looks like you've managed without us. He was so damned sure he had you dancing to his tune, he left London before you did."
"What next?" Gabriel, his horse tied to a tree, came to join them.
"You can't seriously consider passing this off as an accident." Lucifer followed on his heels. "Aside from anything else, I, for one, will refuse point-blank to attend Charles's funeral."
"Quite." Harry ranged himself beside Vane. "And if you can stomach burying Charles next to Tolly, I
can't."
"So what do we do with the body, brother mine?" Richard raised his brows at Devil. They all looked at Devil.
Honoria glanced up, but he had his mask on. He glanced down at her, then looked at the cottage. "We can't risk burying him—someone might stumble across the grave." His gaze lingered on the cottage, then swept the wood around them. "There hasn't been much rain. The wood's fairly dry."
Vane studied the cottage. "It's yours after all—no one would know except Keenan."
"I'll take care of Keenan—there's a widow in the village who's quite keen to have him as a boarder."
"Right." Richard shrugged out of his coat. "We'll have to bring the roof down and push the walls in to make sure it burns well enough."
"We'd better get started." Gabriel glanced at the sky. "We'll need to make sure the fire's out before we leave." Honoria watched as they stripped off coats, waistcoats, and shirts, Devil and Vane included.
Richard and Gabriel unearthed axes from the stable; Harry and Lucifer led the horses away, taking Charles's hired chestnut with them.
"Turn him loose in the fields closest to the Cambridge Road," Devil called after them. Harry nodded. "I'll do it this evening." Moments later, the sound of axes biting into seasoned timber filled the clearing. Devil and Vane each took one of Charles's hands; they dragged his body into the cottage. Honoria followed. From the threshold, she watched as they manhandled Charles onto the bare pallet on which Tolly had died.
"Most appropriate." Vane dusted his hands. Honoria stepped back—a woodchip went flying past
her face.
"What The—!" Richard, axe in hand, glared at her, then raised his head. "Devil!"
He didn't need to explain what the problem was. Devil materialized and frowned at Honoria. "What the devil are you doing here? Sit down." He pointed to the log across the clearing—the same log he'd made her sit on six months before. "Over there—safe out of the way."
Six months had seen a lot of changes. Honoria stood her ground. She looked past his bare chest and saw Vane, with one blow, smash a rickety stool to pieces. "What are you doing with the furniture?"
Devil sighed. "We're going to bring this place down about Charles's body—we need lots of fuel so the fire burns hot enough to act as his pyre."
"But—" Honoria stepped back and looked at the cottage, at the wide half logs of the walls, the thick beams beneath the eaves. "You've got plenty of wood—you don't need to use Keenan's furniture."
"Honoria, the furniture's mine."
"How do you know he isn't attached to it by now?" Stubbornly, she held his gaze. Devil pressed his lips together.
Honoria's chin firmed. "It'll take two minutes to carry it out. We can use the blankets to cover it, then Keenan can take it away later."
Devil threw up his hands and turned back into the cottage. "All right, all right—but we'll have to hurry."
Vane simply stared when Devil explained. He shook his head, but didn't argue. He and Devil shifted the heavier pieces; Honoria gathered the smaller items into baskets and pails. Harry and Lucifer returned—and couldn't believe their eyes. Honoria promptly conscripted Lucifer; Harry escaped on the pretext of fetching Devil's and Vane's horses and taking them upwind of the cottage.
While Richard and Gabriel weakened the joints, the pile of Keenan's possessions grew. Finally, Harry, whom Honoria had collared and sent to clear out the stable, came back with an old oilcloth and dusty lamp. He put the lamp on the pile, then flicked the oilcloth over the whole.
"There! Done." He looked at Honoria, not in challenge, not in irritation, but in hope. "Now you can sit down. Out of the way."
Before she could reply, Lucifer pulled the big carved chair out from under the oilcloth, picked up the tasseled cushion, and plumped it. Coughing furiously, he dropped it back down and made her a weak but extravagant bow. "Your chair, madam. Please be seated."
What could she say?
Her slight hesitation was too much for Gabriel, strolling up to hand his axe to his brother. "For God's sake, Honoria, sit down—before you drive us all demented."
Honoria favored him with a haughty stare, then, sweeping regally about, she sat. She could almost hear their sighs.
They ignored her thereafter, as long as she stayed in the chair. When she stood and strolled a few paces,
just to stretch her legs, she was immediately assailed by frowning glances—until she sat down again.
Swiftly, efficiently, they pulled the cottage down. Honoria watched from her regal perch—the acreage of tanned male chests, all gleaming with honest sweat, muscles bunching and rippling as they strove with beams and rafters, was eye-opening, to say the least. She was intrigued to discover that her susceptibility to the sight was severely restricted.
Only her husband's bare chest affected her—that particular sight still held the power to transfix her, to make her mouth go suddenly dry. One thing that hadn't changed in six months.
Between them, little else was the same. The child growing within her would take the changes one stage further—the start of their branch of the family. The first of the next generation.
Devil came over once they'd got the fire started. Honoria looked up, smiling through her tears. "Just the smoke," she said, in reply to his look.
With a sudden "swhoosh," the flames broke through the collapsed roof. Honoria stood; Devil put the carved chair back under the oilcloth, then took her hand. "Time to go home."
Honoria let him lead her away. Richard and Lucifer remained to ensure the fire burned out. Harry rode off, Charles's hired horse in charge. The rest of them made their way back through the wood, riding through the lengthening shadows. In front of Devil, Honoria leaned back against his chest, and closed her eyes. They were safe—and they were heading home.
Hours later, chin-deep in the ducal bath, soothed by scented steam, Honoria heard sudden mouselike rustlings.
Cracking open her eyes, she saw Cassie scurry out, closing the door behind her.
She would have frowned, but it was too much effort. Minutes later, the mystery was solved. Devil climbed into the bath. It was more than big enough for both of them—he'd had it specially designed.
"Aarrghhh." Sinking into the water, Devil closed his eyes and leaned back against the bath's edge.
Honoria studied him—and saw the tiredness, the deep world-weariness, the last days had etched in his face. "It had to be," she murmured.
He sighed. "I know. But he was family. I'd rather the script had been otherwise."
"You did what had to be done. If Charles's deeds ever became known, Arthur's life, and Louise's, would be ruined, let alone Simon, the twins and the rest—the whispers would follow them all their lives. Society's never fair." She spoke quietly, letting the truth carry its own weight, its inherent reassurance. "This way, I presume Charles will simply disappear?"
"Inexplicably." After a moment, Devil added: "Vane will wait a few days, then sort out Smiggs—the family as a whole will be mystified. Charles's disappearance will become an unsolved mystery. His soul can find what peace it can, buried in the woods where Tolly died."
Honoria frowned. "We'll have to tell Arthur and Louise the truth."
"Hmm." Devil's eyes gleamed from beneath his lashes. "Later." Lifting his arm, he reached for the soap, then held it out to Honoria.
Opening her eyes, she blinked, then took it. Softly smiling, she came up onto her knees between his bent legs. This ranked as one of her favorite pastimes—soaping his chest, washing his magnificent body. Quickly raising a lather in the crisp mat of hair on his chest, she splayed her hands, caressing each heavy muscle band, lovingly sculpting each shoulder, each arm.
I love you, I love you. The refrain sang in her head; she let her hands say the words, give voice to the music, infusing every touch, every caress, with her love. His hands rose in answer, roaming her curves, unhurriedly possessing every one, orchestrating an accompaniment to her song.
She'd only let him use the soap on her once; the room had ended up completely flooded. To her abiding delight, his control was stronger than hers.
One large palm splayed over her gently rounded belly. Looking up, Honoria caught the gleam of green eyes beneath his lashes; she frowned. "You knew."
One brow lifted in his usual arrogant way; his lips slowly curved. "I was waiting for you to tell me." She raised her brows haughtily. "Tomorrow's St. Valentine's Day—I'll tell you then."
He grinned—his pirate's grin. "We'll have to devise a suitable ceremony."
Honoria caught his eye—and struggled not to grin back. She humphed and clambered over one rock-hard thigh. "Turn around."
She soaped his back, then lathered his hair and made him duck to rinse it. She'd returned to sit before him, between his thighs, her back to him, soaping one long leg, when Devil leaned forward, his arms closing around her. He nuzzled her ear. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"I'm perfectly well, and so's your son. Stop worrying." "Me stop worrying?" He snorted. "That's a fine thing coming from you."
Dropping his leg, Honoria smiled and leaned back, luxuriating in the feel of the warm, hard, wet wall of his chest against her shoulders and back. "Oh, I've given up worrying about you."
Devil gave vent to an excessively skeptical sound. "Well—just consider." Honoria gestured with the soap. "In recent times alone, you've been thrown from a disintegrating phaeton, poisoned, attacked with swords, and now shot through the heart. And you're still here." Dramatically, she spread her arms wide. "In the face of such trenchant invincibility, it's obviously wasted effort to worry about you. Fate, as I've been told often enough, quite clearly takes care of the Cynsters."
Behind her, Devil grinned. She would stop worrying about him on the same day he stopped worrying about her. Closing his hands about her waist, he rifted her, drawing her hips back against him. "I told you you were fated to be a Cynster wife—an invincible husband was obviously required." He underscored his emphasis by nudging the softness between her thighs, his erection sinking a tantalizing inch into that familiar haven.
Dropping the soap over the edge of the tub, Honoria arched—and drew him deeper. "I warn you, the staff are going to start wondering if we have to paint the downstairs ceiling again."
"Is that a challenge?" She grinned. "Yes."
He chuckled, the sound so deep she felt it in her bones.
"Not a single splash," she warned him. "Your desire is my command."
It was; he rose to her challenge—in every way—rocking her in the cradle of his hips until she thought she'd go mad. His hands roamed, fondling her swollen breasts, teasing her aching nipples. The slight ripples caused by their movement lapped at the sensitive peaks, a subtle, thoroughly excruciating sensation. Sweet fever blossomed, heating her skin, making the cooling water seem colder, impressing her with her own nakedness, sensitizing her skin to the crisp abrasion of his hair-dusted body rubbing so intimately against her.
Steadily, the fever built; Honoria shifted her knees to the outside of his. She tried to rise higher—he held her down, his hands firming about her hips. "No splashing—remember?"
She could only gasp as he pulled her lower, his hot hardness pressing deeper. Three restricted yet forceful thrusts later her fever exploded. She gasped his name as her senses soared; eyes shut, she savored the flight, hung briefly in the selfless void at the peak, then drifted gently back to earth.
He hadn't joined her; his arms came around her, holding her safe as her senses returned. Blissfully content, Honoria smiled and inwardly embraced him as possessively as he embraced her. He hadn't said he loved her, but after all that had happened, she didn't need to hear the words. He'd said enough, and, like any Cynster, his actions spoke loudest.
She was his; he was hers—she needed nothing more. What had grown between them, what was growing within her, was theirs—their life from now on. As her mental feet touched earth, she concentrated and caressed him, expertly, intimately—encouragingly.
And felt his muscles lock. Abruptly, he lifted her from him; the next instant, he stood and scooped her into his arms. As he stepped from the bath and headed for their bedroom, Honoria's eyes flew wide. "We're still wet!"
"We'll dry fast enough," replied her thoroughly aroused spouse.
They did, rolling, twisting, tangling amidst their silken sheets in a glorious affirmation of life, and the love they shared. Later, as he lay flat on his back, Honoria slumped fast asleep on his chest, Devil's lips quirked. True Cynsters—all the male ones—died in their beds. Stifling a chuckle, he peered down at his wife. He couldn't see her face. Gently, he shifted her to the side, settling her against him; she snuggled closer, her hand sliding across his chest. He touched his lips to her temple, and closed his arms about her.
"To have and to hold" was the family motto—it was also in the wedding vows. One of his ancestors had paid a horrific sum to put it there. Having married Honoria Prudence, Devil could understand why.
The having was very nice; the holding—the loving, the never letting go—was even better.
Epilogue
Contents - Prev
Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire
September 1819
The Bar Cynster was in session. They were all there, lounging about the library, languorously at ease like so many well-fed predators. Devil had pushed the chair back from his desk and propped one boot on his knee to make a makeshift cradle for his heir. Sebastian Sylvester Jeremy Bartholomew Cynster. The star attraction of the present gathering of the clan had been baptized several hours before; he was now getting his head wet in a different temple.
Vane was in the armchair by the desk; Gabriel and Harry occupied the chaise. Lucifer lay sprawled in one armchair by the hearth, Richard a mirror image in its mate. Each held a brandy balloon well filled with His Grace of St. Ives's best; a somnolent air of deep male satisfaction permeated the room.
The staccato click of feminine heels in the hall was the first intimation of impending fate. Then the door flew open; Honoria swept in. One look at her face, one glance at her flashing eyes, was enough to inform them that someone was in deep trouble.
Secure in the knowledge that, whatever was exciting her ire, he had to be innocent, Devil gave her a vague smile. Honoria returned it with a brief, ominously serious nod; when the others made to rise, she waved them back to their seats. Skirts swishing, she marched across the room, then whirled before Devil's desk. Crossing her arms, she faced them, her gaze impartially distributing her ire. Only Devil was safe.
"It has come to my notice," Honoria intoned, her words clipped and precise, "that a set of wagers—I believe the term is a book?—was run on the question of, not the date of Sebastian's birth, which would have been bad enough, but on the date of his conception." Her gaze settled on Gabriel; she raised her brows. "Is that correct?"
Gabriel eyed her warily; a tinge of color crept into his lean cheeks. He flicked a glance at Devil, who merely raised his brows back. Frowning, Gabriel looked at Honoria. "Your information is accurate."
"Indeed?" Honoria's eyes flashed pure steel. "And exactly how much did you—all of you—win?"
Gabriel blinked. To his left, Sebastian gurgled—there was no point looking to Devil for help; His Grace of St. Ives was besotted with his son as well as his wife. At the edge of his vision, Gabriel saw colors gathering in a phalanx by the door—Honoria's supporters, their mothers. Nearer to hand, he sensed Harry's tension. Vane shifted, uncrossing his legs; Richard and Lucifer both slowly sat up.
Gabriel had no difficulty interpreting their silent message.
Which was all very well—they weren't the ones facing Her Grace of St. Ives's fire.
"Seven thousand, six hundred and forty-three pounds." Honoria's brows flew. Then she smiled. "Mr. Postlethwaite will be pleased."
"Postlethwaite?" Richard's tone reflected their escalating unease. "What's he got to do with it?"
Honoria opened her eyes wide. "The village church needs a new roof. Mr. Postlethwaite's been at his wit's end—good lead is becoming so costly. And, of course, as we endow the chapel here, he didn't like to approach us."
Gabriel glanced at Vane; Vane looked to Richard, who was looking at Harry. Lucifer bent a look of disbelief on his brother. Jaws aching, Devil kept his head down, his gaze locked on his son's cherubic countenance.
It was Vane who stepped into the breach. "So?" The single syllable was steeped in unchallengeable superiority; with any other woman, it might have worked.
Honoria merely turned her head, looked Vane in the eye, then turned back to Gabriel. "You will donate the entire proceeds from your enterprise, with any interest accrued, to Mr. Postlethwaite, to use as he sees fit. As you were in charge of this infamous book, I will hold you responsible for collecting the funds and conveying them to the vicar." Her tone was that of a magistrate pronouncing sentence—it left no room for argument. "Furthermore, as a final penance, you will all attend the dedication." She paused; her gaze swept the gathering. "I trust I've made myself clear?"
Her eyes challenged them to gainsay her; each considered it—none did. Briskly, Honoria nodded.
Sebastian cried, an eloquent warning of impending hunger. Honoria immediately lost interest in wagers, lead roofs, and indelicate speculation. Turning, she held out her arms commandingly; Devil handed his son over, an unholy smile lighting his eyes, lifting the corners of his lips.
With Sebastian at her shoulder, Honoria headed for the door, utterly ignoring the five large males she passed. She swept straight out of the room, the ladies closing ranks behind her.
Six males watched her go—one with glowing pride, the other five with uneasy trepidation. They paid up without a whimper. Mr. Postlethwaite was delighted.
One month later, they attended the dedication; each uttered a prayer that fate wouldn't, just yet, turn her attention their way.
Unfortunately for them, fate wasn't listening.
👁 :8
Day One Monday, October 15
Bellamy was back in the crowded hospital ward at Cu Chi Base in Vietnam and Susan was leaning over his bed, lovely in her crisp white nurse's uniform, whispering, "Wake up, sailor. You don't want to die."
And when he heard the magic of her voice, he could almost forget his pain. She was murmuring something else in his ear, but a loud bell was ringing, and he could not hear her clearly. He reached up to pull her closer, and his hands clutched empty air.
It was the sound of the telephone that fully awoke Robert Bellamy.
He opened his eyes reluctantly, not wanting to let go of the dream.
The telephone at his bedside was insistent. He looked at the clock. Four A.M. He snatched up the instrument, angry at having his dream interrupted.
"Do you know what the hell time it is?" "Commander Bellamy?" A deep, male voice. "Yes"
"I have a message for you, Commander. You are ordered to report to General Hilliard at National Security Agency headquarters at Fort Meade at oh six hundred this morning. Is the message understood, Commander?"
"Yes." And no. Mostly no.
Commander Robert Bellamy slowly replaced the receiver, puzzled. What the devil could the NSA want with him? He was assigned to ONI, the Office of Naval Intelligence. And what could be urgent enough to call for a meeting at six o'clock in the morning?
He lay down again and closed his eyes, trying to recapture the dream. It
had been so real.
He knew, of course, what had triggered it. Susan had telephoned the evening before.
"Robert..."
The sound of her voice did to him what it always did. He took a shaky breath. "Hello, Susan."
"Are you all right, Robert?"
"Sure. Fantastic. How's Moneybags?" "Please, don't."
"All right. How's Monte Banks?"
He could not bring himself to say "your husband." He was her husband.
"He's fine. I just wanted to tell you that we're going to be away for a little while. I didn't want you to worry."
That was so like her, so Susan. He fought to keep his voice steady. "Where are you going this time?"
"We're flying to Brazil." On Moneybags's private 727. "Monte has some business interests there."
"Really? I thought he owned the country." "Stop it, Robert. Please."
"Sorry."
There was a pause. "I wish you sounded better." "If you were here, I would."
"I want you to find someone wonderful and be happy." "I did find someone wonderful, Susan."
The damned lump in his throat made it difficult for him to speak. "And do you know what happened? I lost her."
"If you're going to do this, I won't call you again." He was filled with sudden panic.
"Don't say that. Please." She was his lifeline. He could not bear the
thought of never speaking to her again.
He tried to sound cheerful. "I'm going to go out and find some luscious blonde and screw us both to death."
"I want you to find someone." "I promise."
"I'm concerned about you, darling."
"No need. I'm really fine." He almost gagged on his lie. If she only knew the truth. But it was nothing he could bring himself to discuss with anyone. Especially Susan. He could not bear the thought of her pity.
"I'll telephone you from Brazil," Susan said. There was a long silence. They could not let go of each other because there was too much to say, too many things that were better left unsaid, that had to be left unsaid.
"I have to go now, Robert." "Susan?"
"Yes?"
"I love you, baby. I always will." "I know. I love you too, Robert."
And that was the bittersweet irony of it. They still loved each other so much.
You two have the perfect marriage, all their friends used to say. What had gone wrong?
Commander Robert Bellamy got out of bed and walked through the silent living room in his bare feet. The room screamed out Susan's absence. There were dozens of photographs of Susan and himself scattered around, frozen moments in time. The two of them fishing in the Highlands of Scotland, standing in front of a Buddha near a That hlong, riding a carriage in the rain through the Borghese gardens in Rome. And in each picture, they were smiling and hugging, two people wildly in love.
He went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.
The kitchen clock read 4:15 A.M. He hesitated a moment, then dialed a number. There were six rings, and finally he heard Admiral Whittaker's voice at the other end of the line.
"Hello."
"Admiral" "Yes?"
"It's Robert. I'm terribly sorry to wake you, sir. I just had a rather strange phone call from the National Security Agency."
"The NSA? What did they want?"
"I don't know. I've been ordered to report to General Hilliard at oh six hundred."
There was a thoughtful silence.
"Perhaps you're being transferred there."
"I can't be. It doesn't make sense. Why would they?"
"It's obviously something urgent, Robert. Why don't you give me a call after the meeting?"
"I will. Thank you."
The connection was broken. I shouldn't have bothered the old man, Robert thought.
The admiral had retired as head of Naval Intelligence two years earlier. Forced to retire, was more like it. The rumor was that as a sop, the Navy had given him a little office somewhere and put him to work counting barnacles on the mothball fleet, or some such shit. The admiral would have no idea about current intelligence activities. But he was Robert's mentor. He was closer to Robert than anyone in the world, except, of course, Susan. And Robert had needed to talk to someone. With Susan gone, he felt as though he were living in a time warp. He fantasized that somewhere, in another dimension of time and space, he and Susan were still happily married, laughing and carefree and loving. Or maybe not, Robert thought wearily. Maybe I just don't know when to let go.
The coffee was ready. It tasted bitter. He wondered whether the beans came from Brazil.
He carried the coffee cup into the bathroom and studied his image in the mirror. He was looking at a man in his early forties, tall and lean and physically fit with a craggy face, a strong chin, black hair, and intelligent, probing dark eyes. There was a long, deep scar on his chest, a souvenir from the plane crash. But that was yesterday. That was Susan. This was today. Without Susan.
He shaved and showered and walked over to his clothes closet. What do I wear, he wondered, Navy uniform or civilian clothes? And on the other hand, who gives a damn?
He put on a charcoal gray suit, a white shirt, and a gray silk tie. He
knew very little about the National Security Agency, only that the Puzzle Palace, as it was nicknamed, superseded all other American intelligence agencies and was the most secretive of them all. What do they want with me? I'll soon find out.
The National Security Agency is hidden discreetly away on eighty-two rambling acres at Fort Meade, Maryland, in two buildings that together are twice the size of the CIA complex in Langley, Virginia.
The agency, created to give technical support to protect United States communications and acquire worldwide electronic intelligence data, employs thousands of people, and so much information is generated by its operations that it shreds more than forty tons of documents every day.
It was still dark when Commander Robert Bellamy arrived at the first gate. He drove up to an eight-foot-high Cyclone fence with a topping of barbed wire. There was a sentry booth there, manned by two armed guards. One of them stayed in the booth watching as the other approached the car.
"Can I help you?"
"Commander Bellamy to see General Hilliard." "May I see your identification, Commander?"
Robert Bellamy pulled out his wallet and removed his 17th District Naval Intelligence ID card.
The guard studied it carefully and returned it. "Thank you, Commander."
He nodded to the guard in the booth, and the gate swung open. The guard inside picked up a telephone.
"Commander Bellamy is on his way."
A minute later, Robert Bellamy drove up to a closed, electrified gate. An armed guard approached the car.
"Commander Bellamy?" "Yes."
"May I see your identification, please?"
He started to protest and then he thought, What the hell. It's their zoo. He took out his wallet again and showed his identification to the guard.
"Thank you, Commander." The guard gave some invisible sign, and the gate opened.
As Robert Bellamy drove ahead, he saw a third Cyclone fence ahead of him. My God, he thought, I'm in the Land of Oz.
Another uniformed guard walked up to the car. As Robert Bellamy reached for his wallet, the guard looked at the license plate and said* "Please drive straight ahead to the administration building, Commander. There will be someone there to meet you."
"Thank you."
The gate swung open, and Robert followed the driveway up to an enormous white building. A man in civilian clothes was standing outside waiting, shivering in the chill October air.
"You can leave your car right there, Commander," he called out. "We'll take care of it."
Robert Bellamy left the keys in his car and stepped out. The man greeting him appeared to be in his thirties, tall, thin, and sallow. He looked as though he had not seen the sun in years.
"I'm Harriso_ Keller. I'll escort you to General Hilliard's office."
They walked into a large high-ceilinged entrance hall. A man in civilian clothes was seated behind a desk.
"Commander Bellamy-"
Robert Bellamy swung around. He heard the click of a camera. "Thank you, sir."
Robert Bellamy turned to Keller. "What-?"
"This will take only a minute," Harrison Keller assured him.
Sixty seconds later, Robert Bellamy was handed a blue and white identification badge with his photograph on it.
"Please wear this at all times while you're in the building, Commander." "Right."
They started walking down a long, white corridor. Robert Bellamy noticed security cameras mounted at twenty-foot intervals on both sides of the hall.
"How big is this building?"
"just over two million square feet, Commander." '~at?"
"Yes. This corridor is the longest corridor in the world-nine hundred and eighty feet. We're completely self-contained here. We have a shopping center, cafeteria, post exchange, eight snack bars, a hospital, complete with an operating room, a dentist's office, a branch of the State Bank of Laurel, a dry-cleaning shop, a shoe shop, a barbershop, and a few other odds and ends."
It's a home away from home, Robert thought. He found it oddly depressing.
They passed an enormous open area filled with a vast sea of computers. Robert stopped in amazement.
"Impressive, isn't it? That's just one of our computer rooms. The complex contains three billion dollars' worth of decoding machines and computers."
"How many people work in this place?" "About sixteen thousand."
So what the hell do they need me for? Robert Bellamy wondered.
He was led into a private elevator that Keller operated with a key.
They went up one floor and started on another trek down a long corridor until they reached a suite of offices at the end of the hall.
"Right in here, Commander." They entered a large reception office with four secretaries' desks. Two of the secretaries had already arrived for work. Harrison Keller nodded to one of them, and she pressed a button, and a door to the inner office clicked open.
"Go right in, please, gentlemen. The general is expecting you." Harrison Keller said, "This way."
Robert Bellamy followed him into the inner sanctum.
He found himself in a spacious office, the ceilings and walls heavily soundproofed. The room was comfortably furnished, filled with photographs and personal mementos. It was obvious that the man behind the desk spent a lot of time there.
General Mark Hilliard, deputy director of the NSA, appeared to be in his middle fifties, very tall, with a face carved in flint, icy, steely eyes, and a ramrod-straight posture. The general was dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, and gray tie. I guessed right, Robert thought.
Harrison Keller said, "General Hilliard, this is Commander Bellamy."
"Thank you for dropping by, Commander." As though it was an invitation to some tea party. The two men shook hands.
"Sit down. I'll bet you could do with a cup of coffee." The man was a mind reader.
"Yes, sir." "Harrison?"
"No, thank you." He took a chair in the corner. A buzzer was pressed, the door opened, and an Oriental in a mess jacket entered with a tray of coffee and Danish pastry. Robert noted that he was not wearing an identification badge. Shame. The coffee was poured. It smelled wonderful.
"How do you take yours?" General Hilliard asked. "Black, please."
The coffee tasted great. The two men were seated facing each other in soft leather chairs.
"The director asked that I meet with you." The director. Edward Sanderson. A legend in espionage circles. A brilliant, ruthless puppet master, credited with masterminding dozens of daring coups all over the world. A man seldom seen in public and whispered about in private.
"How long have you been with the 17th District Naval Intelligence Group, Commander?" General Hilliard asked.
Robert played it straight.
"Fifteen years." He would have bet a month's pay that the general could have told him the time of day when he had joined ONI.
"Before that, I believe you commanded a naval air squadron in Vietnam." "Yes, sir."
"You were shot down. They didn't expect you to pull through."
The doctor was saying, "Forget about him. He won't make it." He had wanted to die. The pain was unbearable.
And then Susan was leaning over him.
"Open your eyes, sailor, you don't want to die." He had forced his eyes open and through the haze of pain was staring at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She had a soft oval face and thick black hair, sparkling brown eyes and a smile like a blessing. He had tried to speak, but it was too much of an effort.
General Hilliard was saying something. Robert Bellamy brought his mind back to the present.
"I beg your pardon, General?"
"We have a problem, Commander. We need your help." "Yes, sir?"
The general stood up and began to pace.
"What I'm about to tell you is extremely sensitive. It's above top secret."
"Yes, sir."
"Yesterday, in the Swiss Alps, a NATO weather balloon crashed.
There were some experimental military objects aboard the balloon that are highly secret."
Robert found himself wondering where all this was leading.
"The Swiss government has removed those objects from the balloon, but unfortunately, it seems that there Were some witnesses to the crash.
It is of vital importance that none of them talk to anyone about what they saw. It could provide valuable information to certain other countries. Do you follow me?"
"I think so, sir. You want me to speak to the witnesses and warn them not to discuss what they saw."
"Not exactly, Commander." "Then I don't under-"
"What I want you to do is simply track down those witnesses. Others will talk to them about the necessity for silence." "I see. Are the witnesses all in Switzerland?"
General Hilliard stopped in front of Robert.
"That's our problem, Commander. You see, we have no idea where they are.
Or who they are."
Robert thought he had missed something. "I beg your pardon?"
"The only information we have is that the witnesses were on a tour bus. They happened to be passing the scene when the weather balloon crashed near a little village called..." He turned to Harrison Keller.
"Uetendorf."
The general turned back to Robert.
"The passengers got off the bus for a few minutes to look at the crash and then continued on. When the tour ended, the passengers dispersed."
Robert said slowly, "General Hilliard, are you saying that there is no record of who these people are or where they went?"
"That is correct."
"And you want me to go over and find them?"
"Exactly. You've been very highly recommended. I'm told that you speak half a dozen languages fluently, and you have an excellent field record. The director arranged to have you temporarily transferred to the NSA."
Terrific.
"I assume I'll be working with the Swiss government on this?" "No, you'll be working alone."
"Alone? But-"
"We must not involve anyone else in this mission. I can't stress enough the importance of what was in that balloon, Commander. Time is of the essence. I want you to report your progress to me every day."
The general wrote a number on a card and handed it to Robert.
"I can be reached through this number day or night. There's a plane waiting to fly you to Zurich. You'll be escorted to your apartment, so you can pack what you need, and then you'll be taken to the airport."
So much for "Thank you for dropping by." Robert was tempted to ask "Will someone feed my goldfish while I'm gone?"
but he had a feeling the answer would be "You have no goldfish."
"In your work with ONI, Commander, I assume you've acquired intelligence contacts abroad?"
"Yes, sir. I have quite a few friends who could be of use
"You're not to get in touch with any of them. You are not authorized to make any contacts at all. The witnesses you're looking for are undoubtedly nationals of various countries." The general turned to Keller.
"Harrison-" Keller walked over to a filing cabinet in the corner and unlocked it. He removed a large manila envelope and passed it to Robert.
"There's fifty thousand dollars in here in different European currencies and another twenty thousand in U.S. dollars. You will also find several sets of false identifications that may come in handy."
General Hilliard held out a thick, shiny black plastic card with a white stripe on it.
"Here's a credit card that-"
"I doubt if I'll need that, General. The cash will be enough, and I have an ONI credit card."
"Take it."
"Very well." Robert examined the card. It was drawn on a bank he had never heard of. At the bottom of the card was a telephone number.
"There's no name on the card," Robert said.
"It's the equivalent of a blank check. It requires no identification. Just have them call the telephone number on the card when you make a purchase. It's very important that you keep it with you at all times."
"Right."
"And Commander?" "Sir?"
"You must find those witnesses. Every one of them. I'll inform the director that you have started the assignment."
The meeting was over.
Harrison Keller walked Robert to the outer office. A uniformed marine was seated there. He rose as the two men came in.
"This is Captain Dougherty. He'll take you to the airport. Good luck." "Thanks."
The two men shook hands. Keller turned and walked back into General Hilliard's office.
"Are you ready, Commander?" Captain Dougherty asked.
"Yes." But ready for what? He had handled difficult intelligence assignments in the past, but never anything as crazy as this. He was expected to track down an unknown number of unknown witnesses from unknown countries. What are the odds against that? Robert wondered. I feel like the White Queen in Through the Looking Glass.
"Why sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before
breakfast." Well, this was all six of them.
"I have orders to take you directly to your apartment and then to Andrews Air Force Base," Captain Dougherty said.
"There's a plane waiting to-" Robert shook his head. "I have to make a stop at my office first." Dougherty hesitated.
"Very well. I'll go there with you and wait for you." It was as if they didn't trust him out of their sight. Because he knew that a weather balloon had crashed? It made no sense. He surrendered his badge at the reception desk and walked outside, into the chill, breaking dawn. His car was gone. In its place was a stretch limousine.
"Your car will be taken care of, Commander," Captain Dougherty informed him.
"We'll ride in this."
There was a high-handedness about all this that Robert found vaguely disturbing.
"Fine," he said.
And they were on their way to Naval Intelligence. The pale morning sun was disappearing behind rain clouds. It was going to be a miserable day. In more ways than one, Robert thought.
Ottawa, Canada 2400 Hours His code name was janus.
He was addressing twelve men in the heavily guarded room of a military compound.
"As you have all been informed, Operation Doomsday has been activated. There are a number of witnesses who must be found as quickly and as quietly as possible. We are not able to attempt to track them down through regular security channels because of the danger of a leak."
"Who are we using?"
The Russian. Huge. Shorttempered. "His name is Commander Robert Bellamy." "How was he selected?"
The German. Aristocratic. Ruthless.
"The commander was chosen after a thorough computer search of the files
of the CIA, FBI, and a half dozen other security agencies." "Please, may I inquire what are his qualifications?"
The Japanese. Polite. Sly.
"Commander Bellamy is an experienced field officer who speaks six languages fluently and has an exemplary record.
Again and again he has proved himself to be very resourceful. He has no living relatives."
"Is he aware of the urgency of this?" The Englishman. Snobbish. Dangerous.
"He is. We have every expectation that he will be able to locate all the witnesses very quickly."
"Does he understand the purpose of his mission?" The Frenchman. Argumentative. Stubborn.
"No."
"And when he has found the witnesses?" The Chinese. Clever. Patient.
"He will be suitably rewarded."
The headquarters of the Office of Naval Intelligence occupies the entire fifth floor of the sprawling Pentagon, an enclave in the middle of the largest office building in the world, with seventeen miles of corridors and twenty-nine thousand military and civilian employees. The interior of the Office of Naval Intelligence reflects its seagoing traditions.
The desks and file cabinets are either olive green, from the World War II era, or battleship gray, from the Vietnam era. The walls and ceilings are painted a buff or cream color. In the beginning, Robert had been put off by the Spartan decor, but he had long since grown accustomed to it.
Now, as he walked into the building and approached the reception desk, the familiar guard at the desk said, "Good morning, Commander. May I see your pass?"
Robert had been working here for seven years, but the ritual never changed. He dutifully displayed his pass.
"Thank you, Commander."
On his way to his office, Robert thought about Captain Dougherty, waiting for him in the parking lot at the river entrance. Waiting to escort him to the plane that would fly him to Switzerland to begin an
impossible hunt.
When Robert reached his office, his secretary, Barbara, was already there.
"Good morning, Commander. The deputy director would like to see you in his office."
"He can wait. Get me Admiral Whittaker, please." "Yes, sir."
A minute later Robert was speaking with the admiral. "I presume you have finished your meeting, Robert?" "A few minutes ago."
"How did it go?"
"It was-interesting. Are you free to join me for breakfast, Admiral?" He tried to keep his voice casual.
There was no hesitation. "Yes. Shall we meet there?"
"Fine. I'll leave a visitors' pass for you.
"Very well. I'll see you in an hour." Robert replaced the receiver and thought, It's ironic that I have to leave a visitors' pass for the admiral. A few years ago, he was the fair-haired boy here, in charge of Naval Intelligence.
How must he feel? Robert buzzed his secretary on the intercom. "Yes, Commander?"
"I'm expecting Admiral Whittaker. Arrange a pass for him." "I'll take care of it right away."
It was time to report to the deputy director. Dustin fucking Thornton.
D ustin "Dusty" Thornton, deputy director of the Office of Naval Intelligence, had won his fame as one of the greatest athletes ever to come out of Annapolis.
Thornton owed his present exalted position to a football game. An Army-Navy game, to be precise. Thornton, a towering monolith of a man, had played fullback as a senior at Annapolis in Navy's most important game of the year. At the beginning of the fourth quarter, with Army leading 13-0, two touchdowns and a conversion ahead, destiny stepped in and changed Dustin Thornton's life. Thornton intercepted an Army pass,
pivoted around, and charged through the Army phalanx for a touchdown.
Navy missed on the extra point but soon scored a field goal. After the ensuing kickoff, Army failed to make a first down and punted into Navy territory. The score stood at Army 13, Navy 9, and the clock was running.
When play resumed, the ball was passed to Thornton, and he went down under a heap of Army uniforms. It took him a long time to get to his feet. A doctor came running out onto the field. Thornton angrily waved him away. With seconds left to play, signals were called for a lateral pass. Thornton caught it on his own ten yard line and took off.
He was unstoppable. He charged through the opposition like a tank, knocking down everyone unlucky enough to get in his way. With two seconds to go, Thornton crossed the goal line for the winning touchdown, and Navy scored its first victory against Army in four years. That, in itself, would have had little effect on Thornton's life. What made the event significant was that seated in a box reserved for VIPs were Willard Stone and his daughter, Eleanor. As the crowd rose to its feet, wildly cheering the Navy hero, Eleanor turned to her father and said quietly, "I want to meet him."
Eleanor Stone was a woman of large appetites. Plainfaced, she had a voluptuous body and an insatiable libido. Watching Dustin Thornton savagely plow his way down the football field, she fantasized what he would be like in bed. If his manhood was as big as the rest of his body... She was not disappointed. Six months later, Eleanor and Dustin Thornton were married. That was the beginning. Dustin Thornton went to work for his father-in-law and was inducted into an arcane world he had not dreamed existed.
Willard Stone, Thornton's new father-in-law, was a man of mystery.
A billionaire with powerful political connections and a past shrouded in secrecy, he was a shadowy figure who pulled strings in capitals all over the world. He was in his late sixties, a meticulous man whose every movement was precise and methodical. He had razorsharp features and hooded eyes that revealed nothing. Willard Stone believed in wasting neither words nor emotions, and he was ruthless in obtaining what he wanted.
The rumors about him were fascinating. He was reported to have murdered a competitor in Malaysia and to have had a torrid affair with the favorite wife of an emir. He was said to have backed a successful revolution in Nigeria. The government had brought half a dozen indictments against him, but they were always mysteriously dropped.
There were tales of bribes, and senators suborned, business secrets stolen, and witnesses who disappeared. Stone was an adviser to presidents and kings. He was raw, naked power. Among his many properties was a large, isolated estate in the Colorado mountains where every year scientists, captains of industry, and world leaders gathered for seminars. Armed guards kept out unwanted visitors.
Willard Stone had not only approved his daughter's marriage, he had encouraged it. His new son-in-law was brilliant, ambitious, and, most important, malleable.
Twelve years after the marriage, Stone arranged for Dustin to be appointed ambassador to South Korea. Several years later, the President appointed him ambassador to the United Nations. When Admiral Ralph Whittaker was suddenly ousted as acting director of ONI, Thornton took his place. That day Willard Stone sent for his son-in-law.
"This is merely the beginning," Stone promised.
"I have bigger plans for you, Dustin. Great plans." And he had proceeded to outline them. Two years earlier, Robert had had his first meeting with the new acting director of ONI.
"Sit down, Commander." There was no cordiality in Dustin Thornton's voice.
"I see by your record that you're something of a maverick."
What the hell does he mean? Robert wondered. He decided to keep his mouth shut.
Thornton looked up.
"I don't know how Admiral Whittaker ran this office when he was in charge, but from now on we're doing everything by the book. I expect my orders to be carried out to the letter. Do I make myself clear?"
Jesus, Robert thought, what the hell are we in for here? "Do I make myself clear, Commander?"
"Yes. You expect your orders to be carried out to the letter." He wondered whether he was expected to salute.
"That's all."
But it was not all.
A month later, Robert was sent to East Germany to bring in a scientist who wanted to defect. It was a dangerous assignment because Stasi, the East German secret police, had learned about the proposed defection and was watching the scientist closely. In spite of that, Robert had managed to smuggle the man across the border, to a safe house. He was making arrangements to bring him to Washington when he received a call from Dustin Thornton telling him that the situation had changed and that he was to drop the assignment.
"We can't just dump him here," Robert had protested. "They'll kill him."
"That's his problem," Thornton had replied.
"Your orders are to come back home." Screw you, Robert thought. I'm not going to abandon him. He had called a friend of his in M16, British Intelligence, and explained the situation.
"If he goes back to East Germany," Robert said, "they'll chop him. Will you take him?"
"I'll see what can be done, old chap. Bring him along." And the scientist had been given haven in England.
Dustin Thornton never forgave Robert for disobeying his instructions. From that point on, there was open animosity between the two men.
Thornton had discussed the incident with his father-in-law.
"Loose cannons like Bellamy are dangerous," Willard Stone warned. "They're a security hazard. Men like that are expendable. Remember that." And Thornton had remembered.
Now, walking down the corridor toward Dustin Thornton's office, Robert could not help thinking about the difference between Thornton and Whittaker. In a job like his, trust was the sine qua non. He did not trust Dustin Thornton.
Thornton was seated behind his desk when Robert walked into his office. "You wanted to see me?"
"Yes. Sit down, Commander." Their relationship had never reached the "Robert" phase.
"I've been told you've been temporarily transferred to the National Security Agency. When you come back, I have a-"
"I'm not coming back. This is my last assignment." "What?"
"I'm quitting."
Thinking about it later, Robert was not sure exactly what reaction he had expected. Some kind of scene. Dustin Thornton could have shown surprise, or he could have argued, or been angry, or relieved. Instead, he had merely looked at Robert and nodded.
"That's it then, isn't it?"
When Robert returned to his own office, he said to his secretary, "I'm going to be away for a while. I'll be leaving in about an hour."
"Is there some place where you can be reached?"
Robert remembered General Hilliard's orders. "No."
"There are some meetings you-"
"Cancel them." He looked at his watch. It was time to meet Admiral Whittaker.
They had breakfast in the center yard of the Pentagon at the Ground Zero Cafe, so named because it was once thought that the Pentagon was where the first nuclearbomb attack against the United States would take place. Robert had arranged for a corner table where they would have a degree of privacy. Admiral Whittaker was punctual, and as Robert watched him approach the table, it seemed to him that the admiral looked older and smaller, as though semiretirement had somehow aged and shrunk him. He was still a striking-looking man with strong features, a Roman nose, good cheekbones, and a crown of silvered hair. Robert had served under the admiral in Vietnam and later in the Office of Naval Intelligence, and he had a high regard for him. More than a high regard, Robert admitted to himself. Admiral Whittaker was his surrogate father.
The admiral sat down.
"Good morning, Robert. Well, did they transfer you to the NSA?" Robert nodded.
"Temporarily."
The waitress arrived, and the two men studied the menu.
"I had forgotten how bad the food here was," Admiral Whittaker said, smiling. He looked around the room, his face reflecting an unspoken nostalgia. He wishes he were back here, Robert thought. Amen.
They ordered. When the waitress was out of earshot, Robert said, "Admiral, General Hilliard is sending me on an urgent
three-thousand-mile trip to locate some witnesses who saw a weather balloon crash. I find that strange. And there's something else that's even stranger. 'Time is of the essence,' to quote the general, but I've been ordered not to use any of my intelligence contacts abroad to help me."
Admiral Whittaker looked puzzled.
"I suppose the general must have his reasons."
Robert said, "I can't imagine what they are." Admiral Whittaker studied Robert. Commander Bellamy had served under him in Vietnam and had been the best pilot in the squadron. The admiral's son, Edward, had been Robert's bombardier, and on the terrible day their plane had been shot down, Edward had been killed. Robert had barely survived. The admiral
had gone to the hospital to visit him.
"He's not going to make it," the doctors had told him. Robert, lying there in agonizing pain, had whispered, "I'm sorry about Edward. I'm
so sorry."
Admiral Whittaker had squeezed Robert's hand.
"I know you did everything you could. You've got to get well, now. You're going to be fine." He wanted desperately for Robert to live. In the admiral's mind, Robert was his son, the son who would take Edward's place. And Robert had pulled through.
"Robert"
"Yes, Admiral?"
"I hope your mission to Switzerland is successful." "So do I. It's my last one."
"You're still determined to quit?"
The admiral was the only one Robert had confided in. "I've had enough."
"Thornton?"
"It's not just him. It's me. I'm tired of interfering with other people's lives." I'm tired of the lies and the cheating, and the broken promises that were never meant to be kept. I'm tired of manipulating people and of being manipulated. I'm tired of the games and the danger and the betrayals. It's cost me everything I ever gave a damn about.
"Do you have any idea what you're going to do?"
"I'll try to find something~useful to do with my life, something positive."
"What if they won't let you go?"
Robert said, "They have no choice, have they?"
The limousine was waiting at the river-entrance parking lot. "Are you ready, Commander?" Captain Dougherty asked.
As ready as I'll ever be, Robert thought.
"Yes." Captain Dougherty accompanied Robert to his apartment so he could pack. Robert had no idea how many days he would be gone. How long does an impossible assignment take? He packed enough clothes for a week and, at the last minute, put in a framed photograph of Susan. He
stared at it for a long time and wondered if she were enjoying herself in Brazil. He thought, I hope not. I hope she's having a lousy time. And was immediately ashamed of himself.
When the limousine arrived at Andrews Air Force Base, the plane was waiting. It was a C20A, an Air Force jet.
Captain Dougherty held out his hand. "Good luck, Commander."
"Thanks." I'll need it. Robert walked up the steps to the cabin. The crew was inside finishing the preflight check.
There was a pilot, a copilot, a navigator, and a steward, all in Air Force uniforms. Robert was familiar with the plane. It was loaded with electronic equipment. On the outside near the tail was a high-frequency antenna that looked like an enormous fishing pole. Inside the cabin were twelve red telephones on the walls and a white, unsecured phone.
Radio transmissions were in code, and the plane's radar was on a military frequency. The primary color inside was air force blue, and the cabin was furnished with comfortable club chairs.
Robert found that he was the only passenger. The pilot greeted him.
"Welcome aboard, Commander. If you'll put on your seat belt, we have clearance to take off"
Robert strapped himself in and leaned back in his seat as the plane taxied down the runway. A minute later, he felt the familiar pull of gravity as the jet screamed into the air. He had not piloted a plane since his crash, when he had been told he would never be able to fly again. Fly again, hell, Robert thought, they said I wouldn't live. It was a miracleNo, it was Susan. ... Vietnam. He had been sent there with the rank of lieutenant commander, stationed on the aircraft carrier Ranger as a tactics officer, responsible for training fighter pilots and planning attack strategy. He had led a bomber squadron of A-6A Intruders, and there was very little time away from the pressures of battle. One of the few leaves he had was in Bangkok for a week of R and R, and during that time he never bothered to sleep. The city was a Disneyland designed for the pleasure of the male animal. He had met an exquisite That girl his first hour in town, and she had stayed at his side the whole time and taught him a few That phrases. He had found the language soft and mellifluous.
Good morning. Arun sawasdi. Where are you from? Khun na chak nai? Where are you going now? Khun kamrant chain pai?
She taught him other phrases too, but she would not tell him what they meant, and when he said them, she giggled.
When Robert returned to the Ranger, Bangkok seemed like a faraway dream. The war was the reality and it was a horror. Someone showed him one of
the leaflets the marines dropped over North Vietnam. It read: Dear Citizens: The U.S. Marines are fighting alongside South Vietnamese forces in Duc Pho in order to give the Vietnamese people a chance to live a free, happy life, without fear of hunger and suffering. But many Vietnamese have paid with their lives, and their homes have been destroyed because they helped the Vietcong.
The hamlets of Hai Mon, Hai Tan, 5a Binh, Ta Binh, and many others have been destroyed because of this. We will not hesitate to destroy every hamlet that helps the Vietcong, who are powerless to stop the combined might of the GVN and its allies. The choice is yours. If you refuse to let the Vietcong use your villages and hamlets as their battlefield, your homes and your lives will be saved.
We're saving the poor bastards, all right. Robert thought grimly. And all we're destroying is their country.
The aircraft carrier Ranger was equipped with all the state-of-the-art technology that could be crammed into it. The ship was home base for 16 aircraft, 40 officers, and 350 enlisted men. Flight schedules were handed out three or four hours before the first launch of the day.
In the mission planning section of the ship's intelligence center, the latest information and reconnaissance photos were given to the bombardiers, who then planned their flight patterns.
"Jesus, they gave us a beauty this morning," said Edward Whittaker, Robert's bombardier.
Edward Whittaker looked like a younger version of his father, but he had a completely different personality. Where the admiral was a formidable figure, dignified and austere, his son was down-to-earth, warm and friendly. He had earned his place as "just one of the boys." The other airmen forgave him for being the son of their commander. He was the best bombardier in the squadron, and he and Robert had become fast friends.
"Where are we heading?" Robert asked.
"For our sins, we've drawn Package Six." It was the most dangerous mission of all. It meant flying north to Hanoi, Haiphong, and up the Red River delta, where the flak was heaviest. There was a catch-22: They were not permitted to bomb any strategic targets if there were civilians nearby, and the North Vietnamese, not being stupid, immediately placed civilians around all their military installations. There was a lot of grumbling in the allied military, but President Lyndon Johnson, safely back in Washington, was giving the orders.
The twelve years that United States troops fought in Vietnam were the longest period it has ever been at war. Robert Bellamy had come into it late in 1972, when the Navy was having major problems. Their F-4 squadrons were being destroyed. In spite of the fact that their planes were superior to the Russian MiG's, the U.S. Navy was losing one F-4
for every two MiG's shot down. It was an unacceptable ratio. Robert was summoned to the headquarters of Admiral Ralph Whittaker. "You sent for me, Admiral?"
"You have the reputation of being a hotshot pilot, Commander. I need your help."
"Yes, sir?"
"We're getting murdered by the goddamned enemy. I have had a thorough analysis made. There's nothing wrong with our planes-it's the training of the men who are flying them. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"I want you to pick a group and retrain it in maneuvers and weapons employment. - The new group was called Top Gun, and before they were through, the ratio changed from two to one to twelve to one. For every two F-4's lost, twenty-four MiG's were shot down. The assignment had taken eight weeks of intensive training, and Commander Bellamy had finally returned to his ship. Admiral Whittaker was there to greet him.
"That was a damned fine job, Commander." "Thank you, Admiral."
"Now, let's get back to work." "I'm ready, sir."
Robert had flown thirty-four bombing missions from the Ranger without incident. His thirty-fifth mission was Package Six.
They .had passed Hanoi and were heading northwest toward Phu Tho and Yen Bai. The flak was getting increasingly heavy. Edward Whittaker was seated on Robert's right, staring at the radar screen, listening to the ominous bass tones of enemy search radars sweeping the sky. The sky directly ahead of them looked like the Fourth of July, streaked with white smoke from the light guns below, dark gray bursts from the
fifty-five-millimeter shells, black clouds from the hundred-millimeter shells, and colored tracer bullets from heavy machine-gun fire.
"We're approaching target," Edward said. His voice through the headphones sounded eerily far away.
"Roger."
The A-6A Intruder was flying at 450 knots, and at that speed, even with the drag and weight of the bomb load, it handled remarkably well, moving too fast for enemies to track it.
Robert reached out and turned on the master armament switch. The dozen
500-pound bombs were now ready to be released. He was headed straight for the target.
A voice on his radio said, "Rome-you have a bogey at four o'clock high." Robert turned to look. A MiG was hurtling toward him, coming out of the sun. Robert banked and sent the plane into a steep dive. The MiG was on his tail. It loosed a missile. Robert checked his instrument panel. The missile was closing in rapidly. A thousand feet away ... sIx hundred ... four hundred "Holy shit!" Edward yelled.
"What are we waiting for?"
Robert waited until the last second, then released a stream of metal chaff and went into a steep climbing turn, leaving the missile to follow the chaff and crash harmlessly into the ground below.
"Thank you, God," Edward said.
"And you, pal." Robert continued the climb and swung behind the MiG. The pilot started to take evasive action, but it was too late. Robert loosed a Sidewinder missile and watched it crawl up the tail pipe of the MiG and explode. An instant later, the sky was showered with pieces of metal.
A voice came over the intercom.
"Nice work, Romeo." The plane was over the target now.
"Here we go," Edward said. He pressed the red button that released the bombs and watched them tumble down toward their target. Mission accomplished. Robert headed the plane back toward the carrier.
At that instant, they felt a heavy thud. The swift and graceful bomber suddenly became sluggish.
"We've been hit!" Edward called.
Both fire-warning lights were flashing red. The plane was moving erratically, out of control. A voice came over the radio.
"Romeo, this is Tiger. Do you want us to cover you?" Robert made a split-second decision.
"No, go on to your targets. I'm going to try to make it back to base."
The plane had slowed down and was becoming more difficult to handle.
"Faster," Edward said nervously, "or we're going to be late for lunch." Robert looked at the altimeter. The needle was dropping rapidly. He activated his radio mike.
"Romeo to home base. We've taken a hit."
"Home base to Romeo. How bad is it?"
"I'm not sure. I think I can bring it home." "Hold on." A moment later the voice returned.
"Your signal is 'Charlie on arrival.'" That meant they were cleared to land on the carrier immediately.
"Roger." "Good luck."
The plane was starting to roll. Robert fought to correct it, trying to gain altitude.
"Come on, baby, you can make it." Robert's face was tight. They were losing too much altitude.
"What's our ETA?"
Edward looked at his chart. "Seven minutes."
"I'm going to get you that hot lunch." Robert was nursing the plane along with all the skill at his command, using the throttle and rudder to try to keep it on a straight course. The altitude was still dropping alarmingly. Finally, ahead of him, Robert saw the sparkling blue waters of the Tonkin Gulf.
"We're home free, buddy," Robert said. "Just a few more miles."
"Terrific. I never doubted" And out of nowhere, two MiG's descended on the plane with a thunderous roar. Bullets began thudding against the fuselage.
"Eddie!
Bail out!" He turned to look. Edward was slumped against his seat belt, his right side torn open, blood spattering the cockpit.
"No!" It was a scream.
A second later, Robert felt a sudden, agonizing blow to his chest.
His flight suit was instantly soaked in blood. The plane started to spiral downward. He felt himself losing consciousness. With his last ounce of strength, he unfastened his seat belt. He turned to take a final look at Edward.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. He blacked out and later had no recollection
of how he ejected out of the plane and parachuted into the water below. A Mayday call had been sent out, and a Sikorsky SH-3A Sea King helicopter from the U.S.S. Yorktown was circling, waiting to pick him up. In the distance, the crew could see Chinese junks rapidly closing in for the kill, but they were too late.
When they loaded Robert into the helicopter, a medical corpsman took one look at his torn body and said, "Jesus Christ, he'll never even make it to the hospital." They gave Robert a shot of morphine, wrapped pressure bandages tightly around his chest, and flew him to the 12th Evacuation Hospital at Cu Chi Base. The "12th Evac," which served Cu Chi, Tay Ninh, and Dau Tieng bases, had four hundred beds in a dozen wards, housed in quonset huts arranged around a U-shaped compound connected by covered walkways. The hospital had two intensive-care units, one for surgery cases, the other for burns, and each unit was seriously overcrowded.
When Robert was brought in, he left a bright red trail of blood across the hospital floor.
A harried surgeon cut the bandages from Robert's chest, took one look, and said wearily, "He's not going to make it. Take him in back to cold storage."
And the doctor moved on.
Robert, fading in and out of consciousness, heard the doctor's voice from a far distance. So, this is it, he thought. What a lousy way to die.
"You don't want to die, do you, sailor? Open your eyes. Come on."
He opened his eyes and saw a blurred image of a white uniform and a woman's face. She was saying something more, but he could not make out the words. The ward was too noisy, filled with a cacophony of screams and moans of patients, and doctors yelling out orders, and nurses frantically running around administering to the savaged bodies that lay there.
Robert's memory of the next forty-eight hours was a haze of pain and delirium. It was only later that he learned that the nurse, Susan Ward, had persuaded a doctor to operate on him and had donated her own blood for a transfusion. Fighting to keep him alive, they had put three IV's into Robert's ravaged body and pumped blood through them simultaneously.
When the operation was over, the surgeon in charge sighed.
"We've wasted our time. He's got no more than a ten percent chance of pulling through." But the doctor did not know Robert Bellamy. And he did not know Susan Ward. It seemed to Robert that whenever he opened his eyes, Susan was there, holding his hand, stroking his forehead, ministering to him, willing him to live. He was delirious most of the time. Susan sat quietly next to him in the dark ward in the middle of the lonely nights and listened to his ravings.
..... The DOD is wrong, you can't head in perpendicular to the target or you'll hit the river. -.. Tell them to angle the dives a few degrees off target heading. ... Tell them - -." he mumbled.
Susan said soothingly, "I will."
Robert's body was soaked in perspiration. She sponged him off.
---- . You have to remove all five of the safety pins or the seat won't eject. ... Check them. -.."
"All right. Go back to sleep now."
----- The shackles on the multiple ejector racks malfunctioned.
... God only knows where the bombs landed. - Half the time Susan could not understand what her patient was talking about.
Susan Ward was head of the emergency operatingroom nurses. She had come from a small town in Idaho and had grown up with the boy next door, Frank Prescott, the son of the mayor. Everyone in town assumed they would be married one day.
Susan had a younger brother, Michael, whom she adored. On his eighteenth birthday, he joined the Army and was sent to Vietnam, and Susan wrote to him there every day. Three months after he had enlisted, Susan's family received a telegram, and she knew what it contained before they opened it.
When Frank Prescott heard the news, he rushed over.
"I'm really sorry, Susan. I liked Michael a lot." And then he made the mistake of saying, "Let's get married right away."
And Susan had looked at him and made a decision. "No. I have to do something important with my life."
"For God's sake! What's more important than marrying me?"
The answer was Vietnam. Susan Ward went to nursing school. She had been in Vietnam for eleven months, working tirelessly, when Commander Robert Bellamy was wheeled in and sentenced to die. Triage was a common practice in emergency evacuation hospitals. The doctors would examine two or three patients and make summary judgments as to which one they would try to save. For reasons that were never truly clear to her, Susan had taken one look at the torn body of Robert Bellamy and had known that she could not let him die. Was it her brother she was trying to save? Or was it something else? She was exhausted and overworked, but instead of taking her time off, she spent every spare moment tending to him.
Susan had looked up her patient's record. An ace Navy pilot and
instructor, he had earned the Naval Cross. His birthplace was Harvey, Illinois, a small industrial city south of Chicago. He had enlisted in the Navy after graduating from college and had trained at Pensacola. He was unmarried.
Each day, as Robert Bellamy was recuperating, walking the thin line between death and life, Susan whispered to him, "Come on, sailor. I'm waiting for you."
One night, six days after he had been brought into the hospital, Robert was rambling on in his delirium, when suddenly he sat straight up in bed, looked at Susan, and said clearly, "It's not a dream. You're real." Susan felt her heart give a little jump.
"Yes," she said softly. "I'm real."
"I thought I was dreaming. I thought I had gone to heaven and God assigned you to me."
She looked into Robert's eyes and said seriously, "I would have killed you if you had died."
His eyes swept the crowded ward. "Where-where am I?"
"The 12th Evacuation Hospital at Cu Chi." "How long have I been here?"
"Six days." "Eddie-he-"
"I'm sorry."
"I have to tell the admiral."
She took Robert's hand and said gently, "He knows.
He's been here to visit you." Robert's eyes filled with tears. "I hate this goddamn war. I can't tell you how much I hate it."
From that moment on, Robert's progress astonished the doctors. All his vital signs stabilized.
"We'll be shipping him out of here soon," they told Susan. And she felt a sharp pang.
Robert was not sure exactly when he fell in love with Susan Ward.
Perhaps it was the moment when she was dressing his wounds, and nearby they heard the sounds of bombs dropping and she murmured, "They're
playing our song."
Or perhaps it was when they told Robert he was well enough to be transferred to Walter Reed Hospital in Washington to finish his convalescence, and Susan said, "Do you think I'm going to stay here and let some other nurse have that great body? Oh, no. I'm going to pull every string I can to go with you." They were married two weeks later.
It took Robert a year to heal completely, and Susan tended to his every need, night and day. He had never met anyone like her, nor had he dreamed that he could ever love anyone so much. He loved her compassion and sensitivity, her passion and vitality. He loved her beauty and her sense of humor.
On their first anniversary, he said to her, "You're the most beautiful, the most wonderful, the most caring human being in the world. There is no one on this earth with your warmth and wit and intelligence."
And Susan had held him tightly and whispered in a nasal, chorus-girl voice, "Likewise, I'm sure."
They shared more than love. They genuinely liked and respected each other. All their friends envied them, and with good reason. Whenever they talked about a perfect marriage, it was always Robert and Susan they held up as an example. They were compatible in every way, complete soul mates. Susan was the most sensual woman Robert had ever known, and they were able to set each other on fire with a touch, a word.
One evening, when they were scheduled to go to a formal dinner party, Robert was running late. He was in the shower when Susan came into the bathroom carefully made up and dressed in a lovely strapless evening gown.
"My God, you look sexy," Robert said. "It's too bad we don't have more time."
"Oh, don't worry about that," Susan murmured. And a moment later she had stripped off her clothes and joined Robert in the shower.
They never got to the party.
Susan sensed Robert's needs almost before he knew them, and she saw to it that they were attended to. And Robert was equally attentive to her. Susan would find love notes on her dressing-room table, or in her shoes when she started to get dressed. Flowers and little gifts would be delivered to her on Groundhog Day and President Polk's birthday and in celebration of the Lewis and Clark Expedition.
And the laughter that they shared. The wonderful laughter...
* * * The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. "We'll be landing in Zurich in ten minutes, Commander."
Robert Bellamy's thoughts snapped back to the present, to his assignment. In his fifteen years with Naval Intelligence, he had been involved in dozens of challenging cases, but this one promised to be the most bizarre of them all. He was on his way to Switzerland to find a busload of anonymous witnesses who had disappeared into thin air. Talk about looking for a needle in a haystack. I don't even know where the haystack is. Where is Sherlock Holmes when I need him?
"Will you fasten your seat belt, please?"
The C20A was flying over dark forests, and a moment later, skimming over the runway etched by the landing lights of the Zurich International Airport. The plane taxied to the east side of the airport and headed for the small General Aviation building, away from the main terminal.
There were still puddles on the tarmac from the earlier rainstorms, but the night sky was clear.
"Crazy weather," the pilot commented.
"Sunny here Sunday, rainy all day today, and clearing tonight. You don't need a watch here. What you really need is a barometer. Can I arrange a car for you, Commander?"
"No, thanks." From this moment on, he was completely on his own.
Robert waited until the plane taxied away, and then boarded a minibus to the airport hotel, where he collapsed into a dreamless sleep.
Day Two 0800 Hours
The next morning Robert approached a clerk behind the Europcar desk. "Guten Tag."
It was a reminder that he was in the German-speaking part of Switzerland.
"Guten Tag. Do you have a car available?"
"Yes, sir, we do. How long will you be needing it?"
Good question. An hour? A month? Maybe a year or two? "I'm not sure."
"Do you plan to return the car to this airport?" "Possibly."
The clerk looked at him strangely.
"Very well. Will you fill out these papers, please?"
Robert paid for the car with the special black credit card General
Hilliard had given him. The clerk examined it, perplexed, then said, "Excuse me." He disappeared into an office, and when he returned, Robert asked, "Any problem?"
"No, sir. None at all."
The car was a gray Opel Omega. Robert got onto the airport highway and headed for downtown Zurich. He enjoyed Switzerland. It was one of the most beautiful countries in the world. Years earlier he had skied there. In more recent times, he had carried out assignments there, liaising with Espionage Abteilung, the Swiss intelligence agency.
During World War II, the agency had been organized into three bureaus: D, P, and I, covering Germany, France, and Italy, respectively. Now its main purpose was related to detecting undercover espionage operations conducted within the various UN organizations in Geneva. Robert had friends in Espionage Abteilung, but he remembered General Hilliard's words: "You're not to get in touch with any of them."
The drive into the city took twenty-five minutes. Robert reached the Dubendorf downtown exit ramp and headed for the Dolder Grand Hotel.
It was exactly as he remembered it: an overgrown Swiss chateau with turrets, stately and imposing, surrounded by greenery and overlooking Lake Zurich. He parked the car and walked into the lobby. On the left was the reception desk.
"Guten Tag."
"Guten Tag. Haben Sie ein Zimmer fur eine Nacht?" "Ja. Wie mochten Sie bezahlen?"
"Mit Kreditkarte." The black and white credit card that General Hilliard had given him. Robert asked for a map of Switzerland and was escorted to a comfortable room in the new wing of the hotel. It had a small balcony that overlooked the lake. Robert stood there, breathing in the crisp, autumn air, thinking about the task that lay ahead of him.
He had nothing to go on. Not one damned thing. All the factors to the equation of his assignment were completely unknown. The name of the tour company. The number of passengers.
Their names and whereabouts.
"Are the witnesses all in Switzerland?"
"That's our problem. We have no idea where they are, or who they are." And it wasn't enough to find some of the witnesses.
"You must find every one of them." The only information he had was the place and date: Uetendorf, Sunday, October 14. He needed a handle, something to grab onto. If he remembered correctly, all-day tour buses left from only two major cities: Zurich and Geneva. Robert opened a
desk drawer and took out the bulky Telefonbuch. I should look under M, for miracle, Robert thought. There were more than half a dozen tour companies listed: Sunshine Tours, Swisstour, Tour Service, Touralpino, Tourisma Reisen... He would have to check each of them. He copied down the addresses of all the companies and drove to the offices of the nearest one listed.
There were two clerks behind the counter taking care of tourists.
When one of them was free, Robert said, "Excuse me. My wife was on one of your tours last Sunday, and she left her purse on the bus. I think she got excited because she saw the weather balloon that crashed near Uetendorf."
The clerk frowned.
"Es tut mir viel leid. You must be mistaken. Our tours do not go near Uetendorf."
"Oh. Sorry." Strike one.
The next stop promised to be more fruitful. "Do your tours go to Uetendorf?"
"Oh, ja." The clerk smiled.
"Our tours go everywhere in Switzerland. They are the most scenic. We have a tour to Zermatt-the Tell Special. There is also the Glacier Express and the Palm Express.
The Great Circle Tour leaves in fifteen-"
"Did you have a tour Sunday that stopped to watch that weather balloon that crashed? I know my wife was late getting back to the hotel andThe clerk behind the counter said indignantly, "We take great pride in the fact that our tours are never late. We make no unscheduled stops."
"Then one of your buses didn't stop to look at that weather balloon?" "Absolutely not."
"Thank you." Strike two.
The third office Robert visited was located at Bahnhofplatz, and the sign outside said Sunshine Tours. Robert walked up to the counter.
"Good afternoon. I wanted to ask you about one of your tour buses. I heard that a weatherbaIloon crashed near Uetendorf and that your driver stopped for half an hour so the passengers could look at it."
"No, no. He only stopped for fifteen minutes. We have very strict schedules."
Home run!
"What was your interest in this, did you say?"
Robert pulled out one of the identification cards that had been given him.
"I'm a reporter," Robert said earnestly, "and I'm doing a story for Travel and Leisure magazine on how efficient the buses in Switzerland are, compared with other countries. I wonder if I might interview your driver?"
"That would make a very interesting article. Very interesting, indeed. We Swiss pride ourselves on our efficiency."
"And that pride is well deserved," Robert assured him. "Would the name of our company be mentioned?" "Prominently."
The clerk smiled.
"Well, then I see no harm." "Could I speak with him now?"
"This is his day off." He wrote a name on a piece of paper. Robert Bellamy read it upside down. Hans Beckerman.
The clerk added an address.
"He lives in Kappel. That's a small village about forty kilometers from Zurich. You should be able to find him at home now." Robert Bellamy took the paper.
"Thank you very much.
By the way," Robert said, "just so we have all the facts for the story, do you have a record of how many tickets you sold for that particular tour?"
"Of course. We keep records of all our tours. Just a moment." He picked up a ledger underneath the counter and flipped a page.
"Ah, here we are. Sunday. Hans Beckerman. There were seven passengers. He drove the Iveco that day, the small bus." Seven unknown passengers and the driver. Robert took a stab in the dark.
"Would you happen to have the names of those passengers?"
"Sir, people come in off the street, buy their ticket, and take the
tour. We don't ask for identification." Wonderful.
"Thank you again." Robert started toward the door. The clerk called out, "I hope you will send us a copy of the article."
"Absolutely," Robert said.
The first piece of the puzzle lay in the tour bus, and Robert drove to Talstrasse, where the buses departed, as though it might reveal some hidden clue. The Iveco bus was brown and silver, small enough to traverse the steep Alpine roads, with seats for fourteen passengers.
Who are the seven, and where have they disappeared to? Robert got back in his car. He consulted his map and marked it. He took Lavessneralle out of the city, into the Albis, the start of the Alps, toward the village of Kappel. He headed south, driving past the small hills that surround Zurich, and began the climb into the magnificent mountain chain of the Alps. He drove through Adliswil and Langnau and Hausen and nameless hamlets with chalets and colorful picture-postcard scenery until almost an hour later, he came to Kappel. The little village consisted of a restaurant, a church, a post office, and twelve or so houses scattered around the hills. Robert parked the car and walked into the restaurant. A waitress was clearing a table near the door.
"Entschuldigen Sie bitte, Fraulein. Welche R ichtung ist das Haus von Herr Beckerman?"
"Ja." She pointed down the road. "An der Kirche rechts."
"Danke."
Robert turned right at the church and drove up to a modest two-story stone house with a ceramic tiled roof. He got out of the car and walked up to the door. He could see no bell, and knocked.
A heavyset woman with a faint mustache answered the door. "Ja?"
"I'm sorry to bother you. Is Mr. Beckerman in?" She eyed him suspiciously.
"What do you want with him?" Robert gave her a winning smile. "You must be Mrs. Beckerman."
He pulled out his reporter's identification card.
"I'm doing a magazine article on Swiss bus drivers, and your husband was
recommended to my magazine as having one of the finest safety records in the country."
She brightened and said proudly, "My Hans is an excellent driver."
"That's what everyone tells me, Mrs. Beckerman. I would like to do an interview with him."
"An interview with my Hans for a magazine?" She was flustered.
"That is very exciting. Come in, please." She led Robert into a small, meticulously neat living room.
"Wait here, bitte. I will get Hans."
The house had a low, beamed ceiling, dark wooden floors, and plain wooden furniture. There was a small stone fireplace and lace curtains at the windows.
Robert stood there thinking. This was not only his best lead, it was his only lead.
"People come in off the street, buy their ticket, and take the tour. We don't ask for identification. -. -,, There's no place to go from here, Robert thought grimly. If this doesn't work out, I can always place an ad: Will the seven bus passengers who saw a weather balloon crash Sunday please assemble in my hotel room at oh twelve hundred tomorrow.
Breakfast will be served.
A thin, bald man appeared. His complexion was pale, and he wore a thick, black mustache that was startlingly out of keeping with the rest of his appearance.
"Good afternoon, Herr?"
"Smith. Good afternoon." Robert's voice was hearty.
"I've certainly been looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Beckerman."
"My wife tells me you are writing a story about bus drivers." He spoke with a heavy German accent.
Robert smiled ingratiatingly.
"That's right. My magazine is interested in your wonderful safety record and-"
"Scheissdreck!" Beckerman said rudely.
"You are interested in the thing that crashed yesterday afternoon, no?"
Robert managed to look abashed.
"As a matter of fact, yes, I am interested in discussing that too." "Then why do you not come out and say so? Sit down."
"Thank you." Robert took a seat on the couch. Beckerman said, "I am sorry I cannot offer you a drink, but we do not keep schnapps in the house anymore." He tapped his stomach.
"Ulcers. The doctors cannot even give me drugs to relieve the pain. I am allergic to all of them."
He sat down opposite Robert.
"But you did not come here to talk about my health, eh? What is it you wish to know?"
"I want to talk to you about the passengers who were on your bus Sunday when you stopped near Uetendorf at the site of the weather-balloon crash." Hans Beckerman was staring at him.
"Weather balloon? What weather balloon? What are you talking about?" "The balloon that-"
"You mean the spaceship."
It was Robert's turn to stare. "The ... spaceship?"
"Ja, the flying saucer."
It took a moment for the words to sink in. Robert felt a sudden chill. "Are you telling me that you saw a flying saucer?"
"Ja. With dead bodies in it."
"Yesterday, in the Swiss Alps, a NATO weather balloon crashed.
There were some experimental military objects aboard the balloon that are highly secret." Robert tried hard to sound calm.
"Mr. Beckerman, are you certain that what you saw was a flying saucer?" "Of course. What they call a UFO."
"And there were dead people inside?"
"Not people, no. Creatures. It is hard to describe them." He gave a little shiver.
"They were very small with big, strange eyes.
They were dressed in suits of a silver metallic color. It was very frightening."
Robert listened, his mind in a turmoil. "Did your passengers see this?"
"Oh, ja. We all saw it. I stopped there for maybe fifteen minutes. They wanted me to stay longer, but the company is very strict about schedules."
Robert knew the question was futile before he even asked it.
"Mr. Beckerman, would you happen to know the names of any of your passengers?"
"Mister, I drive a bus. The passengers buy a ticket in Zurich, and we take a tour southwest to Interlaken and then northwest to Bern. They can either get off at Bern or return to Zurich. Nobody gives their names."
Robert said desperately, "There's no way you can identify any of them?" The bus driver thought for a moment.
"Well, I can tell you there were no children on that trip. Just men." "Only men?"
Beckerman thought for a moment.
"No. That's not right. There was one woman too." Terrific. That really narrows it down, Robert thought.
Next question: Why the hell did I ever agree to this assignment?
"What you're saying, Mr. Beckerman, is that a group of tourists boarded your bus at Zurich, and then when the tour was over, they simply scattered?"
"That's right, Mr. Smith."
So there's not even a haystack.
"Do you remember anything at all about the passengers? Anything they said or did?"
Beckerman shook his head.
"Mister, you get so you don't pay no attention to them. Unless they
cause some trouble. Like that German."
Robert sat very still. He asked softly, "What German?"
"Affenarsch! All the other passengers were excited about seeing the UFO and those dead creatures in it, but this old man kept complaining about how we had to hurry up to get to Bern because he had to prepare some lecture for the university in the morning."
A beginning.
"Do you remember anything else about him?" "No."
"Nothing at all?"
"He was wearing a black overcoat." Great.
"Mr. Beckerman, I want to ask you for a favor. Would you mind driving out with me to Uetendorf?"
"It's my day off. I am busy with-" "I'll be glad to pay you."
"Ja?"
"Two hundred marks." "I don't-"
"I'll make it four hundred marks." Beckerman thought for a moment.
"Why not? It's a nice day for a drive, night?"
They headed south, past Luzern and the picturesque villages of Immensee and Meggen. The scenery was breathtakingly beautiful, but Robert had other things on his mind. They passed through Engelberg, with its ancient Benedictine monastery, and Brunig, the pass leading to Interlaken. They sped past Leissigen and Faulensee, with its lovely blue lake dotted with white sailboats.
"How much farther is it?" Robert asked. "Soon," Hans Beckerman promised.
They had been driving for almost an hour when they came to Spiez.
Hans Beckerman said, "It is not far now. Just past Thun." Robert felt his heart beginning to beat faster. He was about to witness something that was far beyond imagination, alien visitors from the stars. They
drove through the little village of Thun, and a few minutes later, as they neared a grove of trees across the highway, Hans Beckerman pointed and said, "There!"
Robert braked to a stop and pulled over to the side of the road. "Across the highway. Behind those trees."
Robert felt a growing sense of excitement. "Right. Let's have a look."
A truck was speeding by. When it had passed, Robert and Hans Beckerman crossed the road. Robert followed the bus driver up a small incline into the stand of trees. The highway was completely hidden from sight. As they stepped into a clearing, Beckerman announced, "It is right there."
Lying on the ground in front of them were the torn remains of a weather balloon.
I'm getting too old for this, Robert thought wearily. I was really beginning to fall for his flying-saucer fairy tale. Hans Beckerman was staring at the object on the ground, a confused expression on his face.
"Verfalschen! That is not it." Robert sighed.
"No, it isn't, is it?" Beckerman shook his head. "It was here yesterday."
"Your little green men probably flew it away." Beckerman was stubborn, "No, no. They were both totdead."
Tot-dead. That sums up my mission pretty well. My only lead is a crazy old man who sees spaceships. Robert walked over to the balloon to examine it more closely. It was a large aluminum envelope, fourteen feet in diameter, with serrated edges where it had ripped open when it crashed to earth. All the instruments had been removed, just as General Hilliard had told him.
"I can't stress enough the importance of what was in that balloon."
Robert circled the deflated balloon, his shoes squishing in the wet grass, looking for anything that might give him the slightest clue.
Nothing. It was identical to a dozen other weather balloons he had seen over the years.
The old man still would not give up, filled with Germanic stubbornness.
"Those alien things ... They made it look like this. They can do anything, you know."
There's nothing more to be done here, Robert decided.
His socks had gotten wet walking through the tall grass. He started to turn away, then hesitated, struck by a thought. He walked back to the balloon.
"Lift up a corner of this, will you?" Beckerman looked at him a moment, surprised. "You wish me to raise it up?"
"Bitte."
Beckerman shrugged. He picked up a corner of the lightweight material and lifted it while Robert raised another corner. Robert held the piece of aluminum over his head while he walked underneath the balloon toward the center. His feet sank into the grass.
"It's wet under here," Robert called out. "Of course." The Dummkopf was left unsaid.
"It rained all yesterday. The whole ground is wet." Robert crawled out from under the balloon.
"It should be dry."
"Crazy weather," the pilot said.
"Sunny here Sunday." The day the balloon crashed.
"Rainy all day today and clearing tonight. You don't need a watch here. What you really need is a barometer."
"What?"
"What was the weather like when you saw the UFO?" Beckerman thought for a moment.
"It was a nice afternoon." "Sunny?"
"Ja. Sunny."
"But it rained all day yesterday?"
Beckerman was looking at him, puzzled. "So?"
"So if the balloon was here all night, the ground under it should be dry-or damp, at the most, through osmosis. But it's soaking wet, like the rest of this area." Beckerman was staring.
"I don't understand. What does that mean?"
"It could mean," Robert said carefully, "that someone placed this balloon here yesterday after the rain started and took away what you saw."
Or was there some saner explanation he had not thought of? "Who would do such a crazy thing?"
Not so crazy, Robert thought. The Swiss government could have planted this to deceive any curious visitors. The first stratagem of a cover-up is disinformation. Robert walked through the wet grass scanning the ground, cursing himself for being a gullible idiot. Hans Beckerman was watching Robert suspiciously.
"What magazine did you say you write for, mister?" "Travel and Leisure."
Hans Beckerman brightened.
"Oh. Then I suppose you will want to take a picture of me, like the other fellow did."
"What?"
"That photographer who took pictures of us." Robert froze. "Who are you talking about?"
"That photographer fellow. The one who took pictures of us at the wreck. He said he would send us each a print. Some of the passengers had cameras, too."
Robert said slowly, "Just a moment. Are you saying that someone took a picture of the passengers here in front of the UFO?"
"That's what I am trying to tell you."
"And he promised to send you each a print?" "That's right."
"Then he must have taken your names and addresses."
"Well, sure. Otherwise, how would he know where to send them?" Robert stood still, a feeling of euphoria sweeping over him.
Serendipity, Robert, you lucky sonofabitch! An impossible mission had suddenly become a piece of cake. He was no longer looking for seven unknown passengers. All he had to do was find one photographer.
"Why didn't you mention him before, Mr. Beckerman?" "You asked me about passengers."
"You mean he wasn't a passenger?" Hans Beckerman shook his head. "Nein." He pointed.
"His car was stalled across the highway. A tow truck was starting to haul it away, and then there was this loud crash, and he ran across the road to see what was happening. When he saw what it was, the fellow ran back to his car, grabbed his cameras, and came back. Then he asked us all to pose in front of the saucer thing."
"Did this photographer give you his name?" "No."
"Do you remember anything about him?" Hans Beckerman concentrated.
"Well, he was a foreigner. American or English."
"You said a tow truck was getting ready to haul his car away?" "That's right."
"Do you remember which way the truck was headed?"
"North. I figured he was towing it into Bern. Thun is closer, but on Sunday, all the garages in Thun are closed."
Robert grinned.
"Thank you. You've been very helpful."
"You won't forget to send me your article when it's finished?"
"No. Here's your money and an extra hundred marks for your great help. I'll drive you home." They walked over to the car. As Beckerman opened the door, he stopped and turned toward Robert.
"That was very generous of you." He took from his pocket a small rectangular piece of metal, the size of a cigarette lighter, containing a tiny white crystal.
"What's this?"
"I found it on the ground Sunday before we got back on the bus."
Robert examined the strange object. It was as light as paper and was the color of sand. A rough edge at one end indicated that it might be part of another piece. Part of the equipment that was in the weather balloon? Or part of a UFO?
"Maybe it will bring you luck," said Beckerman, as he placed the bills Robert had given him in his wallet.
"It certainly worked for me."
He smiled broadly and got into the car. It was time to ask himself the hard question: Do I really believe in UFOs? He had read many wild newspaper stories about people who said they had been beamed up into spaceships and had had all kinds of weird experiences, and he had always attributed those reports to people who were either looking for publicity or who should have thrown themselves on the mercy of a good psychiatrist. But in the past few years, there had been reports that were less easy to dismiss. Reports of UFO sightings by astronauts, Air Force pilots, and police officials, people with credibility, who shunned publicity. In addition there had been the disturbing report of the UFO crash at Roswell, New Mexico, where the bodies of aliens had purportedly been discovered. The government was supposed to have hushed that up and removed all the evidence. In World War II, pilots had reported strange sightings of what they called Foo fighters, unidentified objects that buzzed them and then disappeared. There were stories of towns visited by unexplainable objects that had come speeding through the sky. What if there really are aliens in UFOs from another galaxy? Robert wondered. How would it afect our world? Would it mean peace? War?
The end of civilization as we know it? He found himself half hoping that Hans Beckerman was a raving lunatic, and that what had crashed was really a weather balloon. He would have to find another witness either to verify Beckerman's story or to refute it. On the surface, the story seemed incredible, but yet, there was something nagging at Robert. If it was only a weather balloon that crashed, even if it did carry special equipment, why was I called into a meeting at the National Security Agency at six o'clock in the morning and told that it was urgent that all the witnesses be found quickly? Is there a cover-up? And ifso ...
why?
Later that day, a press conference was held in Geneva in the austere offices of the Swiss Ministry of Internal Affairs. There were more than fifty reporters in the room and an overflow crowd outside in the corridor. There were representatives from television, radio, and the press from more than a dozen countries, many of them loaded down with
microphones and television gear. They all seemed to be speaking at once.
"We've heard reports that it was not a weather balloon. -.." "Is it true that it was a flying saucer?"
"There are rumors that there were alien bodies aboard the ship. "Was one of the aliens alive?"
"Is the government trying to hide the truth from the people? The press officer raised his voice to regain control.
"Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a simple misunderstanding.
We get calls all the time. People see satellites, shooting stars... Isn't it interesting that reports of UFOs are always made anonymously?
Perhaps this caller really believed it was a UFO, but in actuality it was a weather balloon that fell to the ground. We have arranged transportation to take you to it. If you will follow me, please Fifteen minutes later, two busloads of reporters and television cameras were on their way to Uetendorf to see the remains of a weather-balloon crash.
When they arrived, they stood in the wet grass surveying the torn metallic envelope. The press officer said, "This is your mysterious flying saucer. It was sent aloff from our air base in Vevey. To the best of our knowledge, ladies and gentlemen, there are no unidentified flying objects that our government has not been able to explain satisfactorily, nor to our knowledge, are there any extraterrestrials visiting us. It is our government's firm policy that if we should come across any such evidence, we would immediately make that information available to the public. If there are no further questions..."
Hangar 17 at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia was locked in complete and rigid security. Outside, four armed marines guarded the perimeter of the building, and inside, three high-ranking Army officers stayed on alternate watches of eight hours each, guarding a sealed room inside the hangar. None of the officers knew what he was guarding.
Besides the scientists and doctors who were working inside, there had been only three visitors permitted in the sealed chamber.
The fourth visitor was just arriving. He was greeted by Brigadier General Paxton, the officer in charge of security.
"Welcome to our menagerie."
"I've been looking forward to this."
"You won't be disappointed. Come this way, please." Outside the door of the sealed room was a rack containing four white, sterile suits that completely covered the body.
"Would you please put one on?" the general asked.
"Certainly." Janus slipped into the suit. Only his face was visible through the glass mask. He put large white slippers over his shoes, and the general led him to the entrance of the sealed room. The marine guard stepped aside, and the general opened the door.
"In here."
Janus entered the chamber and looked around. In the center of the room was the spaceship. On white autopsy tables at the other side lay the bodies of the two aliens. A pathologist was performing an autopsy on one of them.
General Paxton directed the visitor's attention to the spaceship.
"We're dealing here with what we believe to be a scout ship," General Paxton explained.
"We're sure it has some way of communicating directly with the mother ship."
The two men moved closer to examine the spacecraft. It was approximately thirty-five feet in diameter. The interior was shaped like a pearl, had an expandable ceiling, and contained three couches that resembled recliner chairs. The walls were covered with panels containing vibrating metal disks.
"There's a lot here we haven't been able to figure out yet," General Paxton admitted.
"But what we've already learned is amazing."
He pointed to an array of equipment in small panels.
"There's an integrated wide-field-of-view optical system, what appears to be a life-scan system, a communication system with voice-synthesis capability, and a navigational system that, frankly, has us stumped. We think it works on some kind of electromagnetic pulse."
"Any weapons aboard?" Janus asked.
General Paxton spread out his hands in a gesture of defeat.
"We're not sure. There's a lot of hardware here we don't begin to understand."
"What is its source of energy?"
"Our best guess is that it uses monoatomic hydrogen in a closed loop so that its waste product, water, can be continuously recycled into
hydrogen for power. With all that perpetual energy, it has a free ride in interplanetary space. It may be years before we solve all the secrets here. And there's something else that's puzzling. The bodies of the two aliens were strapped into their couches. But the indentations in the third couch indicate that it was occupied."
"Are you saying," Janus asked slowly, "that one may be missing?" "It certainly looks that way."
Janus stood there a moment frowning.
"Let's have a look at our trespassers." The two men walked over to the tables where the two aliens lay. Janus stood there staring at the strange figures.
It was incredible that things so foreign to humanity could exist as sentient beings. The foreheads of the aliens were larger than he had expected. The creatures were completely bald, with no eyelids or eyebrows. The eyes resembled Ping-Pong balls.
The doctor performing the autopsy looked up as the men approached. "It's fascinating," he said.
"A hand has been severed from one of the aliens. There's no sign of blood, but there are what appear to be veins that contain a green liquid. Most of it has drained out."
"A green liquid?" Janus asked. "Yes." The doctor hesitated.
"We believe these creatures are a form of vegetable life." "A thinking vegetable? Are you serious?"
"Watch this." The doctor picked up a watering can and sprinkled water over the arm of the alien with a missing hand. For a moment, nothing happened. And then suddenly, at the end of the arm, green matter oozed out and slowly began to form a hand.
The two men stared, shocked.
"Jesus! Are these things dead or not?"
"That's an interesting question. These two figures are not alive, in the human sense, but neither do they fit our definition of death. I would say they're dormant."
Janus was still staring at the newly formed hand. "Many plants show various forms of intelligence."
"Intelligence?"
"Oh, yes. There are plants that disguise themselves, protect themselves. At this moment, we're doing some amazing experiments on plant life."
Janus said, "I would like to see those experiments." "Certainly. I'll be happy to arrange it."
The huge greenhouse laboratory was in a complex of government buildings thirty miles outside of Washington, D.C. Hanging on the wall was an inscription that read: The maples and ferns are still uncorrupt, Yet, no doubt, when they come to consciousness, They too, will curse and swear.
Ralph Waldo Emerson Nature, 1836
Professor Rachman, who was in charge of the complex, was an earnest gnome of a man, filled with enthusiasm for his profession.
"It was Charles Darwin who was the first to perceive the ability of plants to think. Luther Burbank followed up by communicating with them."
"You really believe that is possible?"
"We know it is. George Washington Carver communed with plants, and they gave him hundreds of new products. Carver said, 'When I touch a flower, I am touching Infinity. Flowers existed long before there were human beings on this earth, and they will continue to exist for millions of years after. Through the flower, I talk to Infinity...
Janus looked around the enormous greenhouse they were standing in. It was filled with plants and exotic flowers that rainbowed the room. The mixture of perfumes was overpowering.
"Everything in this room is alive," Professor Rachman said.
"These plants can feel love, hate, pain, excitement ... just as animals do. Sir Jagadis Chandra Bose proved that they respond to a tone of voice."
"How does one prove something like that?" Janus asked.
"I will be happy to demonstrate." Rachman walked over to a table covered with plants. Beside the table was a polygraph machine. Rachman lifted one of the electrodes and attached it to a plant. The needle on the dial of the polygraph was at rest.
"Watch," he said.
He leaned closer to the plant and whispered, "I think you are very
beautiful. You are more beautiful than all the other plants here. -.." Janus watched the needle move ever so slightly.
Suddenly, Professor Rachman screamed at the plant, "You are ugly! You are going to die! Do you hear me? You are going to die!" The needle began to quiver, then it moved sharply upward.
"My God," Janus said. "I can't believe it."
"What you see," Rachman said, "is the equivalent of a human being screaming. National magazines have published articles about these experiments. One of the most interesting was a blind experiment conducted by six students. One of them, unknown to the others, was chosen to walk into a room with two plants, one of them wired to a polygraph. He completely destroyed the other plant. Later, one by one, the students were sent into the room to pass by the plants. When the innocent students walked in, the polygraph registered nothing. But the moment the guilty one appeared, the needle on the polygraph shot up."
"That's incredible."
"But true. We've also learned that plants respond to different kinds of music."
"Different kinds?"
"Yes. They did an experiment at Temple Buell College in Denver where healthy flowers were put in three separate glass cases. Acid rock was piped into one, soft East Indian sitar music was piped into the second, and the third had no music. A CBS camera crew recorded the experiment using time-lapse photography. At the end of two weeks, the flowers exposed to the rock music were dead, the group with no music was growing normally, and the ones that heard the sitar music had turned into beautiful blooms, with flowers and stems reaching toward the source of the sound. Walter Cronkite ran the film on his news show. If you wish to check it, it was on October 26, 1970."
"Are you saying plants have an intelligence?"
"They breathe, and eat, and reproduce. They can feel pain, and they can utilize defenses against their enemies. For example, terpenes are used by certain plants to poison the soil around them and to discourage competitors. Other plants exude alkaloids to make them unpalatable to insects. We've proved that plants communicate with one another by pheromones."
"Yes. I've heard of that," Janus said.
"Some plants are meat eaters. The venus flytrap, for example.
Certain orchids look and smell like female bees, to decoy male bees.
Others resemble female wasps to attract the males to visit them and pick up pollen. Another type of orchid has an aroma like rotting meat to coax carrion flies in the neighborhood to come to them." Janus was listening to every word.
"The pink lady's-slipper has a hinged upper lip that closes when a bee lands, and traps it. The only escape is through a narrow passageway out the rear, and as the bee fights its way to freedom, it picks up a cap of pollen. There are five thousand flowering plants that grow in the Northeast, and each species has its own characteristics. There is no doubt about it. It's been proven over and over that living plants have an intelligence."
Janus was thinking: And the missing alien is at large somewhere. Day Three Bern, Switzerland
Wednesday, October 17
Bern was one of Robert's favorite cities. It was an elegant town, filled with lovely monuments and beautiful old stone buildings dating back to the eighteenth century. It was the capital of Switzerland and one of its most prosperous cities, and Robert wondered whether the fact that the streetcars were green had anything to do with the color of money. He had found that the Berners were more easygoing than the citizens from other parts of Switzerland. They moved more deliberately, spoke more slowly, and were generally calmer. He had worked in Bern several times in the past with the Swiss Secret Service, operating out of their headquarters at Waisenhausplatz. He had friends there who could have been helpful, but his instructions were clear. Puzzling, but clear.
It took fifteen phone calls for Robert to locate the garage that towed the photographer's car. It was a small garage located on Fribourgstrasse, and the mechanic, Fritz Mandel, was also the owner.
Mandel appeared to be in his late forties, with a gaunt, acne-pitted face, a thin body, and an enormous beer belly. He was working down in the pit of the grease rack when Robert arrived.
"Good afternoon," Robert called. Mandel looked up.
"Guten Tag. What can I do for you?"
"I'm interested in a car you towed in Sunday." "Just a minute till I finish this up."
Ten minutes later, Mandel climbed out of the pit and wiped his oily
hands on a filthy cloth.
"You're the one who called this morning. Was there some complaint about that tow job?"
Mandel asked.
"I'm not responsible for-" "No," Robert reassured him.
"Not at all. I'm conducting a survey, and I'm interested in the driver of the car."
"Come into the office."
The two men went into the small office, and Mandel opened a file cabinet.
"Last Sunday, you said?" "That's right."
Mandel took out a card.
"Ja. That was the Arschficker who took our picture in front of that UFO." Robert's palms felt suddenly moist.
"You saw the UFO?"
"Ja. I almost brachte aus." "Can you describe it?" Mandel shuddered.
"It-it seemed alive." "I beg your pardon?"
"I mean ... there was a kind of light around it. It kept changing colors. It looked blue ... then green I don't know. It's hard to describe. And there were these little creatures inside. Not human, but-" He broke off.
"How many?" "Two."
"Were they alive?"
"They looked dead to me." He mopped his brow.
"I'm glad you believe me. I tried to tell my friends, and they laughed
at me. Even my wife thought I had been drinking. But I know what I saw."
"About the car you towed - - -" Robert said. "Ja. The Renault.
It had an oil leak, and the bearings burned out. The tow job cost a hundred and twenty-five francs. I charge double on Sundays."
"Did the driver pay by check or credit card?"
"I don't take checks, and I don't take no credit cards. He paid in cash."
"Swiss francs?" "Pounds."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I remember I had to check the rate of exchange."
"Mr. Mandel, do you happen to have a record of the license number of the car?"
"Of course." Mandel said. He glanced down at the card. "It was a rental. Avis. He rented it in Geneva." "Would you mind giving me that license number?"
"Sure, why not?"
He wrote the number down on a piece of paper and handed it to Robert. "What is this all about, anyway? The UFO thing?"
"No," Robert said, in his sincerest voice. He took out his wallet and pulled out an identification card.
"I'm with the IAC, the International Auto Club. My company is doing a survey on tow trucks."
"Oh."
Robert walked out of the garage and thought dazedly, It looks like we have a fucking UFO with two dead aliens on our hands. Then why had General Hilliard lied to him when he knew Robert would discover that it was a flying saucer that had crashed?
There could only be one explanation, and Robert felt a sudden, cold chill.
The huge mothership floated noiselessly through dark space, seemingly motionless, traveling at twenty-two thousand miles an hour in exact synchronization with the orbit of the earth. The six aliens aboard were studying the three-dimensional field-of-view optical screen that covered one wall of the spaceship. On the monitor, as the planet Earth rotated, they watched holographic pictures of what lay below while an electronic spectrograph analyzed the chemical components of the images that appeared. The atmosphere of the land masses they overflew was heavily polluted. Huge factories befouled the air with thick, black, poisonous gases while unbiodegradable refuse was dumped into landfills and into the seas. The aliens looked down at the oceans, once pristine and blue, now black with oil and brown with scum. The coral of the Great Barrier Reef was turning bleach-white, and fish were dying by the billions.
Where trees had been stripped in the Amazon rain forest, there was a huge, barren crater. The instruments on the spaceship indicated that the earth's temperature had risen since their last exploration three years earlier. They could see wars being waged on the planet below, which spewed new poisons into the atmosphere. The aliens communicated by mental telepathy. Nothing has changed with the earthlings. It is a pity. They have learned nothing. We will teach them.
Have you tried to reach the others? Yes. Something is wrong. There is no reply.
You must keep trying. We must find the ship.
On earth, thousands of feet below the spaceship's orbit, Robert placed a call from a secure phone to General Hilliard. He came on the line almost immediately.
"Good afternoon, Commander. Do you have anything to report?" Yes. I would like to report that you are a lying sonofabitch.
"About that weather balloon, General -.- it seems to have turned out to be a UFO." He waited.
"Yes, I know. There were important security reasons why I couldn't tell you everything earlier."
Bureaucratic double-talk. There was a short silence. General Hilliard said, "I'm going to tell you something in the strictest confidence, Commander. Our government had an encounter with extraterrestrials three years ago. They landed at one of our NATO air bases. We were able to communicate with them." Robert felt his heart begin to beat faster.
"What-what did they say?"
"That they intended to destroy us." He felt a shock go through him. "Destroy us?"
"Exactly. They said they were coming back to take over this planet and make slaves of us, and that there is nothing we can do to prevent them. Not yet. But we're working on ways to stop them. That's why it's imperative that we avoid a public panic so we can buy time. I think you can understand now why it's so important that the witnesses are warned not to discuss what they saw. If word of the Idents, as we refer to them, leaked out, it would be a worldwide disaster."
"You don't think it would be better to prepare people and?"
"Commander, in 1938, a young actor named Orson Welles broadcast a radio play called 'War of the Worlds' about aliens invading the earth.
Within minutes there was panic in cities all over America. A hysterical population tried to flee from the imaginary invaders. The telephone lines were jammed, the highways were clogged. People were killed.
There was total chaos. No, we have to be prepared for the aliens before we go public with this. We want you to find those witnesses for their own protection, so we can keep this under control."
Robert found that he was perspiring. "Yes. I-I understand."
"Good. I gather you've talked to one of the witnesses?" "I've found two of them."
"Their names?"
"Hans Beckermanhe was the driver of the tour bus. He lives in Kappel. "
"And the second?"
"Fritz Mandel. He owns his own garage in Bern. He was the mechanic who towed the car of a third witness."
"The name of that witness?"
"I don't have it yet. I'm working on it. Would you like me to speak with them about not discussing this UFO business with anyone?"
"Negative. Your assignment is simply to locate the witnesses.
After that we'll let their respective governments deal with them. Have you learned how many witnesses there are?"
"Yes. Seven passengers plus the driver, the mechanic, and a passing motorist."
"You must locate them all. Each and every one of the ten witnesses who
saw the crash. Understood?" "Yes, General."
Robert replaced the receiver, his mind in a whirl. UFOs were real. The aliens were enemies. It was a horrifying thought.
Suddenly, the uneasy feeling Robert had had earlier returned in full force. General Hilliard had given him this assignment, but they had not told him everything. What else were they holding back?
The Avis rental-car company is located at 44 Rue de Lausanne in the heart of Geneva. Robert stormed into the office and approached a woman behind the desk.
"May I help you?"
Robert slammed down the piece of paper with the license number of the Renault written on it.
"You rented this car out last week. I want the name of the person who rented it." His voice was angry.
The clerk drew back.
"I'm sorry, we are not permitted to give out that information."
"Well, that's just too bad," Robert retorted, "because in that case, I'm going to have to sue your company for a great deal of money."
"I do not understand. What is the problem?"
"I'll tell you what the problem is, lady. Last Sunday this car ran into mine on the highway and did a hell of a lot of damage. I managed to get his license number, but the man drove away before I could stop"
"I see." The clerk studied Robert a moment. "Excuse me, please."
She disappeared into a back room. In a few minutes when she returned, she was carrying a file.
"According to our records, there was a problem with the engine of the car, but there was no report of any accident."
"Well, I'm reporting it now. And I'm holding your company responsible for this. You're going to have to pay to have my car repaired. It's a brand-new Porsche, and it's going to cost you a fortune.
"I'm very sorry, sir, but the accident was not reported, we cannot take any responsibility for it."
"Look," Robert said in a more reasonable tone of voice, "I want to be fair. I don't want to hold your company responsible. All I want to do is have that man pay for the damage he did to my car. It was a
hit-and-run. I may even have to bring the police into this. If you give me the man's name and address, I can talk directly to him, and we can settle it between us and leave your company out of it. Is that fair enough?"
The clerk stood there, making up her mind.
"Yes. We would much prefer that." She looked down at the file in her hand.
"The name of the person who rented the car is Leslie Mothershed." "And his address?"
"Two thirteen A Grove Road, Whitechapel, London, East Three." She looked up.
"You are certain our company will not be involved in any litigation?" "You have my word on it," Robert assured her.
"This is a private matter between Leslie Mothershed and me." Commander Robert Bellamy was on the next Swissair flight to London.
He sat in the dark alone, concentrating, meticulously going over every phase of the plan, making certain that there were no loopholes, that nothing could go wrong. His thoughts were interrupted by the soft buzz of the telephone.
"Janus here."
"Janus. General Hilliard." "Proceed."
"Commander Bellamy has located the first two witnesses." "Very good. Have it attended to immediately."
"Yes, sir."
"Where is the commander now?"
"On his way to London. He should have number three confirmed shortly."
"I will alert the committee as to his progress. Continue to keep me informed. The condition of this operation must remain Nova Red."
"Understood, sir. I would suggest The line was dead.
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR BUNDESANWALTSCHAFT EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
1. HANS BEcKERMANKAPPEL
2. FRITZ MANDEL-BERN END OF MESSAGE
At midnight in a small farmhouse fifteen miles from Uetendorf, the Lagenfeld family was disturbed by a series of strange events. The older child was awakened by a shimmering yellow light shining through his bedroom window. When he got up to investigate, the light had disappeared.
In the yard, Tozzi, their German shepherd, began barking furiously, awakening old man Lagenfeld. Reluctantly, the farmer got out of bed to quiet the animal, and when he stepped outside he heard the sound of lrightened sheep crashing against their pen, trying to escape. As Lagenfeld passed the trough, which had been filled to the brim by the recent rainfall, he noticed that it was bone dry.
Tozzi came running to his side, whimpering. Lagenfeld absently patted the animal on the head.
"It's all right, boy. It's all right."
And at that moment, every light in the house went out. When the farmer returned to the house and picked up the telephone to call the power company, the phone was dead.
If the lights had remained on a moment longer, the farmer might have seen a strangely beautiful woman walk out of his barnyard and into the field beyond.
The Bun desan Geneva 1300 Hours
The government minister seated in the inner sanctum of the headquarters of the Swiss intelligence agency watched the deputy director finish reading the message. He put the message in a folder marked Top Secret, placed the folder in the desk drawer, and locked the drawer: "Hans Beckerman und Fritz Mandel."
"Ja."
"No problem, Herr Minister. It shall be taken care of." "Gut."
"Wann?"
"Sofort. Immediately."
The following morning on his way to work, Hans Beckerman's ulcers were bothering him. I should have pushed that reporter fellow to pay me for that thing I found on the ground. These magazines are all rich. I probably could have gotten a few hundred marks. Then I could have gone to a decent doctor and had my ulcers taken care of He was driving past Turler Lake, when ahead of him, at the side of the highway, he saw a woman waving, trying to get a lift. Beckerman slowed down to get a better look at her. She was young and attractive.
Hans pulled over to the side of the road. The woman approached the car. "Guten Tag," Beckerman said.
"Can I help you?"
She was even prettier close up. "Danke." She had a Swiss accent.
"I had a fight with my boyfriend, and he dropped me here in the middle of nowhere."
"Tsk, tsk. That's terrible."
"Would you mind giving me a lift into Zurich?" "Not at all. Get in, get in."
The hitchhiker opened the door and climbed in beside him. "This is very kind of you," she said.
"My name is Karen."
"Hans." He started driving.
"I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come along, Hans."
"Oh, I'm sure someone else would have picked up a pretty woman like you."
She moved closer to him.
"But I'll bet he wouldn't have been as good looking as you." He glanced over at her.
"Ja?"
"I think you are very handsome." He smiled. "You should tell that to my wife."
"Oh, you're married." She sounded disappointed.
"Why is it all the wonderful men are married? You look very intelligent, too."
He sat up straighter.
"To tell you the truth, I'm sorry I ever got involved with my boyfriend." She shifted around in her seat, and her skirt climbed up her thigh. He tried not to look.
"I like older, mature men, Hans. I think they're much more sexy than young men." She snuggled up against him.
"Do you like sex, Hans?" He cleared his throat.
"Do I-? Well, you know ... I'm a man.
"I can see that," she said. She stroked his thigh.
"Can I tell you something? That fight with my boyfriend made me very horny. Would you like me to make love to you?"
He could not believe his luck. She was a beauty, and from what he could see, she had a great body. He swallowed.
"I would, but I'm on my way to work and-"
"It will only take a few minutes." She smiled.
"There's a side road up ahead that leads into the woods. Why don't we stop there?"
He could feel himself getting excited. Strher. Wait until I tell the boys at the office about this! They'll never believe it.
"Sure. Why not?"
Hans turned the car off the highway and took the little dirt road that led into a grove where they could not be seen by passing motorists.
She slowly ran her hand up his thigh. "Mein Gott, you have strong legs."
"I was a runner when I was younger," Beckerman boasted.
"Let's get your trousers off." She undid his belt and helped him slide his pants down. He was already tumescent.
"Ach! Ein grosser!" She began to stroke him. He moaned, "Leck which doch am Schwanz."
"You like to be kissed down there?" "Ja." His wife never did that for him. "Gut. Now just relax."
Beckerman sighed and closed his eyes. Her soft hands were caressing his balls. He felt the sharp sting of a needle in his thigh, and his eyes flew open.
"Wie?"
His body stiffened, and his eyes bulged out. He was choking, unable to breathe. The woman watched as Beckerman slumped over the steering wheel. She got out of the car and slid his body into the passenger seat, then got behind the wheel of the car and drove back down the dirt road onto the highway. At the edge of the steep mountain road, she waited until the road was clear, then opened the door, stepped on the gas pedal, and as the car started to move, she jumped. She stood there watching the car tumble down the steep cliff. Five minutes later, a black limousine pulled up beside her.
"Irgendwelche Problem?" "Keins."
Fritz Mandel was in his office ready to close the garage when two men approached.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm closing. I can't" One of the men interrupted.
"Our car is stuck down the highway. Kaputt! We need a tow."
"My wife is waiting for me. We are having company tonight. I can give you the name of another-"
"It's worth two hundred dollars to us. We're in a hurry." "Two hundred dollars?"
"Yes. And our car is in pretty bad shape. We'd like you to do some work on it. That would probably come to another two, three hundred."
Mandel was becoming interested. "Ja?"
"It's a Rolls," one of the men said.
"Let's see the kind of equipment you have here." They walked into the service area and stood at the edge of the pit.
"That's pretty good equipment." "Yes, sir," Mandel said proudly.
"The very best." The stranger took out a wallet.
"Here. I can give you some money in advance." He removed some bills and handed them to Mandel. As he did so, the wallet slipped out of his hands and fell down into the pit.
"Verflucht!"
"Don't worry," Mandel said.
"I'll get it." He climbed down into the pit. As he did so' one of the men walked over to the control button that operated the raised hydraulic lift and pressed it. The lift started to descend.
Mandel looked up.
"Be careful! What are you doing?"
He started to scramble up the side. As his fingers touched the ledge, the second man slammed his foot down on Mandel's hand, smashing it, and Handel dropped back down into the pit, shrieking. The heavy hydraulic lift was inexorably descending on him.
"Let me out of here!" he cried.
"Hille!" The lift caught him on his shoulder and began pressing him down into the cement floor. A few minutes later, when the terrible screams had stopped, one of the men pressed the button that raised the lift. His companion went down into the pit and retrieved his wallet, careful not to get blood on his clothes. The two men returned to their car and drove off into the quiet night.
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
ESPIONAGE ABTEILUNG TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
1. HANS BECKERMAN-TERMINATED
2. FRITZ MANDEL TERMINATED END OF MESSAGE
Ottawa, Canada 2400 Hours
Janus was addressing the group of twelve.
"Satisfactory progress is being made. Two of the witnesses have already been silenced. Commander Bellamy is on the trail of a third."
"Has there been a breakthrough yet on SDI?" The Italian.
Impetuous. Volatile.
"Not yet, but we're confident that the Star Wars technology will be up and functioning very soon."
"We must do everything possible to hurry it. If it is a question of money" The Saudi. Enigmatic. Withdrawn.
"No. There's just a bit more testing to do." "When is the next test taking place?"
The Australian. Hearty. Clever.
"In one week. We will meet here again in forty-eight hours." Day Four-London
Thursday, October 18
Leslie Mothershed's role model was Robin Leach. An avid viewer of "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous," Mothershed carefully studied the way Robin Leach's guests walked and talked and dressed because he knew that one day he would appear on that program. From the time he was a small boy, he had felt that he was destined to be somebody, to be rich and famous.
"You're very special," his mother would tell him. "My baby is going to be known all over the world."
The young boy would go to sleep with that sentence ringing in his ears until he truly believed it. As Mothershed grew older, he became aware that he had a problem: He had no idea exactly how he was going to become
rich and famous. For a period of time, he toyed with the notion of being a movie star, but he was inordinately shy. He briefly contemplated becoming a soccer star, but he was not athletic. He thought about being a famous scientist, or a great lawyer, commanding tremendous fees. His school grades, unfortunately, were mediocre, and he dropped out of school without being any closer to fame. Life was simply not fair. He was physically unprepossessing, thin, with a pale, sickly complexion, and he was short, exactly five feet five and a half inches. Mothershed always stressed the extra half inch. He consoled himself with the fact that many famous men were short: Dudley Moore, Dustin Hoffman, Peter Falk....
The only profession that really interested Leslie Mothershed was photography. Taking photographs was so ridiculously simple. Anyone could do it. One simply pressed a button. His mother had bought him a camera for his sixth birthday and had been wildly extravagant in her praise of the pictures he had taken. By the time he was in his teens, Mothershed had become convinced that he was a brilliant photographer.
He told himself that he was every bit as good as Ansel Adams, Richard Avedon, or Margaret Bourke-White. With a loan from his mother, Leslie Mothershed set up his own photography business in his Whitechapel flat.
"Start small," his mother told him, "but think big," and that is exactly what Leslie Mothershed did. He started very small and thought very big, but unfortunately, he had no talent for photography. He photographed parades and animals and flowers, and confidently sent his pictures off to newspapers and magazines, and they were always returned. Mothershed consoled himself with the thought of all the geniuses who had been rejected before their ability was recognized. He considered himself a martyr to philistinism.
And then, out of the blue, his big opportunity had come. His mother's cousin, who worked for the British publishing firm of HarperCollins, had confided to Mothershed that they were planning to commission a coffeetable book on Switzerland.
"They haven't selected the photographer yet, Leslie, so if you get yourself over to Switzerland right away and bring back some great pictures, the book could be yours."
Leslie Mothershed hurriedly packed up his cameras and headed for Switzerland. He knew-he really knew-that this was the break he had been looking for. At last the idiots were going to recognize his talents.
He rented a car in Geneva and traveled around the country taking pictures of Swim chalets, waterfalls, and snowcapped peaks. He photographed sunrises and sunsets and farmers working in the fields.
And then, in the middle of all that, fate had stepped in and Aged his lile. He was on his way to Bern when his motor failed. He pulled over to the side of the highway, ~ous. why me? Mothershed moaned. Why do these things always hap~ ~ me? He sat there fuming, thinking about the p~o~ time lost and how expensive it would be to have his oar towed.
Fif:een kilometers behind him was the village of 'l'him. I'll get a tow from there, Mothershed thought. That shouldn't cost too much. He flagged down a passing gasoline trnc~.
"I need a tow truck," Mothershed explained.
"Could you stop at a garage in Thun and have them come and get me?" The truck driver shook his head.
"It's Sunday, mister.
The closest garage that's open will be in Bern."
"Bern? That's fifty kilometers from here. It will cost me a fortune." The truck driver grinned.
"Ja. There they get you by the Sundays." He started to drive on. "Wait." It was difficult to get the words out.
"I'll-I'll pay for a tow truck from Bern."
"Gut. I will have them send someone out." Leslie Mothershed sat cursing in his disabled car. All I needed was this, he thought bitterly. He had already spent much too much money on film, and now he would have to pay some bloody thief to tow him to a garage.
It took almost two interminable hours for the tow truck to arrive.
As the mechanic started to attach the cable from his truck to the car, there was a flash of light from across the highway, followed by a loud explosion, and Mothershed looked up to see what appeared to be a bright object falling out of the sky. The only other traffic on the highway was a tour bus that had pulled to a stop in back of his car. The passengers from the bus were hurrying toward the scene of the crash.
Mothershed hesitated, torn between his curiosity and his desire to move on. He turned and followed the bus passengers across the highway. When he reached the scene of the accident, he stood there transfixed. Holy God, he thought. It's unreal. He was staring at a flying saucer.
Leslie Mothershed had heard about flying saucers and had read about them, but he had never believed they existed. He gaped at it, awed by the eerie spectacle. The shell had ripped open, and he could see two bodies inside, small, with large skulls, sunken eyes, no ears and almost no chins, and they seemed to be wearing some kind of silver metallic suits.
The group from the tour bus was standing around him staring in horrified silence. The man next to him fainted. Another man turned away and vomited. An elderly priest was clutching his beads and mumbling
incoherently.
"My God," someone said. "It's a flying saucer!"
And that was when Mothershed had his epiphany. A miracle had fallen into his lap. He-Leslie Mothershed-was on the spot with his cameras to photograph the story of the century! There was not a magazine or newspaper in the world that would reject the photographs he was about to take. A coffee-table book about Switzerland? He almost laughed aloud at the idea. He was about to astonish the whole world. All the television talk shows would be begging from him, but he would do Robin Leach's show first. He would sell his photographs to the London Times, the Sun, the Mail, the Mirror-to all the English newspapers, and to the foreign papers and magazinesLe Figaro and Paris-Match, Oggi and Per Tag.
Time and USA Today. The press everywhere would be pleading with him for his photographs. Japan and South America and Russia and China and-there was no end to it. Mothershed's heart was fluttering with excitement. I won't give anyone an exclusive. Each one will have to pay me individually. I'll start at a hundred thousand pounds a picture, maybe two hundred thousand. And I'll sell them over and over again. He began feverishly adding up the money he was going to make.
Leslie Mothershed was so busy adding up his fortune that he almost forgot to take the pie.
"Oh, my God! Excuse me," he said, to no one in particular, and raced back across the highway to get his camera equipment.
The mechanic had finished hoisting the front end of the disabled vehicle in the air, ready to tow it away.
"What's going on over there?" he asked.
Mothershed was busy grabbing his camera equipment. "Come and see for yourself."
The two men moved across the highway to the wooded area, and Mothershed pushed his way through the circle of tourists.
"Excuse me," he said.
"Excuse me." He adjusted the focus on his camera and started snapping pictures of the UFO and its eerie passengers. He took pictures in black and white and in color. As the shutter clicked each time, Mothershed thought, A million pounds ...
another million pounds ... another million pounds.
The priest was crossing himself and saying, "It's the face of Satan."
Satan, hell, Mothershed thought exultantly. It's the face of money. These will be the first pictures that prove that flying saucers really exist.
And then, suddenly, a terrifying thought occurred to him. What if the magazines think these pictures are fake? There have been a lot of faked photographs of UFOs. His euphoria vanished. What if they don't believe me? And that was when Leslie Mothershed had his second inspiration.
There were nine witnesses gathered around him. Without knowing it, they were about to lend authenticity to his discovery.
Mothershed turned to face the group. "Ladies and gentlemen," he called out.
"If you would all like to have your photographs taken here, just line up and I'll be happy to send each of you a print, free."
There were excited exclamations. Within moments the passengers from the tour bus, except for the priest, were standing beside the remains of the UFO.
He was reluctant. "I can't," he said.
"It's evil!" Mothershed needed the priest. He would make the most convincing witness of them all.
"That's just the point," Mother~he'd said persuasively.
"Don't you see? This will be your testimony about the existence of evil spirits."
And the priest was finally persuaded.
"Spread out a little," Mothershed ordered, "so we can see the flying saucer." The witnesses shifted their positions.
"That's it. Very good. Excellent. Hold still, now."
He snapped half a dozen more pictures and took out a pencil and paper.
"If you'll write down your names and addresses, I'll see to it that each of you gets a print." He had no intention of sending any prints. All he wanted was corroborating witnesses. Let the bloody newspapers and magazines try to get around that!
And then, suddenly, he noticed that several people in the group had cameras. He couldn't allow any other photographs but his! Only photos that had the credit "Photograph by Leslie Mothershed" could exist.
"Excuse me," he said to the group.
"Those of you who have cameras, if you'll pass them to me, I'll take a few pictures of you so that you'll have some taken with your own cameras." The cameras were quickly handed to Leslie Mothershed. As he knelt to frame the first shot, no one noticed that Mothershed clicked open the film compartment with his thumb and held it ajar. There, a little bit of nice bright sunlight will help these photographs no end. Too bad, my friends, but only professionals are allowed to capture historic moments.
Ten minutes later, Mothershed had all their names and addresses. He took one last look at the flying saucer and thought exultantly, Mother was right. I am going to be rich and famous.
He couldn't wait to return to England to develop his precious photographs.
"What the hell is going on?"
The police stations in the Uetendorf area had been inundated with telephone calls all evening.
"Someone is prowling around my house. -.." "There are strange lights outside. "
"My livestock is going crazy. There must be wolves around. .
"Someone drained my watering trough. -.." And the most inexplicable telephone call of all: "Chief, you'd better send a lot of tow trucks out to the main highway right away. It's a nightmare. All traffic has stopped."
"What? Why?"
"No one knows. The car engines just suddenly went dead." It was a night they would never forget.
ow ~ng ~ the assignment going to take? Robert wondered, as he strapped himself into his first-class seat on the Swissair flight. As the plane rushed down the runway, its huge Rolls-Royce engines hungrily swallowing the night air, Robert relaxed and closed his eyes. Was it really just a few years ago that I took this same flight with Susan to London? No. It was more like a lifetime ago.
The plane touched down at Heathrow at 6:29 P.M., on schedule.
Robert made his way out of the maze and took a taxi into the sprawling city. He passed a hundred familiar landmarks, and he could hear Susan's voice commenting excitedly on them. In those golden days, it had never mattered where they were. It was simply enough that they were together.
They brought their own happiness with them, their own special excitement in each other. Theirs was the marriage that would have a happy ending.
Almost.
Their problems had started innocently enough with an overseas call from Admiral Whittaker while Robert and Susan were traveling in Thailand. It had been six months since Robert had been discharged from the Navy, and he had not talked to the admiral in all that time. The call, reaching them at the Oriental Hotel in Bangkok, was a surprise.
"Robert? Admiral Whittaker."
"Admiral! It's good to hear your voice."
"It hasn't been easy tracking you down. What have you been up to?" "Not very much. Just taking it easy. Having a long honeymoon." "How is Susan? It is Susan, isn't it?"
"Yes. She's fine, thank you."
"How soon can you get back to Washington?" "I beg your pardon?"
"It hasn't been announced yet, but I've been given a new assignment, Robert. They've made me deputy director of 17th District Naval Intelligence. I'd like you to come aboard."
Robert was taken aback.
"Naval Intelligence? Admiral, I don't know anything about-"
"You can learn. You would be doing an important service for your country, Robert. Will you come and discuss it with me?"
"Well-"
"Good. I'll expect you in my office Monday at oh nine hundred. Say hello to Susan for me."
Robert repeated the conversation to Susan. "Naval Intelligence?
That sounds so exciting." "Maybe," Robert said doubtfully. "I have no idea what's involved."
"You must find out."
He studied her for a moment.
"You want me to take it, don't you?" She put her arms around him.
"I want you to do whatever you want to do. I think you're ready to go back to work. I've noticed in the last few weeks how restless you've become."
"I think you're trying to get rid of me," Robert teased. "The honeymoon is over."
Susan put her lips close to his.
"Never. Did I ever tell you how crazy I am about you, sailor? Let me show you.
Thinking about it latertoo late-Robert decided that that was the beginning of the end of their marriage. The offer had seemed wonderful at the time, and he had gone back to Washington to meet with Admiral Whittaker.
"This job requires brains, courage, and initiative, Robert. You have all three. Our country has become a target for every little tinhorn dictatorship that can breed a terrorist group or build a
chemical-weapons factory. A number of these countries are working on atomic bombs at this moment so that they can hold us at ransom. My job is to build an intelligence network to find out exactly what they're up to and to try to stop them. I want you to help me."
In the end, Robert had accepted the job with Naval Intelligence, and to his surprise, he found that he enjoyed it and had an aptitude for it.
Susan found an attractive apartment in Rosslyn, Virginia, not far from where Robert worked, and busied herself furnishing it. Robert was sent to the Farm, the CIA training ground for Secret Service agents.
* * * Located in a heavily guarded compound in the Virginia countryside, the Farm occupies twenty square miles, most of it covered in tall pine forest, with the central buildings in a ten-acre clearing two miles from the front gate. Dirt roads branch off through the woods, with locked swinging barricades, and No Entry signs posted. At a small airfield, unmarked aircraft arrive and depart several times a day. The Farm has a deceptively bucolic setting, with leafy trees, deer running in the fields, and small buildings innocently scattered around the extensive grounds. Inside the compound, however, it is a different world.
Robert had expected to train with other Navy personnel, but to his surprise, the students were a mixture of CIA inductees, marines, and Army, Navy, and Air Force personnel. Each student was assigned a number and housed in a dormitorylike room in one of several Spartan two-story
brick buildings. At the Bachelor Officer Quarters, where Robert stayed, each man had his own room, and shared the bathroom with another. The mess hall was across the road from the BOQ cluster.
On the day Robert arrived, he was escorted to an auditorium with thirty other newcomers. A tall, powerfully built black colonel in Air Force uniform addressed the group. He appeared to be in his middle fifties, and he gave the impression of quick, cold intelligence. He spoke clearly and crisply with no wasted words.
"I'm Colonel Frank Johnson. I want to welcome you here. During your stay you will use only your first names. From this moment on, your lives will be a closed book. You've all been sworn to secrecy. I would advise you to take that oath very, very seriously. You are never to discuss your work with anyone-your wives, your family, your friends.
You've been selected to come here because you have special qualifications. There's a lot of hard work ahead of you to develop those qualifications, and not all of you are going to make it. You're going to be involved in things you have never even heard of before. I cannot stress enough the importance of the work you will be doing when you finish here. It has become fashionable in certain liberal circles to attack our intelligence services, whether it's the CIA, the Army, the Navy or the Air Force, but I can assure you, gentlemen, that without dedicated people like yourselves, this country would be in one hell of a lot of trouble. It's going to be your job to help prevent that. Those of you who do pass will become case officers. To put it bluntly, a case officer is a spy.
He works under cover.
"While you're here, you're going to get the best training in the world. You'll be trained in surveillance and countersurveillance.
You'll have courses in radio communications, encoding, and weaponry and map reading.
"You'll attend a class in interpersonal relations. You'll be taught how to build a rapport, how to draw out an individual's motivations, how to make your target feel at ease."
The class was hanging on every word.
"You'll learn how to meet and recruit an agent. You'll be trained in how to make sure meeting places are secure.
"You'll learn about 'dead drops,' how to covertly communicate with your contacts. If you're successful at what you do, you will carry out your assignments unnoticed and undetected."
Robert could feel the excitement that charged the air.
"Some of you will work under official cover. It could be diplomatic or military.
Others will work under unofficial cover as private individuals-as businessmen, archaeologists, or novelists-any profession that will give you access to the areas and types of people likely to have the information you're looking for. And now I'm going to turn you over to your instructors. Good luck." Robert found the training fascinating.
The instructors were men who had worked in the field and were experienced professionals. Robert absorbed the technical information easily. In addition to the courses Colonel Johnson had mentioned, there was a brushup course on languages and one on cryptic codes. Colonel Johnson was an enigma to Robert. The rumor circulating about him was that he had strong connections at the White House and was involved in high-level covert activities. He would disappear from the Farm for days at a time and suddenly reappear.
An agent named Ron was conducting a class.
"There are six phases to the clandestine operational process. The first is spotting. When you know what information you need, your first challenge is to identify and target individuals who have access to that information. The second phase is assessment. Once you have spotted your target, you have to decide if he really has the information you need, and if he might be susceptible to recruitment. What motivates him? Is he happy in his job? Does he have a grudge against his boss?
Is he over his head financially? If the prospect is accessible and there's a motivation that can be exploited, you move along to phase three.
"Phase three is development. You build up a relationship with a prospect. You manage to run into him as often as possible and build a rapport. The next phase is recruitment. When you think he is ready, you go to work on him psychologically. You use whatever psychological weapons you've got-revenge against his boss, money, the thrill of it.
If a case officer has done his job well, the prospect usually says yes.
"So far so good. You have a spy working for you. The next step is handling him. You must protect not only yourself, but him too. You will arrange surreptitious meetings and train him in the use of microfilm and, where appropriate, clandestine radio. You will teach him how to detect surveillance, what to say if questioned, and so on.
"The last phase is dl-sconnecting. After some period of time, perhaps your recruit will be -erred to a different job and no longer have access to the information, or maybe we will no longer need the information to which he does have access. In any case, the relalionship is ended, but it's important to end it in such a way that the recruit doesn't feel he has been used and is looking for vengeance. -.."
Colonel Johnson had been right. Not every one made it through the course. Familiar faces kept disappearing. Washed out. No one knew why. No one asked.
One day, as a group was preparing to go into Richmond for a surveillance
exercise, Robert's instructor said, "We're going to see how good you are, Robert. I'm going to send someone to tail you. I want you to lose him. Do you think you can do that?"
"Yes, sir." "Good luck."
* * * Robert took the bus into Richmond and began strolling the streets.
Within five minutes, he identified his trackers. There were two of them. One was on foot and one was in an automobile. Robert tried ducking into restaurants and shops and hurrying out back doors, but he was unable to shake them. They were too well trained. Finally, it was almost time to return to the Farm, and Robert still had not been able to get away from them. They were watching him too closely. Robert walked into a department store, and the two men took up positions where they could cover the entrances and exits. Robert took the escalator up to the Men's Clothing Department. Thirty minutes later when he came down, he was wearing a different suit, a coat and hat, and was talking to a woman and carrying a baby in his arms. He walked past his pursuers without being recognized.
He was the only one that day who had successfully eluded surveillance. The jargon taught at the Farm was a language unto itself.
"You probably won't use all these terms," the instruc'or told the class, "but you had better know them. There are two different kinds of agents: an 'agent of influence' and an 'agent provocateur." The agent of influence tries to change opinion in the country where he operates. An agent provocateur is sent to stir up trouble and create chaos.
'Biographic leverage' is CIA code for blackmail. There are also 'black-bag jobs,' which can range from bribes to burglary. Watergate was a black-bag job."
He looked around to make sure that the class was paying attention. They were spellbound.
"From time to time some of you may need a 'cobbler'-that's a man who forges passports."
Robert wondered whether he would ever use a cobbler.
"The phrase to demote maximally is a nasty one. It means to purge by killing. So does the word terminate. If you hear someone talking about the Firm, it's the nickname we use to refer to the British Secret Service. If you're asked to 'fumigate' an office, you won't be looking for termites, you'll be looking for listening devices." The arcane expressions fascinated Robert.
"'Ladies' is a euphemism for females sent to compromise the opposition.
A 'legend' is a biography of a spy that is faked to provide him with a cover. 'Going private' means leaving the service."
The instructor scanned the class.
"Any of you know what a 'lion tamer' is?" He waited for an answer. Silence.
"When an agent is sacked, he sometimes gets upset and may make threats to reveal what he knows. A muscleman, or lion tamer, is called in to soften him up. I'm sure none of you will ever have to deal with one." That drew nervous laughter.
"Then, there's the term measles. If a target dies of measles, it means he was murdered so efficiently that death appeared to be accidental or due to natural causes. One method of inducing measles is to use 'Tabun." That's a colorless or brownish liquid compound that causes nerve paralysis when absorbed through the skin. If someone offers you a 'music box,' they're offering you a wireless transmitter.
The transmitter operator is called a musician. In the future, some of you will be operating 'naked." Don't rush to take off your clothes; it simply means that you're alone and without any assistance.
"There's one more thing I want to discuss today. Coincidence. In our work, there is no such animal. It usually spells danger. If you keep running into the same person again ahd again, or you keep spotting the same automobile when you're on the move, cover your ass. You're probably in trouble.
"I think that's enough for today, gentlemen. We will take up where we left off' tomorrow."
From time to time, Colonel Johnson called Robert into his office "to have a chat," as he put it. The conversations were deceptively casual, but Robert was aware of an underlying probing being carried on.
"I understand you're happily married, Robert." "That's right."
They spent the next half hour talking about marriage, fidelity, and trust.
Another time: "Admiral Whittaker thinks of you as a son, Robert. Did you know that?"
"Yes." The pain of Edward's death was something that would never go away.
They talked about loyalty and duty and death.
"You've faced death more than once, Robert. Are you afraid to die?"
"No." But to die for a good reason, Robert thought. Not senselessly.
The meetings were frustrating to Robert because they were like looking into a trick mirror. Colonel Johnson could see him clearly, but the colonel remained invisible, an enigma cloaked in secrecy.
The course lasted sixteen weeks, and during that time, none of the men was permitted to communicate with the outside world. Robert missed Susan desperately. It was the longest they had ever been apart. When the four months were up, Colonel Johnson called Robert into his office.
"This is goodbye. You've done an excellent job, Commander. I think you're going to find your future very interesting."
"Thank you, sir. I hope so-" "Good luck."
Colonel Johnson watched Robert leave. He sat there for five minutes without moving, then reached a decision. He walked over to the door and locl::ed it. Then he picked up the telephone and made a call.
Susan was waiting for him. She opened the door of their apartment, wearing a sheer negligee that concealed nothing. She flew into his arms and held him close.
"Hi, sailor. Want to have a good time?"
"I'm having one," Robert said happily, 'yust holding you."
"God, I missed you so much!" Susan drew back and said fiercely, "If anything ever happened to you, I think I would die."
"Nothing is ever going to happen to me." "Promise?"
"Promise."
She studied him a moment, concerned. "You look so tired."
"It was a pretty intensive course," Robert admitted.
He was understating it. With all the texts and manuals to study, in addition to the practical, hands-on lessons, none of the recruits had been able to sleep more than a few hours a night. There was little grumbling for a very simpIe reason: They were well aware that what they were learning could one day save their lives.
"I know exactly what you need," Susan decided. Robert grinned.
"I'll say." He reached for her.
"Wait. Give me five minutes. Get undressed." He watched her walk away and thought, How damned lucky can a man get? He began to get undressed.
Susan returned a few minutes later. She said softly, "Umm. I like you naked."
He heard his instructor's voice, saying, "Some of you will be operating naked. It means you're alone and without any assistance." What have I gotten into? What have I gotten Susan into?
She led him into the bathroom. The tub was filled with warm scented water, and the room was dark except for four candles flickering on the sink.
"Welcome home, darling." She slipped out of her negligee and stepped into the bathtub. He followed her.
"Susan-"
"Don't talk. Lean back against me." He felt her hands gently caressing his back and shoulders, and he felt the soft curves of her body against him, and he forgot how tired he was. They made love in the warm water, and when they had dried themselves, Susan said, "So much for the foreplay. Now, let's get serious."
They made love again, and later, as Robert fell asleep, holding Susan in his arms, he thought, It will always be like this. Forever.
The following Monday morning, Robert reported for his first day of duty at the 17th District Office of Naval Intelligence at the Pentagon.
Admiral Whittaker said warmly, "Welcome home, Robert. Apparently you impressed the hell out of Colonel Johnson."
Robert smiled.
"He's quite impressive himself." Over coffee, the admiral asked, "Are you ready to go to work?"
"Eager."
"Good. We have a situation in Rhodesia -.."
Working in the Office of Naval Intelligence was even more exciting than Robert had anticipated. Each assignment was different, and Robert was given the ones classified extremely sensitive. He brought in a defector who revealed Noriega's drug-smuggling operation in Panama, exposed a mole working for Marcos in the American Consulate in Manila, and helped set up a secret listening post in Morocco. He was sent on missions to South America and to the East Indies. The only thing that disturbed him was the long separations from Susan. He hated to be away from her, and he missed her terribly. He had the excitement of his job to occupy him,
but Susan had nothing. Robert's case load kept increasing. He spent less and less time at home, and that was when the problem with Susan became serious.
Whenever Robert came home, he and Susan would run hungrily into each other's arms and make passionate love. But those times began to be further and further apart. It seemed to Susan that no sooner did Robert return from one assignment than he was sent away on another.
To make matters worse, Robert could not discuss his work with her.
Susan had no idea where he went or what he was doing. She knew only that whatever he was involved in was dangerous, and she was terrified that one day he would leave and never return. She dared not ask him questions. She felt like a stranger, completely shut out of an important part of his life. Of their life.
I can't go on like this, Susan decided.
When Robert returned from a four-week assignment in Central America, Susan said, "Robert, I think we had better have a talk."
"What's the problem?"
Robert asked. He knew what the problem was.
"I'm frightened. We're slipping away from each other, and I don't want to lose us. I couldn't stand it."
"Susan-"
"Wait. Let me finish. Do you know how much time we've spent together in the last four months? Less than two weeks. Whenever you come home, I feel as though you're a visitor instead of my husband."
He took Susan in his arms and held her tightly. "You know how much I love you."
She laid her head on his shoulder. "Please don't let anything happen to us." "I won't," he promised.
"I'll have a talk with Admiral Whittaker." "When?"
"Immediately."
"The admiral will see you now, Commander." "Thank you."
Admiral Whittaker was seated behind his desk signing papers. He looked up as bellamy entered and smiled.
"Welcome home, Robert, and congradulations. That was an excellent job in El Salvador."
"Thank you, sir."
"Sit down. Can I offer you some coffee?" "No, thank you, Admiral."
"You wanted to talk to me? My secretary said it was urgent. What can I do for you?"
It was difficult to begin. "Well, sir, this is personal.
I've been married less than two years, and-"
"You made a wonderful choice, Robert. Susan's a fine woman."
"Yes, I agree. The problem is that I'm away most of the time, and she's unhappy about it." He added quickly, "And she has every right to be. It isn't a normal situation."
Admiral Whittaker leaned back in his chair and said thoughtfully, "Of course what you're doing isn't a normal situation. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made."
"I know," Robert said stubbornly, "but I'm not prepared to sacrifice my marriage. It means too much to me."
The admiral studied him reflectively. "I see. What is it you're asking?"
"I was hoping that you could find some assignments for me where I'm not away from home so much. This is such a large operation, there must be a hundred things I could do closer to home."
"Closer to home." "Yes."
The admiral said slowly, "You've certainly earned that. I don't see why something like that can't be arranged."
Robert smiled in relief.
"That's very good of you, Admiral. I would certainly appreciate it."
"Yes, I think we can definitely arrange that. Tell Susan for me that the problem is solved." Robert stood up, beaming.
"I don't know how to thank you.
Admiral Whittaker waved a hand of dismissal.
"You're too valuable a piece of manpower for me to let anything happen to you. Now go home to your bride."
When Robert told Susan the news, she was thrilled. She threw her arms around him.
"Oh, darling, that's wonderful."
"I'm going to ask him for a couple of weeks off so we can take a trip somewhere. It will be a second honeymoon."
"I've forgotten what a honeymoon is like," Susan murmured. "Show me."
Robert showed her.
* * Admiral Whittaker sent for Robert the following morning.
"I just wanted you to know I'm making some arrangements about the matter we discussed yesterday."
"Thank you, Admiral." Now was the time to mention taking a leave.
"Sir-" Admiral Whittaker said, "Something has come up, Robert." The admiral began to pace. When he spoke, there was a note of deep concern in his voice.
"I've just been informed that the CIA has been infiltrated. It seems that there has been a steady leak of top secret information. All they know about the spy is that his code name is the Fox. He's in Argentina right now. They need someone outside the agency to handle the operation. The director of the CIA has asked for you.
They would like you to track the man down and bring him back. I told them the decision is up to you. Do you want to undertake it?"
Robert hesitated.
"I'm afraid I'll have to pass on it, sir."
"I respect your decision, Robert. You've been traveling constantly and have never turned down an assignment. I know it hasn't been easy on your marriage."
"I'd like to take on this job, sir. It's just that"
"You don't have to say it, Robert. My opinion of your work and dedication will always remain the same. I just have one favor to ask of you."
"What's that, Admiral?"
"The deputy director e of the CIA asked to meet with you, regardless of your decision. As a courtesy. You don't mind do you?"
"Of course not, sir."
The next day Robert drove to Langley for his meeting with the deputy director.
"Sit down, Commander," the deputy director said after Robert entered the large corner office.
"I've heard a lot about you. All good things, of course." "Thank you, sir."
The deputy director was a man in his early sixties, with fine white hair and a small brush mustache that moved up and down as he drew on his pipe. A Yale graduate, he had joined the OSS during World War II and then moved into the CIA when it was formed after the conflict. He rose steadily up the ranks to his present position in one of the largest and most powerful intelligence agencies in the world.
"I want you to know, Commander, that I respect your decision." Bellamy nodded toward the deputy director.
"There is one fact, however, that I feel I should bring to your attention."
"What's that, sir?"
"The President is personally involved in the operation to unmask the Fox."
"I didn't know that, sir."
"He regards it-as I do, too-as one of the most important assignments this agency has had since its inception. I know of your situation at home, and I'm sure the President is sympathetic too. He's a real family man. But your not taking on this assignment might throw-how should I say it-a cloud on the ONI and Admiral Whittaker."
"The admiral had nothing to do with my decision, sir," Robert said.
"I understand that, Commander, but will the President understand that?" The honeymoon will have to be postponed, Robert thought.
* * * When Robert broke the news to Susan, he said gently, "This is my last overseas assignment. After this I'll be home so much you'll get sick of me."
She smiled up at him.
"There isn't that much time in the world. We're going to be together forever."
The chase after the Fox was the most frustrating thing Robert had ever experienced. He picked up his trail in Argentina but missed his quarry by one day. The trail led to Tokyo and China and then Malaysia.
Whoever the Fox was, he left just enough of a trail to lead to where he had been but never to where he was. The days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months, and always Robert was just behind the Fox. He called Susan almost every day. In the beginning, it was "I'll be home in a few days, darling." And then, "I might be home next week." And then, finally, "I'm not sure when I'll be back." In the end, Robert had to give up. He had been on the Fox's trail for two and a half months with no success.
When he returned to Susan, she seemed changed. A little cooler. "I'm sorry, darling," Robert apologized.
"I had no idea it would take so long. It was just-" "They'll never let you go, will they, Robert?" "What? Of course, they will."
She shook her head.
"I don't think so. I've taken a job at Washington Memorial Hospital." He was taken aback.
"You've what?"
"I'm going to be a nurse again. I can't sit around waiting for you to come home to me, wondering where you are and what you're doing, wondering whether you're dead or alive."
"Susan, I-"
"It's all right, my sweetheart. At least I'll be doing something useful while you're gone. It will make the waiting easier." And Robert had no answer to that.
He reported his failure to Admiral Whittaker. The admiral was sympathetic.
"It's my fault for agreeing to let you do it. From now on, we'll let the CIA handle their own damned problems. I'm sorry, Robert." Robert told him about Susan taking a job as a nurse.
"That's probably a good idea," the Admiral said thoughtfully.
"It will take the pressure off your marriage. If you took on some overseas caseloads now and then, I'm sure it won't matter as much." Now and then turned out to be almost constantly. That was when the marriage really began to disintegrate.
Susan worked at Washington Memorial Hospital as an operating room nurse, and whenever Robert was home, she tried to take time off to be with him, but she was caught up more and more in her work.
"I'm really enjoying it, darling. I feel I'm doing something useful."
She would talk to Robert about her patients, and he remembered how caring she had been with him, how she had nurtured him back to health, back to life. He was pleased that she was doing important work that she loved, but the fact was, they were seeing less and less of each other.
The emotional distance between them was widening. There was an awkwardness now that had not existed before. They were like two strangers trying desperately hard to make conversation.
When Robert returned to Washington from a six-week assignment in Turkey, he took Susan out to dinner at Sans Souci.
Susan said, "We have a new patient at the hospital.
He was in a bad plane crash, and the doctors didn't think he was going to live, but I'm going to see to it that he does." Her eyes were glowing.
She was like that with me, Robert thought. And he wondered if she had leaned over the new patient and said, "Get well. I'm waiting for you." He rejected the thought.
"He's so nice, Robert. All the nurses are crazy about him." All the nurses? he wondered.
There was a small, nagging doubt at the back of his mind, but he managed to get rid of it.
They ordered dinner.
The=following Saturday, Robert left for Portugal, and when he returned three weeks later, Susan greeted him excitedly.
"Monte walked today for the first time!" Her kiss was perfunctory. "Monte?"
"Monte Banks. That's his name. He's going to be fine.
The doctors couldn't believe it, but we wouldn't give up." We. "Tell me about him."
"He's really darling. He's always giving us gifts. He's very wealthy. He flies his own plane, and he was in a bad crash, and-"
"What kind of gifts?"
"Oh, you know, just little thing-candies and flowers and books and records. He tried to give all of us expensive watches but of course we had to refuse."
"Of course."
"He has a yacht, polo ponies - That was the day Robert began calling him Moneybags.
Susan talked about him every time she came home from the hospital. "He's really dear, Robert." Dear is dangerous.
"And he's so thoughtful. Do you know what he did today? He had lunch sent from the Jockey Club for all the nurses on the floor."
The man is sickening. Ridiculously, Robert found himself getting angry. "Is this wonderful patient of yours married?"
"No, darling. Why?" "I just wondered." She laughed.
"For heaven's sake, you're not jealous, are you?"
"Of some old man who's just learning to walk? Of course not."
Like hell I'm not. But he wouldn't give Susan the satisfaction of saying so. When Robert was at home, Susan tried not to talk about her patient, but if she did not bring up the subject, Robert would.
"How is old Moneybags doing?"
"His name is not Moneybags," she chided. "It's Monte Banks."
"Whatever." It's too bad the sonofabitch couldn't have died in the plane crash.
The following day was Susan's birthday.
"I'll tell you what," Robert said, enthusiastically, "we'Il celebrate. We'll go out and have a wonderful dinner somewhere and-"
"I have to work at the hospital until eight." "All right. I'll pick you up there."
"Fine. Monte is dying to meet you. I've told him all about you." "I look forward to meeting the old man," Robert assured her.
When Robert arrived at the hospital, the receptionist said, "Good evening, Commander. Susan is working in the orthopedic ward on the third floor. 5~~~5 expecting y~~~~7 She picked up the telephone. When Robert got off the elevator, Susan was waiting for him, wearing her white starched uniform, and his heart skipped a beat. She was, oh, so damned beautiful.
"Hello, gorgeous."
Susan smiled, strangely ill at ease.
"Hello, Robert. I'll be off duty in a few minutes. Come on. I'll introduce you to Monte."
I can't wait.
She led him into a large private room filled with books and flowers and baskets of fruit, and said, "Monte, this is my husband, Robert." Robert stood there staring at the man in the bed. He was three or four years older than Robert and resembled Paul Newman. Robert despised him on sight.
"I'm certainly pleased to meet you, Commander. Susan has been telling me all about you." Is that what they talk about when she is at his bedside in the middle of the night?
"She's very proud of you."
That's it, buddy, throw me a few crumbs. Susan was looking at Robert, willing him to be polite.
He made an effort.
"I understand you'll be getting out of here soon."
"Yes, thanks mostly to your wife. She's a miracle worker."
"Come on, sailor. Do you think I'm going to let some other nurse have that great body?"
"Yes, that's her specialty." Robert could not keep the bitterness out of his voice.
The birthday dinner was a fiasco. All Susan wanted to talk about was her patient.
"Did he remind you of anyone, darling?" "Boris Karloff."
"Why did you have to be so rude to him?"
He said coldly, "I thought I was very civil. I don't happen to like the man." Susan stared at him.
"You don't even know him. What don't you like about him?"
I don't like the way he looks at you. I don't like the way you look at him. I don't like the way our marriage is going to hell. God, I don't want to lose you.
"Sorry. I guess I'm just tired."
They finished their dinner in silence. The next morning, as Robert was getting ready to go to the office, Susan said, "Robert, I have something to say to you. -.."
And it was as if he had been struck in the pit of his stomach. He could not bear to have her put what was happening into words.
"Susan-"
"You know I love you. I'll always love you. You're the dearest, most wonderful man I've ever known."
"Please-"
"No, let me finish. This is very hard for me. In the last year, we've only spent minutes together. We don't have a marriage anymore.
We've drifted apart."
Every word was a knife stabbing into him. "You're right," he said desperately.
"I'll change. I'll quit the agency. Now. Today. We'll go away somewhere and-" She shook her head.
"No, Robert. We both know that wouldn't work.
You're doing what you want to do. If you stopped doing it because of me, you would always resent it. This isn't anybody's fault. It just-happened. I want a divorce."
It was as though the world had caved in on him. He felt suddenly sick to his stomach.
"You don't mean that, Susan. We'll find a way to-"
"It's too late. I've been thinking about this for a long time.
All the while you were away and I sat home alone and waited for you to come back, I thought about it. We've been living separate lives. I need more than that. I need something you ~~~~~ give me ~~y~~~~~~) He stood there, fighting to control his emotions.
"Does this-does this have anything to do with Moneybags?" Susan hesitated.
"Monte has asked me to marry him." He could feel his bowels turning to water.
"And you're going to?" "Yes."
It was some kind of crazy nightmare. This isn't happening, he thought. It can't be. His eyes filled with tears.
Susan put her arms around him and held him close.
"I will never again feel about any man the way I felt about you. I loved you with all my heart and soul. I will always love you. You are my dearest friend."
She pulled back and looked into his eyes. "But that isn't enough. Do you understand?"
All he understood was that she was tearing him apart. "We could try again. We'll start over and-"
"I'm sorry, Robert." Her voice was choked. "I'm so sorry, but it's finished."
Susan flew to Reno for a divorce, and Commander Robert Bellamy went on a two-week drunk.
Old habits die hard. Robert telephoned a friend at the FBI. Al Traynor had crossed Robert's path half a dozen times in the past, and Robert trusted him.
"Tray, I need a favor."
"A favor? You need a psychiatrist. How the hell could you let Susan get away?"
The news was probably all over town. "It's a long, sad story."
"I'm really sorry, Robert. She was a great lady. I-never mind. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like you to run a computer check on someone." "You've got it. Give me a name."
"Monte Banks. It's just a routine inquiry." "Right. What do you want to know?"
"He's probably not even in your files, Tray, but if he is-did he ever get a parking ticket, beat his dog, run a red light? The usual."
"Sure."
"And I'm curious about where he got his money. I'd like a fix on his background."
"So, just routine, huh?"
"And Tray, let's keep this between us. It's personal. Okay?" "No problem. I'll call you in the morning."
"Thanks. I owe you a lunch." "Dinner."
"You've got it."
Robert replaced the receiver and thought: Portrait of a man clutching at straws. What am I hoping for, that he's Jack the Ripper and Susan will come flying back into my arms?
Early the following morning, Dustin Thornton sent for Robert. "What are you working on, Commander?"
He knows perfectiy well what I'm working on, Robert thought. "I'm winding up my file on the diplomat from Singapore, and-" "It doesn't seem to be occupying enough of your time."
"I beg your pardon?"
"In case you've forgotten, Commander, the Office of Naval Intelligence is not mandated to investigate American citizens." Robert was watching him, puzzled.
"What are you-?"
"I've been notified by the FBI that you have been trying to obtain information that is completely out of the jurisdiction of this agency."
Robert felt a sudden rush of anger. That sonofabitch Traynor had betrayed him. So much for friendship.
"It was a personal matter," Robert said. "I-"
"The computers of the FBI are not there for your convenience, nor to help you harass private citizens. Do I make myself clear?"
"Very."
"That's all."
Robert raced back to his office. His fingers trembled as he dialed 202-324-3000. A voice answered, "FBI."
"Al Traynor."
"Just a moment, please."
A minute later, a man's voice came on the line. "Hello. May I help you?"
"Yes. I'm calling Al Traynor."
"I'm sorry, Agent Traynor is no longer with this office." Robert felt a shock go through him.
"What?"
"Agent Traynor has been transferred." "Transferred?"
"Yes."
"To where?"
"Boise. But he won't be up there for a while. A long while, I'm
afraid."
"What do you mean?"
"He was struck by a hit and run driver last night while jogging in Rock Creek Park. Can you believe it? Some creep must have been drunk out of his mind. He ran his car right up on the jogging path.
Traynor's body was thrown more than forty feet. He may not make it."
Robert replaced the receiver. His mind was spinning. What the hell was going on? Monte Banks, the blue-eyed all-American boy was being protected. From what? By whom? Jesus, Robert thought, what is Susan getting herself into?
He went to visit her that afternoon.
She was in her new apartment, a beautiful duplex on M Street. He wondered whether Moneybags had paid for it. It had been weeks since he had seen Susa.n, and the sight of her took his breath away.
"Forgive me for barging in like this, Susan. I know I promised not to." "You said it was something serious."
"It is." Now that he was here, he didn't know how to begin. Susan, I came here to save you? She would laugh in his face. "What's happened?"
"It's about Monte." She frowned.
"What about him?"
This was the difficult part. How could he tell her what he himself didn't know? All he knew was that something was terribly wrong. Monte Banks was in the FBI computer all right, with a tickler: No information to be given out without proper authorization. And the inquiry had been kicked right back on ONI. Why?
"I don't think he'~he's not what he seems to be." "I don't understand."
"Susan-where does he get his money?" She looked surprised at the question.
"Monte has a very successful import-export business." The oldest cover in the world.
He should have known better than to have come charging in with his hatrbaked theory. He felt like a fool. Susan was waiting for an answer, and he had none.
"Why are you asking?"
"I was-I just wanted to make sure he's right for you," Robert said lamely.
"Oh, Robert." Her voice was filled with disappointment.
"I guess I shouldn't have come." You got that right, buddy. "I'm sorry."
Susan walked up to him and gave him a hug. "I understand, "she said softly.
But she didn't understand. She didn't understand that an innocent inquiry about Monte Banks had been stonewalled, referred to the Office of Naval Intelligence, and that the man who had tried to get that information had been transferred to the boondocks.
There were other ways of obtaining information, and Robert went about them circumspectly. He telephoned a friend who worked for Forbes magazine.
"Robert! Long time no see. What can I do for you?" Robert told him.
"Monte Banks? Interesting you should mention him.
We think he should be on our Forbes Four Hundred wealthiest list, but we can't get any hard information on him. Do you have anything for us?"
A zero.
Robert went to the public library and looked up Monte Banks in Who's Who. He was not listed.
He turned to the microfiche and looked up back issues of the Washington Post around the time that Monte Banks had had his plane accident. There was a brief item about the plane crash. It mentioned Banks as an entrepreneur. It all sounded innocent enough. Maybe I'm wrong, Robert thought. Maybe Monte Banks is a guy in a white hat. Our government wouldn't have protected him if he were a spy, a criminal, into drugs.
... The truth is that I'm still trying to hold on to Susan. Being a bachelor again was a loneliness, an emptiness, a round of busy days and sleepless nights. A tide of despair would sweep over him without warning, and he would weep. He wept for himself and for Susan and for everything that they had lost. Susan's presence was everywhere. The
apartment was alive with reminders of her. Robert was cursed with total recall, and each room tormented him with memories of Susan's voice, her laughter, her warmth. He remembered the soft hills and valleys of her body as she lay in bed naked, waiting for him, and the ache inside him was unbearable.
His friends were concerned.
"You shouldn't be alone, Robert."
And their rallying cry became "Have I got a girl for you!"
They were tall and beautiful, and small and sexy. They were models and secretaries and advertising executives and divorcees and lawyers.
But none of them was Susan. He had nothing in common with any of them, and trying to make small talk with strangers in whom he had no interest only made him feel more lonely. Robert had no desire to go to bed with any of them. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to rewind the film back to the beginning, to rewrite the script. With hindsight it was so easy to see his mistakes, to see how the scene with Admiral Whittaker should have played. The CIA has been infi□~d by a man called the Fox.
The deputy director has asked for you to track him down. No, Admiral. Sorry. Pm IIaking my wife on a second honeymoon.
He wanted to reedit his lile, to give it a happy ending.
Too late. Life did not give second chances. He was alone. He did his own shopping, cooked his meals for himself, and went to the neighborhood laundromat once a week when he was home.
It was a lonely, miserable time in Robert's life. But the worst was yet to come. A beautiflil designer he had met in Washington telephoned him several times to invite him to dinner. Robert had been reluctant, but he had finally accepted. She prepared a delicious candlelight dinner for the two of them.
"You're a very good cook," Robert said.
"I'm very good at everything." And there was no mistaking her meaning. She moved closer to him.
"Let me prove it to you." She put her hands on his thighs and ran her tongue around his lips. It's been a long time, Robert thought. Maybe too long. They went to bed, and to Robert's consternation, it was a disaster. For the first time in his life, Robert was impotent. He was humiliated.
"Don't worry, darling," she said.
"It will be all right." She was wrong.
Robert went home feeling embarrassed, crippled. He knew that in some
crazy, convoluted way, he had felt that making love to another woman was a betrayal of Susan. How stupid can I get?
He tried to make love again several weeks later with a bright secretary at ONI. She had been wildly passionate in bed, stroking his body and taking him inside her hot mouth. But it was no use. He wanted only Susan. After that, he stopped trying. He thought about consulting a doctor, but he was too ashamed. He knew the answer to his problem, and it had nothing to do with medical advice. He poured all his energy into work. Susan called him at least once a week.
"Don't forget to pick up your shirts at the laundry," she would say. Or: "I'm sending over a maid to clean up the apartment. I'll bet it's a mess." Each call made the loneliness more intolerable. She had called him the night before her wedding.
"Robert, I want you to know I'm getting married tomorrow.
It was difficult for him to breathe. He began to hyperventilate. "Susan-"
"I love Monte," she said, "but I love you, too. I'll love you until the day I die. I don't want you ever to forget that."
What was there to say to that? "Robert, are you all right?"
Sure. I'm great. Except that I'm a fucking eunuch. Scratch the adjective.
"Robert?"
He could not bear to punish her with his problem. "I'm fine. Just do me a favor, will you, baby?" "Anything I can."
"Don't-don't let him take you on your honeymoon to any of the places we went to." He hung up and went out and got drunk again. That had been a year earlier. That was the past. He had been forced to face the reality that Susan now belonged to someone else. He had to live in the present. He had work to do. It was time to have a chat with Leslie Mothershed, the photographer who had the photographs and names of the witnesses Robert had been assigned to track down on what was going to be his last assignment.
eslie Mothershed was in a state beyond euphoria. The moment he had returned to London, clutching his precious film, he had hurried into the small pantry he had converted into a darkroom and checked to make sure he had everything on hand: filmprocessing tank, thermometer, spring-type clothespins, four large beakers, a timer, and developer, stop-bath solutions, and fixer.
He turned out the light and switched on a small red overhead lamp. His hands were trembling as he opened the cartridges and removed the film.
He took deep breaths to control himself. Nothing must go wrong this time, he thought. Nothing. This is for you, Mother. Carefully, he rolled the film into reels. He placed the reels ,~ the tank and filled it with developer, the first of the liquids he would use. It would require a constant temperature of 68xF and periodic agitation. After eleven minutes, he emptied the contents and poured the fixer over the reels.
He was getting nervous again, terrified of making a mistake. He poured off the fixer for the first wash and then let the film sit in a tankful of water for ten minutes. This was followed by two minutes of constant agitation in a hypocleansing agent and twelve more minutes in water.
Thirty seconds in photo-flo solution ensured there would be no streaks or flaws in the negatives. Finally, very, very carefully, he removed the film, hung it up with clothespins, and used a squeegee to remove the last drips from the film. He waited impatiently for the negatives to dry. It was time to have a look. Holding his breath, heart pounding, Mothershed picked up the first strip of negatives and held it up to the light. Pe~ct. Absolutely perfect!
Each one was a gem, a picture that any photographer in the world would be proud to have taken. Every detail of the strange spacecraft was outlined, including the bodies of the two alien forms lying inside.
Two things he had not noticed before caught Mothershed's eye, and he took a closer look. Where the spaceship had cracked open he could see three narrow couches inside the ship-and yet there were only two aliens.
The other thing that was strange was that one of the aliens' hands had been severed. It was nowhere to be seen in the photograph. Maybe the creature had only one hand, Mothershed thought. My God, these pictures are masterpieces! Mother was right. I'm a genius. He looked around the tiny room and thought, The next time I develop my film, it will be in a big, beautiful darkroom in my mansion in Eaton Square.
He stood there fingering his treasures like a miser fingering his gold. There wasn't a magazine or newspaper in the world that wouldn't kill to get these pictures. All these years the bastards had rejected his photographs with their insulting little notes.
"Thank you for submitting the photos that we are herewith returning. They do not fit our present needs." And: "Thank you for your submission. They are too similar to pictures we have already printed." Or simply: "We are returning the photographs you sent us." For years he had gone begging to the creeps for jobs, and now they were going to crawl to him, and he was going to make them pay through the nose. He could not wait. He had to start immediately. Since bloody British Telecom had shut off his phone merely because he happened to be a few weeks late making his last quarterly payment, Mothershed had to go outside to find a phone. On an impulse, he decided to go to Langan's, the celebrity hangout, and treat himself to a much-deserved lunch.
Langan's was well beyond his means, but if there was ever a time to celebrate, this was it. Wasn't he on the verge of becoming rich and famous?
A maitre d' seated Mothershed at a table in a corner of the restaurant, and there, at a booth not ten feet away, he saw two familiar faces. He suddenly realized who they were, and a little thrill ran through him.
Michael Caine and Roger Moore, in person! He wished his mother were still alive so he could tell her about it. She had loved reading about movie stars. The two men were laughing and having a good time, not a care in the world, and Mothershed could not help staring.
Their glances moved past him. Smug bastards, Leslie Mothershed thought angrily. I suppose they expect me to come over and ask for their autographs. Well, in a few days they're going to be asking for mine.
They'll be falling all over themselves to introduce me to their friends.
"Leslie, I want you to meet Charles and Di, and this is Fergie and Andrew. Leslie, you know, is the chap who took those famous photos of the UFO."
When Mothershed finished his lunch, he walked past the two stars and went upstairs to the phone booth. Director Inquiries gave him the number of the Sun.
"I'd like to speak to your Picture editor." A male voice came on the line.
"Chapman."
"What would it be worth to you to have photographs of a UFO with the bodies of two aliens in it?"
The voice at the other end of the phone said, "If the pictures are good enough, we might run them as an example of a clever hoax, andMothershed said waspishly, "It so happens that this is no hoax. I have the names of nine reputable witnesses who will testify that it's real, including a priest." The man's tone changed.
"Oh? And where were these pictures taken?"
"Never mind," Mothershed said cagily. He was not going to let them trick him into giving away any information.
"Are you interested?"
The voice said cautiously, "If you can prove that the pictures are authentic, yes, we would be very interested."
Damn right you would, Mothershed thought gleefully.
"I'll get back to you." He hung up. The other two phone calls were just as satisfactory. Mothershed had to admit to himself that getting
the names and addresses of the witnesses had been a stroke of pure genius. There was no way now that anyone could accuse him of trying to perpetrate a fraud. These pictures were going to appear on the front pages of every important newspaper and magazine in the world.
With my credit: Photographs by Leslie Mothershed.
As Mothershed left the restaurant, he could not resist walking up to the booth where the two stars were seated.
"Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you, but would you give me your autographs?"
Roger Moore and Michael Caine smiled up at him pleasantly. They scribbled their names on pieces of paper and handed them to the photographer.
"Thank you."
When Leslie Mothershed got outside, he savagely tore up the autographs and threw them away.
Screw them! he thought. I'm more important than they are.
obert took a taxi to Whitechapel. They drove through the City, the business section of London, heading east until they reached the Whitechapel Road, the area made infamous a century earlier by Jack the Ripper. Along the Whitechapel Road were dozens of outside stalls selling everything from clothing to fresh vegetables to carpets.
As the taxi neared Mothershed's address, the neighborhood became more and more dilapidated. Graffiti was scrawled all over the peeling, brownstone buildings. They passed the Weaver's Arms Pub. That would be Mothershed's local, Robert thought. Another sign read: Walter Bookmaker. ... Mothershed probably places his bets on horses there.
They finally reached 213A Grove Road. Robert dismissed the taxi and studied the building in front of him. It was an ugly two-story building that had been divided into small flats. Inside was the man who had a complete list of the witnesses Robert had been sent to find.
Leslie Mothershed was in the living room poring over his windfall when the doorbell rang. He looked up, startled, filled with a sudden inexplicable fear. The ring was repeated.
Mothershed scooped up his precious photographs and hurried into the converted darkroom. He slipped the pictures into a pile of old prints, then walked back into the living room and opened the front door. He stared at the stranger who stood there.
"Yes?"
"Leslie Mothershed?"
"That's right. What can I do for you?" "May I come in?"
"I don't know. What is this about?"
Robert pulled out a Defence Ministry identification card and flashed it.
"I'm here on official business, Mr. Mothershed. We can either talk here or at the ministry." It was a bluff. But he could see the sudden fear on the photographer's face.
Leslie Mothershed swallowed.
"I don't know what you're talking about, but-come in."
Robert entered the drab room. It was shabby-genteel, dreary, not a place where anyone would live by choice.
"Would you kindly explain what you're doing here?"
Mothershed put the proper note of innocent exasperation in his voice. "I'm here to question you about some photographs you took."
He knew it! He had known it from the moment he heard the bell.
The bastards are going to try to take my fortune away from me. Well, I'm not going to let them do it.
"What photographs are you talking about?"
Robert said patiently, "The ones you took at the site of the UFO crash."
Mothershed stared at Robert a moment, as though caught by surprise, and then forced a laugh.
"Oh, those! I wish I had them to give to you." "You did take those pictures?"
"I tried."
"What do you mean ... you tried?"
"The bloody things never came out." Mothershed gave a nervous cough.
"My camera fogged. That's the second time that's happened to me." He was babbling now.
"I even threw out the negatives. They were no good. It was a complete waste of film. And you l::now how expensive film is these days." He's a bad liar, Robert thought. He's on the edge of panic. Robert said sympathetically, "Too bad. Those photographs would have been very
helpful." He said nothing about the list of passengers. If Mothershed lied about the photographs, he would lie about the list. Robert glanced around. The photographs and the list had to be hidden here somewhere. They shouldn't be difficult to find.
The flat consisted of a small living room, a bedroom, a bathroom, and what looked like a door to a utility closet. There was no way he could force the man to hand over the material. He had no real authority. But he wanted those photographs and the list of witnesses before the 515 came and took them away. He needed that list for himself.
"Yes."
Mothershed sighed.
"Those pictures would have been worth a fortune."
"Tell me about the spaceship," Robert said. Mothershed gave an involuntary shudder. The eerie scene was fixed in his mind forever.
"I'll never forget it," he said.
"The ship seemed to-to pulsate, like it was alive. There was something evil about it. And then there were these two dead aliens inside."
"Can you tell me anything about the passengers on the bus?"
Sure I can, Mothershed gloated to himself. I have all their names and addresses.
"No, I'm afraid I can't." Moth- 1 ershed went on, talking to conceal his nervousness.
"The reason I can't help you with the passengers is that I wasn't on that bus. They were all strangers."
"I see. Well, thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Mothershed. I appreciate it. Sorry about your pictures."
"So am I," Mothershed said. He watched the door close behind the stranger and thought happily, I've done it! I've outsmarted the sonsol'bitches.
Outside in the hall, Robert was examining the lock on the door. A Chubb. And an old model. It would take him seconds to open it. He would start surveillance in the middIe of the night and wait for the photographer to leave the flat in the morning. Once I have the list of passengers in my possession, the rest of the assignment will be simple. Robert checked into a small hotel near Mothershed's flat and telephoned General Hilliard.
"I have the name of the English witness, General." "Just a moment. All right. Go ahead, Commander."
"Leslie Mothershed. He lives in Whitechapel, at 213A Grove Road." "Excellent. I'll arrange for the British authorities to speak to him." Robert did not mention the passenger list or the photographs.
Those were his aces in the hole.
* * * Reggie's Fish and Chip Shop was located in a little cul-de-sac off the Brompton Road. It was a small establishment with a clientele made up mainly of clerks and secretaries who worked in the neighborhood. Its walls were covered with football posters, and the parts that were exposed had not seen fresh paint since the Suez conflict.
The phone behind the counter rang twice before it was answered by a large man dressed in a greasy wool sweater. The man looked like a typical East Ender except for a gold-rimmed monocle fixed tightly in the socket of his leff eye. The reason for the monocle was apparent to anyone who looked closely at the man: His other eye was made of glass and of a color blue that was generally seen on travel posters.
"Reggie here."
"This is the Bishop."
"Yes, sir," said Reggie, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"Our client's name is Mothershed. Christian tag, Leslie. Resides at 213A Grove Road. We need this order filled quickly. Understood?"
"It's already done, sir."
eslie Mothershed was lost in a golden daydream. He was being interviewed by members of the world press. They were asking him about the huge castle he had just bought in Scotland, his chateau in the South of France, his enormous yacht.
"And is it true that the Queen has invited you to become the official royal photographer?"
"Yes. I said I would let her know. And now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will all excuse me, I'm late for my show at the B.C....', His reverie was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. He looked at his watch. Eleven o'clock. Has that man returned? He walked over to the door and cautiously opened it. In the doorway stood a man shorter than Mothershed (that was the first thing he noticed about him), with thick glasses and a thin, sallow face.
"Excuse me," the man said diffidently.
"I apologize for disturbing you at this hour. I live just down the block. The sign outside says you're a photographer."
"So?"
"Do you do passport photos?"
Leslie Mothershed do passport photos? The man who is about to own the world? That is like asking Michelangelo to paint the bathroom.
"No," he said rudely. He started to close the door.
"I really hate to bother you, but I'm in a terrible jam.
My plane leaves for Tokyo at eight o'clock in the morning, and a little while ago when I took out my passport, I saw that somehow my photograph had been torn loose. It's missing. I've looked everywhere.
They won't let me on the plane without a passport photo." The little man was near tears.
"I'm sorry," Mothershed said. "I can't help you."
"I'd be willing to pay you a hundred pounds." A hundred pounds?
Toaman withacas the andachateau and a yacht? It's an insult. The
pathetic little man was going on.
"I could go even higher. Two hundred or three hundred. You see, I really must be on that plane or I'll lose my job."
Three hundred pounds to take a passport picture? Not including the developing, it would take about 10 seconds. Mothershed began to calculate. That came to 1,800 pounds a minute. Eighteen hundred pounds a minute was 10,800 pounds an hour. If he worked an eight-hour day, that would be 94,400 pounds a day. In one week, that would come to "Will you do it?"
Mothershed's ego jockeyed with his greed, and greed won out. I can use a bit of pocket money.
"Come in," Mothershed said. "Stand against that wall."
"Thank you. I really appreciate this." Mothershed wished he had a Polaroid camera. That would have made it so simple. He picked up his Vivitar and said, "Hold still." Ten seconds later it was done.
"It will take a while to develop it," Mothershed said. "If you come back in-"
"If you don't mind, I'll wait."
"Suit yourself."
Mothershed took the camera into the darkroom, put it into the black bag, turned off the overhead light, switched on the red light, and removed the film. He would do this in a hurry. Passport pictures always looked terrible anyway. Fifteen minutes later, as Mothershed was timing the film in the developer tanks, he began to smell smoke. He paused. Was it his imagination? No. The smell was getting stronger. He turned to open the door. It seemed to be stuck.
Mothershed pushed against it. It held fast. "Hello," he called out.
"What's happening out there?" There was no response. "Hello?"
He pressed his shoulder against the door, but there seemed to be something heavy on the other side of it keeping it closed.
"Mister?"
There was no answer. The only sound he could hear was a loud crackling noise. The smell of smoke was becoming overpowering. The flat was on fire. That's probably why he left. He must have gone to get help.
Leslie Mothershed slammed his shoulder against the door, but it would not budge.
"Help!" he screamed. "Get me out of here!"
Smoke was starting to pour under the door, and Mothershed could feel the heat of the flames beginning to lick at it. It was getting difficult to breathe. He was starting to choke. He tore at his collar, gasping for air. His lungs were burning. He was beginning to lose consciousness.
He sank down on his knees.
"Oh, God, please don't let me die now. Not now that I'm going to be rich and famous. "
"Reggie here."
"Was the order filled?"
"Yes, sir. A bit overcooked but delivered on time." "Excellent."
When Robert arrived at Grove Road at two o'clock in the morning to begin his surveillance, he was confronted with an enormous traffic jam. The
street was filled with official vehicles, a fire engine, ambulances, and three police cars. Robert pushed his way through the crowd of bystanders and hurried over to the center of activity. The whole building had been engulfed by the fire. From the outside he could see that the first-floor flat occupied by the photographer had been completely gutted.
"How did it happen?" Robert asked a fireman.
"We don't know yet. Stand back, please."
"My cousin lives in that flat. Is he all right?" "I'm afraid not." His tone became sympathetic. "They're just taking him out of the building now."
Robert watched as two ambulance attendants pushed a gurney carrying a body into the ambulance.
"I was staying with him," Robert said.
"All my clothes are in there. I'd like to go in andThe fireman shook his head.
"It wouldn't do you any good, sir. There's nothing left of the flat but ashes."
Nothing left but ashes. Including the photographs and the precious list of passengers with their names and addresses.
So much for fucking serendipity, Robert thought bitterly.
In Washington Dustin Thornton was having lunch with his father-in-law in the lavish private dining room in Willard Stone's offices. Dustin Thornton was nervous. He was always nervous in the presence of his powerful fatherin-law.
Willard Stone was in a good mood.
"I had dinner with the President last evening. He told me that he's very pleased with your work, Dustin."
"I'm very gratified."
"You're doing a fine job. You're helping to protect us against the hordes."
"The hordes?"
"Those who would try to bring this great country to its knees. But it is not just the enemy outside the walls we have to beware of. It is
those who pretend to be serving our country, who fail to do their duty. Those who do not carry out their orders."
"The mavericks."
"That's right, Dustin. The mavericks. They must be punished. If-" A man walked into the room.
"Excuse me, Mr. Stone.
The gentlemen have arrived. They're waiting for you." "Yes." Stone turned to his son-in-law.
"Finish your lunch, Dustin. I have something important to take care of. One day I may be able to tell you about it."
he streets of Zurich were filled with weird-looking creatures with odd sbapes, misshapen giants with large, grotesque bodies and tiny eyes, and with skin the color of boiled fish. They were meat eaters, and she hated the fetid smells they exuded from their bodies. Some of the females wore animal skins, the remains of the creatures they had murdered. She was still stunned by the terrible accident that had taken away the life essence of her companions. She had been on earth for four cycles of what these strange-looking beings called luna, and she had not eaten in all that time. She was faint from thirst. The only water she had been able to drink was the fresh rainwater in the farmer's trough, and it had not rained since the night she arrived. The rest of the water on earth was undrinkable. She had gone into an alien feeding place, but she had been unable to stand the stench. She had tried to eat their raw vegetables and fruit, but they were tasteless, not like the succulent food at home.
She was called the Graceful One, and she was tall and stately and beautiful with luminous green eyes. She had adopted the appearance of an earthling after she left the site of the crash, and she walked through the crowds unnoticed.
She was seated at a table in a hard, uncomfortable chair that had been built for the human body, and she read the minds of the creatures around her.
Two of the beings were seated at a table near her. One was speaking aloud.
"It's the chance of a lifetime, Franz! For fifty thousand francs you can get in at the start. You've got fifty thousand francs, haven't you?"
She read the loud thoughts in his head. Come on, you swine. I need the commission.
"Sure, but I don't know-" I'll have to borrow it from my wife. "Have I ever given you bad investment advice?"
Make up your mind.
"It's a lot of money." She'll never give it to me.
"What about the potential? There's a chance to make millions." Say yes. "All right. I'm in." Maybe I can sell some of her jewelry.
I have him! "You'll never regret it, Franz." He can always take a tax loss.
The Graceful One had no idea what the conversation meant.
At the far end of the restaurant, a man and woman were seated at a table. They were talking in low voices. She stretched her mind to hear them.
"Jesus Christ!" the man said.
"How the hell could you get pregnant?" You stupid bitch!
"How do you think I got pregnant?"
Your cock did it! Pregnant was how these beings gestated, procreating clumsily with their genitals, like their animals in the fields.
"What are you going to do about it, Tina?" You've got to get an abortion.
"What do you expect me to do? You said you were going to tell your wife about me." You lying bastard.
"Look, honey, I am, but this is a bad time." I was crazy to ever get involved with you. I should have known you were trouble.
"It's a bad time for me, too, Paul. I don't even think you love me." Please tell me you do.
"Of course I love you. It's just that my wife is going through a rough period right now." I don't intend to lose her.
"I'm going through a rough period right now too. Don't you understand? I'm having your baby." And you're damn well going to marry me. Water was coming from her eyes.
"Calm down, honey. I tell you, everything is going to be fine. I want the baby as much as you do." I'll have to talk her into an abortion. At
a table next to them, a male creature was seated alone.
They promised me. They said the race was fixed, that I couldn't lose, and like a fool, I turned all my monry over to them. I've got to find a way to put it back before the auditors come. I couldn't stand it if they put me in jail. I'll kill myself first. I swear to God, I'll kill myself At another table, a male and female were in the middle of a discussion. ..... it's nothing like that. It's just that I've got this beautiful chalet in the mountains, and I thought it would be good for you to get away for a weekend and relax." We'll spend a lot of time relaxing in my bed, cherie.
"I don't know, Claude. I've never gone away with a man before." I wonder if he believes that.
"Oui, but this is not a sex thing. I just thought of the chalet because you said you needed a rest. You can think of me as your brother." And we will try some good, oldfashioned incest.
The Graceful One was unaware that the various peopIe were speaking in different languages, for she was able to filter them all through her consciousness and understand what they were saying.
I must find a way to get in touch with the mothership, she thought. She took out the small, hand-held silvercolored transmitter. It was a divided neuronet system, half of it consisting of living organic material and the other half of a metallic compound from another galaxy. The organic material was composed of thousands of single cells, so that as they died off, others would multiply, keeping the connections constant. Unfortunately, the dilitheum crystal that activated the transmitter had broken off and was lost. She had tried to communicate with her ship, but the transmitter was useless without it.
She tried to eat another leaf of lettuce, but she could no longer stand the stench. She rose and started toward the door. The cashier called out after her, "Just a minute, miss. You haven't paid for your meal."
"I'm sorry. I do not have your medium of exchange." "You can tell that to the police."
The Graceful One stared into the cashier's eyes and watched her go limp. She turned and walked out of the feeding place.
I must find the crystal. They are waiting to hear from me. She had to concentrate to focus her senses. But everything seemed blurred and distorted. Without water, she knew, she was going to die soon.
Day Five Bern, Switzerland
Robert had come to a dead end. He had not realized how much he had counted on obtaining Mothershed's list of names. Up in smoke, Robert thought. Literally.
The trail was cold now. I should have gotten the list when I was in Mothershed's fiat. That will teach. me t~teach. Of course! A thought that had been in the back of his mind suddenly came into focus. Hans Beckerman had said, "Affenarsch! All the other passengers were excited about seeing the UFO and those dead creatures in it, but this old man kept complaining about how we had to hurry up to get to Bern because he had to prepare some lecture for the university." It was a long shot, but it was all Robert had.
He rented a car at the Bern airport and headed for the university.
He turned off Rathausgasse, the main street of Bern, and drove to Langgassestrasse, where the University of Bern was located. The university is composed of several buildings, the main one a large four-story stone building with two wings and large stone gargoyles adorning the roof. At each end of the courtyard in front of the building are glass skylights over classrooms, and at the rear of the university is a large park overlooking the Aare River.
Robert walked up the front steps of the administration building and entered the reception hall. The only information Beckerman had given him was that the passenger was German and that he was preparing his lecture for Monday.
A student directed him to the Office of the Administration. The woman seated behind the desk was a formidable figure. She had on a severely tailored suit, blackframed spectacles, and she wore her hair in a bun. She looked up as Robert entered her office.
"Bitte?"
Robert pulled out an identification card.
"Interpol. I'm conducting an investigation, and I would appreciate your cooperation, Miss-"
"Frau. Frau Schreiber. What kind of investigation?" "I'm looking for a professor." She frowned.
"His name?"
"I don't know."
"You do not know his name?"
"No. He's a visiting professor. He gave a lecture here a few days ago. Montag."
"Many visiting professors come here every day to give lectures. What is his discipline?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"What does he teach?"
Her tone was growing impatient. "What subject did he lecture on?" "I don't know."
She let her exasperation show. "Tut mir leid. I can't help you.
And I am too busy for frivolous questions like this-" She started to turn away.
"Oh, it's not frivolous," Robert assured her.
"Es ist sehr dringend." He leaned forward and said in a low voice, "I'm going to have to take you into my confidence. The professor we're looking for is involved in a prostitution ring."
Frau Schreiber's mouth made a small "0" of surprise.
"Interpol has been on his trail for months. The current information we have on him is that he is German and that he gave a lecture here on the fifteenth of this month." He straightened up.
"If you don't want to help, we can conduct an official investigation of the university. Of course, the publicity-"
"Nein, nein!" she said.
"The university must not be involved in anything like this." She looked womed.
"You say he lectured here on-what day?" "The fifteenth. Monday."
Frau Schreiber rose and walked over to a filing cabinet. She pulled it open and scanned some papers. She extracted several sheets from a folder.
"Here we are. There were three guest professors who gave lectures here on the fifteenth."
"The man I want is German."
"They are all German," Frau Schreiber said stiffly. She shuffled the papers in her hand.
"One of the lectures was on economics, one on chemistry, and one on
psychology."
"May I see those?"
Reluctantly, she handed the reports to Robert. He studied the sheets. Each one had a name written down with a home address and a telephone number.
"I can make a copy of these for you, if you wish."
"No, thank you." He had already memorized the names and numbers.
"None of these is the man I'm looking for." Frau Schreiber gave a sigh of relief.
"Well, thank God for that. Prostitution! We would never be involved in such a thing."
"I'm sorry I troubled you for nothing." Robert left and headed for a telephone booth in town.
The first telephone call was to Berlin. "Professor Streubel?"
"Ja."
"This is the Sunshine Tours Bus Company. You left a pair of glasses on our bus last Sunday when you were touring with us in Switzerland and-"
"I do not know what you are speaking about." He sounded annoyed. "You were in Switzerland on the fourteenth, were you not, Professor?" "No. On the fifteenth. To give a lecture at the University of Bern." "And you did not take our bus tour?"
"I have no time for such foolishness. I'm a busy man."
And the professor hung up. The second call was to Hamburg. "Professor Heinrich?"
"This is Professor Heinrich."
"This is the Sunshine Tours Bus Company. You were in Switzerland on the fourteenth of this month?"
"Why do you wish to know?"
"Because we found a briefcase of yours on one of our buses, Professor, and "You have the wrong person. I have been on no tour buses."
"You did not take a tour of ours to the Jungfrau?" "I just told you, no."
"I'm sorry to have bothered you." The third call was to Munich. "Professor Otto Schmidt?"
"Yes."
"Professor Schmidt, this is the Sunshine Tours Bus Company. We have a pair of your glasses that you left on our bus a few days ago, and-"
"There must be some mistake."
Robert's heart sahk. He had struck out. There was nowhere left to go. The voice went on.
"I have my glasses here. I have not lost them." Robert's spirits soared.
"Are you sure, Professor?
You were on the Jungfrau trip on the fourteenth, were you not?" "Yes, yes, but I told you, I have not lost anything."
"Thank you very much, Professor." Robert replaced the receiver. Jackpot! Robert dialed another number, and within two minutes he was speaking with General Hilliard.
"I have two things to report," Robert said. "The witness in London I told you about?" "Yes?"
"He died in a fire last night." "Really? Too bad."
"Yes, sir. But I believe I've located another witness. I'll let you know as soon as I check him out."
"I'll wait to hear from you, Commander." General Hilliard was reporting to Janus.
"Commander Bellamy has located another ~~~~~~~~)~ "Good. The group is getting restless.
Everyone is worried that this story will surface before SDI is operational."
"I'll have more information for you soon." "I don't want information, I want results." "Yes, Janus."
Plattenstrasse, in Munich, is a quiet residential street with drab brownstone buildings huddled together as though for protection. Number
5 was identical to its neighbors. Inside the vestibule was a row of mailboxes. A small card below one of them read, "Professor Otto Schmidt." Robert rang the bell.
The apartment door was opened by a tall, thin man with an untidy mop of white hair. He was wearing a tattered sweater and smoking a pipe.
Robert wondered whether he had created the image of an archetypical college professor, or whether the image had created him.
"Professor Schmidt?" "Yes?"
"I wonder if I might talk to you a moment. I'm with-" "We have already talked," Professor Schmidt said.
"You are the man who telephoned me this morning. I am an expert at recognizing voices.
Come in."
"Thank you." Robert entered a living room crowded with books.
Against the walls, rising from floor to ceiling were bookcases filled with hundreds of volumes. Books were stacked everywhere: on tables, on the floor, on chairs. The sparse furniture in the room seemed to be an afterthought.
"You're not with any Swiss tour bus company, are you?" "Well, I-"
"You are American." "Yes."
"And this visit has nothing to do with my lost glasses that were not lost."
"Well-no, sir."
"You are interested in the UFO I saw. It was a very upsetting experience. I always believed they might exist, but I never thought I would see one."
"It must have been a terrible shock." "It was."
"Can you tell me anything about it?"
"It was-it was almost alive. There was a kind of shimmering light around it. Blue. No, maybe more of a gray. I-I'm not sure."
He remembered Mandel's description: "It kept changing colors. It looked
..... - then green."
"It had broken open, and I could see two bodies inside. Small ... big eyes. They were wearIng some kind of silver suit."
"Is there anything you can tell me about your fellow passengers?" "My fellow passengers on the bus?"
"Yes."
The professor shrugged.
"I know nothing' of them. They were all strangers. I was concentrating on a lecture I was going to give the next morning, and I paid very little attention to the other passengers."
Robert watched his face, waiting.
"If it will help you any," the professor said1 "I can tell you what countries some of them came from. I teach chemistry, but the study of phonetics is my hobby."
"Anything you can remember would be appreciated."
"There was an Italian priest, a Hungarian, an American with a Texas accent, an Englishman, a Russian girl-"
"Russian?"
"Yes. But she was not from Moscow. From her accent, I would say Kiev, or very near there."
Robert waited, but there was only silence.
"You didn't hear any of them mention their names or talk about their professions?"
"I'm sorry. I told you, I was thinking about my lecture: It was
difficult to concentrate. The Texan and the priest sat together. The Texan never stopped talking. It was very distracting. I don't know how much the priest even understood."
"The priest-"
"He had a Roman accent."
"Can you tell me anything more about any of them?" The professor shrugged.
"I'm afraid not." He took another puff on his pipe. "I'm sorry I can't be of any help to you."
A sudden thought came to Robert. "You said you're a chemist?" "Yes."
"I wonder if you would mind taking a look at something, Professor."
Robert reached in his pocket and pulled out the piece of metal Beckerman had given him.
"Can you tell me what this is?"
Professor Schmidt took the object in his hand, and as he examined it, his expression changed.
"Where-where did you get this?"
"I'm afraid I can't say. Do you know what it is?" "It appears to be part of a transmitting device." "Are you sure?"
He turned it over in his hand.
"The crystal is dilithium. It's very rare. See these notches here? They suggest that this fits into a larger unit. The metal itself is ... My God, I've never seen anything like it!" His voice was charged with excitement.
"Can you let me have this for a few days? I would like to do some spectrographic studies on it."
"I'm afraid that's impossible," Robert said. "But-"
"Sorry." Robert took back the piece of metal. The professor tried to conceal his disappointment.
"Perhaps you can bring it back. Why don't you give me your card? If I think of anything more, I'll call you."
Robert fumbled in his pockets for a moment.
"I don't seem to have any of my cards with me." Professor Schmidt said slowly, "Yes, I thought not."
"Commander Bellamy is on the line." General Hilliard picked up the telephone.
"Yes, Commander?"
"The latest witness's name is Professor Schmidt. He lives at Plattenstrasse 5 in Munich."
"Thank you, Commander. I'll notify the German authorities immediately."
Robert was on the verge of saying "I'm afraid that's the last witness I'll be able to find," but something held him back. He hated to admit failure. And yet, the trail had become cold.
A Texan and a priest. The priest was from Rome. Period. Along with a million other priests. And there was no way to identify him. I have a choice, Robert thought. I can give up and go back to Washington, or I can go to Rome and give it one lasts....
Bundesverfassungsschutzamt, the headquarters of the Office for the Protection of the Constitution, is located in central Berlin on Neumarkterstrasse. It is a large, gray, nondescript building, indistinguishable from the buildings around it. Inside on the second floor, in the conference room, the chief of the department, Inspector Otto Joachim, was studying a message. He read it twice, then reached for the red telephone on his desk.
Day Six Munich, Germany
The following morning, as Otto Schmidt headed for his chemistry lab, he was thinking about the conversation he had had with the American the evening before. Where could that piece of metal have come from? It was astonishing, beyond anything in his experience. And the American puzzled him. He said he was interested in the passengers on the bus.
Why? Because they've all been witnesses to the flying saucer? Are they going to be warned not to talk? If so, why didn't the American warn him? There's something strange going on, the professor decided. He entered the laboratory and took off his jacket and hung it up. He put on an apron to keep his clothes from getting soiled and walked over to the table where he had been working for many weeks on a chemical experiment. If this works, he thought, it could mean a Nobel prize. He lifted the beaker of sterile water and started to pour it into a
container filled with a yellow liquid. That's strange. I don't remember it being such a bright yellow.
The roar of the explosion was tremendous. The laboratory erupted in a gigantic blast, and pieces of glass and human flesh spattered the walls.
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA BFV TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY 4.
OTTO SCHMIDT-TERMINATED END OF MESSAGE
Robert missed the news of the professor's death. He was aboard an Alitalia plane, on his way to Rome.
b ustin Thornton was getting restless. He had power now, and it was like a drug. He wanted more. His father-in-law, Willard Stone, kept promising to bring him into some mysterious inner circle, but so far he had failed to fulfill that promise. It was by pure chance that Thornton learned that his father-in-law disappeared every Friday.
Thorton had called to have lunch with him.
"I'm sorry," Willard Stone's personal secretary said, "but Mr. Stone is away for the day."
"Oh, too bad. What about lunch next Friday?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Thornton. Mr. Stone will be away next Friday also."
Strange. And it became even stranger, because when Thornton called two weeks later, he received the same reply. Where does the old man disappear to every Friday? He was not a golfer or a man to indulge in any hobbies.
The obvious answer was a woman. Willard Stone's wife was very social and very rich. She was an imperious woman, almost as strong in her way as her husband. She was not the sort of woman who would tolerate her husband having an affair. If he is having an affair, Thornton thought, I've got him by the balls. He knew he had to find out. With all the facilities at his command, Dustin Thornton could have found out very quickly what his father-inlaw was up to, but Thornton was no fool. He was well aware that if he made one misstep, he would be in big trouble. Willard Stone was not the kind of man to brook any interference in his
life. Thornton decided to investigate the matter himself. At five A.M. on the following Friday, Dustin Thornton was slumped behind the wheel of an inconspicuous Ford Taurus, half a block from Willard Stone's imposing mansion. It was a cold, miserable dawn, and Thornton kept asking himself what he was doing there. There was probably some perfectly reasonable explanation for Stone's odd behavior. I'm wasting my time, Thornton thought. But something kept him there.
At seven o'clock, the driveway gates opened, and a car appeared.
Willard Stone was at the wheel. Instead of his usual limousine, he was in a small, black van used by the household staff A feeling of exultation spread through Thornton. He knew he was onto something.
People lived according to their pattern, and Stone was breaking the pattern. It had to be another woman.
Driving carefully and staying well behind the van, Thornton followed his father-in-law through the streets of Washington to the road that led to Arlington.
I'll have to handle this very delicately, Thornton thought. I don't want to push him too hard. I'll get all the information I can about his mistress, and then I'll confront him with it. I'll tell him my only interest is in protecting him. He'll get the message. The last thing he wants is a public scandal.
Dustin Thornton was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he almost missed the turn that Willard Stone had taken. They were in an exclusive residential district. The black van abruptly disappeared up a long, tree-shaded driveway.
Dustin Thornton stopped the car, deciding on the best way to proceed. Should he face Willard Stone with his infidelity now? Or should he wait until Stone left and then talk to the woman first? Or should he quietly gather all the information he needed and then have a talk with his father-in-law? He decided to reconnoiter.
Thornton parked his car on a side street and walked around to the alley at the back of the two-story house. A wooden fence blocked off the back of the yard, but that was no problem. Thornton opened the gate and stepped inside. He was facing huge, beautiful, manicured grounds with the house at the rear.
He moved quietly in the shadow of the trees that lined the lawn and stood at the back door, deciding what his next move should be. He needed proof of what was going on. Without it the old man would laugh at him. Whatever was happening inside at this moment could be the key to his future. He had to find out. Very gently, Thornton tried the back door. It was unlocked. He slipped inside and found himself in a large, oldfashioned kitchen. There was no one around. Thornton moved toward the service door and pushed it open slightly. He was facing a large reception hall. At the far end was a closed door that could have led to a library. Thornton walked toward it, moving quietly. He stood
there listening. There was no sign of life in the house. The old man is probably upstairs in the bedroom.
Thornton walked toward the closed door and opened it. He stood in the doorway, staring. There were a dozen men seated in the room around a large table.
"Come in, Dustin," Willard Stone said. "We've been expecting you.
Rome proved to be difficult for Robert, an emotional ordeal that drained him. He had honeymooned there with Susan, and the memories were overpowering. Rome was Roberto, who managed the Hassler Hotel for his mother, and who was partially deaf but could lip-read in five languages.
Rome was the gardens of Villa d'Este in Tivoli, and the Ristorante Sibilla and Susan's delight at the one hundred fountains created by the son of Lucretia Borgia. Rome was Otello, at the foot of the Spanish Steps, and the Vatican, and the Colosseum and the Forum and Michelangelo's Moses. Rome was sharing a tartufo at Tre Scalini and the sound of Susan's laughter, and her voice saying, "Please promise me we'll always be this happy, Robert."
What the hell am I doing here? Robert wondered. I don't have any idea who the priest is, or whether he's even in Rome. It's time to retire, to go home and forget all this.
But something inside him, some stubborn streak inherited from a
long-dead ancestor, would not let him. I'll give it one day, Robert decided. Just one more day. The Leonardo da Vinci Airport was crowded, and it seemed to Robert that every other person was a priest. He was looking for one priest in a city of-what? Fifty thousand priests? A hundred thousand?
In the taxi on the way to the Hassler Hotel, he noticed crowds of robed priests on the streets. This is impossible, Robert thought. I must be out of my mind.
He was greeted in the lobby of the Hassler Hotel by the assistant manager.
"Commander Bellamy! What a pleasure to see you again." "Thank you, Pietro. Do you have a room for me for one night?" "For you-of course. Always!"
Robert was escorted to a room he had occupied before. "If there's anything you need, Commander, please..."
I need a bloody miracle, Robert thought. He sat down on the bed and lay back, trying to clear his mind.
Why would a priest from Rome travel to Switzerland? There were several possibilities. He might have gone on vacation, or there might have been a convocation of priests. He was the only priest on the tour bus. What did that signify? Nothing. Except, perhaps, that he was not traveling with a group. So it could have been a trip to visit his friends or family. Or maybe he was with a group, and they had other plans that day.
Robert's thoughts were going around in a futile circle. Back to the beginning. How did the priest get to Switzerland? The chances are pretty good that he doesn't own a car. Someone could have given him a lift, but more probably he traveled by plane or train or took a bus. If he were on vacation, he wouldn't have a lot of time. So let's assume he took a plane. That line of reasoning led nowhere. Airlines did not list the occupations of their passengers. The priest would be yet another name on the passenger manifest. But if he were part of a group...
The Vatican, the official residence of the pope, rises majestically on Vatican Hill, on the west bank of the Tiber, in the northwest end of Rome. The dome of St. Peter's Basilica, designed by Michelangelo, towers over the huge piazza, filled day and night with avid sightseers of all faiths.
The piazza is surrounded by two semicircular colonnades completed in 1667 by Bernini, with 284 columns of travertine marble placed in 4 rows and surmounted by a balustrade on which stand 140 statues.
Robert had visited there a dozen times, but each time the sight took his breath away.
The interior of the Vatican, of course, was even more spectacular.
The Sistine Chapel and the museum and the Sala Rotonda were indescribably beautiful.
But on this day, Robert had not come here to sightsee. He found the Office of Public Relations for the Vatican in the wing of the buzilding devoted to secular aliais. The young man behind the desk was polite.
"May I help you?"
Robert flashed an identification card. "I'm with Time magazine.
I'm doing an article on some priests who attended a convocation in Switzerland in the past week or two. I'm looking for background information." The man studied him for a moment, then frowned.
"We had some priests attend a convocation in Venice last month.
None of our priests was in Switzerland recently. I'm sorry, I'm afraid
I can't help you."
"It's really very important," Robert said earnestly. "How would I go about getting that information?"
"The group you are looking for-what branch of the church do they represent?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"There are many Roman Catholic orders. There are Franciscans, Marists, Benedictines, Trappists, Jesuits, Dominicans, and several others. I suggest you go to the order they belong to and inquire there."
Where the hell is "there"? Robert wondered. "Do you have any other suggestions?"
"I'm afraid not."
Neither have I, Robert thought I found the haystack. I can't find the needle.
He left the Vatican and wandered through the streets of Rome, heedless of the people around him, concentrating on his problem. At the Piazza del Popolo, he sat down at an outdoor cafe and ordered a Cinzano.
It sat in front of him, untouched.
For all he knew, the priest could still be in Switzerland. What order does he belong to? I don't know. And I have only the professor's word that he was Roman.
He took a sip of his drink.
There was a late-afternoon plane to Washington. I'm going to be on it, Robert decided. I give up. The thought galled him. Out, not with a bang, but with a whimper. It was time to leave.
"Il conto, per favore." "Si, signore."
Robert's eyes swept idly around the piazza. Across from the cafe, a bus was loading passengers. In the line were two priests. Robert watched as the passengers paid their fares and moved toward the back of the bus. When the priests reached the conductor, they smiled at him and took their seats without paying.
"Your check, signore," the waiter said. Robert didn't even hear him. His mind was racing. Here, in the heart of the Catholic church, priests had certain privileges. It was possible, just possible...
The offices of Swissair are located at 10 Via Po, five minutes from the Via Veneto.
Robert was greeted by a man behind the counter. "May I see the manager, please?"
"I am the manager. Can I help you?" Robert flashed an identification card. "Michael Hudson.
Interpol."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Hudson?"
"Some international carriers are complaining about illegal price discounting in Europe-in Rome, particularly. According to international convention-"
"Excuse me, Mr. Hudson, but Swissair does not give discounts. Everyone pays the posted fares."
"Everyone?"
"With the exception of employees of the airline, of course. "Don't you have a discount for priests?"
"No. On this airline, they pay full fare." On this airline.
"Thank you for your time." And Robert was gone. His next stop-and his last hope-was Alitalia.
"Illegal discounts?"
The manager was staring at Robert, puzzled. "We give discounts only to our employees. "Don't you give discounts to priests?"
The manager's face brightened.
"Ah, that, yes. But that is not illegal. We have arrangements with the Catholic church."
Robert's heart soared.
"So, if a priest wanted to fly from Rome, say, to Switzerland, he would use this airline?"
"Well, it would be cheaper for him. Yes."
Robert said, "In order to bring our computers up-to date, it would be helpful if you could tell me how many priests have flown to Switzerland in the past two weeks. You would have a record of that, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, of course. For tax purposes."
"I would really appreciate that information."
"You wish to know how many priests have flown to Switzerland in the past two weeks?"
"Yes. Zurich or Geneva."
"Just a moment. I will talk to our computers."
Five minutes later, the manager returned with a computer printout.
"There was only one priest who flew Alitalia to Switzerland in the past two weeks." He consulted the printout.
"He left Rome on the seventh and flew to Zurich. His return flight was booked for two days ago."
Robert took a deep breath. "His name?"
"Father Romero Patrini." "His address?"
He looked down at the paper again.
"He lives in Orvieto. If you need any further-" He looked up. Robert was gone.
Day Seven Orvieto, Italy
Robert stopped the car on a hairpin bend on route 5-71, and there across the valley, high on a rise of volcanic rock, was a breathtaking view of the city. It was an ancient Etruscan center with a world-famous cathedral, half a dozen churches, and a priest who had witnessed the crash of a UFO.
The town was untouched by time, with cobblestone streets and lovely old buildings, and an open-air market where farmers came to sell their fresh vegetables and chickens.
Robert found a parking place in the Piazza del Duomo.
He crossed to the cathedral and went inside. The enormous interior was
deserted, except for an elderly priest who was just leaving the altar. "Excuse me, Father," Robert said.
"I'm looking for a priest from this town who was in Switzerland last week. Perhaps you-" The priest drew back, his face hostile.
"I cannot discuss this."
Robert looked at him in surprise.
"I don't understand. I just want to find-"
"He is not of this church. He is from the Church of San Giovenale." And the priest hurried past Robert.
Why is he so unfriendly?
The Church of San Giovenale was in the Quartiere Vecchio, a colorful area with medieval towers and churches. A young priest was tending the garden next to it. He looked up as Robert approached.
"Buon giorno, signore."
"Good morning. I'm looking for one of the priests who was in Switzerland last week. He "Yes, yes. Poor Father Patrini. It was a terrible, terrible thing that happened to him."
"I don't understand. What terrible thing?"
"Seeing the devil's chariot. It was more than he could stand. The poor man had a nervous breakdown."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Robert said.
"Where is he now? I would like to talk to him."
"He's in the hospital near the Piazza di San Patrizio, but I doubt if the doctors will allow anyone to see him." Robert stood there, troubled. A man suffering a nervous breakdown was not going to be much help.
"I see. Thank you very much."
The hospital was an unpretentious one-story building near the outskirts of the city. He parked the car and walked into the small lobby. There was a nurse behind the reception desk.
"Good morning," Robert said.
"I would like to see Father Patrini."
"Mi scusi, ma-that is impossible. He cannot speak with anyone."
Robert was determined not to be stopped now. He had to follow up the lead Professor Schmidt had given him.
"You don't understand," Robert said smoothly.
"Father Patrini asked to see me. I've come to Orvieto at his request." "He asked to see you?"
"Yes. He wrote to me in America. I've come all this way just to see him."
The nurse hesitated.
"I do not know what to say. He is very ill. Molto."
"I'm sure it would cheer him up to see me." "The doctor is not here-" She made a decision.
"Very well. You may go into his room, sjgnore, but you may only stay a few minutes."
"That's all I'll need," Robert said. "This way, per piacere."
They walked down a short corridor with small, neat rooms on either side. The nurse led Robert to one of the doors.
"Only a few minutes, signore." "Grazie."
Robert entered the little room. The man in the bed looked like a pale shadow lying on the white sheets. Robert approached him and said softly, "Father The priest turned to look up at him, and Robert had never seen such agony in a man's eyes.
"Father, my name is-" He grabbed Robert's arm. "Help me," the priest mumbled.
"You must help me. My faith is gone. All my life I have preached of God and the Holy Spirit, and now I know that there is no God. There is only the devil, and he has come for us-"
"Father, if you-"
"I saw it with my own eyes. There were two of them in the devil's chariot, but, oh, there will be more! Others will come! Wait and see.
We are all doomed to hell."
"Father-listen to me. What you saw was not the devil. It was a space vehicle that-" The priest let go of Robert and looked at him with sudden clarity.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
Robert said, "I'm a friend. I came here to ask you about the bus trip you took in Switzerland."
"The bus. I wish I had never gone near it." The priest was becoming agitated again.
Robert hated to press him, but he had no choice.
"You sat next to a man on that bus. A Texan. You had a long conversation with him, remember?"
"A conversation. The Texan. Yes, I remember." "Did he mention where he lived in Texas?" "Yes, I remember him. He was from America."
"Yes. From Texas. Did he tell you where his home was?" "Yes, yes. He told me."
"Where, Father? Where is his home?" "Texas. He talked of Texas." Robert nodded encouragingly. "That's right."
"I saw them with my own eyes. I wish God had blinded me. I-"
"Father-the man from Texas. Did he say where he was from? Did he mention a name?"
"Texas, yes. The Ponderosa." Robert tried again.
"That's on television. This was a real man.
He sat next to you onThe priest was becoming delirious again.
"They're coming! Armageddon is here. The Bible lies! It is the devil who will invade the earth."
He was shouting loudly now.
"Look out! Look out! I can see them!"
The nurse came hurrying in. She looked at Robert reprovingly. "You will have to leave, signore."
"I need just one more minute-" "No, signore. Adesso!"
Robert took one last look at the priest. He was raving incoherently. Robert turned to go. There was nothing further he could do. He had gambled on the priest giving him a lead to the Texan, and he had lost.
Robert returned to his car and headed back toward Rome. It was finally over. The only clues he had left-if they could be called clues-were the mention of a Russian woman, a Texan, and a Hungarian.
But there was no way to pursue them any farther. Check and check mate.
It was frustrating to have come this far and then to be stopped. If only the priest had remained coherent long enough to give him the information he needed! He had been so close. What was it the priest had said? The Ponderosa. The old priest has been watching too much television and, in his delirium, he obviously associated Texas with the once-popular TV show, "Bonanza." The Ponderosa, where the mythical Cartwright family lived. The Ponderosa. Robert slowed the car and pulled over to the side of the road, his mind racing. He made a U-turn and sped back toward Orvieto.
Half an hour later, Robert was talking to the bartender in a small trattoria in the Piazza della Repubblica.
"You have a beautiful town here," Robert said. "It's very peaceful."
"Oh, si, signore, we are quite content here. Have you visited Italy before?"
"I spent part of my honeymoon in Rome."
"You make all my dreams come true, Robert. I've wanted to see Rome ever since I was a little girl."
"Ah, Rome. Too big. Too noisy." "I agree."
"We live simple lives here, but we are happy." Robert said casually, "I noticed television antennas on many of the roofs here."
"Oh, yes, indeed. We are quite up-to-date in that respect."
"One can see that. How many television channels does the town receive?" "Only one."
"I suppose you get a good many American shows?"
"No, no. This is a government channel. Here we receive only shows made in Italy."
Bingo! "Thank you."
Robert placed a call to Admiral Whittaker. A secretary answered the phone.
"Admiral Whittaker's office." Robert could visualize the office. It would be the kind of anonymous cubbyhole they kept for nonpersons the government no longer had any use for.
"Could I speak to the admiral, please? Commander Robert Bellamy calling."
"Just a moment, Commander."
Robert wondered whether anybody bothered to keep in touch with the admiral now that the once-powerful figure was part of the mothball fleet. Probably not.
"Robert, it's very good to hear from you." The old man's voice sounded tired.
"Where are you?" "I can't say, sir." There was a pause.
"I understand. Is there something I can do for you?"
"Yes, sir. This is rather awkward because I've been ordered not to communicate with anyone. But I need some outside help. I wonder if you could check on something for me?"
"I can certainly try. What would you like to know?"
"I need to know whether there's a ranch anywhere in Texas called The Ponderosa."
"As in Bonanza?" "Yes, sir."
"I can find out. How will I reach you?"
"I think it would be better if I called you, Admiral."
"Right. Give me an hour or two. I'll keep this just between ourselves."
"Thank you."
It seemed to Robert that the tiredness had gone out of the old man's voice. He had, at last, been asked to do something, even if it was as trivial as locating a ranch.
Two hours later, Robert telephoned Admiral Whittaker again.
"I've been waiting for your call," the admiral said. There was a satisfied note in his voice.
"I have the information you wanted." "And?"
Robert held his breath.
"There is a Ponderosa ranch in Texas. It's located just outside of Waco. It's owned by a Dan Wayne."
Robert heaved a deep sigh of relief.
"Thank you very much, Admiral," Robert said. "I owe you a dinner when I get back."
"I'll be looking forward to that, Robert." Robert's next call was to General Hilliard.
"I located another witness in Italy. Father Patrini." "A priest?"
"Yes. In Orvieto. He's in the hospital, very ill. I'm afraid the Italian authorities won't be able to communicate with him."
"I'll pass that on. Thank you, Commander."
Two minutes later, General Hilliard was on the line to Janus.
"I've heard from Commander Bellamy again. The latest witness is a priest. A Father Patrini in Orvieto."
"Take care of it."
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA NSA TO DEPUTY DirECTOR SIFAR
EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
5. FATHER PATR N-ORVETO END OF MESSAGE
The headquarters of SIFAR is on Via della Pineta, on the southernmost outskirts of Rome, in an area surrounded by farmhouses.
The only thing that would cause a passerby to give a second glance at the innocent, industrial-looking stone buildings occupying two square blocks would be the high wall surrounding the complex, topped by barbed wire, with security posts at each corner. Hidden in a military compound, it is one of the most secretive security agencies in the world, and one of the least known. There are signs outside the compound reading: Vietate Passare Oltre i Limiti.
Inside a Spartan office on the first floor of the main building, Colonel Francesco Cesar was studying the flash message he had just received. The colonel was a man in his early fifties with a muscular body, topped by a pitted, bulldog face. He read the message for the third time.
So, Operation Doomsday is finally happening. una bella fregatura.
It is good that we have prepared for this, Cesar thought. He looked down at the cable again. A priest.
It was after midnight when the nun walked past the desk of the night-duty nurses at the little hospital in Orvieto.
"I guess she's going to see Signora Fillipi," said Nurse Tomasino. "Either her or old man Rigano. They're both on their last legs."
The nun glided silently round the corner and walked directly into the priest's room. He was sleeping peacefully, his hands gathered almost as if in prayer, on his chest. A wedge of moonlight sliced through the blinds, casting a golden band across the priest's face.
The nun removed a small box from beneath her habit. Carefully, she took out a beautiful cut-glass rosary and placed it in the old priest's hands. As she adjusted the beads, she drew one of them quickly across his thumb. A thin line of blood appeared. The nun took a tiny bottle from the box and, with an eye dropper, delicately squeezed three drops into the open cut.
It took only a few minutes for the deadly, fast-acting poison to work. The nun sighed as she made the sign of the cross over the dead man. She left as silently as she had come in.
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA SIFAR TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
5. FATHER PATRI NI-ORVETO-TERMINATED END OF MESSAGE
Frank Johnson was recruited because he had been a Green Beret in Vietnam and was known among his comrades as the Killing Machine. He loved to kill. He was motivated and highly intelligent.
"He's perfect for us," Janus said.
"Approach him carefully. I don't want to lose him."
The first meeting took place in an army barracks. A captain was talking to Frank Johnson.
"Don't you worry about our government?" the captain asked.
"It's being run by a bunch of bleeding hearts who are giving the store away.
This country needs nuclear power, but the damned politicians are stopping us from building new plants. We depend on the damn Arabs for oil, but will the government let us do our own offshore drilling? Oh, no. They're more worried about the fish than they are about us. Does that make sense to you?"
"I see your point," Frank Johnson said.
"I knew you would, because you're intelligent." He was watching Johnson's face as he spoke.
"If Congress won't do anything to save our country, then it's up to some of us to do something."
Frank Johnson looked puzzled. "Some of us?"
"Yeah." Enough for now, the captain thought.
"We'll talk about it later." The next conversation was more specific.
"There's a group of patriots, Frank, who are interested in protecting our world. They're pretty high-powered gentlemen. They've formed a committee. The committee may have to bend a few laws to get its work done, but in the end, it will be worth it. Are you interested?"
Frank Johnson grinned. "I'm very interested."
That was the beginning. The next meeting took place in Ottawa, Canada, and Frank Johnson met some of the members of the committee.
They represented powerful interests from a dozen countries. "We're well organized," a member explained to Frank Johnson.
"We have a strict chain of command. There's a Propaganda Division, Recruiting, Tactics, Liaison ... and a Death Squad." He went on.
"Almost every intelligence organization in the world is part of this." "You mean the heads of-?"
"No, not the heads. The deputies. The hands-on people who know what's going on, who know what danger our countries are in."
The meetings took place all over the world-Switzerland, Morocco, China-and Johnson attended all of them.
* * * It was six months before Colonel Johnson met Janus. Janus had sent for him.
"I've been given excellent reports about you, Colonel." Frank Johnson grinned.
"I enjoy my work."
"So I've heard. You're in an advantageous position to help us." Frank Johnson sat up straighter.
"I'll do anything I can."
"Good. At the Farm, you're in charge of supervising the training of secret agents in the various services."
"That's right."
"And you get to know them and their capabilities." "Intimately."
"What I would like you to do," Janus said, "is to recruit those whom you
feel would be most helpful to our organization. We're interested only in the best."
"That's easy," Colonel Johnson said. "No problem." He hesitated a moment. "I wonder-"
"Yes?"
"I can do that with my left hand. I'd really like to do something more, something bigger." He leaned forward.
"I've heard about Operation Doomsday. Doomsday is right up my alley. I'd like to be a part of that, sir."
Janus sat there, studying him a moment. Then he nodded. "Very well, you're in."
Johnson smiled.
"Thank you. You won't be sorry." Colonel Frank Johnson left the meeting a very happy man. Now he would have a chance to show them what he could do.
Day Eight Waco, Texas
Dan Wayne was not having a good day. As a matter of fact, he was having a dreadful day. He had just returned from the Waco county courthouse, where he was facing bankruptcy proceedings. His wife, who had been having an affair with her young doctor, was divorcing him, intent on getting half of everything he had (which could be half of nothing, he had assured her lawyer). And one of his prize bulls had to be destroyed. Dan Wayne felt that fate was kicking him in the balls.
He had done nothing to deserve all this. He had been a good husband and a good rancher. He sat in his study contemplating the gloomy future.
Dan Wayne was a proud man. He was well aware of all the jokes about Texans being loudmouthed, largerthan-life braggarts, but he honestly felt he had something to brag about. He had been born in Waco, in the rich agricultural region of the Brazos River valley. Waco was modern, but it still retained a flavor of the past, when the five C's had been its support: cattle, cotton, corn, collegians, and culture.
Wayne loved Waco with all his heart and soul, and when he had met the Italian priest on the Swiss tour bus, he had spent almost five hours going on about his hometown. The priest had told him he wanted to practice his English, but actually, as he thought back on it, Dan had done almost all the talking.
"Waco has everything," he had confided to the priest.
"Our climate's great. We don't allow it to get too hot or too cold. We have twenty-three schools in the school district and Baylor University. We have four newspapers, ten radio stations, and five television stations.
We have a Texas Ranger Hall of Fame that will knock you out. I mean, we're talking history. If you like fishing, Father, the Brazos River is an experience you'll never forget. Then, we have a safari ranch and a big art center. I tell you, Waco is one of the unique cities of the world. You must come and pay us a visit." And the little old priest had smiled and nodded, and Wayne wondered how much English he really understood.
Dan Wayne's father had left him a thousand acres of ranchland, and the son had built up his cattle herd from two thousand to ten thousand.
There was also a prize stallion that was going to be worth a fortune.
And now the bastards were trying to take it all away from him. It wasn't his fault that the cattle market had gone to hell, or that he had gotten behind with his mortgage payments. The banks were closing in for the kill, and his only chance to save himself was to find someone who would buy the ranch, pay off his creditors, and leave him with a little profit.
Wayne had heard about a rich Swiss who was looking for a ranch in Texas, and he had flown over to Zurich to meet him. In the end, it had turned out to be a wild-goose chase. The dude's idea of a ranch was an acre or two with a nice little vegetable garden. She-eet!
That was how Dan Wayne had happened to be on the tour bus when that extraordinary thing occurred. He had read about flying saucers, but he had never believed in them. Now, by God, he certainly did. As soon as he returned home, he had called the editor of the local newspaper.
"Johnny, I just saw an honest-to-God flying saucer with some dead, funny-looking people in it."
"Yeah? Did you get any pictures, Dan?" "No. I took some, but they didn't come out."
"Never mind. We'll send a photographer out there. Is it on your ranch?"
"Well, no. As a matter of fact, it was in Switzerland." There was a silence.
"Oh. Well, if you happen to come across one on your ranch, Dan, give me another call."
"Wait! I'm being sent a picture by some fellow who saw the thing."
But Johnny had already hung up. And that was that.
Wayne almost wished that there would be an invasion of aliens.
Maybe they would kill off his damned creditors. He heard the sound of a car coming up the drive and rose and walked over to the window. Looked like an easterner. Probably another creditor. These days they were coming out of the woodwork. Dan Wayne opened the front door.
"Howdy." "Daniel Wayne?"
"My friends call me Dan. What can I do for you?" Dan Wayne was not at all what Robert had expected.
He had envisioned a stereotype of a burly Texan. Dan Wayne was slight and ~ristocratic-looking, with an almost shy manner. The only thing that gave away his heritage was his accent.
"I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time?" "That's about all I've got left," Wayne said.
"By the way, you're not a creditor, are you?" "A creditor? No."
"Good. Come on in."
The two men walked into the living room. It was large and comfortably furnished with western-style furniture.
"This is a nice place you have here," Robert said. "Yeah. I was born in this house.
Can I offer you anything? A cold drink, maybe?" "No, thanks. I'm fine."
"Have a seat."
Robert sat down on a soft, leather couch. "What did you want to see me about?"
"I believe you took a bus tour in Switzerland last week?"
"That's right. Is my ex-wife having me followed? You don't work for her, do you?"
"No, sir."
"Oh." He suddenly understood.
"You're interested in that UFO thing. Damndest thing I ever saw. It kept changing colors. And those dead aliens!" He shuddered.
"I keep dreaming about it."
"Mr. Wayne, can you tell me anything about the other passengers who were on that bus?"
"Sorry, I can't help you out there. I was traveling alone."
"I know, but you spoke to some of the other passengers, didn't you?"
"To tell you the truth, I had a lot on my mind. I wasn't paying much attention to anyone else."
"Do you remember anything about any of them?" Dan Wayne was silent for a moment.
"Well, there was an Italian priest. I talked to him quite a bit. He seemed like a nice fellow. I want to tell you something, that flying saucer thing really shook him up. He kept talking about the devil."
"Did you speak to anyone else?" Dan Wayne shrugged.
"Not really. ... Wait a minute. I talked a little bit to some fellow who owns a bank in Canada." He ran his tongue across his lips.
"To tell you the truth, I'm having a little financial problem here with the ranch. It looks as though I might lose it. I hate goddamn bankers. They're all bloodsuckers. Anyway, I thought this fellow might be different. When I found out he was a banker, I talked to him about trying to work out some kind of loan arrangement here. But he was just like all the rest of them. He couldn't have been less interested."
"You said he was from Canada?"
"Yeah, Fort Smith, up in the Northwest Territories.
I'm afraid that's about all I can tell you." Robert tried to conceal his excitement.
"Thank you, Mr. Wayne, you've been very helpful." Robert rose. "That's it? Would you like to stay for supper?"
"No, thanks. I have to be on my way. Good luck with the ranch." "Thanks."
Fort Smith, Canada Northwest Territories Robert waited until General Hilliard came on the line.
"Yes, Commander?"
"I found another witness. Dan Wayne. He owns The Ponderosa, a ranch outside of Waco, Texas."
"Very good. I'll have our office in Dallas speak to him." FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR DCI EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
6. DANIEL WAYNE-WACO END OF MESSAGE
In Langley, Virginia, the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency studied the transmission thoughtfully. Number six.
Things were going well. Commander Bellamy was doing an extraordinary job. The decision to select him had been a wise one. Janus had been right. The man was always right. And he had the power to have his wishes carried out. So much power. ... The director looked at the message again. Make it look like an accident, he thought. That shouldn't be difficult. He pressed a buzzer.
The two men arrived at the ranch in a dark blue van. They parked in the courtyard and got out of the car, carefully looking around. Dan Wayne's first thought was that they had come to take possession of the ranch. He opened the door for them.
"Dan Wayne?"
"Yes. What can I-?"
That was as far as he got.
The second man had stepped behind him and hit him hard across the skull with a blackjack.
The larger of the two men slung the unconscious rancher over his shoulder and carried him outside to the barn. There were eight horses in the barn. The men ignored them and walked to the last stall in back.
Inside was a beautiful black stallion. The large man said, "This is the
one." He put Wayne's body down.
The second man picked up a cattle prod from the ground, stepped up to the stall door, and hit the stallion with the electric prod. The stallion whinnied and reared up. The man hit him hard again across the nose. The stallion was bucking wildly now, confined in the small space, smashing against the walls of the stall, his teeth bared and the whites of his eyes flashing.
"Now," the smaller man said. His companion lifted the body of Dan Wayne and tossed it over the half door into the stall. They watched the bloody scene for several moments, then, satisfied, turned and left.
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA DC TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
6. DANIEL WAYNE-WACO-TERMINATED END OF MESSAGE
Day Nine Fort Smith, Canada
Fort Smith, in the Northwest Territories, is a prosperous town of two thousand people, most of them farmers and cattle ranchers, with a sprinkling of merchants. The climate is demanding, with long and rigorous winters, and the town is living proof of Darwin's theory of the survival of the fittest.
William Mann was one of the fit ones, a survivor. He had been born in Michigan, but in his early thirties, he had passed through Fort Smith on a fishing trip and had decided that the community needed another good bank. He had seized the opportunity. There was only one other bank there, and it took William Mann less than two years to put his competitor out of business. Mann ran his bank the way a bank should be run. His god was mathematics, and he saw to it that the numbers always came out to his benefit. His favorite story was the joke about the man who went to a banker pleading for a loan so that his young son could have an immediate operation to save his life. When the applicant said he had no security, the banker told him to get out of his office.
"I'll go," the man said, "but I want to tell you that in all my years, I've never met anyone as coldhearted as you are."
"Wait a minute," the banker replied.
"I'll make you a sporting proposition. One of my eyes is. a glass eye. If you can tell me which one it is, I'll give you the loan." Instantly,
the man said, "Your left one." The banker was amazed. "No one knows that. How could you tell?"
The man said, "That's easy. For a moment, I thought I detected a gleam of sympathy in your left eye, so I knew it must be your glass eye."
That, to William Mann, was a good businessman's story. One did not conduct business based on sympathy. You had to look at the bottom line.
While other banks in Canada and the United States were toppling like tenpins, William Mann's bank was stronger than ever. His philosophy was simple: No loans to start up businesses. No investments in junk bonds.
No loans to neighbors whose children might desperately need an operation.
Mann had a respect that bordered on awe for the Swiss banking system. The gnomes of Zurich were bankers' bankers. So, one day, William Mann decided to go to Switzerland to speak to some of the bankers there to learn if there was anything he was missing, any way he could squeeze more cents out of the Canadian dollar. He had been received graciously, but in the end he had learned nothing new. His own banking methods were admirable, and the Swiss bankers had not hesitated to tell him so. On the day he was to leave for home, Mann decided to treat himself to a tour of the Alps. He had found the tour boring. The scenery was interesting, but no prettier than the scenery around Fort Smith. One of the passengers, a Texan, had dared try to persuade him to make a loan on a ranch that was going into bankruptcy. He had laughed in the man's face. The only thing about the tour that was of any interest was the crash of the so-called flying saucer. Mann had not believed in the reality of that for an instant. He was sure it had been staged by the Swiss government to impress tourists. He had been to Walt Disney World, and he had seen similar things that looked real but were faked. It's Switzerland's glass eye, he thought sardonically.
William Mann was happy to return home.
Every minute of the banker's day was meticulously scheduled, and when his secretary came in and said that a stranger wished to see him, Mann's first instinct was to dismiss him.
"What is it he wants?"
"He says he wants to do an interview with you. He's writing an article about bankers."
That was a different matter entirely. Publicity of the right kind was good for business. William Mann straightened his jacket, smoothed down his hair, and said, "Send him in." His visitor was an American.
He was well-dressed, which indicated that he worked for one of the better magazines or newspapers.
"Mr. Mann?"
"Yes."
"Robert Bellamy."
"My secretary tells me you want to do an article about me. "Well, not entirely about you," Robert said.
"But you'll certainly be prominent in it. My newspaper-" "Which newspaper is that?"
"The Wall Street Journal." Ah, yes. This is going to be excellent.
"The Journal feels that most bankers are too isolated from what's going on in the rest of the world. They seldom travel, they don't go to other countries. You, on the other hand, Mr. Mann, have the reputation of being very well traveled."
"I suppose I am," Mann said modestly.
"As a matter of fact, I came back from a trip to Switzerland just last week."
"Really? Did you enjoy it?"
"Yes. I met with several other bankers there. We discussed world economics."
Robert had pulled out a notebook and was making notes. "Did you have any time for pleasure?"
"Not really. Oh, I took a little tour on one of those buses. I had never seen the Alps before."
Robert made another note.
"A tour. Now that's exactly the kind of thing we're looking for," Robert said encouragingly.
"I imagine you met a lot of interesting people on the bus." "Interesting?"
He thought about the Texan who had tried to borrow money. "Not really."
"Oh?"
Mann looked at him. The reporter obviously expected him to say more.
"You'll certainly be prominent in it." "There was this Russian girl."
Robert made a note.
"Really? Tell me about her."
"Well, we got to talking, and I explained to her how backward Russia was and what terrible trouble they were heading for unless they changed."
"She must have been very impressed," Robert said.
"Oh, she was. Seemed like a bright girl. For a Russian, that is. They're all pretty insulated, you know."
"Did she mention her name?"
"No-wait. It was Olga something."
"Did she happen to say where she was from?"
"Yes. She works as a librarian at the main branch in Kiev. It was her first trip abroad, I guess because of glasnost. If you want my opinion.. .'~ He stopped to make sure Robert was writing it down.
"Gorbachev sent Russia to hell in a handbasket. East Germany was handed to Bonn on a plate. On the political front, Gorbachev moved too fast, and on the economic front he moved too slowly."
"That's fascinating," Robert murmured. He spent another half hour with the banker, listening to his opinionated comments on everything from the Common Market to arms control. He was able to get no further information about other passengers.
When Robert returned to his hotel, he telephoned General Hilliard's office.
"Just a moment, Commander Bellamy." He heard a series of clicks, and then General Hilliard was on the line.
"Yes, Commander?"
"I've traced another passenger, General." "The name?"
"William Mane. He owns a bank in Fort Smith, Canada."
"Thank you. I'll have the Canadian authorities speak to him right away."
"By the way, he gave me another lead. I'll be flying to Russia this evening. I'll need a visa from Intourist."
"Where are you calling from?" "Fort Smith."
"Stop at the Visigoth Hotel in Stockholm. There will be an envelope for you at the desk."
"Thank you."
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR CGHQ EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPies SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
7. WILLIAM MANN-FORT SMITH END OF MESSAGE
At eleven o'clock that evening, William Mann's doorbell rang. He was not expecting anyone, and he disliked unannounced callers. His housekeeper had retired, and his wife was asleep in her room upstairs.
Annoyed, Mann opened the front door. Two men dressed in black suits stood in the doorway.
"William Mann?" "Yes."
One of the men pulled out an identification card. "We're from the Bank of Canada. May we come in?" Mann frowned.
"What's this about?"
"We would prefer to discuss this inside, if you don't mind." "Very well." He led the men into the living room.
"You were recently in Switzerland, were you not?" The question threw him off guard.
"What? Yes, but what on earth-?"
"While you were gone we had your books audited, Mr. Mann. Are you aware that there is a shortage in your bank of one million dollars?"
William Mann looked at the two men, aghast.
"What are you talking about? I check those books every week myself. There has never been one penny missing!"
"One million dollars, Mr. Mann. We think you're responsible for embezzling it."
His face was turning red. He found himself sputtering.
"How-how dare you! Get out of here before I call the police." "That won't do you any good. What we want you to do is repent." He was staring at them now, confused.
"Repent? Repent what? You're crazy!"
"No, sir."
One of the men pulled out a gun. "Sit down, Mr. Mann."
Oh, my God! I'm being robbed.
"Look," Mann said, "take whatever you want. There's no need for violence and-"
"Sit down, please."
The second man walked over to the liquor cabinet. It was locked.
He smashed the glass and opened the cabinet. He picked up a large water glass, filled it with scotch, and carried it over to where Mann was seated.
"Drink this. It will relax you."
"I-I never drink after dinner. My doctorThe other man put the gun to William Mann's temple.
"Drink it, or the glass is going to be full of your brains."
Mann understood now that he was in the hands of two maniacs. He took the glass in his shaking hand and took a sip.
"Drink it down."
He took a larger swallow. "What-what is it you want?"
He raised his voice, hoping that his wife might hear and come downstairs, but it was a vain hope. He knew what a sound sleeper she was. The men were obviously here to rob the house. Why don't they just get on with it?
"Take anything," he said. "I won't stop you."
"Finish up what's in the glass."
"This isn't necessary. I-" The man punched him hard above his ear. Mann gasped with pain.
"Finish it."
He swallowed the rest of the whiskey in one gulp and felt it burning as it went down. He was beginning to feel giddy.
"My safe is upstairs in the bedroom," he said. His words were beginning to slur.
"I'll open it for you." Maybe that would wake his wife and she would call the police.
"There's no hurry," the man with the gun said. "You have plenty of time for another drink."
The second man went back to the cabinet and filled the glass to the brim again.
"Here."
"No, really," William Mann protested. "I don't want it."
The glass was shoved into his hand. "Drink it down."
"I really don't-" A fist slammed into the same spot above his ear. Mann almost fainted from the pain.
"Drink it."
Well, if that's what they want, why not? The quicker this nightmare is over with, the better. He took a big swallow and gagged.
"If I drink any more, I'm gonna be sick." The man said quietly, "If you get sick, I'll kill you." Mann looked up at him and then at his partner. There seemed to be two of everybody.
"What do all of you want?" he mumbled.
"We told you, Mr. Mann. We want you to repent."
William Mann nodded drunkenly. "Okay, I repent." The man smiled. "You see, that's all we ask. Now..."
He put a piece of paper in Mann's hand.
"All you have to do is write 'I'm sorry. Forgive me.'" William Mann looked up blearily.
"That's all?"
"That's all. And then we'll leave."
He felt a sudden sense of elation. So this is what it's all about.
They're religious fanatics. As soon as they left, he would call the police and have them arrested. I'll see to it that the bastards are hanged.
"Write, Mr. Mann."
It was difficult for him to focus. "What did you say you want me to write?" "Just write 'I'm sorry. Forgive me.'"
"Right." He had difficulty holding the pen. He concentrated very hard and began to write.
"I'm sorry. Forgive me."
The man took the paper from Mann's hand, holding it by the edges. "That's very good, Mr. Mann. See how easy that was?"
The room was beginning to spin around.
"Yeah. Thank you. I've repented. Now would you leave?"
"I see that you're left-handed." "What?"
"You're left-handed." "Yes."
"There's been a lot of crime around here lately, Mr. Mann. We're going to give you this gun to keep."
He felt a gun being placed in his left hand. "Do you know how to use a gun?"
"No."
"It's very simple. You use it like this...." The man lifted the gun to William Mann's temple and squeezed the banker's finger on the trigger.
There was a muffled roar. The bloodstained note dropped to the floor. "That's all there is to it," one of the men said.
"Good night, Mr. Mann."
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA CGHQ TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
7. WILLIAM MANN-FORT SMITH-TERMINATED END OF MESSAGE
Day Ten Fort Smith, Canada
The following morning, bank examiners reported a million dollars missing from Mann's bank. The police listed Mann's death as a suicide.
The missing money was never found. Day Eleven Brussels, 0300 Hours
General Shipley, the commandant at NATO headquarters, was awakened by his adjutant.
"I'm sorry to wake you up, General, but we seem to have a situation on our hands."
General Shipley sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He had had a late night entertaining a group of visiting senators from the United States.
"What's the problem, Billy?"
"I just received a call from the radar tower, sir. Either all our equipment has gone crazy or we're having some strange visitors."
General Shipley pushed himself out of bed. "Tell them I'll be there in five minutes."
* * * The darkened radar room was filled with enlisted men and officers gathered around the lighted radar screens in the center of the room.
They turned and sprang to attention as the general entered.
"At ease." He walked over to the officer in charge, Captain Muller. "What's going on here, Lewis?"
Captain Muller scratched his head.
"It beats me. Do you know any plane that can travel twenty-two thousand miles per hour, stop on a dime, and go into reverse?"
General Shipley was staring at him. "What are you talking about?"
"According to our radar screens, that's what's been going on for the last half hour. At first we thought it might be some kind of electronic device that's being tested, but we checked with the Russians, the British, and the French, and they're picking up the same thing on their radar screens."
"So, it couldn't be something in the equipment," General Shipley said heavily.
"No, sir. Not unless you want to assume that all the radar in the world has suddenly gone crazy."
"How many of these have appeared on the screen?"
"Over a dozen. They move so fast that it's hard to even keep track of them. We pick them up, and they disappear again. We've eliminated atmospheric conditions, meteors, fireballs, weather balloons, and any kind of flying machine known to man. I was going to scramble some planes, but these objects-whatever they are-are flying so damned high that we'd never be able to get near them."
General Shipley walked over to one of the radar screens.
"Is anything coming in on your screens now?"
"No, sir. They're gone." He hesitated a moment.
"But General, I have a terrible feeling they'll be coming back." Ottawa, 0500 Hours
When Janus finished reading General Shipley's report aloud, the Italian stood up and said excitedly, "They are getting ready to invade us!"
"They have already invaded us." The Frenchman. "We are too late.
It is a catastrophe." The Russian. "There is no way-" Janus interrupted.
"Gentlemen, it is a catastrophe we can prevent." "How? You know their demands." The Englishman.
"Their demands are out of the question." The Brazilian.
"It's no business of theirs what we do with our trees. The so-called greenhouse effect is scientific garbage, totally unproven."
"And what about us?" The Gorman.
"If they forced us to clean up the air over our cities, we would have to shut down our factories. We would have no industries left."
"And we would have to stop manufacturing cars," the Japanese said. "And then where would the civilized world be?"
"We are all in the same position." The Russian. 'u have to stop all pollution, as they insist, it would , the world's economies. We must buy more time until Wars is ready to take them on."
Janus said crisply, "We are agreed on that. Our diate problem is to keep our people calm and to avoid spread of panic."
"How is Commander Bellamy progressing?" The Canadian.
"He's making excellent progress. He should be finished in the next day or two."
Kiev, the Soviet Union ike most of her countrywomen, Olga Romanchanko had become disenchanted with perestroika. In the beginning, all the promised changes that were going to happen in Mother Russia sounded so exciting.
The winds of freedom were blowing through the streets, and the air was filled with hope. There were promises of fresh meat and vegetables in the shops, pretty dresses and real leather shoes, and a hundred other wonderful things. But now, six years after it had all begun, bitter disillusion had set in. Goods were scarcer than ever. It was impossible to survive without the black market. There was a shortage of virtually everything, and prices had soared. The main streets were still filled with rytvina-huge potholes. There were protest marches in the streets, and crime was on the increase. Restrictions were more severe than ever. Perestroika and glasnost had begun to seem as empty as the promises of the politicians who promoted them.
Olga had worked at the library in Lenkomsomol Square, in the center of Kiev, for seven years. She was thirty-two years old and had never been outside the Soviet Union. Olga was reasonably attractive, a bit overweight, but in Russia that was not considered a disadvantage. She had been engaged twice to men who had moved away and deserted her: Dmitri, who had left for Leningrad; and Ivan, who had moved to Moscow.
Olga had tried to move to Moscow to be with Ivan, but without a propiska, a Moscow residence permit, it was not possible.
As her thirty-third birthday approached, Olga was determined that she was going to see something of the world before the Iron Curtain closed around her once again. She went to the head librarian, who happened to be her aunt.
"I would like to take my vacation, now," Olga said. "When do you want to leave?"
"Next week." "Enjoy yourself."
It was as simple as that. In the days before perestroika, taking a vacation would have meant going to the Black Sea or Samarkand or Tbilisi, or any one of a dozen other places inside the Soviet Union.
But now, if she were quick about it, the whole world was open to her.
Olga took an atlas from the library shelf and pored over it. There was such a big world out there! There was Africa and Asia, and North and South America. ... She was afraid to venture that far. Olga turned to the map of Europe. Switzerland, she thought. That's where I'll go.
She would never have admitted it to anyone in the world, but the main reason Switzerland appealed to her was that she had once tasted Swiss chocolate, and she had never forgotten it. She loved sweets. The candy
in Russia-when one could get it-was sugarless and tasted terrible. Her taste for chocolate was to cost Olga her life.
The journey on Aeroflot to Zurich was an exciting beginning. She had never flown before. She landed at the international airport in Zurich filled with anticipation. There was something in the air that was different. Maybe it is the smell of real freedom, Olga thought.
Her finances were strictly limited, and she had made reservations at a small, inexpensive hotel, the Leonhare, at Limmatquai 136.
Olga checked in at the reception desk.
"This is my first time in Switzerland," she confided to the clerk, in halting English.
"Could you suggest some things for me to do?" "Certainly. There is much to do here," he told her.
"Perhaps you should start with a tour of the city. I will arrange it." "Thank you."
Olga found Zurich extraordinary. She was awed by the sights and sounds of the city. The people on the street were dressed in such fine clothes and drove such expensive automobiles. It seemed to Olga that everyone in Zurich must be a millionaire. And the stores! She window shopped along Bahnhofstrasse, the main shopping street of Zurich, and she marveled at the incredible cornucopia of goods in the windows: There were dresses and coats and shoes and lingerie and jewelry and dishes and furniture and automobiles and books and television sets and radios and toys and pianos. There seemed to be no end to the goods for sale. And then Olga stumbled across SprungIi's, famous for their confections and chocolates. And what chocolates! Four large storefront windows were filled with a dazzling array of them.
There were huge boxes of mixed chocolates, chocolate bunnies, chocolate loaves, chocolatecovered nuts. There were chocolate-covered bananas and chocolate beans filled with liqueurs. It was a feast just to look at the display in the windows. Olga wanted to buy everything, but when she learned the prices, she settled for a small box of assorted chocolates and a large candy bar.
Over the next week, Olga visited the Zurichhorn Gardens and the Rietberg Museum and the Grossmunster, the church erected in the eleventh century, and a dozen other wonderful tourist attractions. Finally, her time was running out.
The hotel clerk at the Leonhare said to her, "The Sunshine Tours Bus Company has a fine tour of the Alps. I think you might enjoy that before you leave."
"Thank you," Olga said.
"I will try it." When Olga left the hotel, her first stop was to visit SprungIi's again, and the next stop was at the office of the Sunshine Tours Bus Company, where she arranged to go on a tour. It had proved to be most exciting. The scenery was breathtaking, and in the middle of the tour, they had seen the explosion of what she thought was a flying saucer, but the Canadian banker she was seated next to explained that it was merely a spectacle arranged by the Swiss government for tourists, that there were no such things as flying saucers. Olga was not completely convinced. When she returned home to Kiev, she discussed it with her aunt.
"Of course there are flying saucers," her aunt said.
"They fly over Russia all the time. You should sell your story to a newspaper.
Olga had considered doing it, but she was afraid that she would be laughed at. The Communist party did not like its members to get publicity, especially the kind that might subject them to ridicule. All in all, Olga decided that, Dmitri and Ivan aside, her vacation had been the highlight of her life. It was going to be difficult to settle down to work again.
The ride along the newly built highway from the airport into the center of Kiev took the Intourist bus one hour. It was Robert's first time in Kiev, and he was impressed by the ubiquitous construction along the road and the large apartment buildings that seemed to be springing up everywhere. The bus pulled up in front of the Dnieper Hotel and disgorged its two dozen passengers. Robert looked at his watch. Eight
P.M. The library would be closed. His business would have to wait until morning. He checked into the huge hotel, where a reservation had been made for him, had a drink at the bar, and went into the austere whitewashed dining room for a dinner of caviar, cucumbers, and tomatoes, followed by a potato casserole flavored with tiny bits of meat and covered with heavy dough, all accompanied by vodka and mineral water.
His visa had been waiting for him at the hotel in Stockholm, as General Hilliard had promised. That was a quick bit of international cooperation, Robert thought. But no cooperation for me.
"Naked" is the operational word.
After dinner Robert made a few inquiries at the desk and meandered over to Lenkomsomol Square. Kiev was a surprise to him. One of the oldest cities in Russia, it was an attractive, European-looking city, situated on the Dnieper River, with green parks and tree-lined streets.
Churches were everywhere, and they were spectacular examples of religious architecture: There were the churches of St. Vladimir and St.
Andrew, and St. Sophia, the last completed in 1037, pure white with its soaring blue bell tower, and the Pechersk Monastery, the tallest
structure in the city. Susan would have loved all this, Robert thought.
She had never been to Russia. He wondered if she had returned from Brazil yet. On an impulse, when he returned to his hotel room, he telephoned her, and to his surprise the call was put through almost immediately.
"Hello?"
That throaty, sexy voice. "Hi. How was Brazil?"
"Robert! I tried to telephone you several times. There was no answer." "I'm not home."
"Oh." She had been trained too well to ask where he was. "Are you feeling well?"
For a eunuch, I'm in wonderful shape. "Sure. Great. How's Money-Monte?"
"He's fine. Robert, we're leaving for Gibraltar tomorrow." On Moneybags's fucking yacht, of course. What was the name of it? Ah, yes. The Halcyon.
"The yacht?"
"Yes. You can call me on it. Do you remember the call letters?"
He remembered. WS 337. What did the WS stand for? Wonderful Susan?
... Why separate?... Wife stealer? "Robert?"
"Yes, I remember. Whiskey Sugar 337."
"Will you call? Just to let me know you're all right." "Sure. I miss you, baby."
A long, painful silence. He waited. What did he expect her to say? Come rescue me from this charming man who looks like Paul Newman and forces me to go on his two-hundred-and-fifty -foot yacht and live in our squalid little palaces in Monte Carlo and Morocco and Paris and London and God alone knew where else. Like an idiot, he found himself half hoping she would say it.
"I miss you, too, Robert. Take care of yourself." And the connection was broken. He was in Russia, alone.
Day Twelve Kiev, the Soviet Union
Early the following morning, ten minutes after the library opened, Robert walked into the huge, gloomy building and approached the reception desk.
"Good morning," Robert said.
The woman behind the desk looked up. "Good morning. Can I help you?"
"Yes. I'm looking for a woman whom I believe works here, Olga-" "Olga? Yes, yes." She pointed to another room.
"She will be in there." "Thank you."
It had been as easy as that. Robert walked into the other room past groups of students solemnly studying at long tables. Preparing for what kind of future? Robert wondered. He reached a smaller reading room and walked inside. A woman was busily stacking books.
"Excuse me," Robert said. She turned. "Yes?"
"Olga?"
"I am Olga. What do you wish with me?" Robert smiled disarmingly.
"I'm writing a newspaper article on perestroika and how it affects the average Russian. Has it made much difference in your life?"
The woman shrugged.
"Before Gorbachev we were afraid to open our mouths. Now we can open our mouths, but we have nothing to put in them." Robert tried another tactic.
"Surely there are some changes for the better. For instance, you are able to travel now."
"You must be joking. With a husband and six children, who can afford to travel?"
Robert plowed on.
"Still, you went to Switzerland, and-"
"Switzerland? I have never been to Switzerland in my life." Robert said slowly, "You've never been to Switzerland?"
"I just told you." She nodded toward a dark-haired woman who was collecting books from the table.
"She's the lucky one who got to go to Switzerland." Robert took a quick look.
"What's her name?"
"Olga. The same as mine." He sighed. "Thank you."
A minute later, Robert was in a conversation with the second Olga. "Excuse me," Robert said.
"I'm writing a newspaper article on perestroika and the effect that it's had on Russian lives." She looked at him warily.
"Yes?"
"What's your name?"
"Olga. Olga Romanchanko."
"Tell me, Olga, has perestroika made any difference to you?"
Six years earlier, Olga Romanchanko would have been afraid to speak to a foreigner, but now it was allowed.
"Not really," she said carefully. "Everything is much the same." The stranger was persistent.
"Nothing at all has changed in your life?" She shook her head.
"No." And then added patriotically, "Of course, we can travel outside the country now."
He seemed interested.
"And have you traveled outside the country?" "Oh, yes," she said proudly.
"I have just returned from Switzerland. Is very beautiful country." "I agree," he said.
"Did you get a chance to meet anyone on the trip?"
"I met many people. I took bus, and we went through high mountains. The Alps." Suddenly, Olga realized she shouldn't have said that because the stranger might ask her about the spaceship, and she did not want to talk about that. It could only get her into trouble.
"Really?" asked Robert.
"Tell me about the people on the bus." Relieved, Olga responded, "Very friendly. They were dressed so-" She gestured.
"Very rich. I even met man from your capital city, Washington, D.C." "You did?"
"Yes. Very nice. He gave me card." Robert's heart skipped a beat.
"Do you still have it?"
"No. I threw it away." She looked around. "Is better not keep things like that." Damn!
And then she added, "I remember his name. Parker, like your American pen. Kevin Parker. Very important in politics. He tells senators how vote."
Robert was taken aback. "Is that what he told you?"
"Yes. He takes them on trips and gives gifts, and then they vote for things his clients need. That is the way democracy works in America."
A lobbyist. Robert let Olga talk for the next fifteen minutes, but he got no further useful information about the other passengers. Robert telephoned General Hilliard from his hotel room.
"I found the Russian witness. Her name is Olga Romanchanko. She works in the main library in Kiev."
"I'll have a Russian official speak to her." FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR GRU EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
8. OLGA ROMANCHANKO-KIEV END OF MESSAGE
That afternoon Robert was on an Aeroflot Tupolev Tu154 jet to Paris. When he arrived three hours and twenty-five minutes later, he transferred to an Air France flight to Washington, D.C.
At two A.M. Olga Romanchanko heard the squeal of brakes as a car pulled up in front of the apartment building where she lived, on Vertryk Street. The walls of the apartment were so thin that she could hear voices outside on the street. She got out of bed and looked out the window. Two men in civilian clothes were getting out of a black Chaika, the model used by government officials. They were approaching the entrance to her apartment building. The sight of them sent a shiver through her. Over the years, some of her neighbors had disappeared, never to be seen again. Some of them had been sent to the Gulags in Siberia. Olga wondered whom the secret police were after this time, and even as she was thinking it, there was a knock on her door, startling her. What do they want with me? she wondered. It must be some mistake.
When she opened the door, the two men were standing there. "Comrade Olga Romanchanko?"
"Yes."
"Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravleniye." The dreaded GRU. They pushed their way past her into the room.
"What-what is it you want?"
"We will ask the questions. I am Sergeant Yuri Gromkov. This is Sergeant Vladimir Zemsky." She felt a sudden sense of terror.
"What's-what's wrong? What have I done?" Zemsky pounced on it.
"Oh, so you know you have done something wrong!" "No, of course not," Olga said, flustered.
"I do not know why you are here."
"Sit down," Gromkov shouted. Olga sat.
"You have just returned from a trip to Switzerland, nyet?"
"Y-yes," she stuttered, "but i~it was. ... I got permission from-" "Espionage is not legal, Olga Romanchanko."
"Espionage?"
She was horrified.
"I don't know what you are talking about." The larger man was staring at her body, and Olga suddenly realized she was wearing only a thin nightgown.
"Let's go. You are coming with us."
"But there is some terrible mistake. I'm a librarian. Ask anybody here whoHe pulled her to her feet. "Come."
"Where are you taking me?"
"To headquarters. They want to question you." They allowed her to put on a coat over her nightgown.
She was shoved down the stairs and into the Chaika. Olga thought of all the people who had ridden in cars like this before and had never returned, and she was numb with fear.
The larger man, Gromkov, was driving. Olga was seated in the back with Zemsky. He somehow seemed less frightening to her, but she was petrified by who they were and what was going to happen to her.
"Please believe me," Olga said earnestly. "I would never betray my-"
"Shut up," Gromkov barked.
Vladimir Zemsky said, "Look, there's no reason to be rough with her. As a matter of fact, I believe her."
Olga felt her heart leap with hope.
"Times have changed," Comrade Zemsky went on.
"Comrade Gorbachev doesn't like us to go around bothering innocent people. Those days are past."
"Who said she's innocent?" Gromkov growled.
"Maybe she is, maybe she isn't. They'll find out soon enough at headquarters."
Olga sat there listening to the two men discussing her as if she were not there.
Zemsky said, "Come now, Yuri, you know that at headquarters she will confess, whether she's guilty or not. I don't like this."
"That's too bad. There's nothing we can do about it." "Yes, there is."
"What?"
The man next to Olga was silent for a moment.
"Listen," he said, "why don't we just let her go? We could tell them she was not at home.
We'll put them off for a day or two, and they will forget all about her because they have so many people to question."
Olga tried to say something, but her throat was too dry. She desperately wanted the man beside her to win the argument.
Gromkov grumbled.
"Why should we risk our necks for her? What do we get out of it? What is she going to do for us?"
Zemsky turned and looked at Olga questioningly. Olga found her voice. "I have no money," she said.
"Who needs your money? We have plenty of money." Gromkov said, "She has something else." Before Olga could reply, Zemsky said, "Wait a minute, Yuri Ivanovich, you can't expect her to do that."
"That's up to her. She can either be nice to us or go down to headquarters and get beaten up for a week or two. Maybe they'll keep her in a nice shizo."
Olga had heard about shizos. Unheated four-by-eight-foot cells with wooden-plank bed and no blankets.
"Be nice to us." What did that mean? "It's up to her."
Zemsky turned to Olga. "What do you want to do?" "I-I don't understand."
"What my partner is saying is that if you're nice to us, we could just drop this whole thing. In a little while, they'll probably forget about you."
"What-what would I have to do?"
Gromkov grinned at her in the rearview mirror.
"Just give us a few minutes of your time." He remembered something he had once read.
"Just lie there and think of the czar." He giggled. Olga suddenly understood what they were getting at.
She shook her head.
"No, I could not do that."
"Right." Gromkov started speeding up.
"They'll have a good time with you at headquarters." "Wait!" She was in a panic, not knowing what to do.
She had heard horror stories of what had happened to people who had been arrested and become zeks. She had thought that that was all finished, but now she could see that it was not. Perestroika was still just a fantasy. They would not allow her to have an attorney or talk to anyone. In the past, friends of hers had been raped and murdered by the GRU. She was trapped. If she went to jail, they could keep her for weeks, beating her and raping her, maybe worse. With these two men, at least it would be over in a few minutes and then they would let her go.
Olga made her decision.
"All right," she said miserably.
"Do you wish to go back to my apartment?"
Gromkov said, "I know a better place." He turned the car around. Zemsky whispered, "I'm sorry about this, but he's in charge. I can't stop him."
Olga said nothing.
They drove past the bright red Shevchenko Opera House and headed for a large park bordered by trees. It was completely deserted at this hour. Gromkov drove the car under the trees and turned off the lights and
engine.
"Let's get out," he said.
The three of them got out of the car. Gromkov looked at Olga.
"You're lucky. We're letting you off easy. I hope you appreciate it."
Olga nodded, too frightened to speak. Gromkov led them to a small cleared area.
"Get undressed."
"It's cold," Olga said. "Couldn't we-?"
Gromkov slapped her hard across the face. "Do as you're told before I change my mind."
Olga hesitated an instant, and as his arm drew back to hit her again, she started unbuttoning her coat.
"Take it off" She let it drop to the ground. "Now the nightgown."
Slowly, Olga lifted the nightgown over her head and pulled it off, shivering in the cold night air, standing naked in the moonlight.
"Nice body," Gromkov said. He squeezed her nipples. "Please-"
"You make one sound, and we take you to headquarters." He pushed her to the ground.
I won't think about this. I'll pretend I'm in Switzerland on the bus tour, looking at all the beautiful scenery.
Gromkov had dropped his pants and was spreading Olga's legs apart.
I can see the Alps covered with snow. There is a sleigh going by with a young boy and girl in it.
She felt him place his hands under her hips, and he shoved his maleness into her, hurting her.
There are beautiful cars along the highway. More cars than I have ever seen in my life. In Switzerland everybody has a car. He was plunging into her harder now, pinching her, making wild, animal noises.
I will have a little home in the mountains. What do the Swiss call them? Chalets. And I will have chocolates every day. Boxes of them.
Gromkov was withdrawing now, breathing heavily. He stood up and turned to Zemsky.
"Your turn." I will get married and have children, and we will all go skiing in the Alps in winter.
Zemsky had zipped open his pants and was climbing on top of her. It will be such a wonderful life. I will never return to Russia. Never. Never. Never.
He was inside her now, hurting her more than the other man had, squeezing her buttocks and pushing her body into the cold ground until the pain was almost unbearable.
We will live on a farm where it's quiet and peaceful all the time, and we will have a garden with beautiful flowers. Zemsky finished with her and looked up at his companion.
"I bet she enjoyed it." He grinned.
He reached down for Olga's neck and broke it.
The following day there was an item in the local paper about a librarian who had been raped and strangled in the park. There was a stern warning from the authorities that it was dangerous for young women to go to the park alone at night.
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
DEPUTY DIRECTOR GRU TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
8. OLGA ROMANCHANKOKIEvTERMINATED END OF MESSAGE
Willard Stone and Monte Banks were natural enemies. They were both ruthless predators, and the jungle they prowled was the stone canyons of Wall Street, with its high-powered takeovers, leveraged buyouts, and stock deals.
The first time the two men clashed was during the attempted takeover of
a huge utility company. Willard Stone made the first bid and anticipated no problem. He was so powerful and his reputation so fearsome that very few people dared challenge him. It was a great surprise then when he learned that a young upstart named Monte Banks was contesting his bid. Stone was forced to raise his own bid, and the ante kept going up. Willard Stone finally acquired control of the company, but at a much higher price than he had anticipated paying.
Six months later, in a takeover bid for a large electronics firm, Stone was confronted again by Monte Banks. The bidding kept escalating, and this time Banks won. When Willard Stone learned that Monte Banks intended to compete with him for control of a computer company, he decided it was time to meet with his competitor. The two men met on neutral ground in Paradise Island, in the Bahamas. Willard Stone had made a thorough investigation into the background of his competitor, learning that Monte Banks came from a wealthy oil family and had brilliantly managed to parlay his inheritance into an international conglomerate.
The two men sat down to lunch. Willard Stone, old and wise; Monte Banks, young and eager. Willard Stone opened the conversation.
"You're becoming a pain in the ass." Monte Banks grinned.
"Coming from you, that's a big compliment." "What is it you want?"
Stone asked.
"The same as you. I want to own the world." Willard Stone said thoughtfully, "Well, it's a big enough world."
"Meaning?"
"There's room enough for both of us." That was the day they became partners. Each ran his own business separately, but when it came to new projects-timber and oil and real estate-they went into deals together, instead of competing with each other. Several times the Antitrust Division of the Justice Department tried to stop their deals, but Willard Stone's connections always prevailed. Monte Banks owned chemical companies responsible for massive pollution of lakes and rivers, but when he was indicted, the indictment was mysteriously dropped.
The two men had a perfect symbiotic relationship. Operation Doomsday was a natural for them, and they were heavily involved in it.
They were on the verge of closing a deal to purchase ten million acres of lush, tree-rich land in the Amazon rain forest. It was going to be one of the most profitable deals they had ever gone into.
They could not afford to let anything stand in their way. Day Thirteen Washington, D.C.
The Senate of the United States was in plenary session. The junior senator from Utah had the floor.
..... and what is happening to our ecology is a national disgrace.
It is time that this great body realized that it is its sworn duty to preserve the precious heritage that our forefathers entrusted to us. it is not only our sworn duty but our privilege to protect the land, the air, and the seas from those vested interests that are selfishly destroying it. And are we doing this? Are we in all conscience doing our best? Or are we allowing the voice of mammon to influence us...?"
Kevin Parker, seated in the visitors' gallery, glanced at his watch for the third time in five minutes. He wondered how much longer the speech was going to last. He was sitting through this only because he was having lunch with the senator and he needed a favor from him. Kevin Parker enjoyed walking through the corridors of power, hobnobbing with congressmen and senators, dispensing largess in return for political favors.
He had grown up poor in Eugene, Oregon. His father was an alcoholic who had owned a small lumberyard. An inept businessman, he had turned what should have been a thriving business into a disaster.
The young boy had to work from the age of fourteen, and because his mother had run away with another man years earlier, he had no home life at all. He could easily have become a drifter and ended up like his father, but his saving grace was that he was extraordinarily handsome and personable. He had wavy blond hair and fine aristocratic features that he must have inherited from some long-forgotten ancestor. A few affluent townspeople took pity on the boy, giving him jobs and encouragement, going out of their way to assist him. The wealthiest man in town, Jeb Goodspell, was particularly eager to help Kevin and gave him a part-time job with one of his companies. A bachelor, Goodspell often invited young Parker to join him for dinner at his home.
"You can be somebody in this life," Goodspell told him, "but you can't make it without friends."
"I know that, sir. And I certainly appreciate your friendship. Working for you is a real lifesaver."
"I could do a lot more for you," Goodspell said. They were seated on the couch in the living room, after dinner. He put his arm around the young boy.
"A lot more." He squeezed the boy's shoulder. "You have a good body, do you know that?"
"Thank you, sir."
"Do you ever get lonely?" He was lonely all the time. "Yes, sir."
"Well, you don't have to be lonely anymore." He stroked the boy's arm.
"I get lonely, too, you know. You need someone to hold you close and comfort you."
"Yes, sir."
"Have you ever had any girls?"
"Well, I went with Sue Ellen for a while." "Did you sleep with her?"
The boy blushed. "No, sir."
"How old are you, Kevin?" "Sixteen, sir."
"It's a great age. It's an age when you should be beginning to start a career." He studied the boy a moment.
"I'll bet you'd be darn good in politics." "Politics? I don't know anything about that, sir." "That's why you're going to school, to learn things. And I'm going to help you."
"Thank you."
"There are plenty of ways of thanking people," Goodspell said. He rubbed his hand along the boy's thigh.
"Many ways." He looked into Parker's eyes. "You know what I mean?"
"Yes, Jeb."
That was the beginning.
When Kevin Parker was graduated from Churchill High School, Goodspell sent him to the University of Oregon. The boy studied political science, and Goodspell saw to it that his protege met everybody. They were all impressed with the attractive young man. With his connections, Parker found that he was able to do favors for important people and to bring people together. Becoming a lobbyist in Washington was a natural step, and Parker was good at the job.
Goodspell had died two years earlier, but Parker had by then acquired a talent and a taste for what his mentor had taught him. He liked to pick up young boys and take them to out-of-the-way hotels where he would not be recognized.
The senator from Utah was finally finishing. ..... and I say to you now that we must pass this bill if we want to save what is left of our ecology. At this time, I would like to ask for a roll-call vote."
Thank God, the endless session was almost over. Kevin Parker thought about the evening that lay ahead of him, and he began to get an erection. The night before, he had met a young man at Danny's P Street Station, a well-known gay bar. Unfortunately, the young man had been with a companion. But they had eyed each other during the evening, and before he left, Parker had written a note and slipped it into the young man's hand. It said simply, "Tomorrow night." The young man had smiled and nodded.
Kevin Parker was hurriedly getting dressed to go out.
He wanted to be at the bar when the boy arrived. The young man was much too attractive, and Parker did not want him picked up by someone else.
The front doorbell rang. Damn. Parker opened the door. A stranger stood there.
"Kevin Parker?" "Yes-"
"My name is Bellamy. I'd like to talk to you for a minute."
Parker said impatiently, "You'll have to make an appointment with my secretary. I don't discuss business after office hours."
"This isn't exactly business, Mr. Parker. It concerns your trip to Switzerland a couple of weeks ago."
"My trip to Switzerland? What about it?"
"My agency is interested in some of the people you might have met over there." Robert flashed his false CIA identification.
Kevin Parker studied the man more carefully. What could the CIA want with him? They were so goddamned nosy. Have I covered my ass?
There was no point in antagonizing the man. He smiled. "Come in.
I'm late for an appointment, but you said this won't take more than a minute?"
"No, sir. I believe you took a bus tour out of Zurich?"
So that's what this is all about. That flying saucer business. It had been the goddamndest thing he had ever seen.
"You want to know about the UFO, don't you? Well, I want to tell you, it was a weird experience."
"It must have been, but frankly, we at the agency don't believe in flying saucers. I'm here to find out what you can tell me about your fellow passengers on the bus." Parker was taken aback.
"Oh. Well, I'm afraid I can't help you there. They were all strangers."
"I understand that, Mr. Parker," Robert said patiently, "but you must remember something about them."
Parker shrugged.
"Well, a few things. ... I remember exchanging a few words with an Englishman who took our pictures."
Leslie Mothershed. "Who else?"
"Oh, yes. I talked a little to a Russian girl. She seemed very pleasant. I think she said she was a librarian somewhere."
Olga Romanchanko.
"That's excellent. Can you think of anyone else, Mr. Parker?"
"No, I guess that's about-oh, there were two other men. One was an American, a Texan."
Dan Wayne.
"And the other one?"
"He was a Hungarian. He owned a carnival or circus or something like that in Hungary." He remembered.
"It was a carnival."
"Are you sure about that, Mr. Parker?"
"Oh, yes. He was telling me some stories about the carnival business. He was certainly excited seeing that UFO. I think if he could have, he would have put it in his carnival as a sideshow. I must admit, it was a pretty awesome sight. I would have reported it, but I can't afford to get mixed up with all the weirdos who claim they saw flying saucers."
"Did he happen to mention his name?"
"Yes, but it was one of these unpronounceable foreign names. I'm afraid I don't remember it."
"Do you remember anything else about him?"
"Only that he was in a hurry to get back to his carnival." He glanced at his watch.
"Is there anything else I can do for you? I'm running a little late." "No, thank you, Mr. Parker. You've been very helpful."
"My pleasure." He flashed Robert a beautiful smile.
"You must drop by my office and see me sometime. We'll have a nice chat."
"I'll do that."
So it's nearly over, Robert thought. They can take my job and shove it. It's time to pick up the pieces of my life and start over.
Robert placed a call to General Hilliard.
"I've just about wrapped it up, General. I found Kevin Parker. He's a lobbyist in Washington, D.C. I'm on my way to check out the last passenger."
"I'm very pleased," General*Hilliard said.
"You've done an excellent job, Commander. Get bak to me as quickly as you can."
"Yes, sir."
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR CIA EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
9. KEVIN PARKER-WASHINGTON, D.C.
END OF MESSAGE
When Kevin Parker arrived at Danny's P Street Station, he found it even more crowded than it had been the evening before. The older men were dressed in conservative suits, while most of the younger men were in Levi's, blazers, and boots. There were a few who looked out of place, in black-leather outfits, and Parker thought that that element was disgusting. Rough trade was dangerous, and he had never gone in for that sort of bizarre behavior. Discretion, that had always been his motto. Discretion. The handsome young boy was not there yet, but Parker had not expected him to be. He would make his entrance later, beautiful and fresh, when the others in the bar would be tired and sweaty. Kevin Parker walked up to the bar, ordered a drink, and looked around. Television sets on the walls were playing the MTV station.
Danny's was an S-and-M-stand and model-bar. The younger men would assume poses that made them appear as attractive as possible, while the older men-the buyer-would look them over and make their selections. The S-and-M bars were the classiest. There were never any fights in them, for most of the customers had capped teeth, and they could not afford to chance having them knocked out. Kevin Parker noticed that many of the patrons had already selected their partners. He listened to the familiar conversations going on around him. It fascinated him that the conversations were always the same, whether they took place in leather bars, dance bars, video bars, or underground clubs that changed their locations every week. There was an indigenous argot.
"That queen is nobody. She thinks she's Miss Thing "
"He went off on me for no reason. He gets so terribly upset. Talk about sensitive "Are you a top or a bottom?"
"A top. I have to give the orders, girl," snapping his fingers. "Good. I like taking them "
"He read me for filth. ... Just stood there criticizing me ...
my weight, my complexion, my attitude. I said, 'Mary, it's over between us." But it hurt. That's why I'm here tonight... trying to forget him.
Could I have another drinks At one A.M., the young boy walked in. He looked around, saw Parker, and walked over to him. The boy was even more beautiful than Parker had remembered.
"Good evening."
"Good evening. Sorry I'm late."
"That's all right. I didn't mind waiting." The young man took out a cigarette and waited while the older man lit it for him.
"I've been thinking about you," Parker said.
"Have you?"
The boy's eyelashes were incredible. "Yes. Can I buy you a drink?"
"If it will make you happy." Parker smiled.
"Are you interested in making me happy?"
The boy looked him in the eyes and said softly, "I think so."
"I saw the man you were here with last night. He's wrong for you." "And you're right for me?"
"I could be. Why don't we find out? Would you like to go for a little walk?"
"Sounds good."
Parker felt a tingle of excitement.
"I know a cozy place where we can be alone." "Fine. I'll skip the drink."
As they started toward the front door, it suddenly opened and two large young men entered the bar. They stepped in front of the boy, blocking his way.
"There you are, you sonofabitch. Where's the money you owe me?" The young man looked up at him, bewildered.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I've never seen you be-"
"Don't give me that shit." The man grabbed him by the shoulder and started marching him out to the street. Parker stood there, furious.
He was tempted to interfere, but he could not afford to get involved in anything that might turn into a scandal. He stayed where he was, watching the boy disappear into the night.
The second man smiled at Kevin Parker sympathetically.
"You should choose your company more carefully. He's bad news." Parker took a closer look at the speaker. He was blond and attractive, with almost perfect features. Parker had a feeling that the evening might not be a total loss, after all.
"You could be right," he said.
"We never know what fate has in store for us, do we?" He was looking into Parker's eyes.
"No, we don't. My name's Tom. What's your name?" "Paul."
"Why don't you let me buy you a drink, Paul?" "Thank you."
"Do you have any special plans for tonight?" "That's up to you."
"How would you like to spend the night with me?" "That sounds like fun."
"How much money are we talking about?" "I like you. For you, two hundred." "That seems reasonable."
"It is. You won't be sorry."
Thirty minutes later, Paul was leading Kevin Parker into an old apartment building on Jefferson Street. They walked upstairs to the third floor and entered a small room. Parker looked around.
"It's not much, is it? A hotel would have been nicer." Paul grinned.
"It's more private here. Besides, all we need is the bed."
"You're right. Why don't you get undressed? I want to see what I'm buying."
"Sure." Paul started stripping. He had a great body. Parker watched him, and he felt the old familiar urge beginning to build.
"Now, you get undressed," Paul whispered. "Hurry, I want you."
"I want you too, Mary." Parker began to take off his clothes. "What do you like?"
Paul asked. "Lips or hips?"
"Let's make it a cocktail. Excuse the pun. We've got all night." "Sure. I'm going into the bathroom," Paul said.
"I'll be right back."
Parker lay on the bed naked, anticipating the exquisite pleasures that were about to happen. He heard his companion come out of the bathroom and approach the bed. He held out his arms.
"Come to me, Paul," he said. "I'm coming."
And Parker felt a burst of agony as a knife slashed into his chest. His eyes flew open. He looked up, gasping.
"My God, wha~?"
Paul was getting dressed.
"Don't worry about the money," he said. "It's on the house."
MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA CIA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
9. KEVIN PARKER-WASHINGTON, D.C.-TERMINATED END OF MESSAGE
Robert Bellamy missed the late news bulletin because he was on a plane to Hungary to find a man who owned a carnival.
Day Fourteen Budapest
The flight from Paris to Budapest on Malev Airlines took two hours and five minutes. Robert knew very little about Hungary except that during World War II, it had been a partner in the Axis, and had later become a Russian satellite. Robert took the airport bus to the center of Budapest, impressed by what he saw. The buildings were old and the
architecture classic. Parliament House on the Rudolph Quay was a huge, NeoGothic structure that dominated the city, and high above the city on Castle Hill was the Royal Palace. The streets were crowded with automobiles and shoppers.
The bus stopped in front of the Hotel Duna Intercontinental. Robert walked into the lobby and approached the concierge. "Excuse me," Robert said, "do you speak English?"
"Igan. Yes. What may I do for you?"
"A friend of mine was in Budapest a few days ago, and he told me he saw a wonderful carnival. I thought as long as I was in town, I might take a look at it. Can you tell me where I might find it?"
The concierge frowned. "Carnival?"
He pulled out a sheet of paper and scanned it.
"Let's see. In Budapest at the present time, we have an opera, several theater productions, ballet, night and day tours of the city, excursions in the country.. ." He looked up.
"I'm sorry. There are no carnivals." "Are you sure?"
The concierge handed the list to Robert.
"See for yourself." It was written in Hungarian. Robert handed it back.
"Right. Is there anyone else I might talk to about this?"
The concierge said, "The Ministry of Culture might be able to help you." Thirty minutes later, Robert was speaking to a clerk in the office of the Culture Ministry.
"There is no carnival in Budapest. Are you sure your friend saw it in Hungary?"
"Yes."
"But he did not say where?" "No."
"I am sorry. I cannot help you." The clerk was impatient.
"If there is nothing else-' "No." Robert rose to his feet. "Thank you." He hesitated.
"I do have one more question. If I wanted to bring a circus or a carnival into Hungary, would I have to get a permit?"
"Certainly."
"Where would I go for that?"
"To the Budapest Administration of Licenses."
The licenses building was located in Buda mplete medieval city wall. Robert waited for thirty minutes before he was ushered into the office of a formal, pompous official.
"Can I help you?" Robert smiled.
"I hope so. I hate to take up your time with something as trivial as this, but I'm here with my young son, and he heard about a carnival playing somewhere in Hungary, and I promised to take him to see it. You know how kids are when they get an idea in their heads."
The official stared at Robert, puzzled. "What is it you wanted to see me about?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, no one seems to know where the carnival is, and Hungary is such a big and beautiful country-well, I was told that if anyone knew what was going on in Hungary, it would be you."
The official nodded.
"Yes. Nothing like that is permitted to open without being issued a license." He pressed the buzzer, and a secretary came in. There was a rapid exchange in Hungarian. The secretary left and came back two minutes later with some papers. She handed them to the official. He looked at them and said to Robert, "In the past three months, we have issued two permits for carnivals. One closed a month ago."
"And the other?"
"The other is currently playing in Sopron. A little town near the German frontier."
"Do you have the owner's name?"
The official consulted the paper again. "Bushfekete. Laslo Bushfekete."
* Laslo Bushfekete was having one of the best days of his life. Few people are lucky enough to spend their lives doing exactly what they want to do, and Laslo Bushfekete was one of those fortunate few. At six foot four and three hundred pounds, Bushfekete was a big man. He sported a diamond wristwatch, diamond rings, and a large gold bracelet. His father had owned a small carnival, and when he died, the son had taken it over. It was the only life he had ever known. Laslo Bushfekete had grandiose dreams. He intended to expand his little carnival into the biggest and best in Europe. He wanted to be known as the P. T. Barnum of carnivals. At the moment, however, he could only afford the usual sideshow attractions: the Fat Lady and the Tattooed Man, the Siamese Twins and the Thousand-Year-Old Mummy, "dug up from the bowels of tombs in ancient Egypt." Theri there was the Sword Swallower and the Flame Eater, and the cute little Snake Charmer, Marika. But in the end, all they really added up to was just another traveling carnival.
Now, overnight, all that was going to change. Laslo Bushfekete's dream was about to come true.
He had gone to Switzerland to audition an escape artist he had heard about. The piece de resistance of the act was a routine where the performer was blindfolded, handcuffed, locked in a small trunk, then locked in a larger trunk, and finally lowered into a tank of water. It had sounded fantastic over the telephone, but when Bushfekete flew to Switzerland to see it, he found that there was one insurmountable problem: It took the escape artist thirty minutes to escape. No audience in the world was going to stay around staring at a trunk in a tank of water for thirty minutes. It had looked as though the trip had been a complete waste of time. Laslo Bushfekete had decided to take a tour to kill the day until it was time to catch his plane. As it turned out, that ride changed his life.
Like his fellow passengers, Bushfekete had seen the explosion and raced across the field to try to help any survivors in what they all thought was a plane crash. But the sight that had confronted him was incredible. There was no question but that it was a flying saucer, and in it were two strange-looking little bodies. The other passengers stood there gaping at it. Laslo Bushfekete had walked around to see what the back of the UFO looked like, and then he had stopped, staring.
About ten feet in back of the wreck, lying on the ground out of sight of the other tourists, was a tiny severed hand with six fingers and two opposing thumbs. Without even thinking, Bushfekete had taken out his handkerchief, scooped up the hand, and slipped it into his carryall.
His heart was beating wildly. He had in his possession the hand of a genuine extraterrestrial! From now on you can forget all your fat ladies, tattooed men, sword swallowers and flame eaters, he thought.
"Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, for the thrill of a lifetime. What you're about to see is a sat that no mortal has ever seen before.
You are looking at one of the most incredible objects in the universe.
It's not an animal. It's not a vegetable. It's not a mineral. What is it? It's part of the remains of an extraterrestrial... a creature from outer space. ... This is not science fiction, ladies and gentlemen, this is the real thing.... For five hundred forints, you can have your photograph taken with the..." And that reminded him. He hoped that the photographer who had been at the crash site would remember to send the photograph he had promised. He would have it blown up and put next to the exhibit. That would be a neat touch. Showmanship. That's what life is all about. Showmanship.
He could not wait to return to Hungary and start to fulfill his grandiose dream.
When he arrived home and unwrapped the handkerchief, he noticed that the hand had shriveled. But when Bushfekete rinsed off the dirt, amazingly, it regained its original firmness.
Bushfekete had hidden the hand safely away and had ordered an impressive glass case with a special humidifier built for it. When he was through exhibiting it in his carnival, he planned to travel with it all over Europe. All over the world. He would set up exhibits in museums. He would have private showings for scientists; perhaps, even for heads of state. And he would charge them all. There was no end to the fabulous fortune that lay ahead. He had told no one about his good luck, not even his sweetheart, Marika, the sexy little dancer who worked with cobras and puff adders, two of the most dangerous ophidians. Of course, their poison sacs had been removed, but the audience did not know that because Bushfekete also kept a cobra with its poison sac intact. He displayed the snake free of charge to the public, which watched it kill rats. It wasn't surprising that people got a thrill out of watching the beautiful Marika let her pet snakes slither across her sensuous,
half-naked body. Two or three nights a week, Marika came into Laslo Bushfekete's tent and crawled across his body, her tongue flicking in and out like her pets. They had made love the night before, and Bushfekete was still exhausted from Marika's incredible gymnastics. His reminiscences were interrupted by a visitor.
"Mr. Bushfekete?"
"You're talking to him. What can I do for you?"
"I understand you were in Switzerland last week." Bushfekete was instantly wary. Did someone see me pick up the hand? "What-what about it?"
"You went on a bus tour last Sunday?" Bushfekete said cautiously, "Yes."
Robert Bellamy relaxed. It was finally over. This was the last witness. He had taken on an impossible assignment, and he had done a good job. A damned good job, if I say so myself "IIehave no idea where
they are. Or who they are." And he had found them all. He felt as if a tremendous burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He was free now. Free to return home and to begin a new life.
"What about my trip, mister?"
"It's not important," Robert Bellamy assured him. And it wasn't, not any longer.
"I was interested in your fellow passengers, Mr. Bushfekete, but now I think I have all the information I need, so-"
"Oh, hell, I can tell you all about them," Laslo Bushfekete said.
"There was an Italian priest from Orvieto, Italy; a German-I think he was a chemistry professor from Munich; some Russian girl who worked in the library in Kiev; a rancher from Waco, Texas; a Canadlan banker from the Territories; and some lobbyist named Parker from Washington, D.C."
My God, Robert thought. If I had gotten ~ him first, I could have saved a lot of time. The man is amazing. He recalled them all.
"You have quite a memory," Robert said. "Yeah." Bushfekete smiled.
"Oh, and there was that other woman." "The Russian woman."
"No, no, the other woman. The tall, thin one who was dressed in white."
Robert thought for a moment. None of the others had mentioned a second woman.
"I think you must be mistaken."
"No, I'm not." Bushfekete was insistent.
"There were two women there." Robert made a mental count. It simply did not add up.
"There couldn't have been." Bushfekete was insulted.
"When that photographer fellow took the pictures of all of us in front of that UFO, she was standing right next to me. She was a real beauty." He paused.
"The funny part is I don't recall seeing her on the bus. She was probably in the back somewhere.
I remember she seemed kind of pale. I was a little worried about her." Robert frowned.
"When all of you returned to the bus, was she with you?"
"Come to think of it, I don't remember seeing her after that. But I was so excited by that UFO thing, I wasn't paying much attention."
There was something here that did not fit. Could there have been eleven witnesses instead of ten? I'll have to check that out, Robert thought.
"Thank you, Mr. Bushfekete," he said. "My pleasure."
"Good luck." Bushfekete grinned.
"Thanks." He didn't need luck.
Not anymore. Not with the hand of a real genuine alien in his possession.
That night Robert Bellamy made his final report to General Hilliard.
"I have his name. It's Laslo Bushfekete. He runs a carnival outside of
Sopron, Hungary."
"That's the last of the witnesses?" Robert hesitated an instant.
"Yes, sir." He had started to mention the eighth passenger, but he decided to wait until he had verified it. It seemed too improbable.
"Thank you, Commander. Well done." FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR HRQ EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
10. LASLO BUSHFEKETE-SOPRON END OF MESSAGE
They arrived in the middle of the night, when the carnival was shut
down. They left fifteen minutes later, as silently as they had come.
Laslo Bushfekete dreamed he was standing at the entrance to the large white tent, watching the huge crowd lined up at the box office to buy their five-hundred-forint tickets.
"Come right this way, folks. See the genuine body part of an alien from outer space. Not a drawing, not a photograph, but an actual part of an actual ET. Only five hundred forints for the thrill of a lifetime, a sight you will never forget."
And then he was in bed with Marika, and they were both naked, and he could feel her nipples pressing against his chest and her tongue slithering across his body and she was crawling all over him, and he got an erection, and he reached for her and his hands closed over something cold and slimy, and he woke up and opened his eyes and screamed, and that was when the cobra struck.
They found his body in the morning. The cage for the poisonous snake was empty.
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA HRQ TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
10. LASLO BUSHFEKETE-SOPRON-TERMINATED END OF MESSAGE
General Hilliard made a call on the red phone.
"Janus, I've received the final report from Commander Bellamy. He's found the last of the witnesses. They've all been taken care of."
"Excellent. I'll inform the others. I want you to proceed at once with the rest of our plan."
"Immediately."
FLASH MESSAGE TOP SECRET ULTRA
NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTORS: SIFAR, M16, GRU, CIA, COMSEC, DCI, CGHQ, BFV EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
11. COMMANDER ROBERT BELLAMY-TERMINATE END OF MESSAGE
Day Fifteen
Robert Bellamy was in a dilemma. Could there be an eleventh witness? And if there was, why didn't any of the others mention her before? The clerk who sold the bus tickets had told him there were only seven passengers. Robert was convinced that the Hungarian carnival owner had made a mistake. It would have been easy to ignore it, to assume that it was untrue, but Robert's training would not permit it.
He had been too well disciplined. Bushfekete's story had to be checked out. How? Robert thought about it. Hans Beckerman. The bus driver will know.
He placed a call to Sunshine Tours. The office was closed. There was no listing in Kappel for a Hans Beckerman.
I'm going to have to go back to Switzerland and settle this, Robert thought. I can't leave any loose ends. It was late at night when Robert arrived in Zurich.
The air was cold and crisp, and there was a full moon. Robert rented a car and took the now-familiar drive to the little village of Kappel. He drove past the church and pulled up in front of Hans Beckerman's home, convinced that he was on a wild-goose chase. The house was dark. Robert knocked on the door and waited. He knocked again, shivering in the cold night air.
Mrs. Beckerman finally answered the door. She was wearing a faded flannel robe.
"Bitte?"
"Mrs. Beckerman, I wonder if you remember me? I'm the reporter who's writing an article on Hans. I'm sorry to bother you so late, but it's important that I speak to your husband."
His words were greeted with silence. "Mrs. Beckerman?"
"Hans is dead." Robert felt a small shock go through him. "What?"
"My husband is dead." "I-I'm sorry. How?"
"His car went over the side of the mountain." Her voice was filled with
bitterness.
"The Dummkopf Polizei said it was because he was full of drugs." "Drugs?"
"Ulcers. The doctors cannot even give me drugs to relieve the pain. I am allergic to all of them."
"The police said it was an accident?" "Ja."
"Did they perform an autopsy?"
"They did, and they found drugs. It makes no sense." He had no answer.
"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Beckerman. I-" The door closed, and Robert stood there alone in the cold night. One witness was gone. N~two.
Leslie Mothershed had died in a fire. Robert stood thinking for a long time. Two witnesses dead. He could hear the voice of his instructor at the Farm: "There's one more thing I want to discuss today. Coincidence. In our work, there is no such animal. It usually spells danger. If you keep running into the same person again and again, or you keep spotting the same automobile when you're on the move, cover your ass. You're probably in trouble."
"Probably in trouble." Robert was caught up in a series of conflicting emotions. What had happened had to be coincidence, and yet ... I've got to check out the mystery passenger.
His first call was to Fort Smith, Canada. A distraught woman's voice answered the telephone.
"Yes?"
"William Mann, please."
The voice said tearfully, "I'm sorry. My husband iris no longer with us."
"I don't understand." "He committed suicide."
Suicide? That hardheaded banker? What the hell is going on?
Robert wondered. What he was thinking was inconceivable, and yet ... He began making one phone call after another.
"Professor Schmidt, please."
"Ach! The professor died in an explosion in his laboratory. "
"I'd like to speak to Dan Wayne."
"Poor devil. His prize stallion li:icked him to death last. .
* * "Laslo Bushfekete, please."
"The carnival's closed. Laslo is dead. "
"Fritz Mandel, please."
"Fritz was killed in a freak accident...." The alarms were going full blast now.
"Olga Romanchanko."
"The poor girl. And she was so young. "
"I'm calling to check on Father Patrini." "The poor soul passed away in his sleep." "I have to speak to Kevin Parker." "Kevin was murdered. "
Dead. Every one of the witnesses dead. And he was the one who had found and identified them. Why had he not known what was going on? Because the bastards had waited until he was out of each country before executing their victims. The only one he had reported to was General Hilliard.
"We must not involve anyone else in this mission.... I want you to report your progress to me every day."
They had used him to finger the witnesses. What is behind all this? Otto Schmidt had been killed in Gormany, Hans Beckerman and Fritz Mandel in Switzerland, Olga Romanchanko in Russia, Dan Wayne and Kevin Parker in America, William Mann in Canada, Leslie Mothershed America, William Mann in Canada, Leslie Mothershed in England, Father Patrini in Italy, and Laslo Bushfekete in Hungary. That meant that the security agencies in more than half a dozen countries were engaged in the biggest cover-up in history. Someone at a very high level had decided that all the witnesses to the UFO crash must die. But who? And why? It's an international conspiracy, and I'm in the middle of it.
Priority: Get under cover. It was hard for Robert to believe that they intended to kill him too. He was one of them. But until he knew for certain, he could not take any chances. The first thing he had to do was to get a phony passport. That meant Ricco in Rome.
Robert caught the next plane out and found himself fighting to stay awake. He had not realized how exhausted he was. The pressure of the last fifteen days, in addition to all the jet lag, had left him drained.
He landed at Leonardo da Vinci Airport, and when he walked into the terminal, the first person he saw was Susan. He stopped, in shock. Her back was to him, and for a moment, he thought he might be mistaken. And then he heard her voice.
"Thank you. I have a car picking me up." Robert moved to her side. "SusanShe turned, startled.
"Robert! What-what a coincidence! But what a lovely surprise."
"I thought you were in Gibraltar," Robert said. She smiled uneasily.
"Yes. We're on our way there. Monte had some business here to take care of first. We're leaving tonight. What are you doing in Rome?"
Running for my life.
"I'm finishing up on a job." It's my last.
I've quit, darling. We can be together from now on, and nothing will ever separate us again. Leave Monte and come back to me. But he could not bring himself to say the words. He had done enough to her. She was happy in her new life. Leave it alone, Robert thought. She was watching him.
"You look tired." He smiled.
"I've been running around a little." They looked into each other's eyes, and the magic was still there. The burning desire, and the memories, and the laughter, and the yearning.
Susan took his hand in hers and said softly, "Robert. Oh, Robert. I wish we-"
"Susan-" And at that moment, a burly man in a chauffeur's uniform walked up to Susan.
"The car is ready, Mrs. Banks." And the spell was broken. "Thank you." She turned to Robert.
"I'm sorry. I have to go now. Please take care of yourself."
"Sure." He watched her leave. There were so many things he wanted to say to her. Life has a lousy sense of timing. It had been wonderful seeing Susan again, but what was it that was troubling him? Of course!
Coincidence. Another coincidence. He took a taxi to the Hassler Hotel. "Welcome back, Commander."
"Thank you."
"I'll have a bellman take up your bags."
"Wait." Robert looked at his watch. Ten P.M. He was tempted to go upstairs and get some sleep, but he had to arrange his passport first.
"I won't be going to my room right away," Robert said.
"I would appreciate it if you would have my bags sent up." "of course, Commander."
As Robert turned to leave, the elevator door opened, and a group of Shriners came pouring out, laughing and chattering. They had obviously had a few drinks. One of them, a stout, red-faced man, waved to Robert.
"Hi there, buddy ... having a good time?" "Wonderful," Robert said.
"Just wonderful." Robert walked through the lobby to the taxi stand outside. As he started to get into the taxi, he noticed an inconspicuous gray Opel parked across the street.
It was too inconspicuous. It stood out among the large, luxurious automobiles around it.
"Via Monte Grappa," Robert told the taxi driver. During the drive, Robert looked out the rear window. No gray Opel. I'm getting jumpy, Robert thought. When they arrived at Via Monte Grappa, Robert got out at the corner. As he started to pay the driver, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the gray Opel half a block down the street, yet he could have sworn it had not followed him. He pad his fare and started walking, moving away from the car, strolling slowly, stopping to look in shop windows. In the reflection of a store window, he saw the Opel, moving slowly behind him. When Robert reached the next corner, he noticed that it was a one-way street. He turned into it, going against the heavy traffic. The Opel hesitated at the corner, then sped away to beat Robert to the other end. Robert reversed direction and walked back to the Via Monte Grappa. The Opel was nowhere in sight.
Robert hailed a taxi. "Via Monticelli."
The building was old and unprepossessing, a relic of better days.
Robert had visited it many times before on various missions. He walked down three basement steps and knocked on the door. An eye appeared at the peephole, and a moment later the door was flung open.
"Roberto!" a man exclaimed. He threw his arms around Robert. "How are you, mi amico?"
The speaker was a fat man in his sixties with white, unshaven stubble, thick eyebrows, yellowed teeth, and several chins. He closed the door behind him and locked it.
"I'm fine, Ricco."
Ricco had no second name.
"For a man like me," he liked to boast, "one name is enough. Like Garbo."
"What can I do for you today, my friend?"
"I'm working on a case," Robert said, "and I'm in a hurry. Can you fix me up with a passport?"
Ricco smiled.
"Is the pope Catholic?"
He waddled over to a cabinet in the corner and unlocked it. "What country would you like to be from?"
He pulled out a handful of passports with different colored covers and sorted through them.
"We have a Greek passport, Turkish, Yugoslavian, English-" "American," Robert said.
Ricco pulled out a passport with a blue cover.
"Here we are. Does the name Arthur Butterfield appeal to you?" "Perfect," Robert said.
"If you'll stand over by the wall, I will take your picture."
Robert moved over to the wall. Ricco opened a drawer and took out a Polaroid camera. A minute later, Robert was looking at a picture of himself.
"I wasn't smiling," Robert said. Ricco looked at him, puzzled. "What?"
"I wasn't smiling. Take another one." Ricco shrugged. "Sure.
Whatever you say." Robert smiled while the second passport picture was taken. He looked at it and said, "That's better." He casually slipped the first picture into his pocket.
"Now comes the high-tech part," Ricco announced. Robert watched as Ricco walked over to a workbench where there was a laminating machine. He placed the picture on the inside of the passport. Robert moved to a table covered with pens, ink, and other paraphernalia and slipped a razor blade and a small bottle of glue into his jacket pocket.
Ricco was studying his handiwork. "Not bad," he said.
He handed the passport to Robert. "That will be five thousand dollars."
"And well worth it," Robert assured him, as he peeled off 10 five-hundred-dollar bills.
"It's always a pleasure doing business with you people. You know how I feel about you." Robert knew exactly how he felt. Ricco was an expert cobbler who worked for half a dozen different governments-and was loyal to none. He put the passport in his coat pocket.
"Good luck, Mr. Butterfield." Ricco smiled. "Thanks."
The moment the door closed behind Robert, Ricco reached for the telephone. Information was always worth money to someone.
Outside, twenty yards down the street, Robert took the new passport out of his pocket and buried it in a trash can.
Chalf. The technique he had used as a pilot to lay false trails for enemy missiles. Let them look for Arthur Butterfield.
The gray Opel was parked half a block away. Waiting. Impossible.
Robert was sure that the car was the only tail they had. He was certain the Opel had not followed him, and yet it kept finding him. They had to have some way of keeping track of his location. There was only one answer: They were using some kind of homing device. And he had to be carrying it. Attached to his clothes? No. They had had no opportunity. Captain Dougherty had stayed with him while he packed, but he would not
have known what clothes Robert would take. Robert made a mental inventory of what he was carryingcash, keys, a wallet, handkerchief, credit card. The credit card! "I doubt if I'll need that, General."
"Take it. And keep it with you at all times."
The sneaky sonofabitch. No wonder they had been able to find him so easily. The gray Opel was no longer in sight.
Robert took out the card and examined it. It was slightly thicker than an ordinary credit card. By squeezing it, he could feel an inner layer. They would have a remote control to activate the card. Good, Robert thought.
Let's keep the bastards busy.
There were several trucks parked along the street loading and unloading goods. Robert examined the license plates. When he came to a red truck with French plates, he looked around to make sure he was not observed and tossed the card in the back of the truck.
He flagged down a taxi.
"Hassler, per favore." In the lobby, Robert approached the concierge. "See if there's a flight out of here tonight to Paris, please." "Certainly, Commander. Do you prefer any particular airline?"
"It doesn't matter. The first flight out." "I will be happy to arrange it."
"Thank you." Robert walked over to the hotel clerk.
"My key, please. Room 314. And I'll be checking out in a few minutes."
"Very good, Commander Bellamy." The clerk reached in a pigeonhole and pulled out a key and an envelope.
"There's a letter here for you."
Robert stiffened. The envelope was sealed and addressed simply: "Commander Robert Bellamy." He fingered it, feeling for plastique or any metal inside. He opened it carefully. Inside was a printed card advertising an Italian restaurant. It was innocent enough. Except, of course, for his name on the envelope.
"Do you happen to remember who gave you this?"
"I'm sorry," the clerk said apologetically, "but we have been so busy this evening. "
It was not important. The man would have been face less. He would have
picked up the card somewhere, slipped it into the envelope, and stood by the desk, watching to see the room number of the slot that the envelope was placed in. He would be waiting upstairs now in Robert's room. It was time to see the face of the enemy.
Robert became aware of raised voices and turned to watch the Shriners he had seen earlier, entering the lobby, laughing and singing.
They had obviously had a few more drinks. The portly man said, "Hi there, pal. You missed a great party."
Robert's mind was racing. "You like patties?"
"Hoo hoo!"
"There's a real live one going on u~," Robert said. "Booze, girls-anything you want. Just follow me, fellows."
"That's the American spirit, pal." The man clapped Robert on the back. "You hear that, boys? our friend here is throwing a party!"
They crowded into the elevator together and rode up to the third floor.
The Shriner said, "These Italians sure know how to live it up. I guess they invented orgies, huh?"
"I'm going to show you a real orgy," Robert promised. They followed him down the hall to his room. Robert put the key in the lock and turned to the group.
"Are you all ready to have some fun?" There was a chorus of yeses...
Robert turned the key, pushed the door open, and stepped to one side. The room was dark. He snapped on the light. A tall, thin stranger was standing in the middle of the room with a Mauser equipped with a silencer, half drawn. The man looked at the group with a startled expression and quickly shoved the gun back in his jacket.
"Hey! Where's the booze?" one of the Shriners demanded.
Robert pointed to the stranger.
"He has it. Go get it." The group surged toward the man. "Where's the liquor, buddy?"...
"Where are the girls?"...
"Let's get this party on the road. "
The thin man was trying to get through to Robert, but the crowd was blocking his way. He watched helplessly as Robert bolted out the door. He took the stairs two at a time.
Downstairs in the lobby, Robert was moving toward the exit when the concierge called out, "Oh, Commander Bellamy, I made your reservation for you. You are on Air France flight 312 to Paris. It leaves at one A.M."
"Thanks," Robert said hurriedly.
He was out the door, into the small square overlooking the Spanish Stems. A taxi was discharging a passenger. Robert stepped into it.
"Via Monte Grappa." He had his answer now. They intended to kill him.
They',- not going to find it easy. He was the hunted now instead of the hunter, but he had one big advantage. They had trained him well. He knew all their techniques, their strengths, and their weaknesses, and he intended to use that knowledge to stop them. First, he had to find a way to throw them off his trail. The men after him would have been given a story of some kind. They would have been told he was wanted for smuggling drugs, or for murder, or espionage. They would have been warned: He's dangerous. Take no chances. Shoot to kill.
Robert said to the taxi driver, "Roma Termini." They were hunting for him, but they would not have had enough time to disseminate his photograph. So far, he was faceless.
The taxi pulled up at Via Giovanni Giolitti 36, and the driver announced, "Stazione Termini, signore."
"Let's just wait here a minute." Robert sat in the taxi, studying the front of the railway station. There seemed to be only the usual activity. Everything appeared to be normal. Taxis and limousines were arriving and de~ing, discharging and picking up passengers. Porters were loading and unloading luggage. A policeman was busily ordering cars to move out of the restricted parking one. But something was disturbing Robert. He suddenly realized what was wrong with the picture. Parked fly in front of the station, in a no-parking zone, were three unmarked sedans, with no one inside. The policeman ignored them.
"I've changed my mind," Robert said to the driver.
"Via Veneto 110/A." It was the last place anyone would look for him. The American Embassy and Consulate are located in a pink stucco building facing the Via Veneto, with a black wrought-iron fence in front of it.
The embassy was closed at this hour, but the passport division of the consulate was open on a twenty.four-hour basis to handle emergencies. In the foyer on the first floor, a marine sat behind a desk.
The marine looked up as Robert approached. "May I help you, sir?"
"Yes," Robert said.
"I want to inquire about getting a new passport. I lost mine." "Are you an American citizen?"
"Yes."
The marine indicated an office at the far end. "They'll take care of you in there, sir. Last door." "Thank you."
There were half a dozen people in the room applying for passports, reporting lost ones, and getting renewals and visas.
"Do I need a visa to visit Albania? I have relatives there. "
"I need this passport renewed by tonight. I have a plane to catch. "
"I don't know what happened to it. I must have left it in Milan. "
"They grabbed my passport right out of my purse...." Robert stood there listening. Stealing passports was a thriving cottage industry in Italy. Someone here would be getting a new passport. At the head of the line was a welldressed, middle-aged man being handed an American passport.
"Here is your new passport, Mr. Cowan. I'm sorry you had such a bad experience. I'm afraid there are a lot of pickpockets in Rome."
"I'll sure see to it that they don't get hold of this one," Cowan said. "You do that, sir."
Robert watched Cowan put the passport in his jacket pocket and turn to leave. Robert stepped ahead of him. As a woman brushed by, Robert lunged into Cowan, as if he had been pushed, almost knocking him down.
"I'm terribly sorry," Robert apologized. He leaned over and straightened the man's jacket for him.
"No problem," Cowan said.
Robert turned and walked into the public men's room down the hall, the stranger's passport in his pocket. He looked around to make sure he was alone, then went into one of the booths. He took out the razor blade and bottle of glue he had stolen from Ricco. Very carefully, he slit the top of the plastic and removed Cowan's photograph. Next, he
inserted the picture of himself that Ricco had taken. He glued the top of the plastic slot closed and examined his handiwork. Perfect. He was now Henry Cowan. Five minutes later, he was out in the Via Veneto, getting into a taxi.
"Leonardo da Vinci." It was twelve.thirty when Robert arrived at the airport. He stood outside, looking for anything unusual. On the surface, everything appeared to be normal. No police cars, no suspicious.looking men. Robert entered the terminal and stopped just inside the door. There were various airline counters scattered around the large terminal. There seemed to be no one loitering or hiding behind posts. He stayed where he was, wary. He could not explain it, even to himself, but somehow everything seemed too normal.
Across the room was an Air France counter.
"You are on Air France flight 312 to Paris. . . . It leaves at one Robert walked past the counter and approached a woman in uniform behind the Alitalia counter.
"Good evening."
"Good evening. Can I help you, signore?" "Yes," Robert said.
"Would you please page Commander Robert Bellamy to come to the courtesy telephone?"
"Certainly," she said. She picked up a microphone. A few feet away, a fat middle-aged woman was checking a number of suitcases, heatedly arguing with an airline attendant about overweight fees.
"In America, they never charged me for overweight."
"I'm sorry, madam. But if you wish all these bags to go on, you must pay for excess baggage."
Robert moved closer. He heard the attendant's voice over the loudspeaker.
"Will Commander Robert Bellamy please come to the white courtesy telephone. Commander Robert Bellamy, please come to the white courtesy telephone." The announcement echoed throughout the airport.
A man holding a carry-on bag was walking past Robert. "Excuse me," Robert said. The man turned."
"Yes?"
"I hear my wife paging me, but"-he indicated the woman's bags-"I can't leave my luggage." He pulled out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to the man.
"Would you please go over to that white telephone and tell her I'll pick her up at our hotel in an hour? I'd really appreciate it." The man looked at the ten-dollar bill in his hand.
"Sure."
Robert watched him walk over to the courtesy telephone and pick it up. He held the receiver to his ear and said, "Hello? ... Hello?
The next moment, four large men in black suits appeared from nowhere and closed in, pinning the hapless man to the wall.
"Hey! What is this?"
"Let's do this quietly," one of the men said.
"What do you think you're doing? Got your hands off me!" "Don't make a fuss, Commander. There's no point"
"Commander? You've got the wrong man! My name is Melvyn Davis. I'm from Omaha!"
"Let's not play games."
"Wait a minute! I've been set up. The man you want is over there!" He pointed to where Robert had been standing.
There was no one there.
Outside the terminal, an airport bus was getting ready to depart.
Robert boarded it, mingling with the other passengers. He sat at the back of the bus, concentrating on his next move.
He was desperate to talk to Admiral Whittaker to try to get answers about what was going on, to learn who was responsible for killing innocent people because they had witnessed something they were not supposed to have seen. Was it General Hilliard? Dustin Thornton? Or Thornton's father-in-law, Willard Stone, the man of mystery. Could he be involved in this in some way? Was it Edward Sanderson, the director of NSA? Could they be working together? Did it go as high as the President? Robert needed answers.
The bus trip into Rome took an hour. When the bus stopped in front of the Eden Hotel, Robert disembarked.
I've got to get out of the country, Robert thought. There was only one man in Rome he could trust. Colonel Francesco Cesar, head of SIFAR, the Italian Secret Service. He was going to be Robert's escape from Italy. Colonel Cesar was working late. Messages had been flashing back and forth among foreign security agencies, and they all involved Commander
Robert Bellamy. Colonel Cesar had worked with Robert in the past, and he was very fond of him. Cesar sighed as he looked at the latest message in front of him. Terminate. And as he was reading it, his secretary came into the office.
"Commander Bellamy is on line one for you." "The Lido bar in Trastevere."
"Wait right there. I'll see you in exactly one hour."
"Thanks, amico." Robert replaced the receiver. It was going to be a long hour.
Thirty minutes later, two unmarked cars coasted to a stop ten yards from the Lido bar. There were four men in each car, and they were all carrying automatic weapons.
Colonel Cesar got out of the first car. "Let's do this quickly.
We don't want anyone else to get hurt. Andate al dietro, subito."
Half the men silently went around to cover the back of the building.
Robert Bellamy watched from the rooftop of the building across the street as Cesar and his men raised their weapons and charged into the bar.
All right, you bastards, Robert thought grimly, we'll play it your way. Day Sixteen Rome, Italy
Robert placed a call to Colonel Cesar from a phone booth in the Piazza del Duomo.
"Whatever happened to friendship?" Robert asked.
"Don't be naive, my friend. I'm under orders, just as you are. I can assure you, there is no use in your running.
You're at the head of every intelligence agency's most wanted list. Half the governments of the world are looking for you."
"Do you believe I'm a traitor?" Cesar sighed.
"It doesn't matter what I believe, Robert. This is nothing personal. I have my orders."
"To take me out."
"You can make it easier by turning yourself in."
"Thanks, paesano. If I need more advice, I'll call Dear Abby." He slammed down the receiver.
Robert was aware that the longer he was at large, the greater the danger he was in. There would be security agents closing in on him from half a dozen countries.
There has to be a tree, Robert thought. The line came from a legend about a hunter who was relating an experience he had on safari.
"This huge lion was racing toward me, and all my gun bearers had fled.
I had no gun, and there was nowhere to hide. Not a bush or a tree in sight. And the beast was charging straight at me, coming closer and closer."
"How did you escape?" a listener asked.
"1 ran over to the nearest tree and climbed it." "But you said there were no trees."
"You don't understand. There has to be a tree!" And I have to find it, Robert thought.
He looked around the piazza. It was almost deserted at this hour.
He decided it was time to have a talk with the man who had started him on this nightmare, General Hilliard. But he would have to be careful.
Modern electronic phone tracing was almost instantaneous. Robert observed that the two telephone booths next to the one he was in were both empty. Perfect. Ignoring the private number General Hilliard had given him, he dialed the switchboard of NSA. When an operator answered, Robert said, "General Hilliard's office, please."
A moment later, he heard a secretary's voice.
"Goneral Hilliard's office." Robert said, "Please hold for an overseas call." He dropped the receiver and hurried into the next booth. He quickly redialed the number. A different secretary answered, "General Hilliard's office."
"Please hold for an overseas call," Robert said. He let the receiver hang, walked into the third booth, and dialed. When another secretary answered, Robert said, "This is Commander Bellamy. I want to speak to General Hilliard."
There was a gasp of surprise.
"Just a moment, Commander." The secretary buzzed the intercom. "General, Commander Bellamy is on line three."
General Hilliard turned to Harrison Keller. "Bellamy is on line three. Start a trace, fast."
Harrison Keller hurried over to a telephone on a side table and dialed the Network Operations Center, manned and monitored twenty-four hours a day. The senior officer on duty answered.
"NOC. Adams."
"How long will it take to do an emergency trace on an incoming call?" Keller whispered.
"Between one and two minutes."
"Start it. General Hilliard's office, line three. I'll hang on." He looked over at the general and nodded. General Hilliard picked up the telephone.
"Commander-is that you?"
In the operations center, Adams punched a number into a computer. "Here we go," he said.
"I thought it was time you and I had a talk, General."
"I'm glad you called, Commander. Why don't you come in and we can discuss the situation? I'll arrange a plane for you, and you can be here in-"
"No thanks. Too many accidents happen in airplanes, General."
In the communications room, ESS, the electronic switching system had been activated. The computer screen began lighting up. AX121-B ...
Ax122-C ... AX123C...
"What's happening?"
Keller whispered into the phone.
"The Network Operations Center in New Jersey is searching the Washington, D.C., trunks, sir. Hold on."
The screen went blank. Then the words Overseas Trunk Line One flashed onto the screen.
"The call is coming from somewhere in Europe. We're tracing the country. "
General Hilliard was saying, "Commander Bellamy, I think there's been a misunderstanding. I have a suggestion.
Robert replaced the receiver.
General Hilliard looked over at Keller. "Did you get it?"
Harrison Keller talked into the phone to Adams. "What happened?"
"We lost him."
Robert moved into the second booth and picked up the telephone.
General Hilliard's secretary said, "Commander Bellamy is calling on line two."
The two men looked at each other. Gonersl Hilliard pressed the button for line two.
"Commander?"
"Let me make a suggestion," Robert said. General Hilliard put his hand over the mouthpiece.
"Get the trace working again."
Harrison Keller picked up the telephone and said to Adams, "He's on again. Line two. Move fast."
"Right."
"My suggestion, General, is that you call off all your men. And I mean now."
"I think you misunderstand the situation, Commander. We can work this problem out J~ "I'll tell you how we can work it out. There's a termination order out on me. I want you to cancel it."
In the Network Operations Center, the computer screen was flashing a new message: AXJ55-C Subtrunk A21 verified. Circuit 301 to Rome.
Atlantic Trunk 1.
"We've got it," Adams said into the phone. "We've traced the trunk to Rome."
"Get me the number and location," Keller told him. In Rome Robert was glancing at his watch.
"You gave me an assignment. I carried it out."
"You did very well, Commander. Here is what IThe line went dead. The general turned to Keller.
"He hung up, again." Keller spoke into the phone, "Did you get it?" "Too quick, sir."
Robert moved into the next booth and picked up the telephone. General Hilliard's secretary's voice came over the intercom. "Commander Bellamy is on line one, General."
The general snapped, "Find the bastard!" He picked up the telephone. "Commander?"
"I want you to listen, General, and listen closely. You've murdered a lot of innocent people. If you don't call off your men, I'm going to the media and tell them what's going on."
"I wouldn't advise you to do that, unless you want to start a worldwide panic. The aliens are real, and we're defenseless against them. They're getting ready to make their move. You have no idea what would happen if word of this leaked out."
"Neither have you," Bellamy retorted.
"I'm not giving you a choice. Call off the contract on me. If there's one more attempt made on my life, I'm going public."
"All right," General Hilliard said.
"You win. I'll call it off. Why don't we do this? We can-" "Your trace should be working pretty good, now," Robert said. "Have a good day." The connection was broken.
"Did you get it?"
Keller barked into the phone. Adams said, "Close, sir. He was calling from an area in central Rome. He kept switching numbers on us."
The general looked over at Keller.
"Well?"
"I'm sorry, General. All we know is that he's somewhere in Rome.
Do you believe his threat? Are we going to call off the contract on him?"
"No. We're going to eliminate him."
Robert went over his options again. They were pitifully few. They would be watching the airports, railroad stations, bus terminals, and rental-car agencies. He could not check into a hotel because SIFAR would be circulating red notices. Yet he had to get out of Rome. He needed a cover. A companion. They would not be looking for a man and a woman together. It was a beginning. A taxi was standing at the corner.
Robert museed his hair, pulled down his tie, and staggered drunkenly toward the taxi.
"Hey, there," he called.
"You!" The driver looked at him distastefully. Robert pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and slapped it into the man's hand.
"Hey, buddy, I'm looliin' a'get laid. You know what that' means? D'you speak any goddamn English?"
The driver looked at the bill. "You wish a woman?"
"You got it, pal. I wish a woman." "Andiamo," the driver said.
Robert lurched into the cab, and it took off. Robert looked back. He was not being followed. The adrenaline was pumping.
"lIalf the governments in the world are looking for you." And there would be no appeal. Their orders were to assassinate him.
Twenty minutes later they had reached Tor di Ounto, Rome's red-light district, populated by whores and pimps. They drove down Passeggiata Archeologica, and the driver pulled to a stop at a corner.
"You will find a woman here," he said.
"Thanks, buddy." Robert paid the amount on the meter and stumbled out of the taxi. It pulled away with a squeal of tires.
Robert looked around, studying his surroundings. No police. A few cars and a handful of pedestrians. There were more than a dozen whores cruising the street. In the spirit of "Let's round up the usual
suspects," the police had conducted their bimonthly sweep to satisfy the voices of morality and moved the city's prostitutes from the Via Veneto, with its high visibility, to this area, where they would not offend the dowagers taking tea at Doney's. For that reason, most of the ladies were attractive and well-dressed. There was one in particular who caught Robert's eye. She appeared to be in her early twenties. She had long, dark hair and was dressed in a tasteful black skirt and white blouse, over which she wore a camel-hair coat. Robert guessed that she was a part-time actress or model. She was watching Robert. Robert staggered up to her.
"Hi, baby," he mumbled. "D'you speak English?" "Yes."
"Good. Le's you an' me have a party." She smiled uncertainly. Drvnks could be trouble.
"Maybe you should go sober up first." She had a soft Italian accent. "Hey, I'm sober enough."
"It will cost you a hundred dollars." "That's okay, honey."
She made her decision.
"Va bene. Come. There is a hotel just around the corner." "Great. What's your name, baby?"
"Pier."
"Mine's Henry." A police car appeared in the distance, headed their way.
"Let's get outta here."
The other women cast envious glances as Pier and her American customer walked away.
The hotel was no Hassler, but the pimply faced boy at the desk downstairs did not ask for a passport. In fact, he barely glanced up as he handed Pier a key.
"Fifty thousand lira."
Pier looked at Robert. He took the money from his pocket and gave it to the boy.
The room they entered contained a large bed in the corner, a small table, two wooden chairs, and a mirror over the sink. There was a clothes rack in back of the door.
"You must pay me in advance."
"Sure." Robert counted out one hundred dollars. "Grazie."
Pier began to get undressed. Robert walked over to the window. He pushed aside a corner of the curtain and peered out. Everything appeared to be normal. He hoped that by now the police were following the red truck back to France. Robert dropped the curtain and turned around. Pier was naked. She had a surprisingly lovely body.
Firm, young breasts, rounded hips, a small waist, and long, shapely legs.
She was watching Robert.
"Aren't you going to get undressed, Henry?"
This was the tricky part. .... . tell you the truth," Robert said, "I think I had a little too much to drink. I can't give you any action." She was regarding him with wary eyes.
"Then why did you-?"
"If I stay here and sleep it off, we can make love in the morning." She shrugged.
"I have to work. It would cost me money to-"
"Don't worry. I'll take care of that." He pulled out several hundred-dollar bills and handed them to her.
"Will that cover it?"
Pier looked at the money, making up her mind. It was tempting. It was cold outside, and business was slow. On the other hand, there was something strange about this man. First of all, he did not really seem to be drunk. He was nicely dressed, and for this much money, he could have checked them into a fine hotel. Well, Pier thought, what the hell?
Questo cazzo se ne frega? "All right. There's only this bed for the two of us."
"That's fine."
Pier watched as Robert walked over to the window again and moved the edge of the curtain aside.
"You are looking for something?"
"Is there a back door out of the hotel?"
What am I getting myself into? Pier wondered. Her best friend had been murdered hanging out with mobsters. Pier considered herself wise in the ways of men, but this one puzzled her.
He did not seem like a criminal, but still.. . "Yes, there is," she said.
There was a sudden scream, and Robert whirled around.
"Dio! Dio! Sono venuta tre volte!" It was a woman's voice, coming from the next room through the paper-thin walls.
"What's that?"
Robert's heart was pounding. Pier grinned.
"She's having fun. She said she just came for the third time." Robert heard the creaking of bed springs.
"Are you going to bed?"
Pier stood there naked, unembarrassed, watching him. "Sure." Robert sat down on the bed.
"Aren't you going to get undressed?" "No."
"Suit yourself." Pier moved over to the bed and lay down beside Robert. "I hope you don't snore," Pier said.
"You can tell me in the morning."
Robert had no intention of sleeping. He wanted to check the street during the night to make sure they did not come to the hotel. They would get around to these small, third-class hotels eventually, but it would take them time. They had too many other places to cover first.
He lay there, feeling bone-tired, and closed his eyes for a moment to rest. He slept. He was back home, in his own bed, and he felt Susan's warm body next to his. She's back, he thought, happily. She's come back to me. Baby, I've missed you so much.
Day Seventeen Rome, Italy
Robert was awakened by the sun hitting his face. He sat up abruptly,
looking around for an instant in alarm, disoriented. When he saw Pier, memory flooded back. He relaxed. Pier was at the mirror, brushing her hair.
"Buon giorno," she said.
"You do not snore." Robert looked at his watch Nine o'clock. He had wasted precious hours.
"Do you want to make love now? You have already paid for it." "That's all right," Robert said.
Pier, naked and provocative, walked over to the bed. "Are you sure?"
I couldn't if I wanted to, lady. "I'm sure."
"Va bene."
She began to dress. She asked casually, "Who is Susan?" The question caught him off guard.
"Susan? What made you ask?" "You talk in your sleep."
He remembered his dream. Susan had come back to him. Maybe it was a sign.
"She's a friend." She's my wife. She's going to get tired of Moneybags and return to me some day. If I'm still alive, that is.
Robert walked over to the window. He lifted the curtain and looked out. The street was crowded now with pedestrians and merchants opening up their shops. There were no signs of danger.
It was time to put his plan into motion. He turned to the girl. "Pier, how would you like to go on a little trip with me?"
She looked at him with suspicion. "A trip-where?"
"I have to go to Venice on business, and I hate traveling alone. Do you like Venice?"
"Yes. "
"Good. I'll pay you for your time, and we'll have a little holiday together." He was staring out the window again.
"I know a lovely hotel there. The Cipriani." Years ago he and Susan had stayed at the Royal Danieli, but he had been back since, and it had become sadly run down, and the beds were impossible. The only thing that remained of the hotel's former elegance was Luciano, at the reception desk.
"It will cost you a thousand dollars a day." She was ready to settle for five hundred.
"It's a deal." Robert said. He counted out two thousand dollars. "We'll start with this."
Pier hesitated. She had a premonition that something was wrong.
But the start of the movie she had been promised a bit part in had been delayed, and she needed the money.
"Very well," she said. "Let's go."
Downstairs, Pier watched him scan the street carefully before stepping out to hail a taxi. He's a target for somebody, Pier thought.
I'm getting out of here.
"Look," Pier said, "I'm not sure I should go to Venice with you. I-"
"We're going to have a great time," Robert told her. Directly across the street he saw a jewelry store. He took Pier's hand.
"Come on I'm going to get you something pretty."
"But-" He led her across the street to the jewelry store. The clerk behind the counter said, "Buon giorno, signore. Can I help you?"
"Yes," Robert said.
"We're looking for something lovely for the lady." He turned to Pier. "Do you like emeralds?"
"I-yes."
Robert said to the clerk, "Do you have an emerald bracelet?"
"Si, signore. I have a beautiful emerald bracelet." He walked over to
a case and took out a bracelet.
"This is our finest. It is fifteen thousand dollars." Robert looked at Pier.
"Do you like it?"
She was speechless. She nodded.
"We'll take it," Robert said. He handed the clerk his ONI credit card.
"One moment, please." The clerk disappeared into the back room. When he returned, he said, "Shall I wrap it for you, or-?"
"No. My friend will wear it." Robert put the bracelet on Pier's wrist. She was staring at it, stunned.
Robert said, "That will look pretty in Venice, won't it?" Pier smiled up at him.
"Very."
When they were out on the street, Pier said, "I-I don't know how to thank you."
"I just want you to have a good time," Robert told her. "Do you have a car?"
"No. I used to have an old one, but it was stolen." "Do you still have your driver's license?"
She was watching him, puzzled.
"Yes, but without a car, what good is a driver's license?" "You'll see. Let's get out of here." He hailed a taxi. "Via Po, please."
She sat in the taxi, studying him. Why was he so eager for her company? He had not even touched her. Could he be-?
"Qui!" Robert called to the driver. They were a hundred yards away from Maggiore's Car Rental Agency.
"We're getting out here," Robert told Peer. He paid the driver and waited until the taxi was out of sight. He handed Pier a large bundle of bank notes.
"I want you to rent a car for us. Ask for a Fiat or an Alfa Romeo. Tell
them we'll want it for four or five days. This money will cover the deposit. Rent it in your name. I'll wait for you in the bar across the street."
Less than eight blocks away, two detectives were questioning the hapless driver of a red truck with French license plates.
"Vous me faites chier. I have no idea how the fuck that card got in the back of my truck," the driver screamed.
"Some crazy Italian probably put it in there."
The two detectives looked at each other. One of them said, "I'll phone it in."
Francesco Cesar sat at his desk, thinking about the latest development. Earlier the assignment had seemed so simple.
"You won't have any trouble finding him. When the time comes, we will activate the homing device, and it will lead you right to him." Someone had obviously underestimated Commander Bellamy.
Colonel Frank Johnson was seated in Goneral Hilliard's office, his huge frame filling the chair.
"We have half the agents in Europe looking for him," General Hilliard said.
"So far, they've had no luck."
"It's going to take more than luck," Colonel Johnson said. "Bellamy's good."
"We know he's in Rome. The sonofabitch just charged a bracelet for fifteen thousand dollars. We have him bottled up. There's no way he can get out of Italy. We know the name he's using on his
passport--Arthur Butterfield." Colonel Johnson shook his head.
"If I know Bellamy, you haven't a clue about what name he's using. The only thing you can count on is that Bellamy won't do what you count on him to do.
We're after a man who's as good as the best in the business. Maybe better. If there's any place to run, Bellamy will run there. If there's any place to hide, he'll hide there. I think our best bet is to bring him out in the open, to smoke him out. Right now, he's controlling all the moves. We have to take the initiative away from him."
"You mean, go public? Give it to the press?" "Exactly."
General Hilliard pursed his lips.
"That's going to be touchy. We can't afford to expose ourselves." "We won't have to. We'll put out a release that he's wanted on a
drug-smuggling charge. That way we can get Interpol and all the police departments in Europe involved without tipping our hand."
General Hilliard thought about it for a moment. "I like it."
"Good. I'm leaving for Rome," Colonel Johnson said.
"I'm going to take charge of the hunt myself." When Colonel Frank Johnson returned to his office, he was in a thoughtful mood. He was playing a dangerous game. There was no question about it. He had to find Commander Bellamy.
Robert listened to the phone ring again and again. It was six A.M. in Washington. I'm always waking the old man up, Robert thought.
The admiral answered on the sixth ring. "Hello"
"Admiral, I-" "Robert! Wha~?"
"Don't say anything. Your phone is probably bugged.
I'm going to make this fast. I just wanted to tell you not to believe anything they're saying about me. I'd like you to try to find out what's going on. I may need your help later."
"Of course. Anything I can do, Robert." "I know."
"I'll call you later."
Robert replaced the receiver. No time for a trace. He saw a blue Fiat pull up outside the bar. Pier was at the wheel.
"Move over," Robert said.
"I'll drive." Pier made room for him as he slid in behind the wheel. "Are we on our way to Venice?"
Pier asked.
"Uh-huh. We have a couple of stops to make first." It was time to spread some more chaff around. He turned onto Viale Rossini. Ahead was the Rossini Travel Service. Robert pulled over to the curb.
"I'll be back in a minute."
Pier watched him walk into the travel agency. I could just drive away, she thought, and keep the money, and he would never find me. But the damn car is rented in my name. Cacchio!
Inside the agency, Robert walked up to the woman behind the counter. "Good day. May I help you?"
"Yes. I'm Commander Robert Bellamy. I'm going to do a bit of traveling," Robert told her.
"I'd like to make some reservations." She smiled.
"That's what we are here for, signore. Where are you planning to go?" "I'd like a first-class airline ticket to Beijing, oneway."
She made a note.
"And when would you like to leave?" "This Friday."
"Very good." She pressed some keys on a computer.
"There's an Air China flight leaving at seven forty P.M. Friday night." "That will do nicely."
She pressed some more keys.
"There we are. Your reservation is confirmed. Will that be cash or-?"
"Oh, I'm not through yet. I want to reserve a train ticket to Budapest."
"And when would that be, Commander?" "Next Monday."
"And in what name?" "The same."
She looked at him strangely.
"You are flying to Beijing on Friday and" "I'm not finished," Robert said pleasantly.
"I want a one-way airline ticket to Miami, Florida, on Sunday." Now she was openly staring at him.
"5 ignore, if this is some kind of a Robert pulled out his ONI credit card and handed it to her.
"Just charge the tickets to this card." She studied it a moment.
"Excuse me." She went into the back office and came out a few minutes later.
"That will be perfectly all right. We will be happy to make the arrangements. Do you wish all the reservations under one name?"
"Yes. Commander Robert Bellamy." "Very good."
Robert watched as she pressed more buttons on the computer. A minute later, three tickets appeared. She tore them off the printer.
"Please put the tickets in separate envelopes," Robert said. "Of course. Would you like me to send them ~?"
"I'll take them with me." "Si, signore."
Robert signed the credit card slip, and she handed him his receipt. "There you are. Have a nice tri~trip~r-" Robert grinned. "Thanks." A minute later he was behind the wheel of the car.
"Are we going now?" Pier asked.
"We have just a few more stops to make," Robert said. Pier watched him carefully scan the street again be fore pulling out.
"I want you to do something for me," Robert told her. Now it's coming, Pier thought.
He's going to ask me to do something terrible.
"What is it?" she asked.
They had stopped in front of the Hotel Victoria. Robert handed Pier one of the envelopes.
"I want you to go to the desk and reserve a suite in the name of Commander Robert Bellamy. Tell them you're his secretary and that he'll be arriving in an hour, but that you want to go up to the suite and approve it. When you get inside, leave this envelope on a table in the room."
She looked at him puzzled. "That's all?"
"That's all." The man made no sense at all.
"Bene.~' She wished she knew what the crazy American was up to. And who is Commander Robert Bellamy? Pier got out of the car and walked into the lobby of the hotel. She was a bit nervous. In the course of practicing her profession, she had been thrown out of a few first-class hotels. But the clerk behind the desk greeted her politely.
"May I help you, signora?"
"I am the secretary to Commander Robert Bellamy. I wish to reserve a suite for him. He will be here in an hour."
The clerk consulted the room chart.
"We do happen to have one very nice suite available." "May I see it, please?"
Pier asked.
"Certainly. I'll have someone show it to you." An assistant manager escorted Pier upstairs.
They walked into the living room of the suite and Pier looked around. "Will this be satisfactory, signora?"
Pier had not the faintest idea. "Yes, this will be fine."
She removed the envelope from her purse and laid it on a coffee table. "I wi=l leave this here for the commander," she said.
"Bene."
Curiosity got the better of Pier. She opened the envelope. Inside was a one-way plane ticket to Beijing in the name of Robert Bellamy.
Pier put the ticket back in the envelope, left it on the table, and went downstairs. The blue Fiat was parked in front of the hotel.
"Any problem?" Robert asked. "No."
"We have just two more stops to make, and then we're on our way," Robert said cheerfully.
The next stop was the Hotel Valadier. Robert handed Pier ayother envelope.
"I want you to reserve a suite here in the name of Commander Robert Bellamy. Tell them he'll be checking in within an hour. Then "I leave the envelope upstairs."
"Right."
This time Pier walked into the hotel with more confidence. Just act like a lady, she thought. You've got to have dignity. That's the fucking secret.
There was a suite available in the hotel. "I would like to look at it," Pier said. "Of course, signora."
An assistant manager escorted Pier upstairs.
"This is one of our nicest suites." It was beautiful. Pier said haughtily, "I suppose it might do. The commander is very particular, you know."
She took the second envelope out of her purse, opened it, and glanced inside. It contained a train ticket to Budapest in the name of Commander Robert Bellamy. Pier stared at it, confused. What kind of game is this? She left the ticket by the bed stand.
When Pier returned to the car, Robert asked, "How did it go?" "Fine."
"Last stop."
This time it was the Hotel Leonardo da Vinci. Robert handed Pier the third envelope.
"I would like you to-" "I know."
Inside the hotel, a clerk said, "Yes, indeed, signora, we have a lovely suite. When did you say the commander will be arriving?"
"In an hour. I would like to examine the suite to see if it is satisfactory."
"Of course, signora."
The suite was more lavish than the other two Pier had looked at.
The assistant manager showed her the huge bedroom with a large canopied bed in the center. What a waste, Pier thought. In one night, I could make a fortune here. She took out the third envelope and looked inside.
It contained an airplane ticket to Miami, Florida. Pier left the envelope on the bed. The assistant manager escorted Pier back to the living room.
"We have color TV," he said. He walked over to the television set and turned it on. A picture of Robert leaped onto the screen. The anchorman's voice was saying: ..... and Interpol believes that he is presently in Rome. He is wanted for questioning in an international drug smuggling operation. This is Bernard Shaw for CNN News." Pier was staring at the screen, transfixed.
The assistant manager turned off the television set. "Is everything satisfactory?"
"Yes," Pier said slowly. A drug smuggler!
"We'll be looking forward to seeing the commander." When Pier joined Robert in the car downstairs, she looked at him with different eyes.
"Now we're ready." Robert smiled.
At the Hotel Victoria, a man in a dark suit was studying the guest register. He looked up at the clerk.
"What time did Commander Bellamy check in?"
"He has not been here yet. His secretary reserved the suite. She said he would be here within the hour."
The man turned to his companion.
"Have the hotel staked out. Get reinforcements. I'll wait upstairs." He turned to the clerk.
"Open the suite for me."
Three minutes later, the clerk was opening the door to the suite.
The man in the dark suit moved in cautiously, gun in hand. The suite was empty. He saw the envelope on the table and picked it up. The front of it read: "Commander Robert Bellamy." He opened the envelope and glanced inside. A moment later he was dialing the headquarters of SIFAR.
Francesco Cesar was in the middle of a meeting with Colonel Frank Johnson. Colonel Johnson had landed at Leonardo da Vinci Airport two hours earlier, but he showed no signs of fatigue.
"As far as we know," Cesar was saying, "Bellamy is still in Rome. We've had more than thirty reports on his whereabouts."
"Any of them check out?" "No."
The phone rang.
"It's Luigi, Colonel," the voice on the telephone said.
"We've got him. I'm in his hotel suite at the Hotel Victoria. I have his airline ticket to Beijing. He is planning to leave Friday."
Cesar's voice filled with excitement.
"Good! Stay there. We will be right over." He hung up and turned to
Colonel Johnson.
"I'm afraid your journey was for nothing, Colonel. We've got him. He's registered at the Hotel Victoria. They found an airline ticket in his name for Beijing on Friday."
Colonel Johnson said mildly, "Bellamy registered at the hotel in his own name?"
"Yes."
"And the plane ticket is in his name?" "Yes." Colonel Cesar rose.
"Let's get on over there." Colonel Johnson shook his head. "Don't waste your time."
"What?"
"Bellamy would never-" The telephone rang again. Cesar snatched it up. A voice said, "Colonel? This is Mario. We've located Bellamy. He's at
the Hotel Valadier. He's taking a train Monday to Budapest. What do you want us to do?"
"I'll get back to you," Colonel Cesar said. He turned to look at Colonel Johnson.
"They found a train ticket to Budapest in Bellamy's name. I don't understand what-" The telephone rang again.
"Yes?"
His voice was pitched higher.
"It's Bruno. We've located Bellamy. He's registered at the Hotel Leonardo da Vinci. He's planning to leave Sunday for Miami. What shall I-?"
"Come back here," Cesar snapped. He slammed down the phone. "What the hell is his game?"
Colonel Johnson said grimly, "He's seeing to it that you're wasting a lot of manpower, isn't he?"
"What do we do now?" "We trap the bastard."
They were driving on the Via Cassia, near Olgiata, headed north toward Venice. The police would be covering all the major exits from Italy, but they would be expecting him to go west, to head for France or Switzerland. From Venice, Robert thought, I can take the hydrofoil to Trieste and make my way up to A use. After that...
Pier's voice interrupted his thoughts. "I'm hungry."
"What?"
"We haven't had any breakfast or lunch."
"I'm sorry," Robert said. He had been too preoccupied to think about eating.
"We'll stop at the next restaurant."
Pier watched him as he drove. She was more puzzled than ever. She lived in a world of pimps and thieves-and drug smugglers. This man was no criminal.
They stopped at the next town in front of a small trattoria.
Robert pulled into the parking lot, and he and Pier got out of the car.
The restaurant was crowded with patrons, and noisy with conversations and the clatter of dishes. Robert found a table against the wall and took a seat facing the door. A waiter approached and handed them menus.
Robert was thinking: Susan 8hau1d be on the boat by now. This may be my last chance ~ talk to her.
"Look over the menu." Robert rose.
"I'll be right back." Pier watched him walk over to the public telephone near their table. He put a coin in the slot.
"I would like to talk to the marine operator in Gibraltar. Thank you."
Who is he calling in Gibraltar? Pier wondered. Is that his getaway? "Operator, I want to place a collect call to the American yacht, Halcyon, off Gibraltar. Whiskey Sugar 337. Thank you."
A few minutes passed while the operators talked to each other and his call was accepted.
Robert heard Susan's voice on the telephone. "Susan-"
"Robert! Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. I just wanted to tell you-"
"I know what you want to tell me. It's all over the radio and television. Why is Interpol hunting you?"
"It's a long story."
"Take your time. I want to know." He hesitated.
"It's political, Susan. I have evidence that some governments are trying to suppress. That's why Interpol is after me."
Pier was listening intently to Robert's end of the conversation. "What can I do to help?"
Susan asked.
"Nothing, honey. I just called to hear your voice once more in case-in case I don't get out of this."
"Don't say that." There was panic in her voice. "Can you tell me what country you're in?"
"Italy."
There was a brief silence.
"All right. We're not far from you.
We're just off the coast of Gibraltar. We can pick you up at any place you say."
"No, I-"
"Listen to me. It's probably your only chance of escape."
"I can't let you do that, Susan. You'd be in jeopardy."
Monte had walked into the salon in time to hear part of the conversation.
"Let me talk to him."
"Just a moment, Robert, Monte wants to speak to you. "Susan, I haven't-" Monte's voice came over the line. "Robert, I understand you're in serious trouble." The understatement of the year.
"You might say that."
"We'd like to help you out. They won't be looking for you on a yacht. Why don't you let us pick you up?"
"Thanks, Monte, I appreciate it. The answer is no."
"I think y~~~r~ making a mistake. ~~~~~~ be safe ~~~~~)~ Why is he so eager to help? "Thanks, anyway. I'll take my chances. I'd like to speak to Susan again."
"Of course." Monte Banks handed the phone to Susan. "Talk him into it," he urged.
Susan spoke into the phone. "Please let us help you."
"You have helped me, Susan." He had to stop for a moment.
"You're the best part of my life. I just want you to know that I'll always love you." He gave a little laugh.
"Although always may not be such a big deal anymore.
"Will you call me again?" "If I can."
"Promise me."
"All right. I promise."
He slowly replaced the receiver. Why did I do that to her? Why did I do that to myself? You're a sentimental idiot, Bellamy. He walked back to the table.
"Let's eat," Robert said. They ordered.
"I heard your conversation. The police are looking for you, aren't they?"
Robert stiffened. Careless. She was going to be trouble. "It's just a little misunderstanding. I-"
"Don't treat me like a fool. I want to help you." He was watching her warily.
"Why should you help me?" Pier leaned forward.
"Because you've been generous to me. And I hate the police. You don't know what it's like to be out on the streets, hounded by them, treated like dirt. They arrest me for prostitution, but they take me to their back rooms and pass me around.
They are animals. I would do anything to get even with them. Anything. I can help you."
"Pier, there's nothing you-"
"In Venice the police will catch you easily. If you stay at a hotel, they will find you. If you try to get on a ship, they will trap you. But I know a place where you will be safe from them. My mother and brother live in Naples. We can stay at their house. The police will never look for you there."
Robert was silent for a moment, thinking about it. What Pier said made a good deal of sense. A private house would be much safer than any other place, and Naples was a big port. It would be easy to get a ship out of there. He hesitated before he answered. He did not want to put Pier in danger.
"Pier, if the police find me, they have orders to kill me. You would be considered an accomplice. You could be letting yourself in for
trouble."
"It's very simple." Pier smiled. "We won't let them find you."
Robert returned her smile. He made up his mind. "All right. Eat your lunch. We're going to Naples."
Colonel Frank Johnson said, "Your men have no idea where he is headed?" Francesco Cesar sighed.
"Not at the moment. But it is only a matter of time before-"
"We don't have time. Have you checked the whereabouts of his ex-wife?" "His ex-wife? No. I don't see what-"
"Then you haven't done your homework," Colonel Johnson snapped.
"She's married to a man named Monte Banks. I would suggest that you locate them. And fast."
She wandered down the broad boulevard, barely conscious of where she was going. How many days had it been since the terrible crash? She had lost count. She was so tired that it was difficult for her to concentrate. She desperately needed water; not the polluted water that the earthlings drank, but fresh, clear rainwater. She needed the pure fluid to revive her life essence, to gain the strength to find the crystal. She was dying.
She staggered and bumped into a man.
"Hey! Watch where-" The American salesman took a closer look at her and smiled.
"Hi, there.
Imagine bumping into you like this!" What a doll. "Yes, I can imagine that."
"Where are you from, honey?"
"The seventh sun of the Pleiades." He laughed.
"I like a gal with a sense of humor. Where you headed?" She shook her head.
"I do not know. I am a stranger here." Jesus, I think I'm on to something. "Have you had dinner?"
"No. I cannot eat your food."
I've got a real weirdo here. But a beauty. "Where are you staying?"
"I am not staying anywhere." "You don't have a hotel?" "A hotel?"
She remembered. Boxes for traveling strangers. "No.
I must find a place to sleep. I am very tired." His smile broadened.
"Well, Papa can take care of that. Why don't we go up to my hotel room? I've got a nice, big comfortable bed there.
Would you like that?" "Oh, yes, very much."
He could not believe his good luck.
"Wonderful!" I'll bet she's great in the hay. She looked at him, puzzled.
"Your bed is made of hay?" He was staring at her.
"What? No, no. You like your little jokes, don't you?" She could barely keep her eyes open.
"Could we go to bed now?"
He rubbed his hands together.
"You bet! My hotel is just around the corner." He picked up his key at the desk, and they took the elevator to his floor. When they got to his room, the man asked, "Would you like a little drink?"
Let's loosen you up.
She wanted one desperately, but not the liquids the earthlings had to offer.
"No," she said. "Where is the bed?"
My God, she's a hot little thing.
"In here, honey." He led her into the bedroom. "You're sure you wouldn't like a drink?"
"I am sure."
He licked his lips.
"Then why don't youer-get undressed?"
She nodded. It was an earthling custom. She removed the dress she was wearing. She was wearing nothing underneath.
Her body was exquisite.
The man stared at her and said happily, "This is my lucky night, honey. Yours, too." I'm going to fuck you like you've never been fucked before. He tore off his clothes as fast as he could and jumped into bed beside her.
"Now!" he said.
"I'm going to show you some real action." He glanced up. "Damn! I left the light on." He started to get up. "Never mind," she said sleepily.
"I will turn it off." And as he watched, her arm reached out, out, across the wide room, and her fingers became leafy green tendrils as they brushed against the light switch.
He was alone in the dark with her. He screamed.
They were traveling at high speed on the Autostrada del Sole, the freeway to Naples. They had been driving in silence for the last half hour, each preoccupied with his own thoughts.
Pier broke the silence.
"How long would you like to stay at my mother's house?" she asked.
"Three or four days, if that's all right." "That will be fine."
Robert had no intention of staying there for more than one night, two at the most. But he kept his plans to himself. As soon as he found a ship that was safe, he would be on his way out of Italy.
"I'm looking forward to seeing my family," Pier said. "You have just one brother?"
"Yes. Carlo. He is younger than me." "Tell me about your family, Pier." She shrugged.
"There is not much to tell. My father worked on the docks all his life. A crane fell on him and killed him when I was fifteen. My mother was ill, and I had to support her and Carlo. I had a friend at Cinecitta studios, and he got me bit parts. They paid very little, and I had to sleep with the assistant director. I decided I could make more money on the streets. Now I do a little of both."
There was no self-pity in her voice.
"Pier, are you sure your mother won't object to your bringing a stranger home?"
"I am sure. We are very close. Mother will be happy to see me. Do you love her very much?"
Robert glanced over at her in surprise. "Your mother?"
"The woman you were talking to on the telephone in the restaurant-Susan."
"What makes you think I love her?" "The tone of your voice. Who is she?" "A friend."
"She is very lucky. I wish I had someone who cared for me like that. Is Robert Bellamy your real name?"
"Yes."
"And are you a commander?"
That was more difficult to answer. "I'm not sure, Pier," he said.
"I used to be."
"Can you tell me why Interpol is after you?"
He said carefully, "It's better if I don't tell you anything. You could be in enough trouble just being with me. The less you know, the better."
"All right, Robert."
He thought about the strange circumstances that had brought the two of them together.
"Let me ask you something. If you knew that there were aliens coming down to earth in spaceships, would you panic?"
Pier studied him a moment. "Are you serious?" "Very."
She shook her head.
"No. I think it would be exciting. Do you believe such things exist?"
"There's a possibility," he said cautiously. Pier's face lit up "Really? Do they have real-I mean-are they built like men?"
Robert laughed. "I don't know."
"Does this have anything to do with why the police are after you?" "No," Robert said quickly.
"Nothing."
"If I tell you something, will you promise not to be angry with me?" "I promise."
When she spoke, her voice was so low he could hardly hear her. "I think I am falling in love with you."
"Pier-"
"I know. I am being foolish. But I have never said that to anyone before. I wanted you to know."
"I'm flattered, Pier." "You're not making fun of me?"
"No. I'm not." He looked at the gas gauge.
"We'd better find a filling station soon." They came to a service station ftteen minutes later.
"We'll fill the tank here," Robert said. "Fine." Pier smiled.
"I can call my mother and let her know that I am bringing home a handsome stranger."
Robert drove up to the gas pump and said to the attendant, "Il pie no, per favore."
"Si, signore."
Pier leaned over and gave Robert a kiss on the cheek. "I will be right back."
Robert watched her walk into the office and get change for the telephone. She's really very pretty, Robert thought. And intelligent.
I must be careful not to hurt her.
Inside the office, Pier was dialing. She turned to smile and wave at Robert. When the operator came on, Pier said, "Got me Interpol.
Subito!"
From the moment Pier had seen the news broadcast about Robert Bellamy, she had known she was going to be rich. If Interpol, the international criminal police force, was looking for Robert, there had to be a huge reward out for him. And she was the only one who knew where he was! The reward would be all hers. Persuading him to go to Naples, where she could keep an eye on him, had been a stroke of genius.
A man's voice on the telephone said, "Interpol. May I help you?"
Pier's heart was pounding. She glanced out the window to make sure Robert was still at the gas pump.
"Yes. You are looking for a man named Commander Robert Bellamy, yes?" There was a moment of silence.
"Who is calling, please?"
"Never mind. Are you after him or not?"
"I'll have to transfer you to someone else. Will you hold the line, please?"
He turned to his assistant, "Put a trace on this. Pronto!" Thirty seconds later, Pier was speaking with a senior official. "Yes, signora. Can I help you?"
No, you fool. I'm trying to help you.
"I have Commander Robert Bellamy. Do you want him, or don't you?" "But, yes, signora, we want him very much. And you say you have him?" "That's right. He's with me now. How much is he worth to you?"
"Are you speaking of a reward?"
"Of course I'm speaking of a reward." She glanced out the window again. What kind of idiots are these? The official signaled to his assistant to move faster.
"We have not yet set a price on him, signora, so-" "Well, set one now. I'm in a hurry."
"How much of a reward are you expecting?" "I don't know." Pier thought for a moment. "Would fifty thousand dollars be all right?"
"Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money. If you tell me where you are, we could come to you and negotiate a deal thatHe must think I'm pazza.
"No. You either agree to pay me what I want now or-" Pier looked up and saw Robert approaching the office.
"Hurry! Yes or no?"
"Very well, signora. Yes. We agree to pay you...." Robert came through the door, moving toward her. Pier said into the telephone, "We should be there in time for dinner, Mama. You will like him. He is very nice. Good. We will see you later. Ciao."
Pier replaced the receiver and turned to Robert.
"Mother is dying to meet you."
* At Interpol headquarters, the senior official said, "Did you trace the call?"
"Yes. It came from a filling station on the Autostrada del Sole. It looks like they're on their way to Naples." Colonel Francesco Cesar and Colonel Frank Johnson were studying a map on the wall of Cesar's office.
"Naples is a big city," Colonel Cesar was saying. "There are a thousand places for him to hide there." "What about the woman?"
"We have no idea who she is." "Why don't we find out?"
Johnson asked. Cesar looked at him, puzzled. "How?"
"If Bellamy needed a woman companion in a hurry, as a cover, what would he do?"
"He would probably pick up a whore." "Right. Where do we start?"
"Tor di Ounto."
They drove down the Passeggiata Archeologica and watched the streetwalkers peddling their wares. In the car with Colonel Cesar and Colonel Johnson was Captain Bellini, the police supervisor of the district.
"This is not going to be easy," Bellini said.
"They're all in competition with one another, but when it comes to the police, they're like blood sisters. They won't talk."
"We'll see," Colonel Johnson said.
Bellini ordered the driver to pull over to the curb, and the three men got out of the car. The prostitutes were eyeing them warily. Bellini walked up to one of the women.
"Good afternoon, Maria. How's business?"
"It will be better when you leave."
"We're not planning to stay. I just want to ask you a question.
We're looking for an American who picked up one of the girls last night.
We think they are traveling together. We want to know who she is. Can you help us?"
He showed her a photograph of Robert. Several other prostitutes had gathered around to listen to the conversation.
"I can't help you," Maria said, "but I know someone who can." Bellini nodded approvingly.
"Good. Who?"
Maria pointed to a storefront across the street. A sign in the window read: Fortune-teller-Palm Reader.
"Madam Lucia might help you."
The girls laughed appreciatively.
Captain Bellini looked at them and said, "So you like jokes, do you? Well, we're going to play a little joke I think you're going to love. These two gentlemen are very eager to have the name of the girl who went off with the American. If you don't know who she is, I suggest you talk to your friends, find someone who does know, and when you have the answer, give me a call."
"Why should we?"
one of them asked defiantly. "You'll find out."
One hour later, the prostitutes of Rome found themselves under siege. Patrol wagons swept the city, picking up all the women working the streets and their pimps. There were screams of protest.
"You can't do this.... I pay police protection." "This has been my beat for five years. "
"I've been giving it to you and your friends for free. Where's your gratitude?. "
"What do I pay you protection for?..." By the following day, the streets were virtually empty of prostitutes, and the jails were full.
Cesar and Colonel Johnson were sitting in Captain Bellini's office.
"It's going to be difficult to keep them in jail," Captain Bellini warned.
"I might also add that this is very bad for tourism."
"Don't worry," Colonel Johnson said, "someone will talk. Just keep the pressure on."
Their break came late in the afternoon. Captain Bellini's secretary said, ~~~~~~~~5 a Mr. Lorenzo to see you."
"Send him in."
Mr. Lorenzo was dressed in a very expensive suit and wore diamond rings on three fingers. Mr. Lorenzo was a pimp.
"What can I do for you?" Bellini asked. Lorenzo smiled.
"It's what I can do for you, gentlemen. Some of my associates inform me that you are looking for a particular working girl who left town with an American, and since we are always eager to cooperate with the authorities, I thought I would give you her name."
Colonel Johnson said, "Who is she?" Lorenzo ignored the question.
"Naturally, I'm sure you would want to express your appreciation by releasing my associates and their f:friends." Colonel Cesar said, "We are not interested in any of your whores. All we want is the name of the girl."
"That is very gratifying news, sir. It's always a pleasure to deal with reasonable men. I know that-"
"Her name, Lorenzo."
"Yes, of course. Her name is Pier. Pier Valli. The American spent the night with her at the L'Incrocio Hotel, and the next morning they took off. She is not one of my girls. If I may say so-" Bellini was already on the telephone.
"Bring up the records on a Pier Valli. Subito!"
"I hope you gentlemen are going to show your gratitude by-" Bellini looked up, and then said into the phone, "And cancel Operation Puttana."
Lorenzo beamed. "Grazie."
Pier Valli's records were on Bellini's desk five minutes later.
"She started streetwalking when she was fifteen. She has been arrested a dozen times since then. She-"
"Where does she come from?" Colonel Johnson interrupted.
"Naples." The two men looked at each other. "She has a mother and brother living there." "Can you find out where?"
"I can check it out." "Do that. Now."
They were approaching the suburbs of Naples. Old apartment houses lined the narrow streets, with laundry hanging out of almost every window, making the buildings look like concrete mountains flying colorful flags.
Pier asked, "Have you ever been to Naples?"
"Once." Robert's voice was tight. Susan was sitting beside him, giggling. I heard Naples is a wicked city. Can we do a lot of wicked things here, darling?
We're going to invent some new things, Robert promised. Pier was watching him.
"Are you all right?"
Robert brought his mind back to the present. "I'm fine."
They were driving along bay harbor, formed by the Castel dell'Ovo, the old abandoned castle near the water.
When they arrived at Via Toledo, Pier said, excitedly, "Turn here." They were approaching Spaccanapoli, the old section of Naples.
Pier said, "It's just up ahead. Turn left onto Via Benedetto Croce."
Robert made the turn. The traffic here was heavier, and the noise of horns deafening. He had forgotten how noisy Naples could be. He slowed the car down to avoid hitting the pedestrians and dogs that ran in front of the car as if they were blessed with some kind of immortality.
"Turn right here," Pier directed, "into Piazza del Plebiscito." The traffic was even worse here, and the neighborhood more run down.
"Stop!" Pier cried out.
Robert pulled over to the curb. They had stopped in front of a row of seedy shops.
Robert glanced around.
"This is where your mother lives?" "No," Pier said.
"Of course not." She leaned over and pressed the horn. A moment later, a young woman came out of one of the shops. Pier got out of the car and raced to greet her. They hugged each other.
"You look wonderful!" the woman exclaimed. "You must be doing very well."
"I am." Pier held out her wrist. "Look at my new bracelet!"
"Are those real emeralds?" "Of course they are real."
The woman yelled at someone inside the store. "Anna! Come on out.
Look who is here!"
Robert was watching the scene, unbelievingly. "Pier-"
"In a minute, darling," she said. "I have to say hello to my friends."
Within minutes half a dozen women were clustered around Pier, admiring her bracelet, while Robert sat there helplessly, gritting his teeth.
"He is crazy about me," Pier announced. She turned to Robert. "Aren't you, caro?"
Robert wanted to strangle her, but there was nothing he could do. "Yes," he said.
"Can we go now, Pier?" "In a minute."
"Now!" Robert said.
"Oh, very well." Pier turned to the women. "We must leave now.
We have an important appointment. Ciao!" "Ciao!"
Pier got into the car beside Robert, and the women stood there watching them drive away.
Pier said happily, "They are all old friends." "Wonderful. Where's your mother's house?" "Oh, she ~~~5~~~ live in the ~~~y~)) "What?"
"She lives outside of town in a little farmhouse, half an hour from here."
The farmhouse was on the southern outskirts of Naples, an old stone building set off fi:from the road.
"There it is!" Pier exclaimed. 'isn't it beautiful?"
"Yes." Robert liked the fact that the house was away from the center of town. There would be no reason for anyone to come looking for him here. Pier was right. It's a perfect safe house.
They walked up to the flont door, and before they reached it, the door flew open and Pier's mother stood there smiling at them. She was an older version of her daughter, thin and gray-haired, with a lined, careworn face.
"Pier, cara! Mi sei mancata!"
"I've missed you too, Mama. This is the friend I telephoned you about that I was bringing home."
Mama did not miss a beat.
"Ah? Si, you are welcome Mr.-?" "Jones," Robert said.
"Come in, come in."
They entered the living room. It was a large room comfortable and homey, crammed with furniture.
A boy in his early twenties entered the room. He was short and dark, with a thin, sullen face and brooding brown eyes. He wore jeans and a
jacket with the name Diavoli Rossi sewn on it. His face lit up when he saw his sister.
"Pier!"
"Hello, Carlo." They hugged. "What are you doing here?"
"We came to visit for a few days." She turned to Robert. "This is my brother, Carlo. Carlo, this is Mr. Jones." "Hello, Carlo."
Carlo was sizing Robert up.
"Hello." Mama said, "I will fix a nice bedroom for you two lovebirds in the back."
Robert said, "If you don't mind-that is, if you have an extra bedroom, I'd prefer a room to myself."
There was an awkward pause. The three of them were staring at Robert. Mama turned to Pier.
"Omosessuale?"
Pier shrugged. I don't know.
But she was sure he was not a homosexual. Mama looked at Robert. "As you wish." She hugged Pier again.
"I'm so happy to see you. Come into the kitchen. I will make some coffee for us."
In the kitchen, Mama exclaimed, "Benissimo! How did you meet him? He looks very rich. And that bracelet you are wearing. It must have cost a fortune. My goodness!
Tonight I will cook a big dinner. I will invite all the neighbors so they can meet your-"
"No, Mama. You must not do that."
"But cara, why should we not spread the news of your good luck? All our friends will be so pleased."
"Mama, Mr. Jones just wants to rest for a few days. No party. No neighbors." Mama sighed.
"All right. Whatever you wish." I'll arrange for him to be picked up away from the house, so Mama will not be disturbed.
Carlo had noticed the bracelet, too.
"That bracelet. Those are real emeralds, huh? Did you buy that for my sister?"
There was an attitude about the boy that Robert did not like.
"Ask her." Pier and Mama came out of the kitchen. Mama looked at Robert.
"You are sure you do not want to sleep with Pier?" Robert was embarrassed.
"Thank you. No." Pier said, "I'll show you your bedroom." She led him toward the back of the house to a large, comfortable bedroom with a double bed in the middle of the room.
"Robert, are you afraid of what Mama might think if we slept together? She knows what I do."
"It's not that," Robert said.
"It's-" There was no way he could explain. "I'm sorry, I-" Pier's voice was cold.
"Never mind." She felt unreasonably offended. Twice now he had refused to sleep with her. It serves him right that I am turning him over to the police, she thought. And yet she felt a small, nagging sense of guilt. He was really very nice. But fifty thousand dollars was fifty thousand dollars.
* * * At dinner Mama was talkative, but Pier and Robert and Carlo were silent and preoccupied. Robert was busily working out his plan of escape. Tomorrow, he thought, I'll go down to the docks and find a ship out of here. Pier was thinking about the phone call she was planning to make. I'll call from town, so the police cannot trace it here.
Carlo was studying the stranger his sister had brought to the house. He should be an easy make.
When dinner was over, the two women went into the kitchen. Robert was alone with Carlo.
"You're the first man my sister has ever brought here," Carlo said. "She must like you a lot."
"I like her a lot."
"Do you? Are you going to take care of her?"
"I think your sister can take care of herself." Carlo smirked.
"Yeah. I know." The stranger seated across from him was well dressed and obviously rich. Why was he staying here when he could have stayed at some fancy hotel? The only reason Carlo could think of was that the man was in hiding. And that brought up an interesting point. When a rich man was in hiding, somehow, some way, there was money to be made from the situation.
"Where are you from?" Carlo asked.
"From no place in particular," Robert said pleasantly. "I travel a lot."
Carlo nodded.
"I see." I'll find out from Pier who he is.
Somebody will probably be willing to pay a lot of money for him, and Pier and I can split it.
"Are you in business?" Carlo asked. "Retired."
It would not be hard to force this man to talk, Carlo decided.
Lucca, the leader of the Diavoli Rossi, could crack him open in no time. "How long will you be staying with us?"
"It's hard to say." The boy's curiosity was beginning to get on Robert's nerves.
Pier and her mother came out of the kitchen. "Would you like some more coffee?"
Mama asked.
"No, thank you. That was a delicious dinner." Mama smiled. "That was nothing. Tomorrow I will prepare a feast for you." "Good." He would be gone by then. He stood up.
"If you don't mind, I'm rather tired. I'd like to turn in." "Of course," Mama said.
"Good night." "Good night."
They watched Robert as he walked toward the bedroom. Carlo grinned.
"He doesn't think you're good enough to sleep with him, eh?"
The remark stung Pier, as it was meant to. She would not have minded it if Robert were a homosexual, but she had heard him talk to Susan, and she knew better. I'll show the stronzo.
Robert lay in bed thinking about his next move. Laying a false trail with the homing device that had been hidden in the credit card would give him a little time, but he was not depending too much on it.
They probably would have caught up with the red truck by now. The men who were aiter him were ruthless and smart. Were heads of world governments involved in the massive cover-up? Robert wondered. Or was it an organization within an organization, a cabal in the intelligence community acting illegally on its own? The more Robert thought about it, the more feasible it seemed that the heads of state might be unaware of what was going on. And a thought struck him. It had always seemed odd to him that Admiral Whittaker had suddenly been retired from ONI and relegated to some Siberia. But if someone had forced him out because they knew he would never be part of the conspiracy, then it began to make sense. I have to contact the admiral, Robert thought. He was the only one he could trust to get to the truth of what was happening.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow. He closed his eyes and slept.
The creaking of the bedroom door awakened him. He sat up in bed, instantly alert. Someone was moving toward the bed.
Robert tensed, ready to spring. He smelled her perfume then and felt her slide in bed beside him.
"Pier-What are you-?"
"Ssh." Her body pressed against his. She was naked.
"I got lonely," she whispered. She snuggled closer to him.
"I'm sorry, Pier, I-I can't do anything for you." Pier said, "No? Then let me do something for you."
Her voice was soft.
"It's no use. You can't." Robert felt a deep frustration.
He wanted to spare both of them the embarrassment of what was not going to happen.
"Don't you like me, Robert? Do you not think I have a beautiful body?"
"Yes." And she did. He could feel the warmth of her body pressing closer.
She was stroking him gently, rippling her fingers up and down his chest, moving lightly toward his groin. He had to stop her before the humiliating fiasco was repeated.
"Pier, I can't make love. I haven't been able to be with a woman since-for a long time."
"You don't have to do anything, Robert," she said.
"I just want to play. Do you like being played with?"
He felt nothing. Goddamn Susan! She had taken more than herself away from him, she had taken a part of his manhood. Pier was sliding down his body now.
"Turn over," she said.
"It's no use, Pier. I-" She rolled him over, and he lay there cursing Susan, cursing his impotence. He could feel Pier's tongue moving along his back, making tiny, delicate circles, moving lower and lower. Her fingers were gently flicking over his skin.
"Pier-"
"Ssh."
He felt her tongue spiraling down deeper and deeper, and he began to feel aroused. He started to move.
"Ssh. Lie still."
Her tongue was soft and warm, and he could feel her breasts trailing along his skin. His pulse began to quicken. Yes, he thought.
Yes! Oh, yes! His tumescence grew until he became rock hard, and when he could stand it no longer, he grabbed Pier and turned her over.
She felt him and gasped, "My God, you're enormous. I want you inside me."
And a moment later Robert plunged into her, and then again and again, and it was as if he had been reborn. Pier was skillful and wild, and Robert reveled in the dark cave of her velvety sofI:ness. They made
love three times that night. Finally, they slept. Day Eighteen Naples, Italy
In the morning, as the pale light was coming through the window, Robert awakened. He held Pier close in his arms and whispered, "Thank you."
Pier smiled mischievously. "How do you feel?"
"Wonderful," Robert said. And he did. Pier snuggled against him.
"You are an animal!" Robert grinned.
"You're good for my ego," he said. Pier sat up and said seriously, "You are not a drug smuggler, are you?"
It was a naive question. "No."
"But Interpol is after you." That hit closer to home. "Yes."
Her face lit up.
"I know! You're a spy!" She was as excited as a child. Robert had to laugh.
"Am I?"
And he thought, Out of the mouths of babes... "Admit it," Pier insisted.
"You're a spy, aren't you?" "Yes," Robert said gravely. "I'm a spy."
"I knew it!" Pier's eyes were glowing. "Can you tell me some secrets?"
"What kind of secrets?"
"You know, spy secrets-codes and things like that. I love to read spy novels. I read them all the time."
"Do you?"
"Oh, yes! But they're just made-up stories. You know all the real things, don't you? Like the signals that spies use. Are you allowed to tell me one?"
Robert said seriously, "Well, I really shouldn't, but I suppose one would be all right." What can I tell her that she'll believe? "There's the old window-shade trick."
She was wide-eyed.
"The old window-shade trick?"
"Yes." Robert pointed to a window in the bedroom.
"If everything is under control, you leave the shades up. But if there's trouble, you pull one shade down. That's the signal to warn your fellow agent away."
Pier said excitedly, "That's wonderful! I've never read that in a book."
"You won't," Robert said. "It's very secret."
"I won't tell anyone," Pier promised. "What else?"
What else?
Robert thought for a moment.
"Well, there's the telephone trick." Pier snuggled closer to him.
"Tell me about that."
"Er-let's say a fellow spy telephones you to find out if everything is all right. He'll ask for Pier. If everything is fine, you say, 'This is Pier." But if there is any problem, you say, 'You have the wrong number."' "That's wonderful!" Pier exclaimed.
My instructors at the Farm would have a heart attack if they heard me talking this nonsense.
"Can you tell me anything else?" Pier asked. Robert laughed.
"I think those are enough secrets for one morning." "All right." She rubbed her body along his body. "Would you like to take a shower?"
Pier asked. "Love to."
They soaped each other under the warm water, and as Pier spread Robert's legs and began to wash him, he became tumescent again.
They made love in the shower.
While Robert was getting dressed, Pier put on a robe and said, "I'll see about breakfast." Carlo was waiting for her in the dining room.
"Tell me about your friend," he said. "What about him?"
"Where did you meet him?" "In Rome."
"He must be very rich to have bought you that emerald bracelet." She shrugged.
"He likes me."
A dozen security agents and the Naples police force were scouring the city for Robert.
Carlo was busily making his own plans for Robert. Pier was getting ready to telephone Interpol again.
The danger in the air was almost palpable, and Robert felt as if he could reach out and touch it. The waterfront was a beehive of activity, with cargo ships busily loading and unloading. But another element had been added: There were police cars cruising up and down the quai, and uniformed policemen and obvious-looking detectives questioning dockworkers and sailors. The concentrated manhunt took Robert by complete surprise. It was almost as if they had known he was in Naples, for it would have been impossible for them to be conducting this intense a search for him in every major city in Italy. He did not even bother to get out of the car. He turned around and headed away from the docks.
What he had thought would be an easy plan-to board a cargo ship bound for France-had now become too dangerous. Somehow they had managed to track him here. He went over his options again. Traveling any distance by car was too risky. There would be roadblocks around the city by now.
The docks were guarded. That meant the railroad station and airport would be covered as well. He was in a vise, and it was closing in on him.
Robert thought about Susan's offer.
"We're just off the coast of Gibraltar. We can turn around and pick you up, anyplace you say. It's probably your only chance of escape." He was reluctant to involve Susan in his danger, and yet he could think of no other alternative. It was the only way out of the trap he was in.
They would not be looking for him onaprivate yacht. IfI can findaway to get to the Halcyon, he thought, they could drop me off near the coast of Marseilles, and I can get ashore by myself That way, they won't be in danger. He parked the car in front of a small trattoria on a side street and went inside to make the call. In five minutes, he was connected with the Halcyon.
"Mrs. Banks, please."
"Who shall I say is calling?"
Monte has a fucking butler to answer his phone on the yacht. "Just tell her an old friend."
A minute later he heard Susan's voice. "Robert-is that you?"
"The bad penny."
"They-they haven't arrested you, have they?"
"No. Susan." It was difficult for him to ask the question. "Is your offer still open?"
"Of course it is. When-?"
"Can you reach Naples by tonight?" Susan hesitated.
"I don't know. Hold on a moment." Robert heard talking in the background. Susan came on the line again.
"Monte says we have an engine problem, but we can reach Naples in two days."
Damn. Every day here increased the chances of his getting caught. "All right. That will be fine."
"How will we find you?"
"I'll contact you."
"Robert, please take care of yourself." "I'm trying. I really am."
"You won't let anything happen to you?"
"No, I won't let anything happen to me." Or to you. When Susan replaced the receiver, she turned to her husband and smiled.
"He's coming aboard."
One hour later, in Rome, Francesco Cesar handed a cable to Colonel Frank Johnson. It was from the Halcyon. It read: BELLAMY COMING ABOARD HALCYON. WILL KEEP YOU INFORMED. It was unsigned.
"I've made arrangements to monitor all communication to and from the Halcyon," Cesar said.
"As soon as Bellamy steps aboard, we've got him."
The more Carlo Valli thought about it, the more certain he was that he was about to make a big score. Pier's fairy tale about the American running away from his wife was a joke. Mr. Jones was on the run, all right, but he was running from the police. There was probably a reward out for the man. Maybe a big reward. This had to be handled very delicately. Carlo decided to discuss it with Mario Lucca, the leader of the Diavoli Rossl.
Early in the morning, Carlo got on his Vespa motor scooter and headed for Via Sorcella, behind the Piazza Garibaldi. He stopped in front of a run-down apartment building, and pressed the bell on a broken mailbox marked "Lucca."
A minute later a voice yelled out, "Who the fuck is it?" "Carlo. I have to talk to you, Mario."
"It better be good at this hour of the morning. Come on up.
The door buzzer sounded, and Carlo went upstairs. Mario Lucca was standing at an open door, naked. At the end of the room Carlo could see a girl in his bed.
"Che cosa?
What the hell are you doing up so early?"
"I couldn't sleep, Mario. I'm too excited. I think I'm onto something big."
"Yeah? Come in."
Carlo entered the small, messy apartment. "Last night my sister brought home a mark." "So what? Pier's a whore. She-"
"Yeah, but this one is rich. And he's in hiding." "Who is he hiding from?"
"I don't know. But I'm going to find out. I think there might be a reward out for him."
"Why don't you ask your sister?" Carlo frowned.
"Pier wants to keep it all for herself.
You should see the bracelet he bought her-emeralds." "A bracelet? Yeah? How much is it worth?"
"I'll let you know. I'm going to sell it this morning." Lucca stood there, thoughtful.
"I'll tell you what, Carlo. Why don't we have a talk with your sister's friend? Let's pick him up and take him over to the club this morning." The club was an empty warehouse in Quartiere Saneta that had a room that was soundproof. Carlo smiled.
"Bene. I can get him down there easy enough." "We'll be waiting for him," Lucca said.
"We'll have a little talk with him. I hope he has a nice voice, because he's going to sing for us." When Carlo returned to the house, Mr. Jones was gone. Carlo panicked.
"Where did your friend go?" he asked Pier.
"He said he had to go into town for a little while. He'll be back. Why?"
He forced a smile. "Just curious."
Carlo waited until his mother and Pier were in the kitchen preparing lunch, then hurried into Pier's room. He found the bracelet hidden under some lingerie in a dresser drawer. He swiftly pocketed it and was
on his way out when his mother came out of the kitchen. "Carlo, aren't you staying for lunch?"
"No. I have an appointment, Mama. I'll be back later." He got on his Vespa and headed toward the Quartiere Spagnolo. Maybe the bracelet is phony, he thought. It could be paste. I hope I don't make a fool of myself with Lucca. He parked the motorbike in front of a small jewelry store that had a sign in front that read: Orologia. The owner, Gambino, was an elderly, wizened man, with an ill-fitting black wig and a mouthful of false teeth. He looked up as Carlo entered.
"Good morning, Carlo. You're out early." "Yeah."
"What have you got for me today?"
Carlo took out the bracelet and laid it on the counter. "This."
Gambino picked it up. As he studied it, his eyes widened. "Where did you get this?"
"A rich aunt died and left it to me. Is it worth anything?" "It could be," Gambino said cautiously.
"Don't fuck around with me." Gambino looked hurt.
"Have I ever cheated you?" "All the time."
"You boys are always kidding around. I'll tell you what I will do, Carlo. I'm not sure I can handle this by myself. It's very valuable."
Carlo's heart skipped a beat. "Really?"
"I'll have to see if I can lay it off somewhere. I'll give you a call tonight."
"Okay," Carlo said. He snatched up the bracelet. "I'll keep this until I hear from you."
Carlo left the shop walking on air. So, he had been right! The sucker was rich, and he was also crazy. Why else would someone give an
expensive bracelet to a whore? In the store, Gambino watched Carlo leave. He thought, What the hell have those idiots gotten themselves into? From under the counter, he picked up a circular that had been sent to all pawn shops. It had a description of the bracelet he had just seen, but at the bottom, instead of the usual police number to call, there was a special notice: "Notify SIFAR immediately." Gambino would have ignored an ordinary police circular, as he had hundreds of times in the past, but he knew enough about SIFAR to know that one never crossed them. He hated to lose the profit on the bracelet, but he did not intend to put his neck in a noose. Reluctantly, he picked up the telephone and dialed the number on the circular.
It was the season of fear, of swirling, deadly shadows. Years earlier Robert had been sent on a mission to Borneo and had gone into the deep jungle after a traitor. It had been in October, during musim takoot, the traditional head-hunting season, when the jungle natives lived in terror of Batii Saiang, the spirit that sought out humans for their blood. It was a season of murders, and now for Robert, Naples had suddenly become the jungles of Borneo. Death was in the air. Do not go gentie into the fucking night, Robert thought. They'll have to catch me first. How had they traced him here? Pier. They must have tracked him down through Pier. I have to get back to the house and warn her, Robert thought. But first I have to findaway out of here.
He drove toward the outskirts of the city, to where the autostrada began, hoping that by some miracle it might be clear. Five hundred yards before he reached the entrance, he saw the police roadblock. He turned around and headed back toward the center of the city.
Robert drove slowly, concentrating, putting himself into the minds of his pursuers. They would have all avenues of escape out of Italy blocked. Every ship leaving the country would be searched. A plan suddenly came to him. They would have no reason to search ships not leaving Italy. It's a chance, Robert thought. He headed for the harbor again. The little bell over the door of the jewelry shop rang, and Gambino looked up. Two men in dark suits walked in. They were not customers.
"Can I help you?" "Mr. Gambino?"
He exposed his false teeth. "Yes."
"You called about an emerald bracelet." SIFAR. He had been expecting them. But this time he was on the side of the angels.
"That's right. As a patriotic citizen, I felt it was my duty-" "Cut the bullshit. Who brought it in?"
"A young boy named Carlo."
"Did he leave the bracelet?" "No, he took it with him." "What's Carlo's last name?" Gambino lifted a shoulder.
"I don't know his last name. He's one of the boys in the Diavoli Rossi. That's one of our local gangs. It's run by a kid named Lucca."
"Do you know where we can find this Lucca?"
Gambino hesitated. If Lucca found out that he had talked, he would have his tongue cut out.
If he did not tell these men what they wanted to know, he would have his brains bashed in.
"He lives on Via Sorcella, behind the Piazza Garibaldi." "Thank you, Mr. Gambino. You've been very helpful." "I'm always happy to cooperate withThe men were gone.
Lucca was in bed with his girlfriend when the two men shoved open the door to his apartment. Lucca leapt out of bed.
"What the hell is this? Who are you?"
One of the men pulled out his identification. SIFAR! Lucca swallowed.
"Hey, I haven't done anything wrong. I'm a law abiding citizen who-"
"We know that, Lucca. We're not interested in you. We're interested in a boy named Carlo."
Carlo. So that's what this is about. That fucking bracelet! What the hell had Carlo gotten himself into? SIFAR did not send men around looking for stolen jewelry.
"Well-do you know him or don't you?" "I might."
"If you aren't sure, we'll refresh your memory down at headquarters." "Wait! I do remember, now," Lucca said.
"You must mean Carlo Valli. What about him?"
"We'd like to have a talk with him. Where does he live?"
Every member of the Diavoli Rossi had to swear a blood oath of loyalty, an oath that they would die before they would betray a fellow member.
That was what made the Diavoli Rossi such a great club. They stuck together. One for all and all for one.
"Do you want to take that trip downtown?" "What for?"
Lucca shrugged. He gave them Carlo's address.
Thirty minutes later, Pier op_ned tye door to find two strangers standing there.
"Signorina Valli?" Trouble.
"Yes."
"May we come in?"
She wanted to say no, but she did not dare. "Who are you?"
One of the men pulled out a wallet and flashed an identification card. SIFAR. These were not the people she had made her deal with.
Pier felt a sense of panic that they were going to try to cheat her out of her reward.
"What do you want with me?"
"We'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Go ahead. I have nothing to hide." Thank God, Pier thought, Robert is out. I can still negotiate.
"You drove down from Rome yesterday, didn't you." It was a statement. "Yes. Is that against the law? Was I speeding?"
The man smiled. It did nothing to change the expression on his face. "You had a companion with you?"
Pier answered carefully. "Yes."
"Who was he, signorina?"
She shrugged.
"Some man I picked up on the road. He wanted a ride to Naples." The second man asked, "Is he here with you now?"
"I don't know where he is. I dropped him off when we got into town, and he disappeared."
"Was your passenger's name Robert Bellamy?" She knitted her brow in concentration.
"Bellamy? I don't know. I don't think he told me his name."
"Oh, we think he did. He picked you up on the Tor di Ounto, you spent the night with him at the L'Incrocio Hotel, and the next morning he bought you an emerald bracelet. He sent you to some hotels with airline and train tickets, and you rented a car and came down to Naples, right?"
They know everything. Pier nodded, her eyes filled with fear. "Is your friend coming back, or has he left Naples?"
She hesitated, deciding which was the best answer. If she told them that Robert had left town, they would not believe her anyway. They would wait here at the house, and when he turned up, they could accuse her of lying for him and hold her as an accomplice. She decided that the truth would serve her better.
"He's coming back," Pier said. "Soon?"
"I'm not sure."
"Well, we'll just make ourselves comfortable. You don't mind if we look around, do you?"
They opened their jackets, exposing their guns. "N-no."
They fanned out, moving through the house. Mama walked in from the kitchen.
"Who are these men?"
"They are friends of Mr. Jones," Pier said. "They have come to see him."
Mama beamed.
"Such a nice man. Would you like some lunch?" "Sure, Mama," one of the men said.
"What are we having?"
Pier's mind was in a turmoil. I have to call Interpol again, she thought. They said they would pay flfiy thousand dollars. Meanwhile, she had to keep Robert away from the house until she could make arrangements to turn him in. But how? She suddenly remembered their conversation that morning.
"If there's trouble you pull one shade down ... to warn someone away." The two men were seated at the dining room table eating a bowl of capellini.
"It's too bright in here," Pier said. She rose and walked into the living room and pulled down the window shade. Then she went back to the table. I hope Robert remembers about the warning.
Robert was driving toward the house, reviewing his plan of escape.
It's not perfect, he thought, but at least it should get them off the trail long enough to buy me some time. He was approaching the house.
As he neared it, he slowed down and looked around. Everything appeared to be normal. He would warn Pier to get out and then take off. As Robert started to park in front of the house, something struck him as odd. One of the front shades was down. The others were up. It was probably a coincidence, but still... An alarm bell sounded. Could Pier have taken his little game seriously? Was it meant to be a warning of some kind? Robert stepped on the accelerator and kept driving. He could not afford to take any chances, no matter how remote. He drove to a bar a mile away and went inside to use the telephone.
They were seated at the dining-room table when the telephone rang. The men tensed. One of them started to rise.
"Would Bellamy be calling here?" Pier gave him a scornful look. "Of course not. Why should he?"
She rose and walked over to the telephone. She picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Pier? I saw the window shade and-" All she had to do was say that everything was all right, and he would come back to the house. The men would arrest him, and she could demand her reward. But would they merely arrest him? She could hear Robert's voice, saying, "If the
police find me, they have orders to kill me." The men at the table were watching her. There was so much she could do with fifty thousand dollars. There were beautiful clothes to buy, cruises to take, a pretty little apartment in Rome.... And Robert would be dead. Besides, she hated the goddamned police. Pier said into the telephone, "You have the wrong number."
Robert heard the click of the receiver and stood there, stunned.
She had believed the tall tales he had told her, and it had probably saved his life. Bless her. Robert turned the car around and headed away from the house toward the docks, but instead of going to the main part of the port that serviced the freighters and ocean liners leaving Italy, he drove to the other side, past Santa Lucia, to a small pier where the sign over a kiosk read: "Capri and Ischia." Robert parked the car where it could easily be spotted, and walked up to the ticket seller.
"When does the next hydrofoil leave for Ischia?" "In thirty minutes."
"And for Capri?" "Five minutes."
"Give me a one-way ticket to Capri." "Si, signore."
"What's this 'si signore' crap?" Robert said in a loud voice.
"Why don't you people speak English like everybody else?" The man's eyes widened in shock.
"You goddamn guineas are all alike. Stupid! Or, as you people would say, stupido." Robert shoved some money at the man, grabbed the ticket, and walked toward the hydrofoil.
Three minutes later he was on his way to the island of Capri. The boat started out slowly, making its way cautiously through the channel.
When it reached the outer limits, it surged forward, rising out of the water like a graceful porpoise. The ferry was full of tourists from a variety of countries, happily chattering away in different tongues. No one was paying any attention to Robert. He made his way to the small bar where they served drinks. He said to the bartender, "Give me a vodka and tonic."
"Yes, sir."
He watched the bartender mix the drink.
"There you are, signore." Robert picked up the glass and took a swallow. He slammed the glass back down on the bar.
"You call this a drink for Christ's sakes?" he said.
"It tastes like horse piss. What's the matter with you goddamn Italians?"
People around him were turning to stare. The bartender said, stiffly, "I'm sorry, signore, we use the best-"
"Don't give me that shit!"
An Englishman nearby said stiffly, "There are women here. Why don't you watch your language?"
"I don't have to watch my language," Robert yelled.
"Do you know who I am? I'm Commander Robert Bellamy. And they call this a boat? It's a piece of junk!" He made his way to the bow and sat down. He could feel the eyes of the other passengers on him. His heart was hammering, but the charade was not over yet.
When the hydrofoil docked at Capri, Robert walked over to the ticket booth at the entrance to the funicolare. An elderly man was in the booth selling tickets.
"One ticket," Robert yelled.
"And hurry up! I don't have all day. You're too old to be selling tickets, anyway. You should stay home. Your wife is probably screwing all your neighbors."
The old man started to rise in anger. Passersby were giving Robert furious glances. Robert grabbed the ticket and stepped into the crowded funicolare. They'll remember me, he thought grimly. He was leaving a trail that no one could mIss.
When the funicolare came to a stop, Robert shoved his way through the crowd. He walked up the winding Via Vittorio Emanuele, to the Quisisana Hotel.
"I need a room," Robert told the clerk behind the desk.
"I'm sorry," the clerk apologized, "but we are fully booked. There is-" Robert handed him sixty thousand lire.
"Any room will do."
"Well, in that case, I think we can accommodate you, signore.
Would you register, please?"
Robert signed his name: Commander Robert Bellamy. "How long will you be staying with us, Commander?" "One week."
"That will be fine. May I have your passport?"
"It's in my luggage. It'll be here in a few minutes." "I will have a bellboy show you to your room."
"Not now. I have to go out for a few minutes. I'll be right back."
Robert stepped out of the lobby, into the street. Memories hit him like a blast of cold air. He had walked here with Susan, exploring the little side streets, and strolled down Via Ignazio Cerio and Via Li Campo. It had been a magic time. They visited the Grotta Azzurra, and had morning coffee at the Piazza Umberto. They took the funicolare up to Anacapri, and rode donkeys to Villa Jovis, Tiberius's villa, and swam in the emerald green waters at the Marina Piccola. They shopped along Via Vittorio Emanuele and took the chair lift to the top of Monte Solaro, their feet skimming over the vine leaves and leafy trees. Off to the right, they could see the houses sprinkled down the hillside toward the sea, flowering yellow broom covering the ground, an
eleven-minute ride through a colorful fairyland of green trees, white houses and, in the distance, the blue sea. At the top, they had coffee at the Barbarossa Ristorante, and then went into the little church in Anacapri to thank God for all their blessings, and for each other.
Robert had thought then that the magic was Capri. He had been wrong.
The magic was Susan, and the magician had left the stage. Robert went back to the funicolare station at the Piazza Umberto, and took the tram down, quietly mingling with the other passengers. When the funicolare arrived at the bottom, he walked out, carefully avoiding the ticket seller. He went over to the kiosk at the boat landing. In a heavy Spanish accent, Robert asked, "-A que hora sale el barco a Ischia?"
"Sale en treinta minutos." "Gracias." Robert bought a ticket.
He walked into a bar at the waterfront and took a seat in the back, where he nursed a scotch. By now they would have undoubtedly found the car, and the hunt for him would narrow. He spread out the map of Europe in his mind. The logical thing for him to do would be to head for England and find a way to get back to the States. It would make no sense for him to return to France. So, France it Is, Robert thought. A busy seaport to leave Italy from. Civitavecchia. I have to get to Civitavecchia. The Halcyon.
He got change from the owner of the bar and used the telephone. It took the marine operator ten minutes to put his call through. Susan was on the line almost immediately.
"We've been waiting to hear from you." We. He found that interesting.
"The engine is fixed. We can be in Naples early in the morning. Where shall we pick you up?"
It was too risky for the Halcyon to come here. Robert said, "Do you remember the palindrome? We went there on our honeymoon."
"The what?"
"I made a joke about it because I was so exhausted." There was a silence on the other end of the line. Then Susan said softly, "I remember."
"Can the Halcyon meet me there tomorrow?" "Hold on a moment." He waited.
Susan returned to the telephone. "Yes, we can be there."
"Good." Robert hesitated. He thought of all the innocent people who had already died.
"I'm asking a lot of you. If they ever found out you helped me, you could be in terrible danger."
"Don't worry. We'll meet you there. Be careful." "Thanks."
The connection was broken. Susan turned to Monte Banks. "He's coming."
At SIFAR headquarters in Rome, they were listening to the conversation in the communications room. There were four men in the room. The radio operator said, "We've recorded it if you would like to hear it again, sir."
Colonel Cesar looked at Frank Johnson questioningly.
"Yes. I'm interested in hearing the part about where they're going to meet. It sounded like he said Palindrome. Is that somewhere in Italy?"
Colonel Cesar shook his head.
"I never heard of it. We'll check it out." He turned to his aide.
"Look it up on the map. And keep monitoring all transmissions to and from the Halcyon."
"Yes, sir."
At the farmhouse in Naples, the phone rang. Pier started to get up to answer it.
"Hold it," one of the men said. He walked over to the phone and picked it up.
"Hello?"
He listened for a moment, then threw the phone down and turned to his companion.
"Bellamy took the hydrofoil to Capri. Let's go!"
Pier watched the two men hurry out the door and thought: God never meant me to have so much money, anyway. I hope he gets away.
When the ferryboat to Ischia arrived, Robert mingled with the crowd boarding it. He kept to himself, avoiding eye contact. Thirty minutes later, when the boat docked at Ischia, Robert disembarked and walked over to the ticket booth on the pier. A sign announced that the ferry to Sorrento was due in ten minutes.
"A round-trip ticket to Sorrento," Robert said. Ten minutes later he was on his way to Sorrento, back to the mainland. With a little luck, the search will have shifted to Capri, Robert thought. With a little luck.
The food market at Sorrento was crowded. Farmers had come in from the countryside bringing fresh fruit and vegetables and sides of beef that lined the meat stalls. The street was thronged with vendors and shoppers.
Robert approached a husky man in a stained apron loading a truck.
"Pardon, monsieur," Robert said, speaking with a perfect French accent, "I'm looking for transportation to Civitavecchia. Would you happen to be going that way?"
"No. Salerno." He pointed to a man loading another truck nearby. "Giuseppe might be able to help you."
"Merci."
Robert moved over to the next truck.
"Monsieur, would you be going to Civitavecchia by any chance?" The man said noncommittally, "I might be."
"I would be glad to pay you for the ride." "How much?"
Robert handed the man a hundred thousand lire.
"You could buy yourself a plane ticket to Rome for that much money, couldn't you?"
Robert instantly realized his mistake. He looked around nervously.
"The truth is, I have some creditors watching the airport. I'd prefer to go by truck."
The man nodded.
"Ah. I understand. All right, get in. We're ready to leave." Robert yawned.
"I am tres fatigue. How do you say? Tired? Would you mind if I slept in the back?"
"It's going to be a bumpy ride, but suit yourself." "Merci."
The back of the truck was filled with empty crates and boxes. Giuseppe watched Robert climb in, and he closed up the tailgate.
Inside, Robert concealed himself behind some crates. He suddenly realized how exhausted he really was. The chase was beginning to wear him down. How long had it been since he had slept? He thought of Pier and how she had come to him in the night and had made him feel whole again, a man again. He hoped she was all right. Robert slept.
In the cab of the truck, Giuseppe was thinking about his passenger. The word was out about an American the authorities were looking for. His passenger had a French accent, but he looked like an American, and he dressed like an American. It would be worth checking out. There might be a nice reward.
One hour later, at a truck stop along the highway, Giuseppe pulled up in front of a gas pump.
"Fill it up," he said. He walked around to the back of the truck and peered inside. His passenger was asleep.
Giuseppe went inside the restaurant and made a telephone call to the local police.
The call had been routed to Colonel Cesar.
"Yes," he said to Giuseppe, "that sounds very much like our man. Listen carefully. He is dangerous, so I want you to do exactly as I tell you. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where are you now?"
"At the AGIP truck stop on the way to Civitavecchia." "And he's in the back of your truck now?"
"Yes." The conversation was making him nervous. Maybe I should have minded my own business.
"Don't do anything to make him suspicious. Get back in your truck and keep driving. Give me your license number and a description of your truck." Giuseppe gave it to him.
"Fine. We will take care of everything. Now get moving." Colonel Cesar turned to Colonel Johnson and nodded.
"We have him. I'll have a roadblock set up. We can be there by helicopter in thirty minutes."
"Let's go."
When Giuseppe replaced the receiver, he wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt and headed for the truck. I hope there won't be a shoot-out.
Maria would kill me. On the other hand, if the reward is large enough... He climbed into the cab of the truck and headed for Civitavecchia. Thirty-five minutes later, Giuseppe heard the sound of a helicopter overhead. He looked up. It had the markings of the state police. Ahead of him on the highway, he saw two police cars lined up next to each other, forming a roadblock. Behind the cars were policemen with automatic weapons. The helicopter landed at the side of the road, and Cesar and Colonel Frank Johnson stepped out.
As he neared the roadblock, Giuseppe slowed the truck down. He shut off the ignition and jumped out, running toward the officers.
"He's in back!" he shouted.
The truck rolled to a stop. Cesar shouted, "Close in." The policemen converged on the truck, weapons ready.
"Don't shoot," Colonel Johnson yelled. "I'll take him."
He moved toward the back of the truck.
"Come on out, Robert," Colonel Johnson called, "it's over." There was no response.
"Robert, you have five seconds." Silence. They waited.
Cesar turned to his men and nodded. "No!" Colonel Johnson yelled.
But it was too late. The police began firing into the back of the truck. The noise of the automatic fire was deafening. Splinters of crates began flying into the air. After ten seconds, the firing ceased.
Colonel Frank Johnson jumped into the back of the truck and moved the crates and boxes out of his way. He turned to Cesar.
"He's not here."
Day Nineteen Civitavecchia, Italy
Civitavecchia is the ancient seaport for Rome, guarded by a massive fort completed by Michelangelo in 1537. The port is one of the busiest in Europe, servicing all seagoing traffic to and from Rome and Sardinia.
It was early in the morning, but the port was already alive with noisy activity. Robert made his way past the railroad yards and stepped into a small trattoria filled with pungent cooking odors and ordered breakfast.
The Halcyon would be waiting for him at the appointed place, Elba.
He was grateful that Susan had remembered it. On their honeymoon, they had stayed in their room there making love for three days and nights.
Susan had said, "Would you like to go for a swim, darling?" Robert had shaken his head.
"No. I can't move. 'Able was I, ere I saw Elba.'" And Susan had laughed, and they had made love again. And bless her, she has remembered the palindrome. Now all he had to do was to find a boat to take him to Elba. He walked down the streets leading to the harbor. It was bustling with maritime activity, crowded with freighters, motor boats and private yachts. There was a landing for a ferryboat. Robert's eyes lit up when he saw it. That would be the safest way to get over to
Elba. He would be able to lose himself in the crowds.
As Robert started toward the ferry landing, he noticed a dark, unmarked sedan parked half a block away, and he stopped. It had official license plates. There were two men seated inside the car watching the docks.
Robert turned and walked in the other direction.
Scattered among the dockworkers and tourists, he spotted plain-clothes detectives trying to look unobtrusive. They stood out like beacons.
Robert's heart began to pound. How could they possibly have tracked him here? And then he realized what had happened. My God, I told the truck driver where I was going! Stupid! I must be very tired.
He had fallen asleep in the truck, and the absence of movement had awakened him. He had gotten up to look out and had seen Giuseppe go into the gas station and make a phone call. Robert had slipped out of the truck and climbed into the back of another truck headed north toward Civitavecchia.
He had trapped himself. They were looking for him here. A few hundred yards away were dozens of boats that could have afforded him an escape. Not any longer.
Robert turned away from the harbor and walked toward town. He passed a building with a huge colorful poster on the wall. It read: Come to the Fairgrounds. Fun for All! Food! Games! Rides! See the Big Race! He stopped and stared. He had found his escape.
the fairgrounds, five miles outside the town, where a number of large, colorful balloons spread across the field, looked like round rainbows. They were moored to trucks while ground crews were busily filling their envelopes with cold air. Half a dozen chase cars stood by, ready to track the balloons, two men in each car, the driver and the spotter.
Robert walked up to a man who seemed to be in charge.
"It looks like you're getting ready for the big race," Robert said. "That's right. Ever been in a balloon?"
"No."
They were skimming over Lake Como and he dropped the balloon down until it touched the water.
"We're going to crash," Susan screamed. He smiled.
"No, we're not." The bottom of the balloon was dancing on the waves. He threw out a sandbag, and the balloon began to lift again. Susan laughed and hugged him and said...
The man was speaking.
"You should try it sometime. It's a great sport."
"Yeah. Where is the race heading?"
"Yugoslavia. We have a nice easterly wind. We'll be taking off in a few minutes. It's better to fly early in the morning when the wind is cool."
"Really?"
Robert said politely. He had a quick flash of a summer day in Yugoslavia.
"We have four people to smuggle out of here, Commander. We must wait until the air is cooler. A balloon that can lift four people in the winter air can only lift two people in the summer air."
Robert noticed that the crews were almost finished filling the balloons with air and had started to light the large propane burners, pointing the flame into the envelope opening, to warm the air inside.
The balloons, which were lying on their sides, began to rise until the baskets stood upright.
"Mind if I look around?" Robert asked.
"Go ahead. Just stay out of everyone's way."
"Right." Robert walked over to a yellow and red balloon that was filled with propane gas. The only thing holding it to the ground was a rope attached to one of the trucks.
The crewman who had been working on it had wandered off to talk to someone. There was no one else near.
Robert climbed into the basket of the balloon, and the huge envelope seemed to fill the sky above him. He checked the rigging and equipment, the altimeter, charts, a pyrometer to monitor the temperature of the envelope, a rate-of-climb indicator, and a tool kit. Everything was in order. Robert reached into the tool kit and pulled out a knife.
He sliced into the mooring rope, and a moment later, the balloon started to ascend.
"Hey!" Robert yelled.
"What's going on here? Get me down!"
The man he had spoken to was gaping up at the runaway balloon.
"Figlio d'una mignotta! Don't panic," he shouted.
"There's an altimeter on board. Use your ballast and stay at one thousand feet.
We'll meet you in YugoslavIa. Can you hear me?" "I hear you."
The balloon was rising higher and higher, carrying him east, away from Elba, which was to the west. But Robert was not concerned. The wind changed direction at varying altitudes. None of the other balloons had taken off yet. Robert spotted one of the chase cars start up, moving to track him. He dropped ballast and watched the altimeter climb. Six hundred feet... seven hundred feet...
nine hundred feet ... eleven hundred feet...
At fifteen hundred feet, the wind began to weaken.
The balloon was almost stationary now. Robert dropped more ballast. He used the stair-step technique, stopping at different altitudes to check the wind direction.
At two thousand feet, Robert could feel the wind begin to shift.
It swayed in the turbulent air for a moment, then slowly began to reverse direction and move west.
In the distance, far below, Robert could see the other balloons rising and moving east toward Yugoslavia. There was no sound at all except for the soft whispering of the wind.
"It's so quiet, Robert.
It's like flying on a cloud. I wish we could stay up here forever." She had held him close.
"Have you ever made love in a balloon?" she murmured.
"Let's try it."
And later, "I'll bet we're the only people in the world who have made love in a balloon, darling." Robert was over the Tyrrhenian Sea now, heading northwest toward the coast of Tuscany.
Below, a string of islands stretched in a circle off the coast, with Elba the largest.
Napoleon had been exiled here, and he had probably chosen it because on a clear day, Robert thought, he could see his beloved island of Corsica,
where he had been born. In exile Napoleon's one thought was how to escape and get to France. Mine, too. Only Napoleon didn't have Susan and the Halcyon to rescue him. In the distance, Monte Capanne suddenly loomed up, rising more than three thousand feet into the sky.
Robert pulled the safety line that opened the valve at the top of the balloon to allow the hot air to escape, and the balloon began to descend. Below him, Robert could see the lush pink and green of Elba, the pink that came from the granite outcrops and Tuscan houses, and the green of the heavy forests. Below, pristine white beaches were scattered around the edges of the island.
He landed the balloon at the base of the mountain, away from the city, to attract as little attention to himself as possible. There was a road not far from where he had landed, and he walked over to it and waited until a car came by.
"Could you give me a lift into town?" Robert called.
"Certainly.
Jump" The driver appeared to be somewhere in his eighties, with an old, wrinkled face.
"I could have swore I saw a balloon in the sky a little while ago. Did you see it, mister?"
"No," Robert said. "Visiting?"
"Just passing through. I'm on my way to Rome." The driver nodded.
"I was there once." The rest of the ride was made in silence. When they reached Portoferraio, the capital and only city of Elba, Robert stepped down from the car.
"Have a nice day," the driver said in English. My God, Robert thought, Californians have been here. Robert walked along Via Garibaldi, the main street, crowded with tourists, mostly families, and it was as though time had stood still. Nothing had changed; except that I've lost Susan, and half the governments in the world are trying to assassinate me. Otherwise, Robert thought wryly, everything is exactly the same.
He bought binoculars in a gift shop, walked to the waterfront, and sat at a table outside the Stella Mariner Restaurant, where he had a clear view of the harbor. There were no suspicious cars, no police boats, and no policemen in sight. They still thought they had him bottled up on the mainland. It would be safe for him to board the Halcyon. All he had to do now was wait for it to arrive. He sat there sipping procanico, the delicate native white wine, watching for the Halcyon. He
went over his plan again. The yacht would drop him off near the coast of Marseilles, and he would make his way to Paris where he had a friend, Li Po, who would help him. It was IronIc. He heard Francesco Cesar's voice saying: "I've heard you've made a deal with the Chinese."
He knew that Li Po would help him because Li had once saved Robert's life, and according to ancient Chinese tradition, he had become responsible for Robert. It was a matter of win yu-"honor."
Li Po was with the Guojia Anquanbu, the Chinese Ministry of State Security, which dealt with espionage. Years earlier Robert had been caught while trying to smuggle a dissident out of China. He had been sent to Qincheng, the top security prison in Beijing. Li Po was a double agent who had worked with Robert before. He managed to arrange for Robert to escape.
At the Chinese border, Robert had said, "You should get out of this while you're still alive, Li. Your luck won't last forever." Li Po had smiled.
"I have ren-the ability to endure, to survive."
One year later, Li Po had been transferred to the Chinese Embassy in Paris.
Robert decided that it was time to make his first move. He left the restaurant and wandered down to the waterfront. It was crowded with large and small boats leaving from Portoferraio.
Robert approached a man polishing the hull of a sleek motorboat. It was a Donzi, powered by a V-8 351 horsepower inboard engine. "Nice boat," Robert said.
The man nodded. "Merci."
"I wonder if I could rent it to take a little cruise around the harbor?" The man stopped what he was doing and studied Robert.
"That might be possible. Are you familiar with boats?" "Yes. I have a Donzi back home."
The man nodded approvingly. "Where are you from?" "Oregon," Robert said.
"It will cost you four hundred francs an hour." Robert smiled.
"That's fine."
"And a deposit, of course." "Of course."
"She's ready to go. Would you like to take her out now?" "No, I have some errands to run. I thought tomorrow morning." "What time?"
"I'll let you know," Robert said. He handed the man some money.
"Here's a partial deposit. I'll see you tomorrow."
He had decided it would be dangerous to let the Halcyon come into port.
There were formalities. The capitaniera di porto-the "harbormaster"-issued each yacht an autorizzazione and recorded its
stay. Robert intended for the Halcyon to be as little involved with him as possible. He would meet it at sea. In the office of the French Marine Ministry, Colonel Cesar and Colonel Johnson were talking to the marine operator.
"Are you sure there has been no further communication with the Halcyon?" "No, sir, not since the last conversation I reported to you."
"Keep listening." Colonel Cesar turned to Colonel Johnson and smiled.
"Don't worry. We'll know the moment Commander Bellamy boards the Halcyon."
"But I want to get him before he's aboard." The marine operator said, "Colonel Cesar, there is no Palindrome listed on the map of Italy.
But I think we've pinned it down." "Where is it?"
"It's not a place, sir. It's a word." "What?"
"Yes, sir. A palindrome is a word or sentence that is spelled the same forward or backward. For example, 'Madam I'm Adam." We've run some through our computers." He handed him a long list of words.
Colonel Cesar and Colonel Johnson scanned the list. "Kook ...
deed ... bib ... bob ... boob ... dad ... dud ... eve ... gag ...
mom ... non ... noon ... Otto ... pop ... sees ... tot ... toot..." Cesar looked up.
"It's not much help, is it?"
"It might be, sir. They were obviously using some kind of code.
And one of the most famous palindromes was supposedly said by Napoleon: 'Able was I, ere I saw Elba."' Colonel Cesar and Colonel Johnson looked at each other.
"Elba!
Jesus Christ! That's where he is!" Day Twenty The Island of Elba
It first appeared as a faint speck on the horizon, rapidly looming larger in the early morning light. Through the binoculars, Robert watched it materialize into the Halcyon. There was no mistaking the ship. There were not many at sea like it.
Robert hurried down to the beach where he had arranged to rent the motorboat.
"Good morning."
The owner of the boat looked up. "Bonjour, monsieur.
Are you ready to take it out?" Robert nodded.
"Yes."
"How long will you want it for?" "No more than an hour or two."
Robert gave the man the rest of the deposit and stepped down into the boat.
"Take good care of it," the man said.
"Don't worry," Robert assured him, "I will." The owner untied the painter, and moments later the boat was headed out to sea, racing toward the Halcyon. It took Robert ten minutes to reach the yacht. As he approached it, he saw Susan and Monte Banks standing on the deck. Susan
waved to him, and he could see the anxiety in her face. Robert maneuvered the small boat next to the yacht and tossed a line to a deckhand.
"Do you want to bring it aboard, sir?" the man called.
"No, let it go." The owner would find it soon enough. Robert walked up the ladder to the spotless teak deck. Susan had once described the Halcyon to Robert, and he had been impressed, but seen in person it was even more impressive. The Halcyon was two hundred and eighty feet long, with a luxurious owner's cabin, eight double suites for guests, and cabins for a crew of sixteen. It had a drawing room, a dining room, a study, a salon, and a swimming pool.
The ship was propelled by two twelve-hundred-andfifty horsepower sixteen-cylinder turbocharged Caterpillar D399 diesel engines, and carried six small tenders for going ashore. The interior design had been done in Italy by Luigi Sturchio. It was a floating palace.
"I'm glad you made it," Susan said.
And Robert had the impression that she was ill at ease, that something was wrong. Or was it just his nerves?
She looked absolutely beautiful, yet somehow, he was disappointed. What the hell had I expected? That she would look pale and miserable? He turned to Monte.
"I want you to know how much I appreciate this." Monte shrugged.
"Glad to help you out." The man was a saint. "What's your plan?"
"I'd like you to turn and head due west to Marseilles.
You can drop me off the coast and..." A man in a crisp white uniform approached. He was in his fifties, heavy-set, with a neatly trimmed beard.
"This is Captain Simpson. This is..." Monte Banks looked at Robert for help.
"Smith. Tom Smith."
Monte said, "We'll be heading for Marseilles, Captain." "We're not going into Elba?"
"No."
Captain Simpson said, "Very well." He sounded surprised. Robert scanned the horizon. All clear.
"I'd suggest we go below," Monte Banks said. When the three of them were seated in the salon, Monte asked, "Don't you think you owe us an explanation?"
"Yes, I do," Robert said, "but I'm not going to give you one. The less you know about this whole affair, the better. I can only tell you that I'm innocent. I'm involved in a political situation.
I know too much, and I'm being hunted. If they find me, they'll kill me."
Susan and Monte exchanged a look.
"They have no reason to connect me with the Halcyon," Robert went on.
"Believe me, Monte, if there were any other way for me to escape, I would have taken it." Robert thought of all the people who had been killed because he had tracked them down.
He could not bear to have anything happen to Susan. He tried to keep his voice light.
"I would appreciate it for your own sake if you didn't mention that I was ever aboard this ship."
"of course not," Monte said.
The yacht had slowly swung around and was heading west.
"If you'll excuse me, I have to have a word with the captain." Dinner was an awkward affair. There were strange undercurrents that
Robert did not understand, a tension that was almost tangible. Was it
because of his presence? Or was it something else? Something between the two of them? The sooner I get away from here, the better, Robert thought.
They were in the salon having an after-dinner drink when Captain Simpson came into the room.
"When will we reach Marseilles?" Robert asked.
"If the weather holds, we should be there tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Smith."
There was something about Captain Simpson's manner that irritated Robert. The captain was gruff, almost to the point of being rude. But he must be good, Robert thought, or Monte would not have hired him.
Susan deserves this yacht. She deserves the best of everything.
At eleven o'clock, Monte looked at his watch and said to Susan, "I think we had better turn in, darling."
Susan glanced at Robert. "Yes." The three of them rose.
Monte said, "You'll find a change of clothes in your cabin. We're about the same size."
"Thank you."
"Good night, Robert." "Good night, Susan."
Robert stood there, watching the woman he loved going off to bed with his rival. Rival? Who the hell am I kidding? He's the winner.
I'm the loser.
Sleep was an elusive shadow dancing just out of reach. Lying in his bed, Robert was thinking that on the other side of the wall, only a few feet away, was the woman he loved more than anyone in the world. He thought of Susan lying in her bed, naked-she never wore a nightgown-and he felt himself beginning to get an erection. Was Monte making love to her at this moment or was she alone-... And was she thinking of him and remembering all the great times they had had together? Probably not.
Well, he would be out of her life soon. He would probably never see her again. It was dawn before he closed his eyes.
In the communications room at SIFAR, radar was tracking the Halcyon. Colonel Cesar turned to Colonel Johnson and said, "Too bad we couldn't intercept him at Elba, but we've got him now! We have a cruiser standing by. We're just awaiting word from the Halcyon to board her."
Day Twenty-one
Early in the morning, Robert was on deck looking out over the calm sea. Captain Simpson approached him.
"Good morning. It looks like the weather is going to hold, Mr. Smith." "Yes."
"We'll be in Marseilles by three o'clock. Will we be staying there long?"
"I don't know," Robert said pleasantly. "We'll see."
"Yes, sir."
Robert watched Simpson stride off. What is it about the man? Robert walked back to the stern of the yacht and scanned the horizon. He could see nothing, and yet- In the past, his instincts had saved his life more than once. He had long ago learned to rely on them. Something was wrong.
* * * Out of sight beyond the horizon, the Italian navy cruiser Stromboli was stalking the Halcyon.
When Susan appeared for breakfast, she looked pale and drawn. "Did you sleep well, darling?"
Monte asked. "Fine," Susan said.
So they didn't share the same cabin! Robert felt an unreasonable sense of pleasure from that knowledge. He and Susan had always slept in the same bed, her naked, nubile body spooning into his. Jesus, I've got to stop thinking like this.
Ahead of the Halcyon, on the starboard bow was a fishing boat from the Marseilles fleet bringing in a fresh catch.
"Would you like some fish for lunch?" Susan asked. Both men nodded. "Fine."
They were almost abreast of the fishing boat. As Captain Simpson walked by, Robert asked, "What is our ETA to Marseilles?"
"We'll be there in two hours, Mr. Smith. Marseilles is an interesting port. Have you ever been there?"
"It is an interesting port," Robert said.
In the communications room at SIFAR, the two colonels were reading the message that had just come in from the Halcyon. It read simply: "Now."
"What's the H4lcyon's position?" barked Colonel Cesar.
"They're two hours out of Marseilles, heading for port."
"Order the Stromboli to overtake and board her immediately."
Thirty minutes later, the Italian navy cruiser Stromboli was closing in on the Halcyon. Susan and Monte were at the fantail of the yacht watching the warship racing toward them.
A voice came over the cruiser's loudspeaker. "Ahoy, Halcyon.
Heave to. We're coming aboard."
Susan and Monte exchanged a look. Captain Simpson came hurrying toward them.
"Mr. Banks-"
"I heard it. Do as they say. Stop the engines." "Yes, sir."
A minute later, the pulse of the engines stopped, and the yacht lay still in the water. Susan and her husband watched as armed sailors from the Navy cruiser were lowered into a dinghy.
Ten minutes later, a dozen sailors were swarming up the ladder of the Halcyon. The naval officer in charge, a lieutenant commander, said, "I'm sorry to trouble you, Mr. Banks. The Italian government has reason to believe that you are harboring a fugitive. We have orders to search your ship."
Susan stood there watching as the sailors started spreading out, moving along the deck and going below to search the cabins.
"Don't say anything." "But-"
"Not a word."
They stood on the deck in silence, watching the search go on. Thirty minutes later, they were assembled again on the main deck. "There's no sign of him, Commander," a sailor reported.
"You're certain of that?"
"Absolutely, sir. There are no passengers aboard, and we have identified each member of the crew." The commander stood there a moment, frustrated. His superiors had made a serious mistake.
He turned to Monte and Susan and Captain Simpson.
"I owe you an apology," he said.
"I'm terribly sorry to have inconvenienced you. We'll leave now." He turned to go.
"Commander-" "Yes?"
"The man you're looking for got away on a fishing boat half an hour ago. You should have no trouble picking him up."
Five minutes later, the Stromboli was speeding toward Marseilles. The lieutenant commander had every reason to be pleased with himself. The governments of the world had been pursuing Commander Robert Bellamy, and he was the one who had found him. There could be a nice promotion in this, he thought. From the bridge, the navigation officer called out, "Commander, could you come up here, please?"
Had they spotted the fishing boat already? The lieutenant commander hurried up to the bridge.
"Look, sir!"
The commander took one look, and his heart sank. In the distance ahead, covering the horizon, was the entire Marseilles fishing fleet, a hundred identical boats returning to port. There was no way in the world to identify the one Commander Bellamy was on.
He stole a car in Marseilles.
It was a Fiat 1800 Spider convertible, parked on a dimly lit side street. It was locked, and there was no key in the ignition. No problem. Looking around to make sure he was not observed, Robert made a rip in the canvas top and shoved his hand inside to unlock the door. He slid inside the car and reached under the dashboard and pulled out all the wires of the ignition switch. He held the thick red wire in one hand while, one by one, he touched the other wires to it until he found one that lit up the dashboard. He then hooked those two wires together and touched the remaining ones to the two wires hooked together until the engine began to turn over. He pulled out the choke, and the engine roared into life. A moment later, Robert was on his way to Paris.
His first priority was to get hold of Li Po. When he reached the Paris suburbs, he stopped at a phone booth.
He telephoned Li's apartment and heard the familiar voice on the answering machine: "Zao, mes a....... Je regrette que je ne sois pas chez moi, mais ii n'y a pas du danger que je reponde pas a votre coup de telephone. Prenez garde que vous attendiez le signal de l'oppareil."
"Good morning. I regret that I am not at home, but there is no danger
of my not returning your call. Be careful to wait for the tone."
Robert counted out the words in their private code. The key words were: Regret ... danger ... careful.
The phone was tapped, of course. Li had been expecting his call, and this was his way of warning Robert. He had to get to him as quickly as possible. He would use another code they had employed in the past.
Robert walked along the Rue du Faubourg St. Honore.
He had walked this street with Susan. She had stopped in front of a shop window and posed like a mannequin. 'Would you like to see me in that dress, Robert?"
"No, I'd prefer to see you out of it." And they had visited the Louvre, and Susan had stood transfixed in front of the Mona Lisa, her eyes brimming with tears. ...
Robert headed for the offices of Le Matin. Just down the block from the entryway, he stopped a teenager on the street.
"Would you like to make fifty francs?" The boy looked at him suspiciously. "Doing what?"
Robert scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to the boy with a fifty-franc note.
"Just take this into Le Matin to the want-ads desk." "Bon, d'accord."
Robert watched the boy go into the building. The ad would get in in time to make next morning's edition. It read: "Tilly. Dad very ill.
Needs you. Please meet with him soon. Mother."
There was nothing to do now but wait. He dared not check into a hotel because they would all have been alerted. Paris was a ticking time bomb.
Robert boarded a crowded tour bus and sat in back, keeping a low, silent profile. The tour group visited the Luxembourg Gardens, the Louvre, Napoleon's tomb in Les Invalides, and a dozen other monuments.
And always Robert managed to lose himself in the middle of the crowd. Day Twenty-two Paris, France
He bought a ticket for the midnight show at the Moulin Rouge as part of another tour group. The show started at two A.M. When it was over, he
filled in the rest of the night moving around Montmartre, going from small bar to small bar.
The morning papers would not be out on the streets until five A.M.
A few minutes before five, Robert was standing near a newspaper stand waiting. A red truck drove up, and a boy threw a bundle of papers onto the pavement. Robert picked up the first one. He turned to the want ads. His ad was there. Now there was nothing to do but wait. At noon Robert wandered into a small tobacconist shop, where dozens of personal messages were tacked to a board. There were help wanted ads, advertisements for apartments to let, students seeking roommates, bicycles for sale. In the middle of the board, Robert found the message he was looking for.
"Tilly eager to see you. Call her at 50412645." Li Po answered on the first ring.
"Robert?"
"Zao, Li."
"My God, man, what is happening?" "I was hoping you could tell me."
"My friend, you're getting more attention than the president of France. The cables are burning up about you. What have you done? No, don't tell me. Whatever it is, you're in serious trouble. They've tapped the phone at the Chinese Embassy, my phone at home is tapped, and they're watching my flat. They've been asking me a lot of questions about you."
"Li, do you have any idea what this is all-?"
"Not over the phone. Do you remember where Sung's apartment is?" Li's girlfriend.
"Yes."
"I'll meet you there in half an hour."
"Thanks." Robert was keenly aware of what jeopardy Li Po was putting himself in. He remembered what had happened to Al Traynor, his friend at the FBI. I'm a fucking Jonah. Everyone I come near, dies.
The apartment was on Rue Benouville in a quiet arrondissement of Paris.
When Robert reached the building, the sky was heavy with rain clouds, and he could hear the distant rumble of thunder. He walked into the lobby and rang the doorbell of the apartment. Li Po opened the door at once.
"Come inside," he said.
"Quickly." He closed the door behind Robert and locked it. Li Po had not changed since the last time Robert had seen him. He was tall and thin and ageless. The two men clasped hands.
"Li, do you know what the hell is going on?" "Sit down, Robert." Robert sat.
Li studied him for a moment.
"Have you ever heard of Operation Doomsday?" Robert frowned.
"No. Does it have anything to do with UFOs?"
"It has everything to do with UFOs. The world is facing disaster, Robert." Li Po began to pace.
"Aliens are coming to earth to destroy us. Three years ago, they landed here and met with government officials to demand that all the industrial powers close down their nuclear plants and stop burning fossil fuel."
Robert was listening, puzzled.
"They demanded a stop to the manufacturing of petroleum, chemicals, rubber, plastics. That would mean the closing down of thousands of factories all over the world. Automobile and steel plants would be forced to shut down. The world economy would be a shambles."
"Why would they-?"
"They claim we're polluting the universe, destroying the earth and the seas. ... They want us to stop making weapons, to stop waging war."
"A group of powerful men from twelve countries got together-top industrialists from the United States, Japan, Russia, China. ... A man with the code name of Janus organized intelligence agencies around the world to collaborate in Operation Doomsday to stop the aliens." He turned to Robert.
"You've heard of SDI?"
"Star Wars. The satellite system to shoot down Soviet intercontinental ballistic missiles."
Li shook his head.
"No. That was a cover. SDI was not created to fight the Russians. It is being designed for the specific purpose of knocking down UFOs. It's the only chance there is of stopping them."
Robert sat there in stunned silence, trying to absorb what Li Po was saying, while the rumble of thunder grew louder.
"You mean, the governments are behind-?"
"Let's say there are cabals within each government. Operation Doomsday is being run privately. Do you understand now?"
"My God! The governments aren't aware that.. ." He looked up at Li. "Li-how did you learn all this?"
"It's very simple, Robert," Li said quietly.
"I'm the Chinese connection." There was a Beretta in his hand. Robert stared at the gun.
"Li-!"
Li squeezed the trigger, and the sound of the shot mingled with a sudden deafening crack of thunder and a flash of lightning outside the window.
The first few drops of clean rainwater awakened her. She was lying on a park bench, too exhausted to move. For the last two days, she had felt her life energy flowing out of her. I am going to die here on this planet. She drifted into what she thought would be her last sleep. And then the rain came. The blessed rain. She could hardly believe it.
She lifted her head to the sky and felt the cool drops running down her face. It began to rain harder and harder. Fresh, pure liquid. She stood up then and raised her hands high, letting the water pour over her, giving her new strength, bringing her back to life. She let the rainwater fill her body, absorbing it into her very essence until she began to feel her tiredness vanish. She felt herself growing stronger and stronger until finally, she thought, I am ready. I can think clearly. I know who can help me find my way back. She took out the small transmitter, closed her eyes, and began to concentrate.
It was the lightning streak that saved Robert's life. At the instant that Li Po started to squeeze the trigger, the sudden flash of light outside the window distracted him for a moment. Robert moved, and the bullet hit him in his right shoulder instead of his chest.
As Li raised the gun to fire again, Robert gave a side thrust kick, knocking the gun out of Li's hand. Li spun forward and punched Robert hard in his wounded shoulder. The pain was excruciating. Robert's jacket was covered with blood. He lashed out with a forward elbow smash. Li grunted with pain. He riposted with a deadly shuto chop to the neck, and Robert evaded it. The two men circled each other, both of them breathing hard, looking for an opening. They fought silently in a deadly ritual older than time, and each knew that only one of them would come out of this alive. Robert was weakening. The pain in his shoulder was increasing, and he could see his blood dripping to the floor.
Time was on Li Po's side. I've got to end this quickly, Robert thought. He moved in with a front snap kick. Instead of evading it, Li took the full force of it, and was close enough to Robert to drive his elbow into Robert's shoulder. Robert staggered. Li moved in with a spin and back kick, and Robert faltered. Li was on top of him in an instant, pummeling him, pounding his shoulder again and again, backing him across the room. Robert was too weak to stop the rain of punishing blows. His eyes began to dim. He fell against Li, grabbing him, and the two men went down, smashing a glass table, shattering it. Robert lay on the floor, powerless to move. It's over, he thought. They've won. He lay there, half-conscious, waiting for Li to finish him off. Nothing happened. Slowly, painfully, Robert lifted his head. Li lay next to him on the floor, his eyes opened wide, staring at the ceiling. A large shard of glass protruded from his chest like a transparent dagger.
Robert struggled to sit up. He was weak from the loss of blood.
His shoulder was an ocean of pain. I have to get to a doctor, he thought. There was a name-someone that the agency used in Paris-someone at the American Hospital. Hilsinger. That was it. Leon Hilsinger.
Dr. Hilsinger was ready to leave his office for the day when the telephone call came in. His nurse had already gone home, so he picked up the phone. The voice at the other end of the phone was slurred.
"Dr. Hilsinger?" "Yes."
"This is Robert Bellamy... Need your help. I've been badly hurt. Will you help me?"
"Of course. Where are you?"
"Never mind that. I'll meet you at the American Hospital in half an hour."
"I'll be there. Go right to the emergency room." "Doctor-don't mention this call to anyone."
"You have my word." The line went dead. Dr. Hilsinger dialed a number.
"I just heard from Commander Bellamy. I'm meeting him at the American Hospital in half an hour. "
"Thank you, Doctor."
Dr. Hilsinger replaced the receiver. He heard the reception door open and looked up. Robert Bellamy was standing there with a gun in his hand.
"On second thought," Robert said, "it might be better if you treated me here."
The doctor tried to conceal his surprise. "You-you should be in a hospital."
"Too close to the morgue. Patch me up and make it fast." It was difficult to talk.
He started to protest, then thought better of it.
"Yes. Whatever you say. I'd better give you an anesthetic. It will-" "Don't even think about it," Robert said.
"No tricks."
He was holding the gun in his left hand.
"If I don't get out of here alive, neither do you. Any questions?" He felt faint.
Dr. Hilsinger swallowed. "No."
"Then get to work "
Dr. Hilsinger led Robert into the next room, an examining room filled with medical equipment. Slowly and carefully, Robert slipped out of his jacket. Holding the gun in his hand, he sat down on the table.
Dr. Hilsinger had a scalpel in his hand. Robert's fingers tightened on the trigger.
"Relax," Dr. Hilsinger said nervously. "I'm just going to cut your shirt."
The wound was raw and red and seeping blood.
"The bullet is still in there," Dr. Hilsinger said. "You won't be able to stand the pain unless I give you-" "No!" He was not going to let himself be drugged. "Just take it out."
"Whatever you say."
Robert watched the doctor walk over to a sterilizing unit and put in a
pair of forceps. Robert sat on the edge of the table, fighting off the dizziness that threatened to engulf him. He closed his eyes for a moment, and Dr. Hilsinger was standing in front of him, the forceps in his hand.
"Here we go." He pushed the forceps into the raw wound, and Robert screamed aloud with the pain. Bright lights flashed in front of his eyes. He started to lose consciousness.
"It's out," Dr. Hilsinger said.
Robert sat there for a moment trembling, taking deep breaths, fighting to regain control of himself.
Dr. Hilsinger was watching him closely. "Are you all right?"
It took Robert a moment to find his voice. "Yes. ... Patch it up."
The doctor poured peroxide into the wound, and Robert started to pass out again. He gritted his teeth. Hang on. We're almost there.
And finally, blessedly, the worst was over. The doctor was strapping a heavy bandage across Robert's shoulder.
"Give me my jacket," Robert said. Dr. Hilsinger stared at him.
"You can't go out now. You can't even walk."
"Bring me my jacket." His voice was so weak he could hardly talk.
He watched the doctor walk across the room to get his jacket, and there seemed to be two of him.
"You've lost a lot of blood," Dr. Hilsinger cautioned.
"It would be dangerous for you to leave." And more dangerous for me to stay, Robert thought. Carefully, he slipped his jacket on and tried to stand.
His legs began to buckle. He grabbed the side of the table.
"You'll never make it," Dr. Hilsinger warned. Robert looked up at the blurry figure in front of him.
"I'll make it." But he knew that the moment he left, Dr.
Hilsinger would be on the phone again. Robert's eyes fell on the spool of heavy surgical tape Dr. Hilsinger had used.
"Sit in the chair." His words were slurred. "Why? What are you-?"
Robert raised the gun. "Sit down."
Dr. Hilsinger sat. Robert picked up the roll of tape. It was awkward because he only had the use of one hand. He pulled the end of the wide tape loose and began to unroll it. He moved over to Dr.
Hilsinger.
"Just sit quietly and you won't get hurt." He fastened the end of the tape to the arm of the chair, and then started winding it around the doctor's hands.
"This really isn't necessary," Dr. Hilsinger said. "I won't-"
"Shut up." Robert continued to bind the doctor to the chair. The effort had started the rivers of pain flowing again. He looked at the doctor and said quietly, "I'm not going to faint."
He fainted.
* * * He was floating in space, drifting weightlessly through white clouds, at peace. Wake up. He did not want to wake up. He wanted this wonderful feeling to go on forever. Wake up. Something hard was pressing against his side. Something in his jacket pocket. With his eyes still closed, he reached in and held it in his hand. It was the crystal. He drifted back to sleep.
Robert. It was a woman's voice, soft and soothing. He was in a lovely green meadow, and the air was filled with music, and there were bright lights in the sky overhead. A woman was moving toward him. She was tall and beautiful with a gentle, oval face and a soft, almost translucent complexion. She was dressed in a snow white gown. Her voice was gentle and hushed.
"No one's going to hurt you anymore, Robert. Come to me. I'm waiting here for you." Slowly, Robert opened his eyes.
He lay there for a long moment, then sat up, filled with a sudden sense of excitement. He knew now who the eleventh witness was, and he knew where he was to meet her.
Day Twenty-three Paris, France
Robert telephoned Admiral Whittaker from the doctor's office. "Admiral? Robert."
"Robert! What's going on? They told me-"
"Never mind that now. I need your help, Admiral. Have you ever heard the name Janus?"
Admiral Whittaker said slowly, "Janus? No. I never heard of him."
Robert said, "I've found out he's heading some kind of secret organization that's killing innocent people, and now he's trying to kill me. We have to stop him."
"How can I help?"
"I need to get to the President. Can you arrange a meeting?" There was a moment of silence.
"I'm certain I can."
"There's more. General Hilliard is involved." "What? How?"
"And there are others. Most of the intelligence agencies in Europe are in it, too. I can't explain anymore now. I want you to call Hilliard. Tell him I've found an eleventh witness."
"I don't understand. An eleventh witness to what?"
"I'm sorry, Admiral, but I can't tell you. Hilliard will know. I want him to meet me in Switzerland."
"Switzerland?"
"Tell him I'm the only one who knows where the eleventh witness is.
If he makes one wrong move, the deal is off. Tell him to go to the Dolder Grand in Zurich. There will be a note waiting for him at the desk. Tell him I also want Janus in Switzerland-in person."
"Robert, are you certain you know what you're doing?"
"No, sir, I'm not. But this is the only chance I've got. I want you to tell him my conditions are not negotiable. Number one, I want safe passage to Switzerland. Number two, I want General Hilliard and Janus to meet me there. Number three, after that, I want a meeting with the President of the United States."
"I will do everything I can, Robert. How will I get in touch with you?"
"I'll call you back. How much time will you need?" "Give me one hour."
"Right."
"And Robert-" He could hear the pain in the old man's voice. "Yes, sir?"
"Be careful."
"Don't worry, sir. I'm a survivor. Remember?"
* * * One hour later, Robert was speaking to Admiral Whittaker again.
"You have a deal. General Hilliard seemed shaken by the news of another witness. He's given me his word you will not be harmed. Your conditions will be met. He's flying to Zurich and will be there tomorrow morning."
"And Janus?"
"Janus will be on the plane with him." Robert felt a surge of relief. "Thank you, Admiral.
And the President?"
"I spoke to him myself. His aides will arrange a meeting for you whenever you're ready." Thank God!
"General Hilliard has a plane to fly you to-"
"No way." He was not going to let them get him into a plane.
"I'm in Paris. I want a car and I'll drive it myself. I want it left in front of the Hotel Littre in Montparnasse within half an hour."
"I'll see to it." "Admiral?"
"Yes, Robert?"
It was difficult to keep his voice steady. "Thank you."
He walked down Rue Littre, moving slowly because of the pain. He approached the hotel cautiously. Parked directly in front of the building was a black Mercedes sedan. There was no one inside. Across the street was a blue and white police car with a uniformed policeman behind the wheel. On the sidewalk, two men in civilian clothes stood
watching Robert approach. French Secret Service. Robert found that he was having trouble breathing.
His heart was pounding. Was he stepping into a trap? The only insurance he had was the eleventh witness. Did Hilliard believe him?
Was it enough? He walked toward the sedan, waiting for the men to make a move. They stood there, silently watching him.
Robert moved toward the driver's side of the Mercedes and looked inside. The keys were in the ignition. He could feel the eyes of the men fastened on him as he opened the door and slid into the driver's seat.
He sat there a moment, staring at the ignition. If General Hilliard had doublecrossed Admiral Whittaker, this was the moment when everything would end in a violent explosion.
Here goes. Robert took a deep breath, reached down with his left hand, and turned the key. The motor purred into life. The secret servicemen stood there watching him drive away. As Robert approached the intersection, a police car pulled in front of his car, and for a moment, Robert thought he was going to be stopped. Instead, the police turned on their red flashing light, and the traffic seemed to melt away.
They're giving me a fucking escort!
Overhead Robert heard the sound of a helicopter. He glanced up.
The side of the helicopter was marked with the insignia of the French national police. General Hilliard was doing everything possible to see that he arrived in Switzerland safely. And after I show him the last witness, Robert thought grimly, he thinks he's going to kill me. But the general is in for a surprise. Robert reached the Swiss border at four o'clock in the afternoon. At the border, the French police car turned back, and a Swiss police car became his escort. For the first time since the affair had started, Robert began to relax. Thank God Admiral Whittaker had friends in high places. With the President expecting a meeting with Robert, General Hilliard would not dare to harm him. His mind turned to the woman in white, and at that instant, he heard her voice. The sound of it reverberated through the car.
"Hurry, Robert. We are all waiting for you." All? Is there more than one?
I'll find out soon enough, Robert thought.
In Zurich Robert stopped at the Dolder Grand Hotel and wrote a note at the desk for the general.
"General Hilliard will ask for me," Robert told the clerk. "Please give this to him."
"Yes, sir."
Outside, Robert walked over to the police car that had been escorting him. He leaned down to talk to the driver.
"From here on in, I want to be on my own./ The driver hesitated.
"Very well, Commander." Robert got back in his car and started driving toward Uetendorf and the scene of the UFO crash. As he drove, he thought of all the tragedies that had occurred because of it and all the lives that had been taken. Hans Beckerman and Father Patrini; Leslie Mothershed and William Mann; Daniel Wayne and Otto Schmidt; Laslo Bushfekete and Fritz Mandel; Olga Romanchanko and Kevin Parker. Dead.
All of them dead.
I want to see the face of Janus, Robert thought, and look into his eyes. The villages seemed to race by, and the pristine beauty of the Alps belied all the bloodshed and terror that had started here. The car approached Thun, and Robert's adrenaline began to flow. Ahead was the field where he and Beckerman had found the weather balloon, where the nightmare had begun. Robert pulled the car over to the side of the road and switched off the engine. He said a silent prayer. Then he got out of the car and crossed the highway and went into the field.
A thousand memories flashed through Robert's mind. The phone call at four in the morning.
"You are ordered to report to General Hilliard at National Security Agency Headquarters at Fort Meade at oh six hundred this morning. Is this message understood, Commander?"
How little he had understood it then. He recalled General Hilliard's words: "You must find those witnesses. All of them." And the search had led from Zurich to Bern, London, Munich, Rome, and Orvieto; from Waco to Fort Smith; from Kiev to Washington, and Budapest.
Well, the bloody trail had finally come to an end, here where it had all begun.
She was waiting for him, as Robert had known she would be, and she looked exactly as she had appeared in his dream. They moved toward each other, and she seemed to be floating toward him, a radiant smile on her face.
"Thank you for coming, Robert."
Had he actually heard her speak, or was he hearing her thoughts? How did one talk to an alien being? "I had to come," he said simply. There was a totally unreal quality to the scene.
I'm standing here speaking with someone from another world! I should be terrified, but in my whole life, I've never felt more at peace.
"I have to warn you," Robert said.
"Some men are coming here who want to harm you. It would be better if you left before they arrive."
"I cannot leave."
And Robert understood. He reached in his pocket with his left hand and pulled out the small piece of metal containing the crystal.
Her face lit up.
"Thank you, Robert." He handed it to her and watched her fit it into the piece she held in her hand.
"What happens now?" Robert asked.
"Now I can communicate with my friends. They will be coming for me."
Was there something ominous in that sentence? Robert recalled General Hilliard's words: "They intend to take over this planet and make slaves of us." What if General Hilliard was right? What if the aliens did intend to take over the earth? Who was going to stop them? Robert looked at his watch. It was almost time for General Hilliard and Janus to arrive, and even as Robert thought it, he heard the sound of a giant Huey helicopter approaching from the north.
"Your friends are here."
Friends. They were his mortal enemies, and he was determined to expose them as murderers, to destroy them.
The grass and flowers in the field began to flutter wildly as the helicopter came to a landing.
He was about to come face to face with Janus. The thought of it filled him with a murderous rage. The door of the helicopter opened.
Susan stepped out.
n the mothership, floating high above earth, there was great joy. All the lights on the panels were flashing green.
"We have found her!" "We must hurry."
The huge ship started to hurl itself toward the planet far below.
For a single instant, time was frozen, and then it shattered into a thousand pieces. Robert watched, stunned, as Susan stepped out of the helicopter. She stood there for a second, and then started toward
Robert, but Monte Banks, who was right behind her, grabbed her and held her back.
"Run, Robert! Run! They're going to kill you!" Robert took a step toward her, and at that moment General Hilliard and Colonel Frank Johnson stepped out of the helicopter.
General Hilliard said, "I'm here, Commander. I've kept my part of the bargain." He walked over to Robert and the woman in white.
"I assume this is the eleventh witness. The missing alien. I'm sure we'll find her very interesting. So it's finally finished."
"Not yet. You said you would bring Janus." "Oh, yes. Janus insisted on coming to see you."
Robert turned toward the helicopter. Admiral Whittaker was standing in the doorway.
"You asked to see me, Robert?"
Robert stared at him, unbelievingly, and there was a red film before his eyes. It was as though his world had collapsed.
"No! Why-? Why in God's name?" The admiral was moving toward him. "You don't understand, do you?
You never did. You're worried about a few meaningless lives. We're worried about saving our world. This earth belongs to us to do with as we please."
He turned to stare at the woman in white.
"If you creatures want war, you're going to get war. And we'll beat you!" He turned back to Robert.
"You betrayed me. You were my son. I let you take Edward's place. I gave you a chance to serve your country. And how did you repay me? You came whining to me to let you stay home so you could be with your wife." His voice was filled with contempt.
"No son of mine would ever do that. I should have seen then how distorted your values were."
Robert stood there paralyzed, too shocked to speak.
"I broke up your marriage because I still had faith in you, but-" "You broke up my-?"
"Remember when the CIA sent you after the Fox? I arranged that. I hoped it would bring you to your senses. You failed because there was no Fox. I thought I had straightened you out, that you were one of us.
And then you told me you were going to quit the agency. That's when I knew you were no patriot, that you had to be eliminated, destroyed. But first you had to help us with our mission."
"Your mission? To kill all those innocent people? You're insane!"
"They had to be killed to stop them from spreading panic. We're ready now for the aliens. All we needed was a little more time, and you've given it to us."
The woman in white had stood there listening, saying nothing, but now her thoughts floated into the minds of those standing in the field.
"We have come here to prevent you from destroying your planet. We are all part of one universe. Look up."
Their heads turned toward the sky. There was an enormous white cloud overhead, and as they stared up at it, it changed before their eyes. They were looking at a vision of a polar ice cap, and as they watched, it began to melt, and the water came pouring through the rivers and oceans of the world, flooding London and Los Angeles, New York and Tokyo, and coastal cities around the world in a dizzying montage. The vision changed to an enormous vista of desolate farmlands, with crops burnt to cinders under a broiling, merciless sun, and the corpses of dead animals strewn across the landscape. The scene before their eyes changed again, and they saw riots in China, and famines in India, and a devastating nuclear war, and finally, people living in caves. The vision slowly disappeared.
There was a moment of awed silence.
"That is your future if you go on as you are.>~ Admiral Whittaker was the first to recover.
"Mass hypnosis," he snapped.
"I'm sure you can show us other interesting tricks." He moved toward the alien.
"I'm taking you back to Washington with me. We have a lot of information to get from you." The admiral looked at Robert.
"You're finished." He turned to Frank Johnson. "Take care of him."
Colonel Johnson removed his pistol from his holster. Susan broke away from Monte and ran to Robert's side.
"No!" she screamed.
"Kil_ him!" Admiral Whittaker said. Colonel Johnson was pointing a gun at the admiral.
"Admiral, you're under arrest." Admiral Whittaker was staring at him.
"What-What are you saying? I told you to kill him. You're one of us."
"You're wrong. I never have been. I infiltrated your organization a long time ago. I was looking for Commander Bellamy not to kill him, but to save him." He turned to Robert.
"I'm sorry I couldn't get to you sooner." Admiral Whittaker's face had turned ashen.
"Then you'll be destroyed too. Nobody can stand in our way. Our organization-"
"You no longer have an organization. At this moment, all the members are being rounded up. It's finished, Admiral."
Overhead, the sky seemed to be vibrating with light and sound. The huge mothership was floating down directly above them, bright green lights flashing from its interior. They stared in awe as they watched it land. A smaller spaceship appeared, and then another, and then two more, and another two, until the sky seemed to be filled with them, and there was a great roar in the air that became a glorious music that echoed throughout the mountains. The door of the mother ship opened and an alien appeared.
The woman in white turned to Robert.
"I am leaving now." She moved toward Admiral Whittaker, General Hilliard, and Monte Banks.
"You shall come with me." Admiral Whittaker drew back. "No! I won't go!"
"Yes. We will not hurt you." She held out her hand, and for an instant nothing happened. Then, as the others watched, the three men began slowly moving in a daze toward the spaceship.
Admiral Whittaker screamed, "No!"
He was still screaming when the three men disappeared inside the spaceship.
The woman in white turned to the others.
"They will not be harmed. They have much to learn. When they have learned, they will be brought back here."
Susan was holding Robert tightly.
"Tell people they must stop killing the planet, Robert. Make them understand."
"I'm only one man."
"There are thousands of you. Every day your numbers grow. One day there will be millions, and you must all speak with one strong voice.
Will you do it?" "I'll try. I'll try."
"We are leaving now. But we will be watching you. And we will be back." The woman in white turned and entered the mothership. The lights inside began to glow brighter and brighter until they seemed to light up the entire sky. Suddenly, without warning, the mother ship took off, followed by the smaller ships, until finally they all vanished from sight.
"Tell the people they must stop killing this planet." Right, Robert thought. I know now what I'm going to do with the rest of my life.
He looked at Susan and smiled.
The Beginning AUTHOR'S NOTE In researching this novel, I have read numerous books and magazine and newspaper articles citing astronauts who had reportedly had extraterrestrial experiences: Colonel Frank Borman on Gemini 7 supposedly took pictures of a UFO that followed his capsule.
Neil Armstrong on Apollo 11 saw two unidentified spacecraft when he landed on the moon. Buzz Aldrin photographed unidentified spacecraft on the moon.
Colonel L. Gordon Cooper encountered a large UFO on a Project Mercury flight over Perth, Australia, and recorded voices speaking languages later found to belong to no known earth language.
I talked to these men, as well as to other astronauts, and each assured me that the stories were apocryphal rather than apocalyptic, that they had had no experiences of any kind with UFOs. A few days after my telephone conversation with Colonel Gordon Cooper, he called me back. I returned his call, but he had suddenly become unavailable. One year later, I managed to acquire a letter written by him, dated November 9, 1978, and discussing UFOs.
I telephoned Colonel cooper again to ask him if the letter was authentic. This time, he was more forthcoming. He informed me that it was and that on his journeys into space, he had personally witnessed several flights of UFOs. He also mentioned that other astronauts had had
similar experiences that they were warned not to discuss.
I have read a dozen books that prove conclusively that flying saucers exist. I have read a dozen books that prove conclusively that flying saucers do not exist. I have run videotapes purporting to be photographs of flying saucers and have met with therapists in the United States and abroad who specialize in hypnotizing people who claim to have been taken up into UFOs. The therapists say that they have handled hundreds of cases in which the details of the victims' experiences are startlingly similar, including identical, unexplainable marks on their bodies. An Air Force general in charge of the Blue Book Project-a United States government group formed to investigate flying
saucers-assured me that there has never been any hard evidence of flying saucers or aliens. Yet, in the foreword to Timothy Good's remarkable book Above Top Secret: The Worldwide UFO Cover-up, Lord Hill-Norton, Admiral of the Fleet and British Chief of Defense Staff from 1971 to 1973, writes: The evidence that there are objects which have been seen in our atmosphere, and even on terra firma, that cannot be accounted for either as manmade objects or as any physical force or effect known to our scientists seems to me to be overwhelming. ... A very large number of sightings have been vouched for by persons whose credentials seem to me unimpeachable. It is striking that so many have been trained observers, such as police officers and airline or military pilots...
In 1933 the 4th Swedish Flying Corps began an investigation of mysterious unmarked aircraft appearing over Scandinavia, and on April 30, 1934, Major-General Erik Reuterswaerd issued the following statement to the press: Comparisons of these reports show that there can be no doubt about illegal air traffic over our secret military areas. There are many reports from reliable people which describe close observation of the enigmatic flier. And in every case, the same remark can be noted; no insignias or identifying marks are visible on the machines.
... The question is: Who or what are they, and why have they been invading our air territory?
In 1947 Professor Paul Santorini, a leading Greek scientist, was asked to investigate missiles flying over Greece. His research, however, was curtailed: "We soon established that they were not missiles. But, before we could do any more, the Army, after conferring with foreign officials, ordered the investigation stopped. Foreign scientists flew to Greece for secret talks with me." (Emphasis added.) The professor confirmed that a "world blanket of secrecy" surrounded the UFO question because, among other reasons, the authorities were unwilling to admit the existence of a force against which there was "no possibility of defense."
From 1947 to 1952, the Air Technical Intelligence Center (ATIC) received approximately fifteen hundred official reports of sightings.
Of these the Air Force carries twenty percent as unexplained: Air Chief Marshal Lord Dowding, commander in chief of the RAF Fighter Command during the Battle of Britain in 1940 wrote: More than 10,000 sightings have been reported, the majority of which cannot be accounted for by any "scientific explanation." They have been tracked on radar screens ...
and the observed speeds have been as great as 9,000 miles an hour. ...
I am convinced that these objects do exist and that they are not manufactured by any nation on earth. [Emphasis added.] I can therefore see no alternative to accepting the theory that they come from an extraterrestrial source.
Recently, in Elmwood, Wisconsin, the entire town watched as flying saucers moved across their skies for several days.
* * * General Lionel Max Chassin, who rose to the rank of Commanding General of the French Air Forces and served as General Air Defense Co-ordinator, Allied Air Forces, Central Europe (NATO), wrote: That strange things have been seen is now beyond question. ...
The number of thoughtful, intelligent, educated people in full possession of their faculties who have "seen something," and described it grows every day.
Then there was the famous Roswell Incident in 1947. According to eyewitness reports, on the evening of July 2, a bright disk-shaped object was seen over Roswell, New Mexico. The following day, widely scattered wreckage was discovered by a local ranch manager and his two children. The authorities were alerted, and an official statement was released confirming that the wreckage of a flying disk had been recovered. A second press statement was immediately issued stating that the wreckage was nothing more than the remains of a weather balloon, which was dutifully displayed at a press conference. Meanwhile, the real wreckage was reported to have been sent to Wright Field. The bodies were described by one witness as like human but they were not humans. The heads were round, the eyes were small, and they had no hair. Their eyes were widely spaced.
They were quite small by our standards and their heads were larger in proportion to their bodies. Their clothing seemed to be one-piece and grey in color. They seemed to be all males and there were a number of them. ... Military personnel took over and we were told to leave the area and not to talk to anyone about what we had seen.
According to a document acquired from an intelligence source in 1984, a highly secret panel, code-named Majestic 12, or MJ-12, was formed by President Truman in 1947 to investigate UFOs and report its findings to the President. The document, dated November 18, 1952, and classified Top Secret/Majic/Eyes Only, was allegedly prepared by Admiral Hillenkoetter for president-elect Dwight Eisenhower and includes the astonishing statement that the remains of four alien bodies were recovered two miles from the Roswell wreckage site.
Five years after the panel was formed, the committee wrote a memo to then president-elect Eisenhower about the UFO project and the need for secrecy: Implications for the National Security are of continuing importance, in that motives and ultimate intentions of these visitors remain completely unknown. ... It is for these reasons, as well as the obvious international technological considerations and the ultimate need to avoid a public panic at all costs, that the Majestic 12 Group remains
of the unanimous opinion that imposition of the strictest security precautions should continue without interruption into the new administration.
The official explanation of denial is that the document's authenticity is questionable.
The National Security Agency is reported to be withholding more than one hundred documents relating to UFOs; the CIA, approximately fifty; and the DIA, six.
Major Donald Keyhoe, a former aide to Charles Lindbergh, publicly accused the United States government of denying the existence of UFOs in order to prevent public panic.
In August 1948, when a top secret Estimate of the Situation by the Air Technical Intelligence Center offered its opinion that UFOs were interplanetary visitors, General Vandenberg, Air Force Chief of Staff at the time, ordered the document burned. Is there a worldwide government conspiracy to conceal the truth from the public? In the short space of six years, twenty-three English scientists who worked on Star Wars-type projects have died under questionable circumstances. All of them had worked on different facets of electronic warfare, which includes UFO research. A list of the deceased and the dates and circumstances of their deaths follows.
1. 1982. Professor Keith Bowden: killed in auto crash.
2. July 1982. Jack Wolfenden: died in glider accident.
3. November 1982. Ernest Brockway: suicide. 4. 1983. Stephen Drinkwater: suicide by strangulation.
5. April 1983. Lieutenant-Colonel Anthony Godley: missing, declared dead.
6. April 1984. George Franks: suicide by hanging.
7. 1985. Stephen Oke: suicide by hanging. 8. November 1985.
Jonathan Wash: suicide by jumping from a building.
9. 1986. Dr. John Brittan: suicide by carbonmonoxide poisoning.
10. October 1986. Arshad Sharif: suicide by placing a rope around his neck, tying it to a tree, and then driving away at high speed. Took place in Bristol, one hundred miles away from his home in London.
11. October 1986. Vimal Dajibhai: suicide by jumping from a bridge in Bristol, one hundred miles away from his home in London.
12. January 1987. Avtar Singh-Gida: missing, declared dead.
13. February 1987. Peter Peapell: suicide by crawling under car in
garage.
14. March 1987. David Sands: suicide by driving car into cafe at high speed.
15. April 1987. Mark Wisner: death by selfstrangulation.
16. April 10, 1987. Stuart Gooding: killed in Cyprus.
17. April 10,1987. David Greenhalgh: fell off a bridge.
18. April 1987. Shani Warren: suicide by drowning.
19. May 1987. Michael Baker: killed in auto crash.
20. May 1988. Trevor Knight: suicide. 21. August 1988.
Alistair Beckham: suicide by self-electrocution.
22. August 1988. Brigadier Peter Ferry, suicide by self-electrocution.
23. Date unknown. Victor Moore: suicide.
Coincidences?
In the past three decades, there have been at least seventy thousand reports of mysterious objects in the sky and countless more sightings, perhaps ten times as many, that have gone unreported.
Reports of UFOs have come from hundreds of countries all over the globe.
In Spain, UFOs are known as objetos foladores no identificados; in Germany, fliegende Untertassen; in France, soucoupes volantes; in Czechoslovakia, letajici talire.
The eminent astronomer Carl Sagan has estimated that our Milky Way galaxy alone may contain some 250 billion stars.
About a million of these, he believes, may have planets capable of supporting some form of civilization.
Our government denies the existence of extraterrestrial intelligence, yet on Columbus Day, in 1992, in Cali fornia and Puerto Rico, NASA will activate radio telescopes equipped with special receivers and computers capable of analyzing tens of millions of radio channels at once to search for signs of intelligent life in the universe.
NASA has nicknamed the mission MOP for Microwave Observing Project, but astronomers refer to it as SETI, for Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence.
I have asked two former presidents of the United States whether they have any knowledge of UFOs or aliens, and their responses were negative. Would they have told me if they had had any information?
Given the blanket of secrecy that seems to surround the subject, I think not.
Do flying saucers really exist? Are we being visited by aliens from another planet? With new technology probing deeper and deeper into the universe, looking for signs of intelligent life in space, perhaps we will have the answer much sooner than we expect.
There are many working in space exploration, astronomy, and cosmology who, not content to wait for that answer, put themselves out on a limb and make a prediction of their own. Jill Tartar, an astrophysicist and SETI project scientist at NASA's Ames Research Center, in Ames, Iowa, is among them: There are 400 billion stars in the galaxy. We're made of stardust, really common stuff. In a universe filled with stardust, it's hard to believe that we are the only creatures who could be.
November 9, 1978 Ambassador Griffith Mission of Grenada to the United Nations 866 Second Avenue Suite 502 New York, New York 10017 Dear Ambassador Griffith: I wanted to convey my views on our
extra-terrestrial visitors popularly referred to as "UFO's", and suggest what might be done to properly deal with them. I believe that these extra-terrestrial vehicles and their crews are visiting this planet from other planets, which obviously are a little more technically advanced than we are here on earth. I feel that we need to have a top level, coordinated program to scientifically collect and analyze data from all over the earth concerning any type of encounter, and to determine how best to interface with these visitors in a friendly fashion. We may first have to show them that we have learned to resolve our problems by peaceful means, rather than warfare, before we are accepted as fully qualified universal team members. This acceptance would have tremendous possibilities of advancing our world in all areas. Certainly then it would seem that the UN has a vested interest in handling this subject properly and expeditiously.
I should point out that I am not an experienced UFO professional researcher. I have not yet had the privilege of flying a UFO, nor of meeting the crew of one. I do feel that I am somewhat qualified to discuss them since I have been into the fringes of the vast areas in which they travel. Also, I did have occasion in 1951 to have two days of observation of many flights of them, of different sizes, flying in fighter formation, generally from east to west over Europe. They were at a higher altitude than we could reach with our jet fighters of that time. I would also like to point out that most astronauts are very reluctant to even discuss UFO's due to the great numbers of people who have indiscriminately sold fake stories and forged documents abusing their names and reputations without hesitation. Those few astronauts who have continued to have a participation in the UFO field have had to do so very cautiously. There are several of us who do believe in UFO's and who have had occasions to see a UFO on the ground, or from an airplane. If the UN agrees to pursue this project, and to lend their credibility to it, perhaps many more well-qualified people wiil agree to step forth and provide help and information.
I am looking forward to seeing you soon.
Sincerely, L. Gordon Cooper Col. USAF (Ret) Astronaut LCC:jm
👁 :7
The latter words resonated through Charlie Morwellan’s mind, repeating to the thud of his horse’s hooves as he cantered steadily north. The winter air was crisp and clear. About him the lush green foothills of the western face of the Quantocks rippled and rolled. He’d been born to this country, at Morwellan Park, his home, now a mile behind him, yet he paid the arcadian views scant heed, his mind relentlessly focused on other vistas.
He was lord and master of the fields about him, filling the valley between the Quantocks to the east and the western end of the Brendon Hills. His lands stretched south well beyond the Park itself to where they abutted those managed by his brother-in-law, Gabriel Cynster. The northern boundary lay ahead, following a rise; as his dappled gray gelding, Storm, crested it, Charlie drew rein and paused, looking ahead yet not really seeing.
Cold air caressed his cheeks. Jaw set, expression impassive, he let the reasons behind his present direction run through his mind—one last time.
He’d inherited the earldom of Meredith on his father’s death three years previously. Both before and since, he’d ducked and dodged the inevitable attempts to trap him into matrimony. Although the prospect of a wealthy, now over thirty-year-old, as-yet-unwed earl kept the matchmakers perennially salivating, after a decade in the ton he was awake to all their tricks; time and again he slipped free of their nets, taking a cynical male delight in so doing.
Yet for Lord Charles Morwellan, eighth Earl of Meredith, matrimony itself was inescapable. That, however, wasn’t the spur that had finally pricked him into action.
Nearly two years ago his closest friends, Gerrard Debbington and Dillon Caxton, had both married. Neither had been looking for a wife, neither had needed to marry, yet fate had set her snares and each had happily walked to the altar; he’d stood beside them there and known they’d been right to seize the moment.
Both Gerrard and Dillon were now fathers.
Storm shifted, restless; absentmindedly Charlie patted his neck.
Connected via their links to the powerful Cynster clan, he, Gerrard, and Dillon, and their wives, Jacqueline and Priscilla, had met as they always did after Christmas at Somersham Place, principal residence of the Dukes of St. Ives and ancestral home of the Cynsters. The large family and its multifarious connections met biannually there, at the so-called Summer Celebration in August and again
over the festive season, the connections joining the family after spending Christmas itself with their own families.
He’d always enjoyed the boisterous warmth of those gatherings, yet this time…it hadn’t been Gerrard’s and Dillon’s children per se that had fed his restlessness but rather what they represented. Of the three of them, friends for over a decade, he was the one with a recognized duty to wed and produce an heir. While theoretically he could leave his brother Jeremy, now twenty-three, to father the next generation of Morwellans, when it came to family duty he’d long ago accepted that he was constitutionally incapable of ducking. Letting one of the major responsibilities attached to the position of earl devolve onto Jeremy’s shoulders was not something his conscience or his nature, his sense of self, would allow.
Which was why he was heading for Conningham Manor.
Continuing to tempt fate, courting the risk of that dangerous deity stepping in and organizing his life, and his wife, for him, as she had with Gerrard and Dillon, would be beyond foolish; ergo it was time for him to choose his bride. Now, before the start of the coming season, so he could exercise his prerogative, choose the lady who would suit him best, and have the deed done, final and complete, before society even got wind of it.
Before fate had any further chance to throw love across his path.
He needed to act now to retain complete and absolute control over his own destiny, something he considered a necessity, not an option.
Storm pranced, infected with Charlie’s underlying impatience. Subduing the powerful gelding, Charlie focused on the landscape ahead. A mile away, comfortably nestled in a dip, the slate roofs of Conningham Manor rose above the naked branches of its orchard. Weak morning sunlight glinted off diamond-paned windows; a chill breeze caught the smoke drifting from the tall Elizabethan chimney pots and whisked it away. There’d been Conninghams at the Manor for nearly as long as there’d been Morwellans at the Park.
Charlie stared at the Manor for a minute more, then stirred, eased Storm’s reins, and cantered down the rise.
“R egardless, Sarah, Clary and I firmly believe that you have to marry first.”
Seated facing the bow window in the back parlor of Conningham Manor, the undisputed domain of the daughters of the house, Sarah Conningham glanced at her sixteen-year-old sister Gloria, who stared pugnaciously at her from her perch on the window seat.
“Before us.” The clarification came in determined tones from seventeen-year-old Clara—Clary— seated beside Gloria and likewise focused on Sarah and their relentless pursuit to urge her into matrimony.
Stifling a sigh, Sarah looked down at the ribbon trim she was unpicking from the neckline of her new spencer, and with unimpaired calm set about reiterating her well-trod arguments. “You know that’s not true. I’ve told you so, Twitters has told you so, and Mama has told you so. Whether I marry or not will have no effect what ever on your come-outs.” Freeing the last stitch, she tugged the ribbon away, then shook out the spencer. “Clary will have her first season next year, and you, Gloria, will follow the year after.”
“Yes but, that’s not the point.” Clary fixed Sarah with a frown. “It’s the…the way of things.”
When Sarah cocked a questioning brow at her, Clary blushed and rushed on, “It’s the unfulfilled expectations. Mama and Papa will be taking you to London in a few weeks for your fourth season. It’s
obvious they still hope you’ll attract the notice of a suitable gentleman. Both Maria and Angela accepted offers in their second season, after all.”
Maria and Angela were their older sisters, twenty-eight and twenty-six years old, both married and living with their husbands and children on said husbands’ distant estates. Unlike Sarah, both Maria and Angela had been perfectly content to marry gentlemen of their station with whom they were merely comfortable, given those men were blessed with fortunes and estates of appropriate degree.
Both marriages were conventional; neither Maria nor Angela had ever considered any other prospect, let alone dreamed of it.
As far as Sarah knew, neither had Clary or Gloria. At least, not yet.
She suppressed another sigh. “I assure you I will happily accept should an offer eventuate from a gentleman I can countenance being married to. However, as that happy occurrence seems increasingly unlikely”—she gave passing thanks that neither Clary nor Gloria had any notion of the number of offers she’d received and declined over the past three years—“I assure you I’m resigned to a spinster’s life.”
That was a massive overstatement, but…Sarah flicked a glance at the fourth occupant of the room, her erstwhile governess, Miss Twitterton, fondly known as Twitters, seated in an armchair to one side of the wide window. Twitters’s gray head was bent over a piece of darning; she gave no sign of following the familar discussion.
If she couldn’t imagine being happy with a life like Maria’s or Angela’s, Sarah could equally not imagine being content with a life like Twitters’s.
Gloria made a rude sound. Clary looked disgusted. The pair exchanged glances, then embarked on a verbal catalogue of what they considered the most pertinent criteria for defining a “suitable gentleman,” one to whom Sarah would countenance being wed.
Folding her new spencer with the garish scarlet ribbon now removed, Sarah smiled distantly and let them ramble. She was sincerely fond of her younger sisters, yet the gap between her twenty-three years and their ages was, in terms of the present discussion, a significant gulf.
They naively considered marriage a simple matter easily decided on a list of definable attributes, while she had seen enough to appreciate how unsatisfactory such an approach often was. Most marriages in their circle were indeed contracted on the basis of such criteria—and the vast majority, underpinned by nothing stronger than mild affection, degenerated into hollow relationships in which both partners turned elsewhere for comfort.
For love.
Such as love, in such circumstances, could be. Somehow less, somehow tawdry.
For herself, she’d approached the question of marriage with an open mind, and open eyes. No one had ever deemed her rebellious, yet she’d never been one to blindly follow others’ dictates, especially on topics of personal importance. So she’d looked, and studied.
She now believed that when it came to marriage there was something better than the conventional norm. Something finer; an ideal, a commitment that compelled one to grasp it, a state glorious enough to fill the heart with yearning and need, and ultimately with satisfaction, a construct in which love existed within the bonds of matrimony rather than outside them.
And she’d seen it. Not in her parents’ marriage, for that was a conventional if successful union, one without passion but based instead on affection, duty, and common cause. But to the south lay Morwellan Park, and beyond that Casleigh, the home of Lord Martin and Lady Celia Cynster, and now also home to their elder son, Gabriel, and his wife, Lady Alathea née Morwellan.
Sarah had known Alathea, Gabriel, and his parents for all of her life. Alathea and Gabriel had married for love; Alathea had waited until she was twenty-nine before Gabriel had come to his senses
and claimed her as his bride. As for Martin and Celia, they had eloped long ago in a statement of passion impossible to mistake.
Sarah met both couples frequently. Her conviction that a love match, for want of a better title, was a goal worthy of her aspiration derived from what she’d observed between Gabriel and Alathea and, once her wits had been sharpened and her eyes had grown accustomed, from the older and somehow deeper and stronger interaction between Martin and Celia.
She freely admitted she didn’t know what love was, had no concept of what the emotion would feel like within a marriage. Yet she’d seen evidence of its existence in the quality of a smile, in the subtle meeting of eyes, the gentle touch of a hand. A caress outwardly innocent yet laden with meaning.
When it was there, love colored such moments. When it wasn’t… But how did one define that love?
And did it mysteriously appear, or did one need to work for it? How did it come about?
She had no answers, not even a glimmer, hence her unwed state. Despite her sisters’ trenchant beliefs, there was no reason she needed to marry. And if the emotion that infused the Cynsters’ marriages was not part of an offer made to her, then she doubted any man, no matter how wealthy, how handsome or charming, could tempt her to surrender her hand.
To her, marriage without love held no attraction. She had no need of a union devoid of that finer glory, devoid of passion, yearning, need, and satisfaction. She had no reason to accept a lesser union.
“You will promise to look, won’t you?”
Sarah glanced up to find Gloria leaning forward, brown brows beetling at her. “Properly, I mean.”
“And that you’ll seriously consider and encourage any likely gentleman,” Clary added.
Sarah blinked, then laughed and sat up to lay aside her spencer. “No, I will not. You two are far too impertinent—I’m sure Twitters agrees.”
She glanced at Twitters to find the governess, whose ears were uncommonly sharp, peering myopically out of the window in the direction of the front drive.
“Now who is that, I wonder?” Twitters squinted past Clary, who swiveled to look out, as did Gloria. “No doubt some gentleman come to call on your papa.”
Sarah looked past Gloria. Blessed with excellent eyesight, she instantly recognized the horse man trotting up the drive, but surprise and a frisson of unnerving reaction—something she felt whenever she first saw him—stilled her tongue.
“It’s Charlie Morwellan,” Gloria said. “I wonder what he’s doing here.” Clary shrugged. “Probably to see Papa about the hunting.”
“But he’s never here for the hunting,” Gloria pointed out. “These days he spends almost all his time in London. Augusta said she hardly ever sees him.”
“Maybe he’s staying in the country this year,” Clary said. “I heard Lady Castleton tell Mama that he’s going to be hunted without quarter this season from the absolute instant he returns to town.”
Sarah had heard the same thing, but she knew Charlie well enough to predict that he would be no easy quarry. She watched as he drew rein at the edge of the forecourt and swung lithely down from the back of his gray hunter.
The breeze ruffled his elegantly cropped golden locks. His morning coat of brown Bath superfine was the apogee of some London tailor’s art, stretching over Charlie’s broad shoulders before tapering to hug his lean waist and narrow hips. His linen was pristine and precise; his waistcoat, glimpsed as he
moved, was a subtle medley of browns and black. Buckskin breeches molded to long powerful legs before disappearing into glossy black Hessians, completing a picture that might have been titled Fashionable Peer in the Country.
Irritation stirring, Sarah drank in the vision; his appearance—and its ridiculous effect on her— really wasn’t fair. He knew she existed, but beyond that…From this distance, she couldn’t see his features clearly, yet her besotted memory filled in the details—the classic lines of brow, nose, and chin; the aristocratic angles and planes; the patriarchal cast of high cheekbones; the large, heavy-lidded, lushly lashed blue eyes; and the distracting, frankly sensual mouth and mobile lips that allowed his expression to change from delightfully charming to ruthlessly dominating in the blink of an eye.
She’d studied that face—and him—for years. She’d never known him to appear other than he was, a wealthy aristocrat descended from Norman lords with a streak of Viking thrown in. Despite his aura of ineffable control, of being born to rule without question, a hint of the unpredictable warrior remained, lurking beneath his smooth surface.
A stable boy came running. Charlie handed over his reins, spoke to the lad, then turned for the front door. As he passed out of their sight around the central wing, Clary and Gloria uttered identical sighs and turned back to face the room.
“He’s really top of the trees, isn’t he?” Sarah doubted Clary required an answer.
“Gertrude Riordan said that in town he drives the most fabulous pair of matched grays.” Gloria bounced, eyes alight. “I wonder if he drove them home? He would have, don’t you think?”
While her sisters discussed various means of ascertaining whether Charlie’s vaunted matched pair were at Morwellan Park, Sarah watched the stable boy lead Charlie’s hunter off to the stables rather than walk the horse in the forecourt. What ever Charlie’s reasons for calling, he expected to be there for some little while.
Her sisters’ voices filled her ears; recollections of their earlier comments whirled kaleidoscopically
—to settle, abruptly, into an unexpected pattern. Leading to a startling thought. Another frisson, different, more intense, slithered down Sarah’s spine.
“W ell, m’boy—” Lord Conningham broke off and laughingly grimaced at Charlie. “Daresay I shouldn’t call you that anymore, but it’s hard to forget how long I’ve known you.”
Seated in the chair before the desk in his lordship’s study, Charlie smiled and waved the comment aside. Lord Conningham was a bluff, good-natured man, one with whom Charlie felt entirely comfortable.
“For myself and her ladyship,” Lord Conningham continued, “I can say without reservation that we’re both honored and delighted by your offer. However, as a man with five daughters, two already wed, I have to tell you that their decisions are their own. It’s Sarah herself whose approval you’ll have to win, but on that score I know of nothing what ever that stands between you and your goal.”
After a fractional hesitation, Charlie clarified, “She has no interest in any other gentleman?”
“No.” Lord Conningham grinned. “And I would know if she had. Sarah’s never been one to play her cards close to her chest. If any gentleman had captured her attention, her ladyship and I would know of it.”
The door opened; Lord Conningham looked up. “Ah, there you are, m’dear. I hardly need to introduce you to Charlie. He has something to tell us.”
With a smile, Charlie rose to greet Lady Conningham, a sensible, well-bred female he could with nothing more than the mildest of qualms imagine as his mother-in-law.
T en minutes later, her wits in a whirl, Sarah left her bedchamber and hurried to the main stairs. A footman had brought a summons to join her mother in the front hall. She’d detoured via her dressing table, dallying just long enough to reassure herself that her gown of fine periwinkle-blue wool wasn’t rumpled, that the lace edging the neckline hadn’t crinkled, that her brown-blond hair was neat in its knot at the back of her head and not too many strands had escaped.
Quite a few had, but she didn’t have time to let her hair down and redo the knot. Besides, she only needed to be neat enough to pass muster in case Charlie saw her in passing; it was too early for him to be staying for luncheon and there was no reason to imagine that her mother’s summons was in any way connected with his visit…other than the ridiculous suspicion that had flared in her mind and set her heart racing. Reaching the head of the stairs, she started down, her stomach a hard knot, her nerves jangling.
All for nothing, she chided herself. It was a nonsensical supposition.
Her slippers pattered on the treads; her mother appeared from the corridor beside the stairs.
Sarah’s gaze flew to her face, willing her mother to speak and explain and ease her nerves.
Instead, her mother’s countenance, already wreathed in a glorious smile, brightened even more. “Good. You’ve tidied.” Her mother scanned her comprehensively, from her forehead to her toes, then beamed and took her arm.
Entirely at sea, her questions in her eyes, Sarah let her mother draw her a few yards down the corridor to an alcove nestled under the stairs.
Releasing her arm, her mother clasped her hand and squeezed her fingers. “Well, my dear, the long and short of this is that Charlie Morwellan wishes to offer for your hand.”
Sarah blinked; for one instant, her mind literally reeled.
Her mother smiled, not unsympathetically. “Indeed, it’s a surprise, quite out of the blue, but heaven knows you’ve dealt with offers enough—you know the ropes. As always the decision is yours, and your father and I will stand by you regardless of what that decision might be.” Her mother paused. “However, in this case both your father and I would ask that you consider very carefully. An offer from any earl would command extra attention, but an offer from the eighth Earl of Meredith warrants even deeper consideration.”
Sarah looked into her mother’s dark eyes. Quite aside from her pleasure over Charlie’s offer, in advising her in this, her mother was very serious.
“My dear, you already have sufficient comprehension of Charlie’s wealth. You know his home, his standing—you know of him, although I accept that you do not know him, himself, well. But you do know his family.”
Taking both her hands, her mother lightly squeezed, her excitement returning. “With no other gentleman have you had, nor will you have, such a close prior connection, such a known foundation on which you might build. It’s an unlooked-for, entirely unexpected opportunity, yes, but a very good one.”
Her mother searched her eyes, trying to read her reaction. Sarah knew all she would see was confusion.
“Well.” Her mother’s lips set just a little; her tone became more brisk. “You must hear him out.
Listen carefully to what he has to say, then you must make your decision.”
Releasing her hands, her mother stepped back, reached up and tweaked Sarah’s neckline, then nodded. “Very well. Go in—he’s waiting in the drawing room. As I said, your father and I will accept whatever decision you make. But please, do think very carefully about Charlie.”
Sarah nodded, feeling numb. She could barely breathe. Turning from her mother, she walked, slowly, toward the drawing room door.
C harlie heard a light footstep beyond the door. He turned from the window as the doorknob turned, watched as the door opened and the lady he’d chosen to be his wife entered.
She was of average height, subtly but sensuously curved; her slenderness made her appear taller than she was. Her face was heart-shaped, framed by the soft fullness of her lustrous hair, an eye-catching shade of gilded light brown. Her features were delicate, her complexion flawless—including, to his mind, the row of tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose. A wide brow, that straight nose, arched brown brows, and long lashes combined with rose-tinted lips and a sweetly curved chin to complete a picture of restful loveliness.
Her gaze was unusually direct; he waited for her to move, knowing that when she did it would be with innate grace.
Her hand on the doorknob, she paused, scanning the room.
His eyes narrowed slightly. Even across the distance he sensed her uncertainty, yet when her gaze found him she hesitated for only a second before, without looking away, she closed the door and came toward him.
Calmly, serenely, but with her hands clasped, fingers twined.
She couldn’t have expected this; he’d given her no indication that marrying her had ever entered his head. The last time they’d met socially, at the Hunt Ball last November, he’d waltzed with her once, remained by her side for fifteen minutes or so, exchanging the usual pleasantries, and that had been all.
Deliberately on his part. He’d known—for years if he stopped to consider it—that she…regarded him differently. That it would be very easy, with just a smile and a few words, for him to awaken an infatuation in her, a fascination with him. Not that she’d ever been so gauche as to give the slightest sign, yet he was too attuned to women, certainly, it seemed, to her, not to know what quivered just beneath her cool, clear surface, the sensible serenity she showed to the world. He’d made a decision, not once but many times over the years, that it wouldn’t do to stir that pool, to ripple her surface. She was, after all, sweet Sarah, a neighbor’s daughter he’d known all her life.
So he’d been careful not to do what his instincts had so frequently prompted. He’d studiously treated her as just another young lady of his local acquaintance.
Yet when he’d finally decided to select a wife, one face had leapt to his mind. He hadn’t even had to think—he’d simply known that she was his choice.
And then, of course, he had thought, and visited all the arguments, the numerous criteria a man like him needed to evaluate in selecting a wife. The exercise had only confirmed that Sarah Conningham was the perfect candidate.
She halted before him, confidently facing him with less than two feet between them. Confusion shadowed her eyes, a delicate blue the color of a pale cornflower, as she searched his face.
“Charlie.” She inclined her head. To his surprise, her voice was even, steady if a trifle breathless. “Mama said you wished to speak with me.”
Head high so she could continue to meet his gaze—the top of her head barely reached his chin—
she waited.
He felt his lips curve, entirely spontaneously. No fuss, no fluster, and no “Lord Charles,” either.
They’d never stood on formality, not in any circumstances, and for that he was grateful.
Despite her outward calm, he sensed the brittle, expectant tension that held her, that kept her breathing shallow. Respect stirred, unexpected but definite, yet was he really surprised that she had more backbone than the norm?
No; that, in part, was why he was there.
The urge to reach out and run his fingertips across her collarbone—just to see how smooth the fine alabaster skin was—struck unexpectedly; he toyed with the notion for a heartbeat, but rejected it. Such an action wasn’t appropriate given the nature of what he had to say, the tone he wished to maintain.
“As I daresay your mother mentioned, I’ve asked your father’s permission to address you. I would like to ask you to do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
He could have dressed up the bare words in any amount of platitudes, but to what end? They knew each other well, perhaps not in a private sense, but his sisters and hers were close; he doubted there was much in his general life of which she was unaware.
And there was nothing in her response to suggest he’d gauged that wrongly, even though, after the briefest of moments, she frowned.
“Why?”
It was his turn to feel confused.
Her lips tightened and she clarified, “Why me?”
Why now? Why after all these years have you finally deigned to do more than smile at me? Sarah kept the words from her tongue, but looking up into Charlie’s impassive face, she felt an almost overpowering urge to sink her hands into her hair, pull loose the neatly arranged tresses, and run her fingers through them while she paced. And thought. And tried to understand.
She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t had to, every time she first set eyes on him, pause, just for a second, to let her senses breathe. To let them catch their breath after it had been stolen away simply by his presence. Once the moment passed, as it always did, then all she had to do was battle to ensure she did nothing foolish, nothing to give away her secret obsession—infatuation—with him.
It was nonsense and brought her nothing but aggravation, but no amount of lecturing over its inanity had ever done an ounce of good. She’d decided it was simply the way she reacted to him, Viking-Norman Adonis that he was. She’d reluctantly concluded that her reaction wasn’t her fault. Or his. It just was; she’d been born this way, and she simply had to deal with it.
And now here he was, without so much as a proper smile in warning, asking for her hand. Wanting to marry her.
It didn’t seem possible. She pinched her thumb, just to make sure, but he remained before her, solid and real, the heat of him, the strength of him wrapping about her in pure masculine temptation, even if now he was frowning, too.
His lips firmed, losing the intoxicating curve that had softened them. “Because I believe we’ll deal exceptionally well together.” He hesitated, then went on, “I could give you chapter and verse about our stations, our families, our backgrounds, but you already know every aspect as well as I. And”—his gaze sharpened—“as I’m sure you understand, I need a countess.”
He paused, then his lips quirked. “Will you be mine?”
Nicely ambiguous. Sarah stared into his gray-blue eyes, a paler shade of blue than her own, and
heard again in her mind her mother’s words: Think very carefully about Charlie.
She searched his eyes, and accepted that she’d have to, that this time her answer wasn’t so clear.
She’d lost count of the times she’d faced a gentleman like this and framed an answer to that question, couched though it had been in many different ways. Never before had she even had to think of the crux of her reply, only the words in which to deliver it.
This time, facing Charlie…
Still holding his gaze, she compressed her lips fleetingly, drew in a breath and let it out with, “If you want my honest answer, then that honest answer is that I can’t answer you, not yet.”
His dark gold lashes, impossibly thick, screened his eyes for an instant; when he again met her gaze his frown was back. “What do you mean? When will you be able to answer?”
Aggression reached her, reined but definitely there. Unsurprised—she knew his charm was nothing more than a veneer, that under that glossy surface he was stubborn, even ruthless—she studied his eyes, and unexpectedly found answers to two of the many questions crowding her mind. He did indeed want her—specifically her—as his wife. And he wanted her soon.
Quite what she was to make of that last, she wasn’t sure. Nor did she know how much trust she could place in the former.
She was aware that he expected her to back away from his veiled challenge, to temporize, to in one way or another back down. She smiled tightly and lifted her chin. “In answer to your first question, you know perfectly well that I had no warning of your offer. I had no idea you were even thinking of such a thing. Your proposal has come entirely out of the blue, and the simple fact is I don’t know you well enough”—she held up a hand—“regardless of our long acquaintance—and don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean—to be able to answer you yay or nay.”
She paused, waiting to see if he would argue. When he simply waited, lips even thinner, his gaze razor sharp and locked on her eyes, she continued, “As for your second question, I’ll be able to answer you once I know you well enough to know which answer to give.”
His eyes bored into hers for a long moment, then he stated, “You want me to woo you.” His tone was resigned; she’d gained that much at least.
“Not precisely. It’s more that I need to spend time with you so I can get to know you better.” She paused, her eyes on his. “And so you can get to know me.”
That last surprised him; he held her gaze, then his lips quirked and he inclined his head. “Agreed.” His voice had lowered. Now he was talking to her, with her, no longer on any formal
plane but on an increasingly personal one; his tone had deepened, becoming more private. More intimate.
She quelled a tiny shiver; at that lower note his voice reverberated through her. She’d wanted to increase the space between them for several minutes, but there was something in the way he looked at her, the way his gaze held her, that made her hesitate, as if to edge back would be tantamount to admitting weakness.
Like fleeing from a predator. An invitation to…Her mouth was dry.
He’d tilted his head, studying her face. “So how long do you think getting to know each other better—well enough—will take?”
There was not a glint so much as a carefully veiled idea lurking in the depths of his eyes that made her inwardly frown. She was tempted to state that she had no intention of being swayed by his undoubted, unquestioned, utterly obvious sexual expertise, but that, like fleeing, might be seriously unwise. He’d all too likely interpret such a comment as an outright challenge.
And that was, she was certain, one challenge she couldn’t meet.
She hadn’t, not for one moment, been able to—felt able to—shift her gaze from his. “A month or two should be sufficient.”
His face hardened. “A week.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That’s impossible. Four weeks.” He narrowed his back. “Two.”
The word held a ring of finality she wished she could challenge—wished she thought she could
challenge. Lips set, she nodded. Curtly. “Very well. Two weeks—and then I’ll answer you yay or nay.” His eyes held hers. Although he didn’t move, she felt as if he leaned closer.
“I have a caveat.” His gaze, at last, shifted from her eyes, drifting mesmerically lower. His voice deepened, becoming even more hypnotic. “In return for my agreeing to a two-week courtship, you will agree that once you answer and accept my offer”—his gaze rose to her eyes—“we’ll be married by special license no more than a week later.”
She licked her dry lips, started to form the word “why.” He stepped nearer. “Do you agree?”
Trapped—in his gaze, by his nearness—she managed, just, to draw in a breath. “Very well. If I agree to marry you, then we can be married by special license.”
He smiled—and she suddenly decided that no matter how he took it, fleeing was an excellent idea.
She tensed to step back.
Just as his arm swept around her, and tightened.
His eyes held hers as he drew her, gently but inexorably, into his arms. “Our two-week courtship…remember?”
She leaned back, keeping her eyes on his, her hands on his upper arms. His strength surrounded her. She felt giddy. “What of it?”
His lips curved in a wholly masculine smile. “It starts now.” Then he bent his head and covered her lips with his.
2
S he’d been kissed a number of times. None of them had been like this.
Never before had her senses spun, never before had her thoughts suspended. Simply stopped. Stopped to allow sensation to burgeon, to well and grow and fill her mind.
She didn’t question the wisdom of it, couldn’t think enough to do so. Couldn’t free her mind from the sinfully tempting touch of his lips on hers, from the artfully applied evocative pressure, from the warmth that seemed to steal into her bones—just from a simple, not-so-innocent kiss.
A kiss with which he fully intended to steal away her wits.
She realized, understood, yet was too intrigued, too enthralled, to deny him.
Charlie knew it. Knew she was fascinated, that she was perfectly willing to have him show her
more.
Precisely as he wished, as he wanted.
Enough; this was supposed to be just a kiss, nothing more. Yet to his surprise it took an exercise of will before he could bring himself to give up the subtle plea sure. Before he could force himself to break the kiss, to draw back from the rose-tinted lips that had proved more luscious, more tempting, than he’d thought.
Fresh, delicate; as he lifted his head and drew in a breath, he wondered if that was the taste of innocence. And if it was that unfamiliar elixir or her underlying skittish flightiness that was setting unanticipated spurs to his desire.
Regardless, as he studied her eyes as she blinked rather dazedly up at him, he couldn’t suppress an inward smugness. She felt warm, soft, and desirable in his arms, but he gently set her back, and let his lips curve in an easy, charming—reasonably innocent—gesture. “I’ll see you to night I believe—at Lady Finsbury’s.” His smile deepened. “And we can continue to get to know each other better.”
Her eyes narrowed fractionally.
Raising a hand, with the back of one finger he lightly stroked her cheek, then stepped back, bowed, and left her.
Before he was tempted to do anything more.
Sarah Conningham had definitely been the right choice.
S arah next set eyes on her would-be betrothed when he stepped into Lady Finsbury’s drawing room that evening. Tall, strikingly handsome, exuding restrained rakish elegance in his walnut-brown coat, gold-striped waistcoat, and pristine ivory linen, he bowed over her ladyship’s hand with ineffable grace. Smiling charmingly, he complimented her—Sarah could tell by her pleased expression—then moved into the room.
When he’d left her that afternoon, she’d gathered her still reeling wits and gone to her father’s study. Her parents had been waiting there; without roundaboutness she’d explained her and Charlie’s agreement. Despite it not being quite what they’d hoped, her parents had been nonetheless delighted. While she hadn’t said yes, she equally hadn’t said no; after the briefest consideration, their faces had brightened. They clearly had every confidence that her getting to know Charlie better would result in a positive outcome.
Their optimism wasn’t surprising. As she watched him move smoothly through the guests, all locals and therefore well known to them both, greeting one here, stopping to exchange a word there, all the time heading inexorably in her direction, she had to admit it was difficult to conjure any conventional shortcoming that might turn her against him.
But assessing conventional aspects wasn’t why she’d insisted on a period of courtship. She needed to confirm that the one critical aspect she deemed absolutely essential to her future happiness with Charlie existed in him, that it was a part of what he was offering her, whether consciously or otherwise. She owed it to herself, to her dreams, to her future—and to all the gentlemen whose offers she ’d dismissed—to assure herself it was there, somewhere within the scope of his intentions. At the very least, she needed to find evidence it could exist, that he could give her that one vital thing, that it would
be there, acknowledged or not, an integral part of their marriage.
A love match or no match; that was her aim—her view of her future if said future involved marriage.
Their interlude that morning had only strengthened her resolve, only clarified her direction. If it was marriage he was set on, then love was her price.
While ostensibly listening to the other ladies and gentlemen in the group she’d joined by the
window, from the corner of her eye she watched Charlie approach. He skirted a group of younger girls, only to have one in a sweetpea-pink gown gaily turn and waylay him.
Sarah caught her breath, then remembered that Clary knew nothing of Charlie’s offer or their agreement; she’d asked her parents to keep their situation in the strictest confidence. She had only two weeks to learn what she sought, to assure herself that Charlie and what he offered were what she wanted; having Clary and Gloria “helping” would be a nightmare.
With a laugh, Charlie parted from Clary; half a minute later he stood before Sarah, taking her hand, bowing over it, meeting her eyes.
Making her nerves unfurl, reach, stretch, then tense; an anticipatory shiver ran down her spine. “Good evening, Charlie.” They stood among longtime acquaintances; she didn’t think to “my lord”
him. Holding his blue-gray gaze, she lowered her voice. “I dare say Lady Finsbury’s wondering at her
good fortune.”
The curve of his lips deepened; he gently squeezed her fingers, then released them. “I do occasionally attend such events. To night, her ladyship’s held a certain lure.”
Her. She inclined her head and waited with feigned patience while he greeted the others, exchanging quips and sporting news with the gentlemen.
One thing between them had already changed; the odd breathlessness that had previously attacked her whenever she set eyes on him hadn’t afflicted her to night. She’d been studying him, assessing; perhaps that was why. Why the effect of his presence hadn’t struck until he’d been much nearer—close enough for their eyes to meet, for him to touch her hand.
Then it had struck with a vengeance, stronger, more powerful, a trifle unnerving, but by the time he turned back to her, she had her nerves well in hand.
By shifting a fraction, taking her attention with him, he subtly separated them from the group.
Before he could speak, she did, her gaze going past his shoulder. “Tell me, do your family know of your…direction?”
He followed her gaze to his mother, Serena, his sister Augusta, and his brother Jeremy, who had just entered and were greeting their hostess. “No.” Turning back, he met her eyes. “My decision is my own. Awakening their interest will only make ‘getting to know each other better’ more difficult.” His lips quirked. “That said, they’re far from blind—they’ll guess soon enough. I assume your sisters don’t know?”
“If they did, Clary would be hanging on your arm.”
“In that case, let’s pray for continued obliviousness.” He glanced around, over the heads. “It appears it’s time for the first dance—shall we?”
Charlie offered his arm as the introductory chords of a cotillion welled; he would have preferred a waltz, but he wasn’t about to stand aside and watch some other gentleman dance first with Sarah. With a nod of acceptance, she placed her hand on his sleeve. As he steered her through the guests in the direction of the dining room, to night cleared to accommodate the dancing, he was once again conscious of matters not progressing quite as he’d expected, of being just a trifle off balance, of having to adjust.
To her. She was the source of the tilt in his world, the point from which the ripples in his plans originated.
That afternoon he’d been distracted by having to deal with her demand for a period of courtship; only once he’d left her and was riding home had it struck him how far from his original script they’d strayed. He’d fully expected to be an affianced man by that point; he’d expected her to accept him without question.
Instead…he’d encountered something he hadn’t anticipated, something strong enough to not change his direction but replot his course. Even as he turned her and they took their positions in the set, arms raised, fingers twined, he was conscious of a certain strength in her, a fluid supple quality, true, yet something he’d be unwise to ignore. However…
The music swelled and they moved into the figures, dipping, swaying, circling, coming together, then gliding apart; with his attention locked on her, on her face, on her graceful figure, he was aware to his bones just how entrancing she was, just how much her svelte curves lured him—even if they concealed steel. Or was it because of that?
She twirled; gazes locking, they moved in concert, then opposition, only to glide together again, side by side, arms brushing. Senses reaching, touching.
Meeting, meshing. Held, commanded, by her cornflower-blue eyes, he felt the intangible caress of the sensual tendrils nascent desire sent weaving between them, twining and twirling as the music steered them through the intricate steps. As he retook her hand and their fingers interlinked, he all but felt the net draw close, and tighten. Drawing them nearer as the dance did the same, as he circled her, their eyes linked, and the beat escalated and his pulse responded—and he saw desire rise and swirl through her eyes.
Abruptly he looked away, then drew in a deep breath. Rapidly reasserted his will and reassembled his wits.
He was more attracted to her than he’d anticipated; that was undeniable. Her unexpected resistance to accepting his suit had focused his attention in a way he hadn’t forseen.
It was, he told himself, the scent of the chase, spurred on by that alluring taste of innocence— something he was keen to savor again. Once he’d gained her agreement, her hand, and her, no doubt his burgeoning fascination would fade.
But that time was not yet.
The dance concluded. He raised her from her curtsy; the movement left them closer than they had been to that point.
Closer than they had been since the moment in her parents’ drawing room when he’d kissed her. Her eyes, wide, were raised to his. He looked into them, and the impulse to kiss her flared again,
stronger, more compelling. For one finite instant there was no other in the room, only them. Her gaze
lowered to his lips; hers parted.
They stood in the center of a dance floor surrounded by a horde of others who would be fascinated by any hint of a connection between them.
He hauled in a breath, mentally gritted his teeth, and forced himself to step back—enough to break the spell. She blinked, then dropped her gaze and eased back.
His fingers tightened about hers. Lifting his head, he scanned the room, but there was no chance of slipping away, of finding some quiet spot in which to pursue their aims, if not mutual, then at least parallel. She wanted to get to know him better; he wanted to kiss her again, to taste her more definitely.
But Finsbury Hall was relatively small, and it was raining outside.
Lips compressing, he looked at her, and found his inner frown reflected in her eyes. “This venue is a trifle restrictive for our purpose. If I call on you tomorrow, will you be free?”
She thought before she nodded. “Yes.”
“Good.” Setting her hand on his sleeve, he turned her toward the drawing room. “We can spend the day together, and then we’ll see.”
H e called in the morning to take her driving—behind his matched, utterly peerless grays. To Sarah’ s intense relief, Clary and Gloria had gone for a walk with Twitters and weren’t there to see—not the horses, Charlie, or how he whisked her from the house, handed her into his curricle, then leapt up, took the reins and drove off, whipping up his horses as if he and she were escaping….
Well wrapped in her forest-green pelisse, she settled beside him and reflected that perhaps they were leaving behind the restrictions of their families and the familiar but sometimes suffocating bounds of local society. At the end of the Manor drive, he turned his horses north. She glanced at him, glad she’d decided against a hat; he, of course, looked predictably impressive in his many-caped greatcoat, his long-fingered hands wielding whip and reins with absentminded dexterity. “Where are we going?”
“Watchet.” Briefly he met her eyes. “I have business interests there, on the docks and in the ware houses behind them. I need to speak with my agent, but that won’t take long. After that, I thought we could stroll, have lunch at the inn, and maybe”—he glanced at her again—“go for a sail if the weather stays fine and the winds oblige.”
She widened her eyes even though he’d looked to his horses. “You enjoy sailing?”
“I own a small boat, single-masted. I can sail it alone—I usually do—but it will carry three comfortably. It’s tied up at Watchet pier.”
She imagined him sailing alone on the waves, sails billowing in the winds that whipped over Bridgwater Bay. Watchet was one of the ports scattered along the southern shore. “I haven’t been sailing for years—not since I was a child. I quite enjoyed it.” She glanced at him. “I know the basics.”
His lips curved. “Good. You can crew.”
He slowed his pair as they approached Crowcombe. They rattled through the village; as the last house fell behind, he whipped up his horses and they rocketed on into open countryside. Once they were bowling freely along, she asked, “What do you do in London? How do you pass your time—not the balls and parties, the evenings, those I can imagine—but the days? Alathea once told me that you and Gabriel shared similar interests.”
Eyes on his horses as he deftly steered them along the country road, he nodded. “Around the time of their marriage, I caught a glimpse into the world of finance—it seemed challenging, exciting, and Gabriel was willing to teach me. I more or less fell into it. These days…”
Somewhat to his surprise, Charlie found it easy to describe his liking for the intricacies of high finance, to outline his absorption with investments and innovations and the development of projects that ultimately led to major improvements for all. Perhaps it was because Sarah wasn’t asking simply to be polite; she sincerely wanted to know—and her occasional questions demonstrated that her understanding was up to the task.
“Infrastructure is currently my principal area of interest, certainly in the sense of looking ahead, in terms of speculative investments. Most of the funds I manage—my own as well as the family’s—are in safe and solid stocks and bonds, but that type of investment requires little time or acumen to oversee. It’s the new ventures that excite me. Dealing in that arena is more demanding, making success more rewarding, in both monetary terms as well as satisfaction.”
“Because there isn’t any danger in the safe and secure—the other has more risk, so it’s therefore more challenging?”
He glanced at her. She met his eyes, her brows arching in question. He nodded and looked back to his horses, just a touch unnerved that she’d seen that quite so clearly.
Still, if she were to be his bride, such understanding would only help.
They rattled through Williton. A little way on, he drew rein on a wide bend in the road, and they looked down on the port of Watchet.
It was a bustling small town, the houses forming embracing arms around the docks and wharves that were the focus of town life. The docks ran out into deep water; the wharves ran along the shoreline, connecting them. Immediately behind stood rows of ware houses, all old but clearly in use.
Beyond the western end of the town, between the last houses and the cliffs that rose to border the sea, a shelf of land was in the process of being cleared and leveled.
“You said you had interests in the ware houses here.” Sarah glanced at him. “In which set of investments do they fall—the safe, sure, and unexciting or the risky and challenging?”
He grinned. “A bit of both. With the industries and mills in Taunton expanding, and those in Wellington, too, the future growth of Watchet as a port is assured. The next nearest is Minehead.” He nodded to the west. “Not only farther away, but with the cliffs to manage.” He looked back at the port below, at the rigging of the ships at anchor, at the steel-green waves of the bay and the Bristol Channel farther out. “Watchet will grow. The only questions are by how much, and how soon. The risk comes in balancing how much to invest against the time needed to make an acceptable return.”
The grays stamped, impatient to get on. The road leading down was well graded with no overly steep sections, perfect for the heavy wagons that trundled down to the docks, disbursed their loads of cloth or fleeces, then took on the wines and wood off-loaded from the ships.
Charlie checked that no large dray was on the upward slope, then flicked the reins and sent the grays down.
He drove into the town and turned in under the arch of the Bell Inn. They left the horses in the reverent care of the head ostler, who knew Charlie well. Her hand on Charlie’s arm, Sarah walked beside him into the High Street.
What followed was a minor education into the business of Watchet port. Charlie’s man on the ground was part shipping agent, part landlord’s agent; he matched the available ware house space with the cargoes coming in and out of the town, passing through the docks.
Sarah sat in a chair alongside Charlie’s and listened as Mr. Jones reviewed the dispositions of goods in the ware houses Charlie owned. All were close to full, earning Charlie’s approbation.
“Now.” Jones leaned forward to lay a sheet of figures before Charlie. “These are the projections you wanted on the volumes needed to make a go of any new ware house. They’re well within range of what we’re likely to see coming through within a year.”
Charlie picked up the sheet, rapidly scanned the figures, then peppered Jones with questions.
Sarah listened intently; Charlie had explained enough for her to follow his tack—enough for her to appreciate the risk and the potential reward.
When ten minutes later they left Jones, she smiled and gave him her hand, aware of the speculation her presence by Charlie’s side had sparked.
From Jones’s office, they walked west along the main wharf, feeling the tug of the salt breeze and with the raucous cries of gulls ringing in their ears. At the end of the wharf, Charlie took her elbow and turned her up a cobbled street; after passing between two old and weathered warehouses, it gave onto the large flat section of rocky land beyond which the sea cliffs rose.
There were pegs in the ground with ropes strung between. Charlie led her on a little way, then they halted and looked seaward. All the town and the ware houses lay to their right. Ahead, they could see the newest and most westerly dock stretching out into the choppy waters of the bay.
“I’m thinking of building a new ware house here.” Charlie looked at her. “What do you think?”
Lifting her hands to tuck back the hair the wind had whipped about her face, she looked at the nearest ware house, thought of the figures Jones had let fall. “If it were me, I’d be thinking of two—or at least one twice the size of that one. I’m not very good at estimating spaces, but it seemed that the anticipated increase in goods through Watchet would easily fill another two, if not three.”
Charlie grinned. “If not four or more. You’re right.” He looked at the dock, then scanned the area in which they stood. “I was thinking of two—very little risk there. The projected volumes will fill them easily. No need to be greedy—two will do. But building one twice the size…” He paused, then added, “That might well be an excellent notion.”
Sarah inwardly preened. “Who owns the land?”
Retaking her arm, Charlie turned back to the town. “I do. I bought it years ago.” She raised her brows. “A speculative investment?”
“One that’s about to pay handsomely.”
They walked back to the inn, taking their time, casting their eyes over the various ships tied up at the docks, at the cargoes being unloaded. The central wharf was a bustling hive of activity; Charlie helped her over various ropes and between piles of crates until they could turn the corner for the inn.
Once within its portals they were greeted by the owner; he knew them both, but Charlie—his lordship, the earl—clearly commanded extra special attention. They were shown to a table in a private nook by a window from which they could see the harbor.
The meal was excellent. Sarah had expected their conversation to falter, but Charlie quizzed her on local affairs and the time sped by. It was only as they were leaving the inn that it occurred to her that he’d been using her to refresh his memory; much of what he’d asked he wouldn’t have seen over the last ten years—the years he’d spent mostly in London.
Pausing on the inn’s porch, they studied the sea. The wind had dropped to a gentle offshore breeze, and the waves were no longer choppy. The sun had found a break in the clouds and shone down, gilding the scene, easing the earlier chill.
Charlie glanced at her. “Are you game?”
She met his eyes, and smiled. “Where’s your boat?”
He steered her down the wharf, heading east beyond the commercial docks to where narrower piers afforded berths to smaller, private craft. Charlie’s boat was moored toward the end of one pier. One look at its bright paintwork, at its neat and shining trim, was enough to assure her that it was in excellent condition.
The glow in Charlie’s eyes as she helped him cast off, then hoist the sail, informed her that sailing was a passion; his expertise as he tacked, taking them swiftly from the pier out into the open harbor, told her it was one in which he often indulged. Or had. It seemed unlikely that he’d managed all that much sailing over recent years.
She sat back and watched him manage the tiller. Watched the wind of their passage ruffle his golden locks; she didn’t want to think what her own coiffure must look like.
“Do you miss this when you’re in London?”
His eyes, very gray now that they were on the water, swung to her face. “Yes.” The wind snatched the word away. He shifted closer, leaning as he tacked; she moved nearer the better to hear.
“I’ve always loved the feeling of running before the wind, when the sail fills and the hull lifts, then slices through the water. You can feel the power, you can harness it, but it’s not something you can control. It always feels like a blessing, whenever I’m out here on a day like this.” He met her eyes. “As if the gods are smiling.”
She smiled back, restraining her whipping hair as they reached the end of their eastward leg and he shifted to tack. And then they were racing away again, faster, farther. She leaned back and laughed, looking up at the clouds that careened overhead, then gasping as a larger wave struck and they jolted, then flew anew.
The gods continued to smile for the next hour.
Again and again, she found herself gazing at Charlie, a silly smile on her lips as she drank in the sight of him, his hair whipped wild, gray eyes narrowed against the spray, shoulders flexing, arms powerfully bracing as he managed the tiller; never before had she seen the Viking side of him more transparently on display. Time and again she’d catch herself mooning and look away, only to have her eyes drift back to their obsession.
At first she thought her awareness was one-sided, then she realized that whenever she moved to assist with the sail, his gaze traveled over her, lingering on her breasts, her hips, her legs as she stretched and shifted. That gaze felt strangely hard, possessive; she told herself it was her imagination running wild with thoughts of Vikings and plunder, yet she couldn’t stop a reactive shiver every time he glanced at her that way. Couldn’t stop her nerves from tightening in expectation each time he gave an order.
Luckily, he knew nothing of that, so she felt free to let her nerves and senses indulge as they might, while she pondered the implications.
They fell into an easy partnership; she did, indeed, remember enough to act as crew, ducking low when the boom passed overhead, deftly taking in slack in the appropriate ropes.
By the time Charlie turned the bow for the pier, she felt wrung out yet exhilarated. Although they’d spoken little, she’d learned more than she’d expected; the day had revealed aspects of him she hadn’t known were there.
The boat was gliding toward the pier on a slack sail when, leaning back against the side and looking up at the town, she noticed a gentleman with another man on the shelf of land where Charlie was proposing to build his new ware house. Shading her eyes, she peered. “Someone’s looking over your land.”
Charlie followed her gaze. He frowned. “Who is he—the gentleman? Do you know?”
She stared, taking in the neat attire, the fair hair. She shook her head. “He’s not anyone local. That ’s Skilling, the land agent, with him.”
Charlie was forced to shift his attention to the rapidly nearing pier. “I bought the land through Skilling, so he knows it’s mine.”
“Perhaps the other gentleman is looking to build ware houses, too?”
Charlie shot a narrow-eyed glance at the mysterious newcomer. He and Skilling were now leaving the vacant land, heading not to the wharves but into the town. “Perhaps.”
As he guided the boat into her mooring, he made a mental note to ask Skilling who the gentleman was. A nonlocal gentleman—if Sarah didn’t know him at least by sight he was definitely not local—who happened to have an interest in land and/or ware houses in Watchet was someone he needed to identify, to know about.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to speak with Skilling now; the sun was already slanting low.
He needed to get Sarah home before the light faded.
He leapt up to the pier and lashed the craft securely. Sarah finished furling the sail, then reached up and gave him her hands. He lifted her easily, balancing her until she steadied, her soft curves pressing fleetingly against him.
Desire leapt.
He felt it surge and sweep through him, urging him to lock her against him, bend his head and take her lips—and plunder. The power of the impulse rocked him; its hunger shocked him.
Unaware, she laughed up at him; he forced a smile at the musical sound. He looked into her eyes, alight with simple joy—and cursed the fact that kissing her witless in full view of the multitudes bustling about the docks was something he really couldn’t do.
Gritting his teeth, ruthlessly ignoring his baser self, the increasingly compulsive need to kiss her again, he set her back from him.
“Come.” His voice had lowered. Drawing in a breath, he took her hand. “We’d better head back to the manor.”
T he next day was Sunday. As he usually did when in the country, Charlie attended morning ser vice at the church at Combe Florey with those of his family residing at Morwellan Park—on this occasion his mother, brother, and youngest sister, Augusta.
His other three sisters—Alathea, the eldest, and Mary and Alice—were married and living elsewhere. Although Alathea, married to Gabriel Cynster and mostly resident at Casleigh to the south, lived close, she and the Cynsters attended ser vices at the church near Casleigh.
A fact for which Charlie was grateful; Alathea’s eyes were uncommonly sharp, especially when it came to him. Throughout his minority she’d guarded his interests zealously; it was largely due to her that there’d been an estate for him to inherit. For that, he could never thank her enough, yet while he understood that she had a vested interest in his life—in the well-being of the earldom and therefore him as the earl—her acuity made him wary.
He didn’t, at this point, wish undue attention focused on himself and Sarah.
Sitting in the ornately carved Morwellan pew, in the front to the left of the aisle, he listened to the sermon with barely half an ear. From the corner of his eye he could see Sarah’s bright head as she sat in the Conningham pew, the other front pew, across the aisle.
She’d smiled at him when he’d followed his mother down the nave to take his seat. He’d smiled easily back, all too conscious that the gesture was a mask; inwardly he hadn’t felt like smiling at all.
Gaining time alone was proving difficult, time alone in which he could further his aim. Her aim was progressing reasonably well, but his aim required greater privacy than he’d yet been able to arrange.
Yesterday he’d hoped that when they’d returned to the manor, he would have a moment when he walked her to the door—one moment he could grasp to kiss her again. But her sisters had come running from the house; they’d all but mobbed his curricle, even though there’d been only two of them. From what he’d gathered, they’d been harboring designs on his grays. They’d smothered him with questions, many ridiculous, but he hadn’t missed the sharp glances they’d thrown Sarah and him.
Clary and Gloria were now wondering. A dangerous situation. When it came to those two, he shared Sarah’s reservations.
The ser vice finally ended; he rose and escorted his mother up the aisle with the rest of the congregation falling in behind, the Conninghams foremost among them.
Instinct prodded him to turn and smile at Sarah, almost directly behind him with only her parents between—but Clary and Gloria were immediately behind her. Lips compressing, he told himself to wait; they’d be able to chat once they gained the church lawn.
But the Combe Florey church was well attended, the congregation thick with the local gentry; he and his mother were in instant demand. As he was so rarely in the country these days, there were many
who wanted a word with him.
Tamping down his unruly impatience—Sarah and her family were coming to lunch at the Park—he forced himself to do the socially correct thing and chat with Sir Walter Criscombe about the foxes, and with Henry Wallace about the state of the road.
Yet even while discussing the qualities of macadam, he was acutely conscious that Sarah was close. She stood a yard behind him; straining his ears, he caught snippets of her conversation with Mrs. Duncliffe, the vicar’s wife.
The tenor of that conversation—about the orphanage at Crowcombe—recalled the impression he’ d received at the Finsburys’; while watching Sarah dance, then standing by her side chatting to others, he ’d noticed that she was respected, and often deferred to, by their peers, by the unmarried gentlemen and young ladies of their wider social circle, that her quiet assurance was admired by many.
From Mrs. Duncliffe’s tone, it seemed that the older generation, too, accorded Sarah a status beyond her years. She was twenty-three, yet it seemed she’d carved a place for herself in the local community somewhat at odds with those tender years and her as-yet-unmarried state.
Precisely the right sort of status on which, as his countess, she could build. He hadn’t given a thought to such aspects when fixing on her as his wife, but he knew such nebulous qualities mattered.
Finally, Henry Wallace was satisfied. They parted. Expectation surging, Charlie turned to Sarah— only to discover her father gathering his family preparatory to herding them to their waiting carriage.
Smiling, Lord Conningham nodded his way. “We’ll see you shortly, Charlie.”
His jaw set, but he forced a smile in reply. He caught Sarah’s eye, caught the understanding quirk of her lips; he half bowed, then, his expression impassive, turned to gather his own family and head for Morwellan Park.
S arah relaxed into a comfortable armchair in the drawing room at the Park, and rendered mute thanks that neither Clary nor Gloria, nor Augusta nor Jeremy, had yet tumbled to Charlie’s intention. She’ d wondered if this luncheon would prove hideously awkward, but the meal had passed as over the years so many similar Sunday luncheons had, in pleasant and easy comfort.
The invitation had arrived yesterday while she’d been in Watchet with Charlie, but such short notice wasn’t unusual; the Morwellans and the Conninghams had been sharing Sunday luncheons every few months for as long as she could recall. Her mother and Charlie’s were contemporaries, and their childrens’ ages overlapped; naturally the families, both long-standing in the area and with estates abutting, had drawn close.
Observing her parents and Charlie’s mother, Serena, grouped about the fireplace and discussing some tonnish scandal, Sarah felt sure Serena, at least, knew. Or had guessed. There’d been a hint of encouragement, of a certain unvoiced hope in the way Serena had squeezed her hand when she’d arrived, in the warmth of the older woman’s smile. Serena approved of Charlie’s choice and would welcome Sarah as her daughter-in-law; all that had been conveyed without words. However, although comforting, the point was still moot. She had yet to learn what she needed to know.
She’d learned more about Charlie, but not the vital point. On that, she’d made very little headway. “Sarah!” From the French door, Clary called, “We’re going to walk around the lake. Do you
want to come?”
She smiled, shook her head, and waved off her sisters and Augusta, one year older than Clary and shortly to embark on her first season. Jeremy had buttonholed Charlie at the other end of the room; the
instant he saw the three girls step outside, Jeremy grinned, said something to Charlie, then turned and slipped out of another door, escaping while he could.
The door closed silently; Sarah’s gaze had already shifted to Charlie. He glanced at their parents, engrossed in their discussion, then came down the long room to her side.
Halting, he held out a hand. His blue-gray eyes trapped hers. “Come. Let’s go for a walk, too.” Sarah considered his face, his eyes; she was perfectly certain he didn’t intend to join their sisters.
Anticipation leaping, she put her hand in his and allowed him to pull her to her feet. “Where to?” she
asked, as if only vaguely interested.
He gestured to the French doors. “Let’s start with the terrace.”
Without looking back—she had no need to catch any hopeful glances their parents might throw their way—she let him lead her out onto the flagstones. He waited while she hitched her shawl about her shoulders, then offered his arm. She took it, and they strolled side by side along the terrace.
Their sisters were three small figures dwindling in size as they followed the path that bordered the ornamental lake.
“Pray they don’t see us and turn back.”
She glanced up; Charlie, eyes narrowed, was watching the other three. Smiling, she looked ahead. “They’re discussing Augusta’s come-out. It would require something significantly startling to distract them from that.”
He humphed. “True.” He glanced at her as they continued along the terrace. “You don’t appear as afflicted as the norm when it comes to feminine mania for the Season.”
She shrugged. “I enjoyed my seasons well enough, but after the first blush, the balls are just balls, the parties just more glittering examples of the parties we have here. If one had a reason for being there, I suspect it might be different, but behind the glamor I found it rather empty—devoid of purpose, if you like.”
He raised his brows, but made no reply.
They reached the end of the terrace; instead of turning back, he led her around the corner where the terrace continued down the south side of the house.
He glanced up at the façade beside them. “You must know this house nearly as well as I.”
“I doubt anyone knows this house as well as you. Perhaps Jeremy…” She shook her head. “No, not even he. You grew up here; it’s your home, and you always knew you would inherit it. It’s Jeremy’s home, but it isn’t his in the same way. I’d wager you know every corner of every attic.” Head tilted, she caught his eye.
He grinned. “You’re right. I used to poke into every distant corner—and yes, I always knew it would be mine.”
Halting before another set of French doors, he opened one, then stood back and waved her in. “The library. I haven’t been in here for years.” Stepping over the threshold, she looked around.
“You’ve redecorated.”
He nodded. “This was Alathea’s domain until she married, then it became mine. For some reason my father rarely came here.”
She slowly pirouetted, absorbing the changes—the masculine atmosphere imparted by deeply padded armchairs covered in dark brown leather, the heavy forest-green velvet curtains framing the windows, the lack of delicate vases and lamps, the ornaments she’d grown accustomed to seeing scattered about the room during Alathea’s tenure. But the sense of luxury, of pervasive wealth, was still
there, carried in the rich hues in the portrait of some ancestor hanging above the fireplace, in the clean lines of the crystal decanter on the tantalus, in the large urn by the door with its transparent antiquity.
“The desk’s the same.” She studied the massive, wonderfully carved piece that sat across one end of the room. Its surface was lovingly polished, but the stacked papers, pens and pencils upon it bore mute witness that the space was in use.
Charlie had closed the French doors on the chill air outside. At the other end of the room a fire leapt and crackled beneath the old, carved stone mantelpiece, shedding warmth and light onto the Aubusson carpet—a new one in shades of deep greens and browns. Firelight flickered over myriad leather-bound tomes crowding the shelves lining the inner and end walls, striking glints from the
gold-embossed titles.
Sarah drank it all in, then turned to where Charlie had halted before the middle of the three sets of French doors facing the terrace, the south lawn, and, in the distance, an arm of the lake. He was looking out. She moved to join him.
Turning his head, he caught her eyes, held her gaze for a moment, then asked, his voice deep, quiet, “Wouldn’t you like to be mistress of all this?”
He meant the house, the grounds, the estate. His home. But she wanted to be mistress of so much
more.
She searched his eyes, their regard unwavering. Inwardly she quivered in reaction to his tone, and
to his question. The answer rang clearly in her mind, but how to voice it?
“Yes.” Lifting her head, she stiffened her resistance against the temptation being this close to him posed. “But…that’s not enough.”
He frowned. “What—”
“What I want…” She blinked, suddenly seeing a way to explain. “Consider—when you invest, you require both the risky and challenging as well as the safe and secure to feel satisfied, to feel fulfilled. When it comes to marriage, I want the same.” She held his gaze. “Not just the conventional, the mundane
—the safe and sure—but…”
She ran out of words, had no words, not ones that would do the concept justice. In the end, she simply said, “I want the excitement, the thrills, to take the risk and grasp the satisfaction. I want to experience the glory.”
Thanks to years of maintaining an unreadable expression while engaged in business dealings, Charlie kept all trace of surprise from his face. She was an innocent twenty-three, untouched; he knew that to his bones. Yet unless his ears had failed him, she’d just stipulated that were she to marry him, in order for her to be satisfied, their marriage would need to be a passionate one.
And, by extension, if that point was influencing her decision, then presumably part of her “getting to know him better” involved assessing whether a liaison between them would spark such passion, resulting in the glory she sought.
He hadn’t been expecting such a tack, but he certainly wasn’t about to argue. He let his lips curve. “I see no impediment in that.”
She frowned. “You don’t?”
He assumed the question derived from lack of self-confidence, from lack of conviction that she— her fair self—could fire his passions in that way.
Given his reputation, all of it entirely deserved, that wasn’t, perhaps, such a nonsensical uncertainty.
It was, however, as he was perfectly—indeed painfully—aware, entirely groundless.
He reached for her, careful not to seize, not to give her nerves reason to leap too much; sliding his hands around her waist, he encouraged her nearer.
She came, hesitantly. What he sensed in her…his instincts saw her as wild, skittish, untamed— unused to a man’s hand. Untouched in the truest sense. And he wanted her, desired her with a passion remarkable in its sharpness, unique in its strength.
Ruthlessly he held it down, concealed it, suppressed it. He held her gaze. “What ever you want in that regard, I’m willing to give you.”
She searched his eyes. Moistened her lips. “I—”
“But of course you want to ascertain the prospect before you agree.” He had to fight to keep his gaze from fixing on her sheening lips.
Her eyes widened; relief slid through them. “Yes.”
Smiling, he lowered his head. “As I said before, I see no impediment in that. None at all.” He breathed the last words over her lips.
Her lids fluttered, then fell. He brushed her lips with his, lightly, tantalizingly, then swooped and took them in a long, easy, unthreatening kiss, a caress specifically designed to ease her trepidations, to calm any maidenly fears. To gently, so gently she wouldn’t notice it, sweep her away.
He tempted, lured, and she came, hesitant but willing, following his lead as fraction by tiniest fraction he deepened the caress. Her lips were as pliant, as delicate as he remembered; he held his breath as with the tip of his tongue he traced the lower, then gently probed…her lips parted on a sigh and she let him in.
Let him slide his tongue into the warm haven of her mouth, find hers and stroke. Tantalized, fascinated, enthralled.
Her, yes, but him, too; despite his experience he wasn’t immune to the moment. Wasn’t above feeling a shiver of excitement as she oh-so-tentatively returned the caress.
Sarah’s head was spinning, her wits waltzing to a luxurious, decadent beat, one built on plea sure.
It swelled and burgeoned and grew more demanding as the kiss lengthened, deepened, as he and his seductive magic slid under her skin and stroked.
Her senses purred.
The taste of him spread through her, intoxicatingly male, dangerous yet tempting. Her lips felt warm as she returned his kisses, increasingly bold, increasingly sure.
Increasingly convinced that through this, she would find her answer.
She was hovering on the brink of stretching her arms up, twining them about his neck and stepping into him, wanting to touch, oddly urgent to feel the hard length of him against her, when he broke the kiss.
Not as if he wished to; when she lifted her strangely weighted lids, she sensed as much as saw his sudden alertness as he looked over her head out of the window.
Then his lovely, mobile lips tightened. Under his breath, he swore. He looked at her, met her eyes. “Our sisters.”
Disgust dripped from the words. She glanced toward the lake, and grimaced, her emotions matching his. Having circumnavigated the lake, the three girls were marching steadily nearer—heading for the terrace alongside the library. Any minute one of them would look ahead…
“Come.” Charlie lowered his arms. She felt oddly bereft.
His hand at her elbow, he turned her deeper into the library. “We’ll have to go back.”
He guided her to the door to the corridor; for one instant she considered suggesting they adjourn to some less visible room, but…she sighed. “You’re right. If we don’t, they’ll come searching.”
3
N eatly garbed in her apple-green riding habit, Sarah trotted down the manor drive on the back of her chestnut, Blacktail, so named because of the glorious appendage that swished in expectation as she passed through the gates and turned north along the road.
The day was fine, the sun shining weakly, the air cool but still. She was about to urge Blacktail into a canter when the sound of hoofbeats approaching from the south reached her.
Along with a hail. “Sarah!”
Reining in, she turned in the saddle; she smiled as Charlie cantered up. He was once again on his raking gray hunter; the horse’s deep chest and heavy hindquarters made Blacktail, an average-sized hack, look delicate. As always, Charlie managed the powerful gray with absentminded ease; he drew up alongside her.
His gaze swept her face, lingered on her lips for an instant, then rose to her eyes. “Perfect—I was thinking of riding to the bridge over the falls. I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”
To spend some time alone with me. Sarah understood his intention; the bridge over the falls that spilled from Will’s Neck, the highest point in the Quantocks, was a local lookout. She grimaced ruefully. “I can ride with you a little way, but Monday’s the day I spend at the orphanage. I’m on my way there. We have a committee meeting at ten o’clock that I have to attend.”
She tapped her heel to Blacktail’s side. He started to walk. Charlie’s gray kept pace while his master frowned.
“The orphange above Crowcombe?” Charlie recalled the discussion he’d overheard between Mrs. Duncliffe and Sarah outside the church. He dragged the name from his memory. “Quilley Farm.” He glanced at Sarah. “Is that the one?”
She nodded. “Yes. I own it—the farm house and the land.”
Inwardly he frowned harder. He should have paid more attention to local happenings over the years. “I thought…wasn’t it Lady Cricklade’s?”
Sarah’s lips curved. “Yes. She was my godmother. She died three years ago and left the orphanage, house and land, as well as some funds, to me, along with the responsibility of keeping it functioning as she’d intended it should.” She shook her reins. “I’ll need to ride on or I’ll be late.”
Charlie set Storm to pace her chestnut as they shifted into a canter. “Do you mind if I come, too?” He glanced at Sarah, trying to read her face. “I should learn about the orphanage.”
She threw him an assessing, rather measuring look, then nodded. “If you wish.” Facing forward, she increased the pace.
He went with her, Storm matching the chestnut’s stride easily. “So who else is on this committee?” “Aside from myself and my mother—she doesn’t always attend—there’s Mr. Skeggs, the solicitor
from Crowcombe, and Mrs. Duncliffe. Skeggs, Mrs. Duncliffe, and I are the core committee—we
oversee things week to week. Mr. Handley, the mayor of Watchet, and Mr. Kempset, the town clerk of Taunton, attend once, at the end of each year, or if we summon them.”
Charlie nodded. “How large is the orphanage?”
“We’ve thirty-one children at present, ranging from babes to a few thirteen-year-olds. Once they reach fourteen, we find employment for them in Watchet or Taunton.” Sarah glanced at him. “Most come from one or the other of those towns. There’s so many factories in Taunton these days, and therefore more accidents, leaving children without fathers and too often their mothers starve, or fall ill and die, too. And from Watchet and the coast, we get those left when fishermen and sailors are lost at sea.”
“So you’ve been involved with the orphanage for the last three years?”
“For longer than that. Lady Cricklade was one of Mama’s closest friends. Her husband died soon after they were married, and she had no children. She and Mama set up the orphanage many years ago. Lady Cricklade always intended to leave Quilley Farm to me, so she and Mama made sure I knew all about it—I’ve been going to Quilley Farm almost every Monday for as long as I can recall.”
The roofs of Crowcombe appeared ahead. The lane leading up to Quilley Farm joined the road just before the first house. They turned up the lane; it was wide enough for them to ride side by side as it climbed steadily, until eventually it gave onto the plateau that was Quilley Farm.
“How big is the farm?” Charlie asked.
Now on flat ground, they trotted toward the farm house that rose before them. Built of local red sandstone worn pink with the years, its long front façade was planted squarely east, facing the Quantocks across the valley. It boasted two stories in stone, with the attics above half-timbered. The roof was gray slate, common in those parts. The structure looked old but strong, secure, as if over the years its foundations had settled into the earth under the weight of the thick stone walls. A wide cleared space, lightly graveled, lay before the house. Fields stretched to either side.
“To the south, the farm extends to that stream.” Sarah pointed down a long slope to where a line of trees marked the banks of a small brook. “But to the north not so far, just to Squire Mack’s fields two fences over.”
She waved over the roof to the rocky hillside looming behind the house—a part of the western end of the Brendon Hills. “At the back, there are three wings, unfortunately not as solid as the main house. Beyond them, we’ve only got space for kitchen gardens and a narrow patch for animals before the hill rises too steeply even for grazing.”
Sheltered by a shallow porch, the front door stood dead center in the long façade, with
wooden-shuttered windows in perfect symmetry on either side. Sarah and Charlie dismounted and tied their reins to the rail set beside the porch. A gig with a placid mare dozing between the shafts was tied up at one side of the forecourt; Sarah nodded toward it. “Mrs. Duncliffe’s already here.”
Stripping off her gloves, she headed for the door. Charlie glanced back and around, at the village of Crowcombe nestling some hundred feet below, then at the rising face of the Quantocks. From this elevation with the valley hidden in the dip between, the hills appeared closer.
Sarah lifted the door latch. Turning, Charlie followed her through the door—into bedlam.
Or so it seemed. Eight small children, boys and girls both, had been traversing the front hall in a more or less orderly file, but the instant they saw Sarah, all order deserted them. Bright smiles lit their faces; as one they detoured to mill about her.
They all talked at once.
It took Charlie, also trapped in the knee-high melee, a minute to attune his ears to the high-pitched babble, but Sarah reacted with aplomb. She patted two heads, asked one boy if he’d lost his tooth yet— the answer was yes as he promptly demonstrated with a gap-toothed smile—then she waved her arms and effectively herded the gaggle back into the clutches of a thin woman who’d been following in the children’s wake.
The woman smiled at Sarah; her eyes widened as she took in Charlie, but then she turned and shooed her charges down a corridor. “The others are in the office waiting,” she said to Sarah as she passed.
“Thank you, Jeannie.” Sarah waved to the last of the children, then made for a door to the right. Reaching for the latch, she glanced at Charlie. “Would you like to sit in on the meeting, or”—she nodded in the children’s wake—“look around?”
Charlie held her gaze. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to listen to the discussions. I can look around
later.”
She smiled. “I don’t mind.” Her lips quirked. “You might even learn something.”
As he followed her into the room, he wondered how he should take that comment, but the truth
was he did feel compelled to learn more about the orphanage. Although it lay beyond his boundaries, he was nevertheless the senior nobleman in the area; in certain respects it fell within his purlieu, yet he knew very little of it—how the orphanage ran, under whose auspices, where their funding came from, and so on. All were things he ought to know, but didn’t.
That the orphanage was legally Sarah’s, and she involved herself in the running of it, made his continued ignorance even less acceptable.
The room was a well-furnished office with two desks, one large, one small, and various chairs and cabinets. In the center stood a round table at which Mrs. Duncliffe and Mr. Skeggs sat; as Sarah entered they broke off what had plainly been a social conversation to smile in welcome.
When they saw him behind Sarah, surprise entered their eyes, but the welcome remained.
He knew them both; they exchanged greetings, shook hands, then he held a chair for Sarah. Once she’d sat, he lifted another chair and set it beside hers, a little back from the table. He smiled at Skeggs and Mrs. Duncliffe. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to get some idea of how the orphanage is run.”
Both assured him they had no objection to his presence; while Mrs. Duncliffe certainly wondered over his motivation, Skeggs was almost touchingly delighted.
“The more locals of standing who associate themselves with our effort, the better.” The anemic solicitor beamed. He straightened a small stack of papers before him and adjusted the pince-nez balanced on his thin nose. “Now…”
Charlie sat back and listened as the three discussed various aspects of the day-to-day running of the orphanage. He learned that they bought most of their perishables in Watchet, with vegetables, grains, meat, and fish brought in by cart twice a week. For manufactured goods they turned to Taunton; Sarah consulted a list and declared there was nothing urgent enough to warrant sending the cart south just yet.
As the meeting progressed, dealing with the children’s requirements—clothes, shoes, books, and so on—Charlie detected no funding constraints over such matters, but when it came to the fabric of the orphanage, a different sort of limitation emerged.
“Now,” Sarah said, “Kennett has had a look at the leaks in the south wing. He says the thatch is worn. We’ll have to get the thatchers to come and fix it.” She grimaced.
Mrs. Duncliffe sighed. “I do wish we could get the wings better roofed. This is the third time we’ ve had to bring the thatchers in over the past year, and that thatch is not getting any younger.”
Glancing at Charlie, Sarah caught his eye. “All three wings are thatched. We’ve had Hendricks, the local builder, in to look at replacing the thatch with slate, but he said that we’d need to replace the whole roof—all the timbers and joists—in order to support the weight of the slate, but then the walls won ’t hold the additional weight. The walls in the wings are mostly lath and plaster—only their foundations are stone.”
Charlie nodded. “That’s why so many thatched cottages remain thatched. No way to replace the roof without replacing the walls and lintels—which amounts to replacing the entire building.”
Skeggs grunted. “So.” He made a note. “I’ll send for the thatchers.” “Meanwhile,” Sarah said, “let’s pray it doesn’t rain.”
The meeting continued; Charlie listened and learned. By the time the committee adjourned, he had a basic knowledge of the workings of the orphanage. He rose and followed the committee members from the room. Sarah farewelled the others in the front hall; with a nod to him, Mrs. Duncliffe and Skeggs left, Mrs. Duncliffe to drive the tall thin solicitor down to his office in Crowcombe before heading south to the vicarage at Combe Florey.
Closing the front door behind them, Sarah turned to Charlie. “It’s almost time for luncheon. I usually stay for the rest of the day—there’s always plenty to do, and it gives me a chance to catch up with the staff, and the children, too.”
She tried to read his face but, as usual, his expression gave her no hint as to his thoughts. In the dim hall, his eyes were shadowed; she could, however, feel his gaze on her face.
“Would you mind if I stayed, too?” There was a touch of diffidence in his tone, as if he feared she might think the request too encroaching.
Instead, the evidence of sensitivity reassured her. She smiled. “If you’re willing to endure luncheon with a tribe of noisy children, then by all means stay. But there’s various things I must do later—it’ll be hours before I can leave.”
He shrugged, lips curving. “I’m sure I’ll be able to find something to fill the hours.” His smile deepened as they turned to the corridor leading to the dining room. The sound of the children filing in was already swelling to a cacophony. “Besides,” he murmured as they neared the open door, “I’ll have the ride home with you—alone with you—to look forward to.”
He met her eyes as she glanced up, trapped them; she was suddenly conscious of how close they stood, coming together in the doorway. For one instant, despite the noise assailing her ears, she was more aware of him—of his strength, potent and palpable as with one hand he held back the heavy door, of his maleness, carried in the heat that reached for her as their bodies passed mere inches apart.
Her lungs had tightened, but she managed a smile—a light, gentle one in return—as she inclined her head in acknowledgment of his gallantry and stepped over the threshold.
Mrs. Carter—Katy—principal cook and chief caretaker, saw Charlie and quickly laid another place at the staff table at one side of the room. A motherly woman of middle age with no children of her own, left alone when her sailor husband had been lost at sea, Katy had been Lady Cricklade’s choice to manage the orphanage; over the years, Sarah had had ample reason to bless her late godmother’s judgment.
Sarah led Charlie to the table, indicated that he should take the chair beside hers, then introduced him to the others as, one by one, after herding their charges in and seeing them settled at the long refectory tables lined up across the room, they came to take their seats.
Miss Emma Quince, known as Quince to all, eyed Charlie severely, but bent enough to incline her head when Sarah explained that she kept the books and oversaw all repairs to the house, furniture, and furnishings. “Which,” Sarah said, “in an establishment such as this is a rather more demanding role than the norm.”
Quince smiled thinly, but thereafter kept her eyes on her plate.
“Quince spends most of her time looking after the babies,” Sarah continued. “And Lily here helps.”
Lily Posset, a bright vivacious girl, once a charge of the orphanage herself, beamed at Charlie, clearly appreciating his sartorial elegance. He smiled and nodded down the table to her. Although he didn ’t look her way again, Lily kept darting quick glances his way; Sarah pretended not to notice.
Jeannie joined them and took her seat with a quiet hello. She was followed by a lumbering ox of a man who subsided into the chair beside her.
Sarah introduced Kennett, the man-of-all-work, a beefy, brawny hulking man who hid his soft heart behind a perpetual scowl—which fooled no one, the children least of all. “Kennett also takes care of all our animals.”
Charlie raised his brows at Kennett. “What do you run?”
“Only what we can use,” Kennett growled. “Cows for milk, goats and sheep for wool and meat. Ain’t no room for more. We use the fields for grains and cabbages—you wouldn’t believe how much this lot can get through in a winter.”
“And Jim here,” Sarah broke in, indicating the youth who’d slipped into the chair next to Kennett, “is our lad about the house. He helps everyone with everything, errands, fetching and carrying, feeding the animals.”
Jim beamed back at her; he nodded to Charlie, then gave his attention to the rich stew Mrs.
Carter ladled onto his plate.
The last of the staff to join them was Joseph Tiller. Sarah smiled at him as, with a smile for her and a careful nod to Charlie, he drew out his customary chair next to Katy. Dark haired, pale skinned, Joseph was good-looking in a reserved and gentle way; despite his quiet reserve, Katy, Sarah, Jeannie, and Quince were convinced he was far gone in worship of Lily. They were all hoping that at some point he would get up enough courage to ask Lily, at the very least, to walk with him when they escorted the children to church.
“Joseph Tiller—Lord Meredith.” Sarah waited while Joseph, after a second’s hesitation, reached over the table and grasped Charlie’s proffered hand. Sarah wasn’t sure how Charlie had known Joseph was a gentleman, but…“Joseph comes to us from the Bishop of Wells. The orphanage operates under the bishop’s auspices. Joseph helps teach the children, especially the older boys.”
Charlie smiled sympathetically. “Not an easy task, I imagine.”
Joseph’s lips quirked as he sat. “Not generally, no, but there are compensations.”
Mrs. Carter banged her spoon on the saucepan’s lid and the children abruptly fell silent. Joseph bowed his head and said grace, his voice firm and sure rolling out over the bent heads.
The instant he said “Amen” a whoop erupted; noise exploded and engulfed the room. Reaching for his fork, Charlie raised his brows.
Joseph met his eyes and smiled. “Always happens.”
The meal passed in the usual distracted fashion with various staff members having to rise and settle disputes and arguments among their vociferous charges. But neither maliciousness nor anger intruded; there was no tension, only a sense of fun and an undercurrent of content.
Every Monday when she sat among them for the meal, Sarah found reassurance in that supportive atmosphere; that was why her godmother had established the orphanage, and why she continued to devote to it so much of her time.
As the last dollops of custard were scraped from bowls, Charlie turned to her and grinned. “They’ re a lively lot. They remind me of an enormous family.”
She smiled back, then patted her lips with her napkin and laid it aside. “That’s exactly what we work to achieve.” She wasn’t surprised that he’d grasped that; like her, he came from a large family.
Many of the children had already left, some of the staff as well. She rose and Charlie rose with her. “I have to speak with Quince—we need to do an inventory of the linens. It’ll take a few hours.”
He shrugged. “I’ll just wander and wait.”
Joseph, rising from his chair opposite, glanced at Sarah, then looked at Charlie. “I promised I’d organize a game of bat and ball for the older lads once they finish their arithmetic. That’ll be in about half an hour. If you have the time, perhaps you’d like to join us?”
Charlie grinned. “Why not?”
Sarah excused herself and left them. She had difficulty imagining Charlie, always so precise and elegant, playing bat and ball, at least not the way the older boys played it. They always looked like they’d been dragged through a hedge backward when they came in after their game; even Joseph usually ended badly rumpled.
But, she reflected, Charlie could look out for himself.
Determinedly she mounted the stairs to the attics. She had Quince, and what would no doubt prove to be stacks of torn and worn linens, to deal with.
For the next hour, she and Quince worked through the various piles, checking and noting. They always used the big attic nursery for the chore; the cradles in which Quince’s charges lay were neatly arranged at one end—six of them at the moment, more than usual—but there was plenty of room between the cradles and the neat truckle bed on which Quince passed her nights.
While Quince, thin and bony, with her severe expression, tightly restrained hair, and outwardly acid temper, might have seemed an odd choice as nursemaid, Sarah had often seen her face soften, her eyes fill with a soft light when she rocked one of the tightly wrapped bundles. The babies responded to that glow, and cared nothing for her appearance. No one was better with infants than Quince.
In the quiet of the nursery, she and Quince sat and sorted.
Later they were joined by Katy and Jeannie. As “the linens” included all the napery as well as towels, sheets, and napkins, it was a major undertaking to examine each piece, placing those requiring mending to one side and those requiring extra bleaching in another pile, and reluctantly setting aside those beyond repair or resuscitation to be used for rags.
The size of the pile for mending was always daunting.
“Jeannie?” Lily’s voice floated up the stairs. “Your lot are stirring.”
“Coming!” Jeannie set down the towel she’d been folding and hurried out. She took care of the toddlers who’d been put down for their afternoon nap. Lily, who was working with the older girls, had been watching over them.
“I’d better get on, too.” Katy hauled herself out of the old armchair she’d sunk into. “Time to get started on supper.”
Sarah looked up from the mending pile and smiled. “I’ll be leaving once I’ve finished stacking these. I’ll ask Jim to drop them off at the manor tomorrow, and I’ll share them out for mending.”
“Aye.” Katy nodded. Turning for the stairs, she glanced out of the window, and halted. “Well now, if that ain’t a sight.”
Sarah looked up, then rose and went to join her. She followed Katy’s gaze to where the older boys, and some of those not so old—and two much older—were playing bat and ball on the forecourt.
“They usually play at the back,” she murmured.
“Too many of ’em, today.” Quince had come to stand beside Sarah. “Looks like they’ve made up proper teams.”
Sarah watched as Charlie lobbed the ball, and Maggs, who was holding the bat, whacked it to the side. To much hooting and cheering, while fielders scampered after the ball, Maggs dashed to where a peg was stuck in the ground; rounding it, he hared back to touch another peg near where he’d started with the bat.
Retrieving the ball, Toby, another of the older lads, threw it to Charlie. The throw went rather wild. Leaping high, Charlie plucked the ball from the air. He tossed it in his palm. He fixed Maggs with a fierce look—but he was grinning. He called something to Maggs, then bowled again.
Katy said something and with a laugh headed downstairs. One of the babies stirred and Quince went to tend it. Sarah remained by the window looking down. The nursery was high under the eaves, the lead-paned windows shaded by the overhang. No one in the forecourt could see her as she stood and watched. And wondered.
What she was seeing wasn’t something she’d thought to assess as part of her decision whether or not to marry Charlie. Yet she wanted children—yes, definitely—and a husband who could give himself over to a simple boys’ game as Charlie was…that was certainly a point she should consider.
Indeed, not only was he patently immersed in the game, sharing the moment with the boys and with Joseph, too—the other man was smiling more widely than Sarah had thought possible—but he’d sacrificed his elegance, it seemed, without a qualm.
He’d removed his hacking jacket. His shirttails were hanging out; he’d rolled his sleeves halfway up his forearms and his neatly tied cravat was nowhere in sight. Nor was his waistcoat.
It was a severely rumpled Charlie who bowled the next ball—who leapt into the air and cheered as Maggs hit it straight to Toby and was caught out. Sarah watched as the boys crowded around, as Charlie tousled Toby’s hair and called some compliment to Maggs, who glowed even while he handed the bat to Toby.
Sarah watched for ten minutes more. When she eventually retreated to finish folding the linens, she was pensive.
T hey left the orphanage half an hour later. The game had been over by the time Sarah had gone downstairs. She’d found Charlie talking with Joseph while they watched the boys finish their chores in the kitchen garden.
Joseph had still been rumpled but Charlie had made an effort to regain his customary style. While his cravat, redonned, would never pass muster in any ton drawing room, it was neat enough for country fields. From the darkened curls about his face, Sarah had concluded that he’d washed; he’d certainly made some effort to smooth his ruffled hair.
Her fingers had itched to run through the heavy locks and disarrange them again.
Instead, she’d smiled, bid Joseph and the boys good-bye, then led the way around the house to where their horses waited.
Before she could lead Blacktail to the mounting block, Charlie took the reins from her gloved grasp, then closed his hands about her waist and lifted her up to her saddle.
Her breathing suspended. She looked down and busied herself settling her boot in the stirrup. That done, she looked up, managed a weak smile, and accepted the reins from him.
By the time he’d untied his gray and swung up to the wide back, she had herself in hand again.
She pointed due south to the stream. “I usually ride home across the fields—it’s faster.” Eyes narrowing, Charlie followed the faint line of a bridle path that led to the stream.
“There’s a place where the stream’s easy to jump.” Setting Blacktail’s nose homeward, she tapped her heel to his side. “Come on.”
She went and Charlie followed. When they came within sight of the place to jump the stream, he ranged alongside her.
They jumped together, both horses fluidly covering the distance from one bank to the other. She laughed, gripped by unexpected delight, then veered to the west into the lee of the Brendons, following the bridle path as it skirted the backs of various farmers’ fields, cutting along the lower levels of the slope rising to their right.
She kept Blacktail to a steady, ground-eating pace. The gray thundered beside her, equally surefooted. She glanced briefly at Charlie. “The path’s clear—no holes or roots.”
He nodded.
The afternoon was waning, the light fading. It was not yet dusk; at this pace, they would reach the manor before the light became uncertain, but Charlie had to ride another two miles more to reach the Park.
They swept on side by side. The dull thudding of hooves echoed the thudding in her blood, an insistent, steadily escalating tattoo. It rang in her ears, in her fingertips, while the wind of their passage whipped her cheeks and set them, and her, glowing.
She’d ridden this way countless times, and some of those times she’d galloped even faster. It wasn’t simply the speed that was feeding the undeniable exhilaration within her.
Stride matching stride, they swung down off the path onto another leading to the back of the manor. They clattered into the stable yard, iron-shod hooves ringing on the cobbles, a peculiar delight bubbling in her veins.
Her senses were singing. She couldn’t stop grinning.
Charlie swung down, came and lifted her down; for an instant he held her close, protected by his body as the horses milled about them. Then the stable lads were there, grasping reins.
“Just walk him,” Charlie called to the lad gathering his gray’s reins. “I’ll be off again shortly.”
His gaze hadn’t shifted from her face. Releasing her, he took her hand. “I’ll walk you to the house.”
She nodded, unable to decide what the light in his eyes meant, what the tension she could feel through his grip on her hand portended.
The horses were led away. Charlie strode for the stable entrance, drawing her with him. Under the arch he paused, looking across the stretch of lawn shaded by large trees that separated the house from the stables.
Puzzled, she looked, too, wondering.
Beneath his breath he muttered an oath, and abruptly towed her in a different direction, along the front of the stables and around the corner. He ducked under the low-hanging branches of a fir—then he halted, turned, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her.
Ravenously.
The triumphant delight bubbling in her veins sizzled, fizzed and rose, rose to wreathe through her brain and pleasurably sweep her wits away. Leaving a sense of certainty in its wake.
His lips were hard, commanding. She met them, met his demands, thrilled that she could.
More, that he could want her like this—with just a touch of wildness in the wanting. That he could desire her as he so patently did…
She hadn’t thought of that, hadn’t dreamt of desire, of him desiring her, but she couldn’t think now, could only appease the hunger in him, and let him seed her own.
Her lips had parted of their own volition; he’d taken advantage on the instant and claimed her mouth. Claimed her in some way; she felt the possessivness in his touch as he backed her, as she sensed the brick wall of the stable behind her and his hand rose to cradle her face, to hold it steady at just the right angle so he could deepen the kiss.
The steely arm about her waist tightened. Her toes curled.
She gripped his shoulders, clung, intrigued, and kissed him back, unrestrainedly following his lead.
Two heartbeats later, things changed. The tenor of the kiss altered, gentled, as if he were reining himself—them—in, as if what had already passed between them had taken the edge from his—their— hunger, and now that desperate edge was gone, he—they—could savor.
Could appreciate, could sink deeper into the kiss and wallow.
He didn’t let her go; his hold didn’t ease in the slightest. He continued to kiss her, to indulge her and himself with long, languid caresses.
Simply because he wanted to.
That last was clear, a truth undeniably etched in her mind when he finally raised his head, and on a sigh released hers. He brushed a thumb across her lower lip, then let her go and stepped back, retaking her hand.
He didn’t smile. “Come. I’ll walk you to the door.”
She managed a wobbly smile in acquiesence, and let him lead her back into the world. Ducking under the fir tree’s branches, she went with him across the lawn. Reaching the side door, he opened it, and stood back. She stepped to the threshold, then turned back to him.
He bowed over her hand, effortlessly graceful, then released it. He met her eyes briefly and saluted her. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”
He barely waited for her nod before turning and striding back toward the stable.
Sarah stood in the doorway and watched him go. And reflected that the revelations of the day had left her with quite a few things to ponder.
4
C asleigh, Lord Martin Cynster’s house, was a huge, rambling country mansion filled with antiques and furnished in exquisite luxury; on Tuesday night, Charlie moved through the guests gathered in its drawing room, and saw nothing of the house’s beauties.
He’d spent Monday evening and most of that day clarifying in his mind the framework of the life he expected to live once Sarah agreed to be his—the months in London filled with endeavors similar to those he’d enjoyed for the past decade, broken by the occasional trip to the country to check on the Park and the estate. That was how he’d envisaged it would be, but how to fit Sarah’s devotion to the orphanage into such a pattern was more than he’d been able to see. He’d paced, and considered, and in the end had consigned the problem to the future. To be dealt with later.
After Sarah had agreed to be his wife.
His impatience on that score was steadily escalating.
Pausing beside those who hailed him, while chatting and smiling with practiced ease, he raked the
throng, searching for her. She was there, somewhere among the guests; they’d been seated beside each other at dinner, but neither then nor earlier, when she’d arrived with her family and they’d met in the drawing room, had they had any chance for a private word.
Or a private anything else.
That kiss behind the stable, driven by frustration as it had been, had served only to further whet an appetite that hadn’t needed further whetting.
He heard her laugh. Without pausing to wonder how among the crowd of females encircling him he could so unhesitatingly identify a single laughing note, he changed course, and then saw her. She was standing to one side of the room smiling sweetly at a gentleman he didn’t know.
The sight gave him pause. Stepping free of the milling guests, he stood by the wall opposite and over the sea of heads studied the gentleman. He was relating some tale to which Sarah, to night gowned in blue silk the color of her eyes, was listening attentively, yet even from this distance Charlie could tell that she was being polite and welcoming, but nothing more.
When she looked at him…
He didn’t need to be jealous, thank heavens, but in other circumstances the gentleman would have rated as one to discourage. He was…it took a full minute before Charlie realized that he was viewing a gentleman remarkably like himself.
Tall, broad-shouldered, a touch heavier in the chest, but the man was a few years older, late thirties, Charlie guessed, to his own thirty-three, accounting for that. The man’s hair was a touch fairer, straight where Charlie’s was wavy, but with a similar gilded sheen.
His manner was likewise assured, yet he appeared more reserved, a touch aloof, tending not to cloak his arrogance, born of superiority; he seemed unable, or unwilling, to summon the glib and ready charm Charlie habitually employed.
“There you are!”
Charlie looked around as his eldest sister—half sister to be precise—resplendent in figured amber silk, glided up and slipped a hand through his arm.
Alathea smiled as, beside him, she faced the room. “I need to have a word with you.” Charlie stiffened.
“Don’t get on your high horse. I have some advice to impart that it would pay you to hear, but once you’ve heard it, whether you take it or not is up to you.”
Charlie inwardly sighed. Alathea was ten years older than he and in many ways more alarming than his mother. Serena was comfortable; Alathea rarely was. Yet he would never cease to be grateful for all she’d done for him in the past, an emotion she exploited with feminine ruthlessness whenever he proved difficult. “What is it?”
“As it appears you’ve finally decided to choose a wife, I thought a simple stating of the obvious wouldn’t go amiss, you being male and, of them all, peculiarly inclined to think you rule your world.”
Charlie suppressed his frown. Arguing would only prolong the lecture. “Indeed,” Alathea murmured, her gaze on his face.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her brows had risen haughtily, as if she’d read his thoughts.
She probably had. She was married to Gabriel, and he and Gabriel rarely differed—except on the subject she wished to discuss.
Girding his mental loins, he said nothing.
Eyes narrowing, Alathea again faced the crowd, and went on, “Regard less of the fashionable
norm, there have never in living memory been anything but love matches in our family—and no, I don’t mean the Cynsters, although the same is true for them.”
Charlie noticed that her gaze had fixed on her husband, Gabriel Cynster, who had moved to join Sarah and the unknown gentleman. It was patently clear Gabriel knew him.
“All the Morwellan males”—Alathea’s voice continued from beside him—“have for centuries married for love, and you would be well advised to think very carefully about the whys and wherefores of that before you plunge ahead and without due consideration break that tradition.”
A moment passed. Charlie, his attention fixed across the room, eventually realized Alathea expected some response. “Yes, all right.”
Even though his gaze was elsewhere, he felt her glare.
Ignoring it, he demanded, “Who’s that speaking with Gabriel?”
Alathea glared anew, then looked across the room, then back at Charlie. “Some gentleman investor Rupert invited—a Mr. Sinclair. Apparently he’s thinking of settling in the area.” Charlie didn’t take his eyes from the group—Gabriel, Sinclair, and Sarah. Especially Sarah as her smile brightened; ever since Gabriel had joined them, she’d relaxed. Charlie narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?”
Alathea looked across the room, then back at him. He didn’t meet her gaze; lifting her hand from his sleeve, he squeezed her fingers, then released them. “Excuse me.”
He cut a determined path through the crowd.
Alathea watched him go. Watched as he circled to come up beside Sarah, between her and Sinclair, effectively cutting Sarah off from the man. Alathea continued observing as Gabriel introduced Charlie, and he and Sinclair shook hands, as Charlie glanced at Sarah and offered his arm—she saw Sarah’s expression as she took it, saw Charlie’s expression ease as, Sarah’s hand on his arm, he turned to Sinclair.
Across the room, Alathea smiled. “Well, well, little brother. Perhaps you don’t need that warning after all.”
Satisfied, she returned to her duties as cohostess.
Charlie, meanwhile, was as intrigued as he sensed Gabriel was with their new neighbor. Gabriel’s introduction—“Mr. Malcolm Sinclair, a major investor heavily involved in the new railways”—had been enough to grab Charlie’s attention. It transpired that Sinclair had rented Finley House just outside Crowcombe and was considering relocating permanently to the district.
“I find it a particularly restful area,” Sinclair said. “Gently rolling hills, green valleys, and the sea not far away.”
“It’s very pretty in spring, when all the hedges and trees are covered in blossom,” Sarah said.
“I noticed the orphanage above Crowcombe—Quilley Farm, I believe it’s called.” Sinclair’s hazel eyes rested on Sarah’s face. “I understand you own the farm, Miss Conningham.”
“Yes,” Sarah replied. “It was left me by my late godmother. She had a great interest in such works.”
Sinclair smiled briefly, polite and distant, and let the subject drop. Now he was close, Charlie felt even more reassured; Sinclair seemed a cold fish, at least when it came to young ladies.
On investments, however…
He caught Sinclair’s eye. “I believe I saw you in Watchet. You were with Skilling, the land agent.” Sinclair’s thin lips curved. “Ah, yes—I was interested in that parcel of land, but I understand you’
ve been before me.”
Charlie grinned. He searched, but there was nothing in Sinclair’s eyes or expression to suggest any significant gnashing of teeth. Given Sinclair’s reputation as a major backer of some of the new railways, he would no doubt have shrugged and moved on to consider the next item on his investment agenda.
Naturally, Charlie wondered what that was. “How do you read the potential of the district in terms of investment?”
“As I’m sure you know,” Sinclair said, “there’s every likelihood that the trade through Watchet will substantially increase. I understand there’s talk of several new factories in Taunton, and…”
With a smile and a nod, Gabriel moved away. He could learn all he wanted to know from Charlie
later.
Charlie continued to discuss the future with Sinclair, in general terms as investors were wont to do,
not mentioning specific projects they themselves were considering; no sense tipping off the possible competition. The scope of the discussion rapidly expanded to include the country as a whole; Charlie was keen to learn more about the evolving railways—a subject on which Sinclair was both knowledgeable and willing to talk—but their discussion held no interest for Sarah. Her attention was wandering.
Despite his keenness to interrogate Sinclair, having Sarah so close left Charlie highly aware of her.
And of their courtship, the wooing he hadn’t yet managed to facilitate to any great degree.
If he was to gain anything out of the evening, then he had to act now.
He smiled easily at Sinclair. “I would dearly like to hear more about your experiences with the railways. It seems we’ll have ample opportunity to further our acquaintance. I’ll look out for you now that I know you’re in the area.”
Sinclair inclined his head. “Indeed, and I’ll be interested in hearing your views on the local economy in due course.” His gaze went past Charlie to Sarah; he bowed. “Miss Conningham.”
Sarah smiled and they parted from Sinclair.
Charlie turned her down the room. She glanced at him, curiosity in her eyes. “Are we going somewhere?”
“Yes.” He lowered his head and murmured, “I thought we should spend some time together in surroundings conducive to courtship.”
“Ah.” Facing forward, she nodded; her tone indicated she was entirely willing. He steered her to one of the drawing room’s secondary doors. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” The only place that would ensure privacy was the gazebo tucked away at the bottom of the garden, but it was late February and her shawl was too lightweight. He opted for the back parlor instead.
When he opened the parlor door, the room proved to be unlit and unoccupied. He stood back; Sarah walked confidently—even eagerly—into the room. Winter moonlight poured in through the uncurtained windows, crisp and silver-bright; it was easy to avoid the furniture.
Halting in the room’s center, Sarah heard the door shut softly behind her. “So—what should we talk about?”
She turned—and found herself in Charlie’s arms, found herself drawn to him as they closed around her. Without thought she lifted her face as he lowered his head—and their lips met.
Touched, brushed, then melded. Hers parted; he took advantage, took control, and swept her, unresisting it was true, into a passionate exchange.
An increasingly passionate encounter. Conversation was clearly not on his mind, not a feature of his immediate agenda.
Exploration of a different sort was. Communication on another plane.
And in that, she was as eager as he to know, to learn, to experience. To test, to tempt, to feel and savor the subtle complexities of the kiss. Of the intangible need as well as the tangible plea sure that swirled around them, through them, when they kissed. When she gave him her mouth and he took, claimed, then, deepening the exchange, settled to plunder.
If she wanted to know of him, of all that he offered her, then she needed to know of all this.
All this. Charlie held her in his arms and some primitive part of him gloated, delighted that this— she, her softness, her fresh innocence, her supple figure and alluring curves—would soon be his. All his. That—
High-pitched voices, gay bubbling laughter cut through his fascination. He lifted his head, blinked, then quickly released Sarah as the latch clicked and the door swung open.
Three children tumbled into the room. Charlie only just managed to smother a curse. He glanced at Sarah, through the moonwashed dimness saw her smile.
Although the children smiled in return—they all knew Sarah—it was he they had in their sights.
“Uncle Charlie!” the youngest, seven-year-old Henry, piped censoriously as his older brother Justin, a more circumspect twelve, shut the door. “You didn’t come to say hello, so we came to find you.”
Throwing himself at Charlie, Henry wound his arms about Charlie’s waist and gave him a ferocious hug.
Juliet, just ten, bounced on her knees on the sofa. “Actually, we saw you slip away from the drawing room and thought we’d come and talk to you.” She wrinkled her nose, glancing at Sarah as if sharing some discovery. “It’s so noisy in there it’s a wonder any of the older folk can hear themselves think!”
Sarah grinned, and exchanged a glance with Charlie. They were apparently not classed among “the older folk.”
Justin came up to clasp one of Charlie’s hands. “You brought your pair up from town, didn’t you?” Wide gray eyes fixed on Charlie’s face. “Jeremy said he thought you would. If you have, can I drive them?”
Charlie looked down at the upturned face—faces; Henry was also making huge puppy-dog eyes at him. “No.” He gave them a second to digest the unequivocal nature of that answer, then relented, “But if you’re good, I might—only might—take you up beside me for a drive.”
“Yes! Oh, yes!” The boys, each hanging on to one of Charlie’s hands, jumped up and down. “Me, too—me, too!” Juliet bounced even higher on the sofa.
“Right.” Charlie made a grab for the conversational reins. “Now—” “Where will we go?” Justin asked.
“To Watchet!” Henry cried.
“No—up to the falls,” Juliet said. “It’s prettier that way.”
“What about to Taunton?” Justin put in. “Then we can let them have their heads along the London
road.”
A spirited discussion ensued on the merits of the various suggestions; Charlie tried to curtail it, to
exert some authority, but the task was beyond him.
He glanced at Sarah. She’d sunk down on the arm of the sofa and was watching him and his three
persecutors; it was too dim for him to be able to read her eyes, but her expression said she was amused.
Her lips, soft rose in the moonlight, were certainly curved.
He stared at them, and felt an unprecedented rush of sheer lust streak through him.
Looking back at the children, he held up his hands. “Enough! I faithfully promise to come and take you for a drive behind the grays before I return to London, but it won’t be until at least next week, so you can decide where you want to go among yourselves between now and then.” He herded them toward the door; having gained their primary objective, they consented to leave.
Opening the door, Charlie waved them through. Justin and Henry left, still chattering about horses. Charlie was thanking his stars they were too young to wonder what he and Sarah had been doing in the parlor alone when Juliet swanned past—and caught his eye.
She smirked. Her eyes twinkled.
Charlie held his breath—but after that smug, distinctly female smile, she went out.
He exhaled and started to close the door—and heard the unmistakable sounds of departure drifting from the front hall.
Shutting the door, he stared at the panels. Thanks to his devilish niece and nephews, he and Sarah had run out of time.
He turned—and found her beside him.
Through the dimness she smiled, relaxed and assured. “We should return.”
He heard the words, but his attention had fastened on her lips. Beguiling, tempting; he had to taste them one last time.
Lifting his hands, he framed her face; he didn’t trust himself to take her into his arms, and then let her go after just one kiss. Tipping up her face, he looked into her eyes, wide soft pools of serenity.
He bent his head and tasted her—not just a kiss but a more explicit sampling, one that sank to his bones, that spun out, and on…
With a wrench, he drew back. Forced his hands from her face.
He waited until she met his gaze and drew in a shaky breath before he reached for the doorknob. “Yes. We have to get back.”
F rustration had sharpened its spurs.
It had pricked before; now it jabbed. Hard. Later that night, Charlie paced the unlighted library at Morwellan Park, a glass of brandy in his hand. Wondering how many more prior claims on Sarah’s time, more meetings in crowded social settings, more unanticipated interruptions he was going to have to endure.
In the lead-up to the London Season, before the departure of those intending to spend those entertainment-filled months in town, the local ladies hosted a range of events; he’d always viewed it as a form of practice, a testing ground for young ladies destined to make their mark on wider tonnish circles.
All well and good in its way, no doubt, but that meant that he and Sarah, despite neither being in need of such practice, would be included in invitations to countless dances, dinners, and parties, and expected to attend.
In town, he would consider balls and parties as opportunities to further his aim. Here, he knew such local events would prove nothing more than wasted time. The company was too small and the
houses too limited in their amenities to allow him and Sarah to slip away—not for more than the few inadequate minutes he’d managed to steal at Casleigh. Casleigh was the largest house in the district, and look how that had turned out.
Halting before the fireplace, he stared at the tiny flames licking over the dying embers.
He wanted Sarah’s agreement to their wedding. He wanted that agreement as soon as possible; the idea of dallying even for the period of courtship he’d agreed to didn’t appeal.
She was the one—he was beyond sure of that. So…he needed a plan. Some scheme to ensure she happily accepted his proposal—and why not within the week?
He sipped his brandy and stared at the flames while the notion took shape, and crystallized in his
brain.
Sarah would agree to marry him before next Tuesday night. Bringing that about was the challenge he faced.
He’d always relished challenges.
T ime and place were the first hurdles he needed to overcome.
“Perhaps…?” About to take his leave of Lady Conningham, and Sarah, Clary, and Gloria, with whom he’d spent the last half hour chatting about local concerns—a very proper visit on his part— Charlie paused and glanced at Sarah, then looked at her ladyship. “Would you allow Sarah to walk with me to the stables?”
Naturally Lady Conningham gave her consent. Smiling, he took Sarah’s hand. She joined him readily, a question—an eager one—in her eyes.
Holding the door for her, he glanced back, and inwardly winced. Clary and Gloria had “realized”; their eyes were round, the questions in them all but clamoring.
Closing the door on that pair of avid gazes, he told himself that Sarah’s sisters’ interest had been inevitable from the start. His only hope was that Lady Conningham was strong enough to keep them from following.
Sarah led him to the side door, then out onto the lawn. Ahead, the stable lay soaking up the afternoon sunshine.
Pacing beside her, he touched her arm. “Have you time for a longer walk?”
She smiled—delightedly; he’d just answered her question. “Yes, of course.” She glanced around. “Where should we go? Mama won’t be able to hold Clary and Gloria for long.”
“In that case, let’s get out of sight.” He gestured to the path that wended away from the house, eventually leading to the stream that burbled along a short distance behind the manor.
Sarah nodded. He offered his arm and she tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. They crossed the lawn to the path; passing down an avenue of rhododendrons, they were soon effectively screened from the house.
The path reached the stream and turned, following the rushing water. They continued on, leaving the house behind.
“I assume you’ll be attending Lady Cruikshank’s dinner to night?” Sarah glanced at him. “There’ll be quite a crowd.”
“Indeed.” Charlie looked ahead. If memory served, just beyond the next bend the stream flowed
into a weir. The path hugged the shore; halfway down the body of water…a summer house used to be there, of white-painted wood, nestled into the lee of the rising bank behind. He remembered it from childhood summers when his mother and Sarah’s had sat in its shade and watched their children play in the shallows or, as in his case, fish from the banks. “But yes, I’ll be there tonight.”
A stand of trees and a thicket of bushes blocked the view ahead. Passing the trees, they rounded the bend—and there stood the summerhouse.
Charlie smiled and steered Sarah toward it. “But as we’ve seen, getting any reasonable amount of time alone—time in suitable privacy so we can get to know each other better—is a tall order at this time of year.”
“Especially for you.” When he glanced at her, seeing his faint frown she smiled and looked ahead. “You’re the earl now. Even being heir to the earldom doesn’t equate with being the earl yourself—you can’t avoid any of the gatherings, not at present. Not while you remain unwed, and while the gentlemen aren’t yet sure what you might think about this topic or that.”
He grimaced. “True.” Although he’d been the earl for three years, he’d spent precious little time in the country; to many of the district’s landowners he was still something of an unknown quantity.
“That, however”—he looked ahead—“brings me to my point.”
The summer house steps were beside them. He turned her; side by side, they climbed up.
Looking around, he relaxed. The place was perfect. Wooden shutters closed off the rear archways, those facing the bank and the trees. The arches overlooking the weir remained open; in summer cooling breezes would lift off the water, but now, in winter with the weir full, slate gray beneath the massing clouds, the summer house was protected from the prevailing winds by the bank and the trees embracing it. The air beneath the ceiling was still and faintly warm, courtesy of the day’s sunshine.
Sarah drew her hand from his arm and walked to where a thickly cushioned wicker sofa sat between two similarly padded armchairs, all angled to best appreciate the view.
Most helpful of all to Charlie’s mind was the place’s seclusion. It was hidden from the house by the intervening gardens, and in this season it was highly unlikely anyone else would walk this way.
One glance around as he trailed after Sarah confirmed that the place was kept swept and dusted.
There were no dead leaves anywhere, no cobwebs strung between the rafters.
Sarah had stopped before the sofa, her back to it as she surveyed the view. He halted beside her, his gaze on her face. After a moment, she turned her head, searched his eyes, then raised a brow in question.
He reached for her, turned her into his arms, and she came. Readily, without uncertainty or hesitation. He looked down at her face for a moment, then bent his head and kissed her.
Long, deeply, as he wished. As the minutes stretched, he let his hunger reign, allowed himself to appease her curiosity to some small degree. Then, with an effort, he drew back, raised his head and murmured, “They’re going to be watching us, all the matrons, all the other young ladies—even the gentlemen. Like your sisters, they’ve guessed, and as we’ve made no announcement they’ll be avidly following every move we make.”
Sarah reluctantly accepted he wasn’t going to kiss her again, at least not yet. Opening her eyes, she looked into his, into the soft blue that so often screened his thoughts; he wasn’t an easy man to read.
“You asked for a period of courtship,” he said, “for us to get to know each other better, but our social surroundings are a real constraint.”
For an instant, she wondered if he was going to ask her to decide and give him her answer now, before their two weeks were up, but before she could panic at the prospect—she had no notion what her
answer should be—he went on, “We can accept those constraints—and a subsequently restricted courtship—or we can work around them.”
Her relief was real. “How do we work around them?” Even she heard the eagerness in her voice.
He smiled. “Simple. We meet here.” He gestured about them; his gaze lowered to her lips. “Each night, after what ever engagements we attend, we come here—to pursue our private, mutual agenda. We both want to, need to, get to know each other better, and we can only do that in the privacy this place, at night, will afford.”
His gaze rose to her eyes. “Will you do it? Will you meet me here tonight, and every night thereafter, until you know enough, have learned enough, to give me my answer?” She blinked, and he went on, “Will you meet me here to night after Lady Cruikshank’s dinner?”
“Yes.” To her mind there was no question; to clarify, she added, “To night after Lady Cruikshank’ s dinner, and every night thereafter, until I’m sure.”
His smile held an element of triumph; she noted it, but then his arms tightened, and he kissed her
again.
Another of his long, drugging, exciting and satisfying but curiously incomplete kisses; when he
broke it, she had to battle a wanton urge to grab him and haul him back—to somehow demand…she knew not what. The rest, but what was that?
That was one of the as-yet-undefinable things she needed to know.
He looked into her eyes, and seemed satisfied with what he saw. “We need to start for the stables, or your sisters will come searching.” Releasing her, he took one of her hands and raised it to his lips. “Until to night.”
Entirely content, she smiled back. “Until then.”
5
L ater that night, Charlie tied Storm at the edge of the manor’s gardens, then strode quickly down a narrow track that joined the path by the stream. Clouds scudded overhead; the moon was fitful, shining down one moment only to vanish in the next, dousing the path in unrelieved gloom.
Conscious of rising tension, of an edginess he ascribed to impatience to get their courtship moving in the right direction, he prayed Sarah wasn’t frightened of the dark, that she wouldn’t allow the inky shadows to deter her.
He reached the summer house, started up the steps—and saw her. She was waiting, once again before the sofa. She must have spotted him on the path; he detected no start on seeing him. Instead, as he neared, she smiled and held out her hands.
He took them, registering the softness of her skin and the delicateness of the bones between his fingers, then he lifted both her hands to his shoulders, released them, and reached for her. Sliding his hands about her waist, he gripped, and drew her to him. Not into his arms, but against him, simultaneously bending his head and covering her lips so that he tasted her surprise, that evocative leap of nerves, the first shock of sensual awakening as their bodies touched, breasts to chest, hips to thighs.
Sarah caught her breath, physically and mentally; she couldn’t catch her reeling, whirling wits, but she didn’t need to. Her will remained her own and she knew what she wanted. To know, to learn all she might from this.
From this and all subsequent engagements. From his kiss, that melding of their mouths that was no
longer remotely innocent, from his embrace, different tonight—his hands remained at her waist, yet she still felt his strength surrounding her, potent, male, dangerous, yet so tempting.
She slid her hands up over his shoulders, felt the heavy muscles under her palms and tensed her fingers, savoring the warm hardness, then reached further, sliding her hands up the strong column of his nape; spreading her fingers, she ran them through his hair.
Fascinated, she ruffled the heavy locks, thrilling to the silky texture and the way he reacted, the kiss, and him, heating at her boldness.
She knew what she wanted—she wanted more. Wanted him to show her more, to let her see what lay behind his newfound desire for her. So she kissed him back, more definite, more demanding in her own right, inviting…he hesitated for an instant, then accepted, plucked the reins from her grasp and took control.
He swept her into some hotter, more urgent existence.
He kissed her more deeply, more thoroughly, more evocatively, until heat swamped her, threatening to melt her bones, until her wits were no longer reeling, but flown. Until her skin was flushed, until her body felt simultaneously unbearably languid and indescribably tense.
Waiting, but she wasn’t sure for what.
Charlie reminded himself of her innocence, that she was all the word implied; she had no notion of what she hungered for, what she was inviting as her tongue boldly met his and stroked, caressed.
All her responses, enticing though they were, were instinctive, flavored with that distinctive fresh and heady taste he now associated with her. She was unlike any woman he’d encountered, something other than those on whom his experience was based; the difference logically had to be a symptom of the way she differed from all the rest—that singular quality was the taste of innocence.
He’d never expected to find innocence so addictive. So arousing.
So powerfully alluring that he had to battle, actually had to exert his will against his own inclinations, against a welling, remarkably strong desire to sweep her up in his arms, lay her on the sofa, and…
But that wasn’t his purpose, not to night. To night, and over those to come, he was, he inwardly reiterated, committed to playing a long game. Tactics, strategy, and how to influence a negotiation. She had something he wanted; to night he was sweetening his price.
So he held her against him, his hands at her waist, too wise to tempt his baser self by taking her into his arms; it was not part of to night’s agenda to crush her to him…not yet. Not until she was ready, not until she yearned for that contact with a hunger even greater than his own.
He continued to kiss her evocatively, commandingly, letting passion rise, writhe and beckon—until she clung to his shoulders, the fingers of one hand sunk in his hair, until her body was heated, pliant, and wanting.
He drew back; he had to fight to do it but he held to his purpose and freed her lips. Felt her breath wash over his and had to battle the urge to sink back into the delectable cavern of her mouth and take.
Taste. More.
He inwardly swore. He would, soon, but not to night. To night… Muscles bunching, he raised his head and eased her back. “Enough.”
He wasn’t sure whom he was addressing the command to—her, or himself. He waited until she lifted her lids, until the dazed haze faded from her eyes and she blinked, and refocused. On his face. She quickly scanned it as if trying to read his direction. He would have smiled, reassuring and calm, but his features felt graven.
“It’s late.” He forced his hands from her waist, reluctantly relinquishing the feel of her body supple and lithe between his palms. “Come. I’ll walk you back to the house.”
S arah found the next day trying, and the evening was even worse, complicated by being able to see Charlie, being able to sense his impatience for their next meeting in the summer house, which in turn fed her own.
The evening dragged while her father played host to the other local landowners, using a dinner to consult over matters pertaining to the local hunt. By the time the gentlemen eventually rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, her frustration had reached new heights; as their neighbors milled and chatted, keeping a sweet smile on her face and polite and appropriate comments on her lips was a distracting irritation.
At last they all left, Charlie included. Surrounded as they parted in the front hall, she had no chance to learn whether he intended to drive home and then ride back, or whether instead he would drive the grays out of the gates and around to the weir through the fields. As she climbed the stairs behind her mother, she weighed distances and times against the likelihood of him leaving his precious pair in a field, and couldn’t be certain; she remained unsure at what hour to expect him, at what hour he would reach the summer house.
Yet she was absolutely sure he would come. Sometime that night he would return, and she would be able to learn, if not all, then at least more.
Reaching her bedchamber, she sent her sleepy maid, Gwen, to bed, and regretfully changed out of her pretty silk evening gown and donned an old plain walking dress instead. If by some chance she was discovered wandering the gardens in the dead of night, she could say she’d been unable to sleep and had taken a short walk.
Selecting a woolen shawl that at least matched the gown, she blew out her candle and sat down before the dying fire to wait until her parents went to bed and the house quieted.
Half an hour later, she rose and slipped out. She crept down the side stairs and eased open the side door; exercising caution, she walked slowly, drifting from shadow to shadow across the lawn.
Once she gained the path and was out of sight of the house, she picked up her pace; drawing the shawl firmly about her shoulders, she allowed her mind to focus on what lay ahead.
Literally, and figuratively.
After last night…she’d returned to her room, her bed, and unexpectedly fallen into a sound sleep. But she’d had all day to mull over Charlie’s actions, his direction; it seemed clear enough that he intended to tempt her into marriage with desire. With the promise of passion, and all that would mean.
Why else had he stopped? Why else had he drawn such a definite line at such a relatively early— and unrevealing—point? She’d sensed his control, the steely will he’d ruthlessly wielded in order to stop when he had; he hadn’t stopped because he’d truly wanted to, but because it was part of his plan.
His plan wasn’t, quite, what she wanted, but his direction suited her well enough.
She wasn’t so innocent that she didn’t appreciate that he could well make her so desperate to experience the ultimate plea sure that she would set aside all reservations and agree to marry him regardless of whether he loved her or not. In falling in with his scheme, she was taking a risk, yet against that stood the reality that in order to learn what she needed to know, his plan—essentially to seduce her into marriage—held out the best prospect of her gaining what she wanted, of revealing to her why he was so set on marrying her. Specifically her.
She’d asked, but he hadn’t truly answered; he’d given her all the conventional reasons, but such reasons weren’t enough for her, and, more importantly, she was quite sure they weren’t—wouldn’t have been—enough for him, enough to move him to offer for her.
He could have had his pick of every eligible, or even not-so-eligible, young lady in the ton, but he’ d chosen her. And despite her ambivalence, her insistence on being wooed—her refusal to meekly fall in with his initial plan—he was still, indeed it seemed he was now even more, determined to marry her.
Which either augered well or was simply a demonstration of his ruthless habit of insisting on having his own way.
She rounded the bend in the path, and the summer house came into view. Whichever of those two options was correct, by following his script she would learn the truth. The truth of why he wanted her.
He was waiting; she saw his tall figure shift in the shadows, pushing away from the archway against which he’d been leaning. Lungs tightening, she lifted her skirts and climbed the steps.
Again they met before the sofa. He held out a hand as she neared; she gave him her hand, conscious of his strength as he grasped it.
Smoothly, he drew her closer; lifting her hand, he brushed his lips lightly, lingeringly, over the sensitive backs of her fingers, then, holding her gaze, he turned her hand and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist.
Her pulse leapt.
They had no need for words; they both knew why they were there.
His lips, hot, trailed along the bare inner face of her forearm, sending sensation streaking through her, a prelude, a sensual warning as he raised her hand higher, releasing it to fall on his shoulder as he drew her to him.
Fully against him, as he had the previous night, but this time his arm went around her, a steely band that held her trapped, that caged her as he bent his head. Eagerly she lifted her face and met his lips with hers.
She inwardly smiled, savoring the firm pressure of his lips, then she yielded to his explicit demand and gave him her mouth. And let her wits slide away as sensation bloomed, as she sensed hunger flare, in herself and in him.
They’d waltzed only once, and that months ago; this was a waltz of a different sort, where their senses revolved in time to a beat orchestrated by sensation. By the heavy stroke of his tongue against hers, by the whirling, fractured pricking of her nerves, by the escalating tempo of her heart.
By the tensing of his fingers on her back as he tightened his grip on his control.
Engrossed, enthralled, she savored the sensual slide into the familiar passion of the kiss, and willingly followed his lead.
She was aware, yet not—acutely aware of him, his lips, his hands, his body, and the flagrant promise carried in his embrace, yet she’d grown strangely insensitive to the world around them, the shadows beyond his arms, the soft sounds of the night beyond the summerhouse, the distant babble of water over the lip of the weir.
Here, now, with him; her world had shrunk, senses intently, intensely focused. On the next stage in his plan.
She quivered, prey to building anticipation, to the shivery thrill of expectation. To the steady rise of a wanting she was coming to think must be desire.
Sunk in the warm pleasures of her mouth, Charlie tracked her responses. He knew to a nicety, to a single shaky breath, just when to ease back enough to slide one hand beneath her shawl. Setting his
palm to her waist, he swept upward, lightly tracing her side, then the outer curve of her breast.
The shiver she’d been suppressing became a reality, a response that incited, that invited him to touch, to caress, so he did. At first gently tracing the swelling curves, then subtly stroking so that she heated and yearned; only then did he shape her flesh, curve his hand about the firm mound and gently squeeze, then more evocatively knead.
Her mouth surrendered, her hands once more gripping his skull, her fingers twining in his hair, she arched against his supporting arm, gratifyingly pressing her breast more fully into his hand, offering and inviting—even demanding—his further attentions. The movement set her hips riding more definitely against his thighs.
The latter caught him unawares, set fires where he didn’t yet need them burning. For a moment, he teetered, then plunged back into the kiss, distracting his awakening demons long enough to catch his sensual breath.
Since when could a mere innocent override his will, tried and tested as it was, forged in the steamy, highly sensual world of the upper echelons of the haut ton? His rational mind scoffed, confident and assured. Reassured, he eased his focus once more from the delights of her luscious mouth; taking a firmer, more determined grip on his reins, he returned to the execution of his plan.
Responding to her clear invitation, he let his fingers find, circle, then gently tweak her nipples.
Already furled, they tightened even more; he played, and made her gasp. Made her catch her breath and cling, not just physically but mentally, caught on that sensual hook between need and gratification.
But that wasn’t yet enough. His rational mind once again intruded, reminding him that she hadn’t proved to be as malleable as he’d expected; if he wished to succeed, then showing her more, introducing her to more passionate, and more addictive, delights, was only sensible.
As he was going to win—to win her hand and marry her—there was no reason, social or moral, that prohibited him from showing her a great deal more.
Thus went his rationalization, but even while his mind trod those paths, he was conscious, more conscious, of a primitive compulsion to touch her—not for her benefit but for his.
Not for the delight of her increasingly clamorous senses, but for his own.
As his fingers found the buttons closing her bodice, there was no thought in his mind beyond the need to touch her. Beyond satisfying that—his need, not hers.
He distracted her by engaging her in a more heated exchange, a brief duel of tongues to keep her wits whirling. The gown was old, well-worn; the buttons slid easily from their tiny toggles.
And then her bodice gaped; he pressed one side wide, and slid his hand beneath.
Through the heat of the kiss, she gasped, but then he set his palm to the fine silk of her chemise, sliding over even finer, much hotter silken skin, and she froze. Trembled. Tensed as he caressed, as yet undemanding but insistent, then he searched with his fingertips, found the ribbon he sought, and tugged.
The ribbon unraveled.
With a practiced flick, he hooked the chemise over her tightly furled nipple, and then her breast was in his palm.
Skin to hot skin. Sweet sensation and fire. Both flooded him, and her.
He closed his hand, hungry, greedy, needing; expertise gentled his touch, kept the caress just this side of possessive, but that was sheer instinct.
His wits had suspended, submerged beneath a ravenous passion.
A passion that roared as the fire flared and spread through her—from his increasingly driven touch, through their kiss—and she melted.
She sank against him in wanton abandon, with flagrant promise and in blatant invitation.
As he wished, she wanted. Every instinctive response she made screamed that to his witless, wholly mesmerized brain.
Heavy and swollen, her breast burned his palm, the furled nipple a hot bead, one his mouth watered to taste.
He felt giddy, drunk on sensation. She was hot and so malleable within his arms, pliant, nubile, supple, and seductive. It was as if he embraced a steadily burning flame, a sensual being of heat and glory, an elemental creature lured forth by passion.
Steeped in it.
He drank her fire, supped it from her lips as she eagerly offered it. Plunged deeper into the beckoning flames, felt them lick over him as she arched against him, felt them spreading, urgent and compelling, beneath his skin, setting his own fires raging.
His arm at her back was tensing to sweep her up so he could lay her on the sofa behind him when his rational mind clawed back to the surface and stopped him.
Not cold. He still burned, ached, wanted; something within him raged at the suddenly jerked leash, but…this wasn’t his plan.
He’d been derailed; like one of the new locomotives he’d rocketed off his intended track. As with a runaway locomotive, it took immense effort to pull back and regroup.
Enough to understand that if he wanted to rescue his plan, he had to end this now.
Now, before her passion again overwhelmed his will.
He had to steel himself, force himself to draw his hand from her breast. He couldn’t hide his reluctance, even though he tried to conceal it behind his customary control, as if drawing back was what he wanted to do.
Abruptly pulled from the fiery depths they’d been exploring—she’d thought in perfect harmony— Sarah mentally blinked, but as his hand left her breast, as the arm around her eased, she realized that he wasn’t intending to allow them to indulge in the rest of the symphony.
The analogy was apt; she felt the disappointment, the same unhappy wrench, from having something temptingly pleasant dangled before her, and then removed from her reach.
Even as he—albeit with obvious reluctance—lifted his head and broke the kiss, even as she moistened her lips, lifted her heavy lids and looked into his shadowed face, she was conscious of uncharacteristic anger stirring within her.
She studied his face; he was looking down as he did up the buttons he’d undone. She made no move to help him, but examined the angular planes of cheek and brow, the strong line of his jaw.
Every facet seemed harder, more sharply delineated. His breathing, while not as rushed as hers, was nevertheless no longer slow and even.
She hadn’t imagined it. He’d been as affected as she, as drawn into the heated plea sure, but…of course he’d drawn back.
That was his plan. She resisted the urge to narrow her eyes at him, bit her tongue against an impulse to tell him she knew what he was trying to do. Calmed herself as he released the last button and, slowly, let his hands fall, reassured herself that, in letting him pursue his plan, she’d furthered her own.
Something had risen between him and her that had, at least temporarily, shaken his control. The
knowledge allowed her to smile, smugly if a trifle dazedly, when his eyes rose and met hers.
“That was—” To her surprise her voice had lowered. She’d grown used to his doing so, but never before had she heard her own voice take on such a tone. She cleared her throat, lifted her chin. “I was going to say that was pleasant, but that’s such an inadequate description perhaps I’d do better to say nothing at all.”
He grinned, almost boyishly, and suddenly the air felt lighter. He glanced beyond her, toward the weir. Turning, she felt the night breeze as she’d never before felt it, sliding cooling fingers over her heated skin.
The sensation was evocative; she shivered more from remembered plea sure than from any chill. “Come.” He spoke from behind her. “I’ll see you into the house.”
He lifted her shawl from her elbows to her shoulders; with a nod, she tightened it about her, then gave him her hand.
He closed his about it, engulfing her fingers. Without a word, they walked back to the house.
O nce again to her surprise, Sarah slept like one dead.
She woke late, and then had to rush. What with preparing to attend Lady Farthingale’s luncheon and then traveling to Gilmore, her ladyship’s house, she had no time to ponder what she’d learned the previous night before she laid eyes on Charlie across her ladyship’s drawing room.
She walked in and there he was, chatting with Mrs. Considine beside the fireplace. She hadn’t imagined he would be there, not at such a function; she had to battle not to stare.
The fact that all the other matrons and their daughters were staring avidly at her helped; clearly everyone knew of their courtship, unannounced though it was.
Facing the fireplace, Charlie sensed the expectant hiatus and turned. Their gazes met; both of them stilled, then, his lips curving in just the right degree of welcome, he held out his hand.
Leaving her mother and sisters to join what group they chose, she went to him, and prayed the sudden leaping of her senses didn’t show.
Charlie took her hand and bowed, entirely nonchalantly; the touch of his fingers on hers made her pulse thud, her nerves skitter. He sensed it, or perhaps he felt the same shooting awareness. He met her gaze briefly as he straightened, then set her hand on his sleeve and turned back to his companion. “Mrs. Considine was telling me of the new breed of sheep her son has been trialing.”
Despite the district being all but overrun with the beasts, Sarah knew little of them—the breeds, the herding, the pasturing, the shearing. She did, however, know a considerable amount about spinning and weaving.
Aware of that, Mrs. Considine fixed her with an inquiring look. “The new breed gives a much different fleece, dear. The wool is finer than the usual—if it were you, which of the mills would you send it to?”
Sarah considered, conscious of Charlie’s interest—both as to why she’d been asked, and what her answer would be. “If the fleeces are thicker, which I assume they must be, I’d take it to Corrigan’s in Wellington. They’re a smaller concern, but they’re better equipped to work on something that might need extra care. Most others would just put it through their regular process rather than developing the wool to its best.”
“Corrigan’s, heh?” Mrs. Considine nodded. “I’ll tell Jeffrey—he’ll be pleased I had the forethought to ask.”
After recommending that Charlie try the new breed, Mrs. Considine moved away. Shifting to face him, Sarah met his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
His expression turned grim, but the effect was limited to his eyes, which only she could see, rather than his features, which far too many of the surrounding ladies were monitoring closely. “I didn’t realize it was this sort of gathering.” He cast a glance around; only she was near enough to detect what seemed very like desperation. “I assumed there would be at least some gentlemen present.”
He meant gentlemen like him; she refrained from pointing out that other than him, there were few in the immediate locality. “There are seven other males present, and all of them are gentlemen.”
“Two ancient codgers and five still-wet-behind-the-ears whelps,” he growled. “I feel like a carnival freak.”
She smothered a chuckle. “Well, why did you come?”
He looked at her, met and held her gaze—and said nothing at all. But she felt his answer, could read the exasperated frustration in his eyes. Her breath caught. For an instant she wondered if he would
—
Instead, he said, low, just for her, “You know why I came. I thought…” He grimaced. “Clearly I miscalculated.”
She understood all too well. She felt the same, the same rush of eagerness to touch, better yet to kiss, to sink together…she still felt breathless. “Regardless, now you’re here, you can’t cut and run. You’ ll have to make the best of it.”
“Precisely my conclusion.” Retaking her hand, he set it on his sleeve, shifting to stand beside her, his gaze again passing over the interested onlookers. “Aside from all else, there’s clearly no reason for us to pretend to polite indifference.”
“That seems to be the case.”
“So how is it that you know so much about wool processing?” He started slowly strolling down the room, she assumed to forestall any who might think to join them.
“I mentioned that when the children at the orphanage turn fourteen, we find them employment in the nearest towns. We take a close interest in the businesses to which we send our boys and girls, so we know the sort of work the children will be doing. That means learning about the business processes in some detail.” She glanced at him. “I know a great deal about the workings of the mills and factories in Taunton and Wellington.”
He digested that. “Do you know much about the ware houses and wharves in Watchet?” “Not to the same extent. Mr. Skeggs takes care of those.”
“I must remember to call on Skeggs.” He caught her eye. “Or perhaps I could catch him sometime at the orphanage.”
She grinned. “After that game of bat and ball, you’ll always be welcome.” He smiled and looked ahead.
Despite the attention focused on them, he stuck by her side, chatting to those of the matrons it was impossible to avoid, then when luncheon was announced, holding her plate while she helped herself to salmon, then following at her heels along the board, sampling most of the dishes but with an idle, abstracted air.
They sat at a small table to eat. Clary and Gloria joined them; Sarah watched in some amusement
as Charlie, resigned, responded to their sallies with a pointed patience that eventually had the desired effect. Her sisters retreated to look for jellies, and were distracted by friends on the way back.
Most of the company were likewise distracted. There were still eyes turned their way, but not the relentless covert observation that had initially been focused on them. For the first time, Sarah felt able to draw a free breath.
Unbidden, her gaze slid to Charlie; seated beside her, he was looking down unseeing at his empty plate, his mind elsewhere.
His attention focused, abruptly, on her. He didn’t move, didn’t shift so much as a finger, but a stillness came over him, and she knew.
Then he lifted his head, and his eyes met hers. There was heat in the blue, and a lure, something that beckoned, to which she instantly responded.
Her body warmed, came alive; her skin tightened, her nerves grew taut. Her nipples peaked, contracted.
She caught her breath, wrenched her gaze from his and looked away. Told herself this was madness. Swallowed, and still felt giddy.
Just that one look, and she could remember the feel of his lips on hers, of his hand on her breast.
And he was remembering it, too.
Her lips throbbed.
He was there, near, and her treacherous senses remembered all too well, and wanted more. Now.
That their surroundings were completely inappropriate didn’t seem to matter in the least.
Unable to help herself, she glanced at him. He was looking at the table again, but once again not seeing. Again he felt her gaze, glanced at her, then abruptly rose, his chair scraping on the floor.
He held out a hand. “Come.” With his head, he indicated the others all rising and making for the door. “It appears we’re to be subjected to some music.”
His tone made it clear he expected it to be torture; in all honesty, she couldn’t reassure him. Giving him her hand, she got to her feet.
His grip, the way he moved his chair out of her way—all screamed of harnessed frustration. Of a tension not just equal to hers but greater.
While she didn’t know, not in a practical sense, what lay ahead in his plan, he did. That was presumably what was feeding his mood, lending it such a sharp edge.
He led her to join the others as they filed out of the dining room and headed for the music room, keeping to the rear of the crowd.
Her nerves were still fluttering, flickering, wanting; she drew in a breath and firmly suppressed her distracting thoughts. Considered him, here and now, instead, and drew some small satisfaction that he was as affected as she.
All the others had entered the music room; for one moment they were alone in the corridor. He bent his head and murmured by her ear, “To night. Will you be there?”
She met his eyes. Very nearly said “Of course” in a surprised tone that would have made him think twice. Made him suspect.
Searching his eyes, she confirmed that he had no inkling that she knew what he was about, that she understood his plan. She opened her mouth, tempted to set him straight; instead, she merely said, “Yes. All right.”
As if she’d needed to be asked. To be reminded.
He nodded and escorted her into the room. He found two chairs by the wall. Settling beside him, she reflected that there was a significant difference between being innocent and being naive, one he— never truly innocent, let alone naive—transparently didn’t appreciate.
She might be innocent, but she wasn’t naive.
He would learn soon enough. Night by night, as they met in the summer house, pursuing his plan— and hers.
S he was waiting for him in the summer house that night. She reached for him as he reached for her. She framed his face as their lips met and they sank immediately into a heated kiss, as their bodies met, and pressed close, wanting, knowing, knowing enough to want more.
Heat flared, passion followed. In seconds they were caught in an untempered exchange, in a tempestuous, compulsive expression of their need.
For each other; that was the wonder of it, the point that reached her through their mutual urgency, sliding through her mind even as her wits sank beneath the surging sensations. It was a point that fascinated.
That lured and enthralled.
He wanted her, and not for a heartbeat did he—or could he—deny that. He couldn’t hide it, not even from her, innocent though she was.
It was there, investing the hard lips that ravaged hers, investing every heavy, evocative stroke of his tongue. There in the unmuted hardness of his chest, in the strength in the arms that crushed her to him.
There in the hand that swiftly, expertly undid the buttons of her bodice.
She’d worn the same old gown; in less than a minute, the bodice gaped open. She steeled herself to feel his hand close about her breast.
Instead, he stooped, swept her off her feet, up into his arms, then he swung around and sat on the sofa with her on his lap.
His hand slid beneath her bodice and closed about her breast; his lips covered hers and drank her
gasp.
He held her cradled as he pandered to her senses, as he made them spin, made her arch and invite
and delight in his skillful play.
But that wasn’t enough. She wanted more.
She had to experience more to learn what was driving him.
Reaching up, she twined her arms about his neck, and kissed him back. And wantonly, with full intent, with lips and tongue and her restless body, issued a clear invitation.
She didn’t expect him to refuse, and he didn’t. But she hadn’t foreseen what he would do. She’d had no real idea, so was only mildly surprised when he released her breast, raised his hand to her shoulder and pushed aside her gown.
Until her breast was bare, exposed to the night air, to his hot palm and hard fingers, to his too-knowing caresses.
She savored each one. Eyes closed, she let her head fall back, arching as his fingers closed, tweaked. His lips traced her jaw, then slid down the long curve of her throat to the hollow at its base, to place a hot, openmouthed kiss over the spot where her pulse thundered.
Catching her breath was hard, near impossible—and became even more difficult as his lips cruised her skin, trailing over the upper swell of her bared breast, then dipping.
His hot breath bathed her nipple, then his lips touched—a delicate kiss that sent a jolt down her
spine.
The caress came again, barely there, and she gasped. Arched.
He opened his hot mouth and took her nipple within.
She cried out as sensation—burning and wet—streaked through her, smothered another cry as he
gently suckled. Heart galloping, she struggled to find some purchase in her whirling mind, to understand, to see—but for the moment she was blind.
Blinded by passion, by plea sure and delight.
He knew what he was doing; he sent all three racing through her, wreathing and beckoning and luring her to be even more wanton than before. Even more blatant.
Of their own volition, her hands had risen to grasp his head; her fingers tangling in his hair, she gripped, and flagrantly held him to her, arching beneath him, inviting more.
She heard—or was it felt?—an amused chuckle. She would have taken exception, but the sound was strained; he seemed every bit as driven as she felt, every bit as urgently breathless.
Then he complied with her request.
For long moments she knew nothing beyond piercingly sweet sensation. Minutes passed as she savored the plea sure he lavished on her—and it was such a giving. He delighted in her plea sure; she sensed that through his touch, through the kisses he paused to share with her in between his worship of her breasts, his carefully orchestrated educating of her senses.
Of her desires.
Knowing what he was doing, what he intended, gave her the strength to observe, to see more than perhaps he intended to reveal.
Gazing at his face, limned by the faint moonlight, she felt the knowing touch of his fingers, felt the sharper bite of the desire they called forth, but she also saw the hunger etched in his drawn features, sensed the quiver in his control as he looked down at his hand gliding over her bare flesh.
Reaching up, she drew his head down to hers, drew his lips to hers, and embraced him.
Welcomed him, embraced the desire, and that other, too—his hunger, his passion—welcomed both, and drew them to her. Urged them nearer.
He kissed her, and she thought he shuddered, quaked, as if holding back his need, screening it, was causing him pain.
Another need welled and washed through her, surprising her with its intensity.
She held him to the kiss, tempting and luring and challenging, playing in the ways she’d learned most captivated him; drawing a hand from his nape, she slid it beneath his coat, found his waistcoat in the way, and quickly unbuttoned it.
Pressing the velvet aside, she laid her hand on his chest, felt the warm hardness of the muscles beneath the fine linen, then she laid her hand over his heart, and savored the heavy, thudding beat.
A beat that reached some primal part of her. It emboldened her, turned her brazen enough to slide her hand down, palm flat, between them, over his ridged abdomen, over his taut waist and belly, to caress the iron-hard ridge of his erection.
He stilled. With a predator’s stillness that abruptly reminded her she held something capable of
violence in her arms.
But then he broke the kiss and with a muttered oath reached down, manacled her errant wrist in a steely vise and drew her hand away.
Raising it to his shoulder, he turned back to her, clearly intending to resume the kiss. She pressed back, forestalling that. “Why can’t I—”
“Not yet.” His jaw was set. “But I—”
He kissed her, hard, ruthless, determined.
She met him, just as determined, let him sweep her senses away—for a minute—then exercised her will and drew back.
Enough to make him reluctantly break the kiss.
She met his eyes from a distance of mere inches. Then she let her gaze lower to his mouth, and sent the tip of her tongue skating over her swollen lower lip. “Perhaps,” she breathed, then looked into his eyes, “we’ve gone far enough to night?”
He stared into her eyes; a moment ticked past, then he blinked, and glanced down at her breasts, bare, swollen, flushed, and peaked.
The effort it cost him to draw back and accede to her suggestion was palpable, but…easing back, he nodded. “Yes. You’re right. Enough for to night.”
His diction was clipped and taut.
He helped her straighten her clothes and she let him, studying him, marveling at the tightness of his face, the inflexible control he imposed on his desire. Regardless, his reluctance—the fact that a very large part of him hadn’t wanted to call a halt even if that meant letting her caress him—invested every movement.
He didn’t speak as he walked her back to the house, traversing the night-shrouded gardens, but she walked beside him content enough.
He wanted her to caress him, but didn’t want to risk it. Why?
That, she felt, as they parted at the side door and she watched him stride away, was a very interesting question.
6
T he next day was Saturday. Midmorning found Charlie cantering south along the road to Taunton, guiding Storm in the wake of Sarah’s chestnut and inwardly cursing. How had he allowed himself to be roped into this?
This was an excursion to visit a traveling fair that was currently encamped outside Taunton. At Lady Finsbury’s party he’d been invited to join the group of young ladies and gentlemen who had decided the fair provided the perfect opportunity for some innocent fun. He’d accepted, at that time viewing the jaunt in the light of a useful, entirely aboveboard—entirely innocent—opportunity to get to know his wife-to-be better.
That had been then. This was now.
Innocent outings, especially with Sarah, especially after last night, no longer featured on his agenda; he no longer viewed such encounters with equanimity, much less comfort.
After last night, having her close, even within sight, was enough to raise prospects his body yearned for regardless of the repressive instructions from his brain. Riding when half aroused had never been his idea of fun.
Yet here he was, in discomfort if not pain, condemned to spending the entire day by Sarah’s side
—in public. Worse, under the interested gazes of six others, three of them young ladies who were avidly curious over the purported link between himself and Sarah. He would have to endure, to literally grit his teeth and bear it, but he certainly wasn’t happy about it, much less looking forward to the hours he would have to stand and walk beside her, watching over her while chatting and being sociable with the others.
He couldn’t imagine any activity more inimical to his mood.
After last night…on one level all he wished was to get Sarah in suitable surroundings alone and take her a great deal further down their sensual road, sweep her deeper into desire until she surrendered and agreed to marry him forthwith. However, on another, less physical, more intellectual plane he was, if not uneasy, then certainly of the opinion that caution would be wise.
She’d surprised him. With one innocently sultry caress, she’d very nearly cindered his control. That wasn’t something she should have been able to do, much less so easily. Consequently he kept reiterating to himself that in all future engagements, he would need to keep a firm hold on the reins.
An unbreakable hold on his reins.
Losing control in any sphere wasn’t something he was comfortable even contemplating, much less doing. Not being in control, as he well knew, was, for a Morwellan, the road to ruination.
The roofs of Taunton appeared in the distance, materializing out of a wreathing mist of fog and woodsmoke that the light breeze and the weak sunshine were between them endeavoring to disperse. Charlie surveyed the sight, then considered the riders ahead of him. The four ladies were cantering two abreast; immediately ahead of him Sarah rode beside Betsy Kennedy, with Lizzie Mortimer and Margaret Cruikshank in the lead. Sarah was wearing her pale green velvet riding habit. For the occasion, she’d perched a small hat with a curling feather atop her shining hair.
The ladies, of course, were chatting, their light voices trailing over their escorts, following in similar pattern, two abreast. After exchanging greetings when they’d assembled at Crowcombe, other than a few desultory remarks, the gentlemen had held their tongues and simply enjoyed the ride and the views, both pastoral and feminine.
Behind Charlie rode Jeremy, his brother, another observer Charlie could have done without. They all slowed to a trot as the first houses neared. When they reached the cobbles of Bridge
Street, they reined in to a walk. The thoroughfare was crowded. Not only was the fair in town, but it was
market day, too. Luckily, they didn’t need to go through the town to reach the fair.
They left their horses at the Taunton Arms, a large posting inn just over the bridge, then strolled back across the river and down the gentle slope to the bright tents and caravans spread over a fallow field bordering the river Tone.
On the opposite bank, the high stone walls of the Norman castle rose, severe and brooding; against that silent backdrop, the richly colored flags and noisy gaiety of the fair stood in bright relief.
It was close to noon when they paid their pennies and entered the fairground beneath an arch resplendent with gaudy pennants and ribbons; the place was already crowded, the lanes between the booths and caravans bustling with people and children of every degree and station.
They halted just inside the gate to take stock. Jeremy, standing beside Charlie, glanced around, then said, “There’s no way we’ll manage to stay together. Let’s meet back here at three o’clock. We’ll
have to start for home then if we don’t want to be riding through the dark.”
Everyone murmured their agreement; the clock in the tower of the nearby church could be seen from most of the fairground. Then the four ladies, eyes bright, determinedly set off for the first of the alleys lined with booths selling every conceivable trinket. Perforce, the gentlemen followed. This was not the sort of gathering in which their female folk could safely wander unescorted; there were a number of unsavory characters amid the crowds, and while the atmosphere was gay and said crowds were presently laughing and joking, one never knew what might occur.
Initially, the four ladies stayed together, moving from booth to booth, admiring ribbons and lace, calling to one another to point out items and compare opinions. But then Margaret Cruikshank dallied by a magic stall. Also mildly interested, Jeremy remained with her as the others moved on. Margaret and Jeremy were the youngest of the group, much the same age, and had been friends all their lives; Charlie knew he could rely on his younger brother to keep an eye on Margaret.
As the oldest of the group, he felt a certain responsibility toward the others, but that didn’t mean he wished to spend the next three hours in their company. With Margaret and Jeremy occupied, that left Lizzie Mortimer and Betsy Kennedy, along with Jon Finsbury and Henry Kilpatrick, to deflect.
At the end of the first alleyway they came upon a bright purple and gold tent with a sign announcing the Great Madame Garnaut, fortune-teller extraordinaire. Lizzie and Betsy were keen, Sarah less so, but she allowed herself to be persuaded. The three ladies lined up and paid their sixpence, then waited to be summoned into Madame’s presence.
Charlie had escorted females enough to fairs and similar diversions; with barely a sigh, he took a position by the side of another tent from where he could keep the entrance of Madame’s garish abode in view. Younger than he, Jon and Henry grumbled, but nevertheless joined him, debating whether they would manage to find time to view the pugilistic displays being held in roped arenas on the other side of the field.
Charlie listened to their chatter; they politely included him, although he contributed little. They were five or six years his junior, and consequently viewed him with a certain awe; while Charlie found that mildly amusing, it created a certain distance between them. He turned his mind to detaching himself and Sarah from the other four.
Fate smiled, and first Betsy, then Lizzie, both rather flustered and sporting blushes, came out of Madame’s tent. Sarah was the last of the three to duck beneath the richly colored flap. As it fell behind her, Lizzie and Betsy exchanged hushed confidences, then they bustled across to join their escorts.
Jon straightened and took his hands from his pockets. “So what did she say?” He directed the question impartially to both girls.
Lizzie and Betsy exchanged a glance, then Lizzie tapped Jon’s arm. “Never you mind. That’s for us to know and you to wonder about.”
The girls looked along the next alley; they jigged, impatient to get on. They glanced back at Madame’s tent; Sarah’s consulation was taking longer than theirs had.
Charlie inwardly smiled. Outwardly, he grimaced. “Why don’t you go on? I’ll wait for Sarah.”
The four looked at each other, wordlessly conferring, then brightly thanked him and bustled on to the next attraction—a line of booths selling ribbons and handkerchiefs.
Charlie watched them go, then smiled and settled to wait.
I nside the deep purple tent, Sarah sat staring into a large green glass globe. Her hands were cradling
it, one palm pressed to each side as instructed. Madame had already pored over her palms, both of them, then frowned, shaken her head, and in a heavy accent informed her, “Is complicated.”
That wasn’t what Sarah had expected to hear. She didn’t truly believe in fortune-telling, yet given she was, at that very point in time, working to discover whether Charlie loved her or not, or alternatively if he might love her once they were married even if he didn’t yet, the appearance of Madame Garnaut and her ser vices had seemed an opportunity too potentially useful to pass by. She was willing to pursue any reasonable avenue to learn what she needed to know.
But she couldn’t see anything in the globe.
She glanced at Madame, seated on the opposite side of a small round table draped in deep blue velvet. The gypsy’s hands, strangely cool, were clamped around Sarah’s; she was peering, narrow-eyed, into the globe, a look of utter concentration etched on her much wrinkled face.
Madame’s hair, black as a raven’s wing, long and curly, seemed to lift and spread about her head.
Then she slowly closed her eyes, slowly raised her head, and she exhaled. Into an eerie stillness, she spoke. “You wish to know whether this man can love you. He is tall, but not dark, and more than handsome. The answer to your question is yes, but the way is not clear. Whether you gain what you seek…that, in the end, will be up to you. It will be your decision, not his.”
A long moment passed, then Madame exhaled in a long sigh. To Sarah’s wide eyes, she seemed to deflate.
Madame removed her hands from Sarah’s, then met Sarah’s gaze. “It is the best I can do for you
—the most I can tell you. So the answer is yes, but”—Madame shrugged—“the rest is complicated.”
Sarah drew in a breath. Withdrawing her hands from the globe, she nodded. Pushing back from the table, she rose. “Thank you.” On impulse, she dug into her reticule, pulled out another sixpence and placed it on the table. “For your extra trouble.”
The gypsy took the coin and nodded. “You are a lady, but I knew that.” Her old eyes, a disconcertingly bright black, met Sarah’s. “I wish you good luck. With that one, it will not be easy.”
Turning, Sarah lifted the tent flap and stepped out—into disorienting brightness. She blinked rapidly, then saw Charlie—that one—lounging by the side of a nearby tent. She walked across the alley, busying herself retying her reticule strings, using the moment to regain her composure.
It will not be easy. It will be your decision, not his.
Reaching Charlie, she looked up.
He was grinning. “So what was it—tall, dark, and handsome?”
She smiled with more confidence than she felt. “What do you think?”
He drew her hand through his arm and turned her along the next alleyway. “I think that demonstrates why you shouldn’t believe the prophecies of fortune-tellers. They’re all charlatans.”
She’d thought the same. Now she wasn’t so sure.
But the last person she wished to discuss Madame’s revelations with was him. She glanced around as they strolled side by side, then realized the others were nowhere in sight. “Where are the others?”
“They headed this way.”
She glanced at him, waiting, but he didn’t add anything, no suggestion that he intended to find, let alone rejoin, the rest of their group. She thought, then inwardly shrugged. That suited her well enough.
Especially given Madame Garnaut’s revelations. If matters were going to be complicated and if all would hinge on her decision, then the more she knew…
Her gaze fell on a portly figure, nattily dressed, promenading down the alley toward them. She leaned closer to Charlie. “I gather you keep abreast of changes in the industries around Taunton. Have you met Mr. Pommeroy?” With her head, she indicated the man approaching. “He’s the owner of the new cider company—they’ve set up premises just outside town.”
“Out to the west, isn’t it? I’ve heard of it, but I rarely pass that way.” Charlie drew his gaze from Mr. Pommeroy and met her eyes. “Do you know him?”
She nodded. “He’s taken on two apprentices from the orphanage so far.” Without waiting to be asked, she put on her best smile and angled toward Mr. Pommeroy.
Noticing her approaching, he beamed and halted. “Miss Conningham.” He took her hand between both of his. “I have to tell you those two lads of yours have been working out very well—very well, indeed. If you have any more like them coming along, we’ll be happy to have them join us.”
“Excellent!” Retrieving her hand, Sarah gestured to Charlie. “Might I introduce Lord Meredith?” Mr. Pommeroy was gratified. He bowed. “My lord.”
Charlie nodded, precise and correct. Mr. Pommeroy introduced his wife, after which he and Charlie spent the next five minutes talking of factories, and yields, and transport. Sarah listened; she was always on the lookout for any new openings for the orphans—such as the increase in carting that, from Charlie’s and Mr. Pommeroy’s discourse, she realized must be occurring. She made a mental note to have a word with Mr. Hallisham, who owned the local cartage business.
Mrs. Pommeroy, however, despite the smile fixed on her face, started shifting. Taking pity on her, Sarah intervened; under cover of asking a more general question, she pinched Charlie’s arm. He glanced at her, but fell in with her clearly concluding remarks, and they parted from the Pommeroys.
As they moved on, she murmured, “You can ride out and visit him sometime. It doesn’t do to put up the backs of owners’ wives.”
Charlie’s brows quirked, then his lips curved and he inclined his head. “I suppose not.” “Lady! Pretty lady!”
They’d turned into the next avenue of booths. An older man with a broad weathered face and gnarled hands waved Sarah to his counter.
“Come see! Just right for you—pretty as a picture.” His head bobbed as, beaming, he beckoned her nearer. Curious, she stepped his way. He glanced down at his tray, thick fingers picking over his wares, searching. “Straight from London. Enamels from Russia. Perfect colors for you.”
There was no harm in looking. Sarah towed Charlie to the booth, stopping before the raised counter.
“Ah!” The man looked up. Draped over his large fingers he displayed a necklet of interlinked enamels. A medley of bright spring greens and summer blues patterned on white decorated each shield-shaped piece. The strand looked ridiculously delicate against the man’s huge hands.
Sarah’s eyes widened. She reached to touch.
“Come.” The trader whisked out from behind the counter. “You try it and see.” Deftly, he strung the necklet around Sarah’s throat and fastened the catch.
Charlie watched, resigned; he had to give the man points for adroitness. He knew how to sell to
ladies.
But the necklet did indeed suit Sarah. Head tilted, Charlie examined it, considered how it looked
on her as, fingers lifting to stroke the enamel, she studied her reflection in a spotty mirror the trader had produced from beneath his counter.
The effect was…complex. The enameling appeared to be quite fine. The result was a piece that melded innocent simplicity with the decadence of vibrant color.
One look at Sarah’s face was enough to tell Charlie that she appreciated the piece as much as he. He didn’t need to glance at the shrewd trader to know the man was now watching him closely—ready to encourage him to indulge and impress his lady.
Charlie studied the necklet. The light seemed to corruscate with color when it struck. Despite an ingrained resistance to wasting any blunt on fairground gegaws, he raised a finger and traced the shields. In the mirror, Sarah glanced at him; he saw but didn’t meet her gaze.
The work was smooth, as good enamels should be. Hooking a fingertip inside the strand, he flipped it so the underside showed.
And was impressed. The work on the reverse of the shields was of similar quality to that on the
faces.
Alathea had a fondness for enamels—preferably from one of the Russian masters. From her he’d
learned the rudiments of distinguishing good from bad. This piece wasn’t from one of the masters’ studios, but it was a significant cut above the average.
Having a business-trained face was so useful. His expression utterly impassive, he met the trader’s gaze. “How much?”
Sarah blinked at him. She’d intended buying it for herself, he realized, but when he didn’t look her way, and instead engaged the trader in a brisk round of bargaining, she closed her lips and let him buy it for her.
A small, almost insignificant victory, yet he felt it to his marrow.
By the time he and the trader exchanged nods and he and Sarah stepped away from the booth, he ’d bought not just the necklet, but also a ring and three brooches. One brooch for Alathea in red, black, and gold, and one for Augusta in her favorite purple, amethyst, and mauve. Steering Sarah away from the counter, he halted her by the side of the booth and pinned the third brooch, a match for the necklet in blues and greens, into the lapel of her riding habit.
Lips gently curved, she brushed her fingers across the surface, then looked up into his face. “Thank you. They’re very pretty.”
He met her gaze for an instant, then looked down, found her right hand, and raised it. Slipping the matching ring onto her middle finger, he raised her hand and laid it at her breast so he could view all three pieces together.
He did, and felt his lungs contract. He knew he was looking at enamels, but that wasn’t, in his mind, what he was seeing.
Lifting his gaze, he met her eyes. “Until you agree to let me give you something more valuable.” Her lips quirked, but before she could speak he asked, “Have you seen the Morwellan emeralds?”
She blinked, then slipped her hand into his arm; they started strolling once more. “No.” Frowning, she shook her head. “I can’t recall ever seeing—”
“You might not have. Mama rarely wears them—they don’t suit her. They’re pale, clear, and flawless. The set—necklace, earrings, bracelet, and ring—contains the largest group of perfectly matched emeralds currently known.” He glanced again at the woman on his arm—his countess. “They will suit you.”
She glanced up and met his eyes. “If I marry you.”
There was no “if” about it. The quiet challenge in her eyes provoked a quiet storm in him—an impulse to react and ruthlessly quash her resistance, to deny beyond doubt or even imagination that there
was any other outcome possible. A muscle in his arm flexed. In something close to horror, he fought down the nearly overwhelming urge, primitive and powerful, to demonstrate the truth for her in simple, impossible-to-misconstrue actions, to make it plain that she was his.
His. He felt his jaw set. He fought and forced himself to acknowledge her words—her right to deny him—with an inclination of his head. Then he faced forward, unseeing, still struggling to subdue his reaction.
He wasn’t, hadn’t thought himself, a particularly possessive man. So where had such intensity come from? Why was it so strong, and what did that mean?
Regardless, if he gave in to it, if he in any way let her guess that in truth she had no choice—that she hadn’t had any choice from the moment he’d stood in her father’s drawing room and offered for her hand, quite aside from all that had passed between them since—if he gave her any inkling that their path was set regardless of her thoughts, he would run into a wall of feminine resistance.
One he knew well enough to avoid. Alathea had a similar defense, that construct of a steely female will, and so did many, if not all, the Cynster ladies. No sane male knowingly provoked such a defense.
There were some battles from which it was wiser to retreat.
He repeated those strictures until he calmed, until that prowling, lurking beast she’d pricked settled grudgingly back to watch, and wait.
Strolling by his side, Sarah pretended not to notice the tension that had flared, that he’d subdued and smothered, but that only gradually faded from the arm on which her hand lay.
Only gradually did the large hard body pacing beside her regain its customary loose-limbed ease, his signature grace.
Once it had, she breathed a little more easily. He definitely didn’t like her even obliquely suggesting that she might not marry him. Which again raised the question of what it was that was driving him—why he was so intent on marrying her.
If only he would tell her, life—his and hers—would be considerably simpler, yet it was patently clear that he didn’t wish her to know. So she’d have to keep pressing, holding to her line, until she learned enough to understand.
“Miss Conningham!” “Yoo-hoo, miss!”
Sarah halted and turned. Smiling, she watched three lads—well, they were young men now— come pushing through the crowd. Reaching her, all three bowed their best bow, then grinned at her cheekily.
“I say, miss,” Bobby Simpson said, “have you seen the half man–half woman? He’s in a tent over
there.”
“He—or she. It’s really amazing, miss,” Johnny Wilson averred.
Naturally the boys thought that that was the most exciting sideshow. Sarah swallowed a laugh.
“What else is there to see?”
They were only too happy to pour into her ears a catalogue of the carnival delights to be found on the perimeter of the fair. They’d known her through their formative years and felt no constraint; they eagerly gave her their young male views. They’d noticed Charlie by her side—how could they not?— noticed that her hand lay on his arm, but from the quick, uncertain glances they threw him, none of the three had recognized him.
Eventually their patter ran out.
“Thank you. Now I know what there is to see in the remaining time I have.” She indicated Charlie. “This is Lord Meredith.”
All three immediately tugged their forelocks; they recognized the title well enough. “Now tell me,” Sarah continued smoothly, “how are you getting on at the tannery?”
They told her, but their eagerness in that was clearly not matched by their fascination with the fair.
Smiling, she let them go. After quick bows to her and Charlie, they pelted off through the crowd.
Charlie watched them disappear. “There must be quite a few around here who know you through the orphanage.” They started strolling again. “How many such do you release into the world each year?”
“It varies. And there are girls, too. They go into the major houses, most often as maids but sometimes in training as cooks.”
They continued on down the alleyways of the fair, idly scanning the booths, resisting all inducements to draw near and sample the wares, or to view the numerous sideshows. The crowd of children before the Punch-and-Judy was considerable; they paused at the edge of it and watched for a time, more entertained by the children and their raucous reactions than the show itself, then walked on.
Nothing occurred to reinvoke their earlier clash of wills, for which Sarah was grateful. She saw no benefit in further prodding a point over which she knew he would react.
His uncanny, indeed ruthless and quite relentless habit of always getting his own way, regardless of his outward charm and apparently easygoing nature, was well recognized within his family and, courtesy of his sisters, had long been well known to her, too. Intriguingly, he hadn’t attempted to charm her. A wise decision; glib charm never worked well with her, and in his case, she saw through his veneer as if it were thinner than a gossamer veil.
She knew what he was, underneath the glamor; the closer they drew, the more time they spent together, she realized that that was true—more true than she’d realized. That her vision of him was…as clear and flawless as his family’s emeralds. She’d somehow always known him in a way she couldn’t explain.
And as she wasn’t yet able to tell him yay or nay, and from the occasional sidelong glances he threw her, his gaze sharp as a lance, studying her face, she knew that he was evaluating ways and means to bring her answer—the right answer—about, it was undoubtedly wise to let the question lie, unresolved and for now unapproached between them.
To night would be soon enough to push ahead with that.
Such were her thoughts. Her nerves and senses, however, were nowhere near as well ordered. As cool and collected.
She wished they were. Wished that her senses wouldn’t leap and jump whenever the crowd forced them close, that her nerves didn’t make her shiver with reaction when, in a sudden crush, his arm brushed her breast.
As the afternoon rolled on and the crowd grew denser, all Charlie’s misgivings over the outing were borne out. Unfortunately, he derived no joy from having been right in his predictions. Not even a perverse joy from knowing that Sarah was equally susceptible, that her nerves skittered every time he touched a guiding hand to her back, that her breath caught, suspended, when in the press of bodies his thigh brushed hers.
Then a rowdy group of journeymen came caroling and leaping down the crowded alleyway, their rush forcing all others to give way, to draw aside and let them pass.
The sudden movement threatened to bowl over those walking at the edge of the alley.
Charlie reacted instinctively, whipping an arm around Sarah and half lifting, half sweeping her out
of danger, into the protective lee of his body, and then into the cramped space between two booths.
The wave of jostling humanity rolled through the crowd and past. To the sound of curses, the pack of overexuberant young men disappeared, leaving those scattered in their wake to right themselves, dust themselves off, and resume their more sedate progress.
Leaving Charlie and Sarah upright, but close. Very close.
He’d been watching the young men disappear; as he turned his head to look at her, he felt a shiver of sensual awareness, of sheer sensual anticipation, ripple through her from her shoulders to her knees.
Felt his reaction—not a shiver—race through him, hot, ardent, hungry, and greedy, even before his eyes met hers.
And he saw his own need, his own flaring desire, mirrored in the cornflower blue of her eyes.
Her lips were parted, her breath caught, her hands raised between them, suspended before his chest; she didn’t know where to put them, knew well enough not to touch him, but she wanted to.
That last was a palpable, tangible thing, real enough to feel like a caress even without the contact.
In response his own need rose in a surging wave, like a cat arching into that phantom caress. Wanting more.
For one definable instant, he teetered on the brink of surrendering—to his need and hers. Taking just one moment to let passion have its way—but it wouldn’t be for just one moment.
Dragging in a breath and easing back, deliberately breaking the spell, was the hardest thing he’d ever done. It was a wrench, a pain, a denial that hurt. Both of them.
He managed to step back; taking her hand, he drew her, unresisting, out of the cramped space, back into the alleyway. Linking their arms, he turned; after an instant’s hesitation, they resumed strolling.
Minutes passed before they were breathing freely again.
He drew a deeper, still not entirely steady breath. Eyes fixed forward, he said, “To night.”
A statement, no question. He felt her gaze briefly touch his face; from the corner of his eye, he saw her nod.
She looked ahead. “Yes. To night.”
To night they would deal with what had flared between them.
For now…“This crowd is getting too dense for comfort.” Talk about stating the obvious. “Perhaps we should head for the meeting place.”
She glanced at the clock tower; the time was two-thirty. But she nodded. “The crowd might be less thick over there.”
To their mutual relief, that proved to be the case. Even more helpfully, the others had also found the increasing crowds off-putting; within ten minutes, they’d all arrived.
“How about a quick tea at the Arms before we take to the saddle?” Jon suggested.
The group agreed. They walked back to the Arms. After duly refreshing themselves, they mounted their horses, and headed north for their homes.
Sarah rode alongside Charlie and tried not to think. Not to dwell on that fraught moment between the booths, not to dwell on their interlude to night. To night would be time enough to think of that. Until they were alone, there was nothing more they could do.
Nothing to quell the urgency driving them, or still the insistent pounding in their veins.
7
H e wasn’t there when she reached the summer house, sunk in the quiet of the night. She listened, but heard nothing beyond the soft slink of the water over the lip of the weir, no footsteps, no impatient strides approaching.
Pressing her hands together, straightening her curling fingers, she forced herself to calm; drawing in a steadying breath, she willed her wits from the whirl of anticipation they’d too eagerly allowed to claim them. She tried to think, to reason, tried to focus firmly on her goal, reminding herself of what that was and how she intended to pursue it.
How she intended to force him to reveal what lay behind his desire for her.
She’d barely formed the thought when a boot crunched on the path outside and he was there, taking the steps three at a time, an elementally male figure crossing the wooden floor in long, fluid strides.
And then she was in his arms, wrapped in their strength, and his lips were on hers. And she was swept away, into the beckoning heat, into the fiery furnace of their mutual desire.
Every night it burned hotter; every day the inevitable abrading of their senses, relief withheld until the dark of night, only stoked the flames higher.
And the urgency built.
To night she welcomed it. To night she had her own agenda and was relying on that driving pounding in their blood to give her the strength and the opportunity to pursue it.
She made no demur when he invaded her mouth and ravaged her senses, when he drew her flush against him, then evocatively stroked, one large palm gliding over the curve of her hip and derriere, then firming, cupping, and provocatively kneading.
Her breath caught as he molded her to him, her senses threatened to fracture as the hard ridge of his erection rode against the soft tautness of her belly. Heat flared; the furnace swelled. A hot empty ache yawned deep within her.
She only gasped when he tumbled them both onto the sofa; she landed beside and half under him, their legs tangled, hands grasping.
He flicked loose the buttons of her bodice. She wrenched the sides of his coat wide, ran her hands up to his shoulders to push the garment off. He muttered a curse, and pulled back enough to shrug free of the jacket. She fell on the buttons of his waistcoat; he muttered another oath and obliged.
But then he kissed her again and pressed her back against the sofa, rapidly dealt with buttons, bodice, and chemise—and then his hand was on her breast and she gasped again, louder, lungs tighter, tightening yet further as his palm cruised, stroked, then his hand closed and his fingers settled to play, to pluck her nerves, to orchestrate the pleasure that rushed through her. It was a swirling, mindless temptation of delight; she let it flow and wash through her, until she found her feet.
Until she could marshal and harbor and ultimately wield enough wit and will to kiss him back, to raise a hand and frame his face, meet his tongue with hers, and distract him.
Long enough to undo the buttons closing his shirt, long enough to slide her hand beneath the gaping linen, and touch him.
His reaction was instantaneous. He broke the kiss and sucked in a breath; his whole body hardened and stilled. But he didn’t pull away. In the darkness she couldn’t see his expression, yet his face seemed tight, lashes lowered, jaw clenched. As if her hand were burning him, as if her touch were
something it pained him to endure…but it was he who was burning.
His skin felt like lava poured over solid rock, smooth, almost fluid, yet beneath it nothing moved.
Determined to know, to learn, she caressed, for a long moment gave her senses over to exploring the heavy muscles of his chest, sweeping both hands across, then lower to slide over his ridged abdomen, to glide farther and grasp his sides at his waist, to feel the naked skin like flame beneath her palms.
For one instant she gloried, filling her senses with the perfection of him, then he broke. He pressed her down into the sofa cushions, leaned over her and recaptured her mouth—and without quarter ripped her wits away.
Swept her will away, sent it spinning beneath an onslaught of feeling, of his actions and her reactions, of an exchange at a wholly different level of greedy rapacious need.
Of hunger more explicit, more definite, less controlled. She marveled and embraced it. Let herself slide into it, let it flow around and over and through her, fascinated and enthralled.
This was what she wanted to see, to know, to examine. This—his desire—was what she needed to explore.
Charlie kept her pressed into the sofa, kept her mouth locked with his, kept her wits whirling while he grappled with a conundrum he’d never before faced, not in this arena, not with any other woman.
Contradictory compulsions rode him, each merciless and demanding—an instinctive desire to appease her, to happily fall in with her blatantly declared wishes and show her all she wantonly wished to know, if anything to encourage her even further, yet his plan called for something else. Dictated a different line of play—of attack.
Her small hands had pushed beneath the back of his shirt; her fingers gripped and pressed into his skin. Urgent, needy.
The innocent touch seared him. Called to that hunger, the prowling ravenous beast that she so readily aroused and sent raging.
Every instinct he possessed was clamoring to take her, to finish this strange wooing now and have done, yet…if he showed her all, if he joined with her to night, would she be sufficiently enamored of the pleasures of the flesh to happily agree to be his forevermore?
If he joined with her to night, would she agree to marry him tomorrow? With any other young lady, the answer would be yes, but with Sarah…she’d already surprised him multiple times.
No. Safer by far to hold to his plan and give her time and experience from which to properly appreciate the splendors of plea sure. To learn of the delights to which he proposed to introduce her, and to subsequently enjoy with her for the rest of their lives.
How could she appreciate if she didn’t truly know? If she didn’t understand what the elements of plea sure were?
Teaching her, introducing her to plea sure step-by-step, as he’d planned, was the wiser course.
The course more certain to succeed in convincing her to accept his proposal and agree to be his.
Despite the lure of her supple, soft body, so quintessentially feminine stretched half beneath his, despite the wanton encouragement of her kiss, of the way she gifted him with her mouth, the way she met and challenged him, and taunted and teased…not that she actually meant to…he had to remember what the course of wisdom was. He couldn’t afford to forget.
Couldn’t afford not to have her eager and willing to be his bride.
So he reined in his own desires, ruthlessly quelled his rioting instincts and resisted her lure, resisted the open invitation she was so blatantly issuing. Blotted it from his mind and drew back from the kiss, and set his lips skimming down her throat.
Down over her collarbone, tugging aside her gaping bodice to gain access to the rosy peaks of her breasts. Then he settled to show her what plea sure was. One element of it, at least.
One compulsive, giddy, dizzying facet; her responses were more intense than the previous night’s, heightened by the last time and the frustrations of the day. Good. He focused on her, on her reactions, with lips, mouth, teeth, and tongue concentrated on immersing her senses in the heady, enticing delight.
As before, the taste of her awakening was sheer wonder to him. For every iota of delight he gave her, she reciprocated in a way he’d never before even imagined existed.
She writhed beneath his experienced caresses, the firm touch of his hands, the wet heat of his mouth, the shocking rasp of his tongue drawing gasp after smothered moan from her lusciously swollen lips. As he bent his head and drew one taut and aching nipple deep into his mouth, and heard her cry out, he felt a curious sense of honor warm him. It was not just that he was the lucky man who would introduce her to sensual plea sure, that he would be her mentor in this, the one to educate her senses in this intimate field, but that he was all that at her invitation. By her choice.
He had chosen her as his bride, but part of his unacknowledged reasoning had been that he’d hoped, if she were given the choice, that she would choose him.
In this, in this arena. And she had.
It was, he was discovering, an unexpectedly heady honor to be chosen by her—an honor conferred by her desire. He’d had no idea that such a thing would mean so much to him, that despite his frustrated needs, he would so enjoy these moments. These never-to-be-repeated moments when he opened her sensual eyes to passion and all its glory.
Entranced, nearly mesmerized by sensation, Sarah was nevertheless conscious of time passing; at some point, he would call a halt to their night, and she’d yet to make any real progress. Just a glimpse before he’d slammed a door on his desire, that was all she’d seen. She needed to see more.
The only way to succeed was to circumvent his control.
Gathering sufficient will along with sufficient strength required concerted effort, but eventually she managed to turn her mind from what her reeling senses were reporting enough to refocus on him.
Sliding her hands from his back, she tried to reach lower but discovered she couldn’t reach even as far as his waist. Palms at his sides, she urged him higher, but he ignored such weak demands.
And tried to distract her by suckling more deeply—she had to pause, drag in a huge breath, hold tight to her wits as sensation sharp and powerful threatened to rip them away…she succeeded, managed to catch her mental breath, then even more determined, she tried again.
Drawing one hand from the warmth of his torso, she found his jaw, cupped it, and gently but insistently nudged and tipped until he complied, lifted his head and brought his lips to hers.
She was ready to meet them, ready to let their mouths meld, their tongues twine, then duel. Then she wriggled and slid beneath him, one quick shift so that their heads were closer to level. In the same movement, she drew her other hand from his back, pressed it between them, and found him, his erection hard and rigid beneath his breeches.
Boldly she stroked, then experimented and closed her hand.
His reaction was immediate. Despite the clamp of her hand on his jaw, he drew back from the kiss, a curse on his lips; half lifting from her, he caught her wrist in a viselike grip and hauled her hand from his straining flesh. “No.” Raising her hand above her head, he anchored it against the sofa cushions; from a distance of shadowed inches, he met her eyes. His were narrowed.
She glared at him. “Why?” “Because—”
He broke off on a hiss as she wriggled, squirmed, and managed to caress that most sensitive and, for her purposes, useful part of him with her thigh. His eyes closed, but his jaw set even harder. He swore, grabbed her other hand and anchored that above her head, too, as he shifted over her, then he lowered his weight and she was trapped.
Beneath him. Half a second’s consideration informed her that that was not necessarily a bad thing.
One of his legs lay between hers, his knee sinking into the thick cushions so that the hard muscle of his thigh rode against the sensitive spot at the apex of hers.
The result gave her pause.
But then she remembered. Narrowing her eyes on his, she demanded, “Why?”
Each of her hands was locked in one of his; he was pressing both into the cushions above and to either side of her head. Their faces were close; he looked down into hers. “Because you’re not ready for that yet.”
Each word was bitten off. Grim frustration invested them.
She considered all she could see, all she could sense in the hard, taut, definitely aroused body above hers. “Why not?”
She made the demand a trifle less challenging, more a sincere question, but that she was not going to be fobbed off nevertheless rang in her tone.
He studied her eyes, then searched her face. A moment ticked past in which their heated bodies cooled not one whit, in which the passion trembling in the air about them subsided not at all, then his lips twisted, a resigned grimace.
The odd notion flitted across her mind that she wasn’t certain the resignation was real. Charlie surrendering? That didn’t seem likely.
“You can’t—shouldn’t—just plunge into this. It shouldn’t be considered as a simple act, but an art. Not only in the execution, but in the enjoyment, too. So you need to learn, and at a reasonable pace.”
In the shadowed dark, she could see his eyes but had no hope of reading them. But she wasn’t witless; he wanted control of the pace. They would see. She shifted, just a fraction, beneath him, enough to draw his attention to her bare, swollen, tightly peaked breasts. “So, what’s next?”
Her tone had once again found its sultry note.
He met her eyes for a heartbeat, then lowered his head. Whispered his answer to her unvoiced challenge over her lips. “If you think you’re ready?”
She met his gaze as he drew back a fraction. “Oh, yes.”
Then she kissed him, or he kissed her—all that mattered was that their lips met in a sharp exchange that set instant spark to the hungry flames that had simmered, held down by force of will while they spoke.
Now those flames roared anew. Compelling, driving.
What next? Her question rang in her mind while the urgent need to know filled her. His lips on hers, he drew her hands higher, then manacled both in one of his. Above her, he shifted his weight, so that while one thigh remained between hers, his weight rested beside her. She sensed him reach down, with his free hand grasp her skirt, then he flicked it up above her knees.
He reached beneath, his hard palm gripping and sliding over her bare thigh, and she shuddered.
And he stopped. His hand remained where it was, although she could sense the effort it cost to stop there, on the cusp of what ever came next.
His lips gentled; before he could draw back from the kiss and speak—ask her if she was sure— she arched and kissed him fiercely, and gave him his answer.
His grip on her thigh eased, his touch instantly assuming a more dangerous, more seductive intent.
His tongue probed, stroked hers, then withdrew; with only the pressure of his lips to distract her, her senses slid down to focus on his hand. On the play of his fingers as they rose, trailing spiraling sensation upward to the crease between torso and thigh. One blunt fingertip traced it, forward, then back an inch, forward then back; totally caught, barely breathing, she waited to see, to know…
His palm slid along her hip, then pushed over and back as he rolled to his side, taking her with him. He released her hands; unthinking, she let them fall to his shoulders, caught in the shock of feeling his questing hand rove over her bare bottom. His other hand cradled her head, holding her mouth to his, his to plunder at his languid will while the hand beneath her skirts explored.
Also at his will. Under his complete and absolute control.
Despite the compelling, distracting sensations, the enthrallment of her senses, the shivery cascade of heightened awareness that slid over and through her and made her quake in anticipation, she was conscious to her bones of his concentration. Of the unwavering focus he brought to the moment. A commitment not only to maintaining that unshakable control, his bulwark and defense, but to her, to her plea sure, to, as he’d put it, teaching her this art.
To educating her senses in how it felt to have his hand idly fondling her bare bottom, to have him stroke, caress, then trace the cleft between the taut hemispheres, following it down to lightly, intimately, flirt in the hollow between her thighs.
She shuddered, and pressed nearer, turned her body to his, slid one hand to his nape and asked for more through their kiss.
He hesitated, then his fingers left the sensitive skin at the top and back of her thighs, skating down until he reached her knee, then he gripped and lifted, bending and wrapping that leg high over his hip.
Briefly he caressed her knee, then his fingers slowly trailed back down the line of her thigh, to where the delicate flesh between her thighs was now open and exposed to his touch.
She shivered again, but he didn’t stop; he reached and touched, lightly brushed her curls, stroked tantalizingly through them, then settled to not so much explore as map, to outline rather than probe. The light caresses made her nerves flicker and skitter, substantial enough for her to follow his intent, to track each caress to its end, yet every time be left hungry, waiting for the next.
Waiting for tactile fulfillment of some barely perceived desire. Her flesh heated, then throbbed; a strange restlessness gripped her. The yearning for him to touch her more intimately burgeoned and grew.
Swelled until it fed her desire, fanned the flames…
He seemed to know the precise moment when she was about to break and demand more; he drew back from the kiss, skated his lips along the line of her jaw to her ear, then murmured, “When we’ re wed, you’ll open yourself to me like this, part your legs and wind them about my waist, and I’ll fill you.”
The words—the image they conjured—transfixed her. In the darkness, she focused on his face, his lips, so close, his eyes screened behind his long lashes. She licked her lips and he glanced at them.
His voice, when it reached her, was pure passion, the distillation of desire. “I’ll fill that odd emptiness inside you.” He spoke slowly, his cadence deliberate, the words direct. “I’ll drive into you, over and over, and you’ll never know such plea sure, and then you’ll be complete.”
Dipping his head, he brushed her lips, one long lingering touch. “As you need, and want, and were meant to be.”
Mine. Charlie heard the word ring in his head, but kept it from his lips. He’d fought and managed
to turn her unexpected insistence to his advantage. But enough was enough. Before she could snap free of the sensual web he’d woven, he withdrew his hand from beneath her skirt, framed her face, and kissed her—deeply, as deeply intimate as he wished.
“For to night, that’s enough.” His growl bore testimony that that wasn’t his body’s wish any more than it was hers. His mind, however, was firmly in the ascendant.
She frowned at him. “Why?”
Her favorite word. He managed not to frown back. “Because if we let our horses bolt, we’ll go too fast and you’ll miss too much along the way.” He capped those eminently sane words with a statement it was impossible to dispute. “And we need to get this right because there’s only ever one first time along this road.”
T he next afternoon, Charlie stood in one corner of the high hedge bordering the vicarage lawn balancing a teacup on a saucer and, his expression as impassive as he could make it, considered his wife-to be, sitting sipping tea in the diagonally opposite corner, as distant from him as she could possibly be.
Who would have thought it could be as bad as this? Charlie cursed the impulse that had prompted him to accept an invitation to the monthly Sunday-afternoon tea party at the vicarage; he’d heard that Mrs. Duncliffe had intended to invite Mr. Sinclair, and had accepted assuming Sinclair would be present, and that he’d be able to distract himself discussing investments while keeping Sarah in sight.
Unfortunately Sinclair had been otherwise engaged. Even more unfortunately, he’d underestimated the cumulative effect of his and Sarah’s nightly interludes; said effect had made itself known immediately he and she had drawn close enough to touch hands.
Just one look, that one touch, and they’d both felt the jarring jolt, the fierce tug. The powerful, elemental, all but overwhelming need to be together in a physically explicit sense.
In mutual shock they’d retreated to the safety of opposing corners of the lawn, to preserve some semblance of acceptable behavior and not risk shocking everyone present—most of their neighbors and both their mothers—by giving in to some action too suggestive to mistake.
He’d taken cover with Jon and Henry and a small group of other gentlemen. And Sarah was surrounded by the other young ladies, yet many feminine eyes, young and old alike, were watching him and her, wondering at their separation, given what was now transparently common knowledge as to their direction.
Regardless of the speculation, being close in public was no longer wise.
Which was one of several points he found difficult to accept. Never in his life had he been affected to this degree—even close to this degree—by a woman. By the pursuit of a woman. He currently had more in common with some rabid adolescent in the throes of his first affair, than the suave, debonair, and sophisticated man of the world he unquestionably was. He was thirty-three, for heaven’s sake! A gentleman of his ilk, of his age and experience, shouldn’t feel as if his continued existence hinged on sinking his far too active erection into the hot haven of a specific female body.
He shouldn’t feel as if possessing her was now the be-all and end all of his life. Yet he did.
Accepting another tea cake from the plate passed around, he bit into it and shifted his gaze from Sarah—why torture himself? this was the vicarage; there was no hope what ever of doing anything to ease their burning itch while here—and subjected Mrs. Duncliffe’s rose garden to distant scrutiny while
reliving again the events of the previous night.
He’d left the summer house satisfied and relieved. Relieved because he’d weathered the challenges, satisfied because from the battle he’d not just wrested control but had managed to establish a base, a rationale she understood, for pushing ahead with his plan.
While the relief had evaporated, the satisfaction at least remained.
Small comfort. No matter how he twisted the facts, what he couldn’t understand or explain, but likewise couldn’t dismiss, was that while he’d been seducing her, and succeeding, he’d somehow managed to seduce himself.
He could hardly blame her. Given the differences in age and experience, it simply wasn’t possible to credit that she could seduce him. Yet time and again, he’d found himself driven if not out of control then temporarily beyond it. And time and again he’d adjusted and changed tack; he would draw a line, determined not to step over it, then she’d press, and he’d find himself rearranging his plan.
It might have been she making the demands, but it had been he who’d acquiesced.
She wasn’t capable of controlling him, and there wasn’t anything or anyone else involved, so it had to be him, something within him that for some godforsaken reason was pushing him, seducing him, into doing things that were making this courtship so much harder.
He didn’t understand it, but he was determined to prevail. And he would.
His gaze returned to Sarah. She felt it, briefly met it across the expanse of the vicarage lawn, then she turned away. Lifting her cup, she sipped. He saw her hand tremble as she set the cup down on her saucer; he looked away.
The week he’d set himself ended on Tuesday night. To night he’d take her further, tempt her yet further, but every step of the way he’d remain on guard.
Against what ever it was that was invading his brain.
T he moon hung suspended over the weir when she came to him that night. They were hungry, so hungry, both of them, that it was implicit from the first ravenously yearning kiss that to night he would show her more.
Much more.
Sarah burned and wanted, but it wasn’t simply the delights of physical plea sure she sought. She wanted to know why, and if she was starting to understand that it wasn’t reason, cold and logical, that drove his transparent desire for her, she’d yet to grasp any firm comprehension of what that elusive something was.
Yet the physical was linked with the ephemeral; it was an outcome of it. If she explored one, she would at some point understand the other.
Her plan, such as it was, had been reduced to that. To take his hand and let him show her what he would, and then encourage him to show her more. Until she saw and understood.
And if she shivered when his mouth closed over her breast, cried out, a primitive sound in the night when he suckled fiercely, if her limbs melted and her nerves quivered, coiling and quaking, as he lifted her skirts and stroked, then touched her, cupped her, lightly probed that most intimate part of her until flames licked down her spine and heat pooled in her belly, then it was, she told herself, a willing and necessary exchange.
If she wanted to learn more of him, she had to surrender more of herself.
How much more she was willing to surrender, of that she’d had no clue, not until they were once more a tangle of tumbled limbs on the sofa, and she was hot and needy and urgently greedy, with her hands sunk in the softness of his hair, evocatively gripping, with her lips parted, hungry and wanton beneath his, with her tongue tangling with his, challenging and taunting, even demanding. With his hands on her body, long fingers stroking between her parted thighs, again and again caressing the slick swollen flesh of her entrance.
She had to have more, then and there, not later. Needed that next moment more than she needed to breathe. Needed…she wasn’t entirely sure what, but she felt sure he did.
When he tried to hold firm to his invisible line and deny her more than that minimally greater intimacy, with lips and tongue, with her hands and her body, wordless in entreaty she begged.
Charlie discovered he wasn’t proof against her sensual pleading. She wanted, and he gave; some unruly, rampant part of his mind had taken that as its code, and stamped it on his brain. No matter his determination to remain in complete control, and through that dictating each caress, each moment of plea sure, each new delight to which she was exposed, he couldn’t deny her, couldn’t hold back from appeasing her wantonly explicit need.
Couldn’t deny himself that plea sure.
Driven by that passion he didn’t entirely recognize, by that need he couldn’t name, with one blunt fingertip he circled her slick entrance, then, when she clutched and begged, he pressed in, just an inch. But she was heated and urgent, lifting against his hand, inviting, enticing; he surrendered and gave her what she wished.
Felt her gasp through their locked mouths as he slid one finger deep into her sheath. Felt her virgin flesh ease, then contract, scalding velvet about his finger. He tracked her response, sensed and grasped the perfect moment when she’d absorbed that first shock to stroke, at first slow and deliberate, letting the full impact of the intimate penetration impinge on her whirling senses, then, at his direction, and hers, the beat gradually built.
Faster, harder, in time with their hearts, with the pounding in their blood.
She writhed, trapped half beneath him, her hips instinctively lifting into the intimate caress. Driven by her and his own compulsive need, he ravished her mouth, then settled to plunder there to the same escalating, undeniable beat.
He drove her onto the rising slope, then whipped her up it, higher and higher, until she found the peak, until she tensed, fingers sinking into his upper arms, until at last she soared, then fractured, shattered, and came apart in his arms.
The rippling wave died, faded away and left her; boneless, she relaxed beneath him, all tension released. He drew his hand from her, let her skirt fall. Hoped she was satisfied.
Breaking the now gentled kiss, he lifted his head and looked down on her face, pale and fine in the moonlight. An angel’s face, one that hid a will to match his own.
That was one reason why he wanted her.
The thought strayed across his mind, then drifted away.
Her features had relaxed into the blankness of satiation, but as he watched, they came alive, vitality reinfusing them.
Her lashes fluttered, then she lifted her lids, and looked at him. She frowned. “I want you inside
me.”
The words were a sultry complaint. Although she didn’t quite pout, the impression was there.
He drew a tight breath and pulled back, only just managed to slam a mental door on his demons,
slavering in anticipation and only too ready and willing to fall in with her suggestion. “Not yet.” His accents were clipped, his voice strained.
He forced himself to sit up. Bludgeoning his unwilling body to his bidding, he lifted her and settled her, cradled across his lap.
Her hip rested against his erection, but there was nothing he could do besides grit his teeth and bear it. And sternly refuse to listen to his baser self report that he was so hard he was risking permanent injury.
He had to think, yet with her in his arms, the exercise seemed indescribably difficult; he concentrated, but all he seemed aware of, all he could find in his mind, was the sensation of the delicate swell of her cheek nestling against his bare chest.
She’d managed to rid him of his coat and waistcoat, and open his shirt, again. Managed to get her hands on his naked chest, skin to skin…perhaps it was that that had scattered his wits, although why that should be so he couldn’t imagine. He’d never been susceptible in that way before, not with any other lady, yet with her, Susceptible had become his middle name.
His arms closed around her, supporting her. Holding her.
Unexpectedly, she gave a little laugh, wry, faintly cynical. “After our performance at the vicarage, my mother wanted to know if anything was wrong.”
His mother hadn’t asked, although she’d wanted to. He was curious. “What did you say?” “That we were finding being the cynosure of attention for everyone around us a trifle unnerving.”
Despite all, he smiled. “Excellent answer. Perfectly true as far as it goes.” He made a mental note in case of later need.
They sat on the sofa as the moon slid away and the comfortable dark closed around them. Eventually, she stirred. Lifting her head, she touched a hand to his cheek. “Charlie—”
“No.” He caught her fingers, brought them to his lips, held her gaze as he kissed. His wits had returned; he’d started to realize what had—again—occurred. “Not yet,” he murmured. “We need to proceed at a slow pace.”
A slower pace.
Heaven help him.
The next morning Charlie sat at the desk in his library, chin propped in one hand, staring unseeing at the Aubusson rug, entirely unable to understand how matters had reached such a convoluted state.
His plan was straightforward, its execution well within his abilities, yet somehow his and Sarah’s interaction continued to escalate further, faster, propelled by some force he was unable to brake.
And now, even though he knew he had to—somehow—slow their sensual progress, a large, increasingly strident and powerful part of him wanted nothing more than to forge ahead. To simply dive into the passion that flared so hotly between them, to slake his ever-increasing lust, to gorge and drink his fill, then to revel and wallow.
Despite his long walk through the chilly night after he’d seen Sarah to the house, despite the ride home through winter’s bleakness, he’d barely slept a wink, unable to free either his mind or his senses from the promise of passion she embodied.
From all that his experience knew he could make of it, all he knew he could gain from it.
From that elusive, enticing taste of innocence.
It was that, he decided, that had invaded his brain—an addiction to the taste of innocence.
Addictions, like obsessions, could drive men to do things they wouldn’t normally do, to behave in ways they normally wouldn’t, but addictions, thankfully, could fade. As this one assuredly would.
Once she’d agreed to marry him, to be his forevermore, once they were wed, then her innocence would gradually fade. A few weeks, a month at most, and his curious fascination with it would be sated, and it itself would have dissipated.
So he didn’t need to worry. This wasn’t an obsession, as love could be. This was fascination to the point of addiction, nothing more.
He turned that conclusion over in his mind, and found nothing in it with which he wished to argue.
He could, therefore, press ahead with his plan.
Except that it was Monday, the day Sarah spent at the orphanage.
Despite a very real compulsion to have Storm saddled and ride up to Quilley Farm, and trust to his undoubted talents to make hay of whatever opportunities the day might afford to ease the compulsive itch to hold her, kiss her, touch her, the notion of trying to keep his reactions to her concealed from all the bright eyes in that place—imagining the sheer amount of teeth-gritting, jaw-clenching wrestling with his demons that would require—was enough to keep him in his chair.
Was enough, ultimately, to make him refocus on the various estate papers spread before him.
Grimacing, he picked up a pen, and forced himself to deal with what he could during the day, and leave the night’s challenges until then.
“T here’s a gentleman here to see you, miss.”
Folding and sorting the freshly laundered clothes in the orphanage nursery, the perfect way to keep her mind from dwelling on other, infinitely more distracting things, Sarah looked up as Maggs stuck his curly head around the door.
“Mrs. Carter said as she’d put him in the office and could you come down and see him.” Maggs grinned. “He looks like a shylock.”
“I see.” Sarah laid aside a pair of woolen socks, rose and went to the door. “Thank you for the message, and now back you go to your lessons—and no dillydallying along the way.”
Maggs essayed an affronted look, which Sarah returned with a glance sufficiently pointed to have him heaving a put-upon sigh. “All right. I’ll go straight back.”
Sarah followed him down the stairs. At the foot, Maggs slouched into the corridor leading to the room Joseph used for his classes. Smiling at the blatant evidence of his reluctance, Sarah headed for the office.
Joseph had been exposing the older boys to Shakespeare. While she doubted that any moneylender had called to see her, she wasn’t surprised when on opening the study door she discovered a thin, sharp-featured gentleman dressed in rusty black. With his small, deep-set dark eyes and
blade-thin nose, he was clearly Maggs’s vision of what a shylock should look like.
She hid her amusement behind a welcoming smile. “Good afternoon. I’m Miss Conningham.”
The man had risen; now he bowed, a touch obsequiously. “Mr. Milton Haynes, miss. I’m a solicitor from Taunton, and I have an offer to lay before you from one of my clients.”
Sarah gestured to Mr. Haynes to resume his seat in the chair before the desk while she stepped
behind it and sat in the desk chair. “An offer?”
“Indeed, miss.” All brisk efficiency, Mr. Haynes lifted a leather satchel onto his lap, opened it, and extracted a folded document. “If you’ll permit me?” At Sarah’s nod, he set down the satchel and, with a certain sense of drama, spread the paper on the desk before her. “As I will endeavor to explain, Miss Conningham, this is what I have no hesitation in describing as a very generous offer for the house and land described as Quilley Farm—you will see the sum proposed here.” He pointed with a neat fingernail. “Now, if you will allow me to advise…”
Frowning even more, Sarah reached for the paper, drawing it from beneath the solicitor’s finger; he was reluctant, but in the end lifted his digit and allowed her to pick up the sheet.
Although she was unfamiliar with such documents, a quick scan of the convoluted legal phrases confirmed that someone was indeed making an offer for Quilley Farm, house and land all together, and the sum offered was enough to make Sarah blink.
Mr. Haynes cleared his throat. “As I was about to say, this offer is extremely generous, certainly significantly more than you could expect on the open market in this area, but my client wishes to secure the property, so is willing to offer above the odds.” He leaned forward. “Cash, I might add. Nothing questionable, no, indeed.”
Sarah lifted her gaze to Haynes’s face. “Who is your client?” According to the letter, the offer was made via Haynes’s office.
Haynes sat back, his gregarious expression fading into primness. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge his name. He’s an eccentric, and prefers absolute privacy.”
Sarah raised her brows. “Indeed?” She had no idea what to make of that. Were such anonymous transactions common? Regardless…“I’m afraid, Mr. Haynes, that your client has been misinformed.” She stood; folding the sheet, she handed it back to Haynes who, face falling, was forced to rise, too. “I have no interest in, or intention of, selling Quilley Farm.”
Seeing something like shock infuse Haynes’s sharp features—perhaps understandable given the sum offered—she added, “The farm was bequeathed to me as a working orphanage with the clear assumption I would keep it operating as such. I couldn’t break faith with such a legacy.”
Haynes opened his mouth, then shut it. After a moment, he said, “Oh.” Deflated, he allowed Sarah to herd him out of the office and to the front door.
There he turned. “I’ll report to my client, of course, but, well…I suppose there’s no likelihood of you changing your mind?”
Sarah smiled and assured him there was no chance what ever. Shoulders slumping, Haynes mounted the cob he’d left tied outside the door, and, spirits dampened, trotted off down the drive.
Folding her arms, Sarah leaned against the door frame and watched him go. He disappeared for a while, shielded by the dip and the houses of Crowcombe, then reappeared, trotting as fast as the cob would go south along the road to Taunton.
She heard a footstep behind her and turned her head. Katy Carter appeared and came to stand by her shoulder; wiping her hands on her apron, she looked out—at the dwindling figure of the solicitor.
“Said as he had an offer to make you, one you couldn’t refuse.” Katy shot Sarah a questioning
look.
She met it with a grin. “In that, he was mistaken. It was an offer to buy the farm, house and land,
but I explained I had no interest in selling.”
Katy nodded, turning back into the house. “Aye, well, I didn’t think you would. Old Lady Cricklade would turn in her grave.”
Looking out once more, Sarah chuckled. “She’d come back to haunt me.” She smiled at the memory of the gaunt, autocratic figure she’d been so fond of, heard again her godmother’s strident tones.
Glancing back as Katy headed for the kitchen, Sarah called, “Katy, if there is any talk of people wanting to buy the farm, do reassure the others—I won’t sell.”
Katy flashed a reassuring smile. “Aye, I’ll do that.”
Sarah looked out again, content to stand in the doorway and gaze across the valley to the rippling rise of the Quantocks. Behind her the orphanage hummed, full of life, full of hope. She’d been inducted into her caregiving role by godmother and mother, but she remained because she wished to, because the orphanage gave her something, too.
As the sun, slanting low, struck beneath the clouds to illuminate the opposite slopes, still cloaked in their winter drab, she tried to define what that something was; she concluded that the orphanage was one of her places, the places in which she had a role to fill, one that in turn fulfilled her, and as such it was a necessary part of her life.
It was, however, only one aspect of her life, one piece in a jigsaw. A jigsaw she’d yet to define, to find enough pieces and set them in place so that she could see the whole.
Her life revealed.
The thought brought her mind back to the subject that, over the past week, had consumed it. Charlie, and his offer. Two items, two pieces, but in reality inseparable; if she wanted one, she had to accept the other. Over all the countless hours she’d spent considering, the real question she’d grappled with was: Was he, and the position he offered, also an essential part of her life?
Should she gladly grasp what he offered, accept it and fit it into her jigsaw? Would it—and he—fit?
That was the critical question, and while she still didn’t know the answer, she knew a great deal more than when he’d so unexpectedly asked her to be his bride.
As he’d stated, they shared a common background, even to the countryside of their birth; contemplation had confirmed there was significant comfort to be drawn from that. Aside from all else, in moving to his home, she would still be surrounded by people she knew. While he would have friends and acquaintances she didn’t know in London and elsewhere beyond the valley, here, at home, their acquaintance was in virtually all respects shared.
Much in their lives was already the same.
Overall, it was difficult to find anything in all that he was physically—as a person, a man, all his possessions and known habits—with which to cavil.
As for less tangible concerns, such as what he felt or might feel for her, she now knew his offer wasn’t solely driven by logic, by the conventional reasons. That there was some other emotion influencing him, although exactly what that was she’d yet to learn. Regardless, it was patently one if not more of the emotions she would want to know he felt for her—passion, desire, even perhaps love. That last remained to be seen, literally, but…what he felt for her might be all she wished it to be.
She considered that, considered what he made her feel, and regretted that while she suspected that given the way he responded to her that what they felt toward each other was in many ways the same, reciprocal and matching, she’d yet to define to her satisfaction what she felt for him, whether or not she truly loved him.
Fascination, enthrallment to the point of sensual abandon, yes, but did that equate to love?
After a moment she left that point as it was—unresolved—and moved on. What else had she learned? While he obviously wished for children, that he liked them and could and would play with them
was a definite bonus.
She scanned her mental list, and was surprised by how many ticks were now in place. Eyes on the road below, she saw another rider pass by, was reminded of Haynes and his client’s offer…
Slowly she straightened, lungs tightening.
If she married Charlie, what would happen to the orphanage? It was a bequest to her, but was now part of her property and, as such, on her marriage, would pass legally to her husband.
She stood and stared unseeing at the rolling dips of the hills, then tightening her arms around herself, she turned and headed inside.
She would have to speak with Charlie.
8
T hat night the moon was full; riding a clear sky untrammeled by clouds, it cast a stark radiance over the hills, silvering the ripples on the weir and streaming into the summer house, where Charlie waited.
There’d been no social gathering to endure that evening; he’d come to the summer house early, hoping Sarah would do the same. Regardless, he’d rather wait here, close to her and the promise of the night, than in the confines of Morwellan Park under the eyes of his observant family.
He paced slowly, conscious, minute by minute, of the hardening of anticipation, of the sharpening of his desire, then he saw Sarah marching along the path—and immediately knew something was wrong.
Arms folded, her shawl clutched about her, she walked quickly along, her gaze fixed not on the summer house but on the path ahead of her.
Her attention wasn’t locked on him, and what was to come; she was absorbed with some other concern.
Had she been any other lady, he would have been irritated that her focus wasn’t on him, and all they might shortly do. Instead, his anticipation, his desire, smoothly, from one heartbeat to the next—at that simple sight of her—transmuted into something else.
He was waiting when she climbed the steps and walked into the softly lit shadows. “What is it?”
She’d raised her head. Drawing close, she blinked at his question, then accepted he’d seen her abstraction and replied, “I was at the orphanage today, and…” Halting before him, through the moonlight, she scanned his face, then, chin firming, continued, “If I accept your offer and marry you, the orphanage, as property I own, will pass into your hands.”
It was his turn to blink. He hadn’t considered that, yet what she said was true.
Pressing her hands together, she turned and paced. “What you may not appreciate is that, to me, the orphanage is considerably more than mere property. As I mentioned, it was left to me by Lady Cricklade, my godmother, of whom I was especially fond, and ever since I was young, both she and Mama encouraged me to take an active interest in the place, not simply oversee it from a distance.”
Halting before one of the arched openings, she lifted her head and gazed out at the weir. “For some years now, I’ve been in charge of running the place.” She turned and through the shadows looked at him. “That takes time, and effort, and care, but in return the orphanage gives me untold satisfaction on many levels.”
She paused, then said, “If I marry, you or anyone else, quite aside from the obligation I feel to Lady Cricklade’s legacy, I doubt that I could happily surrender all that—the interest and the consequent
satisfaction. I certainly wouldn’t do so willingly.”
He walked to join her before the arch; she faced him, and the moonlight poured over her features. “There’s no reason what ever for you to give up anything at all. It’s a simple enough mattter.”
He met her eyes, his mind racing, assessing the ways. “You’re correct in thinking that when we marry ownership of Quilley Farm will pass to me, but we can stipulate as part of the marriage settlements that that title will form part of your dower property. We can arrange that the title, plus a suitable sum invested to provide income for the farm’s upkeep, be set aside for your exclusive use from our wedding day, remaining yours as part of your dower property in the event of my death, to pass on your death to our joint heirs.”
Pausing, he considered, then arched a brow. “Does that meet with your approval?”
Her approval, and rather more. Sarah nodded. “Yes.” She’d known he wasn’t marrying her for money, or for any property she might own, yet she hadn’t expected…“The sum invested…?”
His lips curved. “Consider it in the light of a wedding gift—one of the benefits that will accrue once you marry me.”
She found herself smiling; he was incorrigible in pursuit of a goal, but of his determination she’d never been in doubt. Yet she was surprised—first that he’d been so attuned to her troubled thoughts before she’d said one word or even met his eyes. More, that he’d been so immediately focused on what was troubling her that not one iota of his customary sensual predatory intent toward her had shown through; instead, he’d been the embodiment of a chivalrous knight intent on slaying what ever dragons had dared to darken her path.
A fanciful thought, yet, as she studied him through the shadows, that image lingered. She stirred, then, wrapped in moonlit dark, moved to him; lifting her hands, placing them on his chest, she slowly slid them up to his shoulders as she stepped closer still.
As she boldly pressed herself to him, stretched up, and lightly touched her lips to his. “Thank you.”
She drew back, just enough to focus on his face—to see the change in the austere planes as desire infused and etched his features. The tone he’d employed in discussing the orphanage, brisk, businesslike, his investor’s voice, had reassured her even more than his words. She now knew all she needed to know on the physical plane. Only one question remained.
And she wasn’t averse to grasping unexpected opportunity and turning it to her purpose—to gain the answer to that one remaining question.
Lowering her gaze, she let it fasten on his lips. “That’s a very generous…suggestion.” Hands on his shoulders, she pushed; he hesitated for an instant, then acquiesced and allowed her to steer him back
—until the back of his calves hit the sofa. At her prodding, he sat.
She followed, one hand on his shoulder as she brazenly flicked up her skirt and lifted one knee, then the other, placing them on the cushions on either side of his thighs. Her shawl fell disregarded to the floor as she sat, then edged forward along his hard thighs, leaned in, breast to chest, and kissed him.
Flagrantly, blatantly enticing; she was sure she didn’t need to specify that this was her chosen way of thanking him. Nor did she think, as their lips parted, then fused, as their tongues found each other’s and dueled, as his hands rose to close firm and strong about her waist, that she needed to explain which path she wished to follow.
This time, however, she intended to reach the end.
Charlie sat back, content with her direction, perfectly content, with her lips ravishing his, to follow her lead, to let her lead for the moment. To let the taste of her innocence wreathe through his brain.
Between them, he opened her bodice, bared her breasts for his delectation, then closed his hands
over them, heard her shattered sigh, felt her flesh warm and firm beneath his palms, and rejoiced. Her lips taunted and challenged. Inwardly smug, he drew her up, one arm across her hips; bending her back, he set his lips to her flushed skin, and heard her gasp.
He set about orchestrating a symphony from her, one of sensual, abandoned moans and short, breathy gasps, punctuated by near-sobs of entreaty. Each sound acted powerfully on him, fed and lured his prowling hunger, made it yearn and strain all the more to break free, so it could feast, so it could gorge on her and be sated. More deeply and completely than ever before.
Of that last he was certain, although how he knew he didn’t know, yet instinct, sure and absolute, assured him it was—would be—so.
But that wasn’t part of his plan, not to night. To night was for twisting the sensual rack one notch tighter, for turning the screws of their sensual tension just a tad more—enough to make her wild with wanting, enough to make her agree to be his.
Soon. She had to agree soon.
That was the only real thought in his brain as he feasted on her flushed breasts, as her soft cries of delight fell on his ears, as he felt her fingers twine and tangle in his hair. She was responsive, and made no move to hide it, no effort what ever to conceal from him all that he made her feel.
Her eyes glinted from beneath heavy lids as he raised his head enough to look down on the rosy mounds he’d captured, enough to gloat over their beauty, enough to feel sharp, lancing satisfaction over their swollen roundness, their sumptuous weight, at the tightly furled nipples he slowly rolled between his fingertips.
She sucked in a tight, tortured breath. Her fingers, locked in his hair, tightened, then clenched. She tugged and he lifted his face—so that they could kiss again, so he could raise one hand and frame her face and sink into the luscious haven of her mouth. So he could taste her again and enjoy.
He did, then abruptly found his head reeling. Between them, she’d reached down and found him, hard as steel, as rigid as iron. She touched, then pressed her palm to his aching length, through the fabric of his breeches boldly caressed.
And he was lost. Caught and swept adrift on an upswell of sensual heat, on a sharply rising wave of burning desire.
Before he could catch his breath, before he could summon enough wit, let alone will, to catch her hand and remove it, she slumped against him, bare breasts to his now equally bare chest—when had she managed that?—and murmured, her voice low and sultry, a siren’s whisper in the night, “You want me— why?”
He couldn’t think, so he didn’t answer.
Her hand shifted, fingers seeking, sliding. Eyes closed, he clung to sanity, tried to remember his plan…he’d had one, hadn’t he?
“You don’t want to marry me for money—I’m not that wealthy and you’re already rich.”
The words feathered over his lips as she supped, sipped, then let her lips drift to trace the line of his clenched jaw. All the while her fingers played. His tensed on her back, then slid to her sides and gripped; he should lift her away, at least enough to gather his scattered wits, but she was swaying, just a little side to side, against him—the feel of her breasts caressing his chest was too tempting. He hesitated, not wanting to cut short the feeling, not yet, not until his parched senses had drunk their fill.
“You’re not marrying me for dynastic reasons, either.” She purred the words into his ear, for one instant closed her hand, then eased her hold. “My family’s not important enough for that. If anything, the Conninghams are a trifle low on the scale for an alliance with the earls of Meredith.”
Her statements reached him through a steadily rising tide of desire; arguing was beyond him, not least because all she said was true.
“And you’re certainly not marrying me for any cachet I personally might bring you—I’m not a diamond of the first water, no spectacular beauty, no toast of the ton.” She raised her head and looked into his face. “I’m not and never have been a trophy to be won.”
He tried to frown. That was wrong. He might not have seen her naked yet, but his senses in respect to womanly beauty had been educated to the highest degree; when he finally had her naked in his arms, she would be a goddess, skin pearly white, every curve a delight, every line of her body created just for him—solely and deliberately to sate his senses. “I—”
She laid a finger across his lips. “You want me.” Her hand shifted, stroked; there was no point arguing. “But why?” She tilted her head, through the moon-washed shadows searched his face, his eyes. “Why do you want me?”
Then she waited. And he realized he would have to answer. That with her hand, small, warm, intensely feminine, cradling his rampant erection, with his senses reeling, with his hunger clawing so close to his surface, he no longer had any other option; he no longer possessed the strength to deny her, to turn her straightforward, direct, and highly pertinent query aside.
He also couldn’t lie—not to her, not here and now with the heat of passion shimmering all around them. The lick of flame was almost palpable on his skin as he drew breath and managed, “Because you’ re you.” His voice was low, a dark, gravelly rumble to answer her sultry siren’s call. He looked into her eyes, then let his gaze fall to her lips. He licked his, and confessed, “You are what I want.”
There were no other words he could find to express what she made him feel, what he felt for her.
How he felt about her and only her. He wanted her more than he’d wanted any woman before. The feelings, now she’d forced him to look, were strange, different, not anything so simple as the customary desire a man felt for a woman, a desire with which he was amply familiar. This was something different, and if he were truthful, always had been. He’d told himself it was because she was the one he’d chosen to be his wife, but that begged her question. What was this he felt?
All he knew was that it was stronger, that the passion flared hotter, the desire ranging that much more deeply and widely, all-encompassing in its power.
It had continually surprised him, and now, sitting in the moonlit dark with her so close, so wantonly enticing, with her direction—the fullness of it—there in her eyes, he discovered that it was even stronger than he’d thought.
That it wasn’t fueled solely by his need but by hers as well, and together, combined, their mutual wanting held power enough to turn his head.
She hadn’t said anything, but had studied him; now she smiled her siren’s smile, as if his answer had been sufficient to pay her price. That softly glowing smile stated that she was, if not completely appeased, then satisfied enough, more, that she wanted to go forward and yield more, seek more, learn more. Of him. And herself. Of them together.
Shifting sinuously, she swayed close, offered her mouth—and he took. Greedily, hungrily, he plunged them back into the heat that hovered, unabated. Cradling her head, he kissed her, increasingly explicitly, and she kissed him back, and the heat closed around them. Engulfed them, infused them.
The flames built, then roared and drove them.
Between them, she undid the buttons holding the placket of his breeches closed; her small hand slid beneath the fabric, and found him.
He sucked in a breath at that first innocent touch; his control quaked as her grip firmed, then her fingers eased and she stroked, and he felt like growling.
Releasing her waist, with a quick tug he raised her skirts and reached beneath. Found the soft flesh between her thighs and caressed, then lightly probed.
She shuddered, caught her breath, then her fingers trailed tantalizingly down his length. Closing her hand about his turgid flesh, she gently tugged.
Her meaning couldn’t have been clearer.
And this time he had no ability, no thought in his head, to deny her.
Just a small adjustment of her body over his and he could draw her down and sheath his erection in her slick softness; despite the potent attraction, he knew that this time it couldn’t be that way. Not for her. Not the first time. He was too large, too engorged, for her to take him easily that way; she might balk, and find it too difficult to go on…
Deftly he turned her and tumbled her down to the cushions. She went readily, reassured when he moved with her, willingly surrendering to the pull of one small hand gripping his shoulder. He settled between her thighs, spread wide on either side of his hips, the fingers of one hand still buried within her sheath, his other hand cradling her head, keeping her immersed in their kiss.
He hadn’t intended their first time to be like this, on a sofa in the summer house with the night dark about them, a coupling accomplished beneath layers of clothes, his and hers. He would have preferred to be naked, to have her naked, too, but it was too chilly to undress; while the heat of passion had allowed him to bare her breasts, to not even notice that she’d bared his chest, the night was too cold for them to dispense with further clothes.
Beneath her skirts, she guided his erection to her entrance; drawing his fingers from her sheath, so hot and wet and ready for him, he caught her hand, twined her fingers with his, and drew them away.
And sank slowly, carefully, into her scalding heat.
Her breath hitched. She tensed, then through the kiss caught her breath and fought to relax, to reverse the instinctive tightening. Her fingers clutched his. He pressed in, steady, sure, not too fast yet not so slow that she had time to think too much. Then he reached the barrier that was her maidenhead; with one powerful thrust he breached it, with the movement forging deep into her body.
She cried out, the sound muffled between their lips, and tensed. He held still, giving her time to
adjust.
Giving himself time to still his whirling senses. To assimilate the feel of scalding velvet gripping him
so tightly. To grit his teeth and hold against the powerful, all but overwhelming urge to ride her, hard and fast. As some part of him had wanted to do for a very long time.
He’d told her it would be like this, with her legs spread, her knees clasped about his flanks, with her body open beneath his, with him sunk to the hilt within her, filling her.
His senses continued to reel, more affected than he’d imagined they could be. Rational thought was far beyond him, but snippets flashed over the surface of his mind. He was dimly aware that this wasn ’t his plan, that complying with her wishes had gone counter to his aim. Yet his plan no longer mattered— not as much as appeasing her, as satisfying the want, the desire that had risen within her, that he’d evoked, lured forth, and fed. In that moment nothing mattered as much as answering her call and filling her as she wished.
She wanted, her heightened desire now sharp and keen, and he wanted, fiercely, compulsively, to satisfy her need, to bring her to glory and share in her delight.
Her plea sure would be his; he knew that without thinking. He’d claimed her; his was the right to bring her that deepest plea sure, to take her and fill her and show her the golden glory of earthly paradise.
With a soft, evocative sigh she eased, her body giving, accepting. Instinctively she contracted the
muscles of her stretched sheath, felt him there, and shivered.
Gritting his teeth against the inevitable effect of that evocative caress, he drew back just a little, then forged in again, filling her even more completely. Her breath left her and she clutched, both with her hands and her body. He eased back again, filled her anew; her breasts swelled as she breathed in, then she followed his rhythm.
He set the pace, slow, steady, only gradually increasing as he sensed her response, as desire rose, fresh and urgent, and the fires of passion reclaimed them, and the conflagration built.
And it was more, so much more, than the act had ever been. Reaching deeper, further, into some part of him he hadn’t known could be touched, the intimate surrender and the possession sank to his bones. Her surrender to him, and his to her; his possession of her, and hers of him. This wasn’t any simple joining, the usual trading of plea sure, but one intricate and involved, layered with meaning, coiled and twined with feelings and emotions he’d never before encountered, not in this arena.
Not between the woman who lay beneath him, so gladly and wantonly accepting him into her body, and him.
As if she were his goddess in truth, the keeper of his soul, and he could do nothing other than worship her.
Sarah rode with him and felt her body rejoice, felt her senses whirl and sing with plea sure. She was exquisitely conscious, to her fingernails aware of the shattering intimacy of their joining. Eyes closed, hearing suspended, her world condensed to just him and her, and another world came alive, a landscape filled with feeling, with heat and longing, with sensation and power and the promise of glory.
He moved within her and she rode out each thrust, met and matched him, welcomed and reluctantly released him again.
Pleasure and delight bloomed, welled, then spilled through her. The momentary pain had faded so fast it was already a dim memory, overwhelmed by the solid and immediate reality of him hard and strong and so elementally male, joining so deeply and inexorably with her.
His fingers slid from hers, sliding down and around to grip one globe of her bottom. He tilted her hips, and she gasped as the altered position let him penetrate her more deeply still.
The reined power behind each deliberate thrust sent a thrill arcing through her. A primitive sense of danger, the recognition of vulnerabilty; he was so much stronger than she, his body so much harder, so much more powerful than hers.
Yet he was careful. The realization slid through her, but she couldn’t focus enough to think, then the heat of their passion rose another degree and claimed her.
Sent fire and a hungry, ravenous need sliding through her veins, making her writhe, making her gasp. It inexorably branded desire deep into her flesh, marking and searing, until she burned.
Until her body was aflame, until the flames coalesced and concentrated, burning fiercer and hotter until she sobbed and clung and desperately urged him on, and he rode her faster, harder, deeper.
Until with a rush, all heat and yearning, she found herself clinging to that final, dizzying peak. Felt him thrust one last time and shatter her, felt the furnace within her that he’d stoked and fed rupture, felt glory pour forth and sear her veins.
And rush through her.
She spiraled through a void, cushioned in heated bliss, her mind disconnected. Dimly, she heard him groan, long-drawn and guttural, was distantly aware that, joined deeply with her, he went rigid in her arms. She felt, from far away, the warmth of his seed spill inside her.
Buoyed by glory, cocooned in golden rapture, she smiled.
S he’d found her answer—several answers, in fact.
When she could think again, Sarah felt rather smug. Not only had she succeeded in reaching the end of the path, but the plea sure she’d found there had proved even more delicious than she’d imagined.
That, however, relatively speaking, was incidental. She’d had one principal aim in taking that path, one question she’d wanted answered, and if he hadn’t given her that answer in clear and simple words, he had shown her. More than enough for her to grasp the truth. Actions, after all, spoke louder than words. Especially with gentlemen, or so she’d always heard.
And perhaps he was right; answering in words wasn’t easy. Even now she found it difficult to describe even to herself what she’d sensed. A power, insubstantial, elusive, yet potent, an emotional imperative, something capable of overriding rational will, of directing behavior to suit its own ends, but those ends were focused on another.
That power seemed to exist solely in terms of another.
She’d given herself to him, yet his focus had been on giving her plea sure, and only secondarily in taking his.
Contrarily, her focus had been on him; much of her actions had been driven by an instinctive need to sate the desire she evoked in him. To plea sure him.
To agree to their wedding, her price was love, and of all the emotions that power might be, love was the only one that accounted for all she’d sensed, especially that compulsion to give, to lavish on the other all one could.
She now knew she felt that way about him; after the last hour, she accepted that she did, that when they were together and the world wasn’t there to distract them, he and his needs and wants became the dominant focus of her mind. She now knew how that feeling, that power, compelled her to act, and his actions were the converse of hers.
Love might be hard to describe, but its symptoms were clear.
If what she felt for him was love, then presumably what he felt for her, what was driving him to marry her and only her, was the same.
She reached that conclusion as he shifted; the movement drew her back to the world. She lifted heavy lids to re orient herself. At some point he’d rearranged them; he was now sitting on the sofa with her in his lap, wrapped in his arms. Her head rested on his chest, one palm splayed over his heart. The heat of his skin, the warmth surrounding her, the solid beat of his heart beneath her palm reassured and more; there was, in that moment, nowhere she’d rather be.
Sensual consciousness drifted back to her; her body felt different—glorious and alive in a way it hadn’t been before.
And then you’ll be complete. So he’d told her, and now she understood. With him, she was whole. He was a necessary piece of the jigsaw of her life; she couldn’t imagine feeling this way— behaving this way—with any other man.
His arm tightened; he bent his head and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. “Are you all right?”
Charlie heard the concern in his voice; he felt it to his marrow. He knew she’d been conscious for some minutes, but she’d remained so still, so silent. Had the pain been too much, or the plea sure too shocking?
He could barely form a coherent thought himself, and he was far more experienced than she. Not
that being rendered all but non compos mentis was in any way usual for him; he still didn’t understand how it could be, yet with Sarah everything, even those moments he’d lived through hundreds of times with dozens of other ladies, seemed intrinsically different.
To his relief, she moved her head and pressed a soft kiss to his chest—a caress that sank much deeper. “Yes. That was…lovely.”
Her tone, the sigh on which the word “lovely” floated, soothed his ego. The shimmery amazement with which she’d invested the word expressed something of what he, too, felt.
Regardless, he now had to readjust his plan—again. And this time, the variation was dramatic. He ’d thought that once they’d indulged, he would no longer have anything with which to so strongly lure her, at least not on the plane of sensual curiosity, but given the intensity of what had just transpired, perhaps that wasn’t the case. He was certainly curious, more curious than he’d been in far longer than he could remember. If they indulged again, would it be as glorious? As invested with deeper feeling, as intensely enthralling?
But would such questions occur to her? Unlike him, she had no previous encounters against which to judge theirs.
He didn’t know whether she would think in such terms, didn’t feel confident enough to base a strategy on that point.
Which left him considering the insistent chant his more primitive self was repeating, over and over, in his brain.
You have to marry me now.
He knew better than to utter those words. He had four sisters, three of them wed, and Augusta was eighteen. Such words would be met with scorn and derision, and subsequently entrenched resistance, even though they were true. He wasn’t letting her go; she certainly wouldn’t be marrying anyone else.
But surely there was some way he could use their intimacy to advance his cause? Without sparking resistance instead of acquiescence.
His mind balked. He mentally snorted. What was the use of having a honeyed tongue and charm enough to tame gorgons if he couldn’t convince the lady lying so sweetly and utterly sated in his arms to be his?
“I’ve made up my mind.”
The soft words jolted him. He looked down.
She lifted her head, looked up at him and smiled, the dreamy glory of satiation still hazing her eyes. “I’ll marry you.” She tilted her head, her eyes on his. “As soon as you like.”
Sarah had remembered the gypsy’s prophecy. It was her decision, not his. If she wanted love, it was she who had to make the declaration, to make up her mind, accept the risk and grasp the chance and go forward.
She understood that despite all, there was a risk—she might have read things wrongly—but if she wanted love, she had to take the offered chance and go forward to find and secure it.
So she would.
His eyes had widened, but his features were blank—truly blank as if she’d surprised him. Then he blinked, and she sensed he was searching for words. In the end, his eyes locked with hers, he drew in a huge breath, and, jaw firming, nodded. “Good.”
I f it had been left to Charlie, as soon as he liked would have meant the next day. Unfortunately, once apprised of their agreement to marry, Sarah’s mother and his proved to have other ideas.
“Tuesday next week,” Serena declared, her fine eyes steady on his face. From his stance before the fireplace, Charlie stared back. Hard.
They were in the drawing room at the Park. As early as acceptable that morning, he’d driven to the manor to, with Sarah, speak with her parents; after the expected delighted outpourings, they’d all journeyed to Morwellan Park to consult with Serena.
Correctly divining the unvoiced protest behind his rigidly impassive countenance, Serena explained, “Sarah will need time in Bath to assemble her trousseau, and Lord Conningham and I will need to oversee a multitude of arrangements here. The wedding of the Earl of Meredith will, naturally, be a major event.”
The look in Serena’s eyes warned that resistance would be futile; he was her eldest son, and she wasn’t going to allow his marriage to pass off without due pomp and ceremony. Indeed, she’d already acceded to more than he had any right to expect; she hadn’t insisted he and Sarah marry in St. George’s, Hanover Square.
“Very well.” His jaw felt as if it were cracking, but he fought to keep his tone mild, in keeping with the celebratory atmosphere. He inclined his head to both Serena and Lady Conningham. “Tuesday next it is.”
Seven full days away. Seven nights as well.
“Excellent!” Lady Conningham, seated in one of the large armchairs before the hearth, looked at Sarah. “We’ll leave first thing tomorrow, my dear. We’ll need all the hours we can muster in Bath, what with the girls’ dresses to fit as well. Let alone all the rest.” Her ladyship held up her fingers one by one, clearly mentally counting. “Dear me—we won’t be back until Monday.”
She looked not at Sarah or Charlie but to Serena, who dismissed her silent question with a wave. “I’m sure,” Serena said, “that Frederick and I can take care of all the details here. And of couse Alathea will help.”
That was the start of an avid discussion encompassing “all the details.” Charlie listened with only half an ear; he was far more exercised by the thought of seven nights of enforced abstinence than with the question of which carriage they, as the happy couple, should use for the journey back from the church.
He looked at his wife-to-be, seated on the chaise beside his mother. Sarah was alert, paying attention, quick to step in and declare her preference if any potential option was offered. Better her than him, and it was wise of her to do so; he suppressed a shudder as she firmly quashed the idea of a platoon of flower girls and boys to precede her into the church. With such potential horrors threatening, he didn’t try to distract her but waited with assumed patience until the discussion finally came to an end.
By then grooms were already flying hither and yon, delivering invitations for an impromptu dinner to announce their engagement to be held at the Park that very evening.
“Such a rush!” Lady Conningham declared. “But it simply has to be.”
Serena shot him a warning look, but Charlie merely smiled, and kept his opinion to himself.
His charm came to his aid in conducting his prospective in-laws and his bride-to-be out to their carriage. He seized the moment as Lord Conningham helped his wife into the carriage to lean close to Sarah, on his arm, and whisper, “To night. As usual.”
She caught his eye, hesitated, then nodded. “All right, but I might be late. They’re going to want to
talk for hours.”
He grimaced, but nodded back. The look in her eyes was some consolation. As he helped her into the carriage, she met his eyes again. Her fingers tightened on his; he returned the pressure, then released her and stepped back.
The groom shut the carriage door. Charlie raised his hand in salute, and saw Sarah look back, and
smile.
As resigned as he felt. The sight left him feeling just a little less frayed.
9
P ut upon—that’s how Charlie was feeling by the time he finally reached the summer house, only to discover Sarah still not there.
In the gloom, he cursed, then paced and waited.
The stresses of the evening had been many. Celia and Martin Cynster, along with Alathea, Gabriel, and their children, had descended on the Park; together with Sarah’s sisters, her parents, and Jeremy and Augusta, they’d formed the family core of the gathering before which Lord Conningham had announced the engagement of his daughter to Lord Charles Morwellan, eighth Earl of Meredith.
Also present had been the vicar, Mr. Duncliffe, who would officiate on Tuesday next, Mrs.
Duncliffe, and Lady Finsbury and Lady Cruikshank and their lords, among others from the local area summoned to bear witness. Given the latter-named ladies’ propensities, Charlie had no doubt that news of the betrothal would soon be spread the length and breadth of the ton.
His mother, Celia, and Alathea would, of course, do their part, too.
The gathering had been joyous, the tone happy and relaxed; indeed, the whole had passed off better than he’d hoped, yet throughout he’d been conscious of building impatience.
In business dealings he’d never had this problem, the feeling he was constantly battling to restrain himself, to hold himself back, to make some powerful and quite primitive part of him toe a civil line. And there was no real reason for it now that Sarah had agreed to be his; logically he knew that, yet the driving insistence had yet to ease.
Indeed, if anything, it had grown more pronounced.
He could only attribute it to the unusual depth of his hunger for her, a depth he’d yet to sate; presumably once she’d been his, had given herself to him a few more times, the compulsive itch would fade.
He wished he could believe that, believe that the compulsion was purely physical, that its power arose from nothing more than as-yet unslaked desire. He told himself that it couldn’t be anything else, yet…
A light, fleeting footstep had him turning.
Sarah came running down the path, then pattered up the steps. She came quickly to him. “I’m sorry—it was as I said. They wanted to—”
He jerked her into his arms.
Sarah swallowed her next words as he kissed her, ravenously hungry and demanding. All thought of apology fled from her head, overwhelmed by the need to appease, to sate, to give him all he wished, all he wanted.
He transparently didn’t want to talk.
In what felt like mere seconds, he had her beneath him on the sofa, her bodice open to her waist, her breasts swelling under the expert ministrations of one hand, while his other hand drew up her skirts, and slid beneath.
The fires between them had already flared and ignited; his seeking fingers found her entrance already slick and wet—he caressed, probed, and the flames roared.
Having weathered the storm once, she embraced it and gloried in it, thrilled to be wanted with such unwavering intent, with such concerted focus, with such…adoration. Despite the passion driving him, despite the desire that had hardened his body, that infused every caress with a driven edge, behind all was a care that never wavered.
A care that had him holding back, his breathing as ragged as hers, his kiss every bit as desperate, until his clever fingers sent her wits spinning from this world and submerged her senses in indescribable plea sure.
Only then did he shift, pin her beneath him, and thrust into her.
She gasped, arched beneath him, then moaned as he took advantage of her instinctive invitation and drove even deeper into her very willing body. She clamped around him and he paused, eyes closed, every muscle clenched and tight, on the cusp of quivering, then he drew in a labored breath, withdrew and thrust anew, and she lost touch with the world.
And once again all she knew was the heat and the flames and the steady, relentless possession.
The giddy plea sure and delight, and beneath and through it all threaded the elusive evidence of his loving.
It was there in the catch in his breath when she shifted, rose beneath him and moved against him, letting the fascinatingly crinkly hair on his chest abrade her excruciatingly sensitive nipples.
There in the way he slowed, metaphorically gripped her hand and drew her back from the brink so that she didn’t rush ahead and end the plea sure too soon, but instead caught her sensual breath and joined again with him in that primitive and evocative dance. An extended mea sure, more detailed than the first time. More all-consuming, all-absorbing. More intimate.
Love was there in the guttural whispers of encouragement he fed her when she once more started that inexorable climb, when passion roared and she suddenly found it upon her, near and so intense.
There in the way in which he held her, cradled her, all the while moving so relentlessly within her, stoking the flames, sending her senses careening.
There in the moment when ecstasy claimed her and he held her close, and held still, muscles quivering with restraint, prolonging the moment until she wept with simple joy.
There in the final helpless moment when he lost himself in her.
B ecause she was looking, and now knew what to look for, and when, she saw.
Sarah set off the next morning with her mother, Twitters, Clara, and Gloria for five days in Bath, sleepily content, convinced that she’d made the right decision.
Whether Charlie knew it or not, whether it was love full-blown or merely the first tender shoots of a plant they would take a lifetime to fully cultivate, she didn’t know. But the potential was there, beyond question, beyond doubt, and that was all she needed to know.
With a sigh, she closed her eyes, settled her head back against the squabs, and relived, yet again, the events of the previous night.
W here was his control? Why, when faced with her, did it simply evaporate?
That and similar questions wreathed through Charlie’s brain as, two days later, he guided his grays down the slope into Watchet.
He’d spent the time since Sarah left immersed in business, not only that of estate and fortune but also the business of marriage. He and Lord Conningham had agreed on the marriage settlements; they were presently being drawn up. His lordship had been surprised by his stipulation regarding Quilley Farm, and had commented on his generosity and understanding. He’d held his tongue, yet the urge to admit that generosity had had little to do with it, but that understanding of Sarah had indeed driven the matter, had been strong.
Quilley Farm had been a small price to pay to ensure that she became his.
Which brought him once again to the vexed question of his passion for her, his wife-to-be. With no prior experience to guide her, she couldn’t know, and with any luck would never guess, that his…desperation—he had no other word for it—when he was with her was not the usual, customary way of things for gentlemen such as he.
Never before had passion ruled him, not like this. Not to the extent that when he was with her, driving her to the pinnacle of earthly bliss, preferably while he was buried deep inside her and subsequently, as his reward, joining her, became to all intents and purposes his single overriding aim in life.
It was…faintly shocking. Even harrowing. Such a connection was certainly not what he’d expected, not with sweet innocent Sarah.
Yet sweet innocence seemed to be his sensual drug. How could he have known?
The archway of the Bell Inn appeared before him. Slowing the grays, he told himself, as he had a hundred times over the past forty-eight hours, that his reaction to her was an addiction and, once sated, that addiction would fade.
He simply had to see it through, and that would certainly be no hardship. A month or so of married life, and all would be well. He just had to stay the course.
Leaving the grays at the inn, he walked up to the shelf of land on which he intended to build his new ware house. Sarah had been right; a ware house twice the usual size would be a better investment on numerous counts than two normal-sized structures. The local builder he habitually employed, Carruthers, was waiting to meet with him. They discussed the project at length, then parted, Carruthers to liaise with the local draftsman over plans and costs while Charlie wandered back to the docks and thence to Jones’s office.
The agent was pleased to see him. “I don’t know what’s in the air,” Jones said, “but there’s a number of outsiders sniffing around.”
Charlie raised his brows. “Sinclair?”
“He’s one. But there’s another man about, not a gentleman but he’s asking questions for someone.” Jones grinned. “And if the latest news from the shipping lines is anything to go by, they’re onto the right scent.”
By which Jones meant the scent of increasing traffic in goods through Watchet. Charlie smiled back. “Excellent news for us, then, as I’ve decided on the new ware house.” He filled Jones in on his decision; the prospect of a double-sized structure quite made Jones’s day.
After discussing when the new ware house might be usable, and matching that with the seasonal
traffic of goods and thus which merchants Jones should approach, Charlie left the agent juggling figures and stepped back into the High Street.
He paused on the narrow pavement, looking down toward the harbor. “Lord Meredith. Well met.”
Charlie turned. Smiling, he held out his hand. “Sinclair. And it’s Charlie.”
Returning his smile, Malcolm Sinclair shook his hand. “Malcolm. I was about to adjourn to the Bell Inn for luncheon. Will you join me?”
“I’d be delighted.”
They crossed the cobbled street and entered the inn; the advent of two such customers, both tall, well setup, elegantly accoutred gentlemen, brought Matthews, the owner, scurrying. He bowed them to the same table Sarah and Charlie had shared, set in the nook with a view of the harbor.
Malcolm nodded toward the cargo vessels undulating on the waves. “I’ve seen many small harbors around the coast, but this one’s always busy.”
“It’s an excellent alternative to Bristol, especially for certain cargoes.” They sat and Matthews hurried to serve them a first course of soup and fresh crusty bread.
When the innkeeper withdrew, Charlie glanced at Malcolm. “Are you intending to stay in the
area?”
Malcolm sampled the soup, then admitted, “I’m definitely looking to settle in the locality.” “You don’t have a residence elsewhere?”
While they ate the soup, Malcolm explained, “I was orphaned at an early age with no close
relatives. Consequently it was Eton, Oxford, and my guardian’s house in London—and London is home to all Englishmen after a fashion—so no, I never formed connections to any region. Now, however, I feel the lack of a place to which I can retreat, and of all the counties of En gland, and I’ve traveled over them all, this area appeals to me the most.”
Malcolm met Charlie’s eyes. “You might not notice it, having been born to it, but the countryside hereabouts is uncommonly attractive and simultaneously restful. Not spectacular so much as soothing. I’ ve been looking around for just the right estate.”
Charlie smiled. “If I hear any useful whispers I’ll pass them on.”
“Do,” Malcolm said. “But one question I wanted to ask of you. Given that you are, as I am, involved in investing to a high degree, how do you find doing business from here? How reliable are communications with London, for instance in winter? Is this area cut off? And if so, for how long?”
“In that, we’re uncommonly lucky.” Charlie sat back as the soup plates were removed, then outlined the various modes of communication with the capital, explaining why they were rarely disrupted. From there, they moved to a discussion of investments, which types each favored long-term, and so to their current personal interests.
While both avoided naming specific projects, Malcolm let fall enough for Charlie to realize that the man was as inherently cautious as he and Gabriel were; not one of them liked to lose money. However, Malcolm had plainly found ways in which to make investments that were inherently risky, and which therefore, if successful, gave commensurately greater returns, somehow acceptable to his cautious soul.
That intrigued Charlie. While he’d never had any difficulty resisting the lure of risky investments, not sharing in the success—and those commensurately greater returns—nevertheless irked. Gabriel felt the same.
“I do much of my investing through the Cynster funds—those managed by Gabriel Cynster.”
Twirling a goblet of red wine between his fingers, Charlie grimaced. “But I have to admit we tend to stick to the tried and true—it’s mostly funds themselves, and the financing of projects, rather than the direct development of new ventures.”
Malcolm nodded. “I spent some time chatting with Cynster the other week. Everyone knows of the Cynster funds, of course, and they have been hugely successful over time. That, however, is the
long-term approach, and while one can hardly criticize, there is a lack of…excitement, I suppose. Of real involvement with the frontiers of new business.”
“Exactly.” Charlie grinned. “The long-term is sure, but hellishly dry. While ever-increasing figures in ledgers are always nice to see, they rarely inspire victorious delight.”
They paused while the main course of roast beef was laid before them. They picked up their knives and forks; silence reigned for some minutes, then Charlie asked, “Tell me, how did you get involved with the railways?”
That was clearly a question Malcolm had frequently been asked. “I was lucky. I was about in ’20 when Stephenson was doing the rounds trying to drum up backers for the Stockton-Darlington. While there was a lot of interest in the concept, most preferred to sit on the sidelines until there was some evidence the business would work. At the time, I had the cash and, of course, it was only a short stretch, the trial as it were. So I bought in. There was only a handful of us, and once the line opened and the proof was there to see, that small group became the first port of call as potential backers for every new line. Out of that, I went into the Liverpool-Manchester, and I’ve bought into the extension to London, too.”
“So you’ve done well out of your investments in the railways.” Charlie patted his lips with his napkin, then pushed aside his plate.
“Yes.” Malcolm frowned. “But I haven’t taken positions in any of the other—so very many other
—projects currently proposed.” “Oh? Why?”
“There’s too damned many of them for a start. Everyone’s jumped on the bandwagon, and proposals are being floated for every conceivable connection. There’s commercial sense in joining London with Manchester and Liverpool. I’m less sure of the wisdom, in terms of solid and quick returns, in the Newcastle-Carlisle, yet they’ve started laying track. And I know the London-Bristol is in the wind, and that makes commercial sense, but—and this is the problem with so many proposals being touted these days—when will it be running, when will the returns eventuate and will they be sufficient to cover the time taken between investment and the first flow of returns?”
Charlie understood. “You’re saying the time frame has blown out.”
Malcolm nodded. “Consider Stockton-Darlington. We paid in in early ’21, they started immediately, and the first stock rolled in ’25, with a defined and ready market to run to capacity, more or less indefinitely. A relatively short span of time for a very sound return. The Liverpool-Manchester took from ’27 to ’30. Again a reasonable time for a solid return. The extension to London, however, will take many more years to complete. Since I realized that, I’ve been much more careful and, frankly, none of the proposals currently doing the rounds will see any return for…it might be more than a decade.”
Sitting back, Malcolm met Charlie’s eyes. “That’s not the sort of project I’m comfortable with.” He held up one hand. “Don’t mistake me—I’m sure most of these railways will eventually be built. But the time in the capital phase is no longer in an investor’s favor.”
He paused, as if considering, then added, “In addition to that, too many of these proposals are being floated by the same small set of senior investors. They need others to buy in to make the projects fly, but they themselves are too financially stretched to allow each project to proceed at the proposed pace. I wouldn’t be surprised if over the next decade a number of syndicates founder.”
Eyes narrowed, Charlie said, “So it’s a case of trying to do too much, too quickly, and with too little overall available capital—at least capital available for such distant returns.”
Malcolm nodded. “There’s also precious little attention being given to the difficulties of construction that some proposals face. Yet another reason to steer clear of railways, at least in terms of investing.”
Charlie’s brows rose. “Indeed!”
The meal completed, they pushed back their chairs and rose. After settling with the innkeeper, they walked out onto the pavement. Charlie turned to Malcolm. “Thank you for your insights—they were fascinating.”
“Not at all.” Malcolm offered his hand; Charlie gripped it. “It was a plea sure to talk to someone with similar interests.”
Charlie felt the same. “We must get together again sometime, and explore our mutual interests further.”
Malcolm inclined his head and they parted, both well pleased.
Charlie looked down at the harbor. The wind had risen, whipping the waves to whitecaps. Not good sailing weather. And the last time he’d been out, he’d had Sarah with him…
Turning on his heel, he headed for the inn yard. Better he drive himself home, and then find something else to occupy his mind.
T he wedding preparations proceeded apace under his mother’s and Lord Conningham’s direction; there was little for Charlie to do—indeed everyone was of the opinion he should simply stay out of the way. Consequently, two evenings later, after spending the day driving about the county with Jason, Juliet, and Henry, he was hiding in the library reading the day’s news sheets, quietly desperate to find some topic of sufficient interest to see him through the evening, when Crisp, his butler, entered to announce, “Mr. Adair has called, my lord.”
Charlie blinked, sat up, and laid aside the news sheet. “Show him in, Crisp.”
Curiosity stirring, he wondered what Barnaby was doing in the neighborhood, and at such an hour.
Something had to be afoot.
One glance at Barnaby as he came through the door confirmed that. His expression was serious, his blond curls rumpled, his cravat rather limp; he was still the same well-dressed and handsome gentleman of the haut ton, but he appeared distinctly travel worn.
Rising, Charlie met him, shaking his hand and clapping him on the shoulder before waving him to the armchairs before the blazing fire. “Sit and get warm.” Barnaby’s hands were chilled. “Have you dined?”
Barnaby shook his head. “I drove directly from town.” Charlie raised his brows. “You’re staying, I take it?”
Sinking into an armchair, Barnaby’s lips twitched. “If you have room.”
With a grin—the Park was huge—Charlie turned to Crisp and gave orders for a substantial supper for Barnaby, and for a room to be prepared. Crisp departed. Charlie strolled to the tantalus. “Brandy?”
“Please.” Barnaby leaned back in the chair. “It’s bitter out there.”
Charlie glanced at Barnaby. More than the weather was affecting his friend. His face was uncharacteristically grim and set, as if it had been that way, unrelieved, for days.
Strolling over to deliver a tumbler of French brandy, Charlie then crossed to the other armchair and sat. He sipped, taking in the strain in Barnaby’s face. It eased as he, too, sipped the fiery liquid. Charlie leaned back. “So—what’s up?”
“Dark doings, of an especially exercising sort.”
Charlie waited. Eventually Barnaby went on, “The pater and the other commissioners have asked for my help—official, but on the quiet—to investigate, and if at all possible bring to justice whoever’s behind a particularly nasty series of cases of land profiteering.”
Barnaby’s father was one of the peers overseeing the recently instituted metropolitan police force.
Charlie frowned. “Series of cases?”
Barnaby sipped and nodded. “That’s part of the nastiness. That individual cases of minor profiteering might occur from time to time would surprise no one, and indeed it’s no crime, but these cases—and I’ll explain in a moment why they’re different—have been happening up and down the country for years. Literally for about a decade. Everyone’s horrified that the villains have been so active, and for so long, all apparently in perfect safety, but because the cases have been so geographically spread, no one realized.”
He paused to sip again. “Until recently, there was no central authority to whom such crimes would be reported.” He humphed. “Mind you, the first week and more of my time has gone in hieing up and down the country, dragging full accounts of all the known cases from magistrates and sheriffs and lord lieutenants.”
Barnaby sighed. Leaning back, he closed his eyes. “I stopped in Newmarket on my way back to town and stayed with Dillon and Pris. When he heard what I was about, Dillon called Demon in and we sat down and put together all I’ve learned. It’s clear the situation is both serious and very difficult to pursue. We tossed around various avenues, and in the end we agreed that the best bet was to come to you and Gabriel.”
Charlie’s frown deepened. “I haven’t heard any tales of land profiteering hereabouts, or elsewhere, and I’m sure Gabriel hasn’t, either.”
Wearily Barnaby waved his glass. “That’s one of the neat things about profiteering—no one ever learns about it until long after the deed is done. If then. Even with these particular cases, it was only because some of these new railway companies have senior investors in common, and said senior investors have been deuced unhappy, not to say apoplectic, over the extortionary prices their companies have been and are being forced to pay for certain parcels of land, that they approached the police with a list of properties their companies have paid huge sums for, wanting the matter looked into—and then the pater called me in.”
“Ah.” Cynical understanding colored Charlie’s tone. “I see.” Many of those senior investors were peers and similarly wealthy individuals, the sort the authorities would wish to placate. “So the bit are biting back?”
“So to speak.” Barnaby paused, then continued, “From Newmarket I went to London, and consulted with the pater and our old friend Inspector Stokes. The long and short of that was that they thought our best bet lay with you and Gabriel, too.”
Charlie’s brows rose high. “I don’t see why, yet, but you have my complete attention.”
Barnaby grinned fleetingly. “First, why these cases are different.” He broke off as Crisp returned with a loaded tray.
Charlie sipped his brandy and waited while the tray was set up on a small table before Barnaby,
and his ravenous friend started eating.
Without prompting, the instant the door shut behind Crisp, Barnaby continued between mouthfuls of roast beef. “Every case in this series involves a particular, very specific parcel of land. In every case, that parcel of land has been critical for the completion of a canal link, or a new toll road, or in recent years, one of the new railways.”
“Critical how?”
Barnaby chewed, then swallowed, his gaze on his plate. “The cases with the railways are the easiest to explain. Steam locomotives can’t handle steep gradients. When the track needs to climb or fall steeply, then they must ascend or descend slowly through a series of curves to keep the gradients low. The land around those steeper points is critical for the construction of the track. Often there is no alternative path. There are other places that are critical, too—like a natural pass between high hills.
Tunnels and bridges can sometimes be used, but are significantly more expensive. And in the cases I’m investigating, regardless of all options, there hasn’t been any alternative but to buy the land.”
“So the land is being chosen—targeted if you will—by someone who knows a good deal about the construction of canals, toll roads, and railways.”
Barnaby nodded. “More, whoever they are they’ve also had knowledge of the routes of future canals, toll roads, and railways long before they’ve been announced. These cases involve land bought literally years ahead of any announcement of proposed routes, even of any private proposal being canvassed.”
Charlie raised his brows. “Guesswork?”
“Damn good guessing if that were so, but I don’t think it can be. Every case I’ve uncovered has been…well, if I were a villain, I’d say it was a jewel, perfectly chosen for the purpose of profiteering. Every case—I can’t believe anyone could guess that well.”
“How many cases?” “Twenty-three so far.”
“You said these were a series of cases. I’m assuming they follow the customary pattern—locals unaware of potential increase in land value are presented with an offer for their acres that seems too good to refuse. They accept and ride happily to the bank, and then sometime later—years later in these cases
—the new owner sells to the development company at a hugely inflated price, in these cases verging on the extortionary.” When Barnaby nodded, Charlie asked, “What’s your reason for imagining these twenty-three cases are the work of one villain?”
“Or villains.” Barnaby’s grimness returned in full mea sure. “The persuasion.” Charlie blinked. “Persuasion? To sell?”
Barnaby nodded. “It always starts innocently—an offer for the land made through a local solicitor.
If the owners accept—and remember most would and then there’s no crime—then all passes off smoothly. The original owners don’t make the money they might have, and the development companies end up paying through the nose for land they might have had much cheaper, but, at least up to now, that’s been considered a risk of the business.
“However, in sixteen of the twenty-three cases reported by our senior investors, the original owners refused that first offer, and a subsequent increased offer, too. That’s when the persuasion started. Initially, it was mild—like cows straying if it’s a farm, or fences down. You know the sort of thing.
Anonymous irritations, but they built. And then came another, slightly increased offer.”
Barnaby reached for his glass. “The persuasions escalated. Step by step, steadily more aggressive, punctuated by increasing offers, but the two appear unconnected. Indeed, in some cases, renewed offers were made in the spirit of assisting in a time of trouble. Often, the owners gave in and sold. However,
there are at least seven cases where the persuasion progressed to injury, and at least three where the injury proved insufficient to move the owners to sell, and so the persuasion escalated to the ultimate level.” Barnaby met Charlie’s eyes. “Death.”
Charlie held his gaze for a long moment. A log cracked and hissed in the grate. “Who are these people?”
Barnaby replied, “That’s what I, and Stokes and my father, want to—and are determined to— find out. Because the reason behind the offers for the land was never obvious until so much later, even to this date the accidental injuries and even the supposedly accidental deaths haven’t been connected to the subsequent buyers of the land. Each case has only turned up on my list because of the railway companies ’ directors’ ire, and the crimes only became obvious as crimes once I looked into the sequence of events.
“And this is not the usual investigation where I can follow someone’s trail. You’d think the new owners would be traceable, but I’ve tried, and very quickly got ensnared in a horrendous web of land companies and solicitors, and then more companies.” Barnaby set down his empty glass. “Only Gabriel might be able to see some way through the maze. However that may be, that’s not the principal reason I came to see you.”
“How can we help?” Now every bit as grim as Barnaby, Charlie drained his glass.
Barnaby studied his face. “Tell me if this makes sense. The only way we can catch these villains and charge them with any crime is if we catch them actively coercing someone to sell a parcel of land. Criminal coercion is the only legislated crime involved. But to catch them at it, for our particular villains we need to look—”
“In an area where a development hasn’t yet occurred, but is likely to in the next decade.” Charlie’ s gaze grew momentarily distant, then he refocused on Barnaby’s face. “I assume you mean the railway line that will, at some point, be laid between Bristol and Taunton, and from there most likely to Exeter and Plymouth?”
Barnaby nodded. “I talked to some of the railway-company directors. Taunton may well end as something of a railhead, years from now.” Slumping back, he studied Charlie’s face. “This is your country
—yours and Gabriel’s. What are the chances you’d hear if something untoward was afoot?”
Charlie thought, then grimaced. “Not as good as you might think. People don’t generally talk of offers for their property, not until after they sell—or unless they believe there’s real coercion involved. And as you’ve found, often not even then. Our villain hasn’t targeted land held by major landowners, or if he has, he’s been careful not to overly persuade them, and ordinary farmers don’t air their affairs. It’s likely neither Gabriel nor I would hear until long after the fact, and then most likely via the local gossip mill.”
Barnaby sighed. “I was afraid you might say that.”
Charlie held up a hand. “There might, however, be another way, or ways, we can learn more about these villains. And you’re right about this area being among the most likely to be targeted at some point—there’s lots of hills to navigate around. If we can find out more about our villains’ modus operandi so we’ll be able to search for their activity more effectively, then searching in this area is indeed a good bet.”
He looked at Barnaby. “We’ll need to speak with Gabriel…and the others.” He blinked. “I sent you a card—an invitation. Did you receive it?”
Barnaby shook his head. “I stopped in briefly at the pater’s—I haven’t been back to my lodgings.
Why? What’s the event?”
Charlie grinned. “I’m getting married. In three days’ time. You’re invited. So are all the others.” Barnaby’s smile dawned, sincere yet faintly taunting. “Congratulations! That’s Gerrard, Dillon, and
now you—I’ll have danced at all your weddings.”
Charlie arched a brow. “No thoughts about joining us?”
“None what ever. I have other interests to pursue. Namely villains.”
“Indeed, but as it happens, attending my wedding will advance your cause. We’re expecting not just Gabriel, but Devil, Vane, and all the others, Demon and Dillon included. It’ll be the perfect opportunity to enlist our collective aid and pick our collective brains. Between us, we’ll find some way to trace your villains.”
“Amen to that,” Barnaby replied. “One thing—keep all this firmly under your hat. At this point, we have no idea who our villains might be.”
S arah returned to Conningham Manor in the carriage with her mother, her sisters, and Twitters early on Monday afternoon.
She’d found the long journey a trial, enlivened as it had been by Clary’s and Gloria’s innocent but unnecessary speculations on the morrow. The instant they were indoors and had greeted the various relatives and connections who’d arrived for the wedding, she seized on the orphanage as her excuse, and escaped.
Galloping north on Blacktail’s back, she dragged in a huge breath—it felt like her first free breath in days. She rode quickly, conscious that her time was limited, that she would have not much more than an hour in which to accomplish all she normally did over a whole day.
After tomorrow, she’d have farther to travel to reach the farm; she would have to allow more time for the ride up from the Park, two miles south of the manor. After tomorrow…she hoped that would be the extent of the change, that all else would remain more or less the same.
Reaching the farm, she tied Blacktail up by the door, smiled and waved to the children playing in the front yard, then hurried inside. She went straight to the office to look over the books and arrange any payments or orders that were urgent. Katy found her there, and laconically brought her up to date on the doings of their small world.
Sarah discovered that the staff had rallied around, and there were only the books to quickly check, and Skeggs’s and Mrs. Duncliffe’s decisions of the morning to approve.
“Thank you!” She smiled gratefully at Katy as she shut the main ledger.
“Aye, well—we all thought that you should start married life without anything dragging on your mind.” Katy grinned.
Quince appeared at the doorway. She met Katy’s eyes, then looked at Sarah. “There’s something here you ought to see.”
“Oh?” Rising, Sarah joined Katy and together with Quince they went out into the hall.
“Congratulations, miss!” The assembled inmates of the orphanage, lined up neatly in the hall, chorused their message with the hugest of smiles.
Ginny, the eldest girl, stepped forward, a package wrapped in brown paper in her hands.
Beaming, she dipped a cursty and offered the package to Sarah. “For you, miss. We hope your wedding goes smashingly!”
Sarah looked around at the platoon of bright faces; she’d been the recipient of many such wishes over the last days, but this was unquestionably the most touching. “Thank you.” She blinked rapidly, then smiling, took the parcel; it was surprisingly heavy and solid.
The children’s expectations rose another notch; they jigged, waiting for her to open their gift.
Sarah noted that Maggs was uncharacteristically sober, gnawing at his lower lip.
Looking down, she pulled apart the wrappings—revealing a nearly foot-high gnome with a frog, attentive, at his feet. “It’s…lovely.” And it truly was; there was a certain wordly wisdom in the gnome’s expression as he considered the frog; the piece demonstrated remarkable attention to detail.
Maggs edged closer, checking her face. What he saw there reassured. “I made it,” he confessed. “We had it fired at the potter’s over Stogumber way, and Ginny painted it mostly. We thought you could take it to your new home and put it in your garden so you’d think of us when you saw it.”
Sarah glowed and briefly hugged him, then Ginny. “I will. It’s perfect.” She made a mental note to make inquiries among the local potters for a place for Maggs when it came time for him to leave. She looked at the other children. “I’ll always treasure…Mr. Quilley.”
She held up the gnome and the older children cheered, delighted with the name; the younger ones stared round-eyed and jigged. It was time for tea; the staff herded the group into the dining room, where a special tea was laid out in honor of Miss Conningham’s marriage.
Sarah spent the next half hour celebrating with the children and staff. Once the children reluctantly returned to their lessons, she thanked the staff warmly, accepting their personal congratulations, then tied Mr. Quilley securely to her saddle, mounted Blacktail and headed home.
There was still such a lot to do, yet she deliberately put all thoughts of gowns, flowers, ribbons, and garters out of her head, and looked around her as she rode. Let the countryside soothe her as it always did. Let her thoughts settle, let her mind refocus on the important things.
For the past three days, uncertainty had gnawed at her. Had she made the right decision? When she’d been with Charlie, she’d felt confident, convinced that marrying him was the right thing to do, that becoming his wife was her correct path forward. That when she married him love would be there, underneath all, the cornerstone of their union.
Love had been her price, and he’d convinced her that love was theirs for the taking…or rather, she’d convinced herself, which was the root cause of her present unsettled state.
What if she’d imagined it? What if she’d simply convinced herself that she’d seen what she’d wanted to see—the promise of love in his touch, in his caring? What if all she’d seen was in truth nothing more than a figment of her imagination?
He hadn’t said the words, but she hadn’t, and still didn’t, expect him to. He wasn’t the sort of gentleman given to flowery phrases, to poetry and the like; passionately declaring “I love you” aloud just wasn’t him.
She’d known and accepted that, so she’d looked for other, more certain signs—actions, his reactions—and found them. Or so she’d thought.
Over the last days, away from his presence and plagued by uncertainty, she’d relived all the moments they’d shared in the summerhouse and elsewhere, all she’d seen and learned of him, and still wasn’t sure; she’d ended with a headache and an upset stomach.
But she couldn’t step back from the altar, not now. She’d accepted his proposal, agreed to be his wife, and the whole world knew it.
And marrying him might be the right thing to do. Perhaps seeing her decision through was the aspect Madame Garnaut had referred to as “complicated”?
The manor came into sight; Sarah looked at the house, and sighed. From tomorrow it would no longer be her home.
Perhaps all brides felt this unsure?
10
U nsurprisingly, she couldn’t sleep. Donning her old gown, Sarah slipped out of the house, reflecting that this time, her prepared excuse—that, unable to sleep, she’d decided on a walk in the gardens—was true. She and Charlie had made no arrangements to meet to night; tradition held that they shouldn’t meet again until they came together before the altar.
Tomorrow, at noon, she’d become his wife. A suffocating sense of uncertainty swamped her. She tried to put the entire subject from her mind, tried to focus on the here and now, on the gardens in the dark, on the still chill of the night, on the shadows that appeared denser and more encroaching in the weak illumination of the waning moon, yet her feet took her, unresisting, to the path along the stream, to the weir and the summer house.
The white structure appeared solid and stark against the dark backdrop of the trees. Perhaps there she would find reassurance, some lingering trace of what her memories insisted had been present, would still be present, between her and Charlie.
Walking to the steps, she went up, stepped into the dimness, and saw him. Seated on the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, hands loosely clasped between his knees, he looked at her through the shadows; she felt his gaze, hot and wanting, instantaneously heating.
She paused, then slowly, deliberately, walked to him.
Charlie straightened as she neared. He hadn’t expected her; for one instant when she’d stood on the threshold limned in faint moonlight, he’d wondered whether his mind was playing tricks and she was a phantom, a figment of his dreams.
But it was no specter who halted before him. His gaze on her face, he reached and took her hand, felt the delicate bones between his fingers.
Through the dimness, she met his gaze. He tensed to rise, but, moving with steady deliberation, she placed her free hand on his shoulder and held him back, then she stooped and kissed him.
He kissed her back, not as ravenously as he wished but as he sensed she wanted. Hungrily yet not hurriedly, taking time to explore anew, to taste, to savor. For long moments they communed with lips and mouths and stroking tongues, with wanting and heated yearning on display, openly acknowledged, yet for the moment held at bay.
Familiar, yet different. The desire, the hunger, the passion were there, ready to flare at their call, yet, it seemed, that wasn’t all they had to share.
Her hand on his shoulder gripped, pushed; obediently he leaned back until his shoulders met the back of the sofa. She followed, not ready to break their kiss, then she released his shoulder and raised her skirts so she could place first one knee, then the other, alongside his thighs, nudging them closer together. Then she sat, flicked her fingers free of his as she slid slowly, languorously, closer, and brazenly straddled him.
As she had once before, but again, this time was different. This time, as he raised his hands and closed them on her sides, long fingers flexing over her supple back, feeling her body between his hands again, so alive, so much his, he felt that other emotion, the one he couldn’t name, rise through him, effortlessly claiming him, submersing him in need of a different sort, a need wholly and completely focused on her.
On her wants, which she made abundantly clear through her slow, thorough and determined kiss. He sat back, content to let her lead, not passive—he could never be that—but prepared to let her script
the scene; she was no longer truly innocent, and it was patently clear, as her hands rose between them and she undid the buttons closing his shirt, that this time she knew what she wanted.
As she spread the halves of his shirt wide, then laid her hands on his chest, small feminine palms to his heated skin, the only thought in his brain was to appease her, to give her all she wanted, every last little thing.
So he let her play as she wished, let her explore his chest, held his reaction, powerful and primitive though it was, in check, even when she discovered his nipples under the light pelt of hair, and tweaked.
He jerked; it felt as if she’d twanged every sexual tendon he possessed. Even through the kiss he sensed her smile, sensed the warm glow of her satisfaction. Mentally gritting his teeth, he suppressed the instinctive urge to react, to pay her back and take control, and waited.
Her hands skated over his chest, then lower. Through the kiss, he tracked her responses; focused wholly on her, he sensed she was filling her mind with him, and some dark part of his being exulted.
He followed the slow, inexorable rise of her passion; for once he made no move to drive it, to actively evoke it. Instead, fascinated, he watched it burgeon and grow of its own accord, simply because she was there, in his arms, and he was in hers.
Only when she grew restless and needy did he let his hands slide up and around and close them over her breasts. She gasped, lightly arched, and it was her turn to actively encourage—one of her hands rose to close over the back of one of his, urging him on. Smiling, knowing she would sense it with her lips on his, he complied, deftly undoing the now very familiar buttons, opening her bodice enough to slide his hand beneath, with a quick tug and a sliding caress to dispense with the barrier of her chemise, and close his hand about her swollen breast.
Just the touch made him ache.
It made Sarah burn. Made her feel not frantic as it had before, but fully aware of the fierceness of her desire. Of its strength, of the passion that flowed from it, of the flames of need that now burned steadily in her veins.
His fingers shifted, both hands now cradling her breasts, fingertips finding and tightening about the aching peaks. She broke the kiss on a gasp, grabbed his shoulders for balance as she tipped her head back, struggling to breathe while simultaneously absorbing, savoring, and reveling in the plea sure he gave her.
Unstintingly gave her; she let her senses whirl, deliberately letting go and glorying in the delicious delight as he bent his head and set his lips to her sensitive flesh. She shuddered when he licked, then tortured one tightly furled nipple; when he drew it deep and suckled, she moaned.
Her hands closed about his head, fingers splayed and spread in his hair as he pandered to her senses. As she wanted, as she wished.
Until she was burning so strongly, so passionately, her inner self would no longer be denied. She grasped his face and drew his head up, leaned into him and kissed him, met his lips, found his tongue with hers and stroked.
And felt the ripple of pure desire that coursed beneath his skin, the tensing, the readiness, the eagerness, the hunger locked in muscles that had turned to rigid steel. Beneath the heat, the licking, tantalizing flames, she sensed just how potent, how powerful was the passion he held leashed, at her command. His control was there, unwavering and complete, but it wasn’t her he was controlling. And it was she who held his reins.
Joy flooded her, an emotional exultation that had her mentally gasping, that had her heart singing. Her lips on his, his mouth all hers, she reached between them and grappled with the buttons closing his breeches. He helped, shifting beneath her, but didn’t take over. He let her free his staff, let her close her
hand about it and stroke.
And make him shudder.
Her fingers curled about him, she did as she wished, and sought for the ways in which to plea sure him. Experimented, not in a rush, a few seconds seized before he took control, but deliberately and wantonly held him in her palm, and caressed, and learned…and felt his control quake.
She didn’t stop but pressed on, pressed him on until she sensed he was struggling to hold on to that control, fighting, his breathing ragged. Wrapping her fingers about his rigid length, hot silk stretched over iron, she shuffled closer still, pushing her knees deep into the cushions past his hips, plucking her skirts from between them, positioning herself over him, guiding him…she thought it would work.
Mentally reeling, driven beyond any point of sensual desperation he’d previously reached, Charlie released her breasts, closed his hands about her knees, then swept up the line of her quivering thighs to seize her hips. Felt her scalding slickness brush the engorged head of his erection.
Felt the pent-up passions within him roar.
He drew her down, nudged into her tight sheath, tightened his grip on her hips—
She broke from the kiss on a gasp, head rising, spine instinctively arching. “No—let me!”
It was a cry from the heart; soft, intensely female, it rocked him to his core. His fingers tensed, bit into her flesh; his jaw clenched, ached as he battled to halt the all but ungovernable urge to pull her down and thrust upward and impale her.
He was entirely certain he was no longer in this world. He couldn’t focus, not on anything beyond the need to be inside her…but then she touched his cheek, leaned in and kissed him softly, gently. Her other hand was locked around one of his wrists; using that to steady herself, she lowered herself upon him.
And he discovered there was so much more to lovemaking than he’d experienced before. That her giving, rather than him taking, was the true mea sure of earthly bliss.
Bit by bit, inch by inch, she enclosed him, sank lower and engulfed him in her body, and showed him a new road to paradise.
His chest was locked; breathing was beyond him as on a tight exhalation she sank the last inch. And paused. Carefully, experimentally, he eased the taut leash he’d jerked so ruthlessly to harness his baser self, and discovered that self swooning.
With plea sure.
Ready to lie down and let her ravish him.
She was monitoring, discovering, learning as he did; through their kiss, she seemed to sense both his wonder and his unformed wish. As his grip on her eased, she relaxed a fraction, then rose a little way before sinking down again.
He let her set the pace for long enough to catch his breath, then when she sank down again, he thrust upward and filled her.
Sarah gasped, stilled for a moment to savor the fullness of him, the physical reality of having him so deep inside her, then she rose again, again used the intimate slide of their bodies to plea sure him, and herself.
The link between them had grown stronger. She felt it now in every touch of his hands, investing every kiss be it driven or gentle. It was there in the way he forced himself to accept the slow pace she set, so that she could savor every step of the way, savor every nuance not just of their joining but of his commitment to her plea sure, to her need. There in the way he stood firm against his own desires, with
every muscle in his body screaming for a much more active and immediate release.
He fought, and held to that line, to give her what she wished.
Charlie was conscious of every second of that battle; he knew she was, too. Knew she saw and followed, that she was aware of his devotion to her needs, that she appreciated every iota of the strength he wielded for her.
That alone made it worthwhile. Made the moment shimmer with emotion, and gave him the strength to hold to that road when his passions rose to near ungovernable heights.
It was worth the battle to restrain them to hear her increasingly ragged gasps, to feel the desperation mount within her and know it wasn’t him driving, wasn’t him orchestrating and controlling her that made her so.
As they moved together, her riding him, him thrusting just enough to appease them both, to let passion flow unimpeded on its course, as the familiar landscape of sexual delight flowered around them, as passion wound through them and tightened its snare, he was distantly aware of how different the familiar was.
How much more layered with feeling, with meaning. With emotion.
The end, when it came, was an implosion of sensation, finer, sharper, reaching more deeply than any such moment before.
With a cry, high, triumphant, and primally female, she shattered in his arms; the contractions of her sheath caught him, drew him on. Release swept him, and he cried her name, held her down, his grip unforgiving as he shuddered beneath her.
She collapsed upon him, into his arms. He closed them around her; eyes shut, he rested his cheek against her hair. And gave thanks that he’d lived to experience the glory she’d shown him, and the wonder they’d just shared.
D ifferent. With her it was always so different, so familiar yet so rarely what he expected.
Slumped on the sofa with Sarah a warm and deeply sated bundle of female limbs and curves in his arms, Charlie stared at the dim ceiling of the summer house and let his mind find its way back to the world.
A world wherein, thanks to her, the landscape was changing. Again.
He puzzled over what had made this time so different from the last. Perhaps it was simply that she’ d made her decision and had already agreed to be his, so having gotten what he’d wanted he hadn’t had any driving motive other than to enjoy her.
That was true enough. He hadn’t come to the summer house expecting to meet her; he’d been driven here purely by a nebulous feeling that, as he couldn’t sleep, this was the place he should be. Here, waiting, in case…
In case she’d needed him. In case she’d come, searching, for what he didn’t know, but she had come. And she had needed.
Him. Something he could give her.
He wasn’t, even now, at all sure what that something was. But he’d sensed her need and had responded, as some part of him now claimed the right, the honor, to do. As it had transpired, she’d wanted to follow a sensual path he hadn’t known existed, one that had demanded a great deal from him
—yet part of the glory, much of the challenge, had been to give her what she’d wanted, to lavish on her
what ever pleasures she wished, to make what ever sensual sacrifices that called for.
She stirred in his arms. He placed a gentle kiss on her temple, and she relaxed once more, unable as yet to summon the strength to rouse. He smiled, more than a trifle smugly. When she regained her bed he was sure she’d sleep soundly.
Settling his head against the sofa back, he thought of the next day—of the next night. Finally, he’d have her naked in his arms. The vision…brought to mind his thought that she would be a goddess—his goddess.
She was already that.
Somewhere inside he knew that was true, that some element of worship, of reverence, had already crept into his view of her, already colored the way he dealt with her. It was partly from that that the glory he felt in their physical union flowed; it was that that fed his devotion to satisfying her wants and demands. Her needs and wants now governed him. He expected to be shaken by the mere thought; instead, he felt sanguine, as if some part of him, his baser self certainly, felt that was only right, more, that it was his due.
Curious, but that was how he felt.
Perhaps it was simply another symptom of his addiction to the taste of innocence. An addiction he felt confident would gradually fade.
The thought of that addiction drew his mind back to her, to her body, warm, sated female flesh still sheathing his staff…
His senses refocused. Confirmed that they must have been lying slumped for some time, that she was returning to full awareness, to command of her senses, limbs, and wits, then she contracted about him, and he didn’t need to think any further.
Shifting, half lifting her, he tumbled her onto her back along the sofa, following her down without breaking their connection, beneath her rucked skirts rearranging her limbs so that her knees gripped his flanks.
Then he thrust into her.
And felt her immediate response. Saw her eyes glint from beneath heavy lids as her body arched beneath his.
He lay upon her, hands gripping her hips holding her immobile, trapped beneath him. “My turn,” he murmured.
Her lips curved, swollen and sheening. Smiling like a cat drunk on cream, she tipped her face up so those luscious lips met his, reached up and twined her arms about his neck, and wordlessly invited him to take what he wished.
H e wasn’t sure which of them was more drained, more sated and ready for sleep, when an hour later he saw her to the manor’s side door. There couldn’t be that many hours left before they’d have to rise and plunge into the chaos of their wedding day, yet he doubted either of them cared.
Her hand on the doorknob, she glanced back at him, raised one hand to touch his cheek and smiled her madonna’s smile. “Thank you.”
He leaned in and kissed her. “It was entirely my plea sure.” Drawing away, he met her eyes. “I’ll see you at the altar.”
Letting her fingers slide from his, he saluted her, then turned and walked away into the night.
A t noon the next day, Sarah paced down the nave of the church at Combe Florey in a daze of happiness. Eyes locked on Charlie’s as he waited for her on the shallow steps before the altar, she literally felt the glow that her mother, sisters, and all others who had seen her that morning had remarked on.
It came from somewhere deep within her, fueled by the absolute certainty that Charlie loved her as she loved him. That even if today was only the beginning for their love, love was unquestionably there.
Last night had been more than an affirmation; it had been a promise enshrined in bliss.
Reaching the steps, she gave her hand to Charlie, into his keeping, and stepped up to stand by his
side.
And so they were married, with the Reverend Mr. Duncliffe officiating, and their familes,
immediate and extended, looking on. Clary, Gloria, and Augusta had followed her down the aisle; Jeremy stood on the other side of Charlie, along with two gentlemen Sarah hadn’t met before.
Beyond the fact that the church was packed, that was all she took in. The rest of her awareness was focused on the ceremony, on the words of the vow she made, and the one Charlie made in return.
To honor and obey. To honor and cherish.
He placed a golden wedding band on her finger, and they kissed to seal the pact, a caress that lingered longer than it should have. Their lips parted and their eyes met—for one instant there was just her and him and the joy between them—then reality returned, they smiled, resigned, and stepped apart. As one they turned and gave themselves over to their respective roles for the day.
Arm in arm they walked up the aisle, laughing and smiling, acknowledging the congratulations of all those packed inside the church. Once outside, they braved a shower of rice, but rather than simply climb into the carriage waiting to whisk them away, they paused in the crisp sunshine to receive the wishes of the crowd of locals who had gathered, to let the women coo over the exquisite pearl beading and Brussels lace adorning her white silk gown, while the men shook hands with Charlie or nodded respectfully.
Everyone beamed. It was a moment of golden fairy-tale-like happiness.
Both of them were locals; they’d lived most of their lives—in her case all of her life—within a few miles of the church. There was a small host of people lining up to wish her well, and she couldn’t find it in her to cut the moment short.
She half expected Charlie to grow restless and perhaps drift to where his groomsmen loitered beside the ribbon-draped carriage. Instead, he remained beside her, his arm linked in hers, and employed his ready charm, leaving all those who spoke with them feeling gratified.
Mr. Sinclair appeared out of the throng to bow over her hand. “My congratulations, Countess.” He smiled, debonair and sincere, then, releasing her, turned his smile on Charlie and held out his hand. “You’re a lucky man, my lord.”
Shaking his hand, Charlie inclined his head. “Indeed,” he murmured, his eyes on her. “So I think.”
Sarah felt herself blush; how she knew she didn’t know, but she knew precisely what Charlie was thinking. They parted from Sinclair, and she looked around for distraction. To one side of the milling throng she spied Maggs’s carroty-red head, then saw that Lily and Joseph had brought the older children to the church. She glanced at Charlie, but he’d already followed her gaze.
He caught her eye, smiled. “Come. Let’s go over and greet them.”
She caught the resignation in his eyes, yet there was something else in his demeanor, too—the something that had him so readily acquiescing to all the social demands of the day. She wasn’t sure what that something was, but she smiled and let him steer her to the children.
After they’d chatted with the group, all round-eyed, letting the girls ooh and aah over her gown, Jeremy came and whispered that they really had to leave.
“I’ll see you next week,” she promised the children. They waved as Charlie led her away.
Reaching the open carriage, he handed her in, then to cheers and huzzahs and a swelling chant of “Meredith!” he joined her. He sat, and his coachman flicked the reins. They smiled and waved, then as the carriage carried them away from the church and through the town they sighed and sat back. It was only a minute to the impressive gates that gave onto the long drive leading to Morwellan Park.
She breathed in, catching the scent of budding things on the faint breeze. Spring was on the brink of bursting through; the sense of a fresh, joyous start found an echo within her.
She would soon arrive at her new home; today was the start of the rest of her life.
Beside her, Charlie took her hand in his, conscious that, as so frequently happened when he was with her, this day was unfolding somewhat differently than he’d thought.
He hadn’t expected to actually enjoy his wedding, yet the instant he’d laid eyes on her, a vision in white gliding up the aisle toward him, he’d felt as if the sun had broken through and since then had been shining, glowing, on him. On them.
She was now his, and while part of what he felt was relief, a more solid part was pride. Pride in her, that he’d secured her as his bride, that he’d been so lucky even if he hadn’t fully understood her worth when he’d first offered for her hand. He’d thought her an excellent candidate for the position of his countess, but he hadn’t known then just how very true that was.
Seeing her moving through the hordes outside the church, smiling and knowing just what to say to the most crusty, tonnish beldame, and also to the miller’s wife, and to the orphans, had brought the point home. She interacted with all levels of society easily, as did he, but that wasn’t an ability shared by all young ladies. Others would have shrunk from what to them would have been a mere duty, and would have relied on him to deploy his charm and see them through. Sarah, instead, had a sincere interest in all who lived in the area; she’d done most of the talking, leaving him to play the relatively easy role of proud groom and local noble lord.
He looked down at her as, eyes briefly closing, smiling, she lifted her face to the sunshine. She looked radiant, and she was his. A warm glow suffused him, and settled in his chest.
A pleasant, very comfortable feeling.
Many of those invited to the wedding breakfast had driven ahead; a crowd was waiting in the drawing room to greet them. Within minutes of entering to joyous applause, they’d separated as friends and relatives claimed them. He was surprised to find himself highly aware of Sarah’s absence from his side, but he’d attended fashionable weddings enough to know the ropes without thinking. Independently, they circled the room, chatting, then, at Crisp’s announcement, came together again to lead the assembled host into the ballroom for the wedding breakfast.
They sat at the long tables draped in white linen, with silver and crystal glinting in the weak sunshine pouring through the long windows. Flutes of champagne were already waiting at each place; it should have been his father who proposed the first toast, but his father was dead. Gabriel Cynster had largely stood in loco parentis, but in deference to Charlie’s title, it was Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives, who rose and proposed the first toast to the happy couple, welcoming them into the congregation of the wider family.
Everyone rose, lifted their glasses, echoed, “To Charlie and Sarah,” then drank. His hand covering
Sarah’s as she sat beside him, Charlie smiled at the company, then glanced at her. And felt that odd feeling in his chest lurch, then intensify.
She was so happy it nearly hurt to look at her; the sight made him blink several times, and feel strangely humbled.
But then with much talk and laughter everyone sat again, and the meal was served. There was talk on every side. The majority present were now related in some fashion. With the Season yet to start and Christmas more than two months in the past, there was much to catch up with. Noise rose all around, yet it was the pleasant, embracing, congenial sound of shared familial happiness.
The next hour passed unmarred by any incident or consideration. The customary toasts were observed, predictably with some hilarity. Good humor and unalloyed gaiety were palpable threads twining through the gathering as guests stood and started to circulate.
Turning from chatting with Lord Martin Cynster, Charlie found that Alathea had captured Sarah. They sat together at a nearby table, engrossed in discussion. He suspected he should listen in to what ever “wisdom” his eldest sister was imparting; instead he simply stood and drank in the sight of Sarah’s face. The sight of her transparent happiness.
It was a glow that radiated from her fine skin, that seemed to light her from within and shine from her cornflower-blue eyes. They seemed brighter, more sparkling, than he’d ever seen them.
For one instant alone within the whirl, he grasped the moment to wonder just what he was feeling, why that sight stirred something so deep, so profound inside him. Why his response was so strong, so powerful that it momentarily cramped his chest.
And left him faintly dizzy.
He raised the glass he held and sipped. And recalled his reasons for marrying. Recalled Sinclair’s and others’ comments; he was indeed a lucky man. He studied Sarah’s face and heard again in his mind the vows he’d so recently spoken: to honor and cherish.
Unbidden, unintended, his mind supplied another vow, one he silently made as he watched her: He would do all he could to defend and protect the happiness shining in her eyes.
He would do all he could to make her anticipation of future happiness as his wife a reality. “There you are!”
Charlie blinked and turned as Jeremy, looking faintly harassed, appeared at his shoulder.
“Who would have imagined getting my older brother wed would prove such a trial?” Jeremy resignedly but pointedly glared at him. “The musicians—you did remember we had musicians, didn’t you?—have been waiting, not patiently, for you to give the signal for the first waltz.”
“Ah.” Charlie drained his glass, and handed it to Jeremy. “In that case, consider said signal given.”
Jeremy rolled his eyes, heaved a put-upon sigh, and turned to wave to the musicans stationed at the other end of the room.
As the first chords sounded, Charlie crossed to take Sarah’s hand. Catching her eyes, he smiled and drew her to her feet. “This is our dance, I believe.”
Her smile, her joy, visibly brightened.
As he led her to where the central part of the floor was clearing, he felt her fingers tremble in his; turning her into his arms, he caught her eyes and murmured, “For this moment at least, it’s just you and me.”
She held his gaze; as he stepped out and swept her into the dance he felt her relax, losing the sudden nervousness that had assailed her at being the sole focus of everyone’s complete attention. She
followed his lead without hesitation, her skirts flowing about his legs as they twirled; he smiled, and drew her closer as he whirled them through the turn, then set them revolving back up the room.
“It’s over,” he murmured, smiling down into her eyes, keeping her close as, their lap of honor completed, Alathea and Gabriel, then Dillon and Pris and Gerrard and Jacqueline, took to the floor. Other couples followed.
Smiling back, Sarah sighed. She searched his eyes. “It’s been…perfect, hasn’t it?”
He felt his smile deepen. “Yes.” And the day wasn’t over yet. He didn’t utter the words, but the direction of his thoughts must have shown in his eyes because she blushed, then looked away.
Inwardly grinning, he glanced around at the numerous couples now circling about them. Martin and Celia whirled past, laughing. Charlie had seen Devil sweep his duchess, Honoria, onto the floor; they whirled past with Honoria lecturing Devil about something, transparently to no avail. From the expression on his starkly handsome face, Devil seemed to be enjoying it.
Charlie wondered if he and Sarah would be like that after they’d been married for years. He looked into her face, and again felt the warmth inside him resonate with what he saw there.
The music ceased and the dancers re-formed into various chatting groups. Sarah remained on his arm and showed no inclination to desert him.
She glanced at the corner where the older ladies had congregated on a collection of chaises. “Should we…” She waved at the gathering. “Do you think?”
He didn’t. “We spoke with all of them in the drawing room before.” Lady Osbaldestone was there, and the old tartar’s pointed comments had only grown sharper with her advancing years. With her sat Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, Lady Horatia Cynster, the Marchioness of Huntly, and various other grandes dames, all of whom shared one scarifying attribute; they could be counted on to see far too much—such as his unexpected response to Sarah’s happiness in becoming his wife—and there was no power on earth capable of preventing them from commenting when and wherever they chose.
“We don’t need to give them another chance at us.” Charlie turned his new wife toward less unnerving guests. “There’s the twins—Amanda and Amelia. You know them, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.” Sarah was delighted to join the group clustered about the two bright heads. They were greeted with delight, then the group separated into two halves. The female half—
Amanda, Countess of Dexter, her twin sister, Amelia, Vicountess Calverton, and Sarah, now Countess
of Meredith—became engrossed in a discussion of children (the twins now had three each and had apparently decided to call a halt to their unintentional rivalry) then turned their attention to the upcoming Season, and the likelihood of them meeting in London shortly.
The male half—Charlie, Amanda’s husband, Martin, Earl of Dexter, and Amelia’s husband, Luc, Viscount Calverton—exchanged long-suffering glances and instituted their own conversation about matters politic. The three of them were linked in that Devil and Gyles Rawlings, Earl of Chillingworth, had acted as sponsors and mentors in steering each of them through the process of taking their seats in the Lords, and guiding them into the sometimes confusing political arena.
Politics was an aspect of life the five—Charlie, Luc, Martin, Devil, and Gyles—as peers of the realm shared, keeping abreast of the vissicitudes that shaped the country, making sure they were in London to take their seats and vote when necessary, even though none of them harbored political aspirations.
Regardless, all of them accepted they had political responsibilties; that was part and parcel of who they’d been born and raised to be.
However, as Parliament wasn’t sitting and there were no major upheavals threatening, there was little they had to discuss, unlike their ladies. But before they’d been reduced to feeling redundant,
Barnaby approached from one side, while from the other, Reggie Carmarthen, a longtime friend of Amanda’s and Amelia’s, and his wife, Anne—one of Luc’s sisters—joined them, along with Penelope, Luc’s youngest sister.
Sarah greeted the newcomers with delight; thanks to Alathea’s having married into the Cynster fold, and Sarah’s family’s being invited to all the major gatherings at the Park and also at Casleigh, the Cynsters’ house, she’d met all these ladies before. While no one had guessed she would marry Charlie, now that she had, Amanda, Amelia, and all the rest were intent on embracing her and wholeheartedly welcoming her into that unfailingly warm and supportive set.
Their interest and the promise of evolving friendships added yet another layer of joy to her day.
Barnaby Adair was one gentleman she hadn’t met, but when Charlie introduced him, he smiled and charmingly complimented her. Blond, exceedingly handsome, and understatedly sophisticated, he was clearly another of this group, unrelated maybe but transparently a part of the circle.
Charlie introduced Barnaby to Penelope, the only other lady he hadn’t previously met. She regarded him seriously through her spectacles, then offered her hand. “You’re the one who investigates crimes—do I have that correctly?”
Taking her hand, Barnaby admitted that he did, but glibly turned the conversation to other, less sensational avenues. Penelope narrowed her eyes, then, retrieving her fingers, turned to Sarah and the other ladies.
As they stood in a loose group at one side of the ballroom, with the sunshine streaming over them, chatting and talking of this and that, the looming uncertainty Sarah had felt over managing Charlie’s London house and all the tonnish entertaining his position necessitated evaporated. With friends like these, she had nothing to fear.
Both Amanda and Amelia insisted she call on them for any help she might need. “We’ve been through it all,” Amanda said. “And while it’s daunting at first—”
“It’s the way our world is,” Amelia cut in, “and once you’ve survived hosting your first ton ball you can manage anything.”
The assembled ladies laughed, then Amelia and Amanda firmly collected their spouses and led them, unresisting, away.
Charlie, Reggie, and Barnaby resumed their discussion of horse flesh. Sarah turned to Anne and Penelope, neither of whom she’d spent much time with before.
Her gaze direct and fearless, Penelope met Sarah’s eyes. Unlike Luc’s other sisters—the softly feminine Anne and the eldest, Emily, and the strikingly attractive Portia—Penelope always appeared rather severe, with her thick, dark hair tightly restrained and her spectacles perched on her straight little nose. She spoke very directly, too. “Mama mentioned,” she said, “that you manage an orphanage nearby.”
Sarah smiled. “Indeed. I inherited it, you might say as a going concern, from my godmother.” Penelope’s glance was openly inquiring; Sarah glanced at Anne and found her interested, too. She briefly outlined the scale and scope of the orphanage, and their aim to give their children a future trade.
“Aha!” Penelope nodded. “That’s what I need to hear about. You see, together with Anne and Portia, and others, of couse, I manage the Foundling House in London. We face much the same difficulties as here, but we’ve yet to institute any real program to help the children once they’re old enough to leave.” Penelope glanced around at the wedding guests, but refused to be deterred. “Would you mind terribly taking a moment to explain how your system works?”
“No, of course not. The orphanage is my principal interest.” Sarah paused, then amended, “Well, after my house hold.”
“I know Portia’s around here somewhere. She should hear this, too.” Stretching on her toes, Penelope scanned the room. “Can you see Simon Cynster?”
“Why?” asked Anne, looking, too. “Was he with her?”
Penelope snorted. “No, but if you find him, I’ll lay you odds he’ll be scowling at her.” When Sarah frowned in question, Penelope shrugged. “In gatherings such as this, he always does.”
At that moment, Charlie caught Sarah’s eye and raised a brow. Deciding it was, perhaps, not the wisest of moments to become engrossed in a discussion of the orphange, Sarah turned to Anne and Penelope. “Perhaps I can introduce you to Mrs. Duncliffe, the vicar’s wife. She’s on the orphanage committee and knows even more than I about the history of our placing boys and girls in various positions.”
Penelope’s attention was immediately deflected. “Mrs. Duncliffe—which lady is she?”
Luckily, Mrs. Duncliffe was seated on a chaise not far from where they stood. Sarah led the sisters over and introduced them, then left the three ladies to share their experiences.
She returned to Charlie’s side just as the strains of another waltz floated over the room. “Good.” He captured her hand, raised it to his lips and kissed. “I’ve missed you.”
The murmured words were just for her. They warmed her, buoyed her, and then she was in his arms, circling down the room, and for those few moments nothing else mattered.
Nothing else could gain any foothold in her mind, not when she was surrounded by his strength, not when she was whirling down the floor lost in his eyes.
Eventually, he said, “One definite benefit to being married is that we can waltz whenever we wish, as many times as we wish.”
She smiled and replied, “There’s no one I want to waltz with but you.”
His eyes widened fractionally; she got the impression she’d surprised him in some way, yet her words were the simple truth. As he searched her eyes, clearly checking, she let that fact show. Let her smile deepen.
He drew breath, then looked ahead and whirled her through the turn. They spoke no more until the music ended and they halted with a flourish in the middle of the floor.
“Who now?” she murmured.
Charlie closed his hand, tight, about hers, then forced himself to ease his grip. He had hours yet to endure before they could slip away, before he could further explore and savor that fascinating tenderness he’d glimpsed in her eyes. “This way.” He glanced at her. “I want you to meet my closest friends.”
Sarah had met Gerrard and Dillon only briefly in the church. She hadn’t met their wives, but from the instant he introduced her to Jacqueline and Pris, it was obvious to him, Dillon, and Gerrard that their only concern henceforth would be separating the three. There seemed to be an amazing range of subjects on which their ladies needed to speak and exchange opinions.
Some of those subjects, such as the balls and dinners each lady was considering giving during the upcoming Season, were topics their husbands felt it was best not to hear of; leaving their spouses avidly talking, the three edged to one side.
“Thus ends your freedom,” Dillon advised Charlie, distinctly smug. “I recall, at my nuptials, you crowing about being the last man standing.” He grinned evilly. “How did it feel to fall?”
Charlie grinned back, unrepentant. “Actually, it was rather less stressful, and distinctly more pleasurable, than I’d expected.”
Gerrard arched a brow. “So we’ve seen. Mind you, you need to understand you’re starting from
well behind. We’ve both got ourselves heirs—you’ll have to hustle if you intend catching up.” Charlie chuckled; he met Gerrard’s eye. “I’ll bear your advice in mind.”
They’d lowered their voices, yet, as one, they turned to verify that their respective ladies hadn’t
heard.
All three of them stayed staring for rather longer than a glance; eventually dragging his eyes from
Sarah’s animated face, Charlie noted that both Dillon’s and Gerrard’s gazes, too, were lingering on their wives’ faces.
There was a softness in both men’s normally hard gazes that he never saw except when they looked at their wives and sons.
He glanced again at Sarah, and finally understood, felt again the welling sensation of warmth, and yes, of curious softness, that blossomed inside him when he looked at her. That only deepened and intensified at the thought of seeing her with his child in her arms.
Drawing breath, he turned away, a trifle unsettled by the strength of that feeling. From Gerrard’s and Dillon’s experience, it seemed it was only to be expected…
He inwardly frowned. His situation wasn’t the same as theirs.
Before he could pursue that disturbing thought, Barnaby wandered up. He glanced at the three
ladies. us?”
“Don’t you think,” Gerrard murmured provocatively, “that it’s time you took the plunge and joined Barnaby turned from his contemplation of their spouses and smiled, charmingly glib. “I think not.
My fascination, I find, lies in other spheres.”
Dillon laughed. “We all thought that—until we learned otherwise.”
Barnaby’s easy smile remained. “I suspect my ‘otherwise’ might never eventuate. I’ll be eccentric Uncle Barnaby to all your sprigs—all children should have an eccentric uncle, don’t you think?”
“Why think your ‘otherwise’ will never appear?” Charlie asked.
Barnaby met his eyes, then grimaced. “Can you honestly imagine any lady of the ton understanding what I do—how I increasingly spend my time? Would any lady countenance my commitment to criminal investigations in preference to the social round?”
The others exchanged glances, then grimaced, too.
But Gerrard shook his head. “Be that as it may, I still wouldn’t tempt fate by thinking this won’t happen to you.”
“Be that as it may,” Barnaby replied, his eyes going to Charlie’s, “this seems the perfect time to have our little meeting.”
Reminded of their prearranged plan, Charlie glanced around. “Very true.” The gathering was still absorbed; the ladies would talk for hours yet and the gentlemen had topics enough to pursue. He turned to Gerrard and Dillon. “Barnaby’s in pursuit of some rather nasty criminals and there’s a chance we can help.” He dipped his head to Dillon. “You’ve heard some of it, but Barnaby and I thought today the perfect opportunity for him to explain to the whole lot of us at once. Why don’t you two head for the library”—he glanced at Barnaby—“while we round up the others?”
Dillon’s and Gerrard’s eyes had widened; they readily nodded. With one swift glance at their ladies, confirming they were still engrossed, they strolled away across the ballroom.
Charlie met Barnaby’s eyes. “You take that side of the room—I’ll take this.”
Barnaby nodded and they parted, prowling, apparently unhurriedly, through the assembled guests.
11
W hen Charlie led Gabriel into the library, all the others were there.
Devil had taken the chair before the desk, leaving the one behind it for Charlie; Vane Cynster, Devil’s cousin, was lounging against the bookshelves nearby. Vane’s brother Harry, known as Demon, along with Alasdair Cynster, Gabriel’s brother and commonly known as Lucifer, had appropriated the chaise from the other end of the room, and set it before the desk.
Gyles, Earl of Chillingworth, close friend and honorary Cynster, had pulled up a chair across from Devil, while Simon Cynster, the youngest present and other than Barnaby the only one unmarried, leaned elegantly against the raised back of the chaise.
Dillon, Gerrard, and Barnaby had fetched straight-backed chairs from around the room and sat interspersed between the others, while Luc and Martin stood shoulder to shoulder with their backs propped against the bookshelves, their long legs crossed at the ankles and their hands in their pockets.
Every handsome but hard-planed masculine face bore a serious and in most cases expectant expression. Gabriel went to sit between Lucifer and Demon on the chaise. Charlie felt every eye tracking him as he moved to his chair behind the desk.
He sat, then looked around, briefly meeting every eye. “Thank you for coming. Barnaby’s on a mission and he needs our help.”
With that, he looked at Barnaby, who succinctly yet comprehensively explained the crux of his investigation.
Throughout, no one moved or even shifted. Charlie felt certain he would have heard a pin drop on the Aubusson rug. No one interrupted or even humphed.
Barnaby ended his exposition with, “While the pater and the other peers overseeing the force, as well as all the senior members of the force itself, want this game stopped, given that there are so many other peers, parliamentarians, wealthy individuals, and other gentlemen of influence involved in the various railway companies and therefore potentially implicated, any investigation has to be discreet.”
He fell silent. The others finally shifted, exchanging glances. As a group, they were powerful in many ways—wealthy, influential, titled, every one of them born to the elite.
Gabriel mumured, “Everyone here would have some dealings, some financial exposure, to the companies that have been targeted by this…let’s call him an extortioner. So we’re potentially all victims, albeit not in a way that will personally hurt us. But this sort of activity may well result in some of those companies going bankrupt, and a consequent loss of confidence in that whole area of endeavor, which will in the short term impinge on our investments.”
Devil shifted. He exchanged a glance with Chillingworth, then said, “There’s a wider issue here— one that reaches much further than any individual investments involved.” He glanced around. “All of us here appreciate how much the future of this country is going to depend on the successful introduction of the infrastructure of the future—specifically the railways. The introduction of the canals last century ushered in a minor boom, but the railways are vital to the next stage. If it becomes widely known that investing in a railway company carries a risk of the company being subject to such extortion, and consequently bankruptcy, the small investors essential to fund each project will take flight. They’re the ones with least stomach for danger.”
“And least ability to withstand it,” Lucifer put in.
Devil inclined his head. “Indeed. And yet further, if it becomes widely known that having land close to or beside the proposed route of a railway can result in becoming the target of such tactics as our extortioner has used on farmers and the like, then we can expect whole areas to rise up in arms and refuse to allow tracks to cross their counties.”
“The fact that it’s only specific parcels of land that are being targeted won’t make any difference,” Chillingworth said. “Panic pays precious little attention to logic.”
Barnaby’s gaze had grown distant; his face paled as he envisioned the scenario they were painting. “Great heavens.” His voice was weak. “I don’t think the pater and the others even thought of that.”
Devil grimaced. “They probably did—they just didn’t see any reason to spell it out. They know you’ll be discreet.”
Barnaby looked grim. “Indeed. But such prospects make it even more imperative that we identify and stop this extortioner.”
“Are you sure it’s all the same man, or group?” Martin asked.
Barnaby nodded. “I came to that conclusion after trying to trace the profit from some of the extortionate land sales, reasoning that the profit must eventually find its way back into the villain’s hand. What I discovered was that each property is initially bought by a unique land company, and sold by that company. But after the sale, that original company is dissolved and its profits, the money from the sale, transferred to two other land companies. In turn, those second-string companies each pay their profits to two or more other companies, and the further I tried to push, the web of companies just proliferated.
“And that was the situation in all instances where I tried to chase the money. Every initial land company leads into a web of other companies, and while all the companies are different, the strategy is exactly the same. It’s so complex yet effective I can’t imagine that two people Independently thought of it.”
Vane looked at Gabriel. “Is there any way we can find our way through the maze?” “There should be,” Gabriel replied, “but if this extortioner has been clever enough to use a
network of companies in this way, then we’re likely to find ourselves running in circles. Until the
government legislates for companies and their owners to be registered, tracing the legal owners, and more importantly the beneficial owners of such a web of companies—especially when that web has been intentionally created to conceal the identity of the ultimate beneficial owner—will almost certainly be an exercise in futility.”
Gabriel glanced around the ring of faces. “My recommendation is that we reserve our efforts for some avenue more likely to succeed.”
There were grimaces all around. For a long moment, silence reigned.
“Very well.” Luc looked at Barnaby. “Our estates, collectively, are spread all over the country.
We should at least keep our ears open for any hint of coercion going on in the areas we each know best.”
Barnaby nodded, rather glum. “You all know your own areas—think of where railways are likely to go through, about where they’ll need to climb or descend, and if you hear of people in those areas being approached to sell, let me know. I’ve spent the last few days looking over the land between Bristol and Taunton, and a little farther west. Given the topography, it seems likely our villains will make some attempt in this region, so we’ll keep a tight watch here.”
He sighed, then slumped back in his chair. “At present that seems to be all we can do.” “Actually,” Charlie said, tapping one finger on his blotter, his gaze fixing on Gabriel, “I think there’
s one other avenue we’ve overlooked—and it’s just possible that our villain may have overlooked it,
too.”
Gabriel held his gaze for a moment, but then, with a ghost of a smile, shook his head. “If it’s finance, I can’t see it. What?”
“I’m not sure, but…” Charlie glanced around, then looked again at Gabriel. “Our villain has been terribly clever about concealing where the money goes. But has he been equally clever about concealing where the money came from?”
All the others became alert; the tension in the room abruptly heightened. Glances were exchanged as they all saw the point, then everyone again looked to Gabriel.
He nodded slowly, his gaze locked with Charlie’s. “Excellent point.” Gabriel’s drawl had taken on a predatory edge.
Charlie grinned, equally predatory. “Wherever the money came from, in the end, the profit must find its way back to the source—such is the nature of investing.”
“Oh, yes,” Gabriel averred. “And while he might have thrown up a web of companies to obscure the movements of the profits back, looking in the other direction, at where the money to buy the land came from in the first place, even if he’s using a web of companies again, it’s unlikely to be as complex, and at some point funds must have entered the web.”
“Funds from outside the web—from the source, our villain.” Devil arched a brow at Gabriel. “How hard will it be to trace the initial incoming capital for a land company?”
Gabriel didn’t immediately answer; eventually he said, “It won’t be straightforward”—everyone present knew that by “not straightforward” he meant it would involve employing questionable means— “but we should be able to do it.”
“We might find ourselves faced with a similar web,” Charlie said, “but if we concentrate on one land company, and look only for the original funding, even if he’s moved it through various companies, it’ ll still be one lump we’re tracking. One identifiable sum. It’s unlikely he’ll have thought to pay the initial sum in smaller amounts.”
“Regardless, the initial capital will have come from him by whatever roundabout route.” Gabriel nodded. “That’s eminently worth pursuing.” He looked at Barnaby. “We’ll need all the details you have of the land company used to buy the most expensive parcel you know of. The larger the sum the better, the easier it will be to trace. With that”—Gabriel looked at Devil—“Montague will be able to focus on the land company, learn when it was set up, and then search for the source of the seed capital through the movement of that sum through the banks. With any luck at all, he should be able to follow the trail back, ultimately to our villain’s accounts.”
Devil nodded. “Will you instruct him?”
“I’d rather you did.” Gabriel looked at Barnaby, then Charlie. “I agree that this area, of all the regions in En gland, is the ripest at present for our villain. I think I’ll be more valuable here, helping to keep watch for him.”
T heir meeting broke up. They drifted back into the ballroom in twos and threes, their reappearance sufficiently staggered to conceal the fact that any meeting had occurred. In that they seemed successful; none of their mothers, sisters, or wives appeared to have noticed their collective absence from the
still-considerable crowd.
Relieved not to be called to account, each returned to his spouse or, in Simon’s case, to his perennial irritation with Portia Ashford. Charlie found Sarah chatting with that young lady about the orphanage. He nodded to Portia, took Sarah’s arm, and waited beside her.
On reentering the ballroom, he’d signaled to the musicians that the airs and sonatas he’d instructed them to play before he’d slipped away to the library were no longer required and could be replaced by the waltzes they’d been hired to provide.
Throughout the day he’d suppressed the inevitable effect of the previous night, tamped down his impatience to test his hypothesis and assure himself that his addiction to Sarah would inevitably wane once she was legally his. He’d performed as required of a nobleman of the ton on his wedding day, but he’d—they’d—now done all that was needed; his impatience, temporarily deflected by the meeting in the library, had returned in full force.
Two minutes later, the strains of a waltz filled the room. He whispered in Sarah’s ear, then glibly excused them both to a grinning Portia and led Sarah onto the floor.
“Where were you?” Sarah asked, once they were pleasantly revolving.
Charlie looked down at her, then looked over her head as he steered her on. “I was talking to a few of the others about some business dealings—we went out where it was quieter.”
“Oh.” She was a trifle surprised that his mind had strayed to business at such a time.
As if guessing her thoughts, he caught her eye and smiled—his private smile, lacking the gloss of his sophisticated charm, more honest and sincere. “It filled the time.”
Tilting her head, she studied his eyes, trying to see what he was telling her. “The time…?” “Until…” He steered her through another turn, then drew her out of the throng of dancers; he
halted by the side of the room where an ornately carved sideboard created a sheltered nook between its
side and the room’s corner.
Taking her hand, he captured her gaze. “Until we can do this”—reaching out, he twisted a knob in the paneling and a concealed door popped open—“and quietly slip away.”
Her heart—along with every nerve she possessed—leapt, but she cast a swift glance at the guests swirling about the floor.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “The majority will be more surprised if we stay.” His arm circling her waist, he urged her to the doorway; with no real reluctance, she stepped through into a narrow ser vice corridor.
He followed, closing the door behind him. Retaking her hand, he drew it through his arm and led her on.
She glanced up at his face. “Why would they expect us to leave like this—slipping quietly away?” “So that we avoid the awkward alternative, especially the ‘farewell’ Jeremy, Augusta, Clary, and
Gloria have doubtless spent the last few days devising.” He raised a brow at her. “Do you really want to
learn how inventive they’ve been?”
She laughed and shook her head. “I believe I’ll survive perfectly well without knowing.” “Thank heavens—I know I will.”
She heard the note of real relief in his voice and inwardly grinned, but then she remembered where they were going. And why. A species of nervousness threaded through her. She looked around, trying to get her bearings, as he led her down an intersecting corridor, then up a narrow flight of stairs to a landing.
He opened a door; he glanced at her as he guided her through. “Have you been in this wing before?”
Stepping into a wide, richly decorated corridor, clearly one of the major corridors of the house, she looked around, then glanced out the window to orient herself. All sound from the ballroom had faded; all about them was quiet. “No. This is the west wing, isn’t it?”
Nodding, he retook her hand, engulfing it in his. “The earl’s apartments are in this wing. You reach it from the gallery off the main stairs.” He waved behind them as he led her on.
Her lungs started to tighten.
It was nonsense, she told herself, to feel like this, as if they’d never…but that had been in the summer house, in the silent depths of the night, not here, not…This was very different.
The corridor ended in a circular anteroom. A highly polished round table stood in its center, upon it a tall chinoiserie vase holding a massive arrangement of hot house blooms. They stepped into the room. Charlie let go of her hand and turned back. Looking up, Sarah blinked and went slowly forward, staring up at the huge circular skylight above the table.
Hearing a click behind her, she swung around and saw Charlie bolting a pair of huge doors, sealing the room from the corridor.
Stepping back, he surveyed his handiwork. “That should hold them.”
Turning to her, he smiled, then, closing the distance, he saw her eyes, saw her sudden nervousness. His smile eased, became more gentle—personal and reassuring.
Reaching her, he took her hand, cruised his thumb over her knuckles. Simply said, with total sincerity, “I don’t want us to be interrupted.”
He looked into her eyes, then raised his other hand and framed her face. Slowly, he tipped her chin up, equally slowly bent his head, and kissed her.
A gentle, easy kiss, asking nothing more from her than her instinctive response, a response she gave without thought, without hesitation.
His lips firmed and she yielded, parted her lips and waited. His tongue found hers, caressed, and she sighed.
Long moments passed while his lips moved on hers, while with his tongue he engaged in a slow, unhurried exploration, a claiming renewed by one who had the right. His fingers traced her jaw, then slid lower to firm over one side of her throat, his thumb beneath her chin keeping her face tilted as he wielded his considerable expertise and lured her to him; his other hand rested at her waist, anchoring her before him.
His.
When he raised his head and looked into her eyes, studied her face, she was already immersed in the web of sensual plea sure she knew would intensify over the minutes to come.
As he’d intended.
His lips curved, but only faintly, his face already set in the sensual mask she now knew well.
Releasing her face, he retook her hand and turned to the double doors across the anteroom.
As he led her to the earl’s bedchamber, she understood that what had passed between them in the summer house would be as nothing compared to this—to the moments that were to come.
She was now his wife—that’s what was different.
Opening one door, he ushered her through. Eyes widening, nerves stretching, she walked in and looked around. Behind her, she heard the door shut; lips faintly throbbing, her breathing already shallow, she gazed at the huge ornately carved four-poster bed, hung with blue silks and covered with blue satin.
She felt his gaze on her face; he paused, watching as she took in the sumptuous furnishings, the tasseled gold cords holding back the bed curtains, and the long blue velvet curtains at the windows. The entire room was decorated in shades of blue; even the wallpaper was ivory figured with blue fleurs-de-lis. Against the blue, the richness of golden oak shone and glowed. The wood of the bed, the tall armoires
against the walls, the dressing table with its oval mirror sitting between two long windows, the frame of the comfortable armchair set nearby, balanced and contained the blue, keeping it from being overwhelming.
Glancing down, she saw the same pattern repeated, the rich medley of blues, ivories, and golden browns in the Persian rugs framed by the polished floorboards.
Every item on which her eye alighted was elegant, expensive, yet not overpowering. Every lamp, every wall sconce, every dish, seemed to fit within the overall scheme so that the totality exceeded the sum of the parts.
Enchanted, she drifted to the dressing table, and found her brushes laid out. The sight made her nerves quiver, why she didn’t know.
She moved to look out the windows. The view was to the south, over the western end of the wide south lawn to the ornamental lake. Massive ancient trees edged the lawn, their canopies still bare and brown but with the first glimmer of green buds appearing.
It was late afternoon; the day was closing in, the sun starting to wane, but enough light remained to clearly see. To see, as he joined her before the window and she drew in a tight breath and faced him, his features, his eyes.
He stood before her with less than a foot between them, and looked down at her. Banked desire etched the angular planes, giving them a sharpness, an edge she now recognized. His blue eyes were intent; he was studying her, his eyes searching hers, her expression, trying to read her thoughts.
She wished him luck; she couldn’t have told him what she felt in that moment—there simply weren ’t words for such a medley of feelings.
After a moment, he said, “I could picture you in the blue. I hope you like it, but if you don’t, you can change it.”
His voice was low, his tone private, undisguised.
Looking into his eyes, she realized what instinctive understanding had made her shiver. He’d created this place for her—here, in this room, she would be his wife in the most private and fundamental way. In the most intimate way.
Echoing her thoughts, he took her hands, one in each of his. His eyes locked with hers, he lifted first one, then the other to his lips, placing a kiss on the sensitive backs of her knuckles.
“All you see,” he murmured, “is now part of your domain. Yours to rule.”
She looked at him, and felt the power that had welled between them in the summer house flare anew, sensed that it was now a part of them, steady and true.
That it would only grow and burn brighter, here in this room, between them.
It was she who slipped her fingers from his grasp and reached up, slid her hand about his nape and stretched up, and kissed him. Offered herself to him, to that power.
His arms went around her; he drew her to him. Lips firming on hers, he effortlessly took control of the kiss and whirled them into the flames.
It was like waltzing on some sensual plane; the thud of their hearts, the building, artfully driving rhythm of passion provided the beat, the kiss, hot and ardent, in this setting unrestrained, provided the power to swing their senses around and around, and leave them giddy.
Their hands took turns removing their clothing. She dispensed with his cravat while he started on the tiny pearl buttons trailing from her nape down her spine. There were dozens of them; she interrupted him to wrestle free his tight-fitting morning coat, seized the moment to discard his waistcoat as well.
He hauled her back against him, his hands busy at her back, his lips and tongue increasingly insistent and demanding. Increasingly distracting.
The familiar heat had welled and rushed through them by the time she managed, with her hands all but trapped between their bodies, to open the front of his shirt. In the same moment, he flicked the last pearl free and with a frustrated growl released her to strip away the heavy silk gown.
She pulled her arms from the long tight sleeves; beneath his hands, the bodice slid to her waist, then the skirts fell with a swoosh to the floor. He took her hand, steadying her as she obediently—eagerly
—lifted her petticoats and stepped free of the stiff skirts.
One step away from the window, one step closer to the bed.
Aware of that, of the intense burning in his blue eyes, she let him tug her back to him, but raised her hands and pushed the shoulders of his open shirt wide—off his shoulders, down his arms.
The cuffs were still fastened. He muttered an oath and reached around her, fumbling with the closures behind her back while with his arms he urged her against him, bending his head to kiss her—to kiss her witless she had no doubt, but this time she wouldn’t be denied. Palms to his chest, she pushed back, held him back enough to allow her to do as she wished.
He, after all, was a part of her domain. One she wanted to explore.
Fully. More fully than she’d been able to in the restricted amenities of the summer house. Now, in the clear if fading light of a winter’s day, she could appreciate the muscled expanse of his chest, the sculpted sweep of each muscle band, the heaviness, the harnessed strength. Spreading her fingers, she explored, palms pressed to warm skin stretched over what felt like heated steel. A band of crinkly brown hairs adorned the width, tangling with her questing fingers. Beneath that pelt her searching fingers discovered the flat discs of his nipples and boldy caressed.
He stilled, breath suspending, muscles tightening; delighted, she pressed her hands wide, and let her fascination show. Intuitively she knew he liked seeing it, that the sight of her absorption in turn fascinated him.
How far would his fascination stretch? How far would it tempt him? Lifting her gaze from his chest, she trapped his eyes, and skated her hands down, over his ridged abdomen, lingering to savor the muscles tensing beneath her touch, then she reached his waistband and the buttons fastening it.
The planes of his face tightened, the edges growing harder, more defined. His jaw tensed as she slipped the buttons free, but, his eyes locked with hers, he let her.
Let her disrobe him until he stood naked before her, until there was no distracting clothing to detract from his male beauty.
Her lungs locked, her mouth dry, she gazed, wantonly amazed; he was even more handsome, more sculpted, more elegantly and intensely male without his clothes than with. She longed to step back, to take several steps back to get a better perspective, but she instinctively knew he wouldn’t allow that. That just holding still and letting her look her fascinated fill was taxing his control to its limit.
A limit she fully intended to break, but not yet.
Dragging in a breath, she reached out, with the fingers of one hand touched the side of his waist, then slowly she moved to the side, letting her fingertips trail over his stomach, across to his hip, and around as she circled him.
As she passed beyond his shoulder, she saw his eyes shut, saw his jaw tip upward and clench. His hands fisted, but with her hand on his skin assuring him she remained close, near, he allowed her to slowly circle him. She did, marveling at the long graceful lines of his body, the smooth hard planes, the
lean muscles flickering and flexing in his shoulders and back, cording his legs.
He could have been a sculptor’s model; every line of his body seemed fashioned by the gods.
Behind him, she paused, her fingertips resting in the hollow of his spine; she sensed the tension thrumming through him, in reaction to her touch, to her gaze.
She went on, continuing to look, to savor, as she rounded him. His eyes opened as she did. The instant she returned to face him, before she even had a chance to lift her gaze, he reached for her.
Gripping her waist, he turned her around—so he could more swiftly deal with the ties securing her petticoats.
She felt the near-violence in his quick, impatient tugs. Thanks to their earlier step back and his turning her, they now stood in line with the dressing-table mirror; in the reflection she saw him behind her, head bowed, his attention focused on unraveling the knots. On undressing her.
A sultry chuckle escaped her. He lifted his head, in the mirror met her gaze—and heat flared and swamped her.
What she saw in his eyes stole her breath.
Stole her wits, or rather focused every one she possessed, and all her senses, on him, on them.
She was completely and utterly caught when he looked down; with a final jerk, the pressure about her waist eased. With a tug, he sent the ruffled petticoats falling, sliding down her legs to pool about her feet.
Leaving her clad in chemise, stockings, garters, and wedding slippers. For the occasion, her chemise was of the finest silk, translucent, nearly sheer. His hand closed about her waist, and the fabric was no more substantial a barrier than spider’s silk between his skin and hers.
Her skin heated beneath his hard hand. He looked up, in the mirror trapped her gaze. “My turn.”
His voice was low, gravelly, laden with male emotions she couldn’t name. His gaze roved her silk-clad body. Eyes wide, she waited, breath bated, to see what he would do.
Bending, he reached around her; grabbing the dressing stool, he drew it closer, setting it before
her.
Straightening, he stood behind her, close, his heat like a flame down her back, one hand at her
waist, holding her. In the mirror he met her eyes. “Put one foot on the stool and take off your stocking.”
Her nerves shivered, tensed, tightened to a knot. She drew breath, and complied; slipping her left foot free of her satin wedding slipper, she raised it to the top of the stool. Her toes on the velvet, she reached to where her chemise had drawn back, revealing the antique garter holding up her silk stocking.
As her fingers touched the richly embroidered garter, his palm made contact with the back of her thigh, which with her leg raised was fully exposed. A long slow comprehensive caress made her lungs seize. Giddy, she gripped the garter; his blunt fingertips helped her ease it down. His palm followed her stocking to her knee, tauntingly caressed the sensitive spot behind it, then slowly, provocatively, retreated up the back of her leg as she removed stocking and garter, then set her foot down.
Gathering the strength to repeat the exercise, knowing what would come, took a moment. “The garters were your mother’s, did you know?” She sounded breathless, hoping to distract him and gain another minute to steel her nerves. “They were my ‘something borrowed.’”
“Indeed?” The word was a low growl. His fingers tightened on her waist. “Other leg.”
She hauled in a breath, and did as he asked, unable this time to quell a shiver as he stroked, not just down but, once her stocking fell, all the way up past the top of her thigh to caress her bottom.
Her knees weakened, nearly buckled.
He removed his hand unhurriedly and stepped nearer.
So his chest touched her shoulders, so she could feel his rampant erection riding against her back. His hands gripped her waist; she refocused on the mirror, wondering what he planned, but although he was surveying her in the glass, he wasn’t looking at her face.
He raised his hands; with the side of his thumbs, oh-so-lightly, oh-so-tantalizingly he brushed the underside of her already taut breasts. A sensual shudder racked her; from beneath suddenly heavy lids, she saw his lips curve, just a little.
He turned his hands and cupped her breasts, hands closing, unrestrainedly possessive, then he bent his head, brushed her ear with his lips, and murmured, “Now this.”
He plucked the ribbon tie of her chemise, unraveling the bow tucked between her breasts. Curling his fingers into the gathered top, he drew it slowly out, then slowly down, away from her breasts, down past her waist; then he flicked his fingers and the fine silk floated down her legs to the floor.
Leaving her as naked as he.
She didn’t truly know what he would see, what he would be expecting. It was a battle to draw breath, to steady her whirling wits, to find courage enough to lift her gaze to the mirror, to his reflected face, and see…the same enthrallment she felt with his naked form laid like a tattoo across his features.
Delight was a drug surging through her as she watched his eyes trace her body, watched his gaze heat and devour, then rise to her face.
In the mirror, she met his eyes, let him read in hers her joy that he found her as pleasing as she found him, then his gaze lowered to her lips.
She tensed to turn, but his hands at her waist tightened.
“No. Wait.” His gaze on her body, he released her and stepped back. She felt the heat as he focused on her shoulder blades, then his gaze swept down over the planes of her back, with a touch like flame lingered on the swell of her bottom, on the backs of her legs, before he reached out, grasped her hand, and slowly, very slowly, turned her.
She felt as if she were moving through heat, toward some potent fire. She halted when she faced him fully. His gaze was on her toes.
It rose, slowly, unhurriedly; confident yet enthralled, he drank in every inch of her.
She was battling inward shudders when his eyes finally reached hers. Impulsively, she stepped closer—he stopped her, with his grip on her hand held her back.
“No. Not yet.” He drew in a breath as ragged as hers. Clearly clinging to his control, he murmured, husky and low, “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to see you like this.”
The tone of his voice, its cadence, fell into her mind, bearing a message much deeper, much more primitive and evocative than his words. She swayed, but through his grip on her hand he held her steady.
As he raised his other hand and, with the lightest of touches, brushed the backs of his fingers down the swell of her breast, then around and across the underside.
She shuddered and closed her eyes.
“Just like this.” His words reached her in the same mesmerizing tone. “Waiting for me to take you.
Wanting me to take you.”
His fingers drifted, flame on her skin, tracing powerful patterns over it. She heated with every touch, every evocative caress.
His fingers rose to her hair, searching, pulling free and discarding the pins restraining the heavy mass of gilded brown. Slowly, reverently, he drew the tresses out and laid them over her shoulders.
He moved near and she felt his breath on her cheek, sensed his willing enthrallment as he said, “You’re a goddess and an offering, both at once. You’re the woman I worship, and the woman I must have. The woman I will take, but in the taking…I, too, willingly yield.”
Charlie didn’t know where the words came from, only that they were true; he felt them resonate deep inside him. Deep, where only she—sweet innocent Sarah—had ever reached.
Those words encompassed the truth—the truth of him and her, and what had grown between them, the truth of them in the here and now, and in the ever after. Worshipping her was a passion he embraced willingly; he set his hands, his lips, his mouth, his body, to the task.
Set himself to hold her there, naked before him, while he worshipped each curve, each evocative line of her slender form. While he awakened her to more intimate delights, to the plea sure of being touched without touching. From their earlier interludes, he’d learned those spots that most inflamed her desire—the sensitive underside of her breasts, the even more arousing lower curve of her bottom.
Slowly, steadily, he applied the knowledge, arousing her to a passion to rival his own.
He took his time, ruthless in his need to worship her, to draw out every last minute of that curious hunger; he only took her in his arms and drew her against him when she could no longer stand.
They came together, skin to skin, flesh to heated flesh. She gasped; he quelled a long shudder. She shifted against him, silken limbs caressing his harder, hair-dusted frame, her soft belly cradling his aching erection. He sank one hand into the mass of her bright hair, gripped and held her as he bent his head and kissed her, hard, ruthless, and demanding.
This time he was determined to remain in control throughout, not to weaken and cede to her at any point; given their past history, reducing her to mindless need seemed a wise idea.
There were levels of fire, degrees of sensual flame. Under his practiced caresses, growing harder, more urgent, increasingly driven, at the center of his unwavering attention she heated, slowly but surely under his guidance progressing from one level to the next, from one degree of heated yearning into ever deepening flames.
He went with her, but he was more accustomed to passion’s heat, to its beat, to withstanding the compulsion that lay within it.
Until the sensual conflagration captured them, him as well as her. Until their embrace grew so hot it cindered all thought and left no other awareness but of him and her, and the need to come together.
Desire flared ever hotter; passion roared through the flames.
He stooped, swung her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Laying her on satin sheets the color of her eyes, laying her hair, a bright veil, over the pillows, seeing her writhe and reach for him, heated, wanton, almost desperate in her need, he paused for one second to savor the sight of her, naked, aroused, and all his, and sensed, as he moved to join her, a spark of something like triumph, obscured by the storm of desire raging through him.
That moment of lucidity was enough to let him grasp the reins again, as he stretched beside her on the bed to consider how much further he could push her into mindless wanting, how much higher on passion’s peak he could drive her before he let her dive off the edge.
The higher, the more plea sure, for her and for him.
He caught the hand that reached for him, leaned over her, deliberately letting his chest abrade the tight peaks of her breasts as he kissed her deeply, unrestrainedly, letting her taste how wild for her he was, filling his own senses with the evocative taste of her.
Sweet innocence and passion.
The combination was an unbelievably heady mix, but now his mind had fixed on his plan, the
execution required no further thought.
Only action.
He held her down in the cushioning billows of the bed, kissed her, fondled and provocatively caressed until she arched, with her body begged; breaking from the kiss, he trailed hot, wet, openmouthed kisses down the taut line of her throat, over the creamy upper swell of her breast, and gave her the first course of what she’d asked for.
He feasted on her breasts without quarter, licked, suckled, and laved as she writhed and gasped beneath him, as her hands gripped and tightened on his skull as he drew every last gasp and moan he could from her, then moved on.
Over her midriff, down over her waist, pausing to pay homage to the sensitive indentation of her navel, then he shifted still lower.
Trapping one of her long legs beneath him, lifting and draping the other over his shoulder, he held it there, held her steady as he pressed an ardent kiss to the curls shielding her mons.
He heard her breath hitch, felt her body tremble, then tense and coil. Glancing at her face, he caught a glimpse of intense cornflower blue burning beneath her heavy lids, saw her lips, slick and swollen from his kisses, parted in shocked disbelief. Deliberately he slid lower, bent and set his lips to the slick, swollen flesh between her thighs.
She jerked, moaned. He licked and she screamed. She reached for him, but could only touch his head. Her fingers twined in his hair, tightened; she tensed to tug, but he licked again, then slowly, expertly probed, and she didn’t move.
Panting, eyes shut, she waited.
Inwardly smug, he settled to worship her in that way, too, to taste her, to fill his senses with her, and hers with him.
She let him have his way, let him taste her as he wished, let him try her with his tongue and drive her mindless.
He asked, and she surrendered; he took, and she gave. In return, he pleasured her with unwavering devotion until she sobbed and cried his name.
Rising, he rolled her fully onto her back, trailed kisses like fire up her belly and breasts as he loomed over her, spreading her thighs wide, settling between. He held himself over her, arms braced as he kissed her, tasted her desperation on her lips. Then with one single, powerful thrust he joined them.
She closed about him like a glove, and he gasped; like the goddess he’d named her she welcomed her servant into her temple and embraced him.
He moved, and she moved with him, fluidly meeting him as they gave themselves up to the now familiar dance. His thoughts fractured, ripped from him as a whirlpool of sensation rose up, drenched, then drowned him.
And there was no longer any such concept as control, no restraint what ever in the world they’d finally reached. There was only him, and her, and the power raging through them, seeking its long-denied release.
Through the tempest of their passions, through the wild turbulent ride, Sarah was conscious only of sensation. It buffeted her, overwhelmed her mind, etched itself on her awareness. So that despite the heat and the delirious plea sure of his body moving over hers, despite the powerful thrusts that physically rocked her, despite the impossible clamoring urgency that had her tilting her hips to take him yet more deeply, that had her scoring his back urging him desperately to ride her yet more forcefully, the one element that shone through the raging veil was his hunger for her. It was every bit as deep and powerful
and demanding as her hunger for him.
No—more.
For him, in him, that hunger was so potent, so deeply ingrained that she had no doubt he would give every last gasp to sate it—to consummate it, to give it life, here with her in their bed. It drove him, and controlled him, and drew her into the maelstrom, too, until she was as passionate as he in finding the way to appease it, to sate it, to discover the way into its temple and sacrifice herself at its altar.
And at the last, in the final mind-shattering moment when she clung by her fingernails over the sensual void, the veils ripped apart and she saw that hungry power clearly—saw, felt, with her own senses knew what it was.
Unquestionably, beyond doubt.
Then he thrust one last time and with a cry she shattered; with a sob she lost her grip on reality and fell. Weightless for that moment, that briefest of journeys, falling from heavenly plea sure into satiation’s soothing sea.
Bliss closed around her, suffused her, buoyed her, softening her limbs, eradicating every last iota of tension. Then the glow brightened, flared as with a guttural groan he stiffened in her arms.
From beneath her lids, she looked up, in that telltale moment saw his face stripped of all sophistication, of all veils and screens. In the instant when he lost himself in her, when he shuddered and completion racked him, there was only one emotion etched on his face.
One she felt in her heart, recognized in her bones.
He slumped across her, as boneless as she; she let her lids fall, felt her lips curve. Remembered his words. All she saw here, in this room, in her domain, was hers.
Hers to rule in the physical dimension perhaps, but hers to be ruled by in that other dimension, in that other world given reality by their love.
Hers, and his. She’d felt hers, felt, sensed, and seen his. No more doubts.
He lifted from her, slumped heavily beside her, and drew her into his arms. She went gladly, pleasured and joyful beyond her wildest dreams.
Here, with him, was her life, her future, the right path for her. With him, she would find the satisfaction she sought. Together with him, all would be well.
She’d made the right decision.
Her mind was drifting, her brain hazed with plea sure. Secure in his arms, her cheek on his chest, she whispered, “I love you.”
Even though her mind was sliding through sleep’s veil, she heard the faint surprise in her tone, and smiled. “And I know you love me, too.”
Sleep enfolded her in rapturous arms, and she sank into bliss-filled dreams.
Sprawled on his back, her gentle, almost ethereal whispers sighing through his head, Charlie lay sunk beneath her soft weight, his arms loosely around her, his body too sated even to tense.
He stared up at the canopy, blue silk the color of her eyes.
And wondered how his wonderful plan had gone so terribly wrong.
H e roused her as dawn was sliding across the sky. As rosy glory streaked the horizon, he dipped his fingers into her swollen softness and lured her from sleep with slow caresses, until, flushed like the morning, she sighed, and he slid into her body and she smiled.
He rode her slowly, totally controlled, rigidly watchful, desperate to convince himself that the addiction, and his raging hunger, had muted. That the power that drove him, that fueled his mindless need
—that regardless of his guard inexorably rose within him, whipped through him, wrested control from him and wrenched him from this world—had abated.
It hadn’t. Not in the least.
If anything, that power had only grown.
He held her until she slid back into sleep, then turned onto his back and, staring upward unseeing, faced the cold hard facts as a cold hard dawn broke over his lands.
Alathea had been right; until him, love had invariably captured every Morwellan male. It had caught his sire, and driven him, obsessed him, had compelled him in its name to take risks that had nearly destroyed their family, the earldom, and everything he’d held dear.
With that example engraved on his mind, he’d chosen a different path. By arranging a conventional marriage, he’d sought to shut out love, and thus remain in absolute control of his life, safe from that dangerous emotion.
Instead…fate had set her snare, and he’d walked unheeding—arrogantly—into it, and tripped the trap himself.
He’d married Sarah—sweet innocent Sarah—and now he faced the one prospect he’d fought, and thought he’d arranged never ever to meet.
He was in love with his wife.
There was no point pretending he wasn’t, not any longer, not with the clutch of that power still so tangible in his chest, not with its claws sunk in his heart. There was no value what ever in denying its existence, not to himself.
He should have seen…but he hadn’t. Perhaps he should have guessed what it was that had made her different—to him so different from all other women on virtually every level—but he’d had no experience from which to judge; the notion that the reason she was so unarguably his was because he loved her hadn’t even crossed his mind.
So now he loved. He’d fallen victim to that ungovernable emotion, and now and forever would be subject to that irresistible force, that power that could so easily fuel obsession.
That same power that, in his father, had led to the brink of ruination.
Instead of being the bulwark he’d intended, the salvation he’d sought, his marriage had transformed into his worst nightmare.
How on earth was he to manage? What could he do?
12
T he closing of a door, followed by the hesitant patter of feet across the floor, woke Sarah. She blinked, and looked around, and remembered where she was. She struggled up onto her elbow; the bed
beside her was rumpled, but empty.
Sunlight streamed in through the windows, bright and sharp, but Charlie was nowhere to be seen. Gwen, who had come with her from the manor, carefully set a steaming pitcher on the dresser;
reaching for a door in the paneling, she glanced at the bed. Seeing Sarah awake, she grinned. “Thought I’ d best come and wake you, miss—m’lady, I mean. I’ve brought your washing water.” She opened the door, and nodded. “Your dressing room’s through here—have you seen it?”
“Ah, no.” Sarah pushed back her hair. She hadn’t seen anything beyond the bed since Charlie had laid her upon it. She went to throw back the bedclothes, then realized she was naked. She blushed.
So did Gwen. “I’ll just pop this pitcher on the washstand in here and bring you your robe.”
Sarah peered over the side of the bed, and saw her beautiful wedding gown lying where it had fallen. Remembering the look in Charlie’s eyes as he’d peeled it from her, she grinned. Then Gwen brought her robe and she shrugged into it. Leaving Gwen to deal with her discarded clothes, she went into the dressing room, discovering that it matched the bedroom, decorated in blues and glowing golden oak.
She quickly washed. “What time is it, Gwen? What’s happening about breakfast?” To her surprise, she felt ravenous.
“It’s just gone eleven,” Gwen called from the bedchamber. “Breakfast was held back—they’re just gathering in the breakfast parlor now.”
“Oh. Good.” Sarah grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. Her first morning as lady of the house, and she’d be the last down to breakfast. More, she’d have to face various sets of curious eyes, and have to conduct herself as if it were just another day—all while Charlie was in the same room.
It was a prospect to tie her stomach in knots, but when she consulted that organ she discovered she was still too relaxed, too inwardly languid in the wake of Charlie’s so-expert attentions, that she really couldn’t summon the tension to manage knots at all.
Pondering that unexpected ramification of her wifely duties, she left the earl’s apartments and followed the corridor to the gallery, and thence to the stairs; descending, she gained the front hall and the areas of the house with which she was familiar.
The breakfast parlor was a sunny room off the conservatory. A rectangular table sat in the room’s center with places laid along its length; a heavy sideboard stood against one wall, all but groaning beneath a profusion of serving dishes and warming pans. Both table and sideboard sported vases brimming with white blooms from the day before, an appealing touch.
The instant she appeared in the open doorway, chairs scraped as all those seated rose to greet her. She hesitated, smiling but unsure just what to do; Serena, whom she’d known all her life and who was now her mother-in-law, came bustling forward, a smile wreathing her face.
“There you are, dear.” Serena embraced her warmly, lightly touching cheeks, then ushered her to the chair at the end of the table. “This is now your place. Of course you know everyone here.” With a wave she indicated her children and their spouses. Nudging Sarah into her chair, Serena subsided into the one beside her. “We’re all absolutely delighted to see you in that seat.”
“Thank you.” Sarah settled into the high-backed, ornately carved chair.
Her gaze traveling around the table, she nodded a smiling good morning to Mary and Alice, Charlie’s sisters, and their husbands, Alec and George, and Augusta and Jeremy, all transparently pleased both with her presence and how yesterday had gone.
Alice leaned forward; with a swift grin, she continued to relate a tale gleaned from a guest that Sarah’s arrival had interrupted. The others’ attention deflected to Alice—all except Charlie’s. He sat
opposite Sarah at the head of the table, coffee cup in one hand, a news sheet in the other, but his eyes weren’t tracking the print; they were on her.
She met his gaze and smiled—just for him. Relieved, happy, and content, she used the gesture to convey how she felt.
His expression remained impassive; at this distance, with the windows behind him and the sun shining outside, she couldn’t read his eyes. But then he inclined his head to her, lifted his cup, sipped, and returned to his perusal of the news sheet.
Sarah inwardly frowned. She studied him, puzzled that he wasn’t smiling—although perhaps that was due to the others’ being about—yet he wasn’t relaxed; he wasn’t anywhere near as relaxed as she was.
“Tea, ma’am?”
A second passed before Sarah realized the sonorous question was addressed to her. She glanced up at Crisp, hovering by her elbow. “Oh—yes! Thank you, Crisp. Tea and…” She glanced at the sideboard.
Crisp shifted and stood ready to draw back her chair. “If I could suggest, ma’am, the Deviled eggs are excellent. Cook’s specialty.”
Sarah threw him a smile as she rose. “I must try some, then.”
For the next fifteeen minutes as she ate and sipped, then refilled her plate and ate some more, the familiar warmth of a large and happy family closed around her.
“The other guests left last night or early this morning.” Serena turned to her, her words sliding beneath the general conversation. “Indeed, if it wasn’t for wanting to catch up with Mary and Alice and their broods, all of us would be gone, too. Every young couple needs a few weeks alone in which to settle into life together.”
Sarah’s eyes widened; she hadn’t thought…“You don’t need to leave—this is your home, and I wouldn’t dream of trying to supplant you.”
Hazel eyes brimming with understanding, Serena patted her wrist. “But you are now mistress here, my dear, and believe me when I say that I’m beyond content to consign the care of this house and house hold into more youthful hands. We’ll stay long enough for me to explain all you need to know, then we’ll be off to Lincoln with Mary and Alec, and from there Augusta and I plan to visit various family members I haven’t had time to call on in years, before joining you and Charlie in London once the Season gets under way.”
Serena studied her, then reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. And smiled somewhat mistily. “Believe me, my dear, everything is set to work out just splendidly.”
Sarah wasn’t entirely sure what that “everything” encompassed, but true to her declaration, Serena embarked on a description of various matters of house hold management.
At the other end of the table, Charlie, outwardly involved in a discussion of corn prices with Alec and George, watched Sarah, without fuss, bother, or further fanfare, begin to assume the mantle of his countess. He’d presumed she would find it easy, given she already knew them all, but it wasn’t only familiarity that eased her way—that made Crisp hover so, or allowed Serena and Augusta to so swiftly explain what she needed to know.
She fitted. She was, as he’d foreseen, the perfect lady to fill the position.
That he’d been so right, so clear-sighted in that, only served to deepen his disquiet over all he hadn’t, in his arrogance, understood.
The sounds that rose around him, his sisters’ voices, the deeper rumblings of his brothers-in-law,
the comfortable, usually undisturbing cacophony of his family at breakfast, for once did nothing to soothe his soul.
Quite the opposite.
Then Alec started describing the antics of his and Mary’s son, just old enough to sit his first pony, and the goad became too sharp to bear.
His expression uninformative, Charlie pushed back from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I must see to some business.” He stood.
Alec and George looked up, smiled vaguely, then continued chatting. He stepped away from the table; Jeremy glanced at him, then returned to teasing Alice.
As he strode down the room, all the ladies broke off their discussions and looked at him expectantly.
He inclined his head to his mother, then to Sarah. “I’ll see you later.” She smiled, transparently content, but her eyes swiftly searched his face.
His stride unhurried, he passed her chair and continued to the doorway, certain that she would read nothing of his thoughts no matter how sharp her gaze. There were times when the facial control necessary to conduct business at the highest level was an unlooked-for boon.
He just hadn’t imagined deploying that shield against his wife.
N ight had fallen. Wrapped in a silk negligee, another part of her trousseau, Sarah paced before the fire in the earl’s bedchamber and wondered where her earl was.
The velvet curtains were drawn against the dark; outside rain fell steadily while the wind rattled the bare branches of the nearby trees. Candles stood on the mantelpiece and on the small tables flanking the bed, their steady glow contributing to the cosy warmth that enveloped the chamber.
She’d had a busy, information-packed day. From the breakfast table on, every one of her minutes had gone in learning the myriad details of how to run Morwellan Park, and of the numerous other tasks that would fall to her now she was Charlie’s countess.
Not one of those details or tasks had been unexpected, yet she’d concentrated; if Serena and Augusta were shortly to leave and not be present to consult for several weeks, then she needed to ask all the relevant questions now rather than later be caught unawares.
Her absorption had distracted her from Charlie’s…distance. The distance he seemed intent on preserving between them, somewhat formal and stiff. His behavior in the breakfast room had been only the beginning; he’d been the same at the luncheon table, and his stance had been even more pronounced over dinner and during the short time he’d spent in the drawing room afterward, before he, Alec, George, and Jeremy had taken themselves off to play billiards.
Admittedly, throughout, she’d been surrounded by his mother and sisters, all talking more or less constantly, imparting facts and advice, all of which she’d needed to hear. Yet…
She grimaced. Perhaps his unexpected, rather formal reserve was simply a reaction to having his family there, watching his and her every move. Despite his outwardly easygoing nature, he was a private man, and his family were unquestionably the most aware of observers, the ones most able to read him and his reactions easily.
Perhaps he was simply uncertain how to publicly acknowledge the connection that was growing between them, or was, as yet, given its recent genesis, uneasy about doing so.
Indeed, she wasn’t yet sure herself how to relate to him when others were about; it was hardly any wonder if he felt the same. The same sense of feeling their way.
Halting before the fireplace, arms crossed beneath her breasts, she stared into the flames. Then the handsome clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour; she looked at it and frowned. Eleven o’clock.
Where was he?
As if in answer, she heard a footstep on the anteroom’s tiles—a familiar stride. Lowering her arms, she lifted her head, swinging to face the door as it opened and Charlie entered.
He saw her, hesitated for an instant, then closed the door. And came toward her.
She studied his face, searched his eyes as he neared…and sensed a hesitation, an uncertainty, one that echoed in her heart.
She also saw, more clearly, more definitely, the falling of the curious barrier that had seemed to stand between them through the day. Saw intent return to his eyes, replacing his impassivity, saw desire rise and edge his features.
By the time he halted before her, the firelight playing over him, glinting gold in the waves of his hair, there was no doubt in her mind that at least between them here, nothing had changed, that all was as she’ d thought.
His gaze lingered on her face; he searched as she had, then his gaze lowered to her shoulders, all but bare beneath the diaphanous silk, slowly fell further to her breasts, then to the indentation of her waist, to her hips, her thighs, clothed tantalizingly in ivory silk and lace…his lids fell.
He drew breath and raised his head. Eyes closed, jaw tight, he mumured, “You are so desirable it hurts to look at you.”
The words grated, as if they’d been dragged from him. She smiled. “Then keep your eyes closed.”
She moved nearer on the words, her voice sultry again as she responded to him, his transparent desire awakening hers. “Keep your eyes closed and let me guide you.”
Ease you. Her hands on his chest, she stretched up, and kissed him. For a moment, he let her, then he responded, his head angling over hers, his arms rising to close around her. To hold her against him as he supped from her mouth, as he tasted her, and let her taste him. She inwardly sighed and sank against him; reaching up with one hand, she cupped his nape, then slid her fingers into the softness of his hair and gripped, urging him on. For long minutes, she savored their play, the confident, assured
give-and-take, then she drew back, broke the kiss.
“Keep your eyes closed.” She whispered the words against his lips; as she drew back, she saw them quirk. Smiling, she set about divesting him of his clothes.
Although he obediently left his lids down, his long lashes casting crescent shadows over his high cheekbones, he didn’t keep his hands still; as she wrestled him out of coat, waistcoat, and shirt, his hands roved over her silk-clad body, touching here, tantalizingly caressing there, making her nerves leap and tense, then tighten in anticipation. In reply, she gave her fascination full rein, running her hands over the acres of muscled chest she uncovered, glorying in the heavy muscles and bones of his shoulders, the taut ridged lines of his abdomen. Their interaction became a sensual game, one that heightened their senses, and left them both breathing rapidly, yet still very much in control.
Aware, and intent.
He reached for her again as her fingers found the buttons at his waist; she stretched up and once more covered his lips with hers. The kiss was hotter, desire escalating, the passion more intense; she felt the heat spread beneath her skin, felt the flames of need flare deep within her, yet for once in this arena, she had a definite aim.
She pulled back from the kiss. “Don’t forget—eyes closed.”
He shifted, lips thinning, fingers tensing on her back, but he acquiesced. He had to ease his hold on her and let her slide down, out of his arms as, trailing a few brief kisses down the center of his chest, she crouched before him, drew his trousers down, then turned her attention to his stockings and shoes. She dispensed with all swiftly—then grasped her chance.
She’d overheard Maria and Angela, her two older married sisters, whispering; she’d understood enough to leave her wondering. Now she had her own husband, she was curious as to whether he, too, might like…
There was only one way to find out. Bracing her hands on the taut muscles of his lower thighs, she went to her knees before him, then slid her hands up, following the heavy bands of muscle to where his erection stood proud, angling stiffly from its nest of curls, as if begging for her attention.
Even before her hands closed about his length, he guessed; he sucked in a breath. But then her fingers curled about his rigid flesh and he jerked. And couldn’t seem to breathe. “Sarah?”
The word was weak, equal parts shock, astonishment, and question.
“No looking, remember.” Leaning her forearms against his rock-hard thighs, she paused to study what she held for only a second, then she bent her head, parted her lips, and slid them slowly, lovingly, over and down the hot silk rod between her hands.
He groaned. His entire body locked, every muscle rigid as, recalling her sisters’ words, she used her imagination to interpret them. Liberally.
His breath hissed in through his teeth. His hand found her head, his fingers tangled in her hair; for a moment she wondered if he would tug her away, but then his fingers firmed. Seconds later, she realized he was directing her, teaching her…what he liked.
A rush of giddy happiness rose through her, and she eagerly applied herself to learning, to discovering how best to plea sure him in this way. A brief glance upward revealed his head held high, features tight with fierce plea sure; no sight could have pleased her more.
Delighted, she devoted her full attention to her ministrations, to learning all she possibly could.
That last was implicit as the minutes stretched, and Charlie clung by his mental fingernails to some semblance of control. How? Where? A very large part of him didn’t care. Had no interest what ever in how she’d known, but was avidly, greedily, hungrily absorbing every last iota of plea sure she was so unexpectedly and intently lavishing on him.
The wet heat of her mouth, the gentle, increasingly bold suction, the tantalizing flick and glide of her tongue, the soft caress of her hair against his thighs as her head moved so evocatively, so erotically, effortlessly commanded every wit he had. He was her sensual captive, wholly and completely ensnared in her web.
Yet even though his eyes were closed, his lungs tight and aching, even though every muscle he possessed was locked and straining, it wasn’t solely physical reaction that held him at her mercy; the mental impact of her actions was infinitely more devasting. The implication of her going so willingly to her knees, taking him into her mouth, and so patently delighting in pandering to his senses, in learning of his darker desires and fulfilling them, resonated through him.
She and that power, the power she now wielded, or that wielded her, that functioned through her, was seducing him. And succeeding. She and it operated on so many levels, he was helpless to counter, to shield himself against her, and it. Against all that she and it together made him feel.
Passion and desire he’d weathered often before, but with her both were shockingly heightened, infused with that power and therefore more potent, infinitely more intense. More addictive.
And into the mix, arrogant possessiveness had swirled. He’d never felt the like, not with any of the countless women he’d bedded, but with her, his wife, possessiveness didn’t just hover, it raged. And drove him.
To night…until he’d walked into their bedchamber, he hadn’t known how he would behave, how their interaction would play out, to what level.
Some part of him had hoped, prayed, that to night he would be able to suppress his reaction, to step back, to draw a line and hold to it, to continue the process he’d started that morning to get their relationship back on the track of a conventional marriage.
Throughout the day, he’d managed to hold aloof, but just the sight of her standing waiting for him before his fire, the flames flickering over her, lovingly revealing her figure beneath the translucent gown, had been enough to overwhelm his determination and shatter the guard he’d hoped to maintain.
As for this…
His chest hurt, tight, lungs seizing as her lips firmed and slid, as her fingers rose, sliding upward on his thigh. Sunk in the wet heat of her mouth, his erection was one massive, throbbing ache.
He dragged in a shuddering breath and forced his lids up. He looked down, at her on her knees, leaning into him, her glorious hair rippling over her shoulders, gilded in the firelight, shifting as her head moved and she pleasured him. He saw his fingers locked on her head, felt hers slide higher, circle the base of his staff, and tighten.
For one instant, he let his senses drink it all in, let that inner self he so rarely let loose glory in her and her devotion, then he gathered his will, fought and drew his strength to him.
Breathing was a battle; his head was swimming as he forced his hand from the golden silk of her hair, followed the curve of her jaw, then slipped his fingers beneath the gilded veil to grip her chin.
“Enough.” The word was weak; she complied more with the pressure of his fingers than the command.
Releasing him, she sat back; hands resting on his thighs, she looked up the length of his body to meet his eyes.
Her expression, the glow in her eyes and her face, held him silent for a heartbeat; had any madonna ever looked so content? Then he reached for her; closing his hands about her upper arms, he drew her to her feet.
“You opened your eyes,” she murmured.
He met her gaze for an instant, then holding her before him, bent his head. “My turn.”
He kissed her. Not as before, not with any veil or screen, nothing to mute the raw hunger she evoked in him, the staggeringly powerful mix of passion, desire, and need—the need to possess her.
Completely and utterly.
To possess her body and soul, as she already possessed him. That’s what she and that power demanded.
So be it.
Sarah relished the passion raging through his kiss, inwardy gasped when he deepened the caress, ruthlessly commanding, his tongue probing, then retreating, only to return, echoing the possession she knew was to come.
Senses unfurling in the spiraling heat, she thrilled when his hands, curved about her shoulders, eased their grip—to reach for the edges of her silk and lace robe. He stripped it from her; it slid down her back to the floor. With two quick tugs he had the shoulder ties of her matching nightgown undone; it
whispered down her body to pool about her feet.
As his hands slid about her waist, gripped, and he drew her forcefully against his naked length. Hot, hard, so male, the promise in his body affected hers like flame, melting, softening, heating anew. Sending fire down her veins to pool low in her belly, feeding her hunger, making the odd empty ache within her burgeon and grow.
He held her trapped in the kiss, yet she wanted to reach for him, to use her palm to caress that part of him she longed to feel inside her, filling her, stretching her, feeding that empty ache, satisfying the desire that beat heavily in her veins. But when he’d pulled her into his arms, she’d gripped his shoulders; as his arms tightened, then his hands slid down her back, molding her to him, she couldn’t find the strength or will to push him back enough to reach between them.
Then he angled her and did, his fingers finding the curls covering her mons, and playing.
Deliberately, evocatively. His touch was more intense, more openly driven; as he pressed further and found the soft flesh between her thighs already swollen and wet, his caresses grew ever more demanding, more intimate, more invested with a possessiveness that thrilled her.
His lips on hers, holding her wits captive, with one kneee he nudged her thighs apart, and slid first one, then two long fingers into her sheath. She felt the heat from the fire playing over her skin as his hand worked between her thighs, feeding the conflagration within.
Her body was no longer hers but his to command, her senses wholly caught, trapped in the moment. In the escalating desire, in the tension that rose through the fire and gripped her.
Then he buried his fingers inside her and she shattered. She gasped through the kiss, but he pressed her on; instead of falling weightless through the familiar void, she found herself riding a crest of incendiary passion. It swept her high, then he withdrew his fingers, gripped her waist, and lifted her up against him.
She broke from the kiss; from under heavy lids, breasts heaving, her hands gripping his shoulders, she looked down at his face, tipped up to hers.
His expression was graven, a mask of urgent desire. “Wrap your legs around me.”
She could barely make out the gravelly command; it took an instant to register that his palms had slid beneath her bottom, supporting her weight, then to make her muscles obey her enough to obey him.
Immediately her thighs clamped about him, he lowered her hips, and she realized—felt the broad head of his erection nudge against her entrance, then he pressed in, and drew her down.
As he thrust upward.
Head falling back, she gasped as he impaled her, as the sensation of him riding hard and high into her body engulfed her senses, and dragged them down.
Into a whirlpool of seething desire, of passion so hot it scorched, of a need so fiery it melted her bones. He lifted her, and brought her down again, thrusting upward as he did, and every nerve she possessed shook, shuddered.
With a need he understood; legs braced, he held her in his arms before the fireplace, the heat from the flames dancing over her flushed skin as he gripped her bottom and held her to him, held her body against him and filled her again and again.
She wrapped her arms about his neck and clung, senses stretched almost beyond bearing, sensual delight buffeting her mind, then she lowered her head, he lifted his, and their lips met.
And hunger raged.
Not hers, not his, but theirs. A force stronger than either of them, able to compel both of them.
Powerful enough to fling them both into a state of mindless, dizzying, clawing need—into intimacy
unrelenting, to where there was no him or her but only their single, desperate quest.
Until they touched the glory. Until it rose in a burning wave and battered them, shattered them, caught them and cindered them.
Destroyed them.
Unmade them.
Then refused them and completed them.
When the storm retreated and they returned to the world, they found themselves slumped, limbs tangled, on the rug before the dying fire.
Sarah drew breath, with one hand traced his face, close, lit by the glowing embers as he gazed down at her, and marveled anew at what she saw there. Passion, desire, and need had faded, leaving behind, stark and unmistakable, the one emotion that drove those lesser emotions, that gave them such intense life.
Mistily, she smiled up at him; there was no need for words.
He searched her eyes, then bent his head and kissed her gently, the simplest of benedictions. Then he drew back, lifted her in his arms, rose and carried her to their bed.
W arm, sated to his toes, Charlie lay beside Sarah, listening to her steady breathing, and to the wind gusting restlessly beyond the windows.
The two sounds echoed his thoughts of her and him; she’d accepted what had flared, grown, and burgeoned between them without a qualm, while he…couldn’t.
The glow of aftermath that had claimed him, that still held him despite his restless thoughts, had never been this intense, this deeply satisfying. He couldn’t pretend otherwise, couldn’t deny the fierce triumph he’d felt when she’d finally shattered in his arms, when his last vestige of control had vaporized and he’d plundered her willingly surrendered body to gain his own release—any more than he could deny the deeply rooted plea sure of sharing those indefinable, ephemeral moments afterward with her.
She was different, and always would be, and no matter how he might wish otherwise, he wasn’t going to walk away from all she represented. All she gave him.
In some fundamental way—a primitive, primal, possessive way he’d never imagined would apply to him—she was his rightful mate. His. Claimed, willingly surrendered, she who would be the mother of his heirs.
Where this aggressive, possessive, even more arrogant than usual part of him had sprung from he didn’t know. All he knew was that it was integral, an inescapable part of him, that she called it forth, that only she could sate it—and that was that. All unhelpful, potentially obsessive powers aside, that was the situation he now faced.
When he was here, alone with her in this room, there was nothing he could do—could even imagine doing—to avoid or hide that truth, the truth of what he felt for her, how he felt about her. When he was here, alone with her, the need to possess her was simply too powerful, the ache to plea sure her an unexpected spur. Taking her was no longer a simple focus, if it ever had been; the impulse to give, not just to sensually delight her but to teach her, and even more strongly to protect her, to care for her in each and every way, was irresistible. Compelling.
He saw it as a duty.
But…his duty, when all was said and done, did not lie solely with her. Indeed, their marriage had
come about because he’d bowed to a greater duty. And that greater duty still remained, commanding his loyalty, his observance and devotion. His care.
He was the defender and protector of his title, his land, his people, his the duty to watch over all, to ensure both the safety and the future of the earldom. That was an ineradicable part of who he was, his birthright, and through that his inalienable duty, one he couldn’t, and didn’t wish to, walk away from, or even to jeopardize, not even for her.
Certainly not for him, in order to pursue his own plea sure.
Two duties, both commanding. Not precisely contradictory—for any other man observing both would pose no difficulty—but for him there existed one serious, potential, even likely problem. Yet he was going to have to accommodate both—the power that flared between Sarah and him, and his obligation to remain in control of all decisions, and not let love control him. Not let love become an obsession with the capacity to rule him.
Eyes narrowing, he stared across the room into the deepening shadows, and considered the past day, and the night that had followed.
When all was said and done, he never made professional decisions in bed. He turned his new plan over in his mind, studied it, wondered.
It might be difficult, but it wasn’t impossible. It was what he would have to do.
S arah began the second day of her marriage more settled, more confident, than the day before. While Charlie maintained his aloofness over the breakfast table, and later the luncheon table, after the revelations of the night she no longer harbored any doubt over the nature of their marriage.
His family were still present, very much in evidence throughout the day; it seemed plain that their presence gave him pause. It seemed equally clear that he would take some time to ease into the way of things, to become accustomed to her and to learn how to react to her. Although he had the examples of his sisters’ marriages, and even more that of Alathea and Gabriel, let alone Serena and his father before that, he was, after all, indisputably male; he had doubtless not thought to pay any real attention to how those gentlemen interacted with their wives.
But he was sharply intelligent; he would learn soon enough. And time was one thing they had an abundance of—the rest of their lives, in fact.
So she went about her day with a smile wreathing her face, with no worries clouding her mind, but with anticipation buoying it.
After lunch, Charlie, Alec, and Jeremy went riding. Leaving Serena and her daughters catching up in the parlor that Serena had, years ago, made her own domain, Sarah went to unpack her things in the room she’d chosen as her sitting room.
Every countess, it seemed, was expected to have a private sitting room. That morning, Serena had shown her around the reception rooms of the huge house, many of which weren’t in regular use.
“This house is so large,” Serena had said, “there’s no reason for you to feel constrained to use the room I chose when I first came here.”
When they’d reached the morning room on the ground floor at the end of the west wing, the room below the earl’s bedchamber, Serena had explained, “This was traditionally the countess’s sitting room. It was Charlie’s father’s first wife’s sitting room. Even though she’d passed on years before I married
Charlie’s father, I didn’t feel I could use this room. Alathea was still young, and I didn’t want her to feel I was supplanting her mother, or worse, trying to eradicate her memory.”
Sarah had wandered into the room, noting the long windows, and the pair of French doors opening onto the terrace overlooking the south lawn. The light was wonderful. It was a good-sized room, as were all the rooms in this wing, and was decorated as befitted a countess’s sitting room in damasks and brocades, all golds, browns, and greens on an ivory base. She’d swung back to Serena. “Do you think Alathea would have any difficulty over my using this room?”
Serena beamed. “Oh, no—quite the opposite. I think she’d feel it only right that you should claim this room as yours.”
And so it had been decided. Sarah had informed Figgs, the redoubtable house keeper, of her decision. Figgs had instantly ordered a bevy of maids in to mop and dust. “It’ll be ready an hour after lunch, my lady. I’ll have Crisp get the footmen to bring your boxes in, then you can settle.”
So this afternoon, with the sun streaming in through the long windows, she was settling, quiet and alone and more content than she felt she had any right to be.
As well as comfortable chaises and armchairs, the room was well supplied with bookcases, small tables, and an escritoire with a matching chair set against one wall. With the smell of beeswax hanging in the air, she’d left the double doors to the corridor open, and propped the French doors wide.
Finally finishing unpacking the three boxes of her books and setting the tomes neatly on the shelves, she stood, one last slim volume in her hand. Studying it, she turned; in the beam of sunlight slanting in through the doors she examined the silver plates that served as front and back covers. A heavy spiral of steel formed the spine. Smiling fondly, with one fingertip she traced the engravings covering the silver plates, then stroked the large oval cabochon amethyst set into the front cover.
A shadow blocked off the sunlight.
She looked up, her heart leaping; for one instant, she thought it was Charlie framed in the doorway, silhouetted by the winter sun, but then she saw the differences. The paler hair, the heavier chest, the different features.
Her initial, instinctive smile of delight had faded; she replaced it with one of suitable welcome. “Mr.
Sinclair. How delightful of you to call.”
With the sun behind him, his face in shadow, she couldn’t be sure, but he seemed to have frozen
—perhaps as surprised to come across her as she was to see him.
Her words, however, recalled him. He visibly relaxed, and smiled his easy smile. “Lady Meredith.”
He stepped into the room and she offered him her hand. He bowed over it, then released her. “I was looking for his lordship.” He held up a sheaf of what looked like news sheets. “I told him I’d drop these by. Investment news about the railways.”
“Ah—I see.” Sarah had no idea Charlie was interested in railways, but he was involved with investing. “He rode out some time ago. He should return soon.”
“Actually,” Sinclair replied with a brief smile, “that’s why I came this way—the stable boy said he’ d returned, and I saw the windows…I understood this was the library wing.”
“It is. The library’s a few doors down.”
“Ah.” Sinclair glanced down at the silver-backed diary she still held; again he seemed to go strangely still. Then his pale lashes flickered. “That’s an unusual-looking book. Are there many like it about?”
“This?” She raised it, displaying the front cover with its amethyst. “I imagine it’s one of a kind. It’s
a keepsake. My late aunt, my mother’s oldest sister, had a large set of such diaries made up, each one with a different-colored stone. When she died, all her nieces were given one to remember her by.”
She glanced at the book fondly, flicking through a few pages. “I have to admit I haven’t read it yet, but Aunt Edith was a great one for recipes and useful hints—as I’m now in charge of my own house hold, I daresay I might find something useful.”
“I daresay.”
She inwardly frowned at Sinclair’s tone, which was flat and oddly strained. But then footsteps sounded in the corridor. She and Sinclair turned as Charlie appeared in the doorway.
“There you are, my lord.” She smiled, but Charlie’s gaze had fixed on her unexpected visitor. That gaze was strangely hard…challenging? She hurried to add, “Mr. Sinclair’s brought you some papers.”
Sinclair smiled; he moved to join Charlie, assurance in every line of his large frame. He brandished his sheets. “Those investment reports I mentioned.”
Charlie’s odd tension eased. “Ah—thank you.” He smiled. “Come into the library and you can guide me through them.” He looked past Sinclair to her. “If you’ll excuse us, my dear?”
A rhetorical question. She plastered on a sweet smile and bobbed a curtsy in acknowledgment of Sinclair’s bow and Charlie’s brief nod. They left and she turned away. Crossing to the escritoire, she opened it, and slipped the diary into the rack within.
Closing the lid, she stared at the escritoire, and inwardly humphed. Swinging around, she surveyed the room—the subtle elegance, the understated richness—now overlaid with an element of herself.
It was a lovely room, and now it was hers.
Damn Sinclair—that was not how she’d wanted Charlie’s first sight of her new sitting room to go.
Still…she could enthuse to him to night, when they were alone. And perhaps she could think of some novel way in which to convey her appreciation.
Imagining it, she smiled, and walked over to shut the French doors.
C harlie’s family—Serena, Augusta, Jeremy, and his sisters and their husbands—departed the next day. Everyone gathered in the forecourt midmorning to see them off.
With laughs and smiles, the ladies calling admonitions to one another and their husbands, and to the footmen and maids rushing back and forth with boxes and bags, the party piled into the three traveling carriages waiting, horses stamping.
Standing on the front porch ready to wave them away, Sarah was sorry to see them go, but also grateful; Serena had been right. All newly married couples did, it seemed, require a few weeks alone to settle into married life.
The last to quit the house was Serena. She wrapped Sarah in a warm, scented embrace and whispered, “Be patient, my dear, and all will be well.”
Returning the embrace, then drawing back, Sarah met her mother-in-law’s wise eyes and smiled, happy and confident. “I will.” Regardless of whether Serena had been alluding to Charlie, the house hold, or both, Sarah was quite certain all would indeed be well.
Serena turned to Charlie; she gave him her hand and allowed him to lead her down the steps to her carriage.
She halted a yard away and looked up at him.
Charlie faced her. And saw, as he’d expected, a slight frown in her eyes. She studied him for a moment, then raised a gloved hand to lay it alongside his cheek. “She’s everything you deserve—take care of her.” Her expression remained gentle but serious, then her lips quirked. “And take care of yourself, too.”
He smiled easily back. “Take care of yourself” had been Serena’s parting words to him since he’d been in short coats.
Patting his cheek lightly, she lowered her hand and turned to the open carriage door. He helped her up the steps, then stood back as the footman shut the door.
With a salute to Serena and Augusta, and a nod to Jeremy, who’d elected to start the journey beside the coachman, Charlie returned to the porch to stand beside Sarah and wave the three carriages off. As the last rumbled away down the drive, he realized he was aware of her softness and warmth beside him. His necessary role high in his mind, he stepped back.
She turned to him, happiness shining in her eyes. “I thought, seeing as you haven’t yet gone riding this morning, that perhaps we could ride together? I haven’t had Blacktail out in days.”
Charlie looked at her, and literally felt a good half of him leap to accept her offer, to seize the chance to relax with her, and laugh and ride and celebrate simply being together and alone, but…
He fought and succeeded in keeping his expression impassive. “I’m sorry—I have various business matters awaiting my attention.” He turned to the house, then remembered Serena’s words and looked back. “If you do go out, take a groom.”
With a vague nod in Sarah’s direction, without meeting her eyes, he continued into the house and headed for the library.
Sarah stood on the porch and watched him go, a frown replacing the happiness leaching from her
eyes.
13
S he told herself it wasn’t a rebuff, that he was indeed involved with all manner of business dealings. When instead of joining her for lunch in the family dining room he elected to have a plate of cold meats in the library, she reminded herself that such behavior was perfectly normal between husbands and wives in their circle.
Husbands and wives did not live in each other’s pockets. Nevertheless, she’d expected… Inwardly frowning even more, she left the luncheon table. Feeling somewhat deflated, she
retreated to her sitting room and spent the afternoon making a start on the long list of thank-you notes it fell to her to pen.
C harlie apparently made a habit of going riding around the estate immediately after breakfast. As he was also developing a habit of leaving her slumped, deliciously exhausted, in their bed in the morning, by the time she stirred and emerged for the day, he’d already broken his fast and was gone.
The next day she possessed her soul in patience, and was rewarded when, returning from his ride, he joined her at the luncheon table. He was happy to volunteer where he’d been, what he’d seen, to discuss the estate matters he’d been dealing with.
All well and good, as it should be.
She listened, learned, and responded encouragingly.
The previous evening, their first alone, had been spent companionably over the dinner table, with a short stint in the drawing room afterward. The night that had followed, once they were alone together in their bedchamber, had only confirmed, yet again, that there was patently, demonstrably, nothing what ever amiss between him and her. That he and she were as one in what they felt for each other.
Reassured, she waited until they’d risen from the luncheon table and were strolling into the corridor to suggest, “Perhaps this afternoon we could go for a drive?” It was Saturday; surely he could spare a few hours away from his investments.
Halting, she swung to face him, letting eagerness light her eyes.
His impassive mask was back in place. He met her eyes for the briefest of moments before, looking ahead, he shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t. There are some matters I must attend to.” He hesitated for a second, then inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse me?”
He didn’t wait for any acknowledgment but strode away—heading for the library.
She stood and watched him go, eyes narrowing on his back, her lips slowly firming into a thin line. She was starting to resent the very existence of his library.
B y late afternoon her spurt of unaccustomed temper had cooled. A few rational hours spent in the calming ambiance of her new sitting room had suggested that perhaps this awkward attitudinal difficulty that seemed to exist between them during daylight hours was simply the outcome of his having different expectations—conventional expectations—over how they would spend their days.
Although she might wish it otherwise, in that light his behavior was understandable. If she wanted something different, then it was up to her to reshape his ideas.
Knowing his temperament, and his temper, she didn’t expect that to be easy, but, given their continued closeness in the nights—she could almost see him relax, see the aloof barrier he held between them through the day fall away when he joined her in their bedchamber—she wasn’t about to retreat from the task.
The following day was Sunday, which meant they went to church. It was odd to sit in the pew to the left of the aisle, rather than the one on the right, from which her mother, father, and Clary and Gloria smiled brightly at her.
Clary and Gloria especially; she hadn’t seen them since the wedding and had little doubt of the thoughts humming in their minds as they pretended to listen to Mr. Duncliffe’s sermon.
At the end of the ser vice, Charlie took her hand and drew her to her feet; he ushered her up the aisle in the wake of Mr. Duncliffe, ahead of all the others in the church. It was now her place to be the first to take Mr. Duncliffe’s hand.
He beamed at her. “My dear countess!” He squeezed her hand between both of his, then glanced at Charlie, by her shoulder. “What a glad day, my lord, that sees you here with your new bride.”
“Indeed.” Charlie offered his hand, rescuing her from Mr. Duncliffe’s warm clasp. “Your mother and sister?” Mr. Duncliffe inquired.
“They’ve gone to spend some time with Lady Mary in Lincoln.” “Excellent! Excellent!”
Before Mr. Duncliffe could embark on further queries, Charlie took Sarah’s elbow, smiled, nodded, and guided her on.
She stifled a giggle as they walked slowly down the path. “He was so pleased to have married us, he would have kept us on the step for as long as he could just to enjoy the memory.”
“Probably.”
They paused on the lawn a little way on to allow her family to catch up with them. The next few minutes passed with Charlie and her father engrossed in county matters, while she satisfied her mother’s maternal curiosity over how she was faring. The rest of the congregation streamed past, heads nodding, hats raised, smiles shy. She and her mother smiled in acknowledgment without breaking the stride of their conversation. Her older sisters, Maria and Angela, and their husbands had come only for the wedding and departed the next day, so there was news to be heard from that quarter, and she passed on good wishes from Mary and Alice, and a reminder from Serena that she would meet them all in London in a few weeks.
She did nothing to assuage Clary’s and Gloria’s curiosity, however, no matter that it glowed in their eyes.
Seeing it, too, her mother bent a stern look on them, then gathered her spouse and departed. Clary hung back, her eyes on their mother’s back. “Can we come and visit?”
Sarah fought not to grin. “Mama will bring you when it’s appropriate.” Which wouldn’t be for at least a week or more. “After that, you can visit whenever you like.”
Clary’s lips formed an O, then she nodded and hurried to fall in behind their mother. Charlie turned to her, brows arching.
Smiling, she slipped her hand into his arm; telling him the reason behind Clary’s and Gloria’s wish to visit her would serve no good purpose. “Perhaps,” she said as they turned toward the lych-gate beyond which their carriage waited, “we could go for a walk when we get back? I haven’t been over the gardens at the Park, not for years, and you know them better than anyone.”
She turned to look up at him—and could almost sense the wall of his aloofness growing and thickening.
His face gave nothing away. They reached the gate; he held it open for her. “It would probably be better if you asked the head gardener to show you around.”
Better for whom? Passing through the gate, she turned to stare at him.
Following her through, he didn’t meet her eyes. “I know Harris is eager to conduct you over his domain and discuss beds and bulbs and such. You’ll do better without me.”
That might be true; the gardens were ultimately her domain, her responsibility, and Harris might well feel confused by his master’s presence, yet…
“Meredith—glad I caught you.”
Sarah turned as Malcolm Sinclair opened the gate and joined them.
He smiled and bowed over her hand, greeting her elegantly and deferentially, then he turned to Charlie. They shook hands, and Sinclair said, “I’ve had some news from London. Drop by sometime and I’ll tell you about it.”
Sarah would have sworn the man intended to doff his hat and move on, but Charlie was slow to release his hand. His gaze, she noted, had sharpened on Sinclair’s face, then he glanced briefly at her, his expression as ever unreadable.
Then he looked again at Sinclair, his easy smile dawning. “Why not come to lunch? You can tell
me then. I’d like to have the opportunity to sound you out about some ideas I’ve had about the prospective Bristol-Taunton connection.”
“Well…” Sinclair glanced at Sarah.
Charlie looked at her, too, and there was something in his eyes that made her feel this was some test. Summoning her own version of his easy—meaningless—smile, she turned it on Sinclair. “Indeed, Mr. Sinclair, do come. Your presence will enliven the occasion.” She returned her gaze to Charlie’s face. “We’re rather quiet at present.”
Sinclair glanced between them, but when Charlie raised an expectant brow at him, he accepted the invitation. Sarah couldn’t fault Sinclair’s manners.
Her husband’s manners were another matter entirely.
S he was not pleased, but an afternoon exploring the extensive gardens with Harris, listening to him expound on the intricacies of shrubberies and arbors, trading views on the colors most appropriate for the flower beds edging the lawns, then enlisting his aid in finding a suitable location for Mr. Quilley, the gnome, had a calming effect. She regained her customary equilibrium, enough for her thoughts to fire her determination rather than her temper.
Charlie was being difficult, but she knew what she knew, knew what she wanted, and was resolved to get it—to secure love as the daily as well as nightly basis of their marriage—for both their sakes.
Over a quiet dinner and the hour they spent in the drawing room afterward, he reading a novel while she embroidered—the very picture of matrimonial domesticity—she covertly watched him, but could find no clue to his strange attitude in his perennially inscrutable face.
She had no idea why he was being difficult, why he shied so completely from letting any hint of his true regard for her show outside their bedchamber, but wisdom suggested that with simple perseverance he would eventually come around.
Consequently, after another sultry winter’s night in their chamber during which she found not one thing in his attitude with which to cavil, she forced herself out of bed at a decent hour, hurried herself through washing and donning her riding habit, then rushed downstairs—just in time to run into him, literally, as he left the breakfast parlor.
“Oh!” She bounced back.
He caught her elbows, steadied her, then released her.
She smiled up at him. “I caught you. I wanted to ask if you would ride to the orphanage with me today. Some of the boys have been asking—”
“I’m sorry.” He stepped back, his face turning to stone. “I…made plans to ride to Sinclair’s. He has some papers I need to see.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t keep her face from falling, could literally feel her happiness draining from her, along with her smile. But she quickly drew breath, tamped down her rising temper, and reminded herself: Persevere. “Well”—she forced herself to brighten—“as Mr. Sinclair’s house is just beyond Crowcombe
—Finley House, didn’t he say?—then at least we can ride that far together.”
His gaze briefly touched hers, then shifted away. “I have to deal with some letters first. I can’t say how long it’ll be before I’m ready to set out. Your meeting’s at ten, isn’t it?”
He glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the parlor mantel; she followed his gaze—it was
nearly nine o’clock.
“You’ll have to hurry as it is.” His voice was devoid of any real emotion. She felt his gaze touch her face, then he stepped away and half bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to your breakfast.”
She remained standing in the doorway staring at the clock as his footsteps faded down the long corridor.
C harlie hadn’t made any arrangements to visit Malcolm Sinclair, but it was easy enough to manufacture an excuse to go calling. Indeed, given that he was steadily steering their discussions ever deeper into the subject of railway companies and their financing, any excuse for another meeting was welcome; he could push such a discussion only so far at one sitting.
He rode into Crowcombe at eleven o’clock, an acceptable time for one gentleman to call on another. Finley House, a classical Georgian gentleman’s house, was set a few paces back from the Watchet road just past Crowcombe.
Dismounting before the gate, he walked Storm, reasonably docile after the ride, through and across the narrow stretch of grass separating the house from the wall bordering the road. A tree with solid low-hanging branches provided a useful place to tie the gelding securely, then Charlie paced up the flagstone path to the front steps.
The front door and hall were flanked by two good-sized rooms. Charlie listened, wondering if Sinclair had seen him arrive. Hearing no sound in the hallway, he raised his hand and knocked. And waited.
He’d considered telling Sinclair of their quest; the man was, after all, a renowned investor in railways, one of those senior investors who, even if he hadn’t been one of those who’d approached the authorities, had been financially harmed by the extortioner. Yet while he didn’t imagine Sinclair had any involvement with the villain, he knew only too well how investing “information” got around. If he told Sinclair, even if he swore him to secrecy, Sinclair would feel perfectly justified in telling someone he trusted, who would then tell someone he trusted, and so on, until the secret information was common knowledge and someone had whispered it to their villain.
So he quashed any moral niggles over picking Sinclair’s brains while concealing his true purpose.
Footsteps approached, coming from the rear of the house. The door opened and Malcolm Sinclair looked out.
He smiled. “Charlie.”
Charlie returned the smile. “Malcolm.” They shook hands and Sinclair waved him in.
He led him to a library-cum-study at the rear corner of the house. “My sanctum, such as it is.”
Charlie entered, glancing at the bookcases lining the walls, filled with leather-bound tomes that hadn’t been disturbed in years, the neat order of desk and chairs, an armchair and side table before the fireplace, French doors looking out to a small paved courtyard at the rear. Malcolm gestured; Charlie sat in the chair before the desk as his host resumed the admiral’s chair behind it.
“Now.” Malcolm caught his eye. “To what do I owe this plea sure?”
Charlie smiled and trotted out his perfectly genuine query. Sinclair thought, then replied; they were soon involved in a detailed assessment of the way the original Stockton-Darlington project had been funded and, in Sinclair’s opinion, how such funding arrangements could be improved, both from the point of view of the investors, and also the project itself.
It took very little prodding, subtle or otherwise, to get Malcolm talking on that subject. After they’ d been conversing for some time, Charlie glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf, and was shocked to discover more than an hour had passed.
He blinked, and straightened. “I must go—I had no idea I’d taken so much of your time.”
Malcolm followed his gaze to the clock; his brows rose in patent surprise. Then he smiled, a gesture Charlie instinctively recognized as more sincere than the one he deployed socially; this smile seemed a trifle rusty around the edges. “That just goes to show. I had no idea, either, but I’ve rarely…” Malcolm paused, then met Charlie’s eyes. “Met someone else with such similar interests, and”—his lips quirked—“such a similar facility for understanding finance and all its ramifications as I.”
His smile deepened as Charlie got to his feet. “I thoroughly enjoy our talks—please do call whenever you wish.”
Charlie prowled to the French windows and stood looking out. He knew just what Malcolm meant. In the last hour they’d jettisoned a great deal of the customary reserve men such as they maintained when discussing any subject involving money. He wouldn’t have done that, and nor would Malcolm, unless…it wasn’t so much a matter of trust as that they recognized in each other a very similar man. A degree of similarity greater than the norm.
Charlie couldn’t pretend the unexpected association wasn’t welcome. He glanced briefly at Malcolm, who was still seated behind the desk, watching him, then turned back to the window. “I’ll take you up on that.”
The moment stretched, then Malcolm asked, “How are you and your new countess getting on?”
Charlie inwardly stiffened, but remained outwardly relaxed, his hands in his pockets as he stared out at the straggly garden beyond the courtyard. The query had been couched entirely diffidently; he could acceptably turn it aside with some clichéd phrase and leave it at that.
Instead…“Women…ladies, often have ideas about married life that are somewhat different to those we gentlemen are prepared to countenance.”
“Ah.” Malcolm said no more, but sympathy, empathy, and understanding rang in the single syllable.
Charlie shifted, his gaze still locked on the bushes outside. “All I can do is hold firm—she’ll accept and come around in the end.”
Or so he prayed.
After a moment, Malcolm said, again in that diffident, incurious tone, “She seems a sensible lady.
Mrs. Duncliffe mentioned she—Sarah—has lived all her life in this area and has various…interests.”
Charlie’s expression turned grim. “The orphanage.” He tipped his head toward the front of the house, in the direction in which the orphanage lay. And felt his stomach contract.
That morning…his instinctive reaction to her bright, bubbling invitation to join her had nearly had him accepting with a smile. He’d caught himself just in time; her mention of the boys had jerked him to attention. He liked children, of almost any age; he always had. He responded to them and they to him. But children always, always knew when one was being false; if he was surrounded by them and she was there, he’d never be able to hide what he felt for her.
And just the thought of seeing her surrounded by them, with the little ones hanging on her skirts, her madonna’s face alight as she reassured them…
No. He couldn’t ever go with her to the orphanage again.
“Still,” Malcolm murmured, “I imagine once you and she set up your own nursery, her interest in the orphanage will wane.”
Charlie thought of Sarah with his son—or daughter—in her arms, and felt his knees weaken, felt his resolution simply dissolve. Dear God! How would he cope with that?
He drew in a deep breath, and stiffened his spine; he had a year, at least nine months, in which to figure out how to deal with that eventuality. How to deal with his wife while keeping his love for her locked safely away.
“I’d better be getting back.” He turned, met Malcolm’s faintly concerned gaze, and smiled.
Returning to the desk, he held out his hand. “It’s purely newly married jitters. I’m sure they’ll pass with time.”
His words, his smile, were a great deal more confident than he felt, but they served to put Malcolm at ease. He rose and clasped Charlie’s hand; together they walked back through the house.
He paused on the front step, looking up and across to where the orphanage lay on its elevated ledge above the village. He glanced back at Malcolm. “I’m expecting some banking reports from London, news on the latest developments in general—they’ll reach me tomorrow morning. Why don’t you come for luncheon and we can go through them?”
Malcolm raised a brow. “One of the ways you keep abreast of things while buried in the country?” Charlie nodded. “Just so. About noon?”
Malcolm hesitated, his hazel eyes on Charlie’s face, then he nodded. “Very well. Thank you. I’ll see you then.”
With a nod and a smile, Charlie walked to Storm; untying the reins, he led the gray into the road, then swung up, and, with a salute, rode away.
Malcolm Sinclair stood in the open doorway, eyes narrowing as he stared after Charlie, then he looked up at the orphanage. After a long moment, he turned inside and closed the door.
W hile she washed and dressed the next morning, Sarah considered the developments of the day before. And felt increasingly confused. It was almost as if she were married to two men—the warm loving man she shared a bed with, and the cold aloof nobleman she met in the corridors of the house.
But not even that adequately described what she’d sensed.
Yesterday…his dismissal of her invitation, his clear avoidance of spending any time what ever in her company, had hurt. He’d refused even to ride four miles with her. On horse back, for heaven’s sake! Not even in a carriage where they would be close.
What was the matter with him?
Her temper had spiraled, but she’d been forced to suppress it in order to deal with everyone at the orphanage. Charlie and his irrational behavior might be driving her to violence, but she couldn’t— wouldn’t—allow that to color her dealings with others, and most especially not the children.
That enforced exercise of restraint had been helpful; by the time she’d returned home in the waning afternoon, she’d had herself well in hand.
Nevertheless, through the evening, her temper had been simmering, just waiting for some act or word from him to trigger it. Instead…he’d seemed subdued. Not warm and loving, but also not quite so cold and distant; throughout the quiet hour and a half they’d spent, not in the formal drawing room but at her suggestion in her cozier sitting room, she’d felt his gaze on her face, on her, countless times, but whenever she’d glanced up from her embroidery, he’d been reading his book.
What did those surreptitious glances mean? Was he weakening over this silly state he seemed
determined to force them into?
Wondering what the day might bring, she headed downstairs.
As she’d expected, the breakfast parlor was empty, devoid of earls; he’d already gone out riding.
He’d been as attentive as ever before he’d left their bed, so she was, as usual, rather late. Or more accurately, rather later than she’d used to be before she was wed; ten o’clock was fast becoming her customary breakfast time.
That she could adjust to. But as for the rest…
Munching toast, sipping tea, she narrowed her eyes on the empty chair at the head of the table, and felt resolution well.
She thought of how she would wish things to be. While she could appreciate that gentlemen of Charlie’s ilk would never willingly wear their hearts on their sleeves, that in public he would always be more reserved, when they were in their own house, there was no reason whatever for him to insist on the distance he seemed intent on preserving between them.
That had to go. And it wasn’t as if they didn’t have examples enough of successful love matches to learn from. Their wedding breakfast, attended by so many Cynster couples, not to mention Charlie’s closest friends and their wives, had proved beyond doubt that all she wished for could come to be.
Her problem, it seemed clear, was how to convince Charlie of that. Of the desirability of that.
By the time she rose and headed for her sitting room to whittle away at the list of thank-you notes, she’d decided that the most sensible way forward was to simply behave, consistently and constantly, as she thought they should. If she played the role of loving wife diligently, then at some point, he’d fling his hands in the air, give up his silly stance, and start being the husband she wanted him to be.
The loving husband he truly was.
Marriage was like a dance—partners had to move together, responding to each other, to make it work. Perhaps he just needed to learn the steps?
She applied herself diligently to the thank-you notes. Halfway down her list, she sat back in the chair before the escritoire and straightened her spine; she was about to bend to her task again when she heard a distant knock.
She listened, and heard Crisp’s heavy stride cross the front hall. A moment later, voices reached her. Glancing at the clock, she confirmed it was just noon. Wondering who had called, she rose and headed down the corridor.
Stepping into the front hall, she saw Mr. Sinclair handing his hat and gloves to Crisp. Plastering a smile on her lips, she went forward. “Good morning, Mr. Sinclair. Are you looking for his lordship?”
Sinclair took the hand she offered and bowed gracefully. “Indeed, Lady Meredith.” He hesitated, eyes swiftly scanning her face, then added, “His lordship invited me to call.”
Sarah blinked, and realized what Sinclair, with suitable delicacy, was telling her. If it was noon, and he had called in response to an invitation…Smoothly, she turned to Crisp. “Mr. Sinclair will be here for luncheon, Crisp.”
Crisp bowed and withdrew.
Ruthlessly suppressing the spurt of temper that news had evoked, she smiled easily—the situation was certainly not Sinclair’s fault—and with a wave invited him to join her in the drawing room. “As Crisp no doubt told you, Charlie has yet to return from his morning ride…”
She let her words fade as footsteps—long striding boot steps—sounded on the tiles, heading their way. She drew herself up, clasping her hands dutifully before her; she could manage her expression— unperturbed—but could do nothing about her eyes. If her temper showed there, so be it.
Poised before the drawing room door, she and Sinclair turned as Charlie emerged from the corridor leading to the side door and the stables.
His hair was windblown, a ruffled crest of spun gold. He was wearing an olive-green hacking jacket, a neckerchief tied loosely about his lean throat, a brown waistcoat over an ivory linen shirt tucked into tight buckskin breeches. His riding boots were brown.
Sarah absorbed his appearance, all the details, absorbed the full impact of his presence on her senses, in one swift glance. And wondered as she realized that although she’d seen Sinclair for rather longer, she had no idea what he was wearing beyond that he was dressed as a gentleman.
Given the situation, her sensitivity to her husband was more irritation than comfort.
He’d been looking down, tugging off his gloves; he glanced up, saw them, and his stride hitched. But then he came on, his cool, detached mask in place, his negligent, easy—entirely worthless—smile curving his lips.
She marveled that she’d ever thought that smile charming.
“Malcolm.” Charlie offered his hand and Sinclair took it. “Sorry I’m late—I was with one of my tenant farmers.”
His smile in place, Charlie turned to her. “My dear, Malcolm and I have much to discuss. You’d find us boring company, I’m afraid. If you could send lunch in to us? We’ll be in the library.”
He inclined his head and turned away, with a gesture indicating that Sinclair should accompany him to the library.
But Sinclair didn’t immediately fall in. He looked at Sarah, then turned to her and bowed. “Thank you for your time, Lady Meredith.”
Sarah drew breath, and inclined her head politely. As Sinclair straightened, she saw unexpected understanding and a degree of compassion in his hazel eyes. She was aware, too, of the sudden frown that leapt to life in Charlie’s eyes as he noted the glance she and Sinclair exchanged.
As Sinclair turned away, she lifted her gaze for a brief instant to Charlie’s eyes, then she turned and let her feet carry her into the drawing room, not glancing back as Charlie and Sinclair walked away down the corridor.
Stopping in the middle of the room, she drew in a huge breath, and held it. She wasn’t, definitely wasn’t, going to lose her temper in front of Sinclair.
T wo nights later, she was lying in bed on her side, facing the windows, the covers around her shoulders, the candles doused, when Charlie entered the room.
It was late; the wind outside was howling.
She lay still, biting her lip to stifle the unwise words that rose to her tongue. She wanted to tell him what she thought, what she felt—wanted to rail at him over how stupid he was being with his present tack—but what would that achieve? Absolutely nothing; he was nearly as stubborn as she was. If she was going to succeed and gain all she wished, she needed a plan, not just anger. Not just pointless pleading.
Come what may, she wasn’t going to plead.
That morning she’d reached the breakfast table to find a note by her plate. From Charlie. He’d apparently made arrangements to spend the day at Watchet with Mr. Sinclair, sharing with the latter his knowledge of the local shipping and warehousing businesses.
She’d sat and stared at the note for a full minute, wondering why he’d neglected to mention his day long appointment with Sinclair last night. Last night, when she’d swallowed her earlier ire and responded to his honest warmth, his transparently genuine desire when he’d joined her in their bed, she’d wanted to encourage his affection, his love, rather than allow his stilted behavior outside the bedroom to spill into it.
Eventually setting the note aside, she’d grimaced, then gone about her day’s work alone—as her husband clearly intended.
Until Mrs. Duncliffe called in the afternoon. Just a courtesy visit, but given that shrewd lady’s knowledge of her, combined with the fact that although she was no gossip, Mrs. Duncliffe knew her mother extremely well, Sarah had been forced throughout to play the part of delighted and blissfully happy new wife; by the time Mrs. Duncliffe had left Sarah had a headache.
Luckily, it was unlikely that any other of the neighborhood ladies would call until the following week, such was the general custom; her position as vicar’s wife gave Mrs. Duncliffe special dispensation.
Feeling unusually wrung out, Sarah had actually retired for a short nap. She’d awoken to the sound of the wind rising, to the softening late afternoon light, then she’d heard Charlie’s booted feet on the terrace below the bedroom windows. He’d clearly just returned; she’d wondered, caught between sleep and reality, in the realm of waking dreams, whether he’d come looking for her, whether, when he didn’t find her in her sitting room, he would come looking for her up there.
Of course he hadn’t.
He’d retreated to the library and hadn’t emerged until it was nearly time for dinner. Their evening ritual remained the same; she’d asked and he’d told her what he’d done in Watchet, how he and Sinclair had met with various merchants and agents, and also with the aldermen to discuss their visions for the future of the town. Later she’d embroidered and he’d read. Then she’d retired and climbed the stairs to bed.
She felt as though a weight were pressing down on her chest, making it difficult to breathe. He seemed determined to deny what she knew to be true; if he denied love long enough, would it die, converting his version of the truth into fact?
Listening as he crossed to his dressing room, hearing him move about as he undressed, she tried to define her way forward, a way to claim the love she knew existed between them, to force him to acknowledge it…
He never had.
Staring through the darkness softened by the dying fire’s flames, she realized, quickly scanned her memories and confirmed, that he never, not once, had said that he loved her.
She’d said the words for him, once, and he hadn’t denied them. But he’d never acknowledged them, or their truth.
He came out of his dressing room; she heard the shush of his robe as he let it fall. Then the bed bowed as he climbed in beside her.
Something inside her tensed, the deadening weight coalescing to a hard tight knot in her chest, yet her traitorous senses stretched and reached for him. She continued to lie still. He shifted closer—and through the darkness she caught the scent of the sea.
He’d been sailing. While in Watchet, he’d taken Sinclair out on his boat. She hadn’t thought to ask, yet neither had he mentioned it.
The hard knot in her chest grew colder, sank deeper.
For the first time in their marriage, she didn’t turn to welcome him into her arms. Instead, she
pretended to be deeply asleep, until he turned away and settled, and then fell asleep himself.
She lay still and stared into the night.
Outside the wind howled, as if winter were returning.
T he following morning, Charlie felt his chest tighten as he laid another note on the breakfast table beside Sarah’s place.
Lips compressing, he turned and strode from the room; going out to the stables, he swung up to Storm’s back, turned the gelding’s head south, and let him have his head.
He was riding for Casleigh; Gabriel was there, along with Barnaby, who’d elected to use the more southerly house as his temporary base while he and Gabriel covertly examined the possibilities for profiteering and extortion along potential routes for a Bristol-Taunton rail line.
It was time he caught up with Barnaby’s and Gabriel’s findings, and doing so was the perfect way to spend another day away from Sarah.
He forced himself to ease his tightening grip on the reins, but neither the thunder of Storm’s hooves nor the rush of air past his face could distract him from the uneasy, unsettling thoughts circling ceaselessly in his brain.
Over the last days he’d done his best to do what he felt increasingly certain he had to. With every night that passed, he experienced the power of what had come to be between him and her, and it was too strong—it could so easily rule him. If he let it. If he let it out, let it flow through his life, and not only the hours spent in their bed.
And despite all, his tack seemed to be working, at least in the sense that she seemed to be gradually coming to accept that during the day, beyond their bedchamber, there would always be a wall between them.
But then last night…he tried to tell himself that she’d simply fallen deeply asleep before he’d reached the room, yet some more primitive, instinctual part of him knew she’d been awake. That she’d chosen…to remain apart.
One part of him, that same primitive part, railed and roared, cut and insensibly hurt. Yet that’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? At least during the day.
He wanted distance between them, wanted her to understand and accept that. What right had he to complain if she took his stance one step further?
Yet that wasn’t what he wanted. Not now. Now love had come to be, now he’d sampled it, he couldn’t bear to cut himself off from it entirely.
The wind bit through his hacking jacket and stroked icy fingers down his chest, yet the chilled tightness he felt inside owed nothing to the elements.
He needed to build the wall higher, needed to make it thicker. Perhaps then he wouldn’t feel this peculiar cold pain.
Containing love was proving very much harder than he’d thought.
14
S he felt betrayed.
Not, admittedly, as many ladies did, married to a philanderer, but betrayed in an even deeper
sense.
She felt deceived. Knowingly, deliberately, and senselessly deceived.
The following morning Sarah completed the task of writing thank-you notes to all those who had
sent formal congratulations and good wishes for their wedding. She stacked the neatly addressed notes, then, lips thin, carried them into the library—and sat them in the center of Charlie’s blotter.
As usual, he was out riding. She stepped back, considered the teetering pile, then turned and marched out, leaving the notes for him to frank.
She returned to her sitting room, but with no immediate occupation offering, restlessness claimed her. Peering out the window, she assessed the day; the weather had turned finicky, patches of bright sunshine interspersed with gloom, but the skies appeared clear enough to risk a walk in the gardens.
Going out via the French doors onto the terrace, she descended the steps and walked briskly to the rose garden, an area between the shrubbery and the lake where neatly paved paths ambled between curved beds. Harris was particularly proud of his roses, so the paths were always well tended and swept; even in winter with the roses pruned back to collections of stumps and sticks, it was the perfect place for ladies to take their constitutionals.
She stalked down the paths, stared at the stumps and sticks, and prodded experimentally at her bruised heart.
The ache within was intensifying.
She hadn’t wanted to marry without love; she’d only agreed to wed Charlie because, even if he hadn’t told her he loved her, he’d shown her that he did. She hadn’t been some silly ninny placing too great a reliance on a gentleman’s promises; she’d waited until she’d seen that he loved her. And he did.
Still did.
She’d taken every precaution possible. What she hadn’t known was that despite loving her, Charlie had had no intention of allowing love into their marriage. That despite his vows, in the very teeth of his love, he was refusing to allow it…loose. Refusing to allow it free rein in their lives, refusing to let it be a source of support and strength for them both, as instinctively she knew it could be, and indeed should be.
All but scowling, clasping her hands behind her, she paced on, at the end of the path kicking her skirts around so she could turn and pace back.
He’d shown her his love but had never intended to properly share it, to live up to love’s implicit, age-old promise; betrayal and deceit darkened her mind, yet what set spark to her temper, what made her so angry she had to grit her teeth against a frustrated scream, was why.
Because there was no reason why.
None she could logically conjure; none she could understand.
He was set on his path, inflexible, determined, and as ever ensuring he got his own way, simply because…he thought that was how things should be?
She had no idea, but what ever his excuse, it wasn’t good enough.
Hurt and anger warred within her, but the latter was stronger; far from retreating to lick her wounds, she wanted to…grab Charlie by the shoulders and shake him until he woke up and saw what he was so wantonly turning his back on.
If only she’d been a man…but of course that wouldn’t have worked. She was a woman, a female…
Blinking, she halted, and stared unseeing at a dormant bush. She was a female, a woman, ergo Charlie, her temporarily demented husband, assumed she was weaker, less strong, and, most important, less stubborn than he.
Her scowl faded; her lips, until then compressed into a thin line, eased. He would assume that if he held firm, she would in the end, without any real struggle, accept his dictate and let their marriage become the hollow entity he wished, one without love at its heart. But there was no reason she had to follow his script.
No reason she couldn’t fight for what she wanted, a marriage based solidly on love.
Standing amid the stumps and sticks, she savored the prospect of such a battle, one necessarily waged with actions, not words, and found it considerably more palatable than simply giving in. Whether she could change Charlie’s mind, whether she could force him to see their future through her eyes, whether he would wish to join her in making it a reality even if she could, she had no idea, but that was her goal.
A footstep on the path behind her had her whirling. Her senses leapt, then abruptly fell flat; once again it wasn’t her errant husband who was coming toward her. She drew in a breath, summoned a smile, and extended her hand. “Mr. Sinclair.”
“Countess.” Clasping her hand, he bowed gracefully, then released her. He glanced around at the winter-dead beds. “I saw you walking here…”
“I’ve been taking the air.” She waved at the paths. “The lawns are so wet, it’s safer here.” She noted the papers he carried in one hand. “Is the earl expecting you?”
His expression easy but his eyes on hers, Sinclair raised the papers. “He asked to see these—they arrived this morning from London.”
Sarah inwardly sighed; clearly she would get no chance to battle Charlie over luncheon, or for the rest of the afternoon. “I’m afraid he’s still out riding, but he should be back soon.”
Sinclair hesitated, his eyes searching her face, then he said, “In that case, if you don’t mind, I’ll walk with you.”
She was surprised, but her duty as hostess was clear; with a light smile, she inclined her head and turned to pace down the path.
It was easy to make social conversation, to ask how he found Crowcombe and his rented house, about his thoughts on the bucolic amenities of the neighborhood.
“The bridge across Will’s Neck falls is the best spot for appreciating the Quantocks.” She glanced at his face. “Have you been there yet?”
“No.” He met her gaze. “How does one reach it?”
She smiled and told him. As they walked, she was conscious of his size—he was nearly as tall as Charlie and somewhat heavier—but although he was classically handsome, well set up, and graceful, although in many respects he was an older version of Charlie, Sinclair stirred her senses not at all.
But her senses did leap when another heavy footstep rang on the path behind them. She turned, her usual welcoming smile on her lips—no matter the situation between them she doubted her instinctive greeting for Charlie would ever change—and found him regarding Sinclair, an odd, hard, distinctly challenging look in his eye.
For a fleeting instant, she saw Charlie as a knight, armored and ready to do battle.
Then she blinked, and Sinclair, smiling easily, transparently unaffected by the menace she’d
sensed, stepped forward.
“Meredith.” He held out his hand.
Charlie blinked, then, moving more slowly than usual, grasped it. “Sinclair.” His gaze slid past Sinclair to her, but she couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. His face wore its usual impassive mien.
“The countess was kind enough to keep me company until you arrived.” Sinclair brandished his papers. “I brought those reports you wanted to see.”
Charlie’s gaze went to the papers. After an instant, he nodded. “Excellent.” He looked at Sarah. “If you’ll excuse us, my dear, we’ll be in the library.”
Of course. Her new purpose in mind, she smiled tightly and replied, “I’ll send luncheon trays in to
you.”
He wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Thank you.”
With a nod and a bow, both men took their leave of her. She watched them stride to the terrace,
then disappear into the library.
She allowed herself a grimace. Her gaze fell on one of the oldest rosebushes, the gnarled trunk as thick as her arm. She thought again of that odd reaction of Charlie’s, relived again that momentary impression…
Had he been jealous?
Was that what had made him so menacingly stiff? Just for that instant until Sinclair had reminded him why he was there—subtly assuring Charlie that he had no designs on her.
Her eyes narrowed, her gaze sharpened—on the rosebush. And she noticed the slight bulges, the first signs of buds forming on the otherwise dead-looking branches.
Perhaps their marriage was like the rosebush—dormant, but with the right amount of sun it would come into bloom. Indeed, with the right attention it would bloom spectacularly. Perhaps what she’d just glimpsed in Charlie was the first hint of a bud? A sign that no matter the image he was striving to project, she might yet win through and secure all she sought.
She stood staring at the rosebush for a few minutes longer, then she turned and headed back to the house.
She was not giving up on her version of their marriage.
I t took Charlie a few minutes to lose his stiffness, to let his idiotically instinctive hackles subside; he could only be grateful that Malcolm gave no indication of noticing, although of course he had. The very idea of having reacted in such a primitive—and revealing—way to Malcolm’s plainly innocent presence by Sarah’s side irked; he shut all thought of the moment out of his conscious mind as rapidly as he could.
He led Malcolm into the library and they settled to pick apart the information contained in the investment reports Malcolm had brought. Crisp duly appeared with a repast laid out on two trays; they continued to discuss the flow of funds into various types of projects while consuming slices of country bread piled with cold roast beef and pickles.
A footman eventually came and cleared away the trays, giving them space to spread the reports over the wide desk.
He was slouched in his chair, listening to Malcolm’s explanation of the funding arrangements that had operated with the Liverpool-
Manchester rail line, when Crisp unexpectedly entered carrying his silver salver.
“A solicitor from Taunton to see you, my lord. I informed him you were occupied, but he requested you be given his card and informed he brings a business proposition that he wishes to lay before you.”
Crisp proffered the salver. Charlie picked up the card. “Thomas Riley, of Riley and Ferguson, solicitors, with an address in Taunton High Street.” Lifting his gaze, he raised his brows at Malcolm. “I confess I have no idea what this is about. Do you mind if I see him?”
“Of course not.” Malcolm made to rise.
Charlie waved him back. “Stay, please. At least until I learn what this is about.” He glanced at Crisp. “Show Mr. Riley in.”
Riley proved to be a typical country solicitor, self-effacing and prone to speak in low-voiced, convoluted phrases.
Charlie cut off his lengthy introduction and invited him to pull up a straight-backed chair and sit, which he did. Malcolm had retreated to stand by one of the windows, looking out. “Now, Mr. Riley.” Charlie leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands loosely clasped. “I would appreciate it if you could get straight to your point in requesting an audience.”
Riley, singularly unprepossessing in a dark and dusty suit, swallowed. “Indeed, my lord. I’m only too aware of the—”
“Your point, Mr. Riley?”
“Ah—I have a client who wishes to make an offer for a parcel of land of which you are the owner.” Riley reached into the battered leather satchel he’d balanced on his knees and extracted a sheaf of papers, along with a pince-nez he perched on his nose. He glanced at the papers, then at Charlie. “It’s the Quilley property outside Crowcombe.”
Charlie let his surprise show.
Riley hurriedly continued, “My client wishes to add Quilley Farm to his already considerable holdings in the area, and given that the farm is well beyond your boundaries, he hoped you would be willing to entertain his offer.”
Curiosity prompted Charlie to ask what the offer was, and who was making it, but there was really no point. He leaned back. “I’m sorry, Mr. Riley, but there’s no question of my selling that property.”
Riley’s eyes widened, fear rising as he saw his fee disappearing. “But my client is willing to be most reasonable—”
“It’s not that.” There was no purpose in prolonging the solicitor’s visit; Charlie itched to return to his discussion with Malcolm. “I can’t sell that property because it’s not mine to sell. You’ve been misinformed, Mr. Riley.”
“But…” Riley’s wide eyes made him look like a squirrel. An aghast squirrel. “The farm belonged to Miss Conningham, and as she married you—”
“Indeed.” Charlie paused for an instant, letting his tone—hard and discouraging—impinge on Riley. “Miss Conningham became my countess and ownership of the farm passed to me. It is, however, no longer mine.”
Riley’s lips formed an almost comical O of surprise.
Charlie debated whether to tell Riley who was now the owner of Quilley Farm, but Sarah was his wife and it was his duty to protect her from unnecessary pressure from the likes of Riley and whoever his client was. Nothing would be gained by referring Riley to Sarah; Charlie knew what her response to any
offer to buy Quilley Farm would be.
“You, ah, couldn’t perhaps tell me who the new owner is?”
Charlie shook his head. “You can, however, tell your client that the new owner has no need of funds, and is therefore unlikely to entertain any offer for that land, regardless of the amount.”
Riley deflated. His expression turning glum, he stuffed his papers back into his satchel, then rose, bowed to Charlie, and took his leave. Crisp, who’d remained by the door, followed him out.
“Interesting.” Malcolm had turned to watch the solicitor leave; returning to the chair before the desk, he raised his brows at Charlie. “That was quick work, arranging for the sale of that farm so soon. I had no idea the orphanage had changed hands.”
Charlie grimaced. “Not so quick because it hasn’t, in truth, changed hands at all. The title was passed back to Sarah via the marriage settlements.” He shrugged. “Her interest in the orphanage runs deep.”
He should have pressed to learn who Riley’s client was, although the solicitor almost certainly wouldn’t have revealed his name. But…“A client wishing to add the farm to his ‘already considerable holdings in the area’—I suspect that’s solicitor code for one of the farmers on either side.” He thought, then nodded. “Both probably would like to get their hands on the property.”
“Ah, well.” Leaning forward, Malcolm picked up one of the reports. “Where were we?” “The financial structure behind the original funding of the Liverpool-Manchester line.”
“T he farm was reverted back into the countess’s hands, so it’s her we need to approach.” “You still want the property?”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely. It’s one of the best I’ve ever found.” “If that’s the case, I’ll get on with it.”
“Indeed, but be discreet, and be prepared to take your time.”
A few seconds passed, then, “Why?” Honestly puzzled, not challenging.
The answer took a moment in coming, and even then was clearly reluctant. “Because at present there’s some strain between the earl and the countess. It’s not her doing, and it’s making her…sad.”
“More likely to sell then, surely?”
“No—more likely to cling to something she knows. Something that’s hers. However, the earl is far from stupid—I’m sure, given time, he’ll come to his senses. Once he does, the countess’s mood will lift, she’ll become distracted with other things, and…I’m quite sure, then, that she’ll be more amenable to selling.”
A minute ticked by. “So—do you want me to wait until the earl makes the countess happy again?”
Low laughter filled the room. “Oh, no. I might appreciate the earl’s acumen, but I’m certainly not prepared to subject my plans to his whim. You may proceed, but as I said, be careful and be patient.
One way or another, I’m sure we can ensure that I’ll have Quilley Farm in good time.”
S arah proceeded doggedly with her plan. If she behaved as if love were openly acknowledged between them, and refused to waver no matter his aloofness, his distance, his too-formal acts, then
ultimately, in time, even he would have to admit that embracing their love was more rewarding than denying it.
Given Charlie’s stubbornness, such a plan was akin to using water to cut stone, but perseverance, she hoped, would win through.
On Sunday, strolling away from the church on his arm, she was inwardly congratulating herself on a credible performance as a lady in love, one she felt confident had passed Clary’s and Gloria’s scrutiny, and even that of Twitters, confirmed romantic that she was, when Charlie informed her that Malcolm Sinclair would be calling after luncheon. Again.
She bit back an acid comment, then remembered. She raised her brows. “Mr. Sinclair seems…an interesting gentleman.”
From the corner of her eye, she caught Charlie’s slight frown; a minor triumph. At the moment, minor triumphs were all she’d garnered, but it was early days yet.
Resigned to the afternoon being lost to her campaignwise when, after luncheon, Charlie retired to the library to search out some details he and Sinclair intended to study, she retreated to her sitting room.
The day outside was cool. She looked out the windows, then drifted about the room; she wanted to forge ahead with her campaign, but at that moment there was nothing she could sensibly do.
With a frustrated sigh, she sat on the chaise and reached for the basket of mending she’d had fetched from the orphanage. The staff there did all they could, and Twitters helped, occasionally convincing Clary and Gloria to assist, but there was always so much to patch and darn, so many rips to stitch together again.
She was thus employed when she heard a footstep in the corridor. As usual, she’d left the sitting room doors propped wide; she looked up as Mr. Sinclair glanced in. He was obviously on his way to the library, but he stopped, smiled, and entered to greet her.
Smiling, she held out her hand; Charlie using him as a shield wasn’t Sinclair’s fault, and there was nothing to take exception to in his manners or his person. “Good afternoon, sir. Pray excuse me for not rising—I’m temporarily weighed down.”
By the blanket she was darning.
Sinclair bowed over her hand, but as he straightened, his gaze fastened on the blanket; she could almost hear him wondering why the Countess of Meredith was darning at all, much less such an old thing.
“It’s from the orphanage,” she explained. “I help as I can.”
“Ah.” His face cleared. He glanced briefly around, taking in the room. “You’ve made yourself at home here—it suits you.”
“Thank you.”
He looked again at the basket of darning. “I’d heard that you were involved with the orphanage.” He tipped his head at the nearby armchair; intrigued, she waved him to sit.
Gracefully doing so, he continued, “I’ve seen Quilley Farm—it’s visible from my front steps. As you know, I’m thinking of settling in the district. I’ve never lived outside London, and…well, I thought that taking an interest in some endeavor like the orphanage might be a good way to fill some of my hours and build bridges with the local community.”
If he hadn’t added that last phrase, Sarah would have suspected him of bamming her; instead, she saw nothing but sincerity in his eyes.
He leaned forward attentively. “I wonder if you could tell me something about the place?”
She smiled, and obliged. The words came readily to her lips; she was comfortable describing the
institution her godmother had established, having done it so often before.
But she knew better than to enthuse too long. She concluded with, “Given the increasing number of factories in Taunton and the increase in shipping, too, no matter how much we might wish it otherwise there’s likely to be a corresponding increase in the need to care for children left behind in the wake of accidents and tragedies.”
Sinclair had been listening intently. Now he nodded. “I see.” He smiled briefly, confidingly. “I was present when his lordship dismissed the offer for the orphanage on Friday. Now I understand why he said your involvement runs deep, and that you would have no interest in selling.”
Sarah blinked. Ice slid through her veins. “Offer? To buy the orphanage?”
Sinclair’s eyes locked on hers, swiftly—almost disbelievingly—searching. A faint flush rose in his pale cheeks. “I…apologize. I…assumed his lordship would have mentioned the matter.”
Sarah’s features felt stiff. She waved aside his embarrassment. “No need for apologies.” Sinclair rose. “Nevertheless, I hope you’ll forgive me.”
The tone of his voice—as if he were irritated, but not at her—kept her silent as she looked up at
him.
He held her gaze for a second, then his lashes flickered down over his hazel eyes and he bowed.
“If you’ll excuse me, I really should join Meredith in the library. I daresay he’s expecting me.”
“He is,” Sarah affirmed, her tone not as harsh as it might have been; none of what she felt was Sinclair’s fault.
She could do little about her expression, however; it was stony as she inclined her head. Sinclair turned and left. She watched him disappear down the corridor.
His footsteps faded, then she heard a door close. She sat unmoving for a full minute, then she lifted the blanket in her lap and reapplied herself to the patch she’d been darning.
There was no point even trying to think until her temper cooled.
H e should have told her—as even Sinclair, a confirmed bachelor, understood.
An hour and a half later, Sarah strode across the lawn, then swung onto the paved paths of the rose garden. Arms wrapped around herself, she paced. Her jaw remained clenched; a sense of cold that had nothing to do with the weather had sunk to her bones.
How could she engage with him, make headway against his foolish dictate, when he continued to push her away? When he refused to engage with her even on the subjects he should engage with her on, but rather erected a barrier—a wall that increased in breadth, width, and solidity by the day—between them.
At least he’d dismissed the offer; in that, at least, he’d kept faith with her.
Yet keeping faith with her on the subject of their marriage, of their love, was what he was otherwise so adamantly not doing. Refusing to do.
Although her temper had calmed somewhat, she only just managed to suppress a frustrated scream.
She walked briskly, pointlessly, back and forth; rosebushes offering the promise of spring today provided no distraction. Today her mind wasn’t inclined to seek encouraging analogies. Today, she was engrossed in feeling cold.
In feeling unbelievably alone.
She’d grown up with four sisters, and Twitters; she’d rarely spent an hour alone. Yet now, in her new home with her husband in residence, for the first time in her life, she felt loneliness bite.
Sensed its emptiness.
Quelling a shiver, she swung around to pace back toward the house. A faint sound reached her; she looked up.
And saw Sinclair leaving via the terrace, Charlie seeing him off at the library’s French doors.
Sinclair hadn’t stayed as long as he usually did. Even from this distance, she detected a certain stiffness in Charlie’s stance, in his nod as he parted from Sinclair. She couldn’t make out his expression, yet it appeared her husband was not best pleased.
Sinclair turned to follow the terrace past her sitting room and on to the stables; Charlie retreated and shut the French doors.
Sinclair strode along, then caught sight of her. Halfway along the terrace, he hesitated, glanced back at the library windows, then walked quickly down the steps and strode her way.
Surprised, she halted and waited. Like Charlie’s, Sinclair’s face was usually unreadable. His expression rarely gave any hint of his thoughts, let alone his feelings, yet she was growing used to dealing with Charlie; she was growing more adept at looking elsewhere for clues.
By the time Sinclair joined her, she was puzzled. He appeared to be bridling an intense irritation. “Lady Meredith. I wanted to inform you that, after my earlier gaffe, I felt compelled to mention my indiscretion to his lordship.”
She raised her brows. She hadn’t expected that.
“While he seemed entirely unconcerned that I’d told you, I…” Sinclair paused, then drew in a breath; his lips thinned even more. “In short, his attitude over his lack of consideration in not having informed you of the offer for the orphanage fell far short of my expectations.”
Abruptly, Sinclair focused on her face. His sharp hazel eyes searched hers; Sarah struggled to place the emotion coloring his eyes, his voice…and was amazed to realize it was concern.
Apparently perfectly genuine concern.
“I realize, my dear, that I have no experience in such matters. I’ve lived my life almost entirely alone.” His tone had softened, but his grim dissatisfaction remained. “I don’t wish to pry, but I can see— appreciate—that matters are a trifle strained between you and…Charlie. Perhaps that’s a normal thing, so soon after your wedding—as to that, I don’t know. Nevertheless, I wish to most sincerely apologize if I have in any way contributed to that strain. Such was not my intention.”
She held his gaze, savored the sincerity in his words, then inclined her head. “Thank you.” She hesitated, then looked past his shoulder at the house. “I…it would be inappropriate to say more, but I most sincerely appreciate your understanding.”
Neither moved; a moment passed, then he said, his tone quieter, more gentle, “He…is a lot like me. In many ways, he strikes me very much as a younger version of myself, with his fascination for finance and investments.”
She glanced at him; he was looking at the library. His lips quirked ruefully. “As I mentioned, I’ve lived all my life alone. Enough to hope, for his sake, that he…comes to his senses.” He looked back and met her eyes. “And realizes what he has in you.”
She was astonished that he had commented on such a personal subject, let alone managed to do so while remaining within the bounds of polite conversation.
Before she could gather her wits to respond, he bowed. “Good-bye, my dear countess. I wish
you better tidings. Until next we meet.”
With that, he was gone, striding away across the lawn. Reaching the terrace, he climbed the steps, then headed toward the stables.
Feeling oddly comforted, Sarah wrapped her arms once more about her; turning away from the house, she paced deeper into the garden.
Buoyed by Sinclair’s unexpected championing, she considered going in and bearding Charlie…but if she’d read Sinclair’s disapprobation, Charlie would have, too. His stiffness in farewelling Sinclair suggested he would be in no good mood over that point or, indeed, any point to do with her.
Eyes fixed unseeing on the path, she grimaced. Sinclair might have meant well, but Charlie was Charlie—masculine, arrogant, and likely to turn as inflexible as iron if pushed. It was highly unlikely that prodding him at the moment would advance her cause.
The burden of loneliness that Sinclair’s advent and his unexpected support had lightened slowly sank back onto her shoulders, weighing her down. A shiver too sharp to suppress had her turning around; loneliness wrapping ever tighter about her, she walked back to the house.
She returned via the terrace to her sitting room. She’d just closed the French doors on the dying day when Crisp appeared bearing a taper to light the candles and dispel the gathering gloom.
He also carried his salver, which he proferred. “A note, my lady.”
She lifted the plain folded sheet. “Thank you, Crisp.” She opened it and scanned the lines within, and frowned.
“Is there a problem, ma’am?”
Crisp’s question brought her back to herself. She looked at him. “No…that is, I’m not sure.” She glanced again at the note. “Mrs. Carter at the orphanage writes that there was a strange disturbance last night, but she doesn’t say what.” She contemplated the note, then forced a quick smile. “What ever it is, I ’ll learn the details when I go there tomorrow, and as Mrs. Carter hasn’t requested any help, I suspect this is purely to keep me informed.”
“No doubt, ma’am. As is proper.”
It took an instant or two for Crisp’s last sentence to penetrate her distraction. She glanced at him, but with his usual butlerish mien in place, he was circling the room, lighting the candles she’d placed here and there; she couldn’t catch his eye.
He bent to light the lamp on the side table; once he’d adjusted the wick so that it was burning steadily, he turned to her and bowed. Then he straightened and spoke to a spot above her head. “Mrs. Figgs and I…well, we realize that as matters fell out we did not have occasion to receive you in the manner in which a new countess is traditionally welcomed to the Park. And indeed, introducing you to the staff would have been redundant as you were already acquainted with us all. However”—Crisp drew himself up to his full imposing height—“Mrs. Figgs, I, and all the staff wish to assure you of our fondest welcome and our hopes to serve you faithfully for many years to come.”
Sarah had to blink back tears. “Thank you, Crisp.” Her voice soft, she added, “Please assure Mrs. Figgs and the staff that I appreciate their wishes and their willingness to serve me.”
“Indeed, my lady.” Crisp bowed deeply, then turned on his heel and left her.
Sarah dragged in a huge breath, then dropped onto the chaise. A second unexpected declaration of support. She thought back; Crisp had been shooting concerned glances her way for a few days. Figgs, too. They must have detected…how had Sinclair put it? Ah, yes, that matters were a trifle strained between her and Charlie.
She should have guessed that the staff would notice, yet it seemed they, too, had declared for her.
That they, too, appreciated what she was offering Charlie, the promise and the power of it.
It seemed the only one who didn’t appreciate that was Charlie.
Her impulse was to take the bull by the horns, but she knew him too well; wisdom insisted no good would be served—not now, not this evening.
Her fingers clenched; the rustle of paper drew her gaze to the note from Katy. It was puzzling, and worrying, but Katy was an experienced and competent woman; if she’d needed help to night she would have asked.
Tomorrow was Monday; as usual Sarah would ride to the orphanage. She planned to spend the entire day there.
Better than spending her entire day here. Alone.
The clock struck the hour. She looked up at it, then stirred. Rising, she walked to the escritoire.
She’d fallen into the habit of leaving the lid down; this was her room, after all. Folding the note, she placed it in the pigeonhole reserved for orphanage business. She glanced once more around the room, then with a sigh, headed upstairs. A long soak in a hot bath could only help.
H er aunt Edith’s diary was gone.
Later that evening Sarah stood before the open escritoire and stared at the empty vertical gap where the diary had been. After a largely silent dinner, as had become their habit she and Charlie had retired to her sitting room. Charlie had settled in the armchair by the hearth and become absorbed in some text on engineering; tired of the incessant mending and seeking comfort, she’d decided reading more of her aunt’s observations might divert or even help her. But nothing what ever reposed in the rack where the diary had been. She scanned the various spaces in the escritoire, but no glimmer of silver plate winked from anywhere within it.
“But…” Frowning, she ran her fingertips down the edge of the empty rack. “I know I left it there.” She’d put it there the day she’d moved her things into this room, and hadn’t retrieved it since.
“Where on earth could it have gone?”
And how? Perhaps the maids had moved it. She set about ransacking the escritoire’s lower drawers; finding nothing there, she glanced around, then moved to the side table nearby. The drawer in that contained candles and tapers, but no diary.
She continued around the room, searching high and low, anywhere the diary might have been put. Increasingly frantic, trying to deny the growing conviction that the diary was no longer there to be found, that it had been stolen. Over the last week she’d frequently left the terrace doors propped wide. But this was an earl’s private estate, and the house was a long way from any boundary.
Disturbed by her efforts, Charlie glanced up. She felt his gaze on her, but didn’t turn to meet it. Although she was sure her agitation was showing, she noticed he hesitated, that he actually debated whether or not to speak before asking, “What is it?”
Facing away from him, she pressed her lips tightly together for a second—to suppress the words soaring temper set on her tongue—then evenly stated, “My aunt Edith’s diary. I left it in the escritoire, but now it’s gone.” Something close to despair colored her tone.
She suddenly wanted to be held, to be hugged and told everthing would be all right. She sensed Charlie tense as if to stand and come to her, but then he hesitated; when she glanced his way, she saw him resettling the book on his knee.
“No doubt you’ve misplaced it.” The words were cool, dismissive—distant. He didn’t bother glancing at her but refixed his gaze on his text.
For a moment, Sarah stared at him, stunned by the emotional slap.
Then she drew in a deep breath, clenched her jaw, and turned away. I didn’t! she screamed at him in her mind, but refused to let her fury loose—refused to weaken herself by so doing. Not yet.
Clinging to the more important issue, sensing again that inner conviction that the diary truly was gone, that it had by what ever means vanished, she drew another deep breath and, with awful calm, entirely ignoring Charlie, crossed to the bellpull that hung beside the mantelpiece.
She tugged, then, clasping her hands before her, waited.
Crisp answered her summons, bearing the tray with the silver teapot and delicate china cups.
Seeing her standing, he quickly set the tray down on the side table by the chaise. “Yes, ma’am?”
Head high, Sarah met his eyes. “I left my late aunt’s diary in the escritoire, Crisp, but it’s no longer
there.”
Crisp glanced at the escritoire, a frown forming. “The silver-plated one, ma’am? Mandy, the maid
who dusts in here, did mention it.”
“Indeed, it’s an unusual design, probably unique.” Sarah paused, then, fingers twisting as she struggled to hold down her welling emotions, said, “I was very fond of my late aunt, and therefore value the diary highly—it was a keepsake. Could you please ask the staff if they’ve seen it elsewhere in the house?”
Crisp’s gaze had traveled to the French doors, then to Charlie, eyes on his book, apparently totally disinterested. When Crisp’s eyes returned to her face, his sympathy was clear. “Of course, ma’ am. We’ll search for it. And I’ll check with Mandy when she saw the book last. I believe she dusted in here the day before yesterday.”
His decisive response brought some relief; at least she’d soon know if by some chance the diary had been moved. She inclined her head. “Thank you, Crisp. Please let me know what Mandy says, if she remembers if it was there.”
“Indeed, ma’am.” With another swift glance at Charlie, eyes on his book, unmoved and unmoving, Crisp bowed and departed.
Sarah’s gaze fell on the teapot. After a moment, without looking at Charlie, she moved to the side table and poured herself a cup. Charlie didn’t drink tea at this hour if he could help it; lifting her cup and saucer from the tray, she carefully sat, sipped, then gave her attention to the basket full of linens.
On impulse, she turned the basket out and searched through the blankets, sheets, and towels, but there was no silver-plated book buried among the folds.
L ater that night, Sarah blew out the candle by her side of their bed; burrowing down into the soft mattress, she pulled the covers up over her shoulder—and tried to relax. Tried to compose her mind for sleep, but with so much hurt and anger roiling inside her, she knew it would be hours before she achieved any degree of calm.
Charlie. What was she going to do about him? She hadn’t missed his instinctive response to her distress, any more than she’d missed his deliberate suppression of same. Yes, he loved her, but he was refusing—refusing!—to let his love show.
She might have been able to brush his behavior aside, to ignore it as just another example of what
she knew his dogged direction to be, as nothing more than she might have expected given that he’d yet to surrender and cease his senseless denial of his love, except that it was Edith’s diary she’d lost.
She felt the loss keenly, like a wound in her heart. Edith had been far more than just an aunt; she’d been someone very special, someone who’d understood, who had taught her so much, who had shared her wisdom and her counsel. It was Edith who had educated her mind and opened her eyes to life—and so to love.
Her distracted mind tripped over that point. If it hadn’t been for Edith and her insights, would she have married Charlie? Or would she years before have followed her older sisters’ and mother’s path and settled for a simple, undemanding union?
Her lips twisted at the irony.
Outside, the wind howled, a ravenous creature bent, it seemed, on rattling the sashes. Denied, it turned its fury on the massive trees, cruelly raking, cracking branches one against the other.
Sarah shivered, snuggled deeper under the covers and closed her eyes. And tried not to think of the ache in her chest. Just like the weather, life had turned unexpectedly cruel.
She told herself it wouldn’t last, that it would blow over and she’d see sunshine again. But with her heart already bruised, and now aching more deeply from the unexpected blow of the diary’s loss, when she heard the door open and Charlie’s footsteps cross the room, she lay still, feigning sleep.
Ten minutes later the bed bowed at her back and he joined her beneath the covers. She kept her limbs relaxed, kept her breathing slow and even—and battled to wrestle down the anger that rose, unbidden, to swamp her.
If he reached for her, if he touched her…she might very well hit him.
Instead, propped on one arm, he watched her; she could feel the weight of his gaze even through the covers. The silence stretched, punctuated by the slow heavy tick of the clock on the mantel.
Then he shifted, and turned away. He slumped on his back; she thought she heard him sigh. Then his breathing slowed, became more even; she felt sure he’d fallen asleep.
With a mental sniff, she vowed to do the same.
Charlie lay on his back and stared up at the dark canopy, and wondered what on earth to do. He knew she wasn’t asleep, but with matters between them like this—with cold stony silence enveloping the bed—he felt powerless to change things. Unable to act, uncertain what to do.
Helpless.
He wanted to comfort her. But he no longer knew how. Or, perhaps, was no longer certain he had the right.
Yet every instinct he possessed—the very instincts he’d had to battle to suppress, to keep within reasonable nonrevealing bounds in her sitting room when he’d realized she was upset, the same instincts that had squirmed when Sinclair had mentioned the offer for the orphange, a matter he’d hoped, somehow, to broach that evening and soothe any hurt his lapse had caused, but again he hadn’t been able to fathom how—clamored to comfort her, raged and fought against his restrictions. Against the tight rein he insisted on keeping over them outside this room, and now inside it, too.
He wanted to ease that rein, at least here, in the safe dark of their bed, but was no longer sure he should.
He’d never felt so torn in his life, so cut up and clawed inside, as if one part of him, a fundamental, primitive, but essential part of him had declared all-out war with his rational mind, with those more cautious, careful traits that were the province of self-preservation, the patterns of behavior defined and imposed not by instinct but by intellect.
And he could see no resolution. No way, no path, no course of action that would bring that conflict to any acceptable end.
Not for her.
Or him.
He knew she didn’t like, approve of, or in any way agree with his decision, his way of coping with the reality of their marriage. But he could see no other option. If he found one, he would take it.
Because he no longer liked, or approved of—and he certainly wasn’t enjoying—what was happening between them, the morass of pain and hurt in which his way had mired them.
15
S arah’s consciousness rose through the veils of sleep, tugging at her mind. She resisted the pull; it might be morning, but it was early yet and she was so snug and warm, her cheek resting on firm, resilient flesh, on a hot swell of hard muscle lightly dusted with curling hair, her body cradled in a pair of steely arms…
She opened her eyes, then drew in a slow, careful breath. She lay sprawled over Charlie, held securely in his arms. Naked, he lay on his back. Her fine lawn nightgown had ridden up to her waist; her bare legs were tangled with his amid the rumpled covers.
A peek at the distance to her edge of the bed confirmed that this was not his doing. He hadn’t moved; she had.
She mentally cursed. From the slow cadence of his breathing, she thought he was still asleep, but from the morning light filtering into the room, she judged it was close to—indeed, possibly past—the time he usually awoke.
Drawing in a shallow breath, she held it, and tried to inch out of his arms. They tightened. “No.” Two seconds ticked by. “Just let me hold you.”
His tone made her blink; this was not Charlie the arrogant but Charlie the vulnerable—a being she hadn’t met before. She couldn’t see his face without pushing back from his embrace and lifting her head, and with his arms lying heavy over her back she’d have to fight his hold to do that—and she was sure he wouldn’t let her, not before he’d found his impassive mask and stuck it firmly in place. Curious, she let her tensed muscles ease; sinking back onto him, senses at full stretch, she waited.
He shifted his head; his lips pressed against her hair. “I’m sorry about your aunt’s diary. You were close to her, weren’t you?”
She focused on her hand, resting beside her face, her fingers spread over his chest, over his heart. “Yes.” When he said nothing more, just waited, she went on, “She was…special to me, and that book was all I have to remember her by, and I’d only read the first pages—it starts in January 1816, so I expect it covers that year. She didn’t use it as a diary so much as an occurrence book. The entry I read described a party at Lord Wragg’s country seat, followed by a recipe for quince jelly extracted from his house keeper.”
“Daily life. The bits and pieces.”
She nodded, her cheek shifting against his chest; she felt insensibly comforted by the simple nearness. The closeness. “I meant to go back and read it all when I had time…when the mood gripped me.” At the time, her mind had been too full of her own thoughts to absorb anyone else’s. She sighed. “But now it’s gone and I’ll never…never be able to use it to connect with her again. I feel like I’ve lost
my last link to her.”
Never again, she vowed, would she let the chance to connect with another soul slip through her fingers.
“But you haven’t.” His tone was gentle, soothing. Again his lips brushed her hair. “You loved her and she loved you—the diary was a symbol of that, but your love remains. You haven’t lost that. Isn’t that the real link?”
Sarah blinked. How ironic that he, so stubbornly determined to ignore their love, could see that, let alone put it into words.
Her lips firmed. If there was one thing Edith had taught her it was that when it came to people and emotions, there were symbols, words, and actions—and of those three, it was actions that spoke the most clearly, and most truly.
Her palm on his chest, she pushed back enough to lift her head and look at him. Enough to search his eyes and read his sincerity.
Enough to confirm that the vulnerability she’d sensed in him was real. That what she’d been fighting for, that link between them, hadn’t been lost. That no matter what else, neither she nor he could lose it.
Wriggling her arms free, she reached up and framed his face. “Yes. You’re right.” She studied his blue eyes for one instant more, then she stretched up and kissed him.
With all the pent-up passion in her soul. There was no point in pretending, no point in holding back. She knew what she felt for him, and what he felt for her; that knowledge infused her actions, every languorous sweep of her tongue against his, every artful shift as she rose above him the better to share the kiss, the better to give her love free rein and incite and enjoy his.
He responded as she knew he would, and if on one level she gloried in his helplessness in that, in his inability to remain apart from her and their love at this level, she also appreciated every subtle nuance, every evidence of his desire, every scintilla of delight she felt as his hands gripped her waist, supported her, steadied her, then drifted to her breasts to plea sure her.
Until she drew her legs up, pressing her knees into the bed on either side of him, straddling his hips. Between their bodies, she reached down, and found him hard and ready, hot and heavy in her hand. Her nightgown had slithered down over her hips; his fingers left her breasts to tangle in the fine fabric, pulling it up again, then slipping beneath. His palms cruised her naked flanks, then curved about her bottom. Breaking from the kiss, one hand braced on his chest, she pushed back, with her other hand guided his rigid staff to her entrance.
Feeling him there, the blunt head caressing her slick flesh in blatant promise, made her shudder with sheer anticipation. From beneath her lashes, she watched his face, his eyes, as she rose a fraction higher, edged back a little more, and slowly, savoring every hot steely inch of him, impaled herself on him. Filled her body and her senses with him.
The raw hunger in his face told her all she needed to know; the all but quivering restraint he held so ruthlessly over his own strength, his own impulses, allowing her her way, allowing her to take the lead and script their engagement as she wished, was evidence enough of his commitment.
Lids falling, she leaned forward, braced both hands on his chest, and gave herself over to riding him. To savoring all, every last iota of the plea sure she derived from him, pleasuring him in return. Eyes closed, senses heightening, she concentrated on the heavy slick slide of his body into hers, on the alien but welcome penetration, on the repetitive rocking of her body over his, the rhythmic flexing of her thighs against his flanks. The burgeoning, building, overpowering physicality of their joining.
His hands had returned to her breasts, caressing, sensually massaging, tweaking her nipples into
tight buds. Then her nightgown was open and he rose beneath her; she gasped as his hot mouth closed over one aching nipple while his clever fingers ministered to the other, sending shards of delight streaking through her, followed by waves of heated plea sure that pooled and coalesced low in her body. In her womb.
For long moments, head back, slowly riding him, she let sensation rule, let her senses expand and fill her mind. All but overwhelmed by sensual delight, by an awareness of her body and its potential for pleasure more extensive and more compelling than ever before, she slowed.
He growled, a guttural sound that sparked a completely different awareness. An instant later, even before she could lift her lids, he rolled, taking her with him, trapping them both in a welter of covers.
Cushioned in the billows of the bed, he held her beneath him and thrust—hard, deep. With a cry, she arched; as he thrust again, even deeper, she desperately caught her breath, then wrapped her arms about him, lifted her legs and gripped his flanks, and raked her nails across his back as she joined him in frantic urgency as he rode her.
Hard, fast, desperate for fulfillment, willing to surrender all just to reach that peak. And then they were there, panting, wanting, reaching, stretching for the glory.
It broke upon them, swept them up, shattered them, then on a gust of deep, mindless plea sure, surged through them and left them wracked.
Wrecked with plea sure. Smiling sillily, dizzy with delight, softly laughing, they slumped in each other’s arms, and let the moment cradle them.
A bare hour later, dressed in her riding habit, Sarah clattered like a hoyden down the main staircase on her way to the breakfast parlor to catch Charlie before he had a chance to ride out. He, his resistance to their love, was weakening; now was the time to push just a little harder, and she’d realized how to do it.
She’d ask for his help. Charlie always responded when anyone asked for help; that response was an intrinsic, inherent part of his nature. If there was some trouble at the orphanage, who better, or more natural, for her to turn to?
Running down the main corridors wasn’t ladylike; her habit’s train over her arm, she hurried as fast as she could—and through the open doorway ahead saw him setting aside his napkin and rising from the table.
He was later than usual; the knowledge that he’d stayed in bed longer than the norm to hold her and comfort her over the diary—and to make love to her—buoyed her. Smiling brightly, she met him in the corridor outside the breakfast room. He met her smile with his usual cool demeanor, but she couldn’t believe he’d already forgotten why he was late.
“I was hoping that you could ride out with me to the orphanage.” Tilting her head, she looked into his eyes. “There’s something going on there, and while I don’t know what the problem is, I know I’d value your opinion.”
Not a glimmer of the gentle smiles they’d shared only an hour before showed through his expressionless mask. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
She blinked. Oh, no, no, no—they weren’t going back to this. To his distant, coolly aloof attitude to her, and everything to do with her. She drew in a deep breath. “Charlie—”
“I don’t think, my dear, that you comprehend the situation.”
His tone brought her up short. This was the earl speaking, not Charlie, her husband, the man who
regardless of his wishes loved her, but the feudal lord accustomed to being obeyed without question.
He went on, calmly, the steel in his voice unsheathed, “I have no interest in the orphanage. It’s specifically yours and as such is no part of my life, not part of my responsibilities.” His eyes held hers, and she couldn’t see past the soft summer blue. “I have no connection with it, have had none in the past, and do not wish to involve myself with it in the future.” He paused, then softly said, “I trust I make myself plain.”
Her temper erupted; chill fury slid through her veins. She raised her head. “Eminently.” She held his gaze, let him see her rage. Her muscles were quivering with the need to swing on her heel and storm off—before she said something she’d regret—but this time, she wasn’t leaving so meekly. This time, she wasn’t letting him escape.
She drew breath, and even more coldly than he, stated, “I understand perfectly. However, I had thought—” Her thoughts literally choked her; she broke off, then went on, if anything the ice in her voice even more intense. “I suspect you recall that in agreeing to marry you I insisted our marriage be a passionate one. If I remember aright, your answer was that you saw no impediment to that. Fool that I was, I believed you. I honestly believed that our marriage—all of it—would be more than a hollow shell
.”
He’d held her gaze throughout. His lashes had flickered once; his already clenched jaw had tightened even more.
She sensed the effort it cost him to maintain that rigid control. She quivered on the brink of saying more—of lashing out even more—but sanity returned enough to remind her of her aim—her unwavering goal.
Lips setting, she swung on her heel and stalked slowly, regally, away.
Charlie watched her go, and for the first time in his life understood what having his heart break felt like. His chest literally ached, as if some sword had cleaved him in two. His mind seemed detached; he realized she was heading for the stables—his immediate thought was that she hadn’t breakfasted and should eat before riding out…but what was he going to do? Call her back and order her to eat?
He’d just resigned his right to care for her, or at least she would think he had.
Hearing a clatter behind him, realizing that Crisp was in the breakfast room and would without doubt have heard every word, he forced his legs to carry him to the library. Opening the door, he entered, and shut himself in.
Familiar comfort surrounded him, but brought no ease to the wounds inside. He felt as if his heart had been scoriated, clawed, and ripped. He knew—had lectured himself for the past hour let alone all the hours before—that this was how things had to be in order for him to function as he must…but increasingly some part of him, some surprisingly strong and fundamental part of him, was refusing to accept that. Refusing to make do with that.
Refusing to make her make do with only that.
Walking to the long windows, he stood and looked out. Unseeing. He’d known that she held a different, as he’d thought more feminine and flowery, expectation of their marriage; he hadn’t known, when he’d told her he saw no impediment to theirs being a passionate marriage—that he was prepared to give her that, a passionate union—that by “passionate” she’d meant a union where love was freely and openly acknowledged.
He understood that now. Then…when she’d spoken of excitement, thrills, risks, and satisfaction, he’d thought she’d been referring to sexual passion.
Yet even if he’d understood her meaning, completely and clearly, at the time—and how could he have when he hadn’t, then, understood what love was?—even if he had comprehended her meaning, he
would still, regardless, have married her. Because by then he’d already known that she was his—his rightful wife, the lady he needed as his countess.
She still was. Nothing had changed; if anything, his conviction had only deepened. His commitment to her was deepening by the day—witness his difficulty with his feelings yesterday, and this morning.
They—those emotions she stirred—were only growing stronger, more powerful, less governable.
Yet his first duty wasn’t to her, but to the earldom. He’d been taught that from infancy, conditioned to, should any clash arise, place his own comfort and needs second to that duty. But…what of the vows he’d made before the altar in the church at Combe Florey?
To honor and cherish. As most would translate that, to love and protect. In part, he’d made that vow in bad faith, never intending, never imagining adhering to the first part of it. But regardless of his battle on that front, the second part of that vow was a promise he couldn’t not keep—was incapable of not keeping. He couldn’t not cherish her, and he certainly couldn’t subdue or subvert the imperative to keep her safe. He hadn’t comprehended how it would be before they’d wed, but now she was his, cherishing and protecting her were such fundamental instincts that he could no more stop himself from reacting in that way than he could stop the sun.
Letting out a painful, frustrated sigh, he dropped his head back and stared at the painted ceiling. This morning, after the hours they’d spent in their bed, he’d steeled himself to rebuff what ever renewed effort she might make to, figuratively speaking, open their bedroom door and weave love into their daytime interactions. He’d suspected she’d read those hours as proof he was weakening in his resolve to keep a sensible distance between them, and she had.
But the orphanage. Of all things to hit him with, she’d chosen that. His heart had literally leapt to accept her invitation and join her, to take care of what ever little problem they had—to see her with the children again, to join in…but he’d never be able to corral, to keep close and under guard, what he felt for her in that setting.
The effort to deny her—and his other self—had nearly slain him. He literally felt as if he were two men—that she and all he felt for her had driven a wedge through his heart, mind, and soul and split him in two. And the two halves were now locked in battle.
It couldn’t go on. Aside from all else, the balance between those two halves was shifting, changing. The part that wanted her love and would surrender all and anything to secure it was growing stronger. He no longer knew what was right—what he should fight for, which half of him should triumph. He didn’t even know which half he wanted to win.
He couldn’t remember ever feeling this way, and there was no one he could turn to for advice. He was lost, adrift.
Completely and utterly at sea.
B y the time Sarah reached the orphanage, she’d managed to, somewhat grimly, suppress her temper and all thoughts of he who had provoked it, but the news that awaited her was so strange it temporarily drove all other thoughts from her head.
“Ghosts?” Seated at the meeting table, flanked by Skeggs and Mrs. Dunstable, she stared at
Katy.
Who grimaced. “That’s what the children said. And more than a few of them heard it, and saw it,
both on Saturday night and last night, too.”
“What did they hear—and see?” Skeggs asked.
“A whooing noise, and chains clanking. Some of the older ones peeked out. They say it was all white and flapped about.”
“Village lads,” Mrs Dunstable stated. “Some old chains and a sheet.”
Katy nodded. “Aye—so I suspect. But the younger ones are frightened, and some of them aren’t sleeping. We’ve a few of them still in bed, poor mites, catching up now the sun is up and everyone else is around and they feel safe.”
“A nuisance.” Skeggs frowned. “The question is how to get rid of it.”
Not an easy task. Sarah let the others discuss who they thought it might be, and if they might have a word with various elders, while she imagined…thought of the lads she knew and what might discourage them.
When the others concluded that there was precious little they could do without knowing which lads were involved—from Watchet, Taunton, Crowcombe, or any of the other villages dotted about the hills—she tapped the table. “I have an idea.”
She outlined her plan. Katy grinned. Skeggs chuckled dryly. Mrs. Dunstable nodded. “Ingenious, my dear. Just like belling a cat.”
As soon as they finished their meeting, and Skeggs and Mrs. Dun-stable departed, Sarah summoned Kennett and together with Katy they walked around the house, studying the areas where the “ghost” had been seen, examining the various approaches to the house and the trees and bushes that grew nearby.
Eventually Kennett stood back and scratched his head. “Aye. I reckon that’d work. Fishing line’d be best, and we’ve enough cowbells in the shed to hook up. Jim and I’ll get onto it. If that blighter comes back to night, he’ll get a right surprise.”
Sarah smiled; she and Katy left Kennett to it, and headed back to the house. Once she was inside, the usual pandemonium engulfed her; she was drawn into this and that, and luncheon, then the afternoon, sped by.
C harlie called in at Finley House late that afternoon. He’d spent the day trying to find something to distract him from the sensation of cold iron lodged in his chest; given the stiffness that had invested their last meeting, calling on Sinclair was a last resort.
Yet business had always been a consuming interest, and Malcolm welcomed him readily, without any sign of constraint. They sat in his study and pored over the latest news sheets, reading between the lines of numerous business announcements. But even that no longer possessed sufficient power to quell Charlie’s restlessness. While Malcolm read on, he laid down the sheet he’d been studying, rose and walked to the window.
At least the study looked onto the Quantocks rather than Crowcombe and the orphanage beyond. Behind him he heard the muted crackle as Malcolm laid down the sheet he’d been perusing.
Charlie felt Malcolm’s gaze on his back, then Malcolm asked, “How is the countess faring?”
He managed not to stiffen. The inquiry had been careful, diffident, as if Malcolm knew he was treading on uncertain ground yet felt compelled to inquire.
Charlie started to shrug but stopped; thrusting his hands into his breeches pockets, he fixed his gaze on the scene outside. “She’s well enough…but some diary of hers has gone missing. A keepsake from an aunt. She’s upset, but there’s nothing I can do about it.” Even though he wished it were otherwise. The sense of helplessness irked, prodding him where he was still sensitive. “Then this morning
she wanted me to go to the orphanage with her—as if I have the time.”
Silence lengthened, then Malcolm said, “Perhaps…a new bride and all that. Spending some time with her might be in order…not that I’d know, of course, but that does seem to be the way of things.”
Again he’d spoken almost warily, choosing his words, watching his tone. Charlie grimaced. “She and I have known each other for literally all her life. We don’t need to learn about each other in the way most couples do.”
Once again silence stretched, then Malcolm cleared his throat, and murmured, “You may be right, but…I was thinking more along the lines of what we all know so often occurs when attractive and still young married ladies such as your countess are not paid sufficient, and appropriate, attention by their husbands.”
Charlie didn’t—couldn’t—move. It took every ounce of his considerable willpower to suppress his reaction—violent and instinctive—to the scenario Malcolm had painted. Sarah wouldn’t, he told himself. Was Sinclair suggesting…
But then he heard again the diffidence in Malcolm’s tone; he’d been trying, as any friend might, to make Charlie see…
Drawing his hands from his pockets, he faced Malcolm. “I’d better be going. The light will be fading soon.”
Malcolm’s expression was as inscrutable as his own. He rose and accompanied Charlie to the front door; they shook hands, then Charlie strode to where Storm was tied to the tree. Freeing the reins, he swung up to the saddle. With a curt salute to Malcolm, he turned down the road.
He clattered through Crowcombe; by a feat of will, he kept his gaze from the orphanage perched above. But he couldn’t stop himself from wondering if Sarah had already started for home. Regardless, she’d take the track across the fields. The instant the last houses fell behind, he urged Storm into a gallop. He wanted to get home, to reassure himself that she had returned, that she was there, unharmed and well, once more within his keeping.
T he following day, Sarah returned to the orphanage to learn whether her trap had been sprung during the night. It had. At just before midnight, the bells had pealed; Kennett, Jim, and Joseph had rushed outside, but all they’d seen was a white-clad figure fleeing across the north field, then he’d jumped on a waiting horse and ridden away.
The children were relieved and happy; many had seen the ghost turn tail and run. Most now viewed the incident as a performance put on for their titillation; there would be no more sleepless nights.
She was back on Blacktail and riding home to the Park before she allowed her mind to refocus on what awaited her there. She wasn’t happy, yet her hours at the orphanage, both today and yesterday, had calmed her—their need of her, their appreciation of her contribution and abilities and the success of her plan, had been balm to her bruised soul.
Reaching the Park, she rode into the stable; leaving Blacktail with the stable boy, she walked to the house, turning over in her mind the one point in the recent drama that didn’t quite fit. They’d been certain the culprits would prove to be local lads, but when she’d questioned Kennett, Jim and later Joseph more closely, the figure they’d described was that of a man. An adult male, heavily built, thickset
—very definitely not a youth.
Why would an adult male cavort around the orphanage pretending to be a ghost?
The others had all shrugged. Kennett had suggested the man might be “touched in his upper
works.” Yet Sarah didn’t think so. The sheet, the chains, the careful approach at midnight, all suggested planning, which wasn’t a hallmark of those “touched in the upper works.”
Still puzzling, she entered the house and went to her sitting room. Stripping off her gloves, she rang for tea. It arrived promptly. To her immense surprise, Charlie came with it.
Under her openly bemused gaze, he sat in the armchair he occupied in the evenings and accepted
a cup.
Taking her own cup and saucer, she sat on the chaise, sipped, and wondered.
The footman retreated. Charlie balanced his cup on his saucer. Without looking at her, he asked,
“How are matters at the orphanage?”
Ah-a. Despite all, she was tempted to pour out the story of the ghost, and see what he thought of the oddity of man rather than youth, yet his words of the morning before replayed all too clearly in her head. They still stung. Eyes on her cup, she shrugged. “Well enough.”
She sipped, then drained her cup. Setting it aside, she reached for the mending basket and pulled it to her. Finding another blanket with a hole to darn, she lifted it into her lap, and gave her attention to the task.
Charlie glanced at her; she felt his gaze on her face. A minute ticked by, then he finished his tea.
He rose, set the cup and saucer on the tray, and without another word left her.
Head bent over her mending, she listened to his footsteps fade down the corridor; then the library door opened, and a second later, it shut.
O n Saturday morning, Sarah had just finished arranging the week’s menus with Figgs when Crisp entered her sitting room, bearing his silver salver.
“This note arrived from the orphanage, ma’am. The young lad, Jim, is waiting in case you wish to send a reply.”
Sarah took the note, suppressing a frown and an instinctive “Oh, dear, what now?”
One glance through the few lines Katy had penned confirmed her instincts were sound. “Good Lord!”
“Is there some problem, ma’am?”
Sarah looked up into Crisp’s concerned, and willing to be helpful, face. “Some…blackguard has salted the orphanage well.”
She could think of a few other names to call him, but “blackguard” would have to do. “Dear me.” Crisp frowned. “But why?”
“Indeed.” Sarah folded the note and slipped it into her pocket. “It appears we have someone intent on causing problems for the orphanage. I’ll have to go and see how bad it is. Please tell Jim to wait until I change into my riding habit.”
Crisp bowed as she left the room. Ten minutes later, on Blacktail’s back with Jim on a stout cob keeping pace, she headed north. By the time she reached the orphanage, she’d thought of how to meet the most immediate requirement.
“We’ll have Wilson bring up water in barrels,” she said to Katy as she tied Blacktail’s reins to the rail outside the orphanage’s front door. Wilson was the carter in Crowcombe. “I’ll stop in on my way home. I’ll tell him he can draw from the well at the manor, then I’ll stop in there and see my parents—I’m
sure they won’t mind, and there’s barrels there aplenty, so at least we’ll have water to see us through.”
Katy nodded. “Aye—you’d best come and see. Kennett says it’s not as bad as it might have been, yet bad enough.”
Walking through the house, smiling reassuringly at the children she passed, Sarah followed Katy to the stonewalled well that lay beyond the back of the northernmost wing.
Kennett was standing over it, glumly staring into the black mouth of the deep shaft. He looked up as Sarah joined him. “Poured a ten-pound bag of salt in, he did.” He pointed at a jute bag lying beside the well. “Left it for us to find, the so-and-so.” He kicked it. “Luckily, with the weather so cold we’ve got snow still on the hills. Water table’s already rising, but once the thaw hits, this well’ll flush—we’re high, so although the well is cut deep, there’s a lot of seepage from the sides. See?”
He pointed at the inner wall of the well. Sarah saw that the stones were indeed wet, even though at present the water level was fathoms lower. “So the salt will wash away?”
“Bit by bit. The water should be drinkable after a month or so.”
She kept her sigh of relief to herself. “We can manage until then.” She explained her idea of supplying drinking water from the manor.
Kennett nodded. “That would be the closest good source.”
And they wouldn’t have to pay for the water. Sarah turned for the house. “I’ll get onto organizing it right away. As for who did this…”
“It’ll be that idiot we chased off Monday night,” Kennett said. “Didn’t like being made a fool of, I’ ll be bound.”
Katy nodded. “Aye—that’ll be it, right enough. Tit for tat. Still, after this bit of maliciousness, he’ll have had his revenge. I doubt he’ll bother us again.”
Sarah frowned. She wished she could feel so confident, but salting a well seemed a very deliberate act, rather than a simple lashing out. Yet what else could it be?
The question niggled, but she had more than enough to occupy her for the rest of the morning organizing the supply of water to the orphanage; by the time she headed home for luncheon, the niggle had slid to the back of her mind.
O n Monday morning she rode up to the orphanage, and saw Doctor Caliburn’s gig outside. She tied up Blacktail, telling herself it was surely just one of the usual illnesses or accidents associated with a large group of children…she strode inside and pounced on the first member of staff she met.
“What’s happened?”
Jeannie grimaced. “Quince.” She spoke softly, trying to hide her worry from the children about them. “You’d best go up and see.”
Eyes widening—Jeannie’s worry very effectively conveyed—Sarah walked quickly to the stairs, and hurried up them.
She rushed into the attic and found Doctor Caliburn repacking his bag. And Quince sitting in her armchair with her arm in a paisley sling.
Katy, hovering over Quince, looked up, and grimaced. “Iced steps. That blackguard must have slunk close during the night and poured water over the back steps.”
“I went out first thing, like I always do, to fetch the milk for the babies.” Quince’s voice was gruff.
“My feet went sailing from under me.” She pointed at her cradled arm. “I cracked this on the way down.”
Doctor Caliburn shut his black bag. “It’s a clean break, but it’ll be slow to mend. You mustn’t put any stress on that arm until it’s fully healed.”
Although he spoke to Quince, his eyes meaningfully touched Sarah’s. She turned to Quince. “You ’ll have to take care, Quince. You’re the best with the babies—they need you healthy and well. Lily can come up and be your hands for you until your arm heals.”
“Aye, well, she’s already had to feed them this morning, and they do sleep for hours, but there’s the preparation and cleaning—the poor girl can’t do everything.”
“I’ll get someone from the village to come up and help. We’ll sort something out.” Exchanging a glance with Katy, Sarah turned to see the doctor out. “I’ll come back in a moment and we’ll plan.”
Doctor Caliburn waited until they were on the stairs to say, “I’m quite serious about her being extra careful. She’s not young, and old bones knit slowly.”
Ahead of him, Sarah asked, “How is she otherwise?”
“Badly shaken, I’d say, and she must be bruised, although she’d have none of the laudanum I suggested. Said she had to wake at the first cry from one of her charges.”
Sarah nodded. “I’ll have them move another bed up there for Lily, so Quince won’t have to cope alone, even at night.”
“Good.” Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Caliburn bowed over her hand. “And if you want someone extra who’s reliable, you might try Mrs. Cothercombe’s Lizzie. She’s a steady soul and good with children.”
“Thank you. I’ll stop by at the Cothercombes’ and ask if she can help.”
S arah did, then rode slowly home. She was starting to feel like the Dutch boy plugging leaks in the dike; where and what would their next “leak” be?
More importantly, who was behind this? Could it really be a deranged simpleton now bent on revenge? Regardless, had they seen the last of the accidents, or were there more to come?
Those questions revolved in her head, following her through the rest of the day and into the evening.
Charlie couldn’t help but notice her absorption, her concern. Yet what it was over, what was so troubling her, he didn’t know; he didn’t even know if it involved the orphanage or something else. But the impulse to aid her, to ask and do and set things right, was eating him alive.
It was, quite literally, like a beast burrowing under his skin; he couldn’t ignore it.
But after his so-unwise words about certain aspects of her life not being of any interest to him— undoubtedly the most stupid remark he’d made in his life; how could he cherish and protect her if he didn ’t know what was happening in her life?—he could do nothing to soothe the burning, incessant itch. On such matters, he could no longer ask and expect to be answered; he had to wait for her to tell him—if she ever did.
He’d lied, but he couldn’t take back the words, any more than he could admit the falsehood. If he did, he’d open the floodgates…and he was very sure he couldn’t handle what would ensue.
One thing she’d demonstrated over and over again was that their love was stronger than he was.
Stronger than his will, powerful enough to override his determination. It could and assuredly would
control him, and that he could never risk.
So…as the evening closed around them, he stared at the pages of his book, and tried to keep his attention on it, rather than on his wife, sitting on the chaise mending some threadbare towel, a frown deeply etched on her face.
B y Friday morning Sarah was close to biting her nails, both anxious and frustrated, wondering when the next message from the orphanage would arrive and what news of disaster it would bring.
On Wednesday had come the news that the fences keeping the animals from the fields and the kitchen garden had been broken, and their small band of livestock had spent enough of the night trampling through the crops and vegetable plots to have ruined much of what was in the ground. Luckily, it was winter, and other than some early plantings in the kichen garden, they’d lost little more than cabbages, easy enough to replace.
Nevertheless she’d ridden north again, and spent most of the day soothing and calming, getting both the staff and children involved in redesigning the kitchen garden prior to replanting, then organizing with Kennett and Jim to have the fences repaired.
The unbudgeted expenditure wasn’t her primary worry. What would happen next was. Fences and wells were one thing; after Quince’s broken arm, she lived in dread that someone else would be hurt.
She’d spent the hours since wrestling with the question of what to do, if there even was anything they could do. She’d consulted with Skeggs and Mrs. Duncliffe, but no more than she could they imagine the constable in Watchet taking much notice of this sort of “crime,” let alone being of any practical help.
Sitting at her escritoire, she tapped a pencil on the blotter and grimaced. Meekly waiting for the next blow to fall went very much against her grain.
The sound of Crisp’s measured footsteps reached her, then he appeared in the sitting room doorway. Although he was carrying his salver, to her relief it bore only a card, no note.
Crisp advanced, bowed, and offered the card. “A solicitor from Taunton to see you, ma’am.” Sarah lifted the card and read: Mr. Arnold Switherton, Switherton & Babcock, Solicitors, East
Street, Taunton. She frowned. Charlie had, of course, noticed her concern and her extra trips to the
orphanage; over the last days he’d developed the habit of informing her where he was going when he rode out. Today he was visiting Sinclair. She couldn’t imagine what Mr. Switherton wanted. She looked up at Crisp. “The gentleman asked to see me? Not the earl?”
“He specifically asked to see you, ma’am.”
Brows rising, she laid down the card. “Show him in.” With a bow, Crisp withdrew.
Sarah considered, but elected to remain seated before her escritoire. Was this about the orphanage again? But it was a different solicitor; a different office, too.
And the man Crisp ushered into her sitting room was cut from a distinctly different cloth than the hapless Haynes. Mr. Arnold Switherton had a long thin nose with pinched nostrils, and his face bore an expression of perpetual distaste. Sarah found it hard not to dislike him on sight, and his opening speech did nothing to endear him.
“Countess.” His bow was stultifyingly correct. “I am here to present an offer for a property to which I understand you still retain title.” His brows contracted. “Most unusual in light of your recent marriage. I would have preferred to discuss such matters with your husband, however, I have been instructed to lay the offer before you.”
Sarah did not invite him to sit. She waited, silent and unresponsive, while he fished in his leather satchel and drew out a slim sheaf of papers.
He glanced at them. “Yes—this is all in order.” He offered her the papers and she took them. “As you will see here”—reaching over the top of the sheets, Switherton pointed—“the offer is for
Quilley Farm, house and land, and the sum offered is here.” He pointed farther down the sheet.
Sarah looked at a sum that had grown significantly since Haynes’s offer. She scanned down the page, then turned over to the next, and the next, ignoring Switherton’s surprised frown. After scanning the last page, she looked up at him. “Who is your client?”
“Ah—that, my dear countess, is not something you need to know.”
“Indeed?” Her icy hauteur and the cold fury behind it made Switherton blink. “And I am not your dear anything, Mr. Switherton.”
He swallowed, carefully inclined his head in apology, but then rallied and drew himself up. “My client insists on complete anonymity. I comprehend you would, of course, have no experience in such matters, but such a stance is not unknown when buying land.”
“I daresay.” Sarah had had enough of Mr. Switherton. “Regardless, I have no interest in selling Quilley Farm. You may tell your anonymous client that.” She held out the papers.
Switherton stepped back, refusing to take them. “This offer is a very generous one, Lady Meredith. I strongly advise that you seek your husband’s counsel before you act rashly only to later repent. I’m sure the earl will see the sense in capitalizing on my client’s whimsical caprice in offering such a patently ridiculous sum for such a property. Ladies cannot be expected to understand such matters—I urge you to lay this matter before your husband. He will know what’s best.”
Sarah let a moment pass in utter silence, then quietly said, “Mr. Switherton, what is beyond my comprehension is that you have failed to perceive that the title to Quilley Farm remains in my hands for a reason. In part, that reason is so that I can refuse all such offers as this”—she flung the papers at Switherton; he gasped, clutched, and caught them to his chest—“saving my husband, the earl, from having to deal with the importunings of solicitors such as yourself. Such refusals are not rash—they are entirely deliberate. Quilley Farm will remain in my hands—for reasons that do not concern you, that will not change. And I assure you the only repenting I am likely to do is that the earl is not here to deal with you as, in my view, you deserve—there are, indeed, instances where being a lady is restricting.”
She held Switherton’s gaze for a pregnant minute, then calmly said, “Crisp—show Mr. Switherton
out.”
“Indeed, ma’am. This way, sir.”
Sarah hid a smile at Crisp’s tone, one that effectively conveyed that, in the earl’s absence, should
Switherton give him the slightest excuse, Crisp would be only too happy to demonstrate what she and her house hold deemed Switherton deserved.
The thought laid her temper to rest. She glanced at her escritoire, but there was nothing more to do there. Rising, she returned to the chaise; there was mending—as always—waiting, but…
She was contemplating a walk in the gardens when Crisp returned to report Switherton’s departure and to ask if, in the earl’s absence and as she’d eaten so little at the breakfast table that morning, she would like an early luncheon on a tray in the sitting room.
“Thank you, Crisp. That would be lovely.” She smiled as he departed; Crisp and Figgs, and indeed all the staff, were being very kind. Attentive but not intrusively so. They’d learned her routine and were fitting in with it, rather than imposing that of their last mistress, Serena, on her. That had made filling the position of Charlie’s countess much easier, at least on that score.
As for all the rest that the position entailed…thoughts of that occupied her mind while she ate.
Revived by the succession of light dishes Cook had prepared—she’d been unable to stomach more than tea and toast over the last few mornings—she decided a walk in the rose garden would complete her restoration.
Pacing along the paved paths, insensibly heartened by the sight of buds—real buds—pushing out along the sides of otherwise dead-looking sticks, she’d completely put aside the vexed question of the strange occurrences at the orphanage, and quite banished Switherton and his offer from her mind, when a horrible, unexpected, unlooked for thought slipped into her head, and connected them.
“Good God.” Halting, she stared unseeing across the lawns. What if…?
What if there really was a connection? If after being refused once—no, twice; after they’d married, someone had approached Charlie to buy the farm, and it was after that that the accidents at the orphanage had started. What if the anonymous buyer had decided to make life difficult for the orphange and her, to irritate and aggravate her and even Charlie, and then offer a “patently ridiculous” amount to prompt her to wash her hands of the place and sell?
Surely not. She shook herself; her mind was playing morbid tricks.
Yet once the notion had taken root, it wouldn’t die. She paced on, examining the idea; it was only the relative timing of the accidents and the offers that suggested such a heinous connection—and the timing of the offers could be explained perfectly innocently. Anyone not acquainted with her might well imagine that after a few weeks of wedded bliss her interest in her “hobby” would wane, and she’d be more amenable to selling.
There was, she told herself, no per se reason to link the accidents with the offers to buy the orphanage.
16
E xcept…she couldn’t get the possibility out of her mind.
Saturday afternoon found her back in the rose garden. The place was quiet, with no one to see her as she paced and occasionally muttered to herself. In her sitting room there was always the chance that Charlie, Crisp, or one of the footmen or maids would pass by and see her—and grow even more concerned for her than they already were.
Since her horrible thought the previous day she’d been distracted, consumed with trying to disprove and thus dismiss the notion of a link between the accidents and the offers. Despite her best efforts, she’d yet to succeed.
Indeed, she’d given up, and was now trying to decide what to do—from whom to seek advice.
Her father? Despite all he knew of her, he would probably think—as in some part of her mind she herself still thought—that she was drawing far too long a bow and worrying herself for no reason.
Gabriel Cynster? While with his business background he no doubt would accept that such things might occur, he didn’t know her personally all that well, and her account of the accidents and her suspicions might sound…well, a trifle hysterical. And he would certainly wonder why she was speaking with him and not Charlie.
Which left her with one obvious person to approach—Charlie. She’d snubbed his earlier inquiry when she’d believed she’d succeeded in dealing with the “ghost.” Since then matters had gone downhill, but he hadn’t asked again and his earlier disavowal of all interest in the orphanage still echoed in her mind, still cut. So she’d avoided saying anything, but…he knew something was preying on her peace, just
not what.
And he did want to know. Indeed, he seemed absolutely tormented that he didn’t know.
She grimaced; arms folded, she turned and paced on. If she walked into his library and said she needed his opinion on problems with the orphanage, she’d immediately have his full attention. He wouldn ’t mention his earlier words, or hers. It would all be so terribly polite but, to her mind, also terribly unsatisfactory.
It was all so stupid. In their bedchamber, no matter the constraint between them—his careful wariness, her irritation—neither of them could deny what happened there, that no matter his feelings or hers, love ruled—absolutely and completely, without quarter. But the instant they left that room, a wall went up between them, and she’d yet to find any way under, over, or around it, much less through it.
She wanted to knock it down, to shake its foundations so it came tumbling down and it was impossible for him to rebuild it. She still had no idea how to accomplish that, but giving him a way to soothe his increasingly abraded protectiveness without acknowledging that said protectiveness was there, so painfully present, because he loved her seemed a very bad move, a seriously backward step.
If she did such a thing, he would see it, and cling to it, as evidence that his way—with his daytime wall intact—could, and in time would, work. It couldn’t, it wouldn’t, but he was a man, and almost as stubborn as she was.
Yet if she didn’t seek his help, help he could and would give…?
What if she were right, and the accidents and offers for the orphanage were linked? “Damn!” She halted, wrestling with the notion that she owed it to the orphanage staff and the
children to swallow her pride and seek Charlie’s help now, immediately, before anything more happened, before anyone else got hurt. Yes, approaching him would harm her personal position, but…she was stubborn, more stubborn than he. She would come about.
Jaw setting, she breathed in and lifted her head, looking toward the library. A movement at the other end of the terrace, near her sitting room, caught her eye.
Barnaby Adair, coming up from the stables.
Everything she’d heard about Barnaby raced across her mind—all Charlie had said of him, all Jacqueline, Pris, and others had let fall. Penelope’s questions. She didn’t give herself time to question her judgment, but hailed him and waved.
He heard, then saw her. When she picked up her skirts and hurried across the lawn, he halted and waited.
“Sarah.” He took the hand she offered and bowed over it.
Disregarding all formality, she clutched his hand. “I need your opinion—it’s quite urgent. Can you spare a few minutes?”
Intelligent blue eyes searched her face. “However many you need.” She gestured to her sitting room. “Come in and sit down.”
They went in; at her wave, he sat on the chaise. She stood before the hearth, pressed her hands together, then drew in a breath and commenced. “I own a farm—Quilley Farm—just outside Crowcombe, a little way north of here. The farm’s just a house with a few fields, not large, but it’s run as an orphanage.” Briefly she explained about her godmother’s legacy, then went on, “Early last month, a solicitor called on me at the orphanage to present an offer from an unnamed client to buy the farm. I refused. That seemed to be that, but later, after we married, a similar approach was made to Charlie— they, whoever they are, knew the farm’s title had passed to him on our marriage, but although it did, he passed it immediately back via the marriage settlements.”
Barnaby’s blue eyes were fixed on her face, his expression a testimony to utter concentration. He nodded, the lines about his mouth a trifle tight. “Then what?”
“Then…” She drew in a deep breath. “Accidents started happening.” She began to pace, and succinctly described each incident in order.
“So you see, things seem to be escalating. I can’t believe, as the staff do, that these are just the acts of some unhinged man. And then.” Halting, she fixed her eyes on Barnaby’s face. “Another solicitor called on me here yesterday morning. Charlie was out, and the man asked to see me specifically. He brought another offer—an even larger offer, one even he admitted was patently ridiculous—for the farm. He was high-handed and arrogant, but before I turned him away, I demanded the name of his client, but he insisted that was confidential.”
Barnaby had proved a good listener, yet as Sarah paused and looked more closely at him, she realized his eyes had grown round, that he was sitting amazingly upright, utterly still, that his blue gaze had grown distant, as if he were seeing something she couldn’t.
Then he blinked and met her eyes. “Ah—sorry. I just…” Again his eyes got that glazed, dazed look. “You said the orphanage was to the north…did you mean in this valley—between Watchet and Taunton?”
She frowned. “Yes.”
He suddenly stood up—so abruptly she took an involuntary step back. He held up his hands placatingly. “Just wait.”
She realized it was excitement—excitement so intense he was all but vibrating with it—that choked his voice.
“I need to check something with Charlie. Just stay there—I’ll be back in a moment—and then we’ ll decide what to do.”
Astonished, Sarah watched him rush from the room. His footsteps strode—almost running—down the corridor; she heard the library door open, then shut.
“Well.” She stared at the open doorway for a moment, then moved to the chaise. He’d said “stay there,” but presumably she could sit.
A t his desk in the library, Charlie stared at the pen poised between his fingers. The ink had dried on the nib. On the blotter lay a concise, as-yet-incomplete summary of all he’d learned regarding railway finances from Malcolm Sinclair. He’d started writing it as something he could actually do that might be useful, to distract himself from what he wasn’t able to do—ease what ever burden Sarah was laboring under.
The fact that he couldn’t—that courtesy of their current situation, he was unable to protect her, his wife, as every instinct he possessed insisted he should—wasn’t just a source of unease. His inability to act was eating at the foundation of who he was, of the man he knew he should be.
Underneath all, of the man he wanted to be.
His push to lock her, and all he felt for her, out of his daily life had resulted in his being locked out of her life. He hadn’t foreseen that, hadn’t considered what it would mean. How it would cut him off from something he now realized was vital.
Jaw clenching, he tapped the nib on the page, leaving small, smudged dots. This—their life as he’d scripted it—wasn’t working; there was too much that was wrong, too many emotions weighing on him. He had to find some way to change things…but how?
He had no idea. Especially as, when it came down to it, he was still, despite all, unwilling to allow love free rein in his life.
He heard hurrying footsteps outside the door an instant before Barnaby burst into the room. A transformed Barnaby; Charlie blinked at the glow in Barnaby’s face as he rushed to the desk.
“I’ve just been speaking with Sarah—tell me it’s real?” Leaning on the desk, Barnaby fixed his eyes on Charlie’s, excitement pouring from him. “After all our searching, I can barely believe it’s been under our noses all along. And what better case to flush out our villain?”
A chill swept through Charlie. He stared at Barnaby, uncomprehending but with premonition solidifying second by second to icy certainty in his veins.
Seeing his blankness, Barnaby paused. “But perhaps I’m leaping to conclusions. Is this farm a target? Will it be crucial to a railway line?”
What farm? But Charlie knew. Slowly, he laid aside his pen. “Quilley Farm.”
Barnaby registered his odd tone, tried to read his eyes and failed. “Sarah just told me about the accidents. They sound like the work of our villain, and combined with the offers for the property—”
“Offers? Plural?”
Lips tightening, Barnaby nodded. “But it all hinges on whether this farm is critical to a future railway line. Is it?”
It took effort to suppress his emotions enough to think. He drew in a breath. His control was shaky, tenuous, but he knew the land, the topography. It took only a second’s consideration to see it. “Yes.” His jaw clenched. “Absolutely. Once the Bristol-Taunton line is in, a spur from Taunton to Watchet would be not just obvious, but a commercial gold mine. And the valley narrows where the farm is—the property includes all of a shelf of land over which the railway would have to go.”
His mind already elsewhere, he rose, went to a set of drawers and opened the lowest. “Have a look at the map. The land beyond Crowcombe rises sharply and there’s nowhere—no space—to put in curves. The rail line would have to rise earlier, from before Crowcombe via the long upward slope south of the farm house, then go straight across the ledge and on through the fields to the north. That would be a clear run, easy engineering.”
Dragging a large map from the drawer, he turned and flicked it out over the desk. “Running a line along the valley bottom, you could get as far as just past Crowcombe, but there’s no way to go farther.”
Barnaby flattened the map and bent over it. “So—no option but to buy that farm.”
Charlie didn’t bother nodding. He pointed out the farm on the map. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment…”
He didn’t wait for any acknowledgment, didn’t care what Barnaby was thinking; all he knew as he opened the library door was what he was feeling. A species of horror beyond anything he’d ever known. And on its heels a black fury.
P erched on the chaise, Sarah was debating following Barnaby when she heard the door to the library close and a man’s deliberate footsteps head her way.
She recognized the stride as Charlie’s an instant before he appeared in the doorway. His eyes pinned her where she sat, but the distance was too great for her to read their expression; he hesitated, then turned and reached to either side, and ominously quietly—with ruthlessly controlled strength— closed both doors.
A ripple of reaction slithered down her spine. It prompted her to sit straighter; instead, declining to be intimidated, she leaned back against the chaise and watched as he drew near.
Stride slow and deliberate, he crossed the room; halting before the hearth, he looked down at her.
She studied his face, pale, set, every plane, every line unforgivingly harsh. His expression for once wasn’t impassive; it was strained, almost tortured.
His eyes trapped hers, held them. He drew in a tight breath. “I just learned, from Barnaby, that there have been accidents at the orphanage. And that you’ve received offers for the property—offers you suspect might be linked to the accidents.” His gaze held hers, ruthless and hard. “In short, you believe you as the orphanage’s owner are the target for some villain intent on forcing you to sell.”
She said nothing, simply watched him.
Suddenly his eyes blazed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
It was a cry from the heart—tormented and true. He flung away. “You’re my wife!” He paced away, then swung back. “It’s my duty to protect you—I took vows to cherish and defend you. How can I do that if I don’t even know when some villain has you in his sights?”
He shot a furious look at her; she met it with outward calm. Her temper had risen, but it was his she found intriguing; her rigidly controlled husband didn’t lose his temper.
“You knew the accidents were serious—you’ve been worrying about them for weeks. Yet you wouldn’t tell me—I asked, but no, you brushed me aside.” His eyes were a turbulent sea of emotions, his gestures abrupt, muscles taut. “Yet the instant Barnaby appeared you poured your troubles into his ear— ”
With a growl, he flung away, one hand rising to run through his hair, disrupting the elegant cut. Fascinated, Sarah saw that fist clench, tug, then abruptly release; violently he swung and paced back, halting before her, eyes burning with naked emotion.
“You deliberately hid all of this from me—all that threatened you.” His voice hadn’t gained in volume but in raw, tortured strength. “You refused to tell me what I had every right to know. What I needed to know.”
He choked. His eyes blazed. “Why?”
A furious demand, a tortured plea.
Looking into his eyes, Sarah saw, understood, a great deal more than she had. Pain roiled in the blue, put there by all he couldn’t help but feel. It was real, stark; she couldn’t mistake it.
But she wasn’t about to accept any more than the tiniest portion of the blame.
“Why?” With an effort, she kept her tone even, her eyes locked on the raging fury in his. “Because you made it plain that the orphanage was solely my concern, no responsibility of yours, that matters pertaining to it held no interest what ever for you. You made it very clear that the orphanage was a part of my personal life, and not in any way a part of yours.”
She hesitated, then went on, “Isn’t that what you’ve been telling me for weeks—ever since we married? Isn’t this—not knowing, not being bothered, not being included in my life—what you wanted?”
Seeing blankness creep across his eyes, sensing his sudden loss of anchor, she paused, then, still holding his gaze, more quietly stated, “I didn’t tell you because I believed you didn’t want to know.”
He didn’t look away, didn’t turn to conceal what she would see in his eyes, even though his muscles tensed and she knew the impulse rode him.
Instead, he stood there, looking down at her, and she saw the first crack appear in his wall, saw it widen, saw the whole edifice sway, buckle, then fall, tumbling down until there was nothing left, no
barrier between them.
For a moment, silence reigned, absolute and compelling, then he drew a long, painfully tight breath, blindly moved to the armchair opposite and sank down, his eyes never leaving hers.
Unshuttered, no more shields. “I’ve changed my mind.”
The words were low, riding on a wave of emotion. She knew he wasn’t referring only to the orphanage.
Slowly he sat back, his jaw tensing, his eyes still on hers. “About everything. About us. But…the orphanage. We have to deal with that now. For the rest…we can talk about that later.”
It was a question; he waited for her answer—her agreement. Recognizing that the sudden about-face had left him emotionally giddy, that he wasn’t as sure, as confident in dealing with the
emotions between them as she, knowing it was mid afternoon and Barnaby was somewhere in the house, no doubt impatient to join them, she inclined her head.
He drew a fractionally easier breath. “Tell me about the accidents. And the offers.”
She did, quickly and concisely; he was more familiar with the situation than Barnaby, so it didn’t take as long.
When she finished, he studied her for a moment, then said, “What you don’t know…”
Succinctly, Charlie told her of Barnaby’s mission. He didn’t need to explain the connection; from the arrested look in her eyes, she saw that immediately. He described the various avenues they’d each been pursuing—he extracting a detailed understanding of railway finances from Malcolm while Barnaby and Gabriel concentrated on identifying parcels of land the villain might target on the likely route of the Bristol-Taunton line.
Grimly he concluded, “It seems we weren’t thinking far enough ahead, and so looked in the wrong direction.” He glanced at the door. “We should get Barnaby—I left him studying the map in the library.” He looked back at Sarah.
The news of their villain and his past had alarmed her; she’d seen the need to focus on the orphanage, on how to protect it. She nodded. “It’s time for tea. We can have some while we talk.”
Rising, he tugged the bellpull; when Crisp appeared, she ordered tea while Charlie sent a footman to summon Barnaby. “Tell him to bring the map.”
Ten minutes later, the three of them were seated around a low table set between the chaise and the armchair, with the map spread out upon it.
After confirming that Quilley Farm would indeed be vital for any rail link between Taunton and Watchet, and that therefore their villain was all but guaranteed to be behind the offers and accidents, Barnaby reported on his investigations to date. “Nothing yet from Montague, but he liked your suggestion of searching for the source of funds—he thinks he knows how to get some answers. And Gabriel and I identified a few properties that might interest our man between Bristol and Taunton, but we found no evidence he’s been active around there.”
He grimaced. “Now it seems we weren’t focusing sufficiently far into the future, but with the London-Bristol line only just in the earliest stages of syndication, with the Bristol-Taunton line to come after that, who would have dreamed our man would already be working on a third-generation line?”
“You said it yourself.” Charlie lowered his cup. “He’s cautious. Unless you were a local involved in goods transport and so aware of the growth in the region and the growth to come, there’d be little reason to imagine a line from Taunton to Watchet would be built. Certainly the commercial imperatives wouldn’t be obvious.”
Barnaby humphed. “He’s cautious and clever. And devilishly in the know.”
Sitting back, they sipped, and discussed what they knew of the man, and how to learn more.
Sarah set down her cup. “I really don’t think those solicitors are going to tell us who he is.”
“Leave that to me.” Balancing a small notebook on his knee, Barnaby jotted down the names of the three firms. “They’re all in Taunton. Interesting that he made each offer through a separate solicitor.”
“Less risk the solicitors—they’re all legitimate local concerns—would find his continuing interest in the property unusual.” Charlie grimaced. “Even if you do get a name, what are the odds every name will be different, and will be companies rather than a person?”
“True.” Barnaby looked up. “But the solicitors had to have been contacted by someone, whether by letter or in person, and they must have reported back, presumably to that same person. We might get some clue there.”
“Perhaps. Meanwhile”—Charlie met Sarah’s eyes—“we’ll do what we can to make the orphanage safe. Then we’ll have to wait for our villain’s next ploy.”
A far from satisfactory situation, but by the time he followed Sarah into their bedchamber that night, Charlie was resigned to that being all they could sensibly do. Sarah’s latest refusal had lobbed the ball back to the villain; the initiative was now his.
Together with Barnaby, they’d spent the evening, through dinner and later, considering ways and means to protect the orphanage and its occupants. Not a simple task. When Sarah had suggested guards, Barnaby had grown grave and pointed out that this might well prove their one real chance to catch this villain, who had already killed several times and whose scheme was putting so much at risk. With the stakes so high, they shouldn’t do anything to alert him to their interest; if he got the slightest hint they were watching, waiting for him to show his hand, he’d draw back and disappear.
When all was said and done, there was a whole country and a plethora of railways in the offing; if he slipped away from them here, their chances of catching up with him elsewhere weren’t good.
Sarah had been concerned for the children and staff, but had, very reluctantly, agreed. For himself, Charlie was torn. Allowing those he viewed as under his protection to remain at any risk what ever did not sit well.
Closing the door, shutting them in, alone, he paused, watching as Sarah walked slowly, still absorbed with her worries, to stand before one window. All the other curtains were drawn, but that window remained unscreened, the view over the lake and the gardens at night illuminated by the rising moon. A single candle on her dressing table and the fire burning steadily in the grate were the only sources of light in the room.
Through the flickering shadows, he studied her, her slim, slender back, the regal set of her head, the soft curls of gilded brown tumbling over her nape. Felt again the reality that she was his.
And remembered, vividly, all he’d felt earlier—all he’d had to shove behind a mental door so he could function and deal rationally with Barnaby and her, with searching for the villain and protecting the orphanage. He’d managed, but…
The self-horror still remained. He hadn’t understood, not until that moment in the library when Barnaby’s revelations had ripped the veils from his eyes, just how deeply he’d been fooling himself. He’d convinced himself that his duty to the earldom had to come first; in reality, he had no duty more sacred, more fundamental to his life, than the one he owed her.
He’d stormed into her sitting room driven by so many emotions he hadn’t known which was
dominant—fury, fear, rejection, hurt—sheer panic that he’d created a situation where she’d been in danger and he hadn’t even known. Those emotions had left him shredded inside. Then her question— wasn’t that what he’d wanted?—had brought him up short, left him facing the outcome of his emotional cowardice. His emotional withholding.
For it had been that, consciously as well as subconsciously. But he couldn’t any longer pretend. She was the center of his life—from her all else he wanted, all he needed, flowed. Family, heirs,
the family-centered life he’d known all his life and had blithely assumed would continue to be his—for all
that and more, she was the hearthstone.
She stood at the heart of his heart. He’d put her there, then tried to deny it.
Now, at last, he understood; in his mind he could see Alathea smiling. Could almost feel her patronizingly patting his cheek.
Sarah was still standing before the window, staring out. Worrying about the orphanage and, perhaps, wondering about them. About him. He’d needed the moment she’d given him that afternoon, the time to find his feet again, the time to let his whirling, compulsive emotions settle and clear. For that, he owed her…this.
He stirred, then slowly crossed the room. He halted beside her, shoulder to shoulder; sliding his hands into his pockets, he looked out as she did. “About us—all the rest.”
She glanced at him, then waited.
He didn’t meet her eyes but focused on the glass, spoke to her shadowed face reflected there. “I made a mistake and I hurt you, and for that I’m more sorry than I can say. But what’s done is done, and nothing I can do can rewrite the past. However, if you agree, if you’ll accept it, I’d like to start again.” He paused, jaw tensing, then clarified, “To try again.”
She shifted her gaze from his face to the glass, meeting his eyes as if in a mirror. She waited.
He studied her face, drew in a breath. “I…have trouble, difficulty, handling…accommodating what’s between us. I don’t like and actively resist anything likely to control me. All that’s grown between us…what happens every night only confirms just how powerful what I feel for you is. That’s why I fought it.”
He paused, searching for words, for what he needed to say. Through their reflection, her eyes held his. No more pretending. His lungs tightened; his jaw did the same, but he went on, “Ignoring my instincts—turning my back on my fears—and accepting all that I feel for you will…not be easy. Adjusting will be worse, but openly acknowledging it and responding…” He drew in another tight breath, searched her eyes. “That’s going to be…a challenge. In this room, I can manage, but outside that door…”
Holding her gaze, he forced himself to say, “I know what you want, but I can’t promise I’ll instantly reform. All I can promise is that I’ll try. And keep trying…as long as that’s what you want.”
Sarah blinked, several times, to clear her eyes. Never had she expected to hear such words— such an admission—from him. Had he changed, or had she? Or had they both?
He was watching her, waiting; unheralded, the gypsy’s words replayed in her mind. Is complicated. Indeed.
Your decision, not his.
She’d thought the big decision she’d had to make was to accept his offer, but perhaps this was the real acceptance—now she knew what he was like, and he knew her, once they’d stripped all the veils away and both knew what the other wanted, and were honest about what they offered in return…
She drew breath, and nodded at his reflection. “Yes, that’s what I want—what I can’t imagine not wanting, not ever. But…” He’d been honest—so much more so than she’d expected; she had to be the
same. “I’ll probably be watchful. Don’t read that as expecting the worst…read it as not being sure.” His eyes narrowed on hers. After a moment he said, “You don’t trust me.”
She raised her brows. “With my life, yes. With my heart…”
He held her gaze for a long moment, then his lips twisted and he looked down.
“Perhaps…” She waited until he looked up again, met her eyes again in the glass. “Maybe that’s what’s the true cornerstone of marriages like ours. Trust. Me trusting that you won’t, despite any occasional lapses to the contrary, backslide and shut me out again. Bruise my heart again. That when this threat is past, you won’t revert to how you’ve been. And you trusting me that I won’t—ever—use what’ s between us to try to control you, to force you into doing this or that. Perhaps that’s what we need— that trust.”
He held her gaze for a long, long moment, then he turned and faced her. She turned to him.
He raised his hands, gently framed her face. Tipping it up, he looked into her eyes, his own unshuttered. “Perhaps.”
His gaze dropped to her lips and they throbbed. The time for talking was past. He bent his head and she reached for him.
The kiss was like ambrosia and they were hungry, both needy, greedy for confirmation after the emotional upheaval. Both needing each other and nothing more.
Clothes shed like petals, sliding to the floor, discarded veils. Hands whispered over naked skin; lips touched, brushed, caressed. Lingered. Soft sighs drifted, gentle moans, hitching breaths.
The candle guttered; pale moonlight washed over them as he lifted her, as she wrapped her legs about his waist and he lowered her and filled her.
As they moved together, lips fused, bodies merging, that power rose inexorably between them— completely, openly, without reserve, they surrendered to it.
And let it rage.
Over them, through them, within them.
He lifted her and brought her slowly down; she clung, and released, and clung again, more tightly.
Savored every instant, and knew he did the same; she tasted his delight through their kiss, and had no thought to hide her own.
Long fraught moments passed as they communed in the shadowed dark, he, she, and the power that held them. That linked them, joined them.
Until delight became soul-deep plea sure, and plea sure became passion; until desire caught them and fused them. Until the conflagration within them cindered every last thought they possessed.
Until the power rose and captured them, harried them and whipped them, spurred them on, then wracked them, shattered them, fractured them, leaving them broken and open so the glory could pour through their veins.
To fill their hearts.
Eventually the tide receded. Somehow they staggered to their bed and fell in. Sarah curled into Charlie’s side, her head pillowed on his chest. She felt him flick the covers over their cooling bodies, then his arms closed around her.
He lay slumped, relaxed, the only muscles with any tension the ones holding her to him.
She smiled, kissed the hot muscle on which she lay; she was about to let go, let her mind drift into
sleep, when he shifted and pressed a kiss to her hair.
“You misunderstood one thing I said. It’s not what you might do that worries me—it’s what I
might do under the influence of a power I will never be able to control.”
17
T he villain’s next ploy arrived two days later in the guise of Dean Ferris, envoy from the Bishop of Wells.
Recognizing the bishop’s crest on the carriage door, Crisp dispatched a footman to inform Charlie. Sarah was with him in her sitting room; she came hurrying to the door, Charlie striding beside her, as the dean climbed slowly up the front steps.
“Dean Ferris.” Sarah walked out onto the porch. “It’s a plea sure to welcome you to Morwellan Park, sir.”
The dean had known her for years; he smiled and took her hand between his. “My dear, I don’t need to ask if you’re well—God’s sun shines in your eyes.” Then he sobered. “Unfortunately, I’m here on a grave matter, one I fear you’ll find disturbing.”
“Oh?” Eyes widening, Sarah turned to Charlie, who had come to stand by her shoulder. “I’m unsure if you’ve met my husband, Lord Meredith.” To Charlie she said, “As you know, the orphanage operates under the auspices of the Bishop of Wells. Dean Ferris is the bishop’s chief advisor.”
Dean Ferris hadn’t encountered Charlie before; he shook his hand, shrewd blue eyes taking note of his hovering presence and the quick glance he threw her.
“Please join us inside, sir, and you can tell us of this disturbing matter.” Stepping back, Charlie waved the dean and Sarah before him.
Noting his clearly enunciated “us,” she steered the dean to the drawing room, then summoned Crisp and ordered tea. While they waited for it to arrive, the dean revealed that he was on a routine visit to the churches in the district, but “in light of the unexpected information the bishop had received,” had decided to stop by to consult her.
Once the tea arrived and was dispensed, and Crisp had retreated, the dean turned to her. “My dear, as you’ve guessed, my visit concerns the orphanage. A letter was sent to the bishop, anonymous as such letters often are, but in light of the seriousness of the allegations, he determined that we should— indeed, are conscience-bound to—alert you of the matter with all haste.”
She set down her cup. “What matter? What allegations?”
The dean looked uncomfortable. He glanced at Charlie. “The letter claimed that the female staff indulge in certain practices with some of the lads…in short, the allegations were of the most grievous moral turpitude.”
Sarah stared at the dean. “That’s nonsense. You know it is. You’ve met all the staff, and so has the bishop—you know such things couldn’t possibly be true.”
“Indeed.” Dean Ferris nodded, both word and action decisive. “Which is why the bishop and I felt we needed to act.” Leaning forward he took her hand. “My dear, these allegations, given we know them to be untrue, are…well, quite ghastly. The bishop and I believe this to be the work of someone wishful of inflicting serious damage on the orphanage—or on you.” He glanced at Charlie. “That’s why we felt it imperative we bring the matter to your attention without delay.”
Sarah met Charlie’s eyes, knew that he was thinking, as she was, that this was clearly their villain’s
next move.
Charlie looked at the dean. “Did you by chance bring this letter with you, sir?”
“Ye-es.” The dean looked sheepish as he reached into his robe. “My dear, I hope you won’t take it amiss if I insist Lord Meredith read this rather than your fair self. I don’t think my conscience will allow me to sully your mind with such things.”
She hesitated, but the dean was clearly in earnest; no sense in upsetting him. She inclined her head and watched as Charlie took the missive, unfolded it and read.
His features hardened as his eyes traveled down the page. By the time he flicked to the second page, his jaw was clenched. Reaching the end of it, he raised his brows. “Good Lord!” An expression of distaste clear on his face, he refolded the sheets. “Do you mind if I retain this, sir? Once we’ve told you what’s behind it, and what in a more general sense is going on, you’ll see why it might prove useful.”
The dean wiped his hands. “Truth to tell, I’m only too happy to see the last of it. Dreadful mind, whoever wrote it.”
“A dreadful mind, indeed.” Settling back, Charlie explained why some unknown man was fixed on buying the orphanage—on forcing Sarah to sell Quilley Farm by fair means or foul—and how that related to a wider, long-running series of crimes, and the nature of those crimes.
The dean was appalled. “Dear Heaven.”
Charlie nodded. “Luckily, this time, we’re aware of what’s going on, courtesy of Mr. Adair and his links with the new Metropolitan police force. However, while we know why these incidents are occurring, we’ve yet to identify who is behind them—who our villain is.”
“And he’s the same man—or men,” the dean amended, “behind all the other incidents?”
“We believe so. There seems little chance that two in de pen dent groups, or men, would both think of, let alone be able to run, such an outwardly complex yet at the heart of it simple scheme.” Charlie met the dean’s gaze. “Whoever they are, they’re careful and clever.”
“And conscienceless.” The dean nodded to the letter Charlie had laid aside. “To malign innocent women who devote their lives to caring for orphans is the act of a blackguard.”
“A blackguard we have a unique opportunity to catch,” Charlie said. “Which is why I hope you’ll consent to help us.”
The dean eyed him shrewdly. “I’ll do what ever’s in my power to assist.”
“Excellent.” Charlie looked at Sarah, and smiled faintly. “We spent yesterday at the orphanage assessing every possible avenue to improve its defenses without allowing our increased vigilance to show. I think it very likely our man is watching the place—he’ll expect some reaction to that letter. If you, Sarah, and I visit again today, he’ll guess it’s in response to the allegations.”
He looked at the dean. “We need to put on a charade so he believes his letter has achieved his desired result—to create trouble for the orphanage, and for Sarah. If he believes that it has, then he’ll approach us with another offer. That’s what we want—we need to lure him out.”
The dean smiled and set aside his cup. “I haven’t played charades in years.”
T he rest of the day passed in a carefully scripted endeavor to pull the wool over their villain’s eyes. They were sober and serious, grave and righteous when they needed to be—when they arrived at the orphange in the bishop’s carriage and went inside, and when they emerged, hours later, after a pleasant and at times hilarious luncheon with the orphans, and a serious but highly motivating talk with the staff.
When they’d left, the female staff had filed out of the orphanage behind them, and lined up outside the door. Katy Carter had looked frightened and had wrung her hands in her apron, Quince had sniffed and hung her head, Jeannie had looked flushed—in truth with indignaton—and somewhat stunned, while Lily had achieved a quite astonishing sulk, sullen and dour. The dean, struggling to keep his expression condemnatory in the face of such excellent histrionic abilities, had paced back and forth, gesticulating and lecturing. In actual fact the words he’d uttered had been a benediction.
Charlie had stood back and, expression impassive, watched the performance. On his arm, Sarah had hung somewhat limply, her expression as blank as she could make it, as if the entire episode had proved simply too much and she couldn’t wait to get away.
Unobtrusively Charlie had scanned their surroundings, but with the Quantocks opposite and the Brendons behind, there were vantage points aplenty from which a man with a spyglass could keep a close watch on the place. Other than ensuring the carriage had been drawn up out of the way, leaving their scene enacted before the front door in unrestricted view, there was nothing more that could be done.
Eventually, leaving the orphanage staff apparently chastened, they’d climbed into the carriage and rattled back to the Park.
They arrived in time for afternoon tea, and to receive Gabriel, Alathea, and Barnaby, who’d ridden up from Casleigh. Gabriel and Alathea knew the dean; they all settled in the drawing room and Charlie explained the latest development and how they’d dealt with it.
“Dealing with villains should always involve an element of entertainment.” Alathea accepted a cup from Sarah. “It’s the only way to cope with such horrors.”
Smiling, the dean commended her on her wisdom.
Their shared pasts in mind, Gabriel and Charlie surreptitiously rolled their eyes.
Barnaby had headed south yesterday morning to call on the three solicitors in Taunton and see what information he could wring from them. He’d stopped at Casleigh on the way, intending to recruit Gabriel, and had found himself with both Gabriel’s and Alathea’s support.
“I was stunned,” Barnaby reported. “All three consented to talk.”
“Of course they did.” Alathea selected a biscuit from the tray. “They practice locally. Losing the goodwill of both the Cynsters and the Morwellans would be akin to cutting their throats.” Alathea looked at Charlie. “I used the title quite shamelessly.” She grinned. “You were quite effective even in absentia.”
Gabriel and Charlie exchanged another glance.
Barnaby, however, remained impressed. “Although we told them nothing of the details, all three volunteered what information they had on the client on whose behalf they’d tried to buy the orphanage.” Glancing at Charlie, he grimaced. “As you predicted, the ‘clients’ were all land companies, all with addresses in London.”
“All three addresses look suspiciously like solicitors,” Gabriel put in. “All close to the Inns of Court.”
Charlie sighed. “Given the way our villain has things organized, I suggest we resist the temptation to chase after those addresses.”
Gabriel seconded that. “Either they’ll be fictitious, companies that aren’t real, or we’ll run into solicitors who aren’t amenable to persuasion.”
Barnaby nodded. “Especially as communications between the solicitors and the companies did not
go via those addresses.”
When Charlie frowned at him, Barnaby grinned. “Believe it or not, our villain uses an agent. A
flesh-and-blood man—to wit a man of average height, with brown hair, thinning on top, round face, regular features, plain and unremarkable, very neatly and correctly dressed in business-agent style, somewhere in his thirties, careful with words and manners yet definitely not a gentleman born.”
Barnaby paused, savoring the minor triumph. “All three solicitors gave the same description. In each case, our man presented his credentials as the appointed agent of the relevant land company. He discussed the details of the offer, and the solicitor agreed to make said offer and was given a part payment as retainer. Subsequently, after the offer had been refused, the solicitors had expected to inform the land company via the address given, but in all three instances, the agent had dropped in—or in one case fallen in with the solicitor as he was riding back to Taunton subsequent to making the offer—and so the solicitors passed their sad tidings directly back to the agent.”
“An interesting aside,” Gabriel said. “Our three solicitors half expected not to receive the rest of their agreed fee, but were surprised when the agent, on being informed of their failure, promptly paid over the remainder of the sum.”
Gabriel caught Charlie’s eyes. “Whoever’s behind this isn’t the usual run of blackguard. He doesn ’t try to steal wherever he can—he concentrates on his aim, and otherwise behaves with complete integrity.”
Charlie remembered other blackguards they’d met. He nodded. “He’s not going to be easy to identify. Nothing else will give him away.”
“Which leaves us much where we were before,” Barnaby said. “The only path that might lead us to this man goes via the Quilley Farm orphanage.”
F ifteen minutes later, Charlie, Sarah, and Barnaby stood on the front steps and waved Gabriel and Alathea off. They were riding home; as Charlie turned to follow Sarah inside, he inwardly smiled at the look he’d seen flash between Alathea and Gabriel, and the laugh that had followed it in the instant before they’d given their horses their heads and raced off.
He glanced at Sarah, then turned as Barnaby made his excuses and retired to repair the depredations two days’ riding had made on his normally immaculate person.
“And now I must take my leave.” Waiting for them in the foyer, the dean smiled; taking Sarah’s hand, he patted it. “I’m relieved, my dear, to be able to leave you and the orphanage with such solid supporters gathered around. I’ll inform the bishop of the true nature of events here. Our prayers will be with you.” He inclined his head to Charlie. “And you, Lord Meredith. This blackguard must be found and stopped.”
Charlie nodded. “We’ll do our very best to catch him.”
The rattle of carriage wheels in the drive heralded the arrival of the bishop’s carriage. With Sarah, Charlie walked the dean out, saw him settled, then retreated to the porch and waved as the carriage rolled away.
A horse man was trotting up the drive; he drew to the side and, noting the carriage’s insignia, bowed respectfully as it rolled past. Then with a twitch of his reins, he came on.
Charlie glanced at Sarah, hesitating beside him. “It’s Sinclair.” He grimaced. “No doubt he’s safe enough, but the fewer who know of our plan the better. Do you feel up to more acting? You’ll need to appear as if the dean put the orphanage staff through the wringer and made dire threats to close the orphanage.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Exhausted, upset, and not wanting to talk about the subject at all.” Leaning on his arm, she looked up at him. “I’ll stay long enough to greet Mr. Sinclair—it would look odd
if I didn’t—then I’ll retire to nurse a headache.”
His gaze on her face, Charlie hesitated, then murmured, “I’m going to act irritated and annoyed—I ’ll say we’ll speak about it later. Once you’re gone I’ll explain about the dean’s visit and the orphanage. If we believed those allegations, I’d be insisting you sell the place—it’s what our villain will expect to hear. Malcolm’s starting to become known in the neighborhood. While I don’t like to deceive and use him, he could be a good conduit to get our reaction to this latest gambit into the local gossip mill. If any hear an observation from him, they won’t imagine he’s made it up.”
Sarah nodded, facing the forecourt as Malcolm trotted up. “Yes. Let’s do that.” They did, and even though she said it herself, they gave an excellent performance.
When Sinclair approached she plastered a patently false smile on her lips—one that neither reached her eyes nor erased the vertical line between her brows—and gave him her hand. “Mr. Sinclair.”
“Countess.” He bowed, concern in his eyes. “I trust I find you well?”
Sarah pressed her lips tight, then acknowledged, “I’m afraid I’ve had some…rather distressing news.” She shot a sideways glance at the rigid male looming beside her; his face wore its usual impassive mask, yet disapproval and irritation radiated from him. “I…ah.” Raising a hand, she rubbed at that line between her brows. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll lie down for a while. I’m sure his lordship”— another swift glance at the censorious presence beside her—“will appreciate your company.”
“Indeed, my dear.” Steel flashed beneath Charlie’s clipped tone. “I know how much the recent news has upset you. We’ll discuss the matter later.”
An ominous promise infused his last sentence. Sarah nodded to Sinclair, then, lips tight, her head rising, her body tense, walked to the stairs.
Watching her go, Charlie quashed an impulse to applaud; she’d conveyed “fragile overset female” perfectly. One glance at the frown in Sinclair’s hazel eyes confirmed he’d been convinced. Charlie waved toward the library.
Sinclair paced beside him. “An ecclesiastical visit…surely the bishop isn’t the cause of the countess’s malaise?”
Charlie recognized the question as not quite correct—not a question a gentleman should ask in the circumstances. Yet although mildly irritated that Malcolm harbored sufficient interest in Sarah to inquire into what was clearly a private matter, he pounced on the opening the question afforded. Reaching for the library door, allowing a definite frown to show, he glanced along the corridor as if confirming there was no one about to eavesdrop, then waved Malcolm in, followed, and shut the door.
He led the way to his desk. “I’m afraid the countess has un wittingly become involved in a rather”
—compressing his lips, he dropped into his chair—“unsavory situation at the orphanage. By involved I mean through her association with the place, not that she personally is implicated in any wrongdoing.”
“Of course not.” Malcolm sank into the chair before the desk.
His accents harsh, Charlie continued, “The bishop’s advisor came to inform us of the problem, which had come to the bishop’s ear. Steps have been taken to deal with the staff involved.” Picking up a pen, he tapped it on the blotter. “It will, of course, be necessary for the countess to distance herself from the place—a point she will no doubt appreciate once she has rested and regained her equilibrium.”
Malcolm frowned. He hesitated, then diffidently said, “I understood her association with the orphanage is both long-standing and in the nature of a legacy.”
Charlie nodded curtly. “However, under the circumstances she’ll no doubt find some other charity to fill her time, and her godmother is dead, after all.” Pointedly he fixed his gaze on the folded sheet Malcolm had drawn from his pocket. “Is that the report on the Newcastle-Carlisle syndicate?”
Malcolm blinked at the sheet as if he’d forgotten he held it. “Ah—yes. You said you’d like to see it.” Reaching over the desk, he handed the sheet to Charlie.
Charlie took it, opened it, and kept his attention and comments focused on matters financial for the rest of Malcolm’s visit.
When Malcolm eventually rose and took his leave, Charlie saw him out, then inwardly sighed. He scrubbed a hand over his features, trying to obliterate the last traces of the contemptuous—contemptible
—role he’d been playing. Rigid, controlling, unforgiving, ruthless in his protection of the earldom and its reputation, and prepared to ride roughshod over his wife’s feelings in pursuit of that goal—he’d led Malcolm to believe he was that sort of man…even though it was all pretense, he felt besmirched.
Almost guilty by association.
Shaking off the feeling, he set out to find Sarah—to reassure himself, and her, that he wasn’t that sort of husband at all.
T wo days passed before their efforts bore fruit in the form of a solicitor’s clerk, dispatched from his employer’s offices in Wellington to lay what the solicitor had plainly believed was a straightforward offer to buy Quilley Farm for a mildly staggering amount before the Earl of Meredith and his countess.
Charlie sat in an armchair in Sarah’s sitting room, battling to hide a grin as he watched her, seated on the chaise, give the hapless clerk a pointed lesson on the proper way to approach a countess over a piece of property said countess owned.
Once the clerk was reduced to babbling, all but groveling at her dainty feet, she deigned to haughtily accept the written offer he held out to her.
Sarah glanced over the papers, noting the sum and the absence of any client’s name. She looked up, and waved the clerk away. “Wait in the front hall—I wish to discuss this matter with my husband.”
She waited until Crisp, who had lingered by the door, escorted the obsequiously bobbing clerk away, then handed the papers to Charlie. “No name, but the amount is larger than last time.”
Barnaby had been standing before the French doors, ostensibly looking out; now he joined them, going to the armchair to look over Charlie’s shoulder, scanning the pages as Charlie turned. “Wellington
—that’s west of Taunton, isn’t it?”
Charlie nodded. “About ten miles.” Finishing with the last sheet, he flipped the others back. “Other than the lack of name, this is a simple enough offer.” He glanced up at Barnaby. “What do you think— should we run with your plan?”
Nodding, Barnaby reached for the papers. They’d spent hours discussing their options—or rather their lack of them. “I’ll take your answer back to this solicitor. Doubtless he has no more real information than the others, but if the villain follows his usual pattern the agent will appear to learn your answer. When he does, I’ll be there. I’ll follow the clerk back—we’ll let him ride ahead alone in case the agent approaches him along the way.”
Charlie studied Barnaby’s face. “Be careful.”
Barnaby smiled sweetly. “I will be.” He glanced at Sarah. “You’ll need to be careful, too, and keep up the pretense of being exercised over the orphanage. With a villain like this—one who may well appear perfectly respectable—you can never tell when he, or someone he knows, will be watching.”
Sarah grimaced, but nodded. “If you’re going to ride to Wellington, you won’t be able to return to
night.”
Barnaby’s grin grew intent. “No matter—I’ll stay in Wellington until I meet this agent.”
L ater that night Charlie lay beside Sarah in the downy comfort of their bed, and prayed that Barnaby had met with success. The sooner he could dispense with the role of domineering, disapproving husband the better.
With Sarah all warm feminine limbs, boneless in the aftermath of the plea sure they’d shared, snuggled against him, her head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder as if it were made just for her, his arms loosely yet definitely holding her to him, satisfaction was a rich drug sliding through his veins.
The taste of innocence transformed, rich, passionate, and even more addictive. He wanted to secure it forever, to know that it would always be his.
He would do anything, literally anything, to ensure it was.
That impulse—that commitment—clashed badly with the role the current situation forced on him.
The sensation of her resting so trustfully against him only strengthened his welling resistance to the pretense they’d enacted over recent days, whenever any outsider was present. Sarah had summoned Mrs. Duncliffe and Skeggs to inform them of the dean’s visit and ensure that the staff ’s good names remained unblemished, just in case the villain thought to start a whispering campaign to further pressure her into selling. But mindful of the need for secrecy, they hadn’t been able to tell either the vicar’s wife or Skeggs the full truth; instead, they’d had to convey, not by word but by suggestion, that Charlie was privately insisting that Sarah turn her back on the orphanage.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Worse, his assumed role demanded he behave in a manner that ran directly counter to his needs. To how he wanted, now and forever, to behave with her.
To how he knew and accepted he needed to behave if he wanted their marriage to be all that it could be.
They’d laughed after Mrs. Duncliffe and Skeggs had gone; as if sensing his discomfort, Sarah had smiled and teased, easing the emotional cuts and scrapes the interlude had inflicted, both on her and him. Yet he couldn’t help but feel—irrationally perhaps—that in even acting as he was he was betraying her and their love.
He still inwardly flinched at thinking of that word in relation to himself.
Which illustrated why he needed to end the charade, to be free of the villain’s unexpected influence so he could concentrate on overcoming his ingrained reaction to admitting to love. To letting it show, to letting it weave through his interactions with Sarah regardless of the where and when. Fighting free of the mental conditioning of decades wasn’t a simple matter; he was still too frequently conscious of the prodding of the latent belief that love was too dangerous an emotion to let loose in his life.
Yet he was determined to succeed, to overcome and eradicate that entrenched resistance and so give Sarah and their marriage what both needed from him to not just survive but thrive.
Perhaps if he could say the words aloud? He hadn’t—he knew he hadn’t. That was a milestone he could aim for and achieve.
A small milestone, perhaps, but didn’t the philosophers argue that if one could articulate a commitment, one stood a better chance of meeting it? That certainly held true for investing; why not for marriage?
So he needed a declaration, something that rang true, that she would know came from his heart. Words, the right words.
He was reasonably certain they weren’t “Are you pregnant?” even though he suspected she might be. She hadn’t said a word, and he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask, at least not yet…and it might be better if he waited until she told him; he had a suspicion that was one of those feminine declarations at which wise men feigned complete surprise.
Back to the right words. His mind circled, examined, wondered…until he fell asleep.
T wo days later, with the afternoon light softening over the hills, Sarah set out from the orphanage on Blacktail’s back to ride home to Morwellan Park. She smiled at how quickly she’d adjusted to thinking of the Park, Charlie’s home, as hers. From her first day as his countess, it had felt right—like a comfortable glove sliding about her, fitting perfectly.
Eager to get back, she let Blacktail’s reins ease. Behind her, Hills, the groom Charlie had insisted she take, kept pace.
She’d ridden to the orphanage purely to check, to reassure herself that everyone was safe and that there’d been no further accidents. There hadn’t been, and everyone was coping with the increased level of vigilance they’d all deemed the best way to guard against further attacks.
Charlie had intended to come with her, but Malcolm Sinclair had called to discuss some reports on investment banking that Charlie had promised to share with him. Although they’d preserved their charade before Sinclair, Charlie had been torn; he’d patently wanted to send Sinclair packing and ride north with her instead.
She grinned, holding the moment close, clutching to her heart all that it meant. The wind whipped her hair back; she laughed and leaned forward to pat Blacktail’s sleek neck.
A faint whiz was all she heard before fire lanced across her back.
She gasped, and pain sliced through her. She stiffened, trying to breathe, to ignore the spreading
agony.
From behind she heard a cry—Hills. Blacktail’s reins slid from her weakening grasp; the gelding
thundered on. Something had hit her on the back; through the fiery pain she could feel something there, stuck to her, bouncing with Blacktail’s gait. Anchoring one hand in his flying mane, she clung; with her other hand, she groped behind her, trying to feel what had struck her—she felt a shaft, and feathers. Just touching it made her gasp, made her head swim.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw blood, wet and red, on her glove. An arrow? Her mind could barely take it in.
Flailing to catch up with her, Hills drew alongside. “My lady!” His face ashen, he reached for Blacktail’s reins.
“No!” Sarah gasped. “Don’t stop. Whoever shot it—they’re still there.” If she hadn’t leaned forward…
She let herself slump onto Blacktail’s neck. “The manor.” Her voice was weak, but Hills heard. “Let him run and he’ll take me there.”
Keeping her eyes open was too hard. She let them close, but forced her mind to follow their progress—she’d ridden this route countless times; she knew every inch of the way.
She knew when Blacktail swerved to take the path to the back of the manor. Sensed the change as he moved off the grittier bridle path onto the beaten earth running between her father’s fields.
Then came the wooden bridge over the stream; each step jolted her. She cried out, nearly
swooned, but managed to cling to the last remnants of consciousness…until cobbles rang under Blacktail ’s hooves and he halted.
Snorting, tossing his head, in the manor’s stable yard.
She heard shouts, calls, a confusion of voices, then hard but gentle hands were lifting her down… Sighing, she let them have her, and slipped into shrouding darkness.
S prawled in an armchair before the fire in his library, Charlie studied Malcolm, who was seated in the other armchair across the hearth reading one of Charlie’s investment banking reports from London— and willed him to read faster. Still, it no longer truly mattered. He glanced at the windows, saw the afternoon closing in. Sarah would soon be back. Indeed—he inwardly frowned—he would have expected her back by now.
Had there been some problem at the orphanage?
He shifted, surreptitiously glancing at the clock. Nearly four o’clock. She should be back by now.
Perhaps she’d returned but hadn’t thought to look in…
His inner frown deepened; she’d know he’d want to know—he couldn’t believe she wouldn’t at least look in to tell him all was well.
The impulse to rise and go and find out—if she was home, and if she wasn’t, to ride out to meet her and find out what had delayed her—welled, but…Malcolm was still a valuable source of information, and he had promised to go over the intricacies of investment banking in return for Malcolm’s insights into railway financing.
Another two minutes ticked by in silence. Charlie was assembling the words to excuse himself to at least go and learn if Sarah had come home when heavy running footsteps echoed in the corridor outside the library.
Startled, both he and Malcolm turned to the door as it burst open.
Crisp rushed in. The man had actually run down the corridor; Charlie was on his feet even before Crisp said, “My lord, it’s Lady Sarah. Hills has just ridden in saying she was shot while riding home from the orphanage.”
A desolate chill clutched Charlie’s heart. “Shot?” He was already moving to the door.
Crisp turned with him. “Hills says with an arrow, my lord. He’s quite sure of that. She was struck in the back. It happened before the manor—she’s there. Hills says she swooned, my lord, but her father said to tell you the wound isn’t life threatening.”
Charlie was striding rapidly down the corridor. Then he remembered, halted and turned back. And saw Malcolm following some paces behind, his face pale, his expression as drawn—as grimly horrified—as Charlie felt.
Malcolm brusquely waved him on. “Go! Don’t worry about me.” Charlie didn’t wait for more; he turned and ran for the stable.
O n Storm’s back, Charlie thundered north across his fields, taking the fastest route to Conningham Manor and Sarah.
Five minutes later, Malcolm Sinclair left Morwellan Park by the drive; on his black gelding he also
turned north, keeping to the road.
S arah woke to the gentle, soothing touch of her mother’s hand smoothing her hair back from her forehead. The fiery pain in her back had eased, faded; the sensation now felt like a large raw scrape.
Opening her eyes, she blinked. She was lying on her side, her head in her mother’s lap. Gingerly she raised her head and slowly pushed herself up, registering the slide of her blouse over a bandage across her back.
“Gently, now.” Her mother helped her up; when Sarah sat straight and steady, she released her. “There now.” She looked across the room. “Miss Twitterton, perhaps you could ask Cook to send up that chicken broth now.”
Consulting her head and discovering it steady, feeling stable enough on the familiar window seat in the back parlor, Sarah looked around, saw Twitters’s skirts disappearing around the door, and Clary and Gloria, both with eyes wide, regarding her avidly from across the room. They looked as if they had questions ready to burst from their lips. Before they could decide which to ask first, she looked at her mother. “Was I really shot with an arrow?”
Lips thinning, her mother nodded. “A quarrel from a crossbow. Your father’s ropeable—there’s simply no reason anyone should have had such a weapon out, not in this season.”
Sarah tried to reach behind her; she winced as skin and muscle protested.
“No need to touch it.” Her mother caught her hand and drew it away. “As luck would have it, Doctor Caliburn was here talking to your father. He cleaned the wound and said it was little more than a deep scratch.” She patted Sarah’s hand, then released it, drew in a breath and let it out with, “He said you were very lucky.”
Hearing the quaver in her mother’s voice, ruthlessly suppressed though it was, Sarah summoned a smile and squeezed her hand. “I’m all right—truly.”
Other than the painful scrape on her back, she was. Shifting around, she looked out the window at the gathering dusk. “What time is it?”
“A little after four. We sent your groom to inform Charlie, of course.” Her mother shook out the short jacket Sarah had been wearing, and the remnants of the blouse that had been beneath it. “The jacket can be washed and mended, but the blouse isn’t worth the effort. That’s Clary’s you have on.”
Sarah glanced down at the fine linen decorously covering her, then flashed a smile at Clary. “Thank you.”
Clary waved dismissively. “Never mind that—what did it feel like? The arrow going in, I mean.” “Clary!” Lady Conningham bent a severe frown on her blood-thirsty daughter.
But Sarah grinned and thought back. “Like a burn, actually.”
“That’s enough, girls.” Lady Conningham quelled Gloria with an even more dire frown as Twitters reappeared bearing a tray with a bowl of Cook’s famous restorative chicken broth.
“You need to build up your strength,” the diminutive governess sternly advised as she laid the tray on a small table before Sarah. “No doubt the earl will be here shortly and you won’t want to swoon again.”
Hiding a smile at Twitters’s ability to always know just what argument to employ to get her charges to do anything, Sarah dutifully picked up the spoon and sipped.
She’d never swooned before; somewhat to her surprise, she did feel in need of sustenance.
Just as she laid the spoon in the empty bowl, the crunch of hooves on gravel drew all eyes to the forecourt—to Charlie as he flung himself out of the saddle and strode to the front door.
Her mother regarded her, a worried frown in her eyes. “Are you well enough to stand?”
Carefully Sarah got to her feet; Twitters hurriedly removed the table and tray. Other than a twinge across her back, she felt no lasting ill effects. Her head remained steady; reinforced with chicken broth, she felt tolerably normal. “I’m perfectly all right.”
And she wanted to go home. With her mother and Twitters hovering, ready to fuss, let alone Clary and Gloria straining at her mother’s leash, wanting to demand every gory detail, while the manor was comfortable it was no longer her place.
The realization crystallized in her mind—then the door was flung open with such force it nearly hit Clary, who yelped and caught it.
Charlie didn’t seem to hear. Framed in the doorway, his eyes, darkened and burning, raked her— cataloguing every tiny detail from her head to her toes. Reaching those, his gaze flashed up to her eyes.
With the same painful intensity he scanned her face, her eyes, her expression. “Are you all right?”
Surprised—faintly stunned—to see him so shaken, to be able to so openly see his emotions, raw and naked in his face, displayed without thought before her mother, Clary, Gloria, and Twitters, she mentally shook herself and hurried to find a smile and hold out her hands. “Other than a wound on my back—and I have it on excellent authority that that’s little more than a deep scrape.”
He muttered something—she thought it was “Thank God!”—then he crossed the room in two strides, took her hands only to draw her nearer, then gently folded her in his arms, careful not to touch her wound, the fingers of one hand tracing oh-so-lightly over the bandage across her back.
“Hills said you were hit below your shoulder blade.” He murmured the words against her hair.
She couldn’t believe how comforting his warmth was, how soothing it felt to have his strength surround her.
The sound of a throat being cleared had him lifting his head and turning, but he didn’t let her go. “Perhaps,” her mother said, “we should adjourn to the drawing room.”
Sarah knew the instant Charlie realized that he was not just wearing his heart on his sleeve, but waving it for everyone to see. He stiffened; the muscles in the arms around her tensed, but they didn’t ease—he didn’t release her or set her back from him.
She caught his sleeve, tugged. When he glanced down at her, she spoke to him rather than her mother. “Actually, I’d prefer to start back to the Park before full dark.”
Her mother said, “I really don’t think—”
“Of course.” Charlie cut across her mother without compunction. “I’ll borrow your father’s carriage.”
Holding his gaze, she grimaced lightly. “I rather suspect I’ll do better on Blacktail. The carriage will jar the wound more than Blacktail’s stride, and the way home is all across fields, no hard roads.”
He frowned. From the corner of her eye, Sarah saw her mother open her lips to protest, but she paused, then reluctantly closed them.
“If you’re sure you’re well enough to sit a horse.” Charlie was still frowning, but his gaze had grown distant; she sensed he was planning, then he refocused on her and nodded. “Very well. But if we’ re going to ride home, we’ll need to leave now.”
He turned to her mother and with his usual charm smoothed her ruffled feathers, reassuring her that her chick would be in safe hands.
Sarah hid a grin; he wouldn’t be thrilled to know that it was his earlier blindness to all but her that her mother found most reassuring, that it was that that had her unbending enough to accompany them to her father, and thence to the stable yard.
Charlie lifted Sarah to her saddle. He stood by her stirrup, holding it and watching as she settled her skirts and picked up the reins. She seemed strong enough, but she was moving carefully—and he knew she wanted to go home.
And with that he had no argument.
He turned away, shook hands with Lord Conningham, then swung up to Storm’s back. He steered the big hunter to come up alongside Blacktail, then with brief nods to her family, they slowly walked out under the stable arch, past Clary and Gloria, who were smiling brightly and encouragingly, then they turned both horses’ heads south.
At first they just walked, then Sarah pushed Blacktail into an easy canter. Charlie kept pace—until they were over the first rise and out of sight of those watching from the manor.
“Rein in.” He watched as Sarah—rather more tight-lipped than she’d been in the stable yard— obeyed.
When Blacktail halted, she turned her head and looked at him, brows rising.
He halted Storm beside her, then edged the big gray close to Blacktail’s side. Transferring his reins to one hand, he reached for her. “Come here.”
That she allowed him to grasp her waist and lift her over to sit across his saddle with no protest told him he’d been right; her wound wasn’t as unpainful, as unaffected by riding, as she’d hoped.
“I’ll be all right,” she murmured as he settled her legs and skirts, her undamaged side to his chest. “True, but this way will be less painful. Lean against me.”
He took Blacktail’s reins and tied them to a ring on his saddle, then he curled one arm around her, supporting her and holding her to him, picked up Storm’s reins, and rode on.
Cradled as she was, his body, his spine, cushioned her against any jolts, any sharp movements.
Gradually, she realized and relaxed; with a sigh, she rested her head against his shoulder.
His jaw, which had clenched, eased. Inside him, something unlocked, released. He touched his lips to her hair. “Your father sent word that the wound wasn’t life threatening, but he didn’t say how bad it was—and Hills didn’t know.”
She looked up, met his eyes, then she raised a hand and touched his cheek. “I really am all right.”
He nodded, then exhaled and felt the last of the black fear that had gripped him seep away. “Tell me what happened.”
She was silent for a moment; he sensed she was frowning when she replied, “I don’t know. I was riding along. Hills was only a length behind. I’d jumped the stream—it was a little way beyond that. I leaned forward and patted Blacktail’s neck—and that’s when the arrow struck.”
“Hills said he didn’t see anyone, but that you were well past the point where it happened when he got a chance to look back.”
She nodded. “I was galloping and dropped the reins, so Blacktail took off.”
Charlie asked no more questions. He didn’t like the direction of his thoughts; he wanted to mull over them before he shared them. Storm and Blacktail knew the way to their stable; he kept them to a slow canter and let them find their way, while he held Sarah close and let his mind and all his senses absorb the reality that she was safe, whole, still with him. Still his.
M alcolm Sinclair didn’t draw rein at his rented house in Crowcombe but rode on, northward toward the coast.
Lips compressed, features grimly set, he urged his black up the rise toward Williton. “Exercise patience.” He muttered the words through clenched teeth. “Be discreet. So the fool tries to kill her! What the Devil does he think he’s doing?”
There was no one around to hear, much less give him an answer. Cloaked in suppressed fury, he pushed his horse on.
18
T he head stableman, Croker, was waiting when they reached the stables at the Park. Hills was there, too, anxious and concerned. Sarah noticed others hanging back, could almost feel their relief when they saw her able to sit and smile, albeit weakly.
Both Croker and Hills grinned back. They held the horses; Charlie dismounted, steadying her as he did, then he lifted her down. He let her toes touch the ground only long enough to change his hold, then swung her up in his arms, careful not to press on her wound.
She continued to smile. Charlie carried her out of the stable yard and across the lawn. She waited until they were halfway to the house and no one else was near before, eyes on his face, she ventured, “I can walk, you know.”
He glanced briefly at her, then looked ahead. His jaw set. “Just humor me.” A small enough boon, one she could easily grant.
He would have set her on her feet to open the side door, but as they neared, it opened; Barnaby stood back, holding it wide.
Charlie grunted his thanks, angled her through the doorway, then resettled her in his arms. He looked down at her. “Where to?”
“My sitting room. There’s still more than an hour to dinner.”
Charlie started down the corridor. Barnaby ranged alongside. “If you’re up to it, you might tell me what happened.”
Like Charlie, his face was pale, his expression deadly serious. Sarah’s smile took on a tempered edge. “Indeed—you’ll need to hear.”
There was no doubt in her mind—or Charlie’s or, once he’d heard the details, Barnaby’s—that her “accident” could be laid at their villain’s door.
Comfortable and at ease in the cozy warmth of her sitting room, she related her tale, then Charlie added Hills’s observations.
Barnaby let his head fall back against the armchair in which he’d sprawled. “I hadn’t imagined he’ d pursue the land from that angle.”
Standing before the hearth, Charlie frowned at him. “What angle?”
Turning his head, Barnaby met Charlie’s eyes. “If Sarah dies without issue, the property reverts to you, and given that we’ve been projecting the fiction that you disapprove of the orphanage…it’s reasonable to assume that if Sarah died, especially in some way connected with the place, then after
emerging from mourning, you’d be entirely willing to wash your hands of Quilley Farm. It doesn’t connect with the Morwellan lands—it’s a small, unproductive, unattractive property for a landowner like you.”
Charlie sighed and closed his eyes. “You’re right. And as there’s clearly no rush to secure the property our villain can happily play a long game…” Opening his eyes, he glanced at Sarah, then met Barnaby’s blue gaze. “When this is over and we lay our hands on him, I intend to extract payment for each and every injury he’s caused.”
Barnaby’s lips lifted in a feral grin. “I’ll hold your coat.”
Sarah inwardly shook her head at them. She studied Barnaby; he’d been absent since riding south in the wake of the solicitor’s clerk. “Did you learn anything about the agent?”
Barnaby’s expression darkened. “No—other than that he’s a very sharp cove.” He glanced at Charlie. “I hung back and followed the clerk all the way to Wellington, but the roads in and out of Taunton lack cover—the agent might have seen me and decided to play safe, I don’t know. Regardless, I followed the clerk to his lodgings, then as it was late, I left to find rooms for the night.
“The next morning I spoke with the solicitor and persuaded him to assist us. His description of the agent was the same as all the others, so it seems it’s always the same man, and in this case the solicitor— Riggs—was quite sure the man wasn’t local. Which”—Barnaby raised a finger—“means that we might be able to find him if we search. People in the country notice those who are not locals.”
Barnaby’s lips tightened. “Unfortunately, when the clerk arrived, I learned that the agent had just happened to run into him in the tavern in which he habitually takes refuge in the evenings, avoiding his landlady. If I’d known, I would have remained on watch, but…” Barnaby grimaced. “Suitably encouraged, the clerk told the agent that a friend of the family—to wit, me—would be in Wellington the following day to discuss the offer for Quilley Farm with the agent. Apparently the agent looked grave and said the offer was final, a take-it-or-leave-it proposition, and he wasn’t interested in any discussion. He said his client would take the lack of immediate acceptance as a refusal and gave the clerk an envelope with the remainder of the solicitor’s fee.”
Charlie softly swore.
“Indeed.” Barnaby looked grim. “I’m growing devilish tired of tripping over this agent. I’m going to turn my sights on him and scour the area—someone will have seen him and noted him as a nonlocal. He’s been around for weeks now—he can’t have remained totally hidden for all that time.” His eyes narrowed; his voice grew harder. “And when I find him, I’m going to persuade him to lead us to his master.”
Looking down at him, Charlie faintly raised his brows. “I’m so glad you said ‘us.’”
Deciding that the civilizing influence of a good dinner wouldn’t go amiss, Sarah rose and shook out her woefully crushed skirts. “I’m going to change for dinner. Half an hour, gentlemen.”
Charlie watched her like a hawk as she walked to the door; aware of it, she turned and flashed him a reassuring smile before opening the door and heading for their apartments.
C harlie lay on his back in their bed and watched a shaft of moonlight creep across the room. Sarah lay beside him, sated and sleeping. Over dinner they’d gone over every aspect of their villain’s game that they knew or felt confident enough to guess—only to conclude that they were still a long way from identifying him.
Instead of remaining in the dining room to pass the port, he and Barnaby had adjourned with Sarah to her sitting room; he was starting to feel as comfortable in that room, with her, as he was in his library. They’d discussed the best places for Barnaby to start his search, then revisited their safeguards
for the orphanage, reluctantly accepting that they didn’t dare set watchers in the surrounding hills; there was simply too great a risk the villain would sight them and pull back.
Speaking with Barnaby had reminded Charlie of the wider implications of the villain’s scheme, yet to his mind, to his instincts, the imperative to capture and unmask the man was now sharply personal.
The events of the afternoon replayed in his mind, together with the revelations they’d brought. The cold dread that had gripped him when he’d heard that Sarah had been injured wasn’t a feeling he would ever forget, yet against it, balancing it, was the relief—sheer, abject, and revitalizing—that had washed through him in the instant he’d seen her, standing beside her mother, hurt, perhaps, but still very much alive.
While the highly sane, logical, rational, and arrogant side of him was only too ready to point out that that dread, and the despair and desolation that had lurked behind it, ready to sweep in and claim him if she’d been taken from him, was the price he paid—and would have to pay for the rest of his life—for allowing love to claim him, another part of him, a part he was only now coming to recognize and know, simply smiled and held to the glory of his relief, to the warmth and joy he derived from caring for her, from fussing over her as he’d never liked being fussed over himself…he was starting to understand the bone-deep satisfaction, the intangible gratifications, of loving her.
Despite the dread, he still wanted that, with every fiber of his being wanted to seize and secure that, even if it meant embracing love to do it. Fear of the dread, of the despair and desolation, wasn’t enough to turn him from his path, to keep him from seeking the joys of love.
Sarah murmured in her sleep and snuggled closer; his arms instinctively tightened, then he remembered her wound and forced his muscles to relax. She was there, with him; that was all that mattered.
She’d been there, with him, from the instant the door had closed behind him after he’d followed her here from her sitting room. She’d bathed earlier; he’d looked in and made sure her maid was in attendance—that being so, he’d retreated. But when they’d returned, they’d been alone, and she’d turned to him without hesitation. More, with intent.
He’d been concerned for her wound, worried that too vigorous movement would cause her pain; she’d made it plain that wasn’t her concern—taking him into her body and loving him, explicitly and implicitly, had been her goal, her sole and consuming focus.
Lying back he’d surrendered and let her have her way, let her ride him to sweet oblivion. What he ’d seen in her face, her eyes, what he was sure she’d seen in his, had gilded the moment, rendering it precious, investing it with glory revisited and reclaimed.
Somehow stronger.
He sensed she was strangely pleased with him, with how he’d behaved at the manor, but he couldn’t imagine how he could have behaved in any other way. He’d felt warily uncomfortable when he’d realized how openly possessive and protective he’d been, but she hadn’t seemed to mind.
Which was just as well. Acting less so would have been beyond him.
At the moment, between them, all seemed to be progressing, if not quickly, then at least in the right direction. He might not always know what it was he did that she approved of, but instinct seemed to be guiding him in that.
Reassured, his mind drifted toward sleep, then out of the veils a memory rose. Of him at their wedding breakfast making a vow—another he’d subsequently let fall from his conscious mind. Then, farsightedly, with unerring instinct, he’d vowed to do all he could to make her happy.
He was back on track to fulfill that vow—and part of that would be telling her that he loved her.
Admitting, aloud, for the universe to hear, what he felt for her.
He had a library full of books; somewhere he’d find the words.
If there was one truth he’d finally recognized, it was that receiving love simply wasn’t possible without giving love in return—and, ultimately, owning to it.
Quite why his sex found that last so daunting…sleep tugged and his hold on reality slipped. He let go, leaving that everlasting mystery of the universe unbroached.
S unday afternoon found Malcolm Sinclair striding along the wharves of Watchet. His cold hazel gaze scanned incessantly, noting this man, then that. His quarry unsighted, he turned into the town’s streets and systematically quartered them, looking in at every tavern he passed, every shop.
Eventually, temper quivering in every line of his large frame, he halted at the upper end of the High Street. He had no idea where Jennings was; he’d been hunting for him for most of the past night, and all of the day. He’d even risked riding through the hills north of Quilley Farm, but had seen no one.
Looking down the sloping High Street, he scanned all those in sight—all those who could see him. He’d been in Watchet frequently over the past weeks; the locals either knew who he was, or had grown accustomed to seeing him about their town. Deciding that speaking with his henchman was presently more important than the risk that someone might see them together, he swung on his heel and stalked farther up the High Street, then turned along the last lane on the right.
Jennings had rented the tiny fisherman’s cottage at the far end of the lane. Malcolm walked straight past it and onto the narrow, rocky path that climbed toward the hills. Halting a little way on, he turned and looked out to sea, as if studying the fall of the land and the layout of the town.
The cottage and the small lean-to stable at its rear were also in his line of sight. There was no horse tied up in the stable.
Malcolm swore. He debated, but given Jennings’s last action, laying his hands on the man’s reins was imperative.
After another glance around, he walked farther along the path, then circled down, eventually entering the cleared patch at the rear of the cottage. The back door was unlocked.
It went against the grain, but there was nothing he could do other than leave a note. Tearing a leaf from the tablet he always carried, he wrote in block capitals, the better to disguise his hand.
His message was simple: come and see me to night.
He left the note open on the table, weighed down with a glass.
There was nothing anyone else could deduce from those words, but Jennings would know precisely what they meant.
Quietly leaving the cottage, Malcolm strode away.
H e reached Finley House as the last of the light was fading from the sky. Using his latchkey, he entered and made his way through the silent, empty house to the library at the rear, the only room other than his bedchamber abovestairs that he used.
Slumping into the armchair before the hearth, he mentally shook his head, still trying to grapple with the tangle of events that had so unexpectedly trapped him in its coils. Glancing up at the clock on the mantelpiece, he saw the card he’d left propped against it—an invitation from Lady Conningham to dine
with her family and other guests that evening.
The sight was a vivid reminder of all that had somehow, entirely unintentionally on his part, come to be put at risk by his scheme. Charlie, Sarah, and their life together, here in the peace of a gently rolling countryside.
He hadn’t appreciated how precious such a reality was, not until he’d seen it, then experienced it
—in large part vicariously through Charlie’s and Sarah’s eyes. Until then he hadn’t known that lurking deep in his psyche was a longing for just that sort of life. He realized that now, knew how much on one level he envied Charlie, yet he in no way begrudged Charlie his good fortune. Perhaps because Charlie was so very like him, not just in looks but in mental ability, in their shared acuity, their liking for finance and the simple joys of making money.
Admittedly, Charlie walked unswervingly on the straight and narrow while he found excitement along murkier paths, yet that was a reflection of the influences and guidance each had received in his formative years, rather than any intrinsic difference. Charlie had had his family and the Cynsters; he had had…no one, unless one counted his late and unlamented guardian, Lowther, who’d been forced to put a pistol to his head rather than face the scandal of his involvement with the white slave trade.
In business Charlie might walk in the light while he spent half his time in the shadows, yet at base they were remarkably alike.
Malcolm’s lips twisted in self-deprecation. Lowering his gaze, he stared at the flames licking over the logs his house keeper had left burning in the grate. No matter how much he might fantasize, he knew he could never have what Charlie now had within his grasp. What truly irritated, however, what got under his skin and irked, was Charlie’s refusal to appreciate what was offered him, what life had laid on his plate, to grasp it and be suitably thankful.
Perhaps it was the five years between them, the maturity, and the encroaching loneliness of which day by day—every day he saw and appreciated what Charlie had—he became more sharply aware, the sense of opportunities missed, of a life with so little beyond money to show for it, so bleakly devoid of all personal human achievement, that made the chance Charlie had before him so obvious—and so fired Malcolm’s determination that Charlie should seize it.
He couldn’t have it, but Charlie could.
Vicarious living, indeed, yet that was all he had open to him. And with Charlie so like him…strangely, it mattered.
Which meant he had to tell Jennings to forget about the orphanage. His inability to contact his henchman and settle the matter stung—he hated any sense of not being in control—yet presumably Jennings would find his note and, as always, obey; he would come to the house late to night, sliding through the dark so no one would see him.
Malcolm glanced at Lady Conningham’s invitation. Unable to attend church due to his search for Jennings, he’d sent a note to Morwellan Park that morning; the lad he’d sent had returned with a few lines from Charlie assuring him Sarah’s injury was minor and that she was already back on her feet.
That being so she’d almost certainly be at her mother’s dinner, and he wanted—felt compelled— to see for himself, to reassure himself that she’d suffered no lasting ill from Jennings’s overenthusiasm.
That impulse was strange to him, fueled by an emotion he didn’t understand; he knew he didn’t feel about Sarah as Charlie did, yet seeing her through Charlie’s eyes, he’d come to admire and respect her in a way he’d never done with any other female. But he didn’t just wish her well; he wanted her and Charlie to be happy.
He couldn’t have that life, but Charlie could—and if he had any say in the matter Charlie would. Malcolm rose. Jennings wouldn’t arrive until midnight; there was no reason he couldn’t spend the
evening at the manor, in excellent company, assuring himself that Sarah was well and, if the opportunity offered, steering Charlie, oh-so-subtly, to accept and embrace all his wife offered him, all that he could have.
Ironically amazed at finding himself championing such an act, he headed upstairs to change.
C harlie looked across the Conningham Manor dining table and counted his blessings. Sarah sat opposite, transparently recovered from her ordeal, with only the occasional twinge tweaking her lips when she stretched too far or inadvertently brushed her sore back against something.
He’d spent all day on emotional tenterhooks, wanting to wrap her in protective layers, yet he knew how irritating she would find that, and while she’d smiled at his careful questions, she’d made it clear she considered herself all but fully restored.
The light in her eyes, the soft, natural blush in her cheeks as she laughed at something Malcolm, seated beside her, had said, reassured and comforted him as no amount of words could.
Despite her interaction with Mr. Sinclair, Sarah was intensely aware of Charlie’s regard—of the focus that hadn’t shifted in the least, not since yesterday when he’d walked in to find her in the manor’s back parlor. His attention, his care, had been unwavering. That morning, he’d left her sleeping, allowing her maid to wake her only when it was time to dress for church. He’d guessed, correctly, that she hadn’t wanted to miss the ser vice, inevitably raising speculation as to why. But immediately they’d emerged from the church at the head of the congregation, he’d whisked her straight to their carriage and home, avoiding the usual ambling and chatting on the lawn.
She’d steeled herself for it, and had been quietly relieved not to have to exert herself mentally or physically. On reaching home, when she’d insisted she would be fit enough, he’d agreed to send a groom to her mother to confirm their intention to attend this dinner, but had countered by insisting she rest until then; bringing various reports and news sheets, he’d settled in the armchair in her sitting room and silently kept her company while she napped on the chaise.
They’d shared the light luncheon Crisp had brought in, then she’d napped some more until it had been time to bathe and dress for dinner.
Charlie had been openly solicitous during the journey in the carriage. On reaching the manor, she’ d made a point of allaying her mother’s concern; the last thing she wanted at this point—when Charlie was at last growing easy with her—was for her mother and sisters to descend, with the best of intentions no doubt, but she wanted to cling to those moments alone, make them last for as long as she could. To give him as much time to practice as she could. They would be going to London soon to join Serena and Augusta at Morwellan House for the Season; that would be time enough to allow others into their joint life.
that.
Until then she wanted to concentrate on fusing their lives, and it seemed he was one with her in
The knowledge made her glow. She was entirely conscious of how happy the change in him had
made her, and if beneath it all she felt a trifle vulnerable, as if this were all too good to last, then that was her cross to bear—her challenge—and she had every intention of meeting it and keeping her lingering uncertainty to herself until it died.
While the dessert course was laid before them, she let her gaze travel around the table. She knew everyone and everyone knew her; it was a comfortable occasion.
Barnaby had been absent all day, combing nearby villages and hamlets for the elusive agent. He’d returned, disappointed but still determined, just in time to change and join them in the carriage. He was
presently seated beside her mother, entertaining her with some London scandal; the absorbed expressions on all the nearby faces confirmed his reputation as a raconteur.
Mr. Sinclair was chatting with Mrs. Ravenswell; Sarah turned to Lord Finsbury on her other side
—just as a distant pounding erupted.
Someone was hammering violently on the front door.
Sarah exchanged a startled glance with her father as the conversations around the table died; men’ s raised voices, tones urgent, became more audible.
Then the door was thrust open; Johnson, the butler, swept in. One look at his face had all the men
rising.
fire!”
“My lord…” Johnson looked at her father, then at Charlie. “It’s the orphanage, my lord—it’s on
T en chaotic minutes later, mounted on one of Lord Conningham’s hunters with Sarah beside him on a dappled mare, Charlie thundered north—toward the garish red glow that was lighting the night sky, crackling and smoking on the high ledge above Crowcombe, cast into sharp relief against the dark bulk of the Brendon Hills rising behind.
He glanced sharply at Sarah, noted her pale, set face. Barnaby was riding on her other side, with Malcolm beyond him. Various grooms and stable hands from the manor followed, as many as could find mounts; the gardeners, carting various implements, had set out in a dray via the road. All the other, older men at the dinner table had taken their carriages home as fast as they could to dispatch their house holds to assist.
Looking ahead, Charlie inwardly swore. From what he could make out through the haze of smoke enveloping the site, the back wings of the orphanage, at least two of them, were well alight. The main part of the house seemed unaffected as yet; squinting, he could make out its gray bulk against the glare from the flames rising behind.
He glanced again at Sarah. She’d insisted on riding with them; while he would have much preferred she traveled more safely with the dray, knowing how much faster the cross-country route was and how vital she would be in imposing order on what was sure to be pandemonium, he’d muzzled his protests and put his efforts into ensuring she was on a sound horse, one calm enough not to balk at the smell of smoke.
Looking ahead, he didn’t bother swearing, but saved his breath. He was going to need it.
They jumped the stream, then flowed up the slope. They had to halt on the other side of the fence; no horse would willingly jump it, facing the inferno twenty yards away. They all slid from their saddles, appalled at what they saw; tying his reins tightly to the fence rails, Charlie took Sarah’s—she was so stunned she was standing staring—and did the same for her, then he turned to her; grasping her shoulders, he drew her to face him.
He caught her eyes. “They need you.” She blinked, then drew in a breath and nodded, and looked again at the conflagration. Grasping her waist, he hoisted her over the fence, then vaulted it himself. The rest of the men followed.
It was difficult to know where to start. Charlie paused for a second, taking stock, then grabbed Sarah’s sleeve. “Gather the children—all of them—and get them back beyond the edge of the forecourt. Right back off the gravel.”
She nodded, blinked, and coughed as a cloud of smoke swirled around her. Catching up her
cloak, she covered her nose and mouth and darted into the fray.
Gathering Barnaby and the other men with a glance, Charlie headed for the rear of the building.
He’d been right. Two of the wings were wreathed in flames. The third, northernmost wing had a charred, smoldering blackened patch at one end of the thatched roof; the patch glowed and darkened as it spread, but the thatch hadn’t caught fully alight.
Men were trying to heave water onto the thatch, but the roof was too high. All they could do was douse the walls and pray. Others were fighting to keep the flames roaring through the two burning wings from attacking the main house. With its stone walls and slate roof, it had yet to be affected.
The smoke was intensifying. Charlie made his way past men from Crowcombe village who’d been the first to arrive to help. Armed with charred blankets and sacks, many were trying to beat the flames into submission while others rushed back and forth with buckets and pails, throwing water as high as they could.
Chaos and confusion reigned, along with a certain raw-edged panic. The men from the manor found sacks and pails and ran to help. Charlie stopped long enough to direct the men to concentrate on the sections where the wings met the main house. “The rest of these two wings are gone—we can’t save them.” He stopped to cough, then pointed toward the main building. “The best we can hope for is to save the main house.” He went along the southerly wing, pulling men away, shouting and pointing until they understood.
Barnaby leaned close and yelled over the hungry crackle of the flames, “I’ll tell those working on the central wing.” He was gone before Charlie nodded.
Tacking through the melee, Charlie made it to the well, where Kennett was heaving water up as fast as he could.
“Lucky salty water douses flames just as well as fresh.” Kennett hauled up another pail and tipped it into a waiting bucket. He let the emptied pail attached to the well’s rope rattle back down into the water, then started hauling it up again.
Charlie glanced around and spotted the manor’s stableman. “Jessup—get a few of your strongest men to spell each other on the well.”
“Aye, sir.” Jessup pointed to a brawny stableman. “Miller, you take over. I’ll send two of the gardeners to help when they get here.”
Charlie hauled Kennett away. “You know this place best. We need to stop the flames from spreading to the main building—and to the north wing if we can manage it.”
Kennett looked as Charlie pointed, then coughed and nodded. “Aye.”
“I’ve already told those working on the south wing, and someone’s doing the same for the central wing. You go and take over the north wing—it’s the only one we’ve any chance of saving.” Charlie stopped to cough, then yelled, “There are other men on the way—grab whoever comes past and keep them focused on saving the main building, and the north wing.”
Kennett nodded and lumbered away; within yards he was swallowed up by the billowing smoke.
Charlie paused only to dip his kerchief in a passing pail of water, wring it out and tie it over his nose, then he plunged back into the melee.
It was a nightmarish scene with the two huge old wings fully alight, garishly painted in flaring oranges and reds, in black and swirling, choking gray. Gusts of heat billowed out, searing and scorching. The fire was like a living being, surging and swallowing, roaring and whooshing. Eating, consuming.
Charlie started at the south wing and worked through the lines of men, seeking out the children. He’d noticed them as he passed, smaller, slighter beings desperately trying to save the only place most
had ever called home.
He found Maggs, but when he ordered the boy to leave his pail and go around to the forecourt and safety, Maggs’s jaw set and he stubbornly shook his head. “We’re more use here!” When Charlie scowled and opened his mouth to argue, Maggs wailed, “We have to help!”
Looking into Maggs’s face, smeared with soot, his eyebrows singed, his hair dusty, Charlie read the desperate plea in the boy’s—youth’s—eyes. He hesitated, then said, “Only those over twelve. All the others have to get back to the forecourt and report to the countess.” He grabbed Maggs by the shoulder, took the pail from his hand and gave it to a passing man. Leaning down, he spoke into Maggs’s ear. “You’re in charge—find all the other children who are helping. Twelve and above can stay and help if they want—all the others to the forecourt.”
Through the dense smoke, Charlie spotted a figure with flying pigtails. He swore. “Who’s the oldest girl?”
“Ginny.” Maggs coughed. “Is she out here helping?”
Maggs nodded. “Saw her by the well before.”
“Find her. Tell her to go around and collect all the girls—every last one—and get them back to the forecourt. They’re needed there to help the countess and the staff with the younger children.”
Maggs nodded and pointed with his chin. “That’s her over there. I’ll tell her.” Maggs twisted his shoulder from Charlie’s restraining grip and started after Ginny.
“Maggs!” Charlie waited until the boy stopped and turned back to him. “Keep track of the boys who stay to help. If this gets worse”—Charlie glanced up at the flames engulfing the south wing, then looked back to catch Maggs’s eyes—“if I give you the word, I want you to gather all the boys and get them to the forecourt. No arguing. If Kennett or I tell you to go, you get the others and go.”
Maggs swallowed, and nimbly danced back as the flames billowed near where he stood. He glanced back at Charlie and nodded. “Yeah—all right.”
He stumbled off. Charlie drew in a short breath, looked up at the south wing, then turned as more men from the estates of the landowners who’d been at the manor arrived.
Keeping a few, he sent most to report to Kennett and directed others to help with the central wing. More men arrived with buckets, pails and sacks; fresh, they fell on the flames, allowing those who’ d been fighting for longest to step back and catch their breath.
Charlie broke off beating flames back from the junction between the main house and the south wing. He redipped his kerchief; retying it, he squinted down the line of men. Everyone was soot-streaked and filthy; he picked out Joseph Tiller, chest heaving, crouched, head bowed, over the pail he’d been swinging.
Taking the jute sack he’d been wielding with him, Charlie circled the south wing to check how Barnaby was faring. He yelled encouragement and directions as he went. He passed Malcolm on the way, grimy and gasping; with a group of men he was flailing at flames not so much trying to save what they’d devoured but to deaden them and reduce the chance of them spreading.
Rounding the end of the south wing, Charlie found the smoke was even thicker in the courtyards between the wings. He had to go more slowly so he didn’t knock down others and they had a chance to see and avoid him.
Like the south wing, the central wing was steadily burning, but as Charlie had done, Barnaby had sacrificed the rest of the wing to the flames and concentrated on keeping them back from the junction with the main house. At first glance it seemed that they’d succeeded in that, but squinting upward as he
stumbled past men and the ruined playgrounds between the wings, Charlie thought he saw the thatch close to the main house glowing.
Just pinpricks here and there; embers at least had got that far. However, the bulk of the thatch adjoining the main house had yet to flare.
After checking with a Barnaby not even his mother would have recognized, Charlie went on to find Kennett. As he rounded the north wing, he realized that the noise from the fire—the flare of flames, the constant whooshes, the cracks and crackles and the pervasive roar—had been gradually, very gradually, decreasing. They were winning, turning the tide. The fire was abating.
Kennett thought the same. “But we’ve a long ways to go yet. We have to keep the flames down, have to let them burn themselves out. Ain’t no other way.”
Charlie was squinting up at the thatch. He really didn’t like that thatch. “Is there any way we can separate the wings from the main house? Create a gap that we can defend?”
Kennett grimaced. “Would that we could, but those roof beams go right on in under the main roof. The rafters are tied together, and then there are even bigger beams connecting each floor. If I thought we could hack our way through them, I’d say we should and right quickly, but those timbers are feet thick, old and weathered and as hard as iron. You’d need explosives to break them.”
“Or fire,” Charlie murmured.
After a minute he said, “So all we can do is dampen everything down as far and as fast as we can.
Once the flames subside, we’ll get ladders up against the main house and douse the thatch and rafters from that end.”
He turned as a fresh wave of men came around the house—workers from farther afield. They carried hoes, picks, axes—all manner of implements, including a few long-handled rakes.
Charlie waved them on. “Go around to the central and south wings and start pulling down what’s already burned. Start at the ends—leave the areas near the house that the other men are concentrating on. Work from the ends toward them.”
Most of the men nodded and went. One man carrying a long-handled rake hung back. Frowning, he nodded up at the thatch under the eaves of the main house. “Thought you’d want us to pull that section away first, so’s it can’t catch alight and spread to the main house.”
Charlie exchanged a glance with Kennett. He turned to the man, but it was Kennett who answered.
“Nay, lad—the weather’s been cold and that thatch is damp. Likely it’s doing us a good turn and smothering any flames trying to eat along the rafters. We’ll need to leave it until last, and even then be careful how we go about removing it.”
The man replied with an “Oh,” but Charlie barely heard him as Kennett’s words and those glowing pinpricks he’d seen—on, in, or beneath the thatch?—connected. Dread blossomed. He refocused on the man. “Were there any others with long-handled rakes? Other than those who came this way?”
The man blinked at his urgency, then nodded. “Aye.” He coughed. “Some went around the other side.” His gesture indicated the other side of the house.
Charlie swore, spun on his heel and ran.
19
C harlie flung himself around the end of the north wing. A mass of men were attacking the walls at the ends of the wings; desperate, he plowed through them—then heard the sounds he’d feared and dreaded.
A sudden gush was followed by a powerful swhoosh, and a fresh gout of flame spewed high into the air, immediately followed by cries and oaths as, dismayed, men fell back.
Charlie raced around the south wing. Skidding to a halt, he looked up. Squinting through the thickening smoke, he saw his worst fears confirmed. Men with long-handled rakes had come around the southern side of the house and, thinking as the other man had, had pulled down the thatch where the south wing abutted the main house—letting air play along rafters that, smothered and starved of air, had been smoldering.
The flames had gasped, then roared, ravenously feeding now that they had unrestricted air to burn.
Even though he’d known what to expect, Charlie stood and stared, beyond horrified. There was no way they would stop the flames now.
From where he stood halfway along the south wing and back from the burning walls, he could see what Kennett had meant about the rafters and roof beams tying into the frame of the main house.
The fire wasn’t going to stop at the stone walls—it was going to gobble along the beams, straight into the main house.
A sudden roar and cries came from the inner courtyards. One glance was enough to see that the gush of flames in the south wing had carried over to the central wing. Its roof, too, was now fully alight, flames licking greedily up to and under the main house’s eaves.
Then came a massive crack as some beam exploded—followed by a bellow, a communal cry of rage as the fire leapt across and like a ravening beast fell on the north-wing thatch.
In less than a minute, they’d gone from tentative hope to utter despair.
Charlie looked around and saw Maggs. He lurched over to the boy and grabbed his arm, pulling him close to gasp, “Go—now. Get the others and go!”
Maggs glanced into Charlie’s face, his own soot-stained with runnels down his cheeks where smoke and despair had made him cry. He hesitated, then, face falling, he nodded and ran.
Barnaby appeared at Charlie’s shoulder. “I’ve pulled all the men out of the courtyards—they’re one minute away from becoming a death trap.”
Scanning the south wing, now lit eerily from within as the fire, consuming the thatch above and so gaining even more air, ran amok, Charlie nodded. “Let’s get everyone back. We can’t do anything more, and lives are more important than buildings.”
Grim-faced, Barnaby nodded. Turning, he grabbed the first man he saw, yelling at him to go out beyond the forecourt and take all he met with him. Charlie worked his way along the south wing. He checked that someone had moved the horses well back, picketing them out in the field, then went to join Barnaby. They worked their way around the rear of the inferno, collecting everyone, checking for stragglers as they went.
Massive booms erupted from the south wing, then a part of its roof collapsed, sending up a shower of sparks, feeding the swelling roar of the flames.
The fire was a beast that had got away from them.
Charlie and Barnaby together had to drag Kennett away from the north wing. “We can’t save it!” Charlie had to yell the words in the man’s face before he finally slumped, gave up fighting, and let them
lead him away.
Pulling back, Charlie paused at the front end of the north wing and looked back, squinting through the dense smoke, but he could see no one, no movement in the shadows beyond the glare of the fire; they’d got everyone away. Consoling himself with that, he turned and jogged to catch up with Barnaby and Kennett as they crossed the forecourt to the arc of people waiting and watching.
It was a milling, shifting throng; many women from the village had come up to help with the children. They were seated in little groups here and there, trying to calm and soothe away fears.
Imagining how real those fears would feel, his heart leaden, Charlie looked around for Sarah. He couldn’t immediately see her in the stunned, dispirited crowd. Moving along the edge of the forecourt, he was scanning the faces—when Sarah erupted out of the line a little way along. She stood staring, plainly horrified, at the house, then she turned and saw him. Picking up her skirts, she raced toward him. “We’re missing two babies and Quince!”
Breathless, she grabbed his arm. “I saw her bring some of them out early on—she said she didn’t need any help. But we only have four. She left them with women scattered about—everyone thought the others were with someone else. But they aren’t, and no one’s seen Quince recently—she’s definitely not here.”
Charlie looked at the house with the rising glow of the fire behind it. “Oh, no!” Sarah clutched his arm. “Look!”
She pointed to the northernmost window of the attic. Behind the thick glass, a shadowy figure was struggling to open the sash.
“Her arm’s broken.” Katy came up beside Sarah. “She won’t be able to heave that up.”
Joseph came stumbling up. “The attic stairs are at the south end—up against the wall of the south wing. They’ll be impassable by now.”
Charlie swung to Kennett, standing staring, stunned, beside him. Grabbing Kennett’s shoulder, he shook him. “The ladders, man—where are they?”
Kennett looked at him, abject horror in his eyes. “They were in the courtyards.” He swallowed. “They’re gone.”
Barnaby appeared. “I’ve checked—none of the others brought ladders. Two ostlers from the inn at Crowcombe are riding back down to fetch one.”
They all looked at the house—at the attics and the frantic figure struggling with the window. At the thickening smoke billowing up from behind the main roof, reaching forward to embrace the building, the hot glare of the angry flames rising behind.
“We can’t wait.” Pulling his arm from Sarah’s grip, Charlie started striding across the forecourt, then he broke into a run.
By the time he reached the porch protecting the front door, he knew what he’d have to do.
Quince had seen him coming; he’d waved her to the center window of the attic, above the front door and the porch roof.
There was a lattice attached to the side of the porch; Charlie prayed it would hold his weight.
Carefully, distributing his weight as evenly as he could, he started climbing. The wooden slats started to give—he flung himself upward, caught the ridge of the narrow porch roof and scrambled up.
Barnaby watched. When Charlie heaved himself up and straddled the ridge, he called, “Don’t bother trying to break those panes—they’re too small and the glass will be too thick. Can you reach to push open the sash?”
Charlie looked up, then slowly got his feet under him, balancing on the ridge. The stone wall gave
him something solid to lean against. Putting his chest to it, he reached up to the window that courtesy of the symmetry of the façade was directly above the porch. He got his fingers under the edge of the sash and eased it up—it was stiff, but it rose, then Quince managed to get her good hand and arm under it and heaved it up.
She gasped as fresher air rushed into the attic. “Thank God! Wait there, I’ll get the babes.” “No—wait.” Charlie grasped the lip of the window; scrabbling with his toes against the stone, he
hauled himself up and in. He tumbled through and landed on the timber floor—and felt the heat seeping
through the boards.
As he struggled back to his feet, he heard someone—Barnaby he felt sure—scramble up onto the porch roof.
Quince appeared through the murk and handed him a bundle. She frowned. “What—” He silenced her with a gesture. “Bring the other one as quick as you can.”
The fire was in the beams below the floor; how long they would hold he had no idea.
Leaning out of the window, he passed the first little bundle, well wrapped but worryingly silent and still, down into Barnaby’s waiting hands.
He watched as, balancing precariously on the roof, Barnaby crouched and passed the bundle down to a multitude of hands eagerly reaching up.
Charlie turned and took the next bundle from Quince. “That’s the last?” “Yes. I’ll go down—”
“Don’t. Move.” He infused the words with every ounce of command he possessed. “Just wait.”
The fire was building beneath his feet; he could hear the welling roar. The floor below was a mass of flames. There was no way out for them that way.
Quince fidgeted, but remained by his side as he lowered the last baby. The instant the bundle left his hands for Barnaby’s, Charlie straightened and stepped back.
“What…?” Quince shrieked as he swept her up in his arms. “Your turn,” he informed her. “It’s the only way out.”
With her broken arm, she couldn’t help herself to any great degree; Quince had to let herself be manhandled out of the small window, down into Barnaby’s steadying hands, then down again, to where Kennett was waiting to grasp her hips and ease her to the ground.
The instant she was safe, Barnaby turned to Charlie, his face drawn and tense. “Get out—now!”
The last word was all but drowned by a huge crack—then a roar as flames raced across the ceiling above Charlie’s head.
He’d been aware of the fire below, but he hadn’t looked up. The entire roof of the house exploded into flame.
Barnaby leapt off the porch roof.
Charlie grabbed the windowsill and dived out of the window headfirst. He landed like a cat on the porch roof. Before it could give way under his weight, he leapt for the ground. He landed and rolled, coughing—aware everyone else was fleeing.
Gasping for breath, his lungs seared and burning, he looked up and back; smoke-stung eyes streaming, he had to blink frantically before he could focus—and see the inferno the farm house had become.
As he lay there watching, the roof started to fall—gathering momentum, it caved in with a roar. “Come on!” Someone was tugging frantically at his shoulder.
He turned his head, and realized it was Sarah.
“You’re too close!” she screamed. “Come on—get up! We have to get back!”
He felt as if he were in a dream; it was so difficult to get his limbs to move. With Sarah’s help he got to his feet. They’d only staggered a few paces when a huge explosion detonated behind them. Sarah glanced back and shrieked.
Instinct took over. Charlie grabbed her and hauled her to him, sheltering her with his body. Something struck him on the back, felling them both.
It hurt.
Sarah wouldn’t stay down. She wriggled frantically; he couldn’t make out what she was saying. Then she leapt to her feet; using her cloak to protect her hands she pushed and pushed—until the weight pinning him slid to one side.
He tried to breathe and coughed so hard he felt dizzy, weak. Sarah’s hands wrapped in her cloak patted all over his shoulders and back, then she grabbed his arm again—just as Barnaby skidded in the gravel on his other side.
“Come on—get moving, Morwellan.” Barnaby seized his other arm.
Between Sarah and Barnaby and his own feeble efforts, he managed to get his feet under him, managed to let them steer him across the gravel to where row upon row of anxious faces waited, rouged by the flames.
The row parted, clearing a space for them. Barnaby let him down. Charlie sat; drawing his knees up, he laid his forehead against them and concentrated on breathing.
Sarah sat beside him. He knew it was her without looking, felt her cool hand brush his cheek.
Then she tucked her hand in one of his and leaned lightly against him as the orphanage burned.
T he cool air revived him. Long before the last walls collapsed and the fire started to subside, he’d recovered enough to start formulating the necessary plans to deal with the disaster.
The flying beam that had hit him and Sarah had been flung out when the attic floor collapsed onto the floor below. The width of the gravel forecourt had protected all those watching from similar dangers, but the damage many had sustained while fighting the flames was quite real.
The children had to be his—and Sarah’s—first priority.
Slowly rising, he helped her to her feet. He held her hand, looked down at her pale, soot-streaked face, and simply said, “We’ll rebuild.”
She smiled weakly, mistily up at him, blinked rapidly, then nodded. “We’ll build better—no thatch.”
His lips twisted. “Indeed. Definitely no thatch.”
“I keep telling myself that we’ve lost nothing that really matters, nothing that can’t be replaced…but the children. Most have lost every last little thing they ever possessed.”
After a moment, he said, “We can’t give them back the mementos, but perhaps we can give them new ones. New memories. Better memories.” She flashed him another, rather stronger smile. He caught her eyes. “Now—how many children are there, and what groups can we break them into? How many
groups, how many children in each?”
Sarah opened her mouth to answer, hesitated, then said, “Let’s find Katy and the others—we should plan this all together.”
Charlie nodded. They started moving through the crowd, making no secret of their intent—to deal with the immediate problem and look ahead, rather than dwell on the massive loss. Although the fire still raged strongly, they ignored it—or rather made use of its warmth and light as with the staff from the orphanage, assisted by many of those who’d come to help, they started gathering the children.
Maggs and Ginny came up and waited patiently until Sarah and Charlie looked inquiringly their
way.
“Can we go and fetch our things, miss?” Ginny asked.
Sarah tried to smile but her heart wouldn’t let her. “I’m so sorry, Ginny.” She put one hand on the
girl’s shoulder, with her other waved at the ruin of the farm house. “I’m afraid there’ll be nothing left.”
Maggs elbowed Ginny. “That’s not what she meant. We—all of us—stacked everything we could out back, in the lee of the hill, before the fire got properly going.” He shifted, then looking at the ground, admitted, “Staff wanted us to help, but, well, some of us’ve been in fires before. We didn’t want to take any chances. So while we older ones helped, the younger ones ferried—their things as well as ours.” He jerked his chin toward the rear of the burning ruin. “So everything’s back there—we just need to fetch it. And we’re sorry about not helping more, but…”
Guilt choked him; he kept his eyes cast down.
Charlie clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “A very wise decision.” He exchanged a glance with Sarah. “I’m sure no one, least of all the orphanage staff, would begrudge you what you’ve saved, nor the time taken to save it. We all did the best we could, but this time…that wasn’t good enough.”
Maggs glanced up at Charlie, confirmed he meant what he said. “So can we go and fetch our things?”
“Let’s see if we can’t make that easier.” Charlie scanned the crowd, then beckoned Barnaby over. A few quick words, a suggestion or two, and Barnaby was in charge of a group of men hauling the orphanage cart around the side of the house, well away from the still angry flames, heading for the lee of the dark hill behind the orphanage, with the older children in close attendance, many carrying lanterns so they could search for their possessions. The younger ones had ferried their goods earlier; the older ones were happy to return the favor.
“That’s some small relief.” Sarah turned back to Katy. Between them, Sarah and the staff had agreed on their dispositions—which children would go together and who would supervise. On hearing Sarah and Charlie’s suggestions on where they would go, the staff visibly relaxed.
“So it’s agreed then,” Sarah said. “We’ll keep the older children together—they’ll be best accommodated at Casleigh. Mr. Cynster and Lady Alathea will know how to cope, and Joseph and Lily can stay there, too—we should keep their studies and daily lives as ordered as we can.” She went on, sending the younger children to the manor, where her mother, sisters, and Twitters could be counted on to assist Jeannie and Jim to keep the youngsters amused and happy. “All the babies, Quince, Katy, and Kennett will come to the Park. I’ll need you three close so we can make plans for the new orphanage.”
The staff nodded, exhausted and relieved.
Charlie touched Sarah’s sleeve. “I’ll go and check what carriages Gabriel’s summoned. We may need more.”
Sarah nodded and briefly squeezed his hand, then released it and turned back to the staff. As Charlie moved away, he heard them organizing to split the children into their groups, ready to be ferried away.
Gabriel, Alathea, and Martin Cynster had ridden all the way from Casleigh; although they’d arrived too late to help fight the flames, they’d brought numerous grooms, all mounted, with them. While Alathea had joined forces with Doctor Caliburn, tending to the injured and dispensing salve for the numerous burns, Gabriel and Martin had moved through all those present, determining how much transport would be needed to ferry exhausted men and women home to their beds, and were steadily dispatching their grooms to ride to all the nearby houses with carts and carriages with requests for said conveyances. There were no house holds in the valley likely to refuse a Cynster request.
Charlie found Gabriel and detailed the children’s needs.
“I’ve already summoned all the carriages from our three houses,” Gabriel said. “The children and staff can have first call on them—it’s been a dreadful night and we need to get them out of the cold. The shock will be bad enough as it is.”
Charlie looked at the still burning farm house. “Those of us up to it will make sure the fire’s contained before we leave.”
Gabriel nodded. “We’ll call up enough carriages and carts from the other houses for all too exhausted or injured to ride.”
Charlie moved on. Barnaby returned with the orphanage cart piled high. He grinned through the soot blackening his face. “The children did well. It seems all of them got their favorite things out.”
Glancing at the glowing ruin of the farm house, Charlie murmured, “A small mercy.”
Later, with Barnaby and a handful of stalwarts, Charlie circled the farm house, watching the flames slowly sink and die, checking the surroundings for any smoldering fragments thrown out by the numerous explosions. The stable, barn, and outbuildings at the back of the orphanage had survived. While most of the walls of the main building still stood, they’d have to be pulled down; the wooden frames within the stone had been devoured.
“It’ll take days for this to burn out completely.” Barnaby halted beside him on the south side of the farm house.
Charlie nodded. He glanced around at the men who had helped. “Thank you all. We’ve done all we can for to night.”
The men shook his proffered hand, then shambled across the forecourt to where the last carriages were waiting to take them home, horses that had been ridden to the scene tied behind. The children, their goods, and the orphanage staff were long gone. Alathea and Martin had left with those destined for Casleigh; Gabriel and Sarah remained, farewelling the last stragglers.
Beside Barnaby, Charlie walked slowly across the forecourt. Images from the hellish night played across his mind. He frowned and scanned the few men still left. “Have you seen Sinclair?”
“He had to leave,” Barnaby said. “He was helping from the first. Later he was standing next to me after the rescue, when the main house went up—I’ve never seen such naked horror on a man’s face. In fact, he looked so ill I wondered if he had a weak heart. When we started to organize, he said he had to go and take care of something.” Barnaby grimaced. “I’m not sure it wasn’t his horror he needed to deal with—he seemed deeply affected.”
Turning his head, Barnaby studied Charlie’s face. “You do realize, don’t you, that the back of your coat is burned through?”
Charlie raised his brows. “Is it?” He shifted his shoulders and felt the uneven pull of the fabric, felt pain, muted and distant, as skin tugged—and remembered Sarah pushing the burning log off his shoulders and patting his back…He shrugged. “It’s not that bad. I’ll survive.”
They joined Sarah and Gabriel as the last of the carriages rolled away. Charlie caught Sarah’s eyes. “We’ve done all we can here—we should head home.”
She sighed and nodded. Slipping her hand in his, she turned to where their horses stood, the last four remaining. Gabriel and Barnaby fell in behind them.
“Any idea how it started?” Gabriel asked.
Charlie and Sarah glanced back in time to see Barnaby nod.
His face had set, his expression beyond grim. “Some of the children, mostly older ones, the lad Jim, and Joseph Tiller all saw it happen. Flaming arrows—some aimed at the thatch, others at bundles of what must have been oil-soaked rags tucked in crannies around the wings. He, whoever he is, wasn’t taking any chances that the thatch wouldn’t catch—it didn’t in the north wing where it was most exposed to the weather. Even with the other two wings we might have saved them if it hadn’t been for the rags tucked under the eaves.”
“But”—Charlie shook his head—“when did he plant the rags? The staff have been keeping a continuous watch, even at night.”
Barnaby shrugged.
They walked on, frowning, then Sarah sighed. “It would have been earlier today.” She glanced at the others. “It’s Sunday. All the staff and the children go down to the church at Crowcombe. They’d be away for an hour and a half, maybe more. Only Quince is left, and she’s mostly with the babies in the attic. The attic windows overlook the forecourt. Quince would have kept watch, but if the man approached from the rear, she wouldn’t have seen him.”
“And the long ladders were kept in the courtyards between the wings.” Charlie shook his head. They reached the horses; he lifted Sarah up to her saddle, then swung up to his.
They all paused for one last look at the wreck of the orphanage, still glowing an angry red through the crisp winter night.
Gabriel, his tone harsh, spoke for them all. “Whoever this blackguard is, we have to stop him.”
M alcolm intended to do just that. He’d ridden to Finley House in a wretched, tormented state, emotions he’d never experienced before battering and raking him. What he’d seen that night had literally turned his stomach—not with queasiness but with sheer, unadulterated guilt.
He felt as if his heart—more, his soul—were literally being strangled. This had to stop—he had to stop it—now. To night.
The knowledge that he could had allowed him to calm, to wash the soot from his hands and face, brush it from his hair, to dress in fresh clothes and sit once more behind his desk, and with a massive effort of will wrench his mind free—detach it from all he’d seen, all the implications—enough to plan.
As always, his plans were cold-blooded, calculated to a nicety. They wouldn’t just work, they would work precisely as he intended.
He was waiting, sitting behind his desk in a gloom relieved only by the flickering light from the fire at the other end of the room when Jennings scratched at the French door. Malcolm rose and let his henchman in, wordlessly indicating the chair before the desk. Closing the door, he quietly locked it and slipped the key into his pocket.
He turned back to the desk.
Jennings settled comfortably in the chair. Stretching out his legs, folding his hands over his developing paunch, he grinned confidingly as Malcolm rounded the desk to resume his seat. “I got your note. But I expect you’ll have seen the action up at the orphanage to night. The countess is sure to sell
now—she’ll need the money if she wants to rebuild.”
Malcolm let himself sink into his chair, battling a surge of cold fury. Jennings wasn’t made uneasy by the lack of light; Malcolm had for years been extremely careful over anyone, even by chance, seeing them together.
Tonight, the dimness served another purpose. It hid the rage in Malcolm’s eyes.
He took a moment to study Jennings; he hadn’t changed all that much from the young man Malcolm had found and first used in London—was it nearly seventeen?—years ago. A trifle stockier, a few lines in his round, unremarkable, eminently trustworthy face. His even temper, his open expression, his directness in speech and thought, and his above-the-norm intelligence had recommended him to Malcolm. Those attributes remained.
What Malcolm hadn’t, until the last few days, properly appreciated was that Jennings had no conscience. He had caution, and a healthy vein of self-preservation, but…
“The orphanage…” Malcolm paused to ensure he had full command of his voice. Jennings was accustomed to his long pauses, but a quaver of fury would alert him before Malcolm wished. “Did it occur to you that some of the children might get caught in the blaze?”
Jennings shrugged. “Possibly, but it was a reasonable risk—they should have had time to get out.” When Malcolm didn’t immediately reply, Jennings added, “And it’s not as if we’ve balked at a necessary death in the past.”
Beneath the desk, Malcolm’s fist clenched, yet his tone was even, his voice mild as he said, “Quite. However, I’ve never before thought to ask…just how many deaths have we been responsible for?”
Thumbs tapping, Jennings briefly consulted the ceiling, then grimaced. “I can’t say I’ve kept score, exactly, but ten? Some number like that.”
“I see.” Malcolm was finding it harder and harder to rein in his cold fury, especially as it wasn’t directed solely at Jennings—more than half his rage was directed at himself. Slowly he rose; slowly, considering his words, he circled the desk. “I’m not sure if you’ve noted it, but this is the first time I’ ve…seen you in action. In all our other projects, I briefly visited the area, identified the land required, then returned to London and sent you to acquire it. I never returned to the area. However, in this case, when I came to this area to scout out the valley I fell in love with the place and stayed, and so started to get to know the local people and appreciate what they have here—the lives they lead, the community, the peace. For the first time in my life, I thought I’d found a place I’d like to call home, to buy a house, settle down, perhaps even think of marrying and having a family.”
Not a hint of the feelings roiling beneath his surface showed in either his voice or his face. Settling against the front edge of his desk, he inclined his head to Jennings. “Admittedly, when,
during our first few projects, you’d return to me without the required title and stumped for ways in which
to persuade the owner to sell, I outlined various ways in which people—any normal people with the usual aspirations and emotions—could be prevailed upon to part with their land—avarice, supersitition, accidents, and so on. From my point of view that advice was theoretical. Distanced, detached. I never saw you actually use any of those methods.” He paused, then added, his voice still even, devoid of any emotion, “For instance, I never knew about those deaths.”
Jennings blinked up at him, unsure of his direction. “That’s true.”
“If I’d thought about it, of course, I would have guessed how things were—what you were doing.
I knew what methods you were employing to persuade, and if I’d thought, I would have realized what that meant, but…unless I actually see things with my own eyes, they remain abstract. Theoretical, not truly real. They don’t touch me.”
He finally looked Jennings directly in the eye, and smiled faintly. “So, you see, until now, I haven’t come face-to-face with the human and emotional consequences of my—our—actions. I haven’t, until now, had to acknowledge even in my own mind any responsibility for the human outcome of my schemes.” He held Jennings’s gaze. “I have to tell you that witnessing our methods of persuasion as applied to the orphanage has come as something of a shock.”
They were now close enough for Jennings to glean some sense of the turbulent emotions Malcolm was suppressing. He shifted uneasily, a puzzled frown in his eyes. “But…I’ve just been following your orders. Doing what I thought I was supposed to.”
“Oh, indeed.” Malcolm acknowledged that with an upraised hand. “However, my question to you is: How could you?”
Jennings blinked.
Abruptly Malcolm dropped the shield concealing his emotions. “These were good people—kind and generous and deserving people.” His fury and condemnation blazed forth. “They were helping children—children who had nothing and no one.”
Like him.
He sucked in a breath as that realization stung, then went on, his voice harsh, unforgiving, his diction frighteningly precise. “Let me explain how I feel about your actions regarding the orphanage now that I’ve been obliged to see them firsthand. I assume you were too far away from your handiwork to notice that I was there, helping to fight the blaze.”
Jennings’s expression was a medley of incomprehension and dawning suspicion, and beneath that a rising fear.
Malcolm kept his eyes locked on Jennings’s. “So I was there to witness not just the devotion of the orphanage staff, not just how everyone around, everyone who could, came running to help. Not just how important to the countess the orphange was and how much sheer anguish our actions caused, but how, despite his disapproval of the place, the earl unstintingly tried to save it. I was there, Jennings, rooted to the spot by my own contemptible fear when Meredith and his friend risked their lives—actually put themselves in the way of death—to save two mewling pauper babes and their bitter stick of a nurse. For the first time in my life, Jennings, I understood what noblesse oblige means—finally understood what the words ‘courage’ and ‘caring’ really mean.”
Resisting the urge to rise and pace, Malcolm stayed sitting on the edge of the desk and held Jennings’s gaze unwaveringly. “Until I came here I didn’t believe love, selfless courage, noblesse oblige, or any of man’s other supposedly finer qualities truly existed. I’d never come across them, never had them paraded before my face in a manner impossible to dismiss—never been forced to acknowledge that they are real. Now, thanks to our latest project and your actions—your interpretation of my advice on methods of persuasion—my eyes have been opened.”
One long-fingered hand relaxed on his thigh, the other on the desk behind him, Malcolm watched Jennings tense. “Indeed. Understanding as I now do, knowing your actions on my instructions have caused so many so much pain, so much terror, heartache, anguish, and loss, has left me stricken, Jennings, down to the depths of what I suspect is my soul. I never knew I could feel this way—never knew remorse was within my repertoire. But I feel it now—relentlessly. I feel blackened, empty, besmirched—guilty.” He paused, then softly added, “And you, Jennings, are guilty, too.”
Jennings gripped the chair’s arms, but before his backside left the seat, Malcolm clipped him over the ear with the short brass candlestick he’d rested behind him on the desk. Jennings groaned and slumped, unconscious.
Malcolm rose, retrieved the rope he’d left waiting behind the desk, and swiftly tied Jennings’s hands behind his back, then hobbled his ankles. Drawing a kerchief from his pocket, he neatly gagged the
man.
After drawing the curtains over all the windows, Malcolm returned to his desk and lit the lamp.
Once it was burning brightly, he sat again in his chair. He wondered if he should feel sorry for Jennings, for involving the man in his schemes, but that, it seemed, was an emotion he hadn’t developed. From the first he’d recognized in Jennings the same lack of conscience, the same total absence of compassion that
—until recently—had been his; if it hadn’t been through his schemes, Jennings, like his late and unlamented guardian, Lowther, would have found some other route to perdition.
Setting a fresh sheet on the blotter before him, he picked up his sharpened quill and opened the ink pot. He dipped the nib; his gaze drifted to the three letters stacked to one side of the blotter and he paused.
Then, lips tightening, he looked down and wrote.
The letters had arrived the day before while he’d been out searching for Jennings. Deeming them less important, he’d let the letters lie; he’d opened them an hour ago when he’d sat down to wait for Jennings.
From three separate, highly regarded London legal offices, each letter had informed him that one of his personal companies—those with Malcolm Sinclair listed as a director—was under investigation by the authorities; each solicitor had been obliged to hand over all documents and records dealing with said company. Three solicitors; three companies. The letters had been dated four days before.
He’d sat for a good ten minutes, staring at the letters, trying to imagine how the authorities had known to investigate those companies. They hadn’t committed any illegal deed, weren’t connected in any way with any of the land companies he’d used to profiteer from the railways…well, except for…
On a sudden, sickening rush he’d seen the single flaw in his magnificent creation—the one thread that connected his personal companies to the land companies. Rereading the details of the letters, he’d found confirmation; one solicitor had written that the authorities were interested in a payment made to a particular land company.
The one link he’d never thought to hide, and someone had thought to search for it.
He’d sat staring across the room as minutes ticked by and the realization that he was facing absolute and utter ruin solidified in his mind. The instant his name cropped up, his reputation as a major investor in the railways would be seen for the connection it was—and once they had his name…it wouldn ’t be easy but eventually they’d find evidence enough to hang him.
He’d considered the prospect for a full minute, then had shrugged and refocused on his plan to deal with the current situation. In light of that, ruination was immaterial.
He wrote steadily for some time.
Then Jennings stirred; laying aside his pen, Malcolm rose and rounded the desk. Grasping Jennings’s arm, he hauled him upright. “Walk.” He’d left just enough play in the ropes about Jennings’s ankles for him to shuffle along.
Groggy and dazed, Jennings tried to resist, but Malcolm propelled him out of the library, along the corridor, and into the kitchen. The wooden cellar door stood open, propped wide. Seeing it, Jennings panicked and fought to resist, but with Malcolm—taller, heavier, and, as Jennings was discovering, a good deal stronger—behind him, he couldn’t gain sufficient purchase on the slate floor to even slow the approach of the yawning blackness.
Malcolm paused just before the threshold and murmured, “If you stop struggling and descend the stairs yourself, I won’t have to hurl you down them.”
Jennings hesitated, still tense but unable to do anything to save himself, then the fight went out of him. He nodded and carefully edged his foot forward.
Malcolm grabbed the lantern he’d left waiting, already lit, and followed, one hand wrapped about one of Jennings’s arms more to steady the man as he lurched down the stairs than to restrain him.
He was already well and truly restrained.
Once in the cellar, Malcolm pointed Jennings toward a stool set against a supporting column. Jennings shuffled over and collapsed onto the stool; before he knew what was happening, Malcolm looped another rope around his chest and tied it off on the other side of the rough-hewn column.
Returning to where Jennings could see him, he considered the man, then turned for the stairs.
“Hmm?”
Glancing back, raising the lantern, Malcolm met Jennings’s eyes. “Why?”
When Jennings nodded, he hesitated, then said, “Because unexpectedly—and extremely belatedly
—I appear to have developed a conscience.” He paused, then, brows rising, amended, “Or perhaps I finally realized I possessed one, and why—realized what I was supposed to do with it.”
His lips twisted wryly. “You want to know what I’m going to do?” Jennings nodded. “I suppose, given we’ve been playing these games, you and I, for nearly seventeen years, I owe you that much.”
Briefly, Malcolm outlined his plan. “While I’m perfectly prepared to bear full responsibility for all I ’ve done, I will not accept responsibility for your actions. While the ideas were mine, all the active decisions were yours. You’ve not at any time over the last fifteen and more years been operating under my direct orders—I long ago left you to your own devices, your own initiative.”
He paused, then said, “Do you remember Mrs. Edith Balmain?”
He waited until a spark of recognition lit Jennings’s dulled eyes. “Yes, that’s right—back at the very beginning, our scheme with Lowther. On Lowther’s demise, Mrs. Balmain was kind enough to give me some advice—she warned me to keep my thoughts, my schemes, to myself.” He studied Jennings, then murmured, “Would, for both our sakes, that I’d listened.”
He lowered the lantern; in the dimness he looked at Jennings one last time. “They’ll come for you tomorrow, before evening I’d imagine. I’d advise you to throw yourself on the court’s mercy.”
Turning, Malcolm made his way to the bottom of the cellar stairs. A series of mumbles had him glancing back. “What about me?”
Jennings nodded emphatically.
Malcolm smiled, perfectly sincerely. “By the time they come for me, I’ll be gone.”
20
W ith Sarah, Barnaby, and Gabriel, Charlie headed south at little more than an ambling walk. Gabriel was the freshest; he held his mount back beside Barnaby’s and kept a careful eye on the rest of them as they let their mounts carry them home.
When they reached the Park’s stable, Croker and one of his lads were waiting to take the horses and let them stumble up to the house. The startled looks on the men’s faces confirmed just how filthy and bedraggled they were.
Gabriel remained mounted. He paced alongside them as they slowly made their way out of the stable yard.
Sarah looked up at him. “It’s so late—dawn can’t be that far off. Won’t you stay the night here? It ’s miles to Casleigh.”
Gabriel smiled and shook his head. “It may be late, but Alathea won’t sleep until I return and report that all is well—or as well as can be expected.”
Beside Sarah, Charlie snorted. “Meaning you promised her you would in order to get her to leave in the carriage with the children.”
Gabriel chuckled. “Your understanding of the married state is clearly improving.”
Charlie humphed; he, Sarah, and Barnaby halted in the drive and waved Gabriel off. Atop his huge hunter, his dark figure was quickly swallowed up by the shadows as he headed farther south. Lowering their arms, the three of them walked slowly, one foot in front of the other, across the lawn to the side door.
Crisp and Figgs were waiting to receive them—with warmth, reassurances, and glasses of spiced wine that Figgs insisted they drink. Unable to summon strength enough to argue, they meekly did as they were told while Figgs and Crisp, both plainly struggling to subdue the urge to comment and fuss over their appalling state, reported on the arrangements made in their absence.
“We’ve put the babes in the old schoolroom,” Figgs said. “Miss Quince and Mrs. Carter are in the rooms off it, and we’ve accommodated Mr. Kennett in the main servants’ wing. They’re all settled in, poor dears—quite exhausted they were—and one of the maids is keeping watch over the babes for the rest of the night.”
Draining his glass of wine, Barnaby returned it to Crisp’s tray. He nodded to Charlie and Sarah. “I ’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow. We’ll have to think what’s the best way forward.”
Crisp assured Barnaby that hot water would be dispatched immediately to his room and sent a hovering footman to attend to it.
“Now my lord, my lady.” Crisp turned back to Sarah and Charlie. “A hot bath is being prepared in your chambers as we speak. If there’s anything further you need, any assistance—”
“Thank you, Crisp, Figgs.” Sarah summoned strength enough to take charge; she had a strong suspicion that if she didn’t, she and Charlie would be treated as the children both Crisp and Figgs still remembered them as. “Your arrangements have been exemplary—we knew we could count on you. His lordship and I will manage admirably.”
She took the empty glass from Charlie’s slack fingers and replaced it with hers on Crisp’s tray. “Now—is Gwen waiting for me?”
“Indeed, ma’am,” Crisp replied. “She’s supervising the filling of your bath.”
“In that case, I believe his lordship and I have all we require.” She linked her arm with Charlie’s; he’d been careful to keep his back away from Crisp and Figgs throughout. “We’ll see you in the morning
—breakfast at ten, please.”
“Indeed, ma’am.” Crisp bowed. Figgs bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you both,” Charlie said, nodding in dismissal.
He yielded to Sarah’s push on his arm and turned with her, moving toward the main staircase and their apartments beyond.
Horrified gasps erupted from behind them. “My lord! Your coat—” came from Crisp “You’ve been burned!” Figgs all but shrieked.
With a small resigned sigh, Sarah halted and turned back—stopping Figgs’s and Crisp’s instinctive rush toward them. “It’s not as bad as it appears. Doctor Caliburn took a look at it and gave me some salve.” She flourished a pot she’d pulled from her pocket. “He instructed me in what to do. Now if you
please, we really should retire so I can tend his lordship’s wounds.”
Watching the performance over his shoulder, Charlie capped it with a distant nod, then faced forward again and, arm in arm with Sarah, continued on.
When they were on the stairs and out of earshot, he leaned closer and murmured, “I had wondered how on earth we would manage to get free—in terms of fussing, Crisp and Figgs have always been able to give Serena and even Alathea lessons.” He glanced down at her face. “Thank you for saving me.”
Sarah humphed. “As your injuries were sustained while you were saving me, it seemed only fair.” Charlie chuckled weakly. “But I had to save you because you’d already saved me, remember?” “But you were on the ground needing to be saved only because you’d climbed into the attic to
save the babies and Quince.” They’d reached the doors to their apartments. Sarah paused and looked
into his face; smiling softly, she raised a hand to his cheek. “Each of us did our part in saving something to night, but you most of all.” Stretching up, she touched her lips to his. “Thank you.”
He looked down into her eyes and returned her gentle smile. “It was…” He hesitated, then said, “Both my duty and my plea sure.”
He opened the door and they went in, crossed the foyer and entered their bedchamber.
Sarah went straight to the adjoining bathing chamber, checked that they had all they might require, then dismissed Gwen, sending her to her bed.
Then she returned to the bedchamber, where Charlie was twisting in front of the cheval glass, trying to see his back. “Come in here—no, don’t try to take your coat off yet.”
She bullied him into the bathing room and made him sit on a stool close by a sideboard with a basin atop it. A sponge lay in the warm water in the basin; she squeezed it out, then applied it to the burned areas on his back.
Pressing gently, she dampened each burned spot, then moved to the next. Charlie sat still, slumped, feeling tiredness drag at his limbs. “Did Caliburn examine my wound?”
“He looked at it when I asked him to—you wouldn’t have noticed. He didn’t need to examine it closely—he’d seen what had happened. Your coat’s burned through and your waistcoat as well, but while the shirt got burned—it’s turned brown and flaked away—the skin beneath is scorched rather than burned.”
“Because you got that log off my back so quickly.” “Hmm.”
He got the impression she was concentrating, that he wasn’t supposed to distract her with talk; perhaps, as Gabriel had said, his understanding of the married state was improving.
His lips quirked, then lifted. His wandering mind registered that after all that had passed during the long night, to be able to smile—easily, with a gentle happiness that warmed his heart—was a singular blessing.
Another gift he owed to her.
She finished her dampening, then urged him to his feet and helped him ease coat and waistcoat off together. He took his coat and held it up to inspect the damage, then she filched it from his fingers and dropped it on the floor.
“Shirt next.” She helped him with the buttons, but stopped him before he could try to shrug it off, making him wait while she dampened the burned areas again before he did.
Standing behind him, she helped, eventually drawing the shirt down his arms and away; before he
could turn, she sent it to join his coat and prodded lightly on the back of his shoulders. “The bath next— that’s what Doctor Caliburn ordered. Then I have to smooth the salve on.”
He had no real argument with the doctor’s orders, only with the manner in which she believed they should be followed. He dutifully sat and pulled off his boots, letting her help, then stood again and stripped off his breeches.
She’d flitted away to test the bathwater; he waited until she returned and seized his arm to tow him to the tub—then he seized her. Deaf to her protests, he bundled her out of her stained and bedraggled gown, dispensed with her petticoats and chemise, sending all to join the growing pile, then he scooped her up in his arms—spent half a second glorying in the sensation of her silken skin against his, her curvaceous weight held against him—then he climbed into the bath and carefully sat, settling her before him.
She humphed, then wriggled around. Grabbing the sponge from the lip where she’d left it, she plunged it into the water, then with determination in her face and a warning in her eyes, set it to his skin and proceeded to wash the soot and grime from his arms and chest.
Lips curving, he leaned back—neck on the lip to prevent his shoulders from touching the tub— and let her. He watched her face while she did; a strange, soothing calm descended and enveloped them.
Held them when he reached out and took the sponge from her, and set to work sponging her ivory limbs. They took turns, cleaning, soothing, caring, washing each other’s hair, until they were both clean.
He stood and reached for the waiting pails, rinsing her off, then using the last on himself. Towels left warming before the fire soon had them dry, then, arms looped about each other’s waist, they propped each other up as far as the bed.
Tiredness was dragging at them both, but Sarah poked and fussed until he sat up and let her tend his scorched skin. Drawing his knees up, he slumped over them so she could reach more easily.
Her fingers lightly brushed, then soothingly spread the cool cream over the heated spots on his shoulders and back.
He closed his eyes and savored her touch; if he’d been a cat he would have purred. Sometime during her ministrations, he fell asleep.
He woke to find himself slumped on his stomach, with the covers propped across a bolster on one side and Sarah on the other, so the covers wouldn’t weigh on his injuries.
She must have prodded and pulled to get him arranged as he was; the thought—the image it conjured—made him smile.
Eyes closed, one step away from sliding back into his earlier, deeply restful slumber—into a peace he’d never experienced before she’d lain by his side—he let his mind skate over the events of the night, and what waited for them tomorrow.
Despite the horrors of the blaze, a feeling of victory pervaded his recollections; they might have lost the orphanage building but they’d saved the orphanage—the children, the staff. And if anything the commitment to it, both from themselves and the local gentry as well as the surrounding community, had been strengthened through seeing the place threatened, and through its communal defense.
There was something very powerful about joining together to defeat a mutual foe who threatened an institution the community suddenly remembered had real value.
In the wake of the blaze, tomorrow would be filled to overflowing with organizing, coordinating, arranging, and deciding.
He imagined it, envisioned how busy he and Sarah would separately be—and while one part of his mind jibbed that they would have no time to spend together, alone, another part reminded him of the
glory of togetherness they now shared. All it needed was a look, a touch, and that glory was there, whether they were in a crowded room or alone.
It was theirs, and now always would be. Embracing it—having the courage to embrace it—had made it forever his. Theirs.
There was, despite all, much to celebrate.
Including the fact that Sarah really was pregnant—he was sure of it. As he’d held her against him, her head slumped on his shoulder, and gently washed her stomach, he’d felt sure it was just a touch more rounded than it had been. He’d been tempted—so tempted—to tell her then and there how much he loved her. It had hardly seemed any great thing, not when their love, his and hers, had been wrapped all around them, an all but tangible force.
He hadn’t found any fancy words—none he deemed appropriate, none he could imagine saying with sincerity, and when he spoke he wanted it clear that what ever words he said came from his heart.
But perhaps fancy words weren’t necessary.
He’d been about to speak, trusting to instinct and her understanding, but she’d raised a hand and delicately smothered a yawn—and he’d realized just how exhausted she, and indeed he, had been. The impulse to speak had faded; when he finally uttered the words, he wanted her to remember them, and not imagine later it was some dream.
But he would tell her soon.
She—and Alathea, Gabriel, and all the others—were right. A marriage based on love was worth fighting for.
Worth any sacrifice he might ever have to make.
W hile the rest of the world slept and night softly faded with the oncoming dawn, Malcolm Sinclair sat at the desk in his library, quill flying across parchment. Page after page lay stacked by his elbow; he felt no hesitation in writing—no second thoughts.
Dawn was a glimmer on the horizon when he finally sighed, and straightened. With a flourish he signed at the bottom of the last page, then carefully sanded it. Gathering the sheets, he folded them, then lighting a candle, he melted some wax and carefully afixed his seal over the ends.
Then and only then did he pause, pen poised over the front of the packet. Then, lips curving, he fluidly wrote: “To Whom It May Concern.”
Done. He sat back and surveyed the packet; gradually, his gaze grew distant. A frown slowly formed on his austerely handsome face, but then he shook it aside and drew two fresh sheets to him.
The two notes took but a few minutes to pen. He signed and sealed them, then rising, propped the larger packet prominently on the desk. Turning out the lamp, he picked up the two notes, walked to the French doors, and drew aside the curtains. In the faint light he crossed to the small side table that stood beside the armchair before the fire.
Easing open the side-table drawer, he drew out Edith Balmain’s diary. Nudging the drawer closed with one knee, he stood contemplating the book in its silver-plated covers for a silent minute, then turned and, taking the book with him, left the room.
S arah woke to find herself alone in their bed. Warm and relaxed, she felt curiously content; she stretched, then remembered the events of the night. And realized why.
Out of the bad, something good often came. Her aunt Edith had frequently said so, and she’d been a very wise woman.
Rising, she rang for Gwen, then washed and dressed. Leaving Gwen exclaiming over their discarded clothes, she headed for the breakfast room.
Her orphanage had just burned to the ground, yet she’d never felt more confident and at peace with her lot.
Charlie was seated at the head of the breakfast table, Barnaby on his right. He looked up as she entered and met her eyes; she beamed a glorious smile at him, knowing with just that look that he felt it, too—that he felt as she did.
This morning was the beginning of the rest of their life. Their joint life. If the events of the night had demonstrated anything, they’d demonstrated that.
The future lay before them to make of it what they would, but the successful merging of their lives was already under way.
As Charlie had stated, they’d rebuild—and build better.
Filling her plate, surprised at just how hungry she was, she dispensed with formality and went to sit on Charlie’s left. He was waiting to draw back her chair.
As soon as she was settled, Barnaby spoke. “I’ll be leaving within minutes—I’ve already asked for my horse to be brought around.” He glanced at Charlie, then explained, “We’ve decided that we need to inform the authorities about what’s been happening here. I’ll ride to London and tell Stokes, then come back and continue my search for the agent. He’ll still be here—they’ll expect you to sell, but he’ll likely wait for a few days at least before making his next offer. But with the fire at the orphanage, we have an immediate, investigatable crime, and Stokes and the rest need to know that—that the game truly is afoot, and the dice are being rolled in earnest.”
He mopped up the last of his ham. “It’ll also give me a chance to check with Devil and see if Montague has unearthed any clue.”
Sarah nodded. “We’ll have a great deal to do here, organizing the children and the staff, let alone dealing with the farm.”
Charlie nodded. Reaching for her hand, he closed his around it. “I’ll go to the farm with Kennett.
We’ll sort out what has to be done to make the ruin safe. It’ll take days to get it damped down and secure, but we’ll make a start.”
“There’s the animals, too,” Sarah said. “Jim turned them out into the north field. Perhaps Squire Mack would take them for the moment?”
Charlie nodded. “I’ll ask him.”
“Meanwhile…” Sarah wrinkled her nose. “I’m going to have to write to the bishop. ‘I greatly fear, your lordship, that the orphanage burned down.’ Goodness only knows how I’m going to phrase that.”
“Never mind the bishop—and I’m sure he’d agree,” Charlie said. “Make lists of what the children and staff need—aside from all else, you’re sure to sustain visits from your mother, Mrs. Duncliffe, Alathea and Celia, let alone the other local ladies, all wanting to know what they can do to help. They’ll probably give you a day’s grace, but for your sanity’s sake, you’ll need to have a list of requirements by tomorrow.”
Sarah laughed. He was right. “I’ll manage.”
A chair scraped; smiling, Barnaby set down his napkin and rose. “I’ll leave you two to your endeavors, and get on with mine.” He waved them both back as they started to rise. “I know my way out, and you both need to eat. And I’ll be back before you know it, as soon as I can.” His easy expression faded, hardness replacing it, a predatory glint gleaming in his eyes. “This is one villain whose downfall I don’t want to miss.”
With a nod and a salute, he left them, striding out to the front hall.
As the sounds of his departure faded, Sarah gave her attention to her plate and Charlie did the same. They ate in companionable silence, then, replete, she sighed and sat back.
Charlie was sipping his coffee, his gaze on her face.
She smiled, just for him, letting her happiness show. “It’ll be better, won’t it?”
He held her gaze, then set aside his cup, reached for her hand, and lifted it to his lips. He kissed, his eyes steady on hers, and confirmed, “Much better.” After a moment, he added, “We’ll make it so.”
A n hour later, Malcolm Sinclair met his housekeeper—a woman from the village who came in to clean and cook for him—at the front door.
He smiled charmingly. “Mrs. Perkins, I apologize for not mentioning it yesterday but I won’t need you for the next week or so—I’ve been called away and will be leaving later today. If you’ll accept this…” He handed over a plump purse. “Your wages to date plus a retainer. I’ll let you know when I return.”
Mrs. Perkins quickly checked the coins, discovered his “retainer” would cover a full week of her ser vices, and smiled happily. “Of course, sir. It’s been a plea sure doing for you, and I’ll be happy to come again once you get back.”
She bobbed a curtsy and turned back down the path, no doubt already planning what to do with her unexpected free time.
Malcolm remained in the doorway until she’d passed out of the gate and disappeared down the street. Stepping back, he closed the door, then shrugged off his morning coat.
Donning a rough workman’s jacket, then pulling a wide-brimmed felt hat low over his head, covering his distinctive wheat-blond hair, he drew on heavy leather gardener’s gloves before picking up the sack of tools he’d left waiting behind the door. Hefting it, he strode down the corridor, old boots thudding on the polished boards. Going through the library, he let himself out by the French doors to where his horse stood saddled and waiting.
C harlie surveyed the blackened ruins of Quilley Farm. The wings had been reduced to smoldering heaps of charred wood and soot-streaked rubble, but in the main building flames still flickered and flared, working their greedy way through the skeleton of wooden beams buried within the stone walls.
In some places, the stone walls had bulged, then crumbled, heavy blocks tumbling haphazardly to the ground. Sections of wall still stood—liable to crumble without warning.
He pointed. “We’ll need to get grapples and haul them down—we can’t risk them falling on anyone wandering by.”
“Aye.” Beside him, Kennett nodded, grim and set. “We’ll do what we can today, but most likely we’ll have to do it bit by bit, as the fire finishes with each section.”
Charlie considered the unstable walls and the piles of rubble behind the main house. “Let’s leave the stone until later today. We need to spread the debris at the back and make sure what’s left is fully doused.”
He glanced back at the steady stream of men toiling up the slope. Many carried tools on their shoulders. The first had appeared as he and Kennett rode through Crowcombe.
Greeting the men who’d reached them, he led the way around the main house. After pointing out what had to be done, he picked up a rake and set to.
Throughout the morning, he worked alongside the men. Engaged in the relatively mindless chore, they chatted and talked. At first they watched their words around him, but gradually they relaxed, eventually directing queries his way, wondering about his views on the local hunt, on the plan to resurface the road through the valley, and countless other local matters on which he did indeed have both views and influence.
By the time they broke off for a late-morning ale supplied by the Crowcombe innkeeper, he’d learned more about the problems facing the local people, the whys and wherefores, than he had from hours of listening to their masters.
Leaning on the rake, his coat tossed over the nearby fence, he quaffed the ale, then blotted his brow with his sleeve. The day was cool but fine, with the scent of spring dancing on the wind.
He glanced around at the men; all had accepted his authority without question—more, they’d looked for it. To them it was right and proper that he, a Morwellan, an earl of Meredith, should be there, giving them orders, taking responsibility. That was how local communities worked.
Yet he hadn’t been there, not for years, and if it hadn’t been for Sarah, he wouldn’t be there now. Without his connection through her, dealing with the ruin would have been her father’s responsibility, and at his age he would have sent one of his senior workers; definitely not the same thing.
The Cynsters lay far to the south; the area around here looked to Meredith for their lead, and he was not only the earl but significantly younger and more bodily able than most of his neighbors.
His place was here, among these people. Being available to them, keeping an ear to the soil so he knew what troubled them.
His responsibility lay here, not in London.
What truly surprised him was how well that glove fitted, how comfortable he felt in the role.
Duty had always featured highly in his life, but he hadn’t before thought much of this facet. Yet he’ d embraced one new aspect in his life, and was actively changing said life to accommodate it. Perhaps this was another aspect that—in light of that other—would now fit better. Better than the life he’d thought he and his perfect wife would live, mostly in London, cut off from what he now realized was an essential part of him, of who he really was, of the man he now wanted to be.
“M’lord?”
He turned to see one of the older men beckoning.
“We’ve found a section of the fence that’s burned through—looks like burning thatch landed on it.
Can you come and say what you want us to do?”
Charlie straightened, laid aside the rake, and followed the man around the building.
A little after noon, Malcolm Sinclair, garbed in an elegant morning coat, tight buckskin breeches, and spotless linen, every inch the sophisticated London gentleman, strolled the short distance from his front gate into Crowcombe village proper.
Halting on the stone stoop of the local solicitor’s office, he paused. He rarely used local people as his tools, but in this instance, using Skeggs seemed both appropriate and wise.
Deliberately turning, he looked up at the broad shelf of land above the village—at the black, still smoking ruin of Quilley Farm. He considered the sight, debating whether some might think it a fitting symbol for the end of his ambitions.
After a moment, he turned and, opening Skeggs’s door, calmly went inside.
S arah didn’t get a chance to write to the bishop until early afternoon, when they finally got all six babies fed and settled for their nap. She found the small, tiny, perfect people utterly fascinating—far more than she had a mere few weeks ago.
That, presumably, was another sign of her likely condition. She wasn’t sure…yet she hoped.
Prayed. That, she felt, would be the crowning glory, the final perfect piece in her newly constructed life. But she wanted to be sure before she told anyone. Even Charlie.
Especially Charlie.
At their wedding she’d seen the look in his eyes when Dillon and Gerrard had spoken of their sons; she didn’t need to wonder what his reaction to her carrying his child would be. But because she knew how much it would mean to him, she had to be sure. Absolutely sure.
Her sitting room having been temporarily commandeered as a sorting room for linens, she took refuge in Charlie’s library; pulling up the large chair to the desk, she selected a pen from the set he kept nicely sharpened.
She found paper and ink, then settled to her task. As she’d prophesied, finding acceptable phrases with which to break her news was not a simple matter, but when the clock next chimed the hour, she’d achieved what she considered a satisfactory result. Sealing the missive with Charlie’s seal, she laid it on the blotter for him to frank.
A tap fell on the door; she looked up as it opened and Crisp glanced in.
“Ah—there you are, ma’am. A note from Mr. Sinclair, brought by one of the lads from Crowcombe.”
“Thank you, Crisp.” Sarah lifted the sealed note from his salver.
“The boy said no reply was expected, ma’am.” Crisp bowed and withdrew. Hunting out Charlie’s letter knife, Sarah broke the seal and unfolded the single sheet.
“Oh! How wonderful!” Sinclair had written that he’d found her aunt’s diary—in “the most surprising place.” Sarah wondered where it had been, then quickly read on.
Unfortunately, Sinclair wrote, he had to leave on urgent business, and given the press of errands he had to complete before he left, he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of calling on her to place it in her hands. However, he wondered if she would have time to ride out and meet with him—he had promised himself that he wouldn’t leave the area before he’d taken in the famous view from the bridge across Will’ s Neck falls. He would be passing that way at three o’clock—if she could meet him there at that time, he
would hand over the diary and explain where he’d found it.
Alternatively, if she was unable to meet him, he would return the diary when he came back to the area, although he couldn’t say when that would be. Given its intrinsic value as well as its nostalgic value to her, he was reluctant to entrust its delivery to other hands.
Sarah glanced at the clock. It was fifteen minutes past two o’clock—plenty of time for her to change and ride up to the falls.
She wanted the diary, wanted to hear where he had found it, and with the taint of smoke still lingering in her lungs, the fresh air and exercise would do her good.
One of the easier decisions she’d had to make that day. Rising, she headed for the door to give orders for Blacktail to be saddled while she changed into her riding habit.
T wenty minutes later, Charlie was organizing a group of men with grapples and lines, testing the stability of the walls still standing, when a lad from Crowcombe village approached.
“Message, m’lord.” The boy tugged at his cap and proffered a folded and sealed sheet. “From Mr. Sinclair. Him as is staying at Finley House.”
Charlie accepted the letter. Hunting in his pocket, he found a coin for the lad and dismissed him.
He glanced at the men, but they knew what they were doing. Stepping back, he leaned against the fence, broke Malcolm’s seal, spread open the sheet, and read.
All animation leached from his face.
Devoid of salutation, Malcolm’s message was blunt.
I will shortly have your wife. As you read these words, she’s riding up the track to the bridge over Will’s Neck falls. If you wish to see her again you will do precisely as I ask. Don’t hesitate, don’t think—most important don’t imagine that you understand what I have planned. Don’t try to organize anything, don’t attempt to raise any alarm. Do remember that there is a direct line of sight between the bridge and Quilley Farm—I am presently watching you through a spyglass.
Leave the farm and ride to the bridge. Do as I say, and fair Sarah will still be yours, entirely unharmed, by the end of the day.
Act, and act now—or you will lose her.
We’ll be waiting for you on the bridge over the falls.
Charlie stared, unseeing, the black lines dancing before his eyes.
Icy dread welled within him; it coalesced, closing like a fist about his heart. He’d never felt so cold in his life. So chilled.
But he knew what he had to do. Precisely as Malcolm asked.
Drawing in a huge breath, straining against the iron vise locked about his lungs, he remained still, outwardly calm, and forced himself to consider…
But there were no alternatives. No one he could contact, no one near he could call on for help with this.
Especially as he knew Malcolm Sinclair didn’t bluff.
Stuffing the note in his pocket, he walked off, heading for where Storm was tied. As if pressed for time, he swung back and from a distance called to Kennett, “I’ve been called away—I have to go. I’ll try to get back later—until I do, you’re in charge.”
Kennett’s unconcerned, laconic wave would make it clear to any watcher that what ever he’d said hadn’t been any warning or alert.
Pulling Storm’s reins free, Charlie swung up to the gray’s back and set off as fast as the gelding could go down the lane to Crowcombe—to the track leading to the bridge over Will’s Neck falls.
21
S arah walked Blacktail up the last steep stretch of track leading to the bridge over Will’s Neck falls. She didn’t hurry; she was sure she’d be in time. Swaying with Blacktail’s gait, she drank in the solitude of the upper reaches of the hills, punctuated by occasional glimpses of lush green valleys and the sparkle of the distant sea caught through breaks in the trees bordering the track.
The morning’s clouds had dispersed, letting sunshine wash the land. With each breath of cool, clean air came the promise of spring, and more, of new beginnings.
Sarah’s lips lifted; determination and confidence thrummed steadily through her. The orphanage building might be gone, but they’d all survived and would only grow stronger and better for the trial.
She and Charlie had found their way through the initial difficulties in their marriage—and they, too, were stronger for it, growing more so with each passing day because of the testing times.
A sense of peace and future purpose had sunk deep into her bones by the time she reached the clearing where horses were usually tethered while people went to see the views from the bridge.
A tall black horse bearing a gentleman’s saddle stood patiently waiting; Sarah tied Blacktail to a branch farther along the clearing, then, sweeping up the trailing skirts of her riding habit, walked on along the narrowing track.
The bridge, spanning the sharp, knife-slash of gorge down which the falls tumbled, lay around the next bend. It was possible to ride across it and on along the track coming up from the other side, but the track led nowhere other than to the bridge; most people came to see the view, then rode back the same way they’d come up.
She rounded the bend and there was the bridge—four yards of wooden planks lashed together and supported by stout ropes slung between massive wooden piers sunk into the rocky banks on either side—with Malcolm waiting, hands lightly braced on the rope handrail, looking down the gorge to the valley far below.
He heard her footsteps and turned; smiling, he raised one hand. The silver cover of Edith’s diary flashed. Delighted, Sarah smiled back, then gave her attention to the short slope leading down to the bridge.
Because it was slung, the surface of the bridge was lower than the banks. Horses could manage the steep connecting slope with ease, but when, as it almost always was, the area was damp, the descent was more tricky for humans. Luckily, someone had placed rough-cut stones to form a set of deep steps along one side of the slope; the train of her habit looped over one arm, Sarah carefully made her way down them.
The bridge was four paces long, but barely one wide; Malcolm was standing just beyond the center where the views were best. Stepping down onto the planks, Sarah felt them give a little, felt the bridge sway more than she’d expected, but it steadied immediately; perhaps it was her balance. Did pregnancy make one giddy?
Or perhaps it was the almost disorienting effect of the incredible roar surging up from the water
raging and tumbling beneath the bridge. Swollen by the recent thaw, the falls were in full spate; the water was a living raging beast, gushing, crashing, leaping, savagely hurtling down the steep chasm of the
rock-strewn cleft the bridge spanned.
Every now and then, a cloud of fine spume gusted high enough to envelop the bridge.
Malcolm was waiting, watching her with one of his nicer smiles on his lips—one she recognized as genuine. He was very like Charlie with his ability to charm, but she’d learned some time ago to tell truth from fiction. Smiling equally genuinely in reply, she joined him.
“Thank you for coming.” He had to bend his head and lean close for her to hear over the thunder of the falls. He handed her Edith’s diary.
Sarah took it, turning it in her hands, then quickly flipping through the pages. It appeared completely undamaged. “Where did you find it?”
She looked up at Malcolm’s face.
He met her eyes. His smile had faded, leaving a sincere but serious expression in its wake. “It was in the drawer of the side table in the library at Finley House.”
“How…” She broke off, frowning. “Finley House—isn’t that where you’re staying?” “Yes. I put it there.”
He made the statement so baldly, she still wasn’t sure she understood. “You took it from the Park…” She suddenly remembered he’d called on the day she’d discovered the diary missing. He’d left her in the rose garden, having earlier left Charlie in the library, and had walked back to the stables via the terrace—past the open French doors of her sitting room.
His eyes locked with hers. “I see you’ve recalled—it was the work of a minute to take it from your escritoire.”
Astonished, she frowned more definitely. “But why?”
He glanced at the diary. “Because your aunt and I had met before. When you reached the entries for May, you would have read that your aunt believed that I was if not responsible for, then certainly the architect of a scheme involving white slave traders that the authorities had just shut down.” His lips twisted. “She was correct.”
His gaze grew unfocused. “She was a remarkable woman—already old, tending toward feeble, yet with needle-sharp wits and so astute. She’d known my parents, apparently quite well. She called me in, told me to my face that she knew my mind was the one behind the scheme, that although I wasn’t the villain who had set it in motion, that didn’t absolve me of all blame, then she warned me against allowing my schemes, as she called them, to be used by others in the future.” He grimaced and refocused on the diary. “Then she wrote it all down and left it to haunt me.”
Sarah continued to frown. “But if Aunt Edith said you weren’t the one at fault, and the authorities saw no reason to charge you, then surely what she wrote, while perhaps pithy and true, related to you as a young man—as you must have been then, in 1816. An indiscretion of youth. I might have noted what she wrote, but I wouldn’t have said anything.”
Malcolm met her eyes, and smiled. “No, you wouldn’t have—not publicly. But, you see, I’d decided to remain in the area, to buy a property and make my home here, and I’ve come to value both Charlie’s and your good opinion. More, given Charlie’s interest in investing in the railways, I couldn’t take the risk you might mention what Edith had written, or worse, show him.”
“Why?” Suspicion was rising, instinctive and compulsive, but of what Sarah couldn’t yet fathom. “What would Charlie have seen in my aunt’s writings that I wouldn’t have?”
Malcolm held her gaze for a long moment, then said, “With what Charlie already knows of me and
my reputation, combined with Edith’s insight into the way my mind works, together with the information that I had once before strayed from the straight and narrow—with all that before him, Charlie would have wondered if I wasn’t still indulging in such schemes.
“And as I am”—his voice hardened—“that didn’t seem wise. From merely wondering, it’s a very short step for a financial mind as brilliant as Charlie’s to see the possibilities. To imagine what schemes I might have devised. Once he had, he would have felt compelled to check…and once he did, he might well have stumbled across enough information to suggest that at least one such scheme was indeed in operation. And while he couldn’t have connected it with me, simply having him with that suspicion in his mind wouldn’t have been at all comfortable for me.”
Sarah licked her suddenly dry lips. “You just admitted you’re operating some scheme—what?” His hazel eyes held hers; when his lips curved again, she felt very much as if he could read her
mind.
“Charlie really doesn’t deserve you—you’re much quicker of mind than he realizes. But yes, you’
ve guessed correctly—as Charlie eventually would have if he’d ever read your aunt Edith’s words. The investor set on buying Quilley Farm is me.”
Sarah stared at him. Despite his words, she couldn’t really believe…“You are the villain behind…behind all the accidents at the farm?”
Her temper sparked—ignited. She swung her arm out, dramatically pointing across the valley to the ledge where the blackened ruin still smoked. “You are the one who burned the orphanage to the ground?” Abruptly she realized, blinked and let her hand fall. “No—you couldn’t have been.” Confusion swamped her. She refocused on his face. “You were with us—sitting beside me at my parents’ dinner table—while someone was firing flaming arrows at the orphanage.”
He looked at her as if irritated she’d quieted—that she hadn’t kept railing at him. As if he wanted her to rail at him.
When she didn’t but just frowned at him, waiting for an explanation, he frowned back. “No, I didn ’t.” His tone had turned precise. His lips tightened. “But that’s not the point. If you read that”—with one long finger he tapped Edith’s diary—“you’ll understand. I have never, not at any time, done anything illegal. I’ve never harmed anyone or caused any accidents, let alone arranged anyone’s death. I have committed no crime. Not personally, not directly. However—just as Edith states—that doesn’t absolve me of the blame.”
His voice hadn’t risen, but had gained in intensity, as had the glare with which he pinned her, as if from being quick-witted she’d suddenly become obtuse. “So no, it wasn’t me who burned down the orphanage—and no, I didn’t know it would happen, not then or ever—I hadn’t given any specific orders about the orphanage at all. I was horrified when you were shot and injured—I spent the next two days hunting my agent to try to call him off. All I’d told him was that I wanted the title to Quilley Farm, and that there was no rush, as long as it eventually became mine.”
Caught in his gaze, Sarah saw the anguish—entirely real and unfeigned—that flowed into his eyes. “Then last night…I was with you, Charlie, and the rest when we heard that the orphanage was
alight. I rode with you, worked with Charlie and the others to try—totally futilely—to beat back the
flames.” He focused on her eyes. “No one there had a better reason than I to fight that fire. But I was helpless to stop it—I had to stand there with you and watch the place burn, see and hear the terror and upset of the children—see and know how much pain and heartache I’d caused with my scheme.” He held her gaze unwaveringly, his expression unshielded, his emotions entirely unscreened. “On top of it all, I had to watch Charlie and Barnaby risk their lives to save babies I’d put at risk—and know, beyond question, that I lacked both their courage and their compassion.”
He paused, then went on, his voice lower but still clear, “I had to stand there knowing that the
anguish visited on you and everyone else was my fault—my responsibility. That as Edith had warned all those years ago, it should be laid at my door.”
Again his gaze grew distant; Sarah watched, too caught in the moment, in his revelations, to think or move. Despite his confessions, she felt not an iota of threat from him.
“I’d always thought I was so clever—thought I was so successful.” His voice had dropped to a murmur she had to strain to hear over the thundering crash of the falls. “Instead, the truth is, I’ve been an abject failure.”
He refocused on her, then drew in a breath and seemed to come out of his trance—to return to the here and now. His lips twisted, wry and self-deprecating; he raised his voice so she could more easily hear. “And now everything’s falling apart. The authorities are finally on my trail, and crime or no, this time they won’t let me escape.”
She stared at him. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want you to understand. I want someone to understand before I go.” He searched her eyes, clearly wondering if she did. “I can’t tell you how much I regret not listening to your aunt. If I had…but I can’t change the past. I arrogantly did precisely what she’d warned me never to do, and now I’m reaping my just reward.”
Sarah looked into his eyes and knew he was sincere. She wasn’t quite so sure he was sane. He seemed determined to embrace his guilt, to own to it—to make a clean breast of it. Even though he intended to escape.
But while his confession had made her wary, she could still sense no threat from him; no matter his words, she found it hard to fear him. She sincerely hoped that wasn’t because he looked so much like an older Charlie that her instincts had become confused.
“So.” She moistened her lips. “What now?”
“Now…” His gaze went past her; he looked back along the track toward the clearing. As if he’d heard something.
She glanced back.
And heard him murmur, voice once again low, “Now I intend to put one thing right before I leave
—do one thing of which Edith Balmain would approve, and how fitting that it should be for her niece.”
Turning back, Sarah looked at his face. There was something there, becoming clearer in his expression—a sense of refined strength and purpose—that had her edging back.
Quick as a flash, he shackled her wrist. She twisted it, tried to tug free, but although his grip wasn’ t tight enough to hurt, it was unbreakable.
“Don’t fight me.” He glanced briefly at her before again looking over her head toward the track. “I have absolutely no intention of harming you, or Charlie, not in any way.” Unbelievably, his lips quirked up at the ends. “That would be counterproductive, to say the least.”
She stared at him, then glared. “You’re talking in riddles.” Like one demented.
He glanced at her; his face had resumed its usual impassive mien. “I’ve said all I want to—need to
—say to you.” Lifting his head, he looked at the track. “But I haven’t yet finished with Charlie.”
She finally heard the hoofbeats he’d been listening to nearing the clearing, their thunder a more regular tattoo above the rumbling roar of the falls.
Suddenly not at all sure of her safety—of his sanity—she looked up at him. “What is this all about?”
For a moment, she didn’t think he would reply, then he stated, coolly, collectedly, “As I said, my
life is unraveling before me, entirely out of my control—what remains in my control is how I deal with that.”
The hoofbeats drew nearer. She looked up as Charlie reined in before the lip of the steep slope. His face stony and set, he looked at her, then at Malcolm. From where he was he’d be able to see the hold Malcolm had on her wrist, and Edith’s diary in her other hand.
Without a word, Charlie dismounted. He looped Storm’s reins over the saddle, then pushed the big hunter back toward the clearing; the gelding ambled off toward the other horses.
Charlie started down the track, nimbly switching to the rough-hewn steps as he descended. The roar from the falls made it futile to speak until he was closer.
“Stop!”
Charlie looked up at Malcolm’s sharp command. Stepping down to the second last step before the bridge, Charlie studied Sarah; she appeared as shocked as he felt and if anything even more confused, yet although uncertain, she was still calm.
Halting, he raised his gaze to Malcolm’s face. Despite what he now knew, and what he’d guessed, in meeting Malcolm’s hazel eyes he still saw…the same man he’d until half an hour ago admired. “It was you all along, wasn’t it? The investor wanting to buy the orphanage? You are the one behind the land companies profiteering from the development of the railways.”
Despite the lack of evidence, the connection had clicked into place in his mind—and fitted. It might even explain why they were there—Malcolm had realized he could lure Sarah with her aunt’s diary, and through Sarah lure him…although what Malcolm hoped to gain by having them there was presently beyond him.
Malcolm’s brows rose, but his expression remained impassive. “I wondered how long it would be before you worked that out. I didn’t think it would be so soon.” His tone suggested he was pleasantly impressed, then his lids flickered and that sense of plea sure faded. A second ticked by, then he said, “Ah…of course. It was you, wasn’t it, who thought of directing someone to search in retrograde—to seek the source of the funds rather than try to follow where the profits went?”
Charlie held his gaze, and didn’t reply. Malcolm’s lips quirked. “Indeed—who else?”
There was one big problem with the scenario forming in Charlie’s mind. He’d seen Malcolm’s horror when he’d heard Sarah had been shot, had seen him fighting as desperately as any of them to beat back the flames that had engulfed the orphanage. Eyes narrowed on Malcolm’s, he tilted his head. “What happened? Did your henchman run amok?”
When Malcolm stilled, but didn’t respond, Charlie asked, “Who is he?”
Malcolm dismissed the question with a flick of his free hand; his other hand still gripped Sarah’s wrist, resting on the rope handrail between them. “Don’t worry about him—you’ll learn his name soon enough. At present he doesn’t concern me.” Malcolm’s voice hardened. “You, however, do.”
Charlie hesitated, then held his arms out to either side, palms displayed. “You told me to come— here I am.”
He shifted to step down to the next rock.
“No!” Malcolm’s tone made him freeze. Catching his eye, Malcolm nodded to the piers anchoring the bridge. “Look at the ropes.”
Charlie did, and felt his lungs seize. The stout, reliable ropes that had anchored the bridge for years had been cut, and spliced with thinner ones. The ropes now anchoring the bridge on which Sarah and Malcolm stood were significantly less able to support weight.
“Both ends,” Malcolm said. As Charlie’s gaze swept past him to check, he continued, “I’ve calculated the forces, the strain—you know how it’s done. The ropes as they now are will support the weight of two people, but not three.” Malcolm paused, then went on, “So if you attempt to join us, the bridge will collapse and you will be responsible for sending us all, Sarah included, to our deaths.”
With his head he indicated the raging water breaking over jagged rocks below. “And it is, indubitably, death waiting down there.”
“He’s telling the truth.” Sarah spoke for the first time since Charlie had arrived. Pale, she met his eyes, her expression quietly horrified. “The bridge swayed when I stepped on it.” Her gaze dropped to the spliced ropes. “I didn’t realize why.”
Malcolm let a moment pass while they assimilated their position, then spoke to Charlie. “As you’ ve no doubt by now realized, there is no way of resolving this impasse other than for me to let Sarah walk off the bridge.”
Slamming a mental door on the devastating panic that threatened to swamp him, and the bleak berserk fury it inspired, Charlie met Malcolm’s gaze. He, too, let a moment pass, remarshaling his wits, ruthlessly focusing his mind, then asked, “What do I need to do to get you to free Sarah?”
Malcolm smiled. “I would say nothing too onerous but…you only have to do two things. The first is to listen.”
Charlie caught Sarah’s eyes, searched them. She was frightened, yes, but not panicking. From her confusion, it seemed she was as much at sea over what Malcolm intended as he. Keeping Malcolm talking while they decided what to do seemed wise.
Raising his gaze to Malcolm’s face, he arched his brows. “To what?”
“To a tale of love…and loss.” Malcolm raised his brows back, faintly challenging. “A familiar tale in some ways, but rather twisted in others.”
Charlie saw the glance Sarah threw Malcolm, and started to wonder if her uncertainty wasn’t due to being unsure of Malcolm’s sanity—something he, too, was starting to question. The scenario seemed increasingly bizarre, but if Malcolm wanted to talk, and wanted him to listen, he was happy enough to oblige. While Malcolm was talking, he wasn’t focused on Sarah, and clearly had no immediate plans to do anything to her. Well and good. Charlie was perfectly capable of listening attentively while simultaneously planning.
With a nod to indicate he was listening, that Malcolm should proceed with what ever tale he wished to tell, Charlie settled on his rock step, feet apart, weight balanced. During negotiations, hands often revealed more than one might think; he slid his into his breeches pockets.
Malcolm smiled, but the gesture didn’t warm his eyes. “Throughout these last weeks, I’ve come to respect your intelligence, your acumen—you are every bit as brilliant as I. But in one area you’re an abject fool. But example always teaches better than exhortations, and as we’re in so many ways alike, let me describe for you how your life might have been. You might, like me, have been born to parents who simply never had time for you. Born into a family with no siblings, no connections to any wider family, you might, as I did, have grown up entirely alone.
“You might, as I did, have polished your mind by immersing it in purely theoretical problems—the sort that one learns to wrestle with at school. Without anyone around you who cared in any way— parents dead, guardian uninterested—you might, as I did, have grown to adulthood knowing only the challenges and triumphs conjured by a brilliant mind, and nothing of the joys so many take for granted— the simple pleasures of human interactions.
“However…” Malcolm paused.
Charlie blinked, thrown entirely off his mental stride by the unexpected direction.
Malcolm’s lips curved, and he went on, “Your life was never like that. You were born into a family who cared—you spent all your formative years surrounded by people who loved and cared about you. And whom you loved and cared about, too. More, as the heir to an earldom, you were conditioned from your earliest years to receive the accolades that brings. The position has responsibilities, yes, but it also has intangibles by way of reward. Not just status, but the knowledge that you’re needed, that you, yourself, make a real difference in people’s lives—a difference they appreciate. You have at your command the power, and the ability to wield it if and as you choose, to influence the lives of many for good. You can bring relief and happiness to others, while I…I’ve only been able to bring darkness and despair.”
Malcolm held Charlie’s eyes, his gaze incisive. “Yet until recently you’ve been reluctant to commit your time and energies to such acts. For your sake, I do hope that’s one thing the affair of the orphanage has permanently changed.”
Charlie’s face felt like stone. “Your legacy?”
Malcolm’s lips lifted; he inclined his head. “If you will. But that—the potential of your position as earl—is the more minor point I wished to address.
“Before I depart, I wanted to tell you—for no one else ever would, and no one else could with quite the same understanding—that you will be a fool beyond reclamation if you don’t reach for and embrace love and all it offers you. If you don’t embrace all that Sarah has from the first offered you.”
Charlie stared at him, nonplussed, frankly stunned.
“Indeed.” Again Malcolm’s lips quirked in self-deprecatory amusement. “Not the usual topic gentlemen discuss. Nevertheless, I will speak, and you will listen.” He caught Charlie’s eyes, his gaze level and unwavering. “Love is what life is about—what gives a man’s life its meaning. Without love, in all its many forms, life is meaningless, no matter how much I and those like me might wish it otherwise. I understand that now. My life has been an empty shell, a husk that once I leave will blow away on the lightest breath of time’s wind.”
His voice remained even, his tone level, but passion and sincerity ran beneath. “I never searched for love, never craved it, because I had no idea what it was, much less what it could mean to me.
Watching you—and Sarah—opened my eyes and taught me that truth. That would only have happened with you, because I can’t pretend you’re not like me—that but for fate’s fickle chance, I could be you, and vice versa.”
This time when he paused, Charlie sensed he was looking inward, critically surveying the self he’d confessed to being, then he seemed to shake aside the vision, draw a deeper breath and refocus on Charlie’s eyes.
“The time for me has passed—it’s too late for me to learn a new credo. But for you…you have before you the chance I would, now that I know enough to value it, kill for.” An expression of impatience flitted briefly across Malcolm’s features. “Have you any idea how frustrating it’s been watching you equivocate over accepting love? Your indifference, your rejection of a gift I would kill to have, was…an outright insult. All you’ve had to do is reach out and take it, but no. You’ve hesitated, again and again, over seizing what I would do anything to have someone offer me.”
Eyes narrowed, he seemed to read Charlie’s mind, his reaction; slowly, he shook his head. “Yes, I envy you—all of it—but I know it’s not for me. Sarah and all she offers is not for me, nor any of the rest of it. I’ll willingly hand it all back to you—your life and all its potential—in the hope that now I’ve
spoken, you’ll value each and every gift as it deserves.”
In some indefinable way Malcolm seemed to draw himself up, as if mentally stepping back. He hesitated, then continued, “And perhaps, when this is all over, when you remember me, you’ll also remember that Malcolm Sinclair would have been an entirely different man had he been offered half of
what life, fate—and so many other people—have lavished on you.”
He held Charlie’s gaze. “Be grateful for your life, accept it, embrace it—and all it holds for you.”
Charlie had every intention of doing exactly that. While he hadn’t needed Malcolm to point out the benefits to him, he couldn’t deny that, except for his already mended relationship with Sarah and they’d concealed that while in Malcolm’s presence, Malcolm had read his earlier equivocal attitude—to love, to the embrace of family and position—faultlessly.
Malcolm had fallen silent. Consulting his own turbulent feelings and gaining some inkling of how exposed Malcolm must feel, how distracted and unsteady on his mental feet, Charlie nodded once to show that he’d understood, then asked, “The second thing I have to do to induce you to let Sarah go— what is it?”
The smile that slowly curved Malcolm’s lips was both eerie and mesmerizing.
“It’s very simple.” His voice was only just strong enough to carry over the crashing of the raging water. “Tell her why I should.”
Charlie looked into Malcolm’s steady hazel eyes, and understood perfectly. But…the peace, almost content he sensed in Malcolm’s gaze made him seriously question—again—the man’s sanity. He licked suddenly dry lips. “Why are you doing this?”
Sarah was still on the bridge, close beside Malcolm—shackled there. She’d listened without a word, carefully following their discussion. On a few occasions she’d been tempted to speak; her lips had parted—to defend him, Charlie had not a doubt—but each time she’d stopped on the brink of speech, and fallen silent. For which he gave abject thanks.
But now her eyes, too, were filled with wariness; no more than he did she know what to make of Malcolm’s direction.
No more than he did she trust it.
Malcolm sighed. “Because you haven’t yet said the words, have you? She needs to hear them— and so do I. My one last request, my price if you will. If you utter the words, I’ll know you’ve come that far at least, however reluctantly.”
He’d already traveled a great deal farther than Malcolm knew along the road to accepting and embracing love, and the full potential of his life. But although he fully intended to say the words, it galled him to think that the first time Sarah heard them, he would be speaking them under duress.
He didn’t want that; he doubted she did, either.
Yet if that would release her, he’d speak them and any other words Malcolm required…if he could be certain that Malcolm was sane. Now that he’d heard Malcolm’s comparison of their lives…he’ d admitted to envy, but did resentment fester beneath? If so, how deeply did the poison reach?
How much of his intellect had it affected? How much of his will? His integrity had, by his own admission, never been particularly strong.
Those thoughts and speculations whizzed through Charlie’s mind, alongside the estimations of load and bearing, of impact and reaction, he’d been calculating while dutifully listening to Malcolm’s discourse.
Ultimately everything—Sarah’s life and his—depended on one act, and one reaction. If he admitted his love for Sarah, aloud in words for both Malcolm and Sarah to hear, what would Malcolm do?
what?
Would he adhere to his strange bargain and let Sarah walk off the bridge to safety? And then
Alternatively, would he, cold-bloodedly as he’d proved he usually was, let envy rule and strike
back at Charlie—by removing the love he’d finally laid claim to in the cruelest possible way?
If Malcolm grabbed Sarah around the waist, he could hoist her and fling her over the rope railing before Charlie could prevent it.
As Malcolm had made a point of noting, certain death waited below.
Regardless of everything, all possibilities and considerations, did Charlie trust in Malcolm’s sanity enough to stake Sarah’s life on it?
Drawing in a deep breath, he met her eyes—and knew she didn’t trust Malcolm that far. Given
that…
His hesitation had irritated Malcolm. “Just say the words.” Impatience colored his tone. “This will
be my last act before I leave—for once a purely altruistic gesture. But”—his gaze sharpened—“don’t, pray, try to stretch that uncharacteristic emotion too far.” He paused, then said, “It’s time to start talking.”
Charlie drew in another breath, looked at Sarah and saw his own question—what was best?— mirrored in her eyes. There was only one answer he could give. “Trust me.”
He drew his hands from his pockets and jumped down to the bridge. The shock on Malcolm’s face was entirely unfeigned.
Charlie seized Sarah, wrenched her from Malcolm’s hold, turned, swinging her, and tossed her up onto the slope beside the steps.
The bridge lurched. Charlie grabbed the rope handrail—then realized it was unraveling and about to come free. Feeling the planks beneath him tilting, he flung himself forward, diving for the nearest anchor post.
He got one hand to it—but not far enough around to give him sufficient grip to haul himself to
safety.
Behind him he heard Malcolm swear. “You bloody fool!”
The lashed planks tipped and swung—two of the anchoring ropes had pulled free, one at either
end. The other two were now under impossible strain. Any second they would give.
Charlie gathered himself, then heaved himself upward, trying to get a better grip on the smoothly rounded pole slick with moisture thrown up from below—and sensed Malcolm close behind him.
Felt strong hands grasp one booted foot, cup it, and hoist him.
He slung an arm around the anchoring post. Sarah, leaning down from above, grabbed his shoulder and sleeve—then her eyes went past him and she screamed.
Charlie glanced back.
And saw a sight he didn’t immediately understand.
With his weight no longer on the twisted, tilting bridge, the last two ropes were under strain, but still holding…
Except that Malcolm had a knife in his hand and was hacking at the one remaining anchor to their
bank.
As Charlie stared, the rope parted.
Malcolm’s head flashed up—their eyes met for one instant.
Then the bridge fell, crashing against the opposite rock bank, and Malcolm was gone.
For one instant, Charlie and Sarah both simply stared at the empty space. Straining his ears,
Charlie heard not a splash but a hitch in the rhythmic thunder of the water—then the roar continued and the water rushed on.
Above him, Sarah gulped, then latched more firmly onto his coat and tugged. “Come up!” Before he fell, too.
She’d screamed when she’d seen Malcolm, behind Charlie, pull the knife from his boot—but he hadn’t even glanced at Charlie.
Now she understood; that hadn’t been his purpose. That had never been his aim. He’d told her he ’d never harm her or Charlie—that it would be counterproductive…she recalled the strange smile on his lips when he’d said that, and gulped again.
She tugged and heaved as Charlie inched upward. The bank was naturally faced with rock in large smooth sections; there were very few cracks or ledges he could use. She hauled in another breath, tightened her grip and backed as, with her help, he slowly eased his weight higher, up around the post, until he was on the upper side of it and could get one boot across to the steps.
Scrabbling backward, unheeding of the damage to her velvet skirts, she kept the fingers of one hand locked in his coat, until he scrambled high enough to collapse on his back beside her just beyond the top of the slope. A slope that now led straight into a yawning crevasse. She checked that they were both sufficiently on the flat that they stood in no danger of an injudicious movement sending them sliding down—then she collapsed on her back beside Charlie.
They lay side by side and simply breathed. They gazed up at the sky, blue with just a few wisps of clouds racing and chasing across the expanse.
For long moments they remained silent and still—for herself, she didn’t know where to begin— then Charlie lifted one hand, found hers, and closed his around it.
“He was right about a lot of things, but wrong about one. A declaration of love given under duress is worthless.” He paused, then went on, his grip on her hand tightening, “I love you. You know I do. I’ve been searching for the right words, but these are the only ones I know. You are everything to me. My sun, my moon, my stars—my life. Without you, I could no longer be me—the me I need to, and want to be. I would give my life for yours, at any time of any day, without hesitation. But I’d much rather live my life alongside you—and care for you and love you for as long as fate allows. That’s the only reality I now know. And if I haven’t had the courage to say the words before, then I intend to say them to you every day for the rest of our lives. I love you.” He lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed their linked fingers. “Never doubt it.”
Sarah had turned her head to watch his profile as he spoke; now she smiled mistily. “I love you, too, and always will—as you know.” Coming up on her elbow, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.
Studied his face for an instant, then added, “As you’ve always known…haven’t you?”
He hesitated, then shifted his gaze to meet hers. “Not consciously. But on some level…” Lifting one hand, he smoothed back her hair. “I think that’s one of the reasons my eye fixed on you.”
She shifted and rested her head on his shoulder. They both again looked up at the sky. “I still can’t believe it—what he did.”
A moment passed, then Charlie said, “I’m still not sure I understand it.”
She hesitated, then said, “Before you arrived he said he wanted to put one thing right—an act my aunt would have approved of—before he left. I think he saw ensuring our marriage worked as being that one thing.”
“I can’t fault him in that choice—our marriage is important. And the connection between him and me—our friendship—obviously had bearing on that, too.” Raising one hand, Charlie touched her head, let his fingers gently smooth her hair. “Regardless of his intent, regardless that it was his doing that put us all at risk on the bridge, I don’t think I would have made it if he hadn’t boosted me up.”
Sarah found his other hand, twined her fingers in his. “I thought, when he demanded that you
listen, and then speak, that he must be insane. I started to get frightened. I couldn’t imagine what he would do once you did.”
“I know. I couldn’t, either. That’s why I jumped down instead.”
Their hearts had slowed. Sarah sighed. “He meant to go, didn’t he? All along he meant to die.”
They were both locals; they knew the falls. Knew there was no chance that Malcolm had survived.
“Yes.” Charlie drew in a deep breath, then exhaled. “This was another of his clever schemes designed to accomplish a number of things. To return your aunt’s diary to you, to force me to listen to his lecture on love, to force me to tell you I love you, and…to give him a way to depart this life. If he’d wanted to save himself he could easily have done so. When I jumped on the bridge and swung you free, all he had to do was dive for the other side. He would have made it to safety without a doubt—he had plenty of time. And there’s no way he didn’t know that. Instead, he came to me, to make sure I was safe.”
“And then he hacked through the rope.”
Charlie thought about that. “He’d come prepared with the knife because he assumed I would speak, then you would walk off the bridge to me—and then he’d cut the ropes while I was helping you up the steps. Neither of us would have been able to stop him.”
Another long moment passed, then Sarah sighed and sat up. Charlie did, too. His arm about her, shoulder to shoulder they looked across the yawning crevasse.
“He was a strange man,” she said.
Charlie nodded. As if uttering an epitaph, he added, “A man who’d never known love.”
They got to their feet, brushed the dirt and damp leaves from each other as best they could, then Sarah retrieved Edith’s diary from where she’d tossed it to safety farther along the track. Together they walked slowly to the clearing and the waiting horses.
22
B eside Sarah, Charlie clattered into the stable yard at the Park. He still felt faintly disoriented, still grappling with all that had occurred at the bridge, still assimilating the facts and emotions involved.
Croker came to take the horses. He exclaimed at Charlie’s and Sarah’s state, but accepted Sarah ’s gentle but firm assurance that despite appearances they were both perfectly well.
“Bedraggled once again,” Charlie murmured as he and she started across the lawn to the house. “Crisp and Figgs won’t approve.”
Sarah looked down at the silver-plated diary she held in both hands. Her faint smile faded. “What should we tell people?”
He understood what she was asking. During the slow journey down from the falls, she’d told him what Malcolm had said before he’d arrived at the bridge. But now that Malcolm was dead and gone, how much did they need to make public? “I—”
He broke off as the thump of approaching hoofbeats reached them. They turned to watch as three horse men, riding hard, thundered up across the fields, then swung onto the drive leading to the stable yard.
Gabriel, in the lead, saw them; checking his hunter, he trotted over.
Barnaby followed, along with a greatcoated individual Charlie recognized. “Inspector Stokes,” he murmured to Sarah. He’d met Stokes on a number of occasions.
Taking in their state, Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “What’s happened?”
“In a moment.” Charlie looked from Stokes to Barnaby. “You couldn’t have reached London.
What’s brought you back hotfoot?”
His expression like granite, Barnaby met his eyes. “You may not believe it, but our villain is Sinclair.”
Charlie nodded. “We’ve just learned the same thing.” He glanced at Sarah, then looked up at the three men. “Why don’t you leave your horses with Croker, then wait in the library. Give us a few minutes to change, then you can tell us what you’ve learned, and we can tell you our news.”
Barnaby frowned, but Gabriel nodded. “Good idea.”
He wheeled away; Stokes followed. With an impatiently curious look, Barnaby was forced to fall in with that plan.
T wenty minutes later, Charlie opened the library door, held it for Sarah, then followed her in. The other three had gathered in armchairs before the fire; as Sarah approached they all rose.
Charlie introduced Stokes to Sarah.
A tall, dark-featured man, neatly and soberly dressed, the inspector bowed. “A plea sure, countess.”
Sarah smiled. “I’ve ordered tea and crumpets.” She looked around at the faces. “I daresay we could all use the sustenance.”
She sat on the chaise; Charlie sat beside her as the others resumed their seats. He caught Barnaby ’s eye. “You first.”
Barnaby hesitated, then acquiesced. “I never made it to London. I ran into Stokes near Salisbury.
He was riding this way with news of Montague’s discovery.” Barnaby glanced at Stokes, who took up the tale.
“Montague did as I believe you suggested”—Stokes inclined his head to Charlie—“and searched for the source of the funds used to buy land for subsequent profiteering. He concentrated on one property, one amount. The instant he traced it to an account owned by Malcolm Sinclair, he realized the implication. Montague took his suspicions to His Grace of St. Ives.”
“Devil checked further,” Barnaby said. “He spoke with Wolver-stone, who put him on to Dearne and Paignton.” He looked at Sarah. “As it happens, Paignton’s wife, Phoebe, is a connection of yours.”
“Cousin Phoebe?” Sarah frowned, then her eyes widened. “At one time she lived with my aunt Edith. Did Phoebe know Malcolm Sinclair?”
Puzzled, Barnaby shook his head. “No, she didn’t. But her husband, Paignton, did. As a minor, Malcolm Sinclair had been involved with his guardian in some scheme connected with white slave trading. Back in ’16. Paignton, Dearne, and some others exposed it.”
“But Malcolm Sinclair wasn’t charged,” Sarah said, “even though the scheme was suspected to be his creation.”
Barnaby stared at her. “How did you know?”
Sarah held up the silver-plated diary she’d brought with her. “My aunt Edith suspected that, and
told him so—and advised him to reform his ways. She wrote it all down in here. And I inherited this volume of her diaries.”
“As you can see, the diary is distinctive. Sinclair recognized it and stole it so Sarah wouldn’t learn the truth about his past,” Charlie said, “and perhaps tell me, who might then suspect that his interest in railways could have a reason beyond simple investing.”
“Indeed.” Stokes started to say more, but paused when the door opened; he waited while Crisp and a footman brought in trays of tea, toast, and crumpets. The lure of honey, jam, and fresh butter caused a temporary hiatus, then, having wolfed down a crumpet, Stokes washed it down with a draught of tea and set down his cup.
He glanced at Charlie. “We’ve grounds enough to reel in Mr. Sinclair, and plenty of questions for him. I was on my way here, to take him into custody and back to London, when I ran into Mr. Adair.
His news about the orphanage fire only gives us yet more reason to take Sinclair up immediately.” “They stopped by Casleigh to let me know what was afoot.”
Gabriel’s smile was predatory. “Naturally, I invited myself along.”
“And of course we stopped here, so you could come, too.” Barnaby frowned as he searched Charlie’s impassive—unenthusiastic—face. “After all, you know him best…what is it?”
Charlie sighed. “Sinclair’s dead.”
The announcement was greeted with exclamations and disbelief; when those faded, Charlie explained what had happened—that Sinclair had used the diary to lure Sarah to the bridge over the falls, and then used Sarah to draw Charlie there as well.
“He made a clean breast of it all,” Sarah said. “He was truly regretful, repentent—he didn’t try to deny his part in it at all. They were his schemes, and he accepted that the blame rested with him.”
“But he had an accomplice who, if I understood correctly, was overenthusiastic in interpreting Sinclair’s orders.” Charlie narrowed his eyes, recalling. “Sinclair implied we’d soon learn the accomplice’ s identity, but he didn’t say more about that.”
“How did he die?” Barnaby asked. He and Stokes were leaning forward, caught up in the tale.
Charlie looked at Gabriel. “He’d weakened the ropes anchoring the bridge so that they’d only support the weight of two people. When I arrived, he and Sarah were on the bridge. After he’d made his confession and said all he wanted to say, he let Sarah walk off the bridge. The instant she left it, he hacked through the ropes. He fell.”
It was the story he and Sarah had agreed to tell; the rest of Malcolm Sinclair’s revelations had been for the three of them alone.
Gabriel paled. “Good God.”
Stokes looked from Gabriel to Charlie. “Are you sure he’s dead?”
Gabriel caught Stokes’s eyes. “We’ll take you to the bridge—the place where it used to be, Inspector, and you’ll see. No one could possibly survive such a fall.” Gabriel glanced at Charlie. “In effect, Sinclair took his own life.”
B arnaby and Stokes decided they should nevertheless check Malcolm’s house in Crowcombe. While they rode north, Charlie and Gabriel organized a search for Sinclair’s body.
An hour later, after dispatching various groups to search the rushing stream below the falls, Charlie, Gabriel, and Sarah were standing around Charlie’s desk poring over a detailed map of the area
when striding footsteps in the corridor heralded Barnaby and Stokes’s return.
They entered, looking even more stunned than when they’d left. “What?” Charlie asked.
Barnaby fell into a chair. “Incredible.” He shook his head. “He’d left a confession covering more than a decade of schemes, with enough detail to keep any judge happy, all neatly signed and sealed, propped on his desk with a note telling us we’d find his accomplice tied up in the cellar, and that we should check with the local solicitor for further information.”
Stokes had come to look at the map. He glanced at the others. “When he decided to right his wrongs, Sinclair didn’t hold back. His confession will save us, the authorities in general, and the public untold time and expense, and when we went down to the cellar, his accomplice—the agent Mr. Adair’s been searching for—was all trussed up waiting.”
“He’s not going to confess, but with what Sinclair’s given us, that won’t be a problem.” Barnaby’s gaze grew hard. “We didn’t read the whole of Sinclair’s confession—there’s pages and pages of it—but we read enough to be certain that Jennings—the agent—will hang.”
“But that wasn’t the end of it.” Stokes took up the tale. “We went to the solicitor’s, a few doors down the High Street. Seems Sinclair made a new will yesterday.” Stokes looked at Sarah and Charlie. “In it, he asks that restitution be made to those families and individuals who’ve been harmed by his schemes in the past, although he says the railway companies themselves shouldn’t be compensated as it was their own inefficiencies and greed that enabled him to get so much money from them. After all restitution has been paid, he’s stipulated that the residue of his estate should go to Quilley Farm orphanage, for the rebuilding of it, but not in the same place, with the rest of the funds to be used to run the orphanage, and establish others like it as needed.” Stokes paused. “He’s named you two”—he nodded at Charlie and Sarah—“as executors of his will and trustees of the orphanage fund.”
It was Charlie’s and Sarah’s turn to look stunned.
Gabriel spoke, sounding a trifle awed. “You said there were twenty-three earlier cases of suspected profiteering. Even after paying generous reparation for those, from what I’ve heard from sound sources of Sinclair’s fortune, there’s going to be a massive amount left for the fund.”
“Assuming the courts allow the will to be exercised,” Barnaby put in, “but even without a body, his assets would be confiscated as the majority must have derived from what were originally ill-gotten gains.”
Stokes nodded. “He even thought of that, and left a letter begging the courts to let the will stand. And in the circumstances, with all he’s done with his confession, and handing over his accomplice, and now that he’s dead by his own hand, saving us the bother of his trial and execution, I imagine their lordships might well look favorably on the money being used for orphaned children.” Stokes shrugged. “Who knows—even in that, he might be saving them the bother of having to decide what to do with such an amount.”
Gabriel grinned. “We can leave that to Devil and Chillingworth. I can’t imagine there’ll be many peers keen to see such largesse disappear into the Crown’s coffers.”
Feeling a trifle giddy, Sarah sank slowly into the chair behind the desk. “He wanted to do something right, something good—he said so.” She glanced at Charlie.
He met her eyes. “It seems an eminently good use for those funds he amassed through legally
investing his ill-gotten gains.”
Barnaby slowly shook his head. “I still can’t get over it—the complete confession, the accomplice trussed and waiting, the will, his death. It’s as if he suddenly woke up and was shocked with himself.”
“It happens,” Stokes said. “Something will trigger it and they’ll realize what they’ve done, what they’ve become, and suddenly they can’t stand it anymore.”
“Self-disgust.” Charlie looked at Sarah, then met Barnaby’s eyes. “That was definitely there when we spoke with him.”
“But”—Barnaby leaned forward—“what triggered it?”
Charlie glanced at Sarah, and didn’t reply. That it had been through Malcolm’s remaining in the area and seeing things, relating to things, from Charlie’s perspective, and through Charlie’s link with Sarah understanding so much more, was too private a revelation. Too much something that they alone knew, had shared and now understood.
Malcolm Sinclair had gone, and left them to live. More, he’d adjured them to live life to its fullest. Sarah smiled softly at Charlie, and said nothing, either.
“So.” Stokes peered at the map. “This is the bridge?” He pointed.
Gabriel nodded, then traced the path of the stream below the falls. “The falls themselves face west, but later, here, the stream strikes a ledge and turns north, and then eventually east until it runs into this lake.” He tapped the map. “It’s small, but deep. From there the water exits via the river to the east and eventually runs into Bridgwater Bay.”
“So we’re likely to find the body between the bottom of the falls and the lake.” Barnaby had come to stand beside Stokes.
Charlie exchanged a glance with Gabriel. “We’ve sent searchers to cover that stretch. The streambed through that section is extremely rocky, and with the recent thaw, the water is running high. If we don’t find the body before the lake, or around its shores, the chances are we won’t find it at all.”
Stokes straightened. “I’ll go and have a look at these falls, then check with the searchers.” Barnaby nodded. “I’ll come, too.” He glanced at Charlie. “We’d better see this through to the
end.”
N either Charlie nor Gabriel saw any need to join the search. Sinclair’s body would either be found or it wouldn’t.
Together with Sarah, Charlie walked to the stables to see the others off. Gabriel departed for Casleigh, to report to Alathea, Martin, and Celia, all of whom had met Malcolm Sinclair.
Barnaby rode out with Stokes, leaving Charlie and Sarah walking slowly hand in hand back to the
house.
L ater, standing at the base of the falls looking up at the rock steps that used to lead to the bridge, Stokes shook his head. “Must have been a huge shock, walking off that bridge, then seeing it and Sinclair fall.”
“Look at this.” Barnaby dislodged a splintered plank from between two rocks. They were standing a good fifty yards from the jagged rocks onto which the falls constantly thundered; between lay nothing but more broken rocks over which the water churned and surged.
Turning from the stream rushing by in full spate, Barnaby showed Stokes the plank. “It’s a piece of the bridge. The wood’s weathered and hard as nails, yet the edges have been frayed like flax.” He glanced back at the falls. “If it’ll do that to hardened wood, imagine what it will have done to a body.”
Stokes grimaced. He, too, looked up at the falls. “They were right—only divine intervention could
get a man through that, and I doubt any such grace was extended to Sinclair.”
Nevertheless, in a mutual quest for thoroughness and completeness, Stokes and Barnaby continued following the stream, checking in vain with the searchers they came upon and sending them back to the Park.
Dusk was falling by the time they reached the lake. There were three men there. Harris, the head gardener from the Park, came forward. “We’ve been right around, sir—twice. No body in the weeds by the edges, and none we’ve spotted anywhere in the lake. However, as you can see”—he nodded to where a visible current was rippling the lake’s surface—“the water’s running high and the current’s that strong he might well be out in the middle of the channel by now.”
They glanced in the direction Harris indicated, to the leaden expanse of the Bristol Channel not all that far away.
Stokes grimaced. “We’ve done all we can.” He nodded to Harris. “We’d best all get back before night sets in.”
“Aye, sir.” Harris touched his cap and gathered his lads with a look, and they trudged off to where they’d left their horses.
Barnaby and Stokes had left their mounts at the point where the stream from the falls entered the lake. They started walking back.
“I have to admit,” Stokes said, “I never thought to see the end of this—not so soon, nor yet so neatly.” He glanced at Barnaby. “Your father’s going to be pleased, and the other governors, too.” Stokes grinned and looked ahead. “And you’ll be back in London in time for the start of the Season, with all those balls and parties.”
Barnaby groaned. “That’s the one flaw I can see in Sinclair’s otherwise exceptional planning. As long as I was chasing some crime of that magnitude the pater would have kept my mother from descending on me—at least in person. Now…I’ll just have to invent some other investigation to excuse my disinterest until a real one comes along.”
Stokes regarded him affectionately through the gathering gloom. “But I thought that’s what all you toffs do—look over the young ladies presented and choose your wife from among them. Isn’t that how it ’s supposed to go?”
“Theoretically, assuming one intends to wed. But I’m a third son. No real reason I have to get leg-shackled, no matter what m’mother and her cronies believe. Not that I’ve anything against marriage
—not for others. Well, there’s Gerrard and Jacqueline, Dillon and Pris, and now Charlie and Sarah, and I can see and appreciate what they have, but…”
“Not for you?”
Barnaby wondered why he was speaking of such things, yet he and Stokes had grown considerably closer over the years they’d worked together; if there was one man who would understand his stance, it was Stokes. “It’s not so much ‘not for me’ as…can you honestly imagine a lady, Stokes— and do remember that my mother would gasp her last if I married anyone but a lady, and moreover one of suitable degree—can you truly imagine a lady of that ilk being content for me to devote so much of my time to something as unmentionable in polite circles as criminal investigations? To being perfectly happy when I drop everything and hie off into the country, or don some disguise and disappear into London’s underworld, in pursuit of some villain who needs to be exposed?”
“Hmm.” Stokes had attended enough tonnish gatherings in his official capacity to have some comprehension of what Barnaby meant.
“And that’s aside from the potential stigma involved, and the constant courting of tonnish excommunication if somehow I get things wrong.” Barnaby snorted. “It would never work. She’d be in
hysterics in less than a week.”
After a moment he went on, “This—investigating and the associated endeavors—is what I enjoy doing most. I’m good at it, and you and the pater and the other governors need me. You have no one else who can take on this sort of work within the ton.” He hesitated, then continued, more to himself than Stokes, “This is my career. I’ve carved it out for myself, and I intend to pursue it, and there’s no lady on earth capable of making me turn away from it.”
Stokes made no response; Barnaby expected none. They reached their horses, swung up to the saddles, then looked at each other.
“What now?” Barnaby asked.
Stokes considered, then said, “I see no point in looking a gift horse in the mouth. With his fit of conscience, Sinclair’s made this easy for us, and I’m going to accept that boon. I’ll ride back tomorrow and report the presumed death of Malcolm Sinclair.” Stokes looked back along the rock-strewn stream. “I can’t imagine we’ll find any trace of him now.”
Barnaby nodded. Wheeling their horses, they headed for the Park.
L ater that night, in the earl’s bedchamber, in the earl’s bed, Sarah lay slumped in her earl’s arms, warm, sated, and content, happier than she’d ever thought she’d be. Beneath her cheek, Charlie’s heart thumped, steady and strong. Although every muscle in her body felt unraveled, she tightened her arms about him.
“I had one bad moment above the falls—one dreadful instant when I thought I might lose you.” Lifting her head, she looked into his face, into his shadowed eyes. “You’d just managed to get your arm about the anchor post and I was trying to haul you up—and Malcolm drew the knife from his boot.”
Charlie held her gaze; raising one hand, he brushed back her hair and cradled her face. “You thought he was going to stab me?”
She nodded. “For one fleeting instant.” She shuddered, then laid her head back down, clinging to his warmth, and even more to him, to the solid reality of his body beneath hers. “But it was enough.” She tightened her grip on him even more. “I never want to lose you. I never even want to think of losing you again.”
His chest shook, a small, wry chuckle, then his lips brushed the top of her forehead. “Now you know how I feel. Just the thought of losing you is enough to…eradicate my ability to think.”
His fingers played in her hair, then smoothed, stroked. “I had no idea what he was about. All those things he said of me, most if not all were true, but I’d already realized for myself, or you’d made me see them, made me face the reality and see the need to change. All I could think about was what he might do with you once he realized I wasn’t going to argue, once he realized that I’d already accepted, was already embracing, all he wanted me to. Instead of listening to his lecture, I was thinking about how to get you to safety.”
Her lips curved. She dropped a kiss on his chest. “I couldn’t fathom his direction, either, but I never felt he was a threat to me. To you, I wasn’t so sure.”
“And now, amazingly, it’s over. Like some trial, we’ve won through to the other side, and the future lies before us, ours to make of it what we will.” He paused, then said, “I know what I want.” His hand found hers where it lay on his chest; his fingers closed around hers. “If you agree, we’ll live here primarily, spending only the usual few weeks in London—in spring for the Season, as much of it as you wish, and in autumn when Parliament sits. But for the rest, we’ll stay here, where there’s so much for us both to do. Here where we’re surrounded by family, estate, and the local community. They need us here,
at home, and it’s where we should be.”
Her head on his chest, Sarah drew in a breath, held it, then said, “And this is where we should bring up our own family…don’t you think? Here, where we were children, where we know every inch of the land, and where everyone knows us and will know them, and they’ll be safe?”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, then prompted, “They?”
She stared at their hands, linked on his chest. “I might be expecting, but…I’m not absolutely definitely sure.”
Lifting her head, she looked into his eyes, saw…and narrowed her own. “You know, don’t you?” From the wild look in his eyes, he wasn’t sure what to say. “I…ah, wondered.”
She drank in the sight of him in a near-panic over how she might react, then she smiled, a cat with a whole jug of cream, stretched up and kissed him. “In that case, we can wonder for a little longer together. I don’t want to tell anyone until we’re sure.”
He nodded. “Yes. All right.”
She frowned in warning as she settled back. “Not even Dillon and Gerrard.”
“Hadn’t crossed my mind.” He blinked at her, then said, “I was thinking…if you’re not feeling up to it, we could skip going to London for the Season—Mama would understand.”
Sarah laughed, feeling even more joyous and carefree. “Not a chance.” She snuggled back down into the warmth of his arms. “There’s dozens of ladies expecting to meet us in the capital and a mere pregnancy is no good excuse. And”—she poked his chest—“if you think to use my condition as an excuse to confine me, I suggest you think again.”
After a moment, his arms firmed around her. “If I can’t confine, can I coddle?” She tilted her head, considering; her smile felt glorious. “Coddling I might permit.” Then she chuckled. “Charlie—that is so unlike you. Asking permission.”
Smiling, Charlie settled her more comfortably over him, his arms closing about her more securely. “I’ve changed.” He had; he was amazed by how much. He dropped a light kiss on her hair. “I love you, and this is where I want to be, here, at the Park, with you, and our children when they arrive.”
He finally understood why Gerrard, Gabriel, and all the others had so readily abandoned their London-based lives after they’d wed; London’s delights held little allure compared to what waited for him here, his to embrace. He glanced down at her. “This is where I belong.”
It was, completely and utterly and forever more.
All was right, more than right between them, yet there was one truth he owed her. Eyes on her face, what he could see of it as she lay relaxed and so trusting in his arms, he said, “This—our love—still scares me. I know that it can, and will, control me. It has more than once already, and doubtless will over the years to come. And that…worries me.”
She lifted her head and looked at him, then she folded her hands on his chest and settled her chin on them so she could see his face, meet his eyes. “Why?”
Despite all, his first impulse was to draw back, but he forced himself to tell her. “Because I fear it will…make me do things I shouldn’t, make me take risks that ultimately might place you, or our children, or the earldom and everyone who relies on it, at risk.” He paused, then, his eyes on hers, added, “Like my father.”
Her expression conveyed her puzzlement, her question.
He drew in a tight breath. “My father…loved us all. Very much. Perhaps too much. He became obsessed with making life better for us—and through that obsession he took risks, financial risks.” He
paused, then told her, “He very nearly brought the earldom to ruin. If Alathea hadn’t stepped in, he would have.”
Her eyes lit with understanding, and a compassion he hadn’t expected. “Was that why you…didn’ t want to love, and then fought against allowing love beyond this room?”
He nodded. “I thought if I could keep it in here…I never make financial decisions here.”
It sounded ridiculous now he knew what love was, yet she didn’t laugh. Instead, she studied him, then she reached up and framed his face, and looked deep into his eyes. “You are not your father.”
When he opened his mouth, she cut him off. “I knew him, remember? You are nothing like him— not inside. You’re like Serena—capable, practical, and clear-eyed. You would never make the mistakes your father did—just look at your reputation as an investor, at how Gabriel regards you, how Malcolm described you. But regardless of all else, you’re so much stronger than your father ever was. Love might rule you, but it will never cloud your mind to the one duty you hold highest of all. You’ll never put me, or anyone you feel responsible for, let alone love, at risk—you won’t even allow us to be in danger.”
She smiled mistily at him. “Maybe you can’t see that as clearly as I—or anyone else who knows you—can, but you are you, Charlie, always and only you—and what you are, and have always been, is a man devoted to protecting people, not harming them, not putting them at risk. Not even love, with all its power, can change what’s at the heart of you—and in reality, love wouldn’t. Love, with you, will always work with you, not against you. It will strengthen you, not weaken you.”
Pausing, she held his gaze, then quietly said, “There’s no danger for you in love, in loving me. No danger for me in having you love me.”
She searched his eyes; what he saw in hers made his heart contract. Then she smiled, leaned close and brushed his lips with hers. “And that’s why our marriage will work—because of our love.”
He waited until she drew back so he could meet her eyes. “And strength. Your strength. My sort doesn’t count.”
She grinned. “And protectiveness—yours, and mine.”
His lips twisted wryly. “And understanding. Yours, almost entirely.” He held her gaze, felt himself drowning in the blue, in the love that shone so brightly he could barely breathe. “And one other thing.
Trust. I trust you to be right in all things to do with love.”
She smiled. “And I trust you to be all that you are—which is all that I wish for. And because of that, I always will be right when it comes to us and our love.”
Sarah drew his lips to hers and kissed him—then let him kiss her, let love bloom unfettered, let passion rise and desire burn, and once again sweep them away.
To the paradise they now shared, to the glories of the oneness that together they’d embraced.
That together they created.
Later, Charlie settled them again in the billows of their bed. The moon shone brightly, its shimmering light streaming through the window to fall across the covers. Feeling blessed beyond mea sure, grateful and honored to the depths of his soul, he held out a hand, cupping his palm in the stream of light—half expecting, given the magic enfolding them, to be able to sense its weight.
Instead, as he twisted his hand in the pure, silvery light, he recalled an earlier fascination. One that had lured him to this, to the here and now, to the love and the life he now wholeheartedly embraced. To his future and all it would rightly be.
His earlier fascination with Sarah, and with the elusive, addictive taste of innocence.
T he same moonlight that lay in benediction over Charlie and Sarah in their bed also shone down, pale and cold, over the Bristol Channel and the Severn Estuary. Slanting over the dark ripples of the waves, it silvered the edges of a black shape washed up by the tide on the shingle of a deserted beach along the shore of Bridgwater Bay.
Sodden, tattered, and torn, the wreck of a man lay cast up on the rough sands, left there by the retreating waves.
But there was no one to see. No one to wonder who he was, where he’d come from, or why he was there.
No one to care.
So it remained while the moon sank and finally set.
But eventually, inevitably, the sun rose. And the world came alive.
About the Author
New York Times bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science. Her hobby quickly became a career. Her novels set in Regency England have captivated readers around the globe, making her one of the romance world's most beloved and popular authors. She lives in Melbourne, Australia, with her husband and two daughters.
For more information on Stephanie Laurens and her books, including details of upcoming novels, visit her website at www.stephanielaurens.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Also by Stephanie Laurens
CYNSTER NOVELS
What Price Love? The Truth About Love The Ideal Bride
The Perfect Lover On a Wicked Dawn On a Wild Night
The Promise in a Kiss All About Passion All About Love
A Secret Love
A Rogue’s Proposal Scandal’s Bride
A Rake’s Vow
Jacket design by Barbara Levine Jacket photograph by Mary Javorek
Devil’s Bride
BASTION CLUB NOVELS
To Distraction
A Lady of His Own A Gentleman’s Honor
The Lady Chosen Captain Jack’s Woman
Credits
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE TASTE OF INNOCENCE. Copyright © 2007 by Savdek Management Proprietory Ltd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Before these statements left my desk and followed the fate I eventually chose for them, I considered using them as the basis for a traditional, painstakingly researched biography, recounting a true story. And so I read various biographies, thinking this would help me, only to realise that the biographer's view of his subject inevitably influences the results of his research. Since it wasn't my intention to impose my own opinions on the reader, but to set down the story of the 'Witch of Portobello' as seen by its main protagonists, I soon abandoned the idea of writing a straight biography and decided that the best approach would be simply to transcribe what people had told me.
Heron Ryan, 44, journalist
No one lights a lamp in order to hide it behind the door: the purpose of light is to create more light, to open people's eyes, to reveal the marvels around.
No one sacrifices the most important thing she possesses: love.
No one places her dreams in the hands of those who might destroy them. No one, that is, but Athena.
A long time after Athena's death, her former teacher asked me to go with her to the town of Prestonpans in Scotland. There, taking advantage of certain ancient feudal powers which were due to be abolished the following month, the town had granted official pardons to 81 people – and their cats – who were executed in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries for practising witchcraft.
According to the official spokeswoman for the Barons Courts of Prestoungrange & Dolphinstoun: 'Most of those persons condemned…were convicted on the basis of spectral evidence – that is to say, prosecuting witnesses declared that they felt the presence of evil spirits or heard spirit voices.'
There's no point now in going into all the excesses committed by the Inquisition, with its torture chambers and its bonfires lit by hatred and vengeance; however, on our way to Prestonpans, Edda said several times that there was something about that gesture which she found unacceptable: the town and the 14th Baron of Prestoungrange & Dolphinstoun were 'granting pardons' to people who had been brutally executed.
'Here we are in the twenty-first century, and yet the descendants of the real criminals, those who killed the innocent victims, still feel they have the right to grant pardons. Do you know what I mean, Heron?'
I did. A new witch-hunt is starting to gain ground. This time the weapon isn't the red-hot iron, but irony and repression. Anyone who happens to discover a gift and dares to speak of their abilities is usually regarded with distrust. Generally speaking, their husband, wife, father or child, or whoever, instead of feeling proud, forbids
all mention of the matter, fearful of exposing their family to ridicule.
Before I met Athena, I thought all such gifts were a dishonest way of exploiting people's despair. My trip to Transylvania to make a documentary on vampires was also a way of proving how easily people are deceived. Certain superstitions, however absurd they may seem, remain in the human imagination and are often used by unscrupulous people. When I visited Dracula's castle, which has been reconstructed merely to give tourists the feeling that they're in a special place, I was approached by a government official, who implied that I would receive a 'significant' (to use his word) gift when the film was shown on the BBC. In the mind of that official, I was helping to propagate the myth, and thus deserved a generous reward. One of the guides said that the number of visitors increased each year, and that any mention of the place would prove positive, even a programme saying that the castle was a fake, that Vlad Dracula was a historical figure who had nothing to do with the myth, and that it was all merely a product of the wild imaginings of one Irishman (Editor's note: Bram Stoker), who had never even visited the region.
I knew then that, however rigorous I was with the facts, I was unwittingly collaborating with the lie; even if the idea behind my script was to demythologise the place, people would believe what they wanted to believe; the guide was right, I would simply be helping to generate more publicity. I immediately abandoned the project, even though I'd already spent quite a lot of money on the trip and on my research.
And yet my journey to Transylvania was to have a huge impact on my life, for I met Athena there when she was trying to track down her mother. Destiny – mysterious, implacable Destiny – brought us face to face in the insignificant foyer of a still more insignificant hotel. I was witness to her first conversation with Deidre – or Edda, as she likes to be called. I watched, as if I were a spectator of my own life, as my heart struggled vainly not to allow itself to be seduced by a woman who didn't belong to my world. I applauded when reason lost the battle, and all I could do was surrender and accept that I was in love.
That love led me to see things I'd never imagined could exist – rituals, materialisations, trances. Believing that I was blinded by love, I doubted everything, but doubt, far from paralysing me, pushed me in the direction of oceans whose very existence I couldn't admit. It was this same energy which, in difficult times, helped me to confront the cynicism ofjournalist colleagues and to write about Athena and her work. And since that love remains alive, the energy remains, even though Athena is dead, even though all I want now is to forget what I saw and learned. I could only navigate that world while hand in hand with Athena.
These were her gardens, her rivers, her mountains. Now that she's gone, I need everything to return as quickly as possible to how it used to be. I'm going to concentrate more on traffic problems, Britain's foreign policy, on how we administer taxes. I want to go back to thinking that the world of magic is merely a clever trick, that people are superstitious, that anything science cannot explain has no right to exist.
When the meetings in Portobello started to get out of control, we had endless arguments about how she was behaving, although I'm glad now that she didn't listen to me. If there is any possible consolation in the tragedy of losing someone we love very much, it's the necessary hope that perhaps it was for the best.
I wake and fall asleep with that certainty; it's best that Athena left when she did rather than descend into the infernos of this world. She would never have regained her peace of mind after the events that earned her the nickname 'the witch of Portobello'. The rest of her life would have been a bitter clash between her personal dreams and collective reality. Knowing her as I did, she would have battled on to the end, wasting her energy and her joy on trying to prove something that no one, absolutely no one, was prepared to believe.
Who knows, perhaps she sought death the way a shipwreck victim seeks an island. She must have stood late at night in many a Tube station, waiting for muggers who never came. She must have walked through the most dangerous parts of London in search of a murderer who never appeared, or perhaps tried to provoke the anger of the physically strong, who refused to get angry.
Until, finally, she managed to get herself brutally murdered. But, then, how many of us will be saved the pain of seeing the most important things in our lives disappearing from one moment to the next? I don't just mean people, but our
ideas and dreams too: we might survive a day, a week, a few years, but we're all condemned to lose. Our body remains alive, yet, sooner or later, our soul will receive the mortal blow. The perfect crime – for we don't know who murdered our joy, what their motives were or where the guilty parties are to be found.
Are they aware of what they've done, those nameless guilty parties? I doubt it, because they, too the depressed, the arrogant, the impotent and the powerful – are the victims of the reality they created.
They don't understand and would be incapable of understanding Athena's world. Yes, that's the best way to think of it – Athena's world. I'm finally coming to accept that I was only a temporary inhabitant, there as a favour, like someone who finds themselves in a beautiful mansion, eating exquisite food, aware that this is only a party, that the mansion belongs to someone else, that the food was bought by someone else, and that the time will come when the lights will go out, the owners will go to bed, the servants will return to their quarters, the door will close, and we'll be out in the street again, waiting for a taxi or a bus to restore us to the mediocrity of our everyday lives.
I'm going back, or, rather, part of me is going back to that world where only what we can see, touch and explain makes sense. I want to get back to the world of speeding tickets, people arguing with bank cashiers, eternal complaints about the weather, to horror films and Formula 1 racing. This is the universe I'll have to live with for the rest of my days. I'll get married, have children, and the past will become a distant memory, which will, in the end, make me ask myself: How could I have been so blind? How could I have been so ingenuous?
I also know that, at night, another part of me will remain wandering in space, in contact with things as real as the pack of cigarettes and the glass of gin before me now. My soul will dance with Athena's soul; I'll be with her while I sleep; I'll wake up sweating and go into the kitchen for a glass of water. I'll understand that in order to combat ghosts you must use weapons that form no part of reality. Then, following the advice of my grandmother, I'll place an open pair of scissors on my bedside table to snip off the end of the dream.
The next day, I'll look at the scissors with a touch of regret, but I must adapt to living in the world again or risk going mad.
Andrea McCain, 32, actress
'No one can manipulate anyone else. In any relationship, both parties know what they're doing, even if one of them complains later on that they were used.'
That's what Athena used to say, but she herself behaved quite differently, because she used and manipulated me with no consideration for my feelings. And given that we're talking about magic here, this makes the accusation an even more serious one; after all, she was my teacher, charged with passing on the sacred mysteries, with awakening the unknown force we all possess. When we venture into that unfamiliar sea, we trust blindly in those who guide us, believing that they know more than we do.
Well, I can guarantee that they don't. Not Athena, not Edda, nor any of the people I came to know through them. She told me she was learning through teaching, and although, at first, I refused to believe this, later, I came to think that perhaps it was true. I realised it was one of her many ways of getting us to drop our guard and surrender to her charm.
People who are on a spiritual quest don't think, they simply want results. They want to feel powerful and superior to the anonymous masses. They want to be special. Athena played with other people's feelings in a quite terrifying way.
I understand that she once felt a profound admiration for St Thérèse of Lisieux. I have no interest in the Catholic faith, but, from what I've heard, Thérèse experienced a kind of mystical and physical union with God. Athena mentioned once that she would like to share a similar fate. Well, in that case, she should have joined a convent and devoted her life to prayer or to the service of the poor. That would have been much more useful to the world and far less dangerous than using music and rituals to induce in people a kind of intoxicated state that brought them
into contact with both the best and the worst of themselves.
I sought her out when I was looking for some meaning to my life, although I didn't say as much at our first meeting. I should have realised from the start that Athena wasn't very interested in that; she wanted to live, dance, make love, travel, to gather people around her in order to demonstrate how wise she was, to show off her gifts, to provoke the neighbours, to make the most of all that is profane in us – although she always tried to give a spiritual gloss to that search.
Whenever we met, whether it was to perform some magical ceremony or to meet for a drink, I was conscious of her power. It was so strong I could almost touch it. Initially, I was fascinated and wanted to be like her. But one day, in a bar, she started talking about the 'Third Rite', which has to do with sexuality. She did this in the presence of my boyfriend. Her excuse was that she was teaching me something. Her real objective, in my opinion, was to seduce the man I loved.
And, of course, she succeeded.
It isn't good to speak ill of people who have passed from this life onto the astral plane. However, Athena won't have to account to me, but to all those forces which she turned to her own benefit, rather than channelling them for the good of humanity and for her own spiritual enlightenment.
The worst thing is that if it hadn't been for her compulsive exhibitionism, everything we began together could have worked out really well. Had she behaved more discreetly, we would now be fulfilling the mission with which we were entrusted. But she couldn't control herself; she thought she was the mistress of the truth, capable of overcoming all barriers merely by using her powers of seduction. And the result? I was left alone. And I can't leave the work half-finished – I'll have to continue to the end, even though sometimes I feel very weak and often dispirited.
I'm not surprised that her life ended as it did: she was always flirting with danger. They say that extroverts are unhappier than introverts, and have to compensate for this by constantly proving to themselves how happy and contented and at ease with life they are. In her case, at least, this is absolutely true.
Athena was conscious of her own charisma, and she made all those who loved her suffer. Including me.
Deidre O'Neill, 37, doctor, known as Edda
If a man we don't know phones us up one day and talks a little, makes no suggestions, says nothing special, but nevertheless pays us the kind of attention we rarely receive, we're quite capable of going to bed with him that same night, feeling relatively in love. That's what we women are like, and there's nothing wrong with that – it's the nature of the female to open herself to love easily.
It was this same love that opened me up to my first encounter with the Mother when I was nineteen. Athena was the same age the first time she went into a trance while dancing. But that's the only thing we had in common – the age of our initiation.
In every other aspect, we were totally and profoundly different, especially in the way we dealt with other people. As her teacher, I always did my best to help her in her inner search. As her friend – although I'm not sure my feelings of friendship were reciprocated – I tried to alert her to the fact that the world wasn't ready for the kind of transformations she wanted to provoke. I remember spending a few sleepless nights before deciding to allow her to act with total freedom and follow the demands of her heart.
Her greatest problem was that she was a woman of the twenty-second century living in the twentyfirst, and making no secret of the fact either. Did she pay a price? She certainly did. But she would have paid a still higher price if she had repressed her true exuberant self. She would have been bitter and frustrated, always concerned about 'what other people might think', always saying 'I'll just sort these things out, then I'll devote myself to my dream', always complaining 'that the conditions are never quite right'.
Everyone's looking for the perfect teacher, but although their teachings might be divine, teachers are all too human, and that's something people find hard to accept.
Don't confuse the teacher with the lesson, the ritual with the ecstasy, the transmitter of the symbol with the symbol itself. The Tradition is linked to our encounter with the forces of life and not with the people who bring this about. But we are weak: we ask the Mother to send us guides, and all she sends are signs to the road we need to follow.
Pity those who seek for shepherds, instead of longing for freedom! An encounter with the superior energy is open to anyone, but remains far from those who shift responsibility onto others. Our time on this Earth is sacred, and we should celebrate every moment.
The importance of this has been completely forgotten: even religious holidays have been transformed into opportunities to go to the beach or the park or skiing. There are no more rituals. Ordinary actions can no longer be transformed into manifestations of the sacred. We cook and complain that it's a waste of time, when we should be pouring our love into making that food. We work and believe it's a divine curse, when we should be using our skills to bring pleasure and to spread the energy of the Mother.
Athena brought to the surface the immensely rich world we all carry in our souls, without realising that people aren't yet ready to accept their own powers.
We women, when we're searching for a meaning to our lives or for the path of knowledge, always identify with one of four classic archetypes.
The Virgin (and I'm not speaking here of a sexual virgin) is the one whose search springs from her complete independence, and everything she learns is the fruit of her ability to face challenges alone.
The Martyr finds her way to self-knowledge through pain, surrender and suffering.
The Saint finds her true reason for living in unconditional love and in her ability to give without asking anything in return.
Finally, the Witch justifies her existence by going in search of complete and
limitless pleasure. Normally, a woman has to choose from one of these traditional feminine archetypes, but Athena was all four at once.
Obviously we can justify her behaviour, alleging that all those who enter a state of trance or ecstasy lose contact with reality. That's not true: the physical world and the spiritual world are the same thing. We can see the Divine in each speck of dust, but that doesn't stop us wiping it away with a wet sponge. The Divine doesn't disappear; it's transformed into the clean surface.
Athena should have been more careful. When I reflect upon the life and death of my pupil, it seems to me that I had better change the way I behave too.
Lella Zainab, 64, numerologist
Athena? What an interesting name! Let's see…her Maximum number is nine. Optimistic, sociable, likely to be noticed in a crowd. People might go to her in search of understanding, compassion, generosity, and for precisely that reason, she should be careful, because that tendency to popularity could go to her head and she'll end up losing more than she gains. She should also watch her tongue, because she tends to speak more than common sense dictates.
As for her Minimum number eleven, I sense that she longs for some leadership position. She has an interest in mystical subjects and through these tries to bring harmony to those around her.
However, this is in direct conflict with the number nine, which is the sum of the day, month and year of her birth reduced to a single figure: she'll always be subject to envy, sadness, introversion and impulsive decisions. She must be careful not to let herself be affected by negative vibrations: excessive ambition, intolerance, abuse of power, extravagance.
Because of that conflict, I suggest she take up some career that doesn't involve emotional contact with people, like computing or engineering.
Oh, she's dead? I'm sorry. So what did she do?
What did Athena do? She did a little of everything, but, ifI had to summarise her life, I'd say: she was a priestess who understood the forces of nature. Or, rather, she was someone who, by the simple fact of having little to lose or to hope for in life, took greater risks than other people and ended up being transformed into the forces she thought she mastered.
She was a supermarket checkout girl, a bank employee, a property dealer, and in each of these positions she always revealed the priestess within. I lived with herfor eight years, and I owed her this: to recover her memory, her identity.
The most difficult thing in collecting together these statements was persuading people to let me use their real names. Some said they didn't want to be involved in this kind of story; others tried to conceal their opinions andfeelings. I explained that my real intention was to help all those involved to understand her better, and that no reader would believe in anonymous statements.
They finally agreed because they all believed that they knew the unique and definitive version of any event, however insignificant. During the recordings, I saw that things are never absolute; they depend on each individual's perceptions. And the best way to know who we are is often to find out how others see us.
This doesn't mean that we should do what others expect us to do, but it helps us to understand ourselves better. I owed it to Athena to recover her story, to write her myth.
Samira R. Khalil, 57, housewife, Athena's mother
Please, don't call her Athena. Her real name is Sherine. Sherine Khalil, our much-loved, muchwanted daughter, whom both my husband and I wish we had engendered.
Life, however, had other plans – when fate is very generous with us, there is always a well into which all our dreams can tumble.
We lived in Beirut in the days when everyone considered it the most beautiful city in the Middle
East. My husband was a successful industrialist, we married for love, we travelled to Europe every year, we had friends, we were invited to all the important social events, and, once, the President of the United States himself visited my house.
Imagine that! Three unforgettable days, during two of which the American secret service scoured every corner of our house (they'd been in the area for more than a month already, taking up strategic positions, renting apartments, disguising themselves as beggars or young lovers). And for one day, or, rather, two hours, we partied. I'll never forget the look of envy in our friends' eyes, and the excitement of having our photo taken alongside the most powerful man on the planet.
We had it all, apart from the one thing we wanted most – a child. And so we had nothing.
We tried everything: we made vows and promises, went to places where miracles were guaranteed, we consulted doctors, witchdoctors, took remedies and drank elixirs and magic potions. I had artificial insemination twice and lost the baby both times. On the second occasion, I also lost my left ovary, and, after that, no doctor was prepared to risk such a venture again.
That was when one of the many friends who knew of our plight suggested the one possible solution: adoption. He said he had contacts in Romania, and that the process wouldn't take long.
A month later, we got on a plane. Our friend had important business dealings with
the dictator who ruled the country at the time, and whose name I now forget (Editor's note: Nicolae Ceauºescu), and so we managed to avoid the bureaucratic red tape and went straight to an adoption centre in Sibiu, in Transylvania. There we were greeted with coffee, cigarettes, mineral water, and with the paperwork signed and sealed, all we had to do was choose a child.
They took us to a very cold nursery, and I couldn't imagine how they could leave those poor children in such a place. My first instinct was to adopt them all, to carry them off to Lebanon where there was sun and freedom, but obviously that was a crazy idea. We walked up and down between the cots, listening to the children crying, terrified by the magnitude of the decision we were about to take.
For more than an hour, neither I nor my husband spoke a word. We went out, drank coffee, smoked and then went back in again – and this happened several times. I noticed that the woman in charge of adoptions was growing impatient; she
wanted an immediate decision. At that moment, following an instinct I would dare to describe as maternal – as if I'd found a child who should have been mine in this incarnation, but who had come into the world in another woman's womb – I pointed to one particular baby girl.
The woman advised us to think again. And she'd been so impatient for us to make a decision! But I was sure.
Nevertheless – trying not to hurt my feelings (she thought we had contacts in the upper echelons of the Romanian government) – she whispered to me, so that my husband wouldn't hear: 'I know it won't work out. She's the daughter of a gipsy.'
I retorted that culture isn't something that's transmitted through the genes. The child, who was barely three months old, would be our daughter, brought up according to our customs. She would go to our church, visit our beaches, read books in French, study at the American School in Beirut. Besides, I knew nothing about gipsy culture – and I still know nothing. I only know that they travel a lot, don't wash very often, aren't to be trusted, and wear earrings. Legend has it that they kidnap children and carry them off in their caravans, but here, exactly the opposite was happening; they had left a child behind for me to take care of.
The woman tried again to dissuade me, but I was already signing the papers and asking my husband to do the same. On the flight back to Beirut, the world seemed different: God had given me a reason for living, working and fighting in this vale of tears. We now had a child to justify all our efforts.
Sherine grew in wisdom and beauty – I expect all parents say that, but I really do think she was an exceptional child. One afternoon, when she was five, one of my brothers said that, if, in the future, she wanted to work abroad, her name would always betray her origins, and he suggested changing it to one that gave nothing away, like Athena, for example. Now, of course, I know that Athena refers not only to the capital of Greece, but that it is also the name of the Greek goddess of wisdom, intelligence and war.
Perhaps my brother knew not only that, but was aware, too, of the problems an
Arab name might bring in the future, for he was very involved in politics, as were all our family, and wanted to protect his niece from the black clouds which he, and only he, could see on the horizon. Most surprising of all was that Sherine liked the sound of the word. That same afternoon, she began referring to herself as Athena and no one could persuade her to do otherwise. To please her, we adopted the nickname too, thinking that it would be a passing fancy.
Can a name affect a person's life? Time passed, and the name stuck.
From very early on we discovered that she had a strong religious vocation – she spent all her time in the church and knew the gospels by heart; this was at once a blessing and a curse. In a world that was starting to be divided more and more along religious lines, I feared for my daughter's safety. It was then that Sherine began telling us, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, that she had a series of invisible friends – angels and saints whose images she was accustomed to seeing in the church we attended. All children everywhere have visions, but they usually forget about them after a certain age. They also treat inanimate objects, such as dolls or fluffy tigers, as if they were real. However, I really did feel she was going too far when I picked her up from school one day, and she told me that she'd seen 'a woman dressed in white, like the Virgin Mary'.
Naturally, I believe in angels. I even believe that the angels speak to little children, but when a child starts seeing visions of grown-ups, that's another matter. I've read about various shepherds and country people who claimed to have seen a woman in white, and how this eventually destroyed their lives, because others sought them out, expecting miracles; then the priests took over, their village became a centre of pilgrimage, and the poor children ended their lives in a convent or a monastery. I was, therefore, very concerned about this story. Sherine was at an age when she should be more concerned with make-up kits, painting her nails, watching soppy TV soaps and children's programmes. There was something wrong with my daughter, and I consulted an expert.
'Relax,' he said.
According to this paediatrician specialising in child psychology – and according to most other doctors in the field – invisible friends are a projection of a child's
dreams and a safe way of helping the child to discover her desires and express her feelings.
'Yes, but a vision of a woman in white?'
He replied that perhaps Sherine didn't understand our way of seeing or explaining the world. He suggested that we should gradually begin preparing the ground to tell her that she was adopted. In the paediatrician's words, the worst thing that could happen would be for her to find out by herself. Then she would begin to doubt everyone, and her behaviour might become unpredictable.
From then on, we changed the way we talked to her. I don't know how much children remember of what happens to them, but we started trying to show her just how much we loved her and that there was no need for her to take refuge in an imaginary world. She needed to see that her visible universe was as beautiful as it could possibly be, that her parents would protect her from any danger, that Beirut was a lovely city and its beaches full of sun and people. Without ever mentioning 'the woman in white', I began spending more time with my daughter; I invited her schoolfriends to come to our house; I seized every opportunity to shower her with affection.
The strategy worked. My husband used to travel a lot, and Sherine always missed him. In the name of love, he resolved to change his way of life a little. Her solitary conversations began to be replaced by games shared by father, mother and daughter.
Everything was going well. Then, one night, she came into our room in tears, saying that she was frightened and that hell was close at hand.
I was alone at home. My husband had had to go away again, and I thought perhaps this was the reason for her despair. But hell? What were they teaching her at school or at church? I decided to go and talk to her teacher the next day.
Sherine, meanwhile, wouldn't stop crying. I took her over to the window and showed her the Mediterranean outside, lit by the full moon. I told her there were
no devils, only stars in the sky and people strolling up and down the boulevard outside our apartment. I told her not to worry, that she needn't be afraid, but she continued to weep and tremble. After spending almost half an hour trying to calm her, I began to get worried. I begged her to stop, after all, she was no longer a child. I thought perhaps her first period had started and discreetly asked if there was any blood.
'Yes, lots.'
I got some cotton wool and asked her to lie down so that I could take care of her 'wound'. It wasn't important. I would explain tomorrow. However, her period hadn't started. She cried for a while longer, but she must have been tired, because then she fell asleep.
And the following morning, there was blood.
Four men had been murdered. To me, this was just another of the eternal tribal battles to which my people have become accustomed. To Sherine, it clearly meant nothing, because she didn't even mention her nightmare.
Meanwhile, from that date onwards, hell came ever closer and it hasn't gone away since. On that same day, twenty-six Palestinians were killed on a bus, as revenge for the murders. Twenty-four hours later, it was impossible to walk down the street because of shots coming from every angle. The schools closed, Sherine was hurried home by one of her teachers, and the situation went from bad to worse. My husband interrupted his business trip halfway through and came home, where he spent whole days on the phone to his friends in government, but no one said anything that made any sense. Sherine heard the shots outside and my husband's angry shouts indoors, but, to my surprise, she didn't say a word. I tried to tell her that it wouldn't last, that soon we'd be able to go to the beach again, but she would simply look away or ask for a book to read or a record to play. While hell gradually put down roots, Sherine read and listened to music.
But, if you don't mind, I'd prefer not to dwell on that. I don't want to think about the threats we received, about who was right, who was guilty and who was innocent. The fact is that, a few months later, if you wanted to cross a particular
street, you had to catch a boat across to the island of Cyprus, get on another boat and disembark on the other side of the street.
For nearly a year, we stayed pretty much shut up indoors, always hoping that the situation would improve, always thinking it was a temporary thing, and that the government would take control. One morning, while she was listening to a record on her little portable record-player, Sherine started dancing and saying things like: 'This is going to last for a long, long time.'
I tried to stop her, but my husband grabbed my arm. I realised that he was listening to what she was saying and taking it seriously. I never understood why, and we've never spoken about it since. It's a kind of taboo between us.
The following day, he began taking unexpected steps, and two weeks later we were on a boat bound for London. Later, we would learn that, although there are no reliable statistics, during those years of civil war about 44,000 people died, 180,000 were wounded, and thousands made homeless. The fighting continued for other reasons, the country was occupied by foreign troops, and the hell continues to this day. 'It's going to last for a long, long time,' said Sherine. Unfortunately, she was right.
Lukás Jessen-Petersen, 32, engineer, ex-husband
When I first met Athena, she already knew that she was adopted. She was just nineteen and about to have a stand-up fight with a fellow student in the university cafeteria because the fellow student, assuming Athena to be English (white skin, straight hair, eyes that were sometimes green, sometimes grey), had made some insulting remark about the Middle East.
It was the first day of term for these students and they knew nothing about each other. But Athena got up, grabbed the other girl by the collar and started screaming:
'Racist!'
I saw the look of terror in the girl's eyes and the look of excitement in the eyes of the other students, eager to see what would happen next. I was in the year above, and I knew exactly what the consequences would be: they would both be hauled up before the vice-chancellor, an official complaint would be made, and that would probably be followed by expulsion from the university and a possible police inquiry into alleged racism, etc. etc. Everyone would lose.
'Shut up!' I yelled, without really knowing what I was saying.
I knew neither of the girls. I'm not the saviour of the world and, to be perfectly honest, young people find the occasional fight stimulating, but I couldn't help myself.
'Stop it!' I shouted again at the pretty young woman, who now had the other equally pretty young woman by the throat. She shot me a furious glance. Then, suddenly, something changed. She smiled, although she still had her hands around her colleague's throat.
'You forgot to say “please”,' she said. Everyone laughed. 'Stop,' I asked again. 'Please.'
She released the other girl and came over to me. All heads turned to watch. 'You have excellent manners. Do you also have a cigarette?'
I offered her my pack of cigarettes, and we went outside for a smoke. She had gone from outrage to nonchalance, and minutes later, she was laughing, discussing the weather, and asking if I liked this or that pop group. I heard the bell ringing for class and solemnly ignored the rule I'd been brought up to obey all my life: do your duty. I stayed there chatting, as if there were no university, no fights, no canteens, no wind or cold or sun. There was only that young woman with the grey eyes, saying the most boring and pointless things, but capable, nonetheless, of holding my interest for the rest of my life.
Two hours later, we were having lunch together. Seven hours later, we were in a
bar, having supper and drinking whatever our limited budgets allowed us to eat and drink. Our conversations grew ever more profound, and in a short space of time, I knew practically everything about her life – Athena recounted details of her childhood and adolescence with no prompting from me. Later, I realised she was the same with everyone, but, that day, I felt like the most important man on the face of the Earth.
She had come to London fleeing the civil war that had broken out in Lebanon. Her father, a Maronite Christian (Editor's note: a branch of the Catholic Church, which, although it comes under the authority of the Vatican, does not require priests to be celibate and uses both Middle Eastern and Orthodox rituals), had started to receive death threats because he worked for the Lebanese government, but despite this, he couldn't make up his mind to leave and go into exile. Then Athena, overhearing a phone conversation, decided that it was time she grew up, that she assumed her filial responsibilities and protected those she loved.
She performed a kind of dance and pretended that she'd gone into a trance (she had learned all about this kind of thing at school when she studied the lives of the saints), and started making various pronouncements. I don't know how a mere child could possibly persuade adults to make decisions based on what she said, but that, according to Athena, was precisely what happened. Her father was very superstitious, and she was convinced that she'd saved the lives of her family.
They arrived here as refugees, but not as beggars. The Lebanese community is scattered all over the world, and her father soon found a way of re-establishing his business, and life went on. Athena was able to study at good schools, she attended dance classes – because dance was her passion – and when she'd finished at secondary school, she chose to take a degree in engineering.
Once they were living in London, her parents invited her out to supper at one of the most expensive restaurants in the city, and explained, very carefully, that she had been adopted. Athena pretended to be surprised, hugged them both, and said that nothing would change their relationship.
The truth was, though, that a friend of the family, in a moment of malice, had
called her 'an ungrateful orphan' and put her lack of manners down to the fact that she was 'not her parents' “real” daughter'. She had hurled an ashtray at him cutting his face, and then cried for two whole days, after which she quickly got used to the idea that she was adopted. The malicious family friend was left with an unexplained scar and took to saying that he'd been attacked in the street by muggers.
I asked if she would like to go out with me the next day. She told me that she was a virgin, went to church on Sundays, and had no interest in romantic novels – she was more concerned with reading everything she could about the situation in the Middle East.
She was, in short, busy. Very busy.
'People think that a woman's only dream is to get married and have children. And given what I've told you, you probably think that I've suffered a lot in life. It's not true, and, besides, I've been there already. I've known other men who wanted to “protect” me from all those tragedies. What they forget is that, from Ancient Greece on, the people who returned from battle were either dead on their shields or stronger, despite or because of their scars. It's better that way: I've lived on a battlefield since I was born, but I'm still alive and I don't need anyone to protect me.'
She paused.
'You see how cultured I am?'
'Oh, very, but when you attack someone weaker than yourself, you make it look as if you really do need protection. You could have ruined your university career right there and then.'
'You're right. OK, I accept the invitation.'
We started seeing each other regularly, and the closer I got to her, the more I discovered my own light, because she always encouraged me to give the best of
myself. She had never read any books on magic or esoterics. She said they were things of the Devil, and that salvation was only possible through Jesus – end of story. Sometimes, though, she said things that didn't seem entirely in keeping with the teachings of the Church.
'Christ surrounded himself with beggars, prostitutes, tax-collectors and fishermen. I think what he meant by this was that the divine spark is in every soul and is never extinguished. When I sit still, or when I'm feeling very agitated, I feel as if I were vibrating along with the whole Universe. And I know things then that I don't know, as if God were guiding my steps. There are moments when I feel that everything is being revealed to me.'
faith.
Then she would correct herself: 'But that's wrong.'
Athena always lived between two worlds: what she felt was true and what she had been taught by her
One day, after almost a semester of equations, calculations and structural studies, she announced that she was going to leave university.
'But you've never said anything to me about it!' I said.
'I was even afraid of talking about it to myself, but this morning I went to see my hairdresser. She worked day and night so that her daughter could finish her sociology degree. The daughter finally graduated and, after knocking on many doors, found work as a secretary at a cement works. Yet even today, my hairdresser said very proudly: “My daughter's got a degree.” Most of my parents' friends and most of my parents' friends' children, also have degrees. This doesn't mean that they've managed to find the kind of work they wanted. Not at all; they went to university because someone, at a time when universities seemed important, said that, in order to rise in the world, you had to have a degree. And thus the world was deprived of some excellent gardeners, bakers, antique dealers, sculptors and writers.'
I asked her to give it some more thought before taking such a radical step, but she quoted these lines by Robert Frost:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
The following day, she didn't turn up for class. At our following meeting, I asked what she was going to do.
'I'm going to get married and have a baby.'
This wasn't an ultimatum. I was twenty, she was nineteen, and I thought it was still too early to take on such a commitment.
But Athena was quite serious. And I needed to choose between losing the one thing that really filled my thoughts – my love for that woman – and losing my freedom and all the choices that the future promised me.
To be honest, the decision was easy.
Father Giancarlo Fontana, 72
Of course I was surprised when the couple, both of them much too young, came to the church to arrange the wedding ceremony. I hardly knew Lukás Jessen-Petersen, but that same day, I learned that his family – obscure aristocrats from Denmark – were totally opposed to the union. They weren't just against the marriage, they were against the Church as well.
According to his father – who based himself on frankly unanswerable scientific arguments – the Bible, on which the whole religion is based, wasn't really a book, but a collage of sixty-six different manuscripts, the real name or identity of whose authors is unknown; he said that almost a thousand years elapsed between the writing of the first book and the last, longer than the time that has elapsed since Columbus discovered America. And no living being on the planet – from monkeys down to parrots – needs ten commandments in order to know how to behave. All
that it takes for the world to remain in harmony is for each being to follow the laws of nature.
Naturally, I read the Bible and know a little of its history, but the human beings who wrote it were instruments of Divine Power, and Jesus forged a far stronger bond than the ten commandments: love. Birds and monkeys, or any of God's creatures, obey their instincts and merely do what they're programmed to do. In the case of the human being, things are more complicated because we know about love and its traps.
Oh dear, here I am making a sermon, when I should be telling you about my meeting with Athena and Lukás. While I was talking to the young man – and I say talking, because we don't share the same faith, and I'm not, therefore, bound by the secret of the confessional – I learned that, as well as the household's general anticlericalism, there was a lot of resistance to Athena because she was a foreigner. I felt like quoting from the Bible, from a part that isn't a profession of faith, but a call to common sense:
'Thou shalt not abhor an Edomite, for he is thy brother; thou shalt not abhor an Egyptian, because thou wast a stranger in his land.'
I'm sorry, there I am quoting the Bible again, and I promise I'll try to control myself from now on. After talking to the young man, I spent at least two hours with Sherine, or Athena as she preferred to be called.
Athena had always intrigued me. Ever since she first started coming to the church, it seemed to me that she had one clear ambition: to become a saint. She told me – although her fiancé didn't know this – that shortly before civil war broke out in Beirut, she'd had an experience very similar to that of St Thérèse of Lisieux: she had seen the streets running with blood. One could attribute this to some trauma in childhood or adolescence, but the fact is that, to a greater or lesser extent, all creative human beings have such experiences, which are known as 'possession by the sacred'. Suddenly, for a fraction of a second, we feel that our whole life is justified, our sins forgiven, and that love is still the strongest force, one that can transform us forever.
But, at the same time, we feel afraid. Surrendering completely to love, be it human or divine, means giving up everything, including our own well-being or our ability to make decisions. It means loving in the deepest sense of the word. The truth is that we don't want to be saved in the way God has chosen; we want to keep absolute control over our every step, to be fully conscious of our decisions, to be capable of choosing the object of our devotion.
It isn't like that with love – it arrives, moves in and starts directing everything. Only very strong souls allow themselves to be swept along, and Athena was a strong soul. So strong that she spent hours in deep contemplation. She had a special gift for music; they say that she danced very well too, but since the church isn't really the appropriate place for that, she used to bring her guitar each morning and spend some time there singing to the Holy Virgin before going off to her classes.
I can still remember the first time I heard her. I'd just finished celebrating morning mass with the few parishioners prepared to get up that early on a winter's morning, when I realised that I'd forgotten to collect the money left in the offering box. When I went back in, I heard some music that made me see everything differently, as if the atmosphere had been touched by the hand of an angel. In one corner, in a kind of ecstasy, a young woman of about twenty sat playing her guitar and singing hymns of praise, with her eyes fixed on the statue of the Holy Virgin.
I went over to the offering box. She noticed my presence and stopped what she was doing, but I nodded to her, encouraging her to go on. Then I sat down on one of the pews, closed my eyes and listened.
At that moment, a sense of Paradise, of 'possession by the sacred', seemed to descend from the heavens. As if she understood what was going on in my heart, the young woman began to intersperse music with silence. Each time she stopped playing, I would say a prayer. Then the music would start up again.
And I was conscious that I was experiencing something unforgettable, one of those magical moments which we only understand when it has passed. I was entirely in the present, with no past, no future, absorbed in experiencing the
morning, the music, the sweetness and the unexpected prayer. I entered a state of worship and ecstasy and gratitude for being in the world, glad that I'd followed my vocation despite my family's opposition. In the simplicity of that small chapel, in the voice of that young woman, in the morning light flooding everything, I understood once again that the grandeur of God reveals itself through simple things.
After many tears on my part and after what seemed to me an eternity, the young woman stopped playing. I turned round and realised that she was one of my parishioners. After that, we became friends, and whenever we could, we shared in that worship through music.
However, the idea of marriage took me completely by surprise. Since we knew each other fairly well, I asked how she thought her husband's family would react.
'Badly, very badly.'
As tactfully as I could, I asked if, for any reason, she was being forced into marriage. 'No, I'm still a virgin. I'm not pregnant.'
I asked if she'd told her own family, and she said that she had, and that their reaction had been one of horror, accompanied by tears from her mother and threats from her father.
'When I come here to praise the Virgin with my music, I'm not bothered about what other people might think, I'm simply sharing my feelings with Her. And that's how it's always been, ever since I was old enough to think for myself. I'm a vessel in which the Divine Energy can make itself manifest. And that energy is asking me now to have a child, so that I can give it what my birth mother never gave me: protection and security.'
'No one is secure on this Earth,' I replied. She still had a long future ahead of her; there was plenty of time for the miracle of creation to occur. However, Athena was determined:
'St Thérèse didn't rebel against the illness that afflicted her, on the contrary, she saw it as a sign of God's Glory. St Thérèse was only fifteen, much younger than me, when she decided to enter a convent. She was forbidden to do so, but she insisted. She decided to go and speak to the Pope himself – can you imagine? To speak to the Pope! And she got what she wanted. That same Glory is asking something far simpler and far more generous of me – to become a mother. If I wait much longer, I won't be able to be a companion to my child, the age difference will be too great, and we won't share the same interests.'
She wouldn't be alone in that, I said.
But Athena continued as if she wasn't listening:
'I'm only happy when I think that God exists and is listening to me; but that isn't enough to go on living, when nothing seems to make sense. I pretend a happiness I don't feel; I hide my sadness so as not to worry those who love me and care about me. Recently, I've even considered suicide. At night, before I go to sleep, I have long conversations with myself, praying for this idea to go away; it would be such an act of ingratitude, an escape, a way of spreading tragedy and misery over the Earth. In the mornings, I come here to talk to St Thérèse and to ask her to free me from the demons I speak to at night. It's worked so far, but
I'm beginning to weaken. I know I have a mission which I've long rejected, and now I must accept it. That mission is to be a mother. I must carry out that mission or go mad. If I don't feel life growing inside me, I'll never be able to accept life outside me.'
Lukás Jessen-Petersen, ex-husband
When Viorel was born, I had just turned twenty-two. I was no longer the student who had married a fellow student, but a man responsible for supporting his family, and with an enormous burden on my shoulders. My parents, who didn't even come to the wedding, made any financial help conditional on my leaving Athena and gaining custody of the child (or, rather, that's what my father said, because my
mother used to phone me up, weeping, saying I must be mad, but saying, too, how much she'd like to hold her grandson in her arms). I hoped that, as they came to understand my love for Athena and my determination to stay with her, their resistance would gradually break down.
It didn't. And now I had to provide for my wife and child. I abandoned my studies at the Engineering Faculty. I got a phone-call from my father, a mixture of stick and carrot: he said that if I continued as I was, I'd end up being disinherited, but that if I went back to university, he'd consider helping me, in his words, 'provisionally'. I refused. The romanticism of youth demands that we always take very radical stances. I could, I said, solve my problems alone.
During the time before Viorel was born, Athena began helping me to understand myself better. This didn't happen through sex – our sexual relationship was, I must confess, very tentative – but through music.
As I later learned, music is as old as human beings. Our ancestors, who travelled from cave to cave, couldn't carry many things, but modern archaeology shows that, as well as the little they might have with them in the way of food, there was always a musical instrument in their baggage, usually a drum. Music isn't just something that comforts or distracts us, it goes beyond that – it's an ideology. You can judge people by the kind of music they listen to.
As I watched Athena dance during her pregnancy and listened to her play the guitar to calm the baby and make him feel that he was loved, I began to allow her way of seeing the world to affect my life too. When Viorel was born, the first thing we did when we brought him home was to play Albinoni's Adagio. When we quarrelled, it was the force of music – although I can't make any logical connection between the two things, except in some kind of hippyish way – that helped us get through difficult times.
But all this romanticism didn't bring in the money. Since I played no instrument and couldn't even offer my services as background music in a bar, I finally got a job as a trainee with a firm of architects, doing structural calculations. They paid me a very low hourly rate, and so I would leave the house very early each morning
and come home late. I hardly saw my son, who would be sleeping by then, and I was almost too exhausted to talk or make love to my wife. Every night, I asked myself: when will we be able to improve our financial situation and live in the style we deserve? Although I largely agreed with Athena when she talked about the pointlessness of having a degree, in engineering (and law and medicine, for example), there are certain basic technical facts that are essential if we're not to put people's lives at risk. And I'd been forced to interrupt my training in my chosen profession, which meant abandoning a dream that was very important to me.
The rows began. Athena complained that I didn't pay enough attention to the baby, that he needed a father, that if she'd simply wanted a child, she could have done that on her own, without causing me all these problems. More than once, I slammed out of the house, saying that she didn't understand me, and that I didn't understand either how I'd ever agreed to the 'madness' of having a child at twenty, before we had even a minimum of financial security. Gradually, out of sheer exhaustion and irritation, we stopped making love.
I began to slide into depression, feeling that I'd been used and manipulated by the woman I loved. Athena noticed my increasingly strange state of mind, but, instead of helping me, she focused her energies on Viorel and on music. Work became my escape. I would occasionally talk to my parents, and they would always say, as they had so many times before, that she'd had the baby in order to get me to marry her. She also became increasingly religious. She insisted on having our son baptised with a name she herself had decided on – Viorel, a Romanian name. Apart from a few immigrants, I doubt that anyone else in England is called Viorel, but I thought it showed imagination on her part, and I realised, too, that she was making some strange connection with a past she'd never known – her days in the orphanage in Sibiu.
I tried to be adaptable, but I felt I was losing Athena because of the child. Our arguments became more frequent, and she threatened to leave because she feared that Viorel was picking up the 'negative energy' from our quarrels. One night, when she made this threat again, I was the one who left, thinking that I'd go back as soon as I'd calmed down a bit.
I started wandering aimlessly round London, cursing the life I'd chosen, the child I'd agreed to have, and the wife who seemed to have no further interest in me. I went into the first bar I came to, near a Tube station, and downed four glasses of whisky. When the bar closed at eleven, I searched out one of those shops that stay open all night, bought more whisky, sat down on a bench in a square and continued drinking. A group of youths approached me and asked to share the bottle with me. When I refused, they attacked me. The police arrived, and we were all carted off to the police station.
I was released after making a statement. I didn't bring any charges, saying that it had been nothing but a silly disagreement; after all, I didn't want to spend months appearing at various courts, as the victim of an attack. I was still so drunk that, just as I was about to leave, I stumbled and fell sprawling across an inspector's desk. The inspector was angry, but instead of arresting me on the spot for insulting a police officer, he threw me out into the street.
And there was one of my attackers, who thanked me for not taking the case any further. He pointed out that I was covered in mud and blood and suggested I get a change of clothes before returning home. Instead of going on my way, I asked him to do me a favour: to listen to me, because I desperately needed to talk to someone.
For an hour, he listened in silence to my woes. I wasn't really talking to him, but to myself: a young man with his whole life before him, with a possibly brilliant career ahead of him – as well as a family with the necessary contacts to open many doors
– but who now looked like a beggar – drunk, tired, depressed and penniless. And all because of a woman who didn't even pay me any attention.
By the end of my story I had a clearer view of my situation: a life which I had chosen in the belief that love conquers all. And it isn't true. Sometimes love carries us into the abyss, taking with us, to make matters worse, the people we love. In my case, I was well on the way to destroying not only my life, but Athena's and Viorel's too.
At that moment, I said to myself once again that I was a man, not the boy who'd
been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and that I'd faced with dignity all the challenges that had been placed before me. Athena was already asleep, with the baby in her arms. I took a bath, went outside again to throw my dirty clothes in the bin, and lay down, feeling strangely sober.
The next day, I told Athena that I wanted a divorce. She asked me why.
'Because I love you. Because I love Viorel. And because all I've done is to blame you both because I had to give up my dream of becoming an engineer. If we'd waited a little, things would have been different, but you were only thinking about your plans and forgot to include me in them.'
Athena said nothing, as if she had been expecting this, or as if she had unconsciously been provoking such a response.
My heart was bleeding because I was hoping that she'd ask me, please, to stay. But she seemed calm and resigned, concerned only that the baby might hear our conversation. It was then that I felt sure she had never loved me, and that I had merely been the instrument for the realisation of her mad dream to have a baby at nineteen.
I told her that she could keep the house and the furniture, but she wouldn't hear of it. She'd stay with her parents for a while, then look for a job and rent her own apartment. She asked if I could help out financially with Viorel, and I agreed at once.
I got up, gave her one last, long kiss and insisted again that she should stay in the house, but she repeated her resolve to go to her parents' house as soon as she'd packed up all her things. I stayed at a cheap hotel and waited every night for her to phone me, asking me to come back and start a new life. I was even prepared to continue the old life if necessary, because that separation had made me realise that there was nothing and no one more important in the world than my wife and child.
A week later, I finally got that call. All she said, however, was that she'd cleared out all her things and wouldn't be going back. Two weeks after that, I learned that
she'd rented a small attic flat in Basset Road, where she had to carry the baby up three flights of stairs every day. A few months later, we signed the divorce papers.
My real family left forever. And the family I'd been born into received me with open arms.
After my separation from Athena and the great suffering that followed, I wondered if I hadn't made a bad, irresponsible decision, typical of people who've read lots of love stories in their adolescence and desperately want to repeat the tale of Romeo and Juliet. When the pain abated – and time is the only cure for that – I saw that life had allowed me to meet the one woman I would ever be capable of loving. Each second spent by her side had been worthwhile, and given the chance, despite all that had happened, I would do the same thing over again.
But time, as well as healing all wounds, taught me something strange too: that it's possible to love more than one person in a lifetime. I remarried. I'm very happy with my new wife, and I can't imagine living without her. This, however, doesn't mean that I have to renounce all my past experiences, as long as I'm careful not to compare my two lives. You can't measure love the way you can the length of a road or the height of a building.
Something very important remained from my relationship with Athena: a son, her great dream, of which she spoke so frankly before we decided to get married. I have another child by my second wife, and I'm better prepared for all the highs and lows of fatherhood than I was twelve years ago.
Once, when I went to fetch Viorel and bring him back to spend the weekend with me, I decided to ask her why she'd reacted so calmly when I told her I wanted a separation.
'Because all my life I've learned to suffer in silence,' she replied.
And only then did she put her arms around me and cry out all the tears she would like to have shed on that day.
Father Giancarlo Fontana
I saw her when she arrived for Sunday mass, with the baby in her arms as usual. I knew that she and Lukás were having difficulties, but, until that week, these had all seemed merely the sort of misunderstandings that all couples have, and since both of them were people who radiated goodness, I hoped that, sooner or later, they would resolve their differences.
It had been a whole year since she last visited the church in the morning to play her guitar and praise the Virgin. She devoted herself to looking after Viorel, whom I had the honour to baptise, although I must admit I know of no saint with that name. However, she still came to mass every Sunday, and we always talked afterwards, when everyone else had left. She said I was her only friend. Together we had shared in divine worship, now, though, it was her earthly problems she needed to share with me.
She loved Lukás more than any man she had ever met; he was her son's father, the person she had chosen to spend her life with, someone who had given up everything and had courage enough to start a family. When the difficulties started, she tried to convince him that it was just a phase, that she had to devote herself to their son, but that she had no intention of turning Viorel into a spoiled brat. Soon she would let him face certain of life's challenges alone. After that, she would go back to being the wife and woman he'd known when they first met, possibly with even more intensity, because now she had a better understanding of the duties and responsibilities that came with the choice she'd made. Lukás still felt rejected; she tried desperately to divide herself between her husband and her child, but she was always obliged to choose, and when that happened, she never hesitated: she chose Viorel.
Drawing on my scant knowledge of psychology, I said that this wasn't the first time I'd heard such a story, and that in such situations men do tend to feel rejected, but that it soon passes. I'd heard about similar problems in conversations with my other parishioners. During one of our talks, Athena acknowledged that she had perhaps been rather precipitate; the romance of being a young mother had blinded her to the real challenges that arise after the birth of a child. But it was too late
now for regrets.
She asked if I could talk to Lukás, who never came to church, perhaps because he didn't believe in God or perhaps because he preferred to spend his Sunday mornings with his son. I agreed to do so, as long as he came of his own accord. Just when Athena was about to ask him this favour, the major crisis occurred, and he left her and Viorel.
I advised her to be patient, but she was deeply hurt. She'd been abandoned once in childhood, and all the hatred she felt for her birth mother was automatically transferred to Lukás, although later, I understand, they became good friends again. For Athena, breaking family ties was possibly the gravest sin anyone could commit.
She continued attending church on Sundays, but always went straight back home afterwards. She had no one now with whom to leave her son, who cried lustily throughout mass, disturbing everyone else'sconcentration. On one of the rare occasions when we could speak, she said that she was working for a bank, had rented an apartment, and that I needn't worry about her. Viorel's father (she never mentioned her husband's name now) was fulfilling his financial obligations.
Then came that fateful Sunday.
I learned what had happened during the week – one of the parishioners told me. I spent several nights praying for an angel to bring me inspiration and tell me whether I should keep my commitment to the Church or to flesh-and-blood men and women. When no angel appeared, I contacted my superior, and he said that the only reason the Church has survived is because it's always been rigid about dogma, and if it started making exceptions, we'd be back in the Middle Ages. I knew exactly what was going to happen. I thought of phoning Athena, but she hadn't given me her new number.
That morning, my hands were trembling as I lifted up the host and blessed the bread. I spoke the words that had come down to me through a thousand-year-old tradition, using the power passed on from generation to generation by the apostles. But then my thoughts turned to that young woman with her child in her
arms, a kind of Virgin Mary, the miracle of motherhood and love made manifest in abandonment and solitude, and who had just joined the line as she always did, and was slowly approaching in order to take communion.
I think most of the congregation knew what was happening. And they were all watching me, waiting for my reaction. I saw myself surrounded by the just, by sinners, by Pharisees, by members of the Sanhedrin, by apostles and disciples and people with good intentions and bad.
Athena stood before me and repeated the usual gesture: she closed her eyes and opened her mouth to receive the Body of Christ.
The Body of Christ remained in my hands.
She opened her eyes, unable to understand what was going on. 'We'll talk later,' I whispered.
But she didn't move.
'There are people behind you in the queue. We'll talk later.'
'What's going on?' she asked, and everyone in the line could hear her question. 'We'll talk later.'
'Why won't you give me communion? Can't you see you're humiliating me in front of everyone? Haven't I been through enough already?'
'Athena, the Church forbids divorced people from receiving the sacrament. You signed your divorce papers this week. We'll talk later,' I said again.
When she still didn't move, I beckoned to the person behind her to come forward. I continued giving communion until the last parishioner had received it. And it was then, just before I turned to the altar, that I heard that voice.
It was no longer the voice of the girl who sang her worship of the Virgin Mary, who talked about her plans, who was so moved when she shared with me what she'd learned about the lives of the saints, and who almost wept when she spoke to me about her marital problems. It was the voice of a wounded, humiliated animal, its heart full of loathing.
'A curse on this place!' said the voice. 'A curse on all those who never listened to the words of Christ and who have transformed his message into a stone building. For Christ said: “Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Well, I'm heavy laden, and they won't let me come to Him. Today I've learned that the Church has changed those words to read: “Come unto me all ye who follow our rules, and let the heavy laden go hang!”'
I heard one of the women in the front row of pews telling her to be quiet. But I wanted to hear. I needed to hear. I turned to her, my head bowed – it was all I could do.
'I swear that I will never set foot in a church ever again. Once more, I've been abandoned by a family, and this time it has nothing to do with financial difficulties or with the immaturity of those who marry too young. A curse upon all those who slam the door in the face of a mother and her child! You're just like those people who refused to take in the Holy Family, like those who denied Christ when he most needed a friend!'
With that, she turned and left in tears, her baby in her arms. I finished the service, gave the final blessing and went straight to the sacristy – that Sunday, there would be no mingling with the faithful, no pointless conversations. That Sunday, I was faced by a philosophical dilemma: I had chosen to respect the institution rather than the words on which that institution was based.
I'm getting old now, and God could take me at any moment. I've remained faithful to my religion and I believe that, for all its errors, it really is trying to put things right. This will take decades, possibly centuries, but one day, all that will matter is love and Christ's words: 'Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' I've devoted my entire life to the priesthood and I don't regret
my decision for one second. However, there are times, like that Sunday, when, although I didn't doubt my faith, I did doubt men.
I know now what happened to Athena, and I wonder: Did it all start there, or was it already in her soul? I think of the many Athenas and Lukáses in the world who are divorced and because of that can no longer receive the sacrament of the Eucharist; all they can do is contemplate the suffering, crucified Christ and listen to His words, words that are not always in accord with the laws of the Vatican. In a few cases, these people leave the church, but the majority continue coming to mass on Sundays, because that's what they're used to, even though they know that the miracle of the transmutation of the bread and the wine into the flesh and the blood of the Lord is forbidden to them.
I like to imagine that, when she left the church, Athena met Jesus. Weeping and confused, she would have thrown herself into his arms, asking him to explain why she was being excluded just because of a piece of paper she'd signed, something of no importance on the spiritual plane, and which was of interest only to registry offices and the tax man.
And looking at Athena, Jesus might have replied:
'My child, I've been excluded too. It's a very long time since they've allowed me in there.'
Pavel Podbielski, 57, owner of the apartment
Athena and I had one thing in common: we were both refugees from a war and arrived in England when we were still children, although I fled Poland over fifty years ago. We both knew that, despite that physical change, our traditions continue to exist in exile – communities join together again, language and religion remain alive, and in a place that will always be foreign to them, people tend to look after each other.
Traditions continue, but the desire to go back gradually disappears. That desire
needs to stay alive in our hearts as a hope with which we like to delude ourselves, but it will never be put into practice; I'll never go back to live in Czêstochowa, and Athena and her family will never return to Beirut.
It was this kind of solidarity that made me rent her the third floor of my house in Basset Road normally, I'd prefer tenants without children. I'd made that mistake before, and two things had happened: I complained about the noise they made during the day, and they complained about the noise I made during the night. Both noises had their roots in sacred elements – crying and music – but they belonged to two completely different worlds and it was hard for them to coexist.
I warned her, but she didn't really take it in, and told me not to worry about her son. He spent all day at his grandmother's house anyway, and the apartment was conveniently close to her work at a local bank.
Despite my warnings, and despite holding out bravely at first, eight days later the doorbell rang. It was Athena, with her child in her arms.
'My son can't sleep. Couldn't you turn the music down at least for one night?' Everyone in the room stared at her.
'What's going on?'
The child immediately stopped crying, as if he were as surprised as his mother to see that group of people, who had stopped in mid-dance.
I pressed the pause button on the cassette player and beckoned her in. Then I restarted the music so as not to interrupt the ritual. Athena sat down in one corner of the room, rocking her child in her arms and watching him drift off to sleep despite the noise of drums and brass. She stayed for the whole ceremony and left along with the other guests, but – as I thought she would – she rang my doorbell the next morning, before going to work.
'You don't have to explain what I saw – people dancing with their eyes closed – because I know what that means. I often do the same myself, and at the moment,
those are the only times of peace and serenity in my life. Before I became a mother, I used to go to clubs with my husband and my friends, and I'd see people dancing with their eyes closed there too. Some were just trying to look cool, and others seemed to be genuinely moved by a greater, more powerful force. And ever since I've been old enough to think for myself, I've always used dance as a way of getting in touch with something stronger and more powerful than myself. Anyway, could you tell me what that music was?'
'What are you doing this Sunday?'
'Nothing special. I might go for a walk with Viorel in Regent's Park and get some fresh air. I'll have plenty of time later on for a social calendar of my own; for the moment, I've decided to follow my son's.' 'I'll come with you, if you like.'
On the two nights before our walk, Athena came to watch the ritual. Her son fell asleep after only a few minutes, and she merely watched what was going on around her without saying a word. She sat quite still on the sofa, but I was sure that her soul was dancing.
On Sunday afternoon, while we were walking in the park, I asked her to pay attention to everything she was seeing and hearing: the leaves moving in the breeze, the waves on the lake, the birds singing, the dogs barking, the shouts of children as they ran back and forth, as if obeying some strange logic, incomprehensible to grown-ups.
'Everything moves, and everything moves to a rhythm. And everything that moves to a rhythm creates a sound. At this moment, the same thing is happening here and everywhere else in the world. Our ancestors noticed the same thing when they tried to escape from the cold into caves: things moved and made noise. The first human beings may have been frightened by this at first, but that fear was soon replaced by a sense of awe: they understood that this was the way in which some Superior Being was communicating with them. In the hope of reciprocating that communication, they started imitating the sounds and movements around them – and thus dance and music were born. A few days ago, you told me that dance puts you in touch with something stronger than yourself.'
'Yes, when I dance, I'm a free woman, or, rather, a free spirit who can travel through the universe, contemplate the present, divine the future, and be transformed into pure energy. And that gives me enormous pleasure, a joy that always goes far beyond everything I've experienced or will experience in my lifetime. There was a time when I was determined to become a saint, praising God through music and movement, but that path is closed to me forever now.'
'Which path do you mean?'
She made her son more comfortable in his pushchair. I saw that she didn't want to answer that question and so I asked again: when mouths close, it's because there's something important to be said.
Without a flicker of emotion, as if she'd always had to endure in silence the things life imposed on her, she told me about what had happened at the church, when the priest – possibly her only friend – had refused her communion. She also told me about the curse she had uttered then, and that she had left the Catholic Church forever.
'A saint is someone who lives his or her life with dignity,' I explained. 'All we have to do is understand that we're all here for a reason and to commit ourselves to that. Then we can laugh at our sufferings, large and small, and walk fearlessly, aware that each step has meaning. We can let ourselves be guided by the light emanating from the Vertex.'
'What do you mean by the Vertex? In mathematics, it's the topmost angle of a triangle.'
'In life, too, it's the culminating point, the goal of all those who, like everyone else, make mistakes, but who, even in their darkest moments, never lose sight of the light emanating from their hearts. That's what we're trying to do in our group. The Vertex is hidden inside us, and we can reach it if we accept it and recognise its light.'
I explained that I'd come up with the name 'the search for the Vertex' for the dance she'd watched on previous nights, performed by people of all ages (at the time there were ten of us, aged between nineteen and sixty-five). Athena asked where I'd found out about it.
I told her that, immediately after the end of the Second World War, some of my family had managed to escape from the Communist regime that was taking over Poland, and decided to move to England. They'd been advised to bring with them art objects and antiquarian books, which, they were told, were highly valued in this part of the world.
Paintings and sculptures were quickly sold, but the books remained, gathering dust. My mother was keen for me to read and speak Polish, and the books formed part of my education. One day, inside a nineteenth-century edition of Thomas Malthus, I found two pages of notes written by my grandfather, who had died in a concentration camp. I started reading, assuming it would be something to do with an inheritance or else a passionate letter intended for a secret lover, because it was said that he'd fallen in love with someone in Russia.
There was, in fact, some truth in this. The pages contained a description of his journey to Siberia during the Communist revolution. There, in the remote village of Diedov, he fell in love with an actress. (Editor's note: It has not been possible to locate this village on the map. The name may have been deliberately changed, or the place itself may have disappeared after Stalin'sforced migrations.) According to my grandfather, the actress was part of a sect, who believed that they had found the remedy for all ills through a particular kind of dance, because the dance brought the dancer into contact with the light from the Vertex.
They feared that the tradition would disappear; the inhabitants of the village were soon to be transported to another place. Both the actress and her friends begged him to write down what they had learned. He did, but clearly didn't think it was of much importance, because he left his notes inside a book, and there they remained until the day I found them.
Athena broke in:
'But dance isn't something you write about, you have to do it.'
'Exactly. All the notes say is this: Dance to the point of exhaustion, as if you were a mountaineer climbing a hill, a sacred mountain. Dance until you are so out of breath that your organism is forced to obtain oxygen some other way, and it is that, in the end, which will cause you to lose your identity and your relationship with space and time. Dance only to the sound of percussion; repeat the process every day; know that, at a certain moment, your eyes will, quite naturally, close, and you will begin to see a light that comes from within, a light that answers your questions and develops your hidden powers.'
'Have you developed some special power?'
Instead of replying, I suggested that she join our group, since her son seemed perfectly at ease even when the noise of the cymbals and the other percussion instruments was at its loudest. The following day, at the usual time, she was there for the start of the session. I introduced her to my friends, explaining that she was my upstairs neighbour. No one said anything about their lives or asked her what she did. When the moment came, I turned on the music and we began to dance.
She started dancing with the child in her arms, but he soon fell asleep, and she put him down on the sofa. Before I closed my eyes and went into a trance, I saw that she had understood exactly what I meant by the path of the Vertex.
Every day, except Sunday, she was there with the child. We would exchange a few words of welcome, then I would put on the music a friend of mine had brought from the Russian steppes, and we would all dance to the point of exhaustion. After a month of this, she asked me for a copy of the tape.
'I'd like to do the dancing in the morning, before I leave Viorel at my Mum's house and go to work.' I tried to dissuade her.
'I don't know, I think a group that's connected by the same energy creates a kind of aura that helps everyone get into the trance state. Besides, doing the dancing before you go to work is just asking to get the sack, because you'll be exhausted all
day.'
Athena thought for a moment, then said:
'You're absolutely right when you talk about collective energy. In your group, for example, there are four couples and your wife. All of them have found love. That's why they can share such a positive vibration with me. But I'm on my own, or, rather, I'm with my son, but he can't yet manifest his love in a way we can understand. So I'd prefer to accept my loneliness. If I try to run away from it now, I'll never find a partner again. If I accept it, rather than fight against it, things might change. I've noticed that loneliness gets stronger when we try to face it down, but gets weaker when we simply ignore it.'
'Did you join our group in search of love?'
'That would be a perfectly good reason, I think, but the answer is “No”. I came in search of a meaning for my life, because, at present, its only meaning is my son, Viorel, and I'm afraid I might end up destroying him, either by being over-protective or by projecting onto him the dreams I've never managed to realise. Then one night, while I was dancing, I felt that I'd been cured. If we were talking about some physical ailment, we'd probably call it a miracle, but it was a spiritual malaise that was making me unhappy, and suddenly it vanished.'
I knew what she meant.
'No one taught me to dance to the sound of that music,' Athena went on, 'but I have a feeling I know what I'm doing.'
'It's not something you have to learn. Remember our walk in the park and what we saw there? Nature creating its own rhythms and adapting itself to each moment.'
'No one taught me how to love either, but I loved God, I loved my husband, I love my son and my family. And yet still there's something missing. Although I get tired when I'm dancing, when I stop, I seem to be in a state of grace, of profound ecstasy. I want that ecstasy to last throughout the day and for it to help me find what I lack: the love of a man. I can see the heart of that man while I'm dancing,
but not his face. I sense that he's close by, which is why I need to remain alert. I need to dance in the morning so that I can spend the rest of the day paying attention to everything that's going on around me.'
'Do you know what the word “ecstasy” means? It comes from the Greek and means, “to stand outside yourself”. Spending the whole day outside yourself is asking too much of body and soul.'
'I'd like to try anyway.'
I saw that there was no point arguing and so I made her a copy of the tape. And from then on, I woke every morning to the sound of music and dancing upstairs, and I wondered how she could face her work at the bank after almost an hour of being in a trance. When we bumped into each other in the corridor, I suggested she come in for a coffee, and she told me that she'd made more copies of the tape and that many of her work colleagues were also now looking for the Vertex.
'Did I do wrong? Was it a secret?'
Of course it wasn't. On the contrary, she was helping me preserve a tradition that was almost lost. According to my grandfather's notes, one of the women said that a monk who visited the region had once told them that each of us contains our ancestors and all the generations to come. When we free ourselves, we are freeing all humanity.
'So all the men and women in that village in Siberia must be here now and very happy too. Their work is being reborn in this world, thanks to your grandfather. There's one thing I'd like to ask you: what made you decide to dance after you read those notes? If you'd read something about sport instead, would you have decided to become a footballer?'
This was a question no one had ever asked me.
'Because, at the time, I was ill. I was suffering from a rare form of arthritis, and the doctors told me that I should prepare myself for life in a wheelchair by the age of
thirty-five. I saw that I didn't have much time ahead of me and so I decided to devote myself to something I wouldn't be able to do later on. My grandfather had written on one of those small sheets of paper that the inhabitants of Diedov believed in the curative powers of trances.'
'And it seems they were right.'
I didn't say anything, but I wasn't so sure. Perhaps the doctors were wrong. Perhaps the fact of being from an immigrant family, unable to allow myself the luxury of being ill, acted with such force upon my unconscious mind that it provoked a natural reaction in my body. Or perhaps it really was a miracle, although that went totally against what my Catholic faith preaches: dance is not a cure.
I remember that, as an adolescent, I had no idea what the right music would sound like, and so I used to put on a black hood and imagine that everything around me had ceased to exist: my spirit would travel to Diedov, to be with those men and women, with my grandfather and his beloved actress. In the silence of my bedroom, I would ask them to teach me to dance, to go beyond my limits, because soon I would be paralysed forever. The more my body moved, the more brightly the light in my heart shone, and the more I learned – perhaps on my own, perhaps from the ghosts of the past. I even imagined the music they must have listened to during their rituals, and when a friend visited Siberia many years later, I asked him to bring me back some records. To my surprise, one of them was very similar to the music I had imagined would accompany the dancing in Diedov.
It was best to say nothing of all this to Athena; she was easily influenced and, I thought, slightly unstable.
'Perhaps what you're doing is right,' was all I said.
We talked again, shortly before her trip to the Middle East. She seemed contented, as if she'd found everything she wanted: love.
'My colleagues at work have formed a group, and they call themselves “the Pilgrims
of the Vertex”. And all thanks to your grandfather.'
'All thanks to you, you mean, because you felt the need to share the dance with others. I know you're leaving, but I'd like to thank you for giving another dimension to what I've been doing all these years in trying to spread the light to a few interested people, but always very tentatively, always afraid people might find the whole story ridiculous.'
'Do you know what I've learned? That although ecstasy is the ability to stand outside yourself, dance is a way of rising up into space, of discovering new dimensions while still remaining in touch with your body. When you dance, the spiritual world and the real world manage to coexist quite happily. I think classical dancers dance on pointes because they're simultaneously touching the earth and reaching up to the skies.'
As far as I can remember, those were her last words to me. During any dance to which we surrender with joy, the brain loses its controlling power, and the heart takes up the reins of the body. Only at that moment does the Vertex appear. As long as we believe in it, of course.
Peter Sherney, 47, manager of a branch of [name of Bank omitted] in Holland Park, London
I only took on Athena because her family was one of our most important customers; after all, the world revolves around mutual interests. She seemed a very restless person, and so I gave her a dull clerical post, hoping that she would soon resign. That way, I could tell her father that I'd done my best to help her, but without success.
My experience as a manager had taught me to recognise people's states of mind, even if they said nothing. On a management course I attended, we learned that if you wanted to get rid of someone, you should do everything you can to provoke them into rudeness, so that you would then have a perfectly good reason to dismiss them.
I did everything I could to achieve my objective with Athena. She didn't depend on her salary to live and would soon learn how pointless it was: having to get up early,
drop her son off at her mother's house, slave away all day at a repetitive job, pick her son up again, go to the supermarket, spend time with her son before putting him to bed, and then, the next day, spend another three hours on public transport, and all for no reason, when there were so many other more interesting ways of filling her days. She grew increasingly irritable, and I felt proud of my strategy. I would get what I wanted. She started complaining about the apartment where she lived, saying that her landlord kept her awake all night, playing really loud music.
Then, suddenly, something changed. At first, it was only Athena, but soon it was the whole branch. How did I notice this change? Well, a group of workers is like a kind of orchestra; a good manager is the conductor, and he knows who is out of tune, who is playing with real commitment, and who is simply following the crowd. Athena seemed to be playing her instrument without the least enthusiasm; she seemed distant, never sharing the joys and sadnesses of her personal life with her colleagues, letting it be known that, when she left work, her free time was entirely taken up with looking after her son. Then, suddenly, she became more relaxed, more communicative, telling anyone who would listen that she had discovered the secret of rejuvenation.
'Rejuvenation', of course, is a magic word. Coming from someone who was barely twenty-one, it sounded pretty ridiculous, and yet other members of staff believed her and started to ask her for the secret formula.
Her efficiency increased, even though her workload remained unchanged. Her colleagues, who, up until then, had never exchanged more than a 'Good morning' or a 'Goodnight' with her, started asking her out to lunch. When they came back, they seemed very pleased, and the department's productivity made a giant leap.
I know that people who are in love do have an effect on the environment in which they live, and so I immediately assumed that Athena must have met someone very important in her life.
I asked, and she agreed, adding that she'd never before gone out with a customer, but that, in this case, she'd been unable to refuse. Normally, this would have been grounds for immediate dismissal – the bank's rules are clear: personal contact with customers is forbidden. But, by then, I was aware that her behaviour had infected almost everyone else. Some of her colleagues started getting together with her after
work, and a few of them had, I believe, been to her house.
I had a very dangerous situation on my hands. The young trainee with no previous work experience, who up until then had seemed to veer between shyness and aggression, had become a kind of natural leader amongst my workers. If I fired her, they would think it was out ofjealousy, and I'd lose their respect. If I kept her on, I ran the risk, within a matter of months, of losing control of the group.
I decided to wait a little, but meanwhile, there was a definite increase in the 'energy' at the bank (I hate that word 'energy', because it doesn't really mean anything, unless you're talking about electricity). Anyway, our customers seemed much happier and were starting to recommend other people to come to us. The employees seemed happy too, and even though their workload had doubled, I didn't need to take on any more staff because they were all coping fine.
One day, I received a letter from my superiors. They wanted me to go to Barcelona for a group meeting, so that I could explain my management techniques to them. According to them, I had increased profit without increasing expenditure, and that, of course, is the only thing that interests executives everywhere.
But what techniques?
At least I knew where it had all started, and so I summoned Athena to my office. I complimented her on her excellent productivity levels, and she thanked me with a smile.
I proceeded cautiously, not wishing to be misinterpreted.
'And how's your boyfriend? I've always found that anyone who is loved has more love to give. What does he do?'
'He works for Scotland Yard.' (Editor's note: Police investigation department linked to London's Metropolitan Police.)
I preferred not to ask any further questions, but I needed to keep the conversation
going and I didn't have much time.
'I've noticed a great change in you and–' 'Have you noticed a change in the bank too?'
How to respond to a question like that? On the one hand, I would be giving her more power than was advisable, and on the other, if I wasn't straight with her, I would never get the answers I needed.
'Yes, I've noticed a big change, and I'm thinking of promoting you.'
'I need to travel. I'd like to get out of London and discover new horizons.'
Travel? Just when everything was going so well in my branch, she wanted to leave?
Although, when I thought about it, wasn't that precisely the way out I needed and wanted?
'I can help the bank if you give me more responsibility,' she went on.
Yes, she was giving me an excellent opportunity. Why hadn't I thought of that before? 'Travel' meant getting rid of her and resuming my leadership of the group without having to deal with the fall-out from a dismissal or a rebellion. But I needed to ponder the matter, because rather than her helping the bank, I needed her to help me. Now that my superiors had noticed an increase in productivity, I knew that I would have to keep it up or risk losing prestige and end up worse off than before. Sometimes I understand why most of my colleagues don't do very much in order to improve: if they don't succeed, they're called incompetent. If they do succeed, they have to keep improving all the time, a situation guaranteed to bring on an early heart attack.
I took the next step very cautiously: it's not a good idea to frighten the person in possession of a secret before she's revealed that secret to you; it's best to pretend to grant her request.
'I'll bring your request to the attention of my superiors. In fact, I'm having a meeting with them in Barcelona, which is why I called you in. Would it be true to say that our performance has improved since, shall we say, the other employees began getting on better with you?'
'Or shall we say, began getting on better with themselves?' 'Yes, but encouraged by you – or am I wrong?'
'You know perfectly well that you're not.'
'Have you been reading some book on management I don't know about?'
'I don't read that kind of book, but I would like a promise from you that you really will consider my request.'
I thought of her boyfriend at Scotland Yard. If I made a promise and failed to keep it, would I be the object of some reprisal? Could he have taught her some cutting-edge technology that enables one to achieve impossible results?
'I'll tell you everything, even if you don't keep your promise, but I can't guarantee that you'll get the same results if you don't practise what I teach.'
'You mean the “rejuvenation technique”?' 'Exactly.' 'Wouldn't it be enough just to know the theory?'
'Possibly. The person who taught me learned about it from a few sheets of paper.' I was glad she wasn't forcing me to make decisions that went beyond my capabilities or my principles. But I must confess that I had a personal interest in that whole story, because I, too, dreamed of finding some way of 'recycling' my potential. I promised that I'd do what I could, and Athena began to describe the long, esoteric dance she performed in search of the so-called Vertex (or was it Axis, I can't quite remember now). As we talked, I tried to set down her mad thoughts in objective terms. An hour proved not to be enough, and so I asked her to come back the following day, and together we would prepare the report to be
presented to the bank's board of directors. At one point in our conversation, she said with a smile:
'Don't worry about describing the technique in the same terms we've been using here. I reckon even a bank's board of directors are people like us, made of flesh and blood, and interested in unconventional methods.'
Athena was completely wrong. In England, tradition always speaks louder than innovation. But why not take a risk, as long as it didn't endanger my job? The whole thing seemed absurd to me, but I had to summarise it and put it in a way that everyone could understand. That was all.
Before I presented my 'paper' in Barcelona, I spent the whole morning repeating to myself: 'My' process is producing results, and that's all that matters. I read a few books on the subject and learned that in order to present a new idea with the maximum impact, you should structure your talk in an equally provocative way, and so the first thing I said to the executives gathered in that luxury hotel were these words of St Paul: 'God hid the most important things from the wise because they cannot understand what is simple.' (Editor's note: It is impossible to know here whether he is referring to a verse from Matthew 11: 25: 'I thank thee, O Father, thou hast hid these thingsfrom the wise andprudent, and hast revealed them unto babes', orfrom St Paul (1 Corinthians 1: 27): 'But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise, and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty. ')
When I said this, the whole audience, who had spent the last two days analysing graphs and statistics, fell silent. It occurred to me that I had almost certainly lost my job, but I carried on. Firstly, because I had researched the subject and was sure of what I was saying and deserved credit for this. Secondly, because although, at certain points, I was obliged to omit any mention of Athena's enormous influence on the whole process, I was, nevertheless, not lying.
'I have learned that, in order to motivate employees nowadays, you need more than just the training provided by our own excellent training centres. Each of us contains something within us which is unknown, but which, when it surfaces, is
capable of producing miracles.
'We all work for some reason: to feed our children, to earn money to support ourselves, to justify our life, to get a little bit of power. However, there are always tedious stages in that process, and the secret lies in transforming those stages into an encounter with ourselves or with something higher.
'For example, the search for beauty isn't always associated with anything practical and yet we still search for it as if it were the most important thing in the world. Birds learn to sing, but not because it will help them find food, avoid predators or drive away parasites. Birds sing, according to Darwin, because that is the only way they have of attracting a partner and perpetuating the species.'
I was interrupted by an executive from Geneva, who called for a more objective presentation. However, to my delight, the Director-General asked me to go on. 'Again according to Darwin, who wrote a book that changed the course of all humanity (Editor's note: The Origin of Species, 1859, in which he first posited that human beings evolvedfrom a type of ape), those who manage to arouse passions are repeating something that has been going on since the days we lived in caves, where rituals for courting a partner were fundamental for the survival and evolution of the human species. Now, what difference is there between the evolution of the human race and that of the branch of a bank? None. Both obey the same laws – only the fittest survive and evolve.'
At this point, I was obliged to admit that I'd developed this idea thanks to the spontaneous collaboration of one of my employees, Sherine Khalil.
'Sherine, who likes to be known as Athena, brought into the workplace a new kind of emotion passion. Yes, passion, something we never normally consider when discussing loans or spreadsheets. My employees started using music as a stimulus for dealing more efficiently with their clients.'
Another executive interrupted, saying that this was an old idea: supermarkets did the same thing, using piped music to encourage their customers to buy more.
'I'm not saying that we used music in the workplace. People simply started living differently because Sherine, or Athena if you prefer, taught them to dance before facing their daily tasks. I don't know precisely what mechanism this awakens in people; as a manager, I'm only responsible for the results, not for the process. I myself didn't participate in the dancing, but I understand that, through dance, they all felt more connected with what they were doing.
'We were born and brought up with the maxim: Time is money. We know exactly what money is, but what does the word “time” mean? The day is made up of twenty-four hours and an infinite number of moments. We need to be aware of each of those moments and to make the most of them regardless of whether we're busy doing something or merely contemplating life. If we slow down, everything lasts much longer. Of course, that means that washing the dishes might last longer, as might totting up the debits and credits on a balance sheet or checking promissory notes, but why not use that time to think about pleasant things and to feel glad simply to be alive?'
The Director-General was looking at me in surprise. I was sure he wanted me to explain in detail what I'd learned, but some of those present were beginning to grow restless.
'I understand exactly what you mean,' he said. 'I understand, too, that your employees worked with more enthusiasm because they were able to enjoy one moment in the day when they came into full contact with themselves. And I'd like to compliment you on being flexible enough to allow such unorthodox practices, which are, it must be said, producing excellent results. However, speaking of time, this is a conference, and you have only five minutes to conclude your presentation. Could you possibly try to list the main points which would allow us to apply these principles in other branches?'
He was right. This was fine for the employees, but it could prove fatal to my career, and so I decided to summarise the points Sherine and I had written together.
'Basing ourselves on personal observations, Sherine Khalil and I developed certain points which I would be delighted to discuss with anyone who's interested. Here
are the main ones:
'(a) We all have an unknown ability, which will probably remain unknown forever. And yet that ability can become our ally. Since it's impossible to measure that ability or give it an economic value, it's never taken seriously, but I'm speaking here to other human beings and I'm sure you understand what I mean, at least in theory.
'(b) At my branch, employees have learned how to tap into that ability through a dance based on a rhythm which comes, I believe, from the desert regions of Asia. However, its place of origin is irrelevant, as long as people can express through their bodies what their souls are trying to say. I realise that the word “soul” might be misunderstood, so I suggest we use the word “intuition” instead. And if that word is equally hard to swallow, then let's use the term “primary emotions”, which sounds more scientific, although, in fact, it has rather less meaning than the other two words.
'(c) Before going to work, instead of encouraging my employees to do keep-fit or aerobics, I get them to dance for at least an hour. This stimulates the body and the mind; they start the day demanding a certain degree of creativity from themselves and channel that accumulated energy into their work at the bank.
'(d) Customers and employees live in the same world: reality is nothing but a series of electrical stimuli to the brain. What we think we “see” is a pulse of energy to a completely dark part of the brain. However, if we get on the same wavelength with other people, we can try to change that reality. In some way which I don't understand, joy is infectious, as is enthusiasm and love. Or indeed sadness, depression or hatred – things which can be picked up “intuitively” by customers and other employees. In order to improve performance, we have to create mechanisms that keep these positive stimuli alive.'
'How very esoteric,' commented a woman who managed investment funds at a branch in Canada. I slightly lost confidence. I had failed to convince anyone. Nevertheless, I pretended to ignore her remark and, using all my creativity, sought to give my paper a practical conclusion:
'The bank should earmark a fund to do research into how this infectious state of mind works, and thus noticeably increase our profits.'
This seemed a reasonably satisfactory ending, and so I preferred not to use the two minutes remaining to me. When I finished the seminar, at the end of an exhausting day, the Director-General asked me to have supper with him, and he
did so is front of all our other colleagues, as if he were trying to show that he supported everything I'd said. I had never before had an opportunity to dine with the DirectorGeneral, and so I tried to make the most of it. I started talking about performance, about spreadsheets, difficulties on the stock exchange and possible new markets. He interrupted me; he was more interested in knowing more of what I'd learned from Athena.
In the end, to my surprise, he turned the conversation to more personal matters.
'I understood what you meant when, during your paper, you talked about time. At New Year, when I was still enjoying the holiday season, I decided to go and sit in the garden for a while. I picked up the newspaper from the mailbox, but it contained nothing of any importance, only the things that journalists had decided we should know, feel involved in and have an opinion about.
'I thought of phoning someone at work, but that would be ridiculous, since they would all be with their families. I had lunch with my wife, children and grandchildren, took a nap, and when I woke up, I
made a few notes, then realised that it was still only two o'clock in the afternoon. I had another three days of not working, and, however much I love being with my family, I started to feel useless.
'The following day, taking advantage of this free time, I went to have my stomach checked out, and, fortunately, the tests revealed nothing seriously wrong. I went to the dentist, who said there was nothing wrong with my teeth either. I again had lunch with my wife, children and grandchildren, took another nap, again woke up at two in the afternoon, and realised that I had absolutely nothing on which to focus my attention.
'I felt uneasy: shouldn't I be doing something? Well, if I wanted to invent work, that wouldn't take much effort. We all have projects to develop, light bulbs to change, leaves to sweep, books to put away, computer files to organise, etc. But how about just facing up to the void? It was then that I remembered something that seemed to me of great importance: I needed to walk to the letterbox – which is less than a mile from my house in the country – and post one of the Christmas cards lying forgotten on my desk.
'And I was surprised: why did I need to send that card today. Was it really so hard just to stay where I was, doing nothing?
'A series of thoughts crossed my mind: friends who worry about things that haven't yet happened; acquaintances who manage to fill every minute of their lives with
tasks that seem to me absurd; senseless conversations; long telephone calls in which nothing of any importance is ever said. I've seen my directors inventing work in order to justify their jobs; employees who feel afraid because they've been given nothing important to do that day, which might mean that they're no longer useful. My wife who torments herself because our son has got divorced, my son who torments himself because our grandson, his son, got bad marks at school, our grandson who is terrified because he's making his parents sad – even though we all know that marks aren't that important.
'I had a long, hard struggle with myself not to get up from my chair. Gradually, though, the anxiety gave way to contemplation, and I started listening to my soul – or intuition or primary emotions, or whatever you choose to believe in. Whatever you call it, that part of me had been longing to speak to me, but I had always been too busy.
'In that case, it wasn't a dance, but the complete absence of noise and movement, the silence, that brought me into contact with myself. And, believe it or not, I learned a great deal about the problems bothering me, even though all those problems had dissolved completely while I was sitting there. I didn't see God, but I had a clearer understanding of what decisions to take.'
Before paying the bill, he suggested that I send the employee in question to Dubai, where the bank was opening a new branch, and where the risks were considerable. As a good manager, he knew that I had learned all I needed to learn, and now it was merely a question of providing continuity. My employee could make a useful contribution somewhere else. He didn't know this, but he was helping me to keep the promise I'd made.
When I returned to London, I immediately told Athena about this invitation, and she accepted at once. She told me that she spoke fluent Arabic (I knew this already because of her father), although, since we would mainly be doing deals with foreigners, not Arabs, this would not be essential. I thanked her for her help, but she showed no curiosity about my talk at the conference, and merely asked when she should pack her bags.
I still don't know whether the story of the boyfriend in Scotland Yard was a fantasy or not. If it were true, I think Athena's murderer would already have been arrested, because I don't believe anything the newspapers wrote about the crime. I can understand financial engineering, I can even allow myself the luxury of saying that dancing helps my employees to work better, but I will never comprehend how
it is that the best police force in the world catches some murderers, but not others. Not that it makes much difference now.
Nabil Alaihi, age unknown, Bedouin
It made me very happy to know that Athena had kept a photo of me in a place of honour in her apartment, but I don't really think what I taught her had any real use. She came here to the desert, leading a three-year-old boy by the hand. She opened her bag, took out a radio-cassette and sat down outside my tent. I know that people from the city usually give my name to foreigners who want to experience some local cooking, and so I told her at once that it was too early for supper.
'I came for another reason,' she said. 'Your nephew Hamid is a client at the bank where I work and he told me that you're a wise man.'
'Hamid is a rather foolish youth who may well say that I'm a wise man, but who never follows my advice. Mohammed, the Prophet, may the blessings of God be upon him, he was a wise man.'
guide.'
I pointed to her car.
'You shouldn't drive alone in a place you don't know, and you shouldn't come here without a
Instead of replying, she turned on the radio-cassette. Then, all I could see was this young woman dancing on the dunes and her son watching her in joyous amazement; and the sound seemed to fill the whole desert. When she finished, she asked if I had enjoyed it.
I said that I had. There is a sect in our religion which uses dance as a way of getting closer to Allah blessed be His Name. (Editor's note: The sect in question is Sufism.)
'Well,' said the woman, who introduced herself as Athena, 'ever since I was a child, I've felt that I should grow closer to God, but life always took me further away from Him. Music is one way I've discovered of getting close, but it isn't enough. Whenever I dance, I see a light, and that light is now asking me to go further. But I can't continue learning on my own; I need someone to teach me.'
'Anything will do,' I told her, 'because Allah, the merciful, is always near. Lead a decent life, and that will be enough.'
But the woman appeared unconvinced. I said that I was busy, that I needed to prepare supper for the few tourists who might appear. She told me that she'd wait
for as long as was necessary. 'And the child?'
'Don't worry about him.'
While I was making my usual preparations, I observed the woman and her son. They could have been the same age; they ran about the desert, laughed, threw sand at each other, and rolled down the dunes. The guide arrived with three German tourists, who ate and asked for beer, and I had to explain that my religion forbade me to drink or to serve alcoholic drinks. I invited the woman and her son to join us for supper, and in that unexpected female presence, one of the Germans became quite animated. He said that he was thinking of buying some land, that he had a large fortune saved up and believed in the future of the region.
'Great,' she replied. 'I believe in the region too.'
'It would be good to have supper somewhere, so that we could talk about the possibility of–'
'No,' she said, holding a card out to him, 'but if you like, you can get in touch with my bank.' When the tourists left, we sat down outside the tent. The child soon fell asleep on her lap. I fetched blankets for us all, and we sat looking up at the starry sky. Finally, she broke the silence.
'Why did Hamid say that you were a wise man?'
'Perhaps so that I'll be more patient with him. There was a time when I tried to teach him my art, but Hamid seemed more interested in earning money. He's probably convinced by now that he's wiser than I am: he has an apartment and a boat, while here I am in the middle of the desert, making meals for the occasional tourist. He doesn't understand that I'm satisfied with what I do.'
'He understands perfectly, and he always speaks of you with great respect. And what do you mean by your “art”?'
dance.'
'I watched you dancing today, well, I do the same thing, except that it's the letters not my body that
She looked surprised.
'My way of approaching Allah – may his name be praised – has been through calligraphy, and the search for the perfect meaning of each word. A single letter requires us to distil in it all the energy it contains, as if we were carving out its meaning. When sacred texts are written, they contain the soul of the man who served as an instrument to spread them throughout the world. And that doesn't
apply only to sacred texts, but to every mark we place on paper. Because the hand that draws each line reflects the soul of the person making that line.'
'Would you teach me what you know?'
'Firstly, I don't think anyone as full of energy as you would have the patience for this. Besides, it's not part of your world, where everything is printed, without, if you'll allow me to say so, much thought being given to what is being published.'
'I'd like to try.'
And so, for more than six months, that woman – whom I'd judged to be too restless and exuberant to be able to sit still for a moment – came to visit me every Friday. Her son would go to one corner of the tent, take up paper and brushes, and he, too, would devote himself to revealing in his paintings whatever the heavens determined.
When I saw the immense effort it took her to keep still and to maintain the correct posture, I said: 'Don't you think you'd be better off finding something else to do?' She replied: 'No, I need this, I need to calm my soul, and I still haven't learned everything you can teach me. The light of the Vertex told me that I should continue.' I never asked her what the Vertex was, nor was I interested.
The first lesson, and perhaps the most difficult, was: 'Patience!'
Writing wasn't just the expression of a thought, but a way of reflecting on the meaning of each word. Together we began work on texts written by an Arab poet, because I do not feel that the Koran is suitable for someone brought up in another faith. I dictated each letter, and that way she could concentrate on what she was doing, instead of immediately wanting to know the meaning of each word or phrase or line.
'Once, someone told me that music had been created by God, and that rapid movement was necessary for people to get in touch with themselves,' said Athena on one of those afternoons we spent together. 'For years, I felt that this was true, and now I'm being forced to do the most difficult thing in the world – slow down. Why is patience so important?'
'Because it makes us pay attention.'
'But I can dance obeying only my soul, which forces me to concentrate on something greater than myself, and brings me into contact with God – if I can use that word. Dance has already helped me to change many things in my life, including my work. Isn't the soul more important?'
'Of course it is, but if your soul could communicate with your brain, you would be
able to change even more things.'
We continued our work together. I knew that, at some point, I would have to tell her something that she might not be ready to hear, and so I tried to make use of every minute to prepare her spirit. I explained that before the word comes the thought. And before the thought, there is the divine spark that placed it there. Everything, absolutely everything on this Earth makes sense, and even the smallest things are worthy of our consideration.
'I've educated my body so that it can manifest every sensation in my soul,' she said. 'Now you must educate only your fingers, so that they can manifest every sensation in your body. That will concentrate your body's strength.'
'Are you a teacher?'
'What is a teacher? I'll tell you: it isn't someone who teaches something, but someone who inspires the student to give of her best in order to discover what she already knows.'
I sensed that, despite her youth, Athena had already experienced this. Writing reveals the personality, and I could see that she was aware of being loved, not just by her son, but by her family and possibly by a man. I saw too that she had mysterious gifts, but I tried never to let her know that I knew this, since these gifts could bring about not only an encounter with God, but also her perdition.
I did not only teach her calligraphy techniques. I also tried to pass on to her the philosophy of the calligraphers.
'The brush with which you are making these lines is just an instrument. It has no consciousness; it follows the desires of the person holding it. And in that it is very like what we call “life”. Many people in this world are merely playing a role, unaware that there is an Invisible Hand guiding them. At this moment, in your hands, in the brush tracing each letter, lie all the intentions of your soul. Try to understand the importance of this.'
'I do understand, and I see that it's important to maintain a certain elegance. You tell me to sit in a particular position, to venerate the materials I'm going to use, and only to begin when I have done so.'
Naturally, if she respected the brush that she used, she would realise that in order to learn to write she must cultivate serenity and elegance. And serenity comes from the heart.
'Elegance isn't a superficial thing, it's the way mankind has found to honour life and work. That's why, when you feel uncomfortable in that position, you mustn't
think that it's false or artificial: it's real and true precisely because it's difficult. That position means that both the paper and the brush feel proud of the effort you're making. The paper ceases to be a flat, colourless surface and takes on the depth of the things placed on it. Elegance is the correct posture if the writing is to be perfect. It's the same with life: when all superfluous things have been discarded, we discover simplicity and concentration. The simpler and more sober the posture, the more beautiful it will be, even though, at first, it may seem uncomfortable.' Occasionally, she would talk about her work. She said she was enjoying what she was doing and that she had just received a job offer from a powerful emir. He had gone to the bank to see the manager, who was a friend of his (emirs never go to banks to withdraw money, they have staff who can do that for them), and while he was talking to Athena, he mentioned that he was looking for someone to take charge of selling
land, and wondered if she would be interested.
Who would want to buy land in the middle of the desert or in a far-flung port? I decided to say nothing and, looking back, I'm glad I stayed silent.
Only once did she mention the man she loved, although whenever she was there when tourists arrived, one of the men would always start flirting with her. Normally Athena simply ignored them, but, one day, a man suggested that he knew her boyfriend. She turned pale and immediately shot a glance at her son, who, fortunately, wasn't listening to the conversation.
'How do you know him?'
'I'm joking,' said the man. 'I just wanted to find out if you were unattached.'
She didn't say anything, but I understood from this exchange that the man in her life was not the father of her son.
One day, she arrived earlier than usual. She said that she'd left her job at the bank and started selling real estate, and would now have more free time. I explained that I couldn't start her class any earlier because I had various things to do.
'I can combine two things: movement and stillness; joy and concentration.'
She went over to the car to fetch her radio-cassette and, from then on, Athena would dance in the desert before the start of our class, while the little boy ran round her, laughing. When she sat down to practise calligraphy, her hand was steadier than usual.
'There are two kinds of letter,' I explained. 'The first is precise, but lacks soul. In this case, although the calligrapher may have mastered the technique, he has
focused solely on the craft, which is why it hasn't evolved, but become repetitive; he hasn't grown at all, and one day he'll give up the practice of writing, because he feels it is mere routine.
'The second kind is done with great technique, but with soul as well. For that to happen, the intention of the writer must be in harmony with the word. In this case, the saddest verses cease to be clothed in tragedy and are transformed into simple facts encountered along the way.'
'What do you do with your drawings?' asked the boy in perfect Arabic. He might not understand our conversation, but he was eager to share in his mother's work.
'I sell them.'
'Can I sell my drawings?'
'You should sell your drawings. One day, you'll become rich that way and be able to help your
mother.'
He was pleased by my comment and went back to what he was doing, painting a colourful butterfly. 'And what shall I do with my texts?' asked Athena.
'You know the effort it took to sit in the correct position, to quieten your soul, keep your intentions clear and respect each letter of each word. Meanwhile, keep practising. After a great deal of practice, we no longer think about all the necessary movements we must make; they become part of our existence. Before reaching that stage, however, you must practise and repeat. And if that's not enough, you must practise and repeat some more.
'Look at a skilled blacksmith working steel. To the untrained eye, he's merely repeating the same hammer blows, but anyone trained in the art of calligraphy knows that each time the blacksmith lifts the hammer and brings it down, the intensity of the blow is different. The hand repeats the same gesture, but as it approaches the metal, it understands that it must touch it with more or less force. It's the same thing with repetition: it may seem the same, but it's always different. The moment will come when you no longer need to think about what you're doing. You become the letter, the ink, the paper, the word.'
This moment arrived almost a year later. By then, Athena was already known in Dubai and recommended customers to dine in my tent, and through them I learned that her career was going very well: she was selling pieces of desert! One night, the emir in person arrived, preceded by a great retinue. I was terrified; I wasn't prepared for that, but he reassured me and thanked me for what I was
doing for his employee.
'She's an excellent person and attributes her qualities to what she's learning from you. I'm thinking of giving her a share in the company. It might be a good idea to send my other sales staff to learn calligraphy, especially now that Athena is about to take a month's holiday.'
'It wouldn't help,' I replied. 'Calligraphy is just one of the ways which Allah – blessed be His Name – places before us. It teaches objectivity and patience, respect and elegance, but we can learn all that–' '–through dance,' said Athena, who was standing nearby.
'Or through selling land,' I added.
When they had all left, and the little boy had lain down in one corner of the tent, his eyes heavy with sleep, I brought out the calligraphy materials and asked her to write something. In the middle of the word, I took the brush from her hand. It was time to say what had to be said. I suggested that we go for a little walk in the desert. 'You have learned what you needed to learn,' I said. 'Your calligraphy is getting more and more individual and spontaneous. It's no longer a mere repetition of beauty, but a personal, creative gesture. You have understood what all great painters understand: in order to forget the rules, you must know them and respect them.
'You no longer need the tools that helped you learn. You no longer need paper, ink or brush, because the path is more important than whatever made you set off along it. Once, you told me that the person who taught you to dance used to imagine the music playing in his head, and even so, he was able to repeat the necessary rhythms.'
'He was.'
'If all the words were joined together, they wouldn't make sense, or, at the very least, they'd be extremely hard to decipher. The spaces are crucial.'
She nodded.
'And although you have mastered the words, you haven't yet mastered the blank spaces. When you're concentrating, your hand is perfect, but when it jumps from one word to the next, it gets lost.' 'How do you know that?'
'Am I right?'
'Absolutely. Before I focus on the next word, for a fraction of a second I lose myself. Things I don't want to think about take over.'
'And you know exactly what those things are.'
Athena knew, but she said nothing until we went back to the tent and she could cradle her sleeping son in her arms. Her eyes were full of tears, although she was trying hard to control herself.
'The emir said that you were going on holiday.'
She opened the car door, put the key in the ignition and started the engine. For a few moments, only the noise of the engine troubled the silence of the desert.
'I know what you mean,' she said at last. 'When I write, when I dance, I'm guided by the Hand that created everything. When I look at Viorel sleeping, I know that he knows he's the fruit of my love for his father, even though I haven't seen his father for more than a year. But I …'
She fell silent again. Her silence was the blank space between the words.
'… but I don't know the hand that first rocked me in the cradle. The hand that wrote me in the book of the world.'
I merely nodded.
'Do you think that matters?'
'Not necessarily. But in your case, until you touch that hand, your, shall we say, calligraphy will not improve.'
'I don't see why I should bother to look for someone who never took the trouble to love me.' She closed the car door, smiled and drove off. Despite her last words, I knew what her next step would be.
Samira R. Khalil, Athena's mother
It was as if all her professional success, her ability to earn money, her joy at having found a new love, her contentment when she played with her son – my grandson
– had all been relegated to second place. I was quite simply terrified when Sherine told me that she'd decided to go in search of her birth mother.
At first, of course, I took consolation in the thought that the adoption centre would no longer exist, the paperwork would all have been lost, any officials she encountered would prove implacable, the recent collapse of the Romanian government would make travel impossible, and the womb that bore her would long since have vanished. This, however, provided only a momentary consolation: my daughter was capable of anything and would overcome seemingly impossible obstacles.
Up until then, the subject had been taboo in the family. Sherine knew she was adopted, because the psychiatrist in Beirut had advised me to tell her as soon as she was old enough to understand. But she had never shown any desire to know
where she had come from. Her home had been Beirut, when it was still our home. The adopted son of a friend of mine had committed suicide at the age of sixteen when he acquired a biological sister, and so we had never attempted to have more children of our own, and we did everything we could to make her feel that she was the sole reason for our joys and sadnesses, our love and our hopes. And yet, it seemed that none of this counted. Dear God, how ungrateful children can be!
Knowing my daughter as I did, I realised that there was no point in arguing with her about this. My husband and I didn't sleep for a whole week, and every morning, every evening, we were bombarded with the same question: 'Whereabouts in Romania was I born?' To make matters worse, Viorel kept crying, as if he understood what was going on.
I decided to consult a psychiatrist again. I asked why a young woman who had everything in life should always be so dissatisfied.
'We all want to know where we came from,' he said. 'On the philosophical level, that's the fundamental question for all human beings. In your daughter's case, I think it's perfectly reasonable that she should want to go in search of her roots. Wouldn't you be curious to know?'
'No, I wouldn't. On the contrary, I'd think it dangerous to go in search of someone who had denied and rejected me when I was still too helpless to survive on my own.'
But the psychiatrist insisted:
'Rather than getting into a confrontation with her, try to help. Perhaps when she sees that it's no longer a problem for you, she'll give up. The year she spent far from her friends must have created a sense of emotional need, which she's now trying to make up for by provoking you like this. She simply wants to be sure that she's loved.'
It would have been better if Sherine had gone to the psychiatrist herself, then she would have understood the reasons for her behaviour.
'Show that you're confident and don't see this as a threat. And if, in the end, she really does go ahead with it, simply give her the information she needs. As I understand it, she's always been a difficult child. Perhaps she'll emerge from this search a stronger person.'
I asked if the psychiatrist had any children. He didn't, and I knew then that he wasn't the right person to advise me.
That night, when we were sitting in front of the TV, Sherine returned to the
subject: 'What are you watching?' 'The news.'
'What for?'
'To find out what's going on in Lebanon,' replied my husband.
I saw the trap, but it was too late. Sherine immediately pounced on this opening. 'You see, you're curious to know what's going on in the country where you were born. You're settled in England, you have friends, Dad earns plenty of money, you've got security, and yet you still buy Lebanese newspapers. You channel-hop until you find a bit of news to do with Beirut. You imagine the future as if it were the past, not realising that the war will never end. What I mean is that if you're not in touch with your roots, you feel as if you'd lost touch with the world. Is it so very hard then for you to understand what I'm feeling?'
'You're our daughter.'
'And proud to be. And I'll always be your daughter. Please don't doubt my love or my gratitude for everything you've done for me. All I'm asking is to be given the chance to visit the place where I was born and perhaps ask my birth mother why she abandoned me or perhaps, when I look into her eyes, simply say nothing. If I don't at least try and do that, I'll feel like a coward and I won't ever understand the blank spaces.'
'The blank spaces?'
'I learned calligraphy while I was in Dubai. I dance whenever I can, but music only exists because the pauses exist, and sentences only exist because the blank spaces exist. When I'm doing something, I feel complete, but no one can keep active twenty-four hours a day. As soon as I stop, I feel there's something lacking. You've often said to me that I'm a naturally restless person, but I didn't choose to be that way. I'd like to sit here quietly, watching television, but I can't. My brain won't stop. Sometimes, I think I'm going mad. I need always to be dancing, writing, selling land, taking care of Viorel, or reading whatever I find to read. Do you think that's normal?'
'Perhaps it's just your temperament,' said my husband.
The conversation ended there, as it always ended, with Viorel crying, Sherine retreating into silence, and with me convinced that children never acknowledge what their parents have done for them. However, over breakfast the next day, it was my husband who brought the subject up again.
'A while ago, while you were in the Middle East, I looked into the possibility of
going home to Beirut. I went to the street where we used to live. The house is no longer there, but, despite the foreign occupation and the constant incursions, they are slowly rebuilding the country. I felt a sense of euphoria. Perhaps it was the moment to start all over again. And it was precisely that expression, “start all over again”, that brought me back to reality. The time has passed when I could allow myself that luxury. Nowadays, I just want to go on doing what I'm doing, and I don't need any new adventures.
'I sought out the people I used to enjoy a drink with after work. Most of them have left, and those who have stayed complain all the time about a constant feeling of insecurity. I walked past some of my old haunts, and I felt like a stranger, as if nothing there belonged to me anymore. The worst of it was that my dream of one day returning gradually disappeared when I found myself back in the city where I was born. Even so, I needed to make that visit. The songs of exile are still there in my heart, but I know now that I'll never again live in Lebanon. In a way, the days I spent in Beirut helped me to a better understanding of the place where I live now, and to value each second that I spend in London.'
'What are you trying to tell me, Dad?'
'That you're right. Perhaps it really would be best to understand those blank spaces. We can look after Viorel while you're away.'
He went to the bedroom and returned with the yellow file containing the adoption papers. He gave them to Sherine, kissed her and said it was time he went to work.
Heron Ryan, journalist
For a whole morning in 1990, all I could see from the sixth-floor window of the hotel was the main government building. A flag had just been placed on the roof, marking the exact spot where the megalomaniac dictator had fled in a helicopter only to find death a few hours later at the hands of those he had oppressed for twenty-two years.
In his plan to create a capital that would rival Washington, Ceauºescu had ordered
all the old houses to be razed to the ground. Indeed, Bucharest had the dubious honour of being described as the city that had suffered the worst destruction outside of a war or a natural disaster.
The day I arrived, I attempted to go for a short walk with my interpreter, but in the streets I saw only poverty, bewilderment, and a sense that there was no future, no past and no present: the people were living in a kind of limbo, with little idea of what was happening in their country or in the rest of the world. When I went back
ten years later and saw the whole country rising up out of the ashes, I realised human beings can overcome any difficulty, and that the Romanian people were a fine example ofjust that.
But on that other grey morning, in the grey foyer of a gloomy hotel, all I was concerned about was whether my interpreter would manage to get a car and enough petrol so that I could carry out some final research for the BBC documentary I was working on. He was taking a very long time, and I was beginning to have my doubts. Would I have to go back to England having failed to achieve my goal? I'd already invested a significant amount of money in contracts with historians, in the script, in filming interviews, but before the BBC would sign the final contract, they insisted on me visiting Dracula's castle to see what state it was in. The trip was costing more than expected.
I tried phoning my girlfriend, but was told I'd have to wait nearly an hour to get a line. My interpreter might arrive at any moment with the car and there was no time to lose, and so I decided not to risk waiting.
I asked around to see if I could buy an English newspaper, but there were none to be had. To take my mind off my anxiety, I started looking, as discreetly as I could, at the people around me drinking tea,
possibly oblivious to everything that had happened the year before – popular uprisings, the cold-blooded murder of civilians in Timiºoara, shoot-outs in the
streets between the people and the dreaded secret service as the latter tried desperately to hold on to the power fast slipping from their grasp. I noticed a group of three Americans, an interesting-looking woman who was, however, glued to the fashion magazine she was
reading, and some men sitting round a table, talking loudly in a language I couldn't identify.
I was just about to get up yet again and go over to the entrance to see if my interpreter was anywhere to be seen, when she came in. She must have been a little more than twenty years old. She sat down, ordered some breakfast, and I noticed that she spoke English. None of the other men present appeared to notice her arrival, but the other woman interrupted her reading.
Perhaps because of my anxiety or because of the place, which was beginning to depress me, I plucked up courage and went over to her.
'Excuse me, I don't usually do this. I always think breakfast is the most private meal of the day.' She smiled, told me her name, and I immediately felt wary. It had
been too easy – she might be a prostitute. Her English, however, was perfect and she was very discreetly dressed. I decided not to ask any questions, and began talking at length about myself, noticing as I did so that the woman on the next table had put down her magazine and was listening to our conversation.
'I'm an independent producer working for the BBC in London, and, at the moment, I'm trying to find a way to get to Transylvania…'
I noticed the light in her eyes change.
'…so that I can finish the documentary I'm making about the myth of the vampire.'
I waited. This subject always aroused people's curiosity, but she lost interest as soon as I mentioned the reason for my visit.
'You'll just have to take the bus,' she said. 'Although I doubt you'll find what you're looking for. If you want to know more about Dracula, read the book. The author never even visited Romania.'
'What about you, do you know Transylvania?' 'I don't know.'
That was not an answer; perhaps it was because English – despite her British accent – was not her mother tongue.
'But I'm going there too,' she went on. 'On the bus, of course.'
Judging by her clothes, she was not an adventuress who sets off round the world visiting exotic places. The idea that she might be a prostitute returned; perhaps she was trying to get closer to me. 'Would you like a lift?'
'I've already bought my ticket.'
I insisted, thinking that her first refusal was just part of the game. She refused again, saying that she needed to make that journey alone. I asked where she was from, and there was a long pause before she replied.
'Like I said, from Transylvania.'
'That isn't quite what you said. But if that's so, perhaps you could help me with finding locations for the film and…'
My unconscious mind was telling me to explore the territory a little more, because although the idea that she might be a prostitute was still buzzing around in my head, I very, very much wanted her to come with me. She politely refused my offer. The other woman joined in the conversation at this point, as if to protect the younger woman, and I felt then that I was in the way and decided to leave.
My interpreter arrived shortly afterwards, out of breath, saying that he'd made all the necessary arrangements, but that (as expected) it was going to cost a lot of
money. I went up to my room, grabbed my suitcase, which I'd packed earlier, got into the Russian wreck of a car, drove down the long, almost deserted avenues, and realised that I had with me my small camera, my belongings, my anxieties, a couple of bottles of mineral water, some sandwiches, and the image of someone that stubbornly refused to leave my head.
In the days that followed, as I was trying to piece together a script on the historical figure of Dracula, and interviewing both locals and intellectuals on the subject of the vampire myth (with, as foreseen, little success), I gradually became aware that I was no longer merely trying to make a documentary for British television. I wanted to meet that arrogant, unfriendly, self-sufficient young woman whom I'd seen in a dining room in a hotel in Bucharest, and who would, at that moment, be somewhere nearby. I knew absolutely nothing about her apart from her name, but, like the vampire of the myth, she seemed to be sucking up all my energy.
In my world, and in the world of those I lived with, this was absurd, nonsensical, unacceptable.
Deidre O'Neill, known as Edda
'I don't know what you came here to do, but whatever it was, you must see it through to the end.' She looked at me, startled.
'Who are you?'
I started talking about the magazine I was reading, and after a while, the man sitting with her decided to get up and leave. Now I could tell her who I was.
'If you mean what do I do for a living, I qualified as a doctor some years ago, but I don't think that's the answer you want to hear.'
I paused.
'Your next step, though, will be to try to find out, through clever questioning, exactly what I'm doing here, in a country that's only just emerging from years of terrible oppression.'
'I'll be straightforward then. What did you come here to do?'
I could have said: I came for the funeral of my teacher, because I felt he deserved that homage. But it would be imprudent to touch on the subject. She may have shown no interest in vampires, but the word 'teacher' would be sure to attract her attention. Since my oath will not allow me to lie, I replied with a halftruth.
'I wanted to see where a writer called Mircea Eliade lived. You've probably never heard of him, but Eliade, who spent most of his life in France, was a world authority on myths.'
The young woman looked at her watch, feigning indifference. I went on:
'And I'm not talking about vampires, I'm talking about people who, let's say, are following the same path you're following.'
She was about to take a sip of her coffee, but she stopped:
'Are you from the government? Or are you someone my parents engaged to follow me?'
It was my turn then to feel uncertain as to whether to continue the conversation. Her response had been unnecessarily aggressive. But I could see her aura, her anxiety. She was very like me when I was her age: full of internal and external wounds that drove me to want to heal people on the physical plane and to help them find their path on the spiritual plane. I wanted to say: 'Your wounds will help you, my dear,' then pick up my magazine and leave.
If I had done that, Athena's path might have been completely different, and she would still be alive and living with the man she loved. She would have brought up her son and watched him grow, get married and have lots of children. She would be rich, possibly the owner of a company selling real estate. She had all the necessary qualities to find success and happiness. She'd suffered enough to be able to use her scars to her advantage, and it was just a matter of time before she managed to control her anxiety and move on.
So what kept me sitting there, trying to keep the conversation going? The answer is very simple: curiosity. I couldn't understand what that brilliant light was doing there in the cold hotel.
I continued:
'Mircea Eliade wrote books with strange titles: Occultism, Witchcraft and Cultural Fashions, for example. Or The Sacred and the Profane. My teacher' (I inadvertently let the word slip, but she either wasn't listening or else pretended not to have noticed) 'loved his work. And something tells me it's a subject you're interested in too.'
She glanced at her watch again.
'I'm going to Sibiu,' she said. 'My bus leaves in an hour. I'm looking for my mother, if that's what you want to know. I work as a real estate agent in the Middle East, I have a son of nearly four, I'm divorced, and my parents live in London. My adoptive parents, of course, because I was abandoned as a baby.'
She was clearly at a very advanced stage of perception, and had identified with me, even though she wasn't aware of this yet.
'Yes, that's what I wanted to know.'
'Did you have to come all this way just to do research into a writer? Aren't there any libraries where you live?'
'The fact is that Eliade only lived in Romania until he graduated from university. So if I really wanted to know more about his work, I should go to Paris, London or to Chicago, where he died. However, what I'm doing isn't research in the normal sense of the word: I wanted to see the ground where he placed his feet. I wanted to feel what inspired him to write about things that affect my life and the lives of people I respect.'
'Did he write about medicine too?'
I had better not answer that. I saw that she'd picked up on the word 'teacher', and assumed it must be related to my profession.
The young woman got to her feet. I felt she knew what I was talking about. I could see her light shining more intensely. I only achieve this state of perception when I'm close to someone very like myself. 'Would you mind coming with me to the bus station?' she asked.
Not at all. My plane didn't leave until later that night, and a whole, dull, endless day stretched out before me. At least I would have someone to talk to for a while.
She went upstairs, returned with her suitcases in her hand and a series of questions in her head. She began her interrogation as soon as we left the hotel.
'I may never see you again,' she said, 'but I feel that we have something in common. Since this may be the last opportunity we have in this incarnation to talk to each other, would you mind being direct in your answers?'
I nodded.
'Based on what you've read in all those books, do you believe that through dance we can enter a trance-like state that helps us to see a light? And that the light tells us nothing – only whether we're happy or sad?'
A good question!
'Of course, and that happens not only through dance, but through anything that allows us to focus our attention and to separate body from spirit. Like yoga or prayer or Buddhist meditation.'
'Or calligraphy.'
'I hadn't thought of that, but it's possible. At such moments, when the body sets the soul free, the soul either rises up to heaven or descends into hell, depending on the person's state of mind. In both cases, it learns what it needs to learn: to destroy
or to heal. But I'm no longer interested in individual paths; in my tradition, I need the help of … are you listening to me?'
'No.'
She had stopped in the middle of the street and was staring at a little girl who appeared to have been abandoned. She went to put her hand in her bag.
'Don't do that,' I said. 'Look across the street at that woman, the one with cruel eyes. She's put the girl there purely in order to–'
'I don't care.'
She took out a few coins. I grabbed her hand.
'Let's buy her something to eat. That would be more useful.'
I asked the little girl to go with us to a café and bought her a sandwich. The little girl smiled and thanked me. The eyes of the woman across the street seemed to glitter with hatred, but, for the first time, the grey eyes of the young woman walking at my side looked at me with respect.
'What were you saying?' she asked.
'It doesn't matter. Do you know what happened to you a few moments ago? You went into the same trance that your dancing provokes.'
'No, you're wrong.'
'I'm right. Something touched your unconscious mind. Perhaps you saw yourself as you would have been if you hadn't been adopted – begging in the street. At that moment, your brain stopped reacting. Your spirit left you and travelled down to hell to meet the demons from your past. Because of that, you didn't notice the woman across the street – you were in a trance, a disorganised, chaotic trance that was driving you to do something which was good in theory, but, in practice, pointless. As if you were–'
'–in the blank space between the letters. In the moment when a note of music ends and the next has not yet begun.'
'Exactly. And such a trance can be dangerous.'
I almost said: 'It's the kind of trance provoked by fear. It paralyses the person, leaves them unable to react; the body doesn't respond, the soul is no longer there. You were terrified by everything that could have happened to you had fate not placed your parents in your path.' But she had put her suitcases down on the ground and was standing in front of me.
'Who are you? Why are you saying all this?'
'As a doctor, I'm known as Deidre O'Neill. Pleased to meet you, and what's your
name?' 'Athena. Although according to my passport I'm Sherine Khalil.' 'Who gave you the name Athena?'
'No one important. But I didn't ask you for your name, I asked who you are and why you spoke to me. And why I felt the same need to talk to you. Was it just because we were the only two women in that hotel dining room? I don't think so. And you're saying things to me that make sense of my life.'
She picked up her bags again, and we continued walking towards the bus station.
'I have another name too – Edda. But it wasn't chosen by chance, nor do I believe it was chance that brought us together.'
Before us was the entrance to the bus station, with various people going in and out
– soldiers in uniform, farmers, pretty women dressed as if they were still living in the 1950s.
'If it wasn't chance, what was it?'
She had another half an hour before her bus left, and I could have said: It was the Mother. Some chosen spirits emit a special light and are drawn to each other, and you – Sherine or Athena – are one of those spirits, but you need to work very hard to use that energy to your advantage.
I could have explained that she was following the classic path of the witch, who, through her individual persona, seeks contact with the upper and lower world, but always ends up destroying her own life – she serves others, gives out energy, but receives nothing in return.
I could have explained that, although all paths are different, there is always a point when people come together, celebrate together, discuss their difficulties, and prepare themselves for the Rebirth of the Mother. I could have said that contact with the Divine Light is the greatest reality a human being can experience, and yet, in my tradition, that contact cannot be made alone, because we've suffered centuries of persecution, and this has taught us many things.
'Would you like to have a coffee while I wait for the bus?'
No, I did not. I would only end up saying things that might, at that stage, be misinterpreted. 'Certain people have been very important in my life,' she went on. 'My landlord, for example, or the calligrapher I met in the desert near Dubai. Who knows, you might have things to say to me that I can share with them, and repay them for all they taught me.'
So she had already had teachers in her life – excellent! Her spirit was ripe. All she needed was to continue her training, otherwise she would end up losing all she had
achieved. But was I the right person?
I asked the Mother to inspire me, to tell me what to do. I got no answer, which did not surprise me. She always behaves like that when it's up to me to take responsibility for a decision.
I gave Athena my business card and asked her for hers. She gave me an address in Dubai, a country I would have been unable to find on the map.
I decided to try making a joke, to test her out a little more:
'Isn't it a bit of a coincidence that three English people should meet in a hotel in Bucharest?' 'Well, from your card I see that you're Scottish. The man I met apparently works in England, but I don't know anything else about him.'
She took a deep breath: 'And I'm … Romanian.'
I gave an excuse and said that I had to rush back to the hotel and pack my bags. Now she knew where to find me, if it was written that we would meet again, we would. The important thing is to allow fate to intervene in our lives and to decide what is best for everyone.
Vosho 'Bushalo', 65, restaurant owner
These Europeans come here thinking they know everything, thinking they deserve the very best treatment, that they have the right to bombard us with questions which we're obliged to answer. On the other hand, they think that by giving us some tricksy name, like 'travellers' or 'Roma', they can put right the
many wrongs they've done us in the past.
Why can't they just call us gipsies and put an end to all the stories that make us look as if we were cursed in the eyes of the world? They accuse us of being the fruit of the illicit union between a woman and the Devil himself. They say that one of us forged the nails that fixed Christ to the cross, that mothers should be careful when our caravans come near, because we steal children and enslave them.
And because of this there have been frequent massacres throughout history; in the Middle Ages we were hunted as witches; for centuries our testimony wasn't even accepted in the German courts. I was born before the Nazi wind swept through Europe and I saw my father marched off to a concentration camp in Poland, with a humiliating black triangle sewn to his clothes. Of the 500,000 gipsies sent for slave labour, only 5,000 survived to tell the tale.
And no one, absolutely no one, wants to hear about this.
Right up until last year, our culture, religion and language were banned in this godforsaken part of the world, where most of the tribes decided to settle. If you
asked anyone in the city what they thought of gipsies, their immediate response would be: 'They're all thieves.' However hard we try to lead normal lives by ceasing our eternal wanderings and living in places where we're easily identifiable, the racism continues. Our children are forced to sit at the back of the class and not a week goes by without someone insulting them.
Then people complain that we don't give straight answers, that we try to disguise ourselves, that we never openly admit our origins. Why would we do that? Everyone knows what a gipsy looks like, and everyone knows how to 'protect' themselves from our 'curses'.
When a stuck-up, intellectual young woman appears, smiling and claiming to be part of our culture and our race, I'm immediately on my guard. She might have been sent by the Securitate, the secret police who work for that mad dictator – the Conducator, the Genius of the Carpathians, the Leader. They say he was put on trial and shot, but I don't believe it. His son may have disappeared from the scene for the moment, but he's still a powerful figure in these parts.
The young woman insists; she smiles, as if she were saying something highly amusing, and tells me that her mother is a gipsy and that she'd like to find her. She knows her full name. How could she obtain such information without the help of the Securitate?
It's best not to get on the wrong side of people who have government contacts. I tell her that I know nothing, that I'm just a gipsy who's decided to lead an honest life, but she won't listen: she wants to find her mother. I know who her mother is, and I know, too, that more than twenty years ago, she had a child she gave up to an orphanage and never heard from again. We had to take her mother in because a blacksmith who thought he was the master of the universe insisted on it. But who can guarantee that this intellectual young woman standing before me really is Liliana's daughter? Before trying to find out who her mother is, she should at least respect some of our customs and not turn up dressed in red, if it's not her wedding day. She ought to wear longer skirts as well, so as not to arouse men's lust. And she should be more respectful.
If I speak of her now in the present tense, it's because for those who travel, time does not exist, only space. We came from far away, some say from India, others from Egypt, but the fact is that we carry the past with us as if it had all just happened. And the persecutions continue.
The young woman is trying to be nice and to show that she knows about our
culture, when that doesn't matter at all. After all, she should know about our traditions.
'In town I was told that you're a Rom Baro, a tribal leader. Before I came here, I learned a lot about our history–'
'Not “our”, please. It's my history, the history of my wife, my children, my tribe. You're a European. You were never stoned in the street as I was when I was five years old.'
'I think the situation is getting better.'
'The situation is always getting better, then it immediately gets worse.'
But she keeps smiling. She orders a whisky. One of our women would never do that.
If she'd come in here just to have a drink or looking for company, I'd treat her like any other customer. I've learned to be friendly, attentive, discreet, because my business depends on that. When my customers want to know more about the gipsies, I offer them a few curious facts, tell them to listen to the group who'll be playing later on, make a few remarks about our culture, and then they leave with the impression that they know everything about us.
But this young woman isn't just another tourist: she says she belongs to our race. She again shows me the certificate she got from the government. I can believe that the government kills, steals and lies, but it wouldn't risk handing out false certificates, and so she really must be Liliana's daughter, because the certificate gives her full name and address. I learned from the television that the Genius of the Carpathians, the Father of the People, our Conducator, the one who left us to starve while he exported all our food, the one who lived in palaces and used gold-plated cutlery while the people were dying of starvation, that same man and his wretched wife used to get the Securitate to trawl the orphanages selecting babies to be trained as State assassins.
They only ever took boys, though, never girls. Perhaps she really is Liliana's daughter.
I look at the certificate once more and wonder whether or not I should tell her where her mother is. Liliana deserves to meet this intellectual, claiming to be 'one of us'. Liliana deserves to look this woman in the eye. I think she suffered enough when she betrayed her people, slept with a gadje (Editor's note: foreigner) and shamed her parents. Perhaps the moment has come to end her hell, for her to see that her daughter survived, got rich, and might even be able to help her out of the
poverty she lives in.
Perhaps this young woman will pay me for this information; perhaps it'll be of some advantage to our tribe, because we're living in confusing times. Everyone's saying that the Genius of the Carpathians is dead, and they even show photos of his execution, but, who knows, he could come back tomorrow, and it'll all turn out to have been a clever trick on his part to find out who really was on his side and who was prepared to betray him.
The musicians will start playing soon, so I'd better talk business.
'I know where you can find this woman. I can take you to her.' I adopt a friendlier tone of voice. 'But I think that information is worth something.'
for.
'I was prepared for that,' she says, holding out a much larger sum of money than I was going to ask
'That's not even enough for the taxi fare.'
'I'll pay you the same amount again when I reach my destination.'
And I sense that, for the first time, she feels uncertain. She suddenly seems afraid of what she's about to do. I grab the money she's placed on the counter.
'I'll take you to see Liliana tomorrow.'
Her hands are trembling. She orders another whisky, but suddenly a man comes into the bar, sees her, blushes scarlet and comes straight over to her. I gather that they only met yesterday, and yet here they are talking as if they were old friends. His eyes are full of desire. She's perfectly aware of this and encourages him. The man orders a bottle of wine, and the two sit down at a table, and it's as if she'd forgotten all about her mother.
However, I want the other half of that money. When I serve them their drinks, I tell her I'll be at her hotel at ten o'clock in the morning.
Heron Ryan, journalist
Immediately after the first glass of wine, she told me, unprompted, that she had a boyfriend who worked for Scotland Yard. It was a lie, of course. She must have read the look in my eyes, and this was her way of keeping me at a distance.
I told her that I had a girlfriend, which made us even.
Ten minutes after the music had started, she stood up. We had said very little – she asked no questions about my research into vampires, and we exchanged only generalities: our impressions of the city, complaints about the state of the roads. But what I saw next – or, rather, what everyone in the restaurant saw – was a
goddess revealing herself in all her glory, a priestess invoking angels and demons. Her eyes were closed and she seemed no longer to be conscious of who she was or where she was or why she was there; it was as if she were floating and simultaneously summoning up her past, revealing her present and predicting the future. She mingled eroticism with chastity, pornography with revelation, worship of God and nature, all at the same time.
People stopped eating and started watching what was happening. She was no longer following the music, the musicians were trying to keep up with her steps, and that restaurant in the basement of an old building in the city of Sibiu was transformed into an Egyptian temple, where the worshippers of Isis used to gather for their fertility rites. The smell of roast meat and wine was transmuted into an incense that drew us all into the same trance-like state, into the same experience of leaving this world and entering an unknown dimension.
The string and wind instruments had given up, only the percussion played on. Athena was dancing as if she were no longer there, with sweat running down her face, her bare feet beating on the wooden floor. A woman got up and very gently tied a scarf around her neck and breasts, because her blouse kept threatening to slip off her shoulders. Athena, however, appeared not to notice; she was inhabiting other spheres, experiencing the frontiers of worlds that almost touch ours, but never reveal themselves.
The other people in the restaurant started clapping in time to the music, and Athena was dancing ever faster, feeding on that energy, and spinning round and round, balancing in the void, snatching up everything that we, poor mortals, wanted to offer to the supreme divinity.
And suddenly she stopped. Everyone stopped, including the percussionists. Her eyes were still closed, but tears were now rolling down her cheeks. She raised her arms in the air and cried:
'When I die, bury me standing, because I've spent all my life on my knees!'
No one said anything. She opened her eyes as if waking from a deep sleep and walked back to the table as if nothing had happened. The band started up again, and couples took to the floor in an attempt to enjoy themselves, but the atmosphere in the place had changed completely. People soon paid their bills and started to leave the restaurant.
'Is everything all right?' I asked, when I saw that she'd recovered from the physical effort of
dancing.
'I feel afraid. I discovered how to reach a place I don't want to go to.' 'Do you want me to go with you?'
She shook her head.
In the days that followed, I completed my research for the documentary, sent my interpreter back to Bucharest with the hired car, and then stayed on in Sibiu simply because I wanted to meet her again. All my life I've always been guided by logic and I know that love is something that can be built rather than simply discovered, but I sensed that if I never saw her again, I would be leaving a very important part of my life in Transylvania, even though I might only realise this later on. I fought against the monotony of those endless hours; more than once, I went to the bus station to find out the times of buses to Bucharest; I spent more than my tiny budget as an independent film-maker allowed on phone-calls to the BBC and to my girlfriend. I explained that I didn't yet have all the material I needed, that there were still a few things lacking, that I might need another day or possibly a week; I said that the Romanians were being very difficult and got upset if anyone associated their beautiful Transylvania with the hideous story of Dracula. I finally managed to convince the producers, and they let me stay on longer than I really needed to.
We were staying in the only hotel in the city, and one day she saw me in the foyer and seemed suddenly to remember our first encounter. This time, she invited me out, and I tried to contain my joy. Perhaps I was important in her life.
saying.
Later on, I learned that the words she had spoken at the end of her dance were an ancient gipsy
Liliana, seamstress, age and surname unknown
I speak in the present tense because for us time does not exist, only space. And because it seems like only yesterday.
The one tribal custom I did not follow was that of having my man by my side when Athena was born. The midwives came to me even though they knew I had slept with a gadje, a foreigner. They loosened my hair, cut the umbilical cord, tied various knots and handed it to me. At that point, tradition demands that the child be wrapped in some item of the father's clothing; he had left a scarf which reminded me of his smell and which I sometimes pressed to my nose so as to feel him close to me, but now that perfume would vanish for ever.
I wrapped the baby in the scarf and placed her on the floor so that she would receive energy from the Earth. I stayed there with her, not knowing what to feel or think; my decision had been made.
The midwives told me to choose a name and not to tell anyone what it was – it could only be pronounced once the child was baptised. They gave me the consecrated oil and the amulets I must hang around her neck for the two weeks following her birth. One of them told me not to worry, the whole tribe was responsible for my child and although I would be the butt of much criticism, this would soon pass. They also advised me not to go out between dusk and dawn because the tsinvari (Editor's note: evil spirits) might attack us and take possession of us, and from then on our lives would be a tragedy.
A week later, as soon as the sun rose, I went to an adoption centre in Sibiu and placed her on the doorstep, hoping that some charitable person would take her in. As I was doing so, a nurse caught me and dragged me inside. She insulted me in every way she could and said that they were used to such behaviour, but that there was always someone watching and I couldn't escape so easily from the responsibility of bringing a child into the world.
'Although, of course, what else would one expect from a gipsy! Abandoning your own child like
that!'
I was forced to fill in a form with all my details and, since I didn't know how to write, she said again, more than once: 'Yes, well, what can you expect from a gipsy. And don't try to trick us by giving false information. If you do, it could land you in jail.' Out of pure fear, I told them the truth.
I looked at my child one last time, and all I could think was: 'Child without a name, may you find love, much love in your life.'
Afterwards, I walked in the forest for hours. I remembered many nights during my pregnancy when I had both loved and hated the child herself and the man who had put her inside me.
Like all women, I'd dreamed of one day meeting an enchanted prince, who would marry me, give me lots of children and shower attentions on my family. Like many women, I fell in love with a man who could give me none of those things, but with whom I shared some unforgettable moments, moments my child would never understand, for she would always be stigmatised in our tribe as a gadje and a fatherless child. I could bear that, but I didn't want her to suffer as I had suffered
ever since I first realised I was pregnant. I wept and tore at my own skin, thinking that the pain of the scratches would perhaps stop me thinking about a return to ordinary life, to face the shame I had brought on the tribe. Someone would take care of the child, and I would always cherish the hope of seeing her again one day, when she had grown up.
Unable to stop crying, I sat down on the ground and put my arms around the trunk of a tree. However, as soon as my tears and the blood from my wounds touched the trunk of the tree, a strange calm took hold of me. I seemed to hear a voice telling me not to worry, saying that my blood and my tears had purified the path of the child and lessened my suffering. Ever since then, whenever I despair, I remember that voice and feel calm again.
That's why I wasn't surprised when I saw her arrive with our tribe's Rom Baro, who asked me for a coffee and a drink, then smiled slyly and left. The voice told me that she would come back, and now here she is, in front of me. She's pretty. She looks like her father. I don't know what feelings she has for me; perhaps she hates me because I abandoned her. I don't need to explain why I did what I did; no one would ever understand.
We sit for an age without saying anything to each other, just looking – not smiling, not crying, nothing. A surge of love rises up from the depths of my soul, but I don't know if she's interested in what I feel.
'Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?'
Instinct. Instinct above all else. She nods. We go into the small room in which I live, and which is living room, bedroom, kitchen and sewing workshop. She looks around, shocked, but I pretend not to notice. I go over to the stove and return with two bowls of thick meat and vegetable broth. I've prepared some strong coffee too and just as I'm about to add sugar, she speaks for the first time:
'No sugar for me, thank you. I didn't know you spoke English.'
I almost say that I learned it from her father, but I bite my tongue. We eat in silence and, as time passes, everything starts to feel familiar to me; here I am with my daughter; she went off into the world and now she's back; she followed different paths from mine and has come home. I know this is an illusion, but life has given me so many moments of harsh reality that it does no harm to dream a little.
'Who's that saint?' she asks, pointing to a painting on the wall.
'St Sarah, the patron saint of gipsies. I've always wanted to visit her church in
France, but I can't leave the country. I'd never get a passport or permission…'
I'm about to say: And even if I did, I wouldn't have enough money, but I stop myself in time. She might think I was asking her for something.
'…and besides I have too much work to do.'
Silence falls again. She finishes her soup, lights a cigarette, and her eyes give nothing away, no
emotion.
'Did you think you would ever see me again?'
I say that I did, and that I'd heard yesterday, from the Rom Baro's wife, that she'd visited his restaurant.
'A storm is coming. Wouldn't you like to sleep a little?'
'I can't hear anything. The wind isn't blowing any harder or softer than before. I'd rather talk.' 'Believe me, I have all the time in the world. I have the rest of my life to spend by your side.' 'Don't say that.'
'But you're tired,' I go on, pretending not to have heard her remark. I can see the storm approaching. Like all storms, it brings destruction, but, at the same time, it soaks the fields, and the wisdom of the heavens falls with the rain. Like all storms, it will pass. The more violent it is, the more quickly it will pass.
I have, thank God, learned to weather storms.
And as if all the Holy Marys of the Sea were listening to me, the first drops of rain begin to fall on the tin roof. The young woman finishes her cigarette. I take her hand and lead her to my bed. She lies down and closes her eyes.
I don't know how long she slept. I watched her without thinking anything, and the voice I'd heard once in the forest was telling me that all was well, that I needn't worry, that the ways in which fate changes people are always favourable if we only know how to decipher them. I don't know who saved her from the orphanage and brought her up and made her into the independent woman she appears to be. I offered up a prayer to that family who had allowed my daughter to survive and achieve a better life. In the middle of the prayer, I felt jealousy, despair, regret, and I stopped talking to St Sarah. Had it really been so important to bring her back? There lay everything I'd lost and could never recover.
But there, too, was the physical manifestation of my love. I knew nothing and yet everything was revealed to me: I remembered the times I'd considered suicide and, later, abortion, when I'd imagined leaving that part of the world and setting off on foot to wherever my strength would take me; I remembered my blood and tears on
the tree trunk, the dialogue with nature that had intensified from that moment on and has never left me since, although few people in my tribe have any inkling of this. My protector, whom I met while I was wandering in the forest, understood, but he had just died.
'The light is unstable, the wind blows it out, the lightning ignites it, it is never simply there, shining like the sun, but it is worth fighting for,' he used to say.
He was the only person who accepted me and persuaded the tribe that I could once again form part of their world. He was the only one with the moral authority to ensure that I wasn't expelled.
And, alas, the only one who would never meet my daughter. I wept for him, while she lay sleeping on my bed, she who must be used to all the world's comforts. Thousands of questions filled my head – who were her adoptive parents, where did she live, had she been to university, was there someone she loved, what were her plans? But I wasn't the one who had travelled the world in search of her, on the contrary. I wasn't there to ask questions, but to answer them.
She opened her eyes. I wanted to touch her hair, to give her the affection I'd kept locked inside all these years, but I wasn't sure how she would react and thought it best to do nothing.
'You came here to find out why–'
'No, I don't want to know why a mother would abandon her daughter. There is no reason for anyone to do that.'
Her words wound my heart, but I don't know how to respond.
'Who am I? What blood runs in my veins? Yesterday, when I found out where you were, I was absolutely terrified. Where do I start? I suppose, like all gipsies, you can read the future in the cards.'
'No, that's not true. We only do that with gadje as a way of earning a living. We never read cards or hands or try to predict the future within our own tribe. And you…'
'…I'm part of the tribe. Even though the woman who brought me into the world sent me far away.' 'Yes.'
'So what am I doing here? Now that I've seen your face I can go back to London. My holidays are nearly over.'
mouth:
hours.
'Do you want to know about your father?' 'No, I haven't the slightest interest in
him.'
And suddenly, I realised that I could help her. It was as if someone else's voice came out of my
'Try to understand the blood that flows in my veins and in your heart.'
That was my teacher speaking through me. She closed her eyes again and slept for nearly twelve
The following day, I took her to the outskirts of Sibiu where there's a kind of museum of the different kinds of houses found in the region. For the first time, I'd had the pleasure of preparing her breakfast. She was more rested, less tense, and she asked me questions about gipsy culture, but never about me. She told me a little of her life. I learned that I was a grandmother! She didn't mention her husband or her adoptive parents. She said she sold land in a country far from there and that she would soon return to her work.
I explained that I could show her how to make amulets to ward off evil, but she didn't seem interested. However, when I spoke to her about the healing properties of herbs, she asked me to teach her how to recognise them. In the park where we were walking, I tried to pass on to her all the knowledge I possessed, although I was sure she'd forget everything as soon as she returned to her home country, which by then I knew was England.
'We don't possess the Earth, the Earth possesses us. We used to travel constantly, and everything around us was ours: the plants, the water, the landscapes through which our caravans passed. Our laws were nature's laws: the strong survived, and we, the weak, the eternal exiles, learned to hide our strength and to use it only when necessary. We don't believe that God made the universe. We believe that God is the universe and that we are contained in Him, and He in us. Although…'
I stopped, then decided to go on, because it was a way of paying homage to my protector.
'…in my opinion, we should call “Him” “Goddess” or “Mother”. Not like the woman who gives her daughter up to an orphanage, but like the Woman in all of us, who protects us when we are in danger. She will always be with us while we perform our daily tasks with love and joy, understanding that nothing is suffering, that everything is a way of praising Creation.'
Athena – now I knew her name – looked across at one of the houses in the park. 'What's that? A church?'
The hours I'd spent by her side had allowed me to recover my strength. I asked if
she was trying to change the subject. She thought for a moment before replying. 'No, I want to go on listening to what you have to tell me, although, according to everything I read before I came here, what you're saying isn't part of the gipsy tradition.'
'My protector taught me these things. He knew things the gipsies don't know and he made the tribe take me back. And as I learned from him, I gradually became aware of the power of the Mother, I, who had rejected the blessing of being a mother.'
I pointed at a small bush.
'If one day your son has a fever, place him next to a young plant like this and shake its leaves. The fever will pass over into the plant. If ever you feel anxious, do the same thing.'
'I'd rather you told me more about your protector.'
'He taught me that in the beginning Creation was so lonely that it created someone else to talk to. Those two creatures, in an act of love, made a third person, and from then on, they multiplied by thousands and millions. You asked about the church we just saw: I don't know when it was built and I'm not interested. My temple is the park, the sky, the water in the lake and the stream that feeds it. My people are those who share my ideas and not those I'm bound to by bonds of blood. My ritual is being with those people and celebrating everything around me. When are you thinking of going home?'
'Possibly tomorrow. I don't want to inconvenience you.' Another wound to my heart, but I could say nothing.
'No, please, stay as long as you like. I only asked because I'd like to celebrate your arrival with the others. If you agree, I can do this tonight.'
She says nothing, and I understand this as a 'yes'. Back home, I give her more food, and she explains that she needs to go to her hotel in Sibiu to fetch some clothes. By the time she returns, I have everything organised. We go to a hill to the south of the town; we sit around a fire that has just been lit; we play instruments, we sing, we dance, we tell stories. She watches, but doesn't take part, although the Rom Baro told me that she was a fine dancer. For the first time in many years, I feel happy, because I've had the chance to prepare a ritual for my daughter and to celebrate with her the miracle of the two of us being together, alive and healthy and immersed in the love of the Great Mother.
Afterwards, she says that she'll sleep at the hotel that night. I ask her if this is
goodbye, but she says it isn't. She'll come back tomorrow.
For a whole week, my daughter and I share together the adoration of the Universe. One night, she brought a friend, making it quite clear that he was neither her boyfriend nor the father of her child. The man, who must have been ten years older than her, asked who we were worshipping in our rituals. I explained that worshipping someone means – according to my protector – placing that person outside our world. We are not worshipping anyone or anything; we are simply communing with Creation.
'But do you pray?'
'Myself, I pray to St Sarah, but here we are part of everything and we celebrate rather than pray.' I felt that Athena was proud of my answer, but I was really only repeating my protector's words. 'And why do this in a group, when we can all celebrate the Universe on our own?'
'Because the others are me. And I am the others.'
Athena looked at me then, and I felt it was my turn to wound her heart. 'I'm leaving tomorrow,' she said.
'Before you do, come and say goodbye to your mother.'
That was the first time, in all those days, I had used the word. My voice didn't tremble, my gaze was steady, and I knew that, despite everything, standing before me was the blood of my blood, the fruit of my womb. At that moment, I was behaving like a little girl who has just found out that the world isn't full of ghosts and curses, as grown-ups have taught us. It's full of love, regardless of how that love is manifested, a love that forgives our mistakes and redeems our sins.
She gave me a long embrace. Then she adjusted the veil I wear to cover my hair; I may not have had a husband, but according to gipsy tradition, I had to wear a veil because I was no longer a virgin. What would tomorrow bring me, along with the departure of the being I've always both loved and feared from a distance? I was everyone, and everyone was me and my solitude.
The following day, Athena arrived bearing a bunch of flowers. She tidied my room, told me that I should wear glasses because my eyes were getting worn out from all that sewing. She asked if the friends I celebrated with experienced any problems with the tribe, and I told her that they didn't, that my protector had been a very respected man, had taught us many things and had followers all over the world. I explained that he'd died shortly before she arrived.
'One day, a cat brushed against him. To us, that means death, and we were all very
worried. But although there is a ritual that can lift such a curse, my protector said it was time for him to leave, that he needed to travel to those other worlds which he knew existed, to be reborn as a child, and to rest for a while in the arms of the Mother. His funeral took place in a forest nearby. It was a very simple affair, but people came from all over the world.'
'Amongst those people, was there a woman of about thirty-five, with dark hair?' 'I can't be sure, but possibly. Why do you ask'
'I met someone at a hotel in Bucharest who said that she'd come to attend the funeral of a friend. I think she said something about “her teacher”.'
She asked me to tell her more about the gipsies, but there wasn't much she didn't already know, mainly because, apart from customs and traditions, we know little of our own history. I suggested that she go to France one day and take, on my behalf, a shawl to present to the image of St Sarah in the little French village of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer.
'I came here because there was something missing in my life,' she said. 'I needed to fill up my blank spaces, and I thought just seeing your face would be enough. But it wasn't. I also needed to understand that…I was loved.'
'You are loved.'
I said nothing else for a long time. I'd finally put into words what I'd wanted to say ever since I let her go. So that she would not become too emotional, I went on: 'I'd like to ask you something.' 'Ask me anything you like.'
'I want to ask your forgiveness.' She bit her lip.
'I've always been a very restless person. I work hard, spend too much time looking after my son, I dance like a mad thing, I learned calligraphy, I go to courses on selling, I read one book after another. But that's all a way of avoiding those moments when nothing is happening, because those blank spaces give me a feeling of absolute emptiness, in which not a single crumb of love exists. My parents have always done everything they could for me, and I do nothing but disappoint them. But here, during the time we've spent together, celebrating nature and the Great Mother, I've realised that those empty spaces were starting to get filled up. They were transformed into pauses – the moment when the man lifts his hand from the drum before bringing it down again to strike it hard. I think I can leave now. I'm not saying that I'll go in peace, because my life needs to follow the rhythm I'm accustomed to. But I won't leave feeling bitter. Do all gipsies believe in the Great Mother?'
'If you were to ask them, none of them would say “yes”. They've adopted the beliefs and customs of the places where they've settled, and the only thing that unites us in religious terms is the worship of St Sarah and making a pilgrimage, at least once in our lifetime, to visit her tomb in Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Some tribes call her Kali Sarah, Black Sarah. Or the Virgin of the Gipsies, as she's known in Lourdes.'
'I have to go,' Athena said after a while. 'The friend you met the other day is leaving with me.' 'He seems like a nice man.'
'You're talking like a mother.' 'I am your mother.' 'And I'm your daughter.'
She embraced me, this time with tears in her eyes. I stroked her hair as I held her in my arms, as I'd always dreamed I would, ever since the day when fate – or my fear – separated us. I asked her to take good care of herself, and she told me that she had learned a lot.
'You'll learn a lot more too because, although, nowadays, we're all trapped in houses, cities and jobs, there still flows in your blood the time of caravans and journeyings and the teachings that the Great Mother placed in our path so that we could survive. Learn, but always learn with other people by your side. Don't be alone in the search, because if you take a wrong step, you'll have no one there to help put you right.'
She was still crying, still clinging to me, almost begging me to let her stay. I pleaded with my protector not to let me shed one tear, because I wanted the best for Athena, and her destiny was to go forward. Here in Transylvania, apart from my love, she would find nothing else. And although I believe that love is enough to justify a whole existence, I was quite sure that I couldn't ask her to sacrifice her future in order to stay by my side.
Athena planted a kiss on my forehead and left without saying goodbye, perhaps thinking she would return one day. Every Christmas, she sent me enough money to spend the whole year without having to sew, but I never went to the bank to cash her cheques, even though everyone in the tribe thought I was behaving like a foolish woman.
Six months ago, she stopped sending money. She must have realised that I need my sewing to fill up what she called the 'blank spaces'.
I would love to see her again, but I know she'll never come back. She's probably a big executive now, married to the man she loves. And I probably have lots of
grandchildren, which means that my blood will remain on this Earth, and my mistakes will be forgiven.
Samira R. Khalil, housewife
As soon as Sherine arrived home, whooping with joy and clutching a rather startled Viorel to her, I knew that everything had gone much better than I'd imagined. I felt that God had heard my prayers, and that now she no longer had anything more to learn about herself, she would finally adapt to normal life, bring up her child, remarry and forget all about the strange restlessness that left her simultaneously euphoric and depressed.
'I love you, Mum.'
It was my turn to put my arms around her and hold her to me. During all the nights she'd been away, I had, I confess, been terrified by the thought that she might send someone to fetch Viorel and then they would never come back.
After she'd eaten, had a bath, told us about the meeting with her birth mother, and described the Transylvanian countryside (I could barely remember it, since all I was interested in, at the time, was finding the orphanage), I asked her when she was going back to Dubai.
'Next week, but, first, I have to go to Scotland to see someone.' A man!
'A woman,' she said at once, perhaps in response to my knowing smile. 'I feel that I have a mission. While we were celebrating life and nature, I discovered things I didn't even know existed. What I thought could be found only through dance is everywhere. And it has the face of a woman. I saw in the…'
I felt frightened. Her mission, I told her, was to bring up her son, do well at her job, earn more money, remarry, and respect God as we know Him.
But Sherine wasn't listening.
'It was one night when we were sitting round the fire, drinking, telling funny stories and listening to music. Apart from in the restaurant, I hadn't felt the need to dance all the time I was there, as if I were storing up energy for something different. Suddenly, I felt as if everything around me were alive and pulsating, as if the Creation and I were one and the same thing. I wept with joy when the flames of the fire seemed to take on the form of a woman's face, full of compassion, smiling at me.'
I shuddered. It was probably gipsy witchcraft. And at the same time, the image came back to me of the little girl at school, who said she'd seen 'a woman in white'. 'Don't get caught up in things like that, they're the Devil's work. We've always set
you a good example, so why can't you lead a normal life?'
I'd obviously been too hasty when I thought the journey in search of her birth mother had done her good. However, instead of reacting aggressively, as she usually did, she smiled and went on:
'What is normal? Why is Dad always laden down with work, when we have money enough to support three generations? He's an honest man and he deserves the money he earns, but he always says, with a certain pride, that he's got far too much work. Why? What for?'
'He's a man who lives a dignified, hard-working life.'
'When I lived at home, the first thing he'd ask me when he got back every evening was how my homework was going, and he'd give me a few examples illustrating how important his work was to the world. Then he'd turn on the TV, make a few comments about the political situation in Lebanon, and read some technical book before going to sleep. But he was always busy. And it was the same thing with you. I was the best-dressed girl at school; you took me to parties; you kept the house spick and span; you were always kind and loving and brought me up impeccably. But what happens now that you're getting older? What are you going to do with your life now that I've grown up and am independent?'
'We're going to travel the world and enjoy a well-earned rest.' 'But why don't you do that now, while your health is still good?'
I'd asked myself the same question, but I felt that my husband needed his work, not because of the money, but out of a need to feel useful, to prove that an exile also honours his commitments. Whenever he took a holiday and stayed in town, he always found some excuse to slip into the office, to talk to his colleagues and make some decision that could easily have waited. I tried to make him go to the theatre, to
the cinema, to museums, and he'd do as I asked, but I always had the feeling that it bored him. His only interest was the company, work, business.
For the first time, I talked to her as if she were a friend and not my daughter, but I chose my words carefully and spoke in a way that she could understand.
'Are you saying that your father is also trying to fill in what you call the “blank spaces”?'
'The day he retires, although I really don't think that day will ever come, he'll fall into a deep depression. I'm sure of it. What to do with that hard-won freedom? Everyone will congratulate him on a brilliant career, on the legacy he leaves behind
him because of the integrity with which he ran his company, but no one will have time for him any more – life flows on, and everyone is caught up in that flow. Dad will feel an exile again, but this time he won't have a country where he can seek refuge.'
'Have you got a better idea?'
'Only one: I don't want the same thing to happen to me. I'm too restless, and, please don't take this the wrong way, because I'm not blaming you and Dad at all for the example you set me, but I need to change, and change fast.'
Deidre O'Neill, known as Edda She's sitting in the pitch black.
The boy, of course, left the room at once – the night is the kingdom of terror, of monsters from the past, of the days when we wandered like gipsies, like my former teacher – may the Mother has mercy on his soul, and may he be loved and cherished until it is time for him to return.
Athena hasn't known what to do since I switched off the light. She asks about her son, and I tell her not to worry, to leave everything to me. I go out, put the TV on, find a cartoon channel and turn off the sound; the child sits there hypnotised – problem solved. I wonder how it must have been in the past, because the women who came to perform the same ritual Athena is about to take part in would have brought their children and in those days there was no TV. What did teachers do then?
Fortunately, I don't have to worry about that.
What the boy is experiencing in front of the television – a gateway into a different reality – is the same state I am going to induce in Athena. Everything is at once so simple and so complicated! It's simple because all it takes is a change of attitude: I'm not going to look for happiness any more. From now on, I'm independent; I see life through my eyes and not through other people's. I'm going in search of the adventure of being alive.
And it's complicated: why am I not looking for happiness when everyone has taught me that happiness is the only goal worth pursuing? Why am I going to risk taking a path that no one else is taking? After all, what is happiness?
Love, they tell me. But love doesn't bring and never has brought happiness. On the contrary, it's a constant state of anxiety, a battlefield; it's sleepless nights, asking ourselves all the time if we're doing the right thing. Real love is composed of ecstasy and agony.
All right then, peace. Peace? If we look at the Mother, she's never at peace. The
winter does battle with the summer, the sun and the moon never meet, the tiger chases the man, who's afraid of the dog, who chases the cat, who chases the mouse, who frightens the man.
Money brings happiness. Fine. In that case, everyone who earns enough to have a high standard of living would be able to stop work. But then they're more troubled than ever, as if they were afraid of losing everything. Money attracts money, that's true. Poverty might bring unhappiness, but money won't necessarily bring happiness.
I spent a lot of my life looking for happiness, now what I want is joy. Joy is like sex – it begins and ends. I want pleasure. I want to be contented, but happiness? I no longer fall into that trap.
When I'm with a group of people and I want to provoke them by asking that most important of questions: 'Are you happy?', they all reply: 'Yes, I am.'
Then I ask: 'But don't you want more? Don't you want to keep on growing?' And they all reply: 'Of
course.'
Then I say: 'So you're not happy.' And they change the subject.
I must go back to the room where Athena is sitting. It's dark. She hears my footsteps; a match is struck and a candle lit.
'We're surrounded by Universal Desire. It's not happiness; it's desire. And desires are never satisfied, because once they are, they cease to be desires.'
'Where's my son?'
'Your son is fine; he's watching TV. I just want you to look at the candle; don't speak, don't say anything. Just believe.'
'Believe what?'
'I asked you not to say anything. Simply believe – don't doubt anything. You're alive, and this candle is the only point in your universe. Believe in that. Let go of the idea that the path will lead you to your goal. The truth is that with each step we take, we arrive. Repeat that to yourself every morning: “I've arrived”. That way you'll find it much easier to stay in touch with each second of your day.'
I paused.
'The candle flame is illuminating your world. Ask the candle: “Who am I?”' I paused again, then went on:
'I can imagine your answer. I'm so-and-so. I've had these experiences. I have a son. I work in Dubai. Now ask the candle again: “Who am I not?”'
Again I waited and again I went on:
'You probably said: I'm not a contented person. I'm not a typical mother concerned only with her son and her husband, with having a house and a garden and a place to spend the summer holidays. Is that so? You can speak now.'
'Yes, it is.'
'Good, we're on the right path. You, like me, are a dissatisfied person. Your “reality” does not coincide with the “reality” of other people. And you're afraid that your son will follow the same path as you, is that correct?'
'Yes.'
'Nevertheless, you know you cannot stop. You struggle, but you can't control your doubts. Look hard at the candle. At the moment, the candle is your universe. It fixes your attention; it lights up the room around you a little. Breathe deeply, hold the air in your lungs as long as possible and then breathe out. Repeat this five times.'
She obeyed.
'This exercise should have calmed your soul. Now, remember what I said: believe. Believe in your abilities; believe that you have already arrived where you wanted to arrive. At a particular moment in your life, as you told me over tea this afternoon, you said that you'd changed the behaviour of the people in the bank where you worked because you'd taught them to dance. That isn't true. You changed everything because, through dance, you changed their reality. You believed in the story of the Vertex, which, although I've never heard of it before, seems to me an interesting one. You like dancing and you believed in what you were doing. You can't believe in something you don't like, can you?'
Athena shook her head, keeping her eyes fixed on the candle flame.
'Faith is not desire. Faith is Will. Desires are things that need to be satisfied, whereas Will is a force. Will changes the space around us, as you did with your work at the bank. But for that, you also need Desire. Please, concentrate on the candle!
'Your son left the room and went to watch TV because he's afraid of the dark. But why? We can project anything onto the darkness, and we usually project our own ghosts. That's true for children and for adults. Slowly raise your right arm.'
She raised her arm. I asked her to do the same with her left arm. I looked at her breasts, far prettier than mine.
'Now slowly lower them again. Close your eyes and breathe deeply. I'm going to
turn on the light. Right, that's the end of the ritual. Let's go into the living room.' adopt.
She got up with some difficulty. Her legs had gone numb because of the position I'd told her to
Viorel had fallen asleep. I turned off the TV, and we went into the kitchen. 'What was the point of all that?' she asked.
'Merely to remove you from everyday reality. I could have asked you to concentrate on anything, but I like the darkness and the candle flame. But you want to know what I'm up to, isn't that right?'
Athena remarked that she'd travelled for nearly five hours in the train with her son on her lap, when she should have been packing her bags to go back to work. She could have sat looking at a candle in her own room without any need to come to Scotland at all.
'Yes, there was a need,' I replied. 'You needed to know that you're not alone, that other people are in contact with the same thing as you. Just knowing that allows you to believe.'
'To believe what?'
'That you're on the right path. And, as I said before, arriving with each step you take.'
'What path? I thought that by going to find my mother in Romania, I would, at last, find the peace of mind I so need, but I haven't. What path are you talking about?'
'I haven't the slightest idea. You'll only discover that when you start to teach. When you go back to Dubai, find a student.'
'Do you mean teach dance or calligraphy?'
'Those are things you know about already. You need to teach what you don't know, what the Mother wants to reveal through you.'
She looked at me as if I had gone mad.
'It's true,' I said. 'Why else do you think I asked you to breathe deeply and to raise your arms? So that you'd believe that I knew more than you. But it isn't true. It was just a way of taking you out of the world you're accustomed to. I didn't ask you to thank the Mother, to say how wonderful She is or that you saw Her face shining in the flames of a fire. I asked only that absurd and pointless gesture of raising your arms and focusing your attention on a candle. That's enough – trying, whenever possible, to do something that is out of kilter with the reality around us.
'When you start creating rituals for your student to carry out, you'll be receiving guidance. That's where the apprenticeship begins, or so my protector told me. If you want to heed my words, fine, but if you don't and you carry on with your life as it is at the moment, you'll end up bumping up against a wall called “dissatisfaction”.'
I rang for a taxi, and we talked a little about fashion and men, and then Athena left. I was sure she would listen to me, mainly because she was the kind of person who never refuses a challenge.
'Teach people to be different. That's all!' I shouted after her, as the taxi moved off. That is joy. Happiness would be feeling satisfied with everything she already had – a lover, a son, a job. And Athena, like me, wasn't born for that kind of life.
Heron Ryan, journalist
I couldn't admit I was in love, of course; I already had a girlfriend who loved me and shared with me both my troubles and my joys.
The various encounters and events that had taken place in Sibiu were part of a journey, and it wasn't the first time this kind of thing had happened while I was away from home. When we step out of our normal world and leave behind us all the usual barriers and prejudices, we tend to become more adventurous.
When I returned to England, the first thing I did was to tell the producers that making a documentary about the historical figure of Dracula was a nonsense, and that one book by a mad Irishman had created a truly terrible image of Transylvania, which was, in fact, one of the loveliest places on the planet. Obviously the producers were none too pleased, but at that point, I didn't care what they thought. I left television and went to work for one of the world's most prestigious newspapers.
That was when I began to realise that I wanted to meet Athena again.
I phoned her and we arranged to go for a walk together before she went back to Dubai. She suggested guiding me around London.
We got on the first bus that stopped, without asking where it was going, then we chose a female passenger at random and decided that we would get off wherever she did. She got off at Temple and so did we. We passed a beggar who asked us for money, but we didn't give him any and walked on, listening to the insults he hurled after us, accepting that this was merely his way of communicating with us.
We saw someone vandalising a telephone box, and I wanted to call the police, but Athena stopped me; perhaps that person had just broken up with the love of his
life and needed to vent his feelings. Or, who knows, perhaps he had no one to talk to and couldn't stand to see others humiliating him by using that phone to discuss business deals or love.
She told me to close my eyes and to describe exactly the clothes we were both wearing; to my surprise, I got nearly every detail wrong.
She asked me what was on my desk at work and said that some of the papers were only there because I was too lazy to deal with them.
'Have you ever considered that those bits of paper have a life and feelings, have requests to make and stories to tell? I don't think you're giving life the attention it deserves.'
I promised that I'd go through them one by one when I returned to work the following day.
A foreign couple with a map asked Athena how to get to a particular tourist spot. She gave them very precise, but totally inaccurate directions.
'Everything you told them was completely wrong!'
'It doesn't matter. They'll get lost, and that's the best way to discover interesting places. Try to fill your life again with a little fantasy; above our heads is a sky about which the whole of humanity – after thousands of years spent observing it – has given various apparently reasonable explanations. Forget everything you've ever learned about the stars and they'll once more be transformed into angels, or into children, or into whatever you want to believe at that moment. It won't make you more stupid – after all, it's only a game – but it could enrich your life.'
The following day, when I went back to work, I treated each sheet of paper as if it were a message addressed to me personally and not to the organisation I represent. At midday, I went to talk to the deputy editor and suggested writing an article about the Goddess worshipped by the gipsies. He thought it an excellent idea and I was commissioned to go to the celebrations in the gipsy Mecca, Saintes-Maries-de-laMer.
Incredible though it may seem, Athena showed no desire to go with me. She said that her boyfriend that fictitious policeman, whom she was using to keep me at a distance – wouldn't be very happy if she went off travelling with another man. 'Didn't you promise your mother to take the saint a new shawl?'
'Yes, I did, but only if the town happened to be on my path, which it isn't. If I do ever pass by there, then I'll keep my promise.'
She was returning to Dubai the following Sunday, but first she travelled up to
Scotland with her son to see the woman we'd both met in Bucharest. I didn't remember anyone, but, perhaps the phantom 'woman in Scotland', like the phantom 'boyfriend', was another excuse, and I decided not to insist. But I nevertheless felt jealous, as if she were telling me that she preferred being with other people.
I found my jealousy odd. And I decided that if I was asked to go to the Middle East to write an article about the property boom that someone on the business pages had mentioned, I would read up everything I could on real estate, economics, politics and oil, simply as a way of getting closer to Athena.
My visit to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer produced an excellent article. According to tradition, Sarah was a gipsy who happened to be living in the small seaside town when Jesus' aunt, Mary Salome, along with other refugees, arrived there fleeing persecution by the Romans. Sarah helped them and, in the end, converted to Christianity.
During the celebrations, bones from the skeletons of the two women who are buried beneath the altar are taken out of a reliquary and raised up on high to bless the multitude of gipsies who arrive in their caravans from all over Europe with their bright clothes and their music. Then the image of Sarah, decked out in splendid robes, is brought from the place near the church where it's kept – for Sarah has never been canonised by the Vatican – and carried in procession to the sea through narrow streets strewn with rose petals. Four gipsies in traditional costume place the relics in a boat full of flowers and wade into the water, re-enacting the arrival of the fugitives and their meeting with Sarah. From then on, it's all music,
celebration, songs and bull-running.
A historian, Antoine Locadour, helped me flesh out the article with interesting facts about the Female Divinity. I sent Athena the two pages I'd written for the newspaper's travel section. All I received in return was a friendly reply, thanking me for sending her the article, but with no other comment.
At least, I'd confirmed that her address in Dubai existed. Antoine Locadour, 74, historian, ICP, France
It's easy to label Sarah as just one of the many Black Virgins in the world. According to tradition, Sarah-la-Kali was of noble lineage and knew the secrets of the world. She is, I believe, one more manifestation of what people call the Great Mother, the Goddess of Creation.
And it doesn't surprise me in the least that more and more people are becoming interested in pagan traditions. Why? Because God the Father is associated with the rigour and discipline of worship, whereas the Mother Goddess shows the importance of love above and beyond all the usual prohibitions and taboos.
The phenomenon is hardly a new one. Whenever a religion tightens its rules, a significant number of people break away and go in search of more freedom in their search for spiritual contact. This happened during the Middle Ages when the Catholic Church did little more than impose taxes and build splendid monasteries and convents; the phenomenon known as 'witchcraft' was a reaction to this, and even though it was suppressed because of its revolutionary nature, it left behind it roots and traditions that have managed to survive over the centuries.
According to pagan tradition, nature worship is more important than reverence for sacred books. The Goddess is in everything and everything is part of the Goddess. The world is merely an expression of her goodness. There are many philosophical systems – such as Taoism and Buddhism – which make no distinction between creator and creature. People no longer try to decipher the mystery of life, but choose instead to be part of it. There is no female figure in Taoism or Buddhism, but there, too, the central idea is that 'everything is one'.
In the worship of the Great Mother, what we call 'sin', usually a transgression of certain arbitrary moral codes, ceases to exist. Sex and customs in general are freer because they are part of nature and cannot be considered to be the fruits of evil.
The new paganism shows that man is capable of living without an institutionalised religion, while still continuing the spiritual search in order to justify his existence. If God is Mother, then we need only gather together with other people and adore Her through rituals intended to satisfy the female soul, rituals involving dance, fire, water, air, earth, songs, music, flowers and beauty.
This has been a growing trend over the last few years. We may be witnessing a very important moment in the history of the world, when the Spirit finally merges with the Material, and the two are united and transformed. At the same time, I imagine that there will be a very violent reaction from organised religious institutions, which are beginning to lose their followers. There will be a rise in fundamentalism.
As a historian, I'm content to collate all the data and analyse this confrontation between the freedom to worship and the duty to obey, between the God who controls the world and the Goddess who is part of the world, between people who
join together in groups where celebration is a spontaneous affair and those who close ranks and learn only what they should and should not do.
I'd like to be optimistic and believe that human beings have at last found their path to the spiritual world, but the signs are not very positive. As so often in the past, a new conservative backlash could once more stifle the cult of the Mother.
Andrea McCain, actress
It's very difficult to be impartial and to tell a story that began in admiration and ended in rancour, but I'm going to try, yes, I'm really going to try and describe the Athena I met for the first time in an apartment in Victoria Street.
She'd just got back from Dubai with plenty of money and a desire to share everything she knew about the mysteries of magic. This time, she'd spent only four months in the Middle East: she sold some land for the construction of two supermarkets, earned a huge commission and decided that she'd earned enough money to support herself and her son for the next three years, and that she could always resume work later on if she wanted. Now was the time to make the most of the present, to live what remained of her youth and to teach others everything she had learned.
She received me somewhat unenthusiastically: 'What do you want?'
'I work in the theatre and we're putting on a play about the female face of God. I heard from a journalist friend that you spent time in the Balkan mountains with some gipsies and would be prepared to tell me about your experiences there.'
'You mean you only came here to learn about the Mother because of a play?' 'Why did you learn about Her?'
Athena stopped, looked me up and down, and smiled:
'You're right. That's my first lesson as a teacher: teach those who want to learn.
The reason doesn't matter.'
'I'm sorry?' 'Nothing.'
'The origins of the theatre are sacred,' I went on. 'It began in Greece with hymns to Dionysus, the god of wine, rebirth and fertility. But it's believed that even from very remote times, people performed a ritual in which they would pretend to be someone else as a way of communing with the sacred.'
'Second lesson, thank you.'
'I don't understand. I came here to learn, not to teach.'
This woman was beginning to irritate me. Perhaps she was being ironic. 'My
protector–' 'Your protector?'
'I'll explain another time. My protector said that I would only learn what I need to learn if I were provoked into it. And since my return from Dubai, you're the first person to demonstrate that to me. What she said makes sense.'
I explained that, in researching the play, I'd gone from one teacher to the next, but had never found their teachings to be in any way exceptional; despite this, however, I grew more and more interested in the matter as I went on. I also mentioned that these people had seemed confused and uncertain about what they wanted.
'For example?'
Sex, for example. In some of the places I went to, sex was a complete no-no. In others, they not only advocated complete freedom, but even encouraged orgies. She asked for more details, and I couldn't tell if she was doing this in order to test me or because she had no idea what other people got up to.
Athena spoke before I could answer her question.
'When you dance, do you feel desire? Do you feel as if you were summoning up a greater energy? When you dance, are there moments when you cease to be yourself?'
I didn't know what to say. In nightclubs or at parties in friends' houses, sensuality was definitely part of how I felt when I danced. I would start by flirting and enjoying the desire in men's eyes, but as the night wore on, I seemed to get more in touch with myself, and it was no longer important to me whether I was or wasn't seducing someone.
Athena continued:
'If theatre is ritual, then dance is too. Moreover, it's a very ancient way of getting close to a partner. It's as if the threads connecting us to the rest of the world were washed clean of preconceptions and fears. When you dance, you can enjoy the luxury of being you.'
I started listening to her with more respect.
'Afterwards, we go back to being who we were before – frightened people trying to be more important than we actually believe we are.'
That was exactly how I felt. Or is it the same for everyone? 'Do you have a boyfriend?'
I remembered that in one of the places where I'd gone to learn about the Gaia
tradition, a 'druid' had asked me to make love in front of him. Ridiculous and frightening – how dare these people use the spiritual search for their own more sinister ends?
'Do you have a boyfriend?' she asked again. 'I do.'
Athena said nothing else. She merely put her finger to her lips, indicating that I should remain silent. And suddenly I realised that it was extremely difficult for me to remain silent in the presence of someone I'd only just met. The norm is to talk about something, anything – the weather, the traffic, the best restaurants to go to. We were sitting on the sofa in her completely white sitting room, with a CD-player and a small shelf of CDs. There were no books anywhere, and no paintings on the wall. Given that she'd travelled to the Middle East, I'd expected to find objects and souvenirs from that part of the world.
But it was empty, and now there was this silence.
Her grey eyes were fixed on mine, but I held firm and didn't look away. Instinct perhaps. A way of saying that I'm not frightened, but facing the challenge head-on.
Except that everything – the silence and the
white room, the noise of the traffic outside in the street – began to seem unreal. How long were we going to stay there, saying nothing?
I started to track my own thoughts. Had I come there in search of material for my play or did I really want knowledge, wisdom, power? I couldn't put my finger on what it was that had led me to come and see…what? A witch?
My adolescent dreams surfaced. Who wouldn't like to meet a real witch, learn how to perform magic, and gain the respect and fear of her friends? Who, as a young woman, hasn't been outraged by the centuries of repression suffered by women and felt that becoming a witch would be the best way of recovering her lost identity? I'd been through that phase myself; I was independent and did what I liked in the highly competitive world of the theatre, but then why was I never content? Why was I always testing out my curiosity?
We must have been about the same age…or was I older? Did she, too, have a boyfriend?
Athena moved closer. We were now less than an arm's length from each other and I started to feel afraid. Was she a lesbian?
I didn't look away, but I made a mental note of where the door was so that I could leave whenever I wished. No one had made me go to that house to meet someone I'd never seen before in my life and sit there wasting time, not saying anything and
not learning anything either. What did she want?
That silence perhaps. My muscles began to grow tense. I was alone and helpless. I desperately needed to talk or to make my mind stop telling me that I was under threat. How could she possibly know who I was? We are what we say!
Had she asked me anything about my life? She'd wanted to know if I had a boyfriend. I tried to say more about the theatre, but couldn't. And what about the stories I'd heard about her gipsy ancestry, her stay in Transylvania, the land of vampires?
My thoughts wouldn't stop: how much would that consultation cost? I was terrified. I should have asked before. A fortune? And if I didn't pay, would she put a spell on me that would eventually destroy me?
I felt an impulse to get to my feet, thank her and say that I hadn't come there just to sit in silence. If you go to a psychiatrist, you have to talk. If you go to a church, you listen to a sermon. If you go in search of magic, you find a teacher who wants to explain the world to you and who gives you a series of rituals to follow. But silence? Why did it make me feel so uncomfortable?
One question after another kept forming in my mind, and I couldn't stop thinking or trying to find a reason for the two of us to be sitting there, saying nothing. Suddenly, perhaps after five or ten long minutes of total immobility, she smiled.
I smiled too and relaxed.
'Try to be different. That's all.'
'That's all? Is sitting in silence being different? I imagine that, at this very moment, there are thousands of people in London who are desperate for someone to talk to, and all you can say to me is that silence makes a difference?'
'Now that you're talking and reorganising the universe, you'll end up convincing yourself that you're right and I'm wrong. But as you experienced for yourself – being silent is different.'
'It's unpleasant. It doesn't teach you anything.' She seemed indifferent to my reaction.
'What theatre are you working at?'
Finally, she was taking an interest in my life! I was being restored to my human condition, with a profession and everything! I invited her to come and see the play we were putting on – it was the only way I could find to avenge myself, by showing that I was capable of things that Athena was not. That silence had left a humiliating aftertaste.
She asked if she could bring her son, and I said, no, it was for adults only.
'Well, I could always leave him with my mother. I haven't been to the theatre in ages.'
She didn't charge for the consultation. When I met up with the other members of the cast, I told them about my encounter with this mysterious creature. They were all mad keen to meet someone who, when she first met you, asked only that you sat in silence.
Athena arrived on the appointed day. She saw the play, came to my dressing-room afterwards to say hello, but didn't say whether she'd enjoyed herself or not. My colleagues suggested that I invite her to the
bar where we usually went after the performance. There, instead of keeping quiet, she started answering a question that had been left unanswered at our first meeting. 'No one, not even the Mother would ever want sex to take place purely as a celebration. Love must always be present. Didn't you say that you'd met people like that? Well, be careful.'
My friends had no idea what she was talking about, but they warmed to the subject and started bombarding her with questions. Something troubled me. Her answers were very academic, as if she didn't have much experience of what she was talking about. She spoke about the game of seduction, about fertility rites, and concluded with a Greek myth, probably because I'd mentioned during our first meeting that the theatre had begun in Greece. She must have spent the whole week reading up on the subject.
'After millennia of male domination, we are returning to the cult of the Great Mother. The Greeks called her Gaia, and according to the myth, she was born out of Chaos, the void that existed before the universe. With her came Eros, the god of love, and then she gave birth to the Sea and the Sky.'
'Who was the father?' asked one of my friends.
'No one. There's a technical term, parthenogenesis, which is a process of reproduction that does not require fertilisation of the egg by a male. There's a mystical term too, one to which we're more accustomed: Immaculate Conception. 'From Gaia sprang all the gods who would later people the Elysian Fields of Greece, including our own dear Dionysus, your idol. But as man became established as the principal political power in the cities, Gaia was forgotten, and was replaced by Zeus, Ares, Apollo and company, all of whom were competent enough, but didn't have the same allure as the Mother who originated everything.'
Then she questioned us about our work. The director asked if she'd like to give us some lessons. 'On what?'
'On what you know.'
'To be perfectly honest, I learned all about the origins of theatre this week. I learn everything as I need to learn it, that's what Edda told me to do.'
So I was right!
'But I can share other things that life has taught me.' They all agreed. And no one asked who Edda was.
Deidre O'Neill, known as Edda
I said to Athena: 'You don't have to keep coming here all the time just to ask silly questions. If a group has decided to take you on as a teacher, why not use that opportunity to turn yourself into a teacher? 'Do what I always did.
'Try to feel good about yourself even when you feel like the least worthy of creatures. Reject all those negative thoughts and let the Mother take possession of your body and soul; surrender yourself to dance or to silence or to ordinary, everyday activities – like taking your son to school, preparing supper, making sure the house is tidy. Everything is worship if your mind is focused on the present moment.
'Don't try to convince anyone of anything. When you don't know something, ask or go away and find out. But when you do act, be like the silent, flowing river and open yourself to a greater energy. Believe – that's what I said at our first meeting – simply believe that you can.
'At first, you'll be confused and insecure. Then you'll start to believe that everyone thinks they're being conned. It's not true. You have the knowledge, it's simply a matter of being aware. All the minds on the planet are so easily cast down – they fear illness, invasion, attack, death. Try to restore their lost joy to them.
'Be clear.
'Re-programme yourself every minute of each day with thoughts that make you grow. When you're feeling irritated or confused, try to laugh at yourself. Laugh out loud at this woman tormented by doubts and anxieties, convinced that her problems are the most important thing in the world. Laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation, at the fact that despite being a manifestation of the Mother, you still believe God is a man who lays down the rules. Most of our problems stem from just that – from following rules. 'Concentrate.
'If you can find nothing on which to focus your mind, concentrate on your
breathing. The Mother's river of light is flowing in through your nose. Listen to your heart beating, follow the thoughts you can't
control, control your desire to get up at once and to do something “useful”. Sit for a few minutes each day, doing nothing, getting as much as you can out of that time.
'When you're washing up, pray. Be thankful that there are plates to be washed; that means there was food, that you fed someone, that you've lavished care on one or more people, that you cooked and laid the table. Imagine the millions of people at this moment who have absolutely nothing to wash up and no one for whom to lay the table.
'There are women who say: “I'm not going to do the washing up, let the men do it.” Fine, let the men do it if they want to, but that has nothing to do with equality. There's nothing wrong with doing simple things, although if I were to publish an article tomorrow saying everything I think, I'd be accused of working against the feminist cause. Nonsense! As if washing up or wearing a bra or having someone open or close a door could be humiliating to me as a woman. The fact is, I love it when a man opens the door for me. According to etiquette this means: “She needs me to do this because she's fragile”, but in my soul is written: “I'm being treated like a goddess. I'm a queen.” I'm not here to work for the feminist cause, because both men and women are a manifestation of the Mother, the Divine Unity. No one can be greater than that.
'I'd love to see you giving classes on what you're learning. That's the main aim of life – revelation! You make yourself into a channel; you listen to yourself and are surprised at how capable you are. Remember your job at the bank? Perhaps you never properly understood that what happened there was a result of the energy flowing out your body, your eyes, your hands.
'You'll say it was the dance.
'The dance was simply a ritual. What is a ritual? It means transforming something monotonous into something different, rhythmic, capable of channelling the Unity. That's why I say again: be different even when you're washing up. Move your hands so that they never repeat the same gesture twice, even though they maintain the rhythm.
'If you find it helpful, try to visualise images – flowers, birds, trees in a forest. Don't imagine single objects, like the candle you focused on when you came here for the first time. Try to think of something collective. And do you know what you'll find?
That you didn't choose your thought.
'I'll give you an example: imagine a flock of birds flying. How many birds did you see? Eleven, nineteen, five? You have a vague idea, but you don't know the exact number. So where did that thought come from? Someone put it there. Someone who knows the exact number of birds, trees, stones, flowers. Someone who, in that fraction of a second, took charge of you and showed you Her power.
'You are what you believe yourself to be.
'Don't be like those people who believe in “positive thinking” and tell themselves that they're loved and strong and capable. You don't need to do that, because you know it already. And when you doubt it which happens, I think, quite often at this stage of evolution – do as I suggested. Instead of trying to prove that you're better than you think, just laugh. Laugh at your worries and insecurities. View your anxieties with humour. It will be difficult at first, but you'll gradually get used to it. 'Now go back and meet all those people who think you know everything. Convince yourself that they're right, because we all know everything: it's merely a question of believing.
'Believe.
'As I said to you in Bucharest, the very first time we met, groups are very important because they force us to progress. If you're alone, all you can do is laugh at yourself, but if you're with others, you'll laugh and then immediately act. Groups challenge us. Groups allow us to choose our affinities. Groups create a collective energy, and ecstasy comes more easily because everyone infects everyone else. 'Groups can also destroy us of course, but that's part of life and the human condition – living with other people. And anyone who's failed to develop an instinct for survival has understood nothing of what the Mother is saying.
'You're lucky. A group has just asked you to teach them something, and that will make you a
teacher.'
Heron Ryan, journalist
Before the first meeting with the actors, Athena came to my house. Ever since I published the article on St Sarah, she'd been convinced that I understood her world, which wasn't true at all. I simply wanted to attract her attention. I was trying to come round to the idea that there might be an invisible reality capable of interfering in our lives, but the only reason I did so was because of a love I didn't want to believe I felt, but which was continuing to grow in a subtle, devastating
way.
I was content with my universe and didn't want to change it at all, even though I was being propelled in that direction.
'I'm afraid,' she said as soon as she arrived. 'But I must go ahead and do what they're asking of me. I need to believe.'
'You've had a lot of experiences in life. You learned from the gipsies, from the dervishes in the desert, from–'
'Well, that's not quite true. Besides, what does learning mean: accumulating knowledge or transforming your life?'
I suggested we go out that night for supper and to dance a little. She agreed to supper, but rejected the dancing.
'Answer me,' she said, looking round my apartment. 'Is learning just putting things on a shelf or is it discarding whatever is no longer useful and then continuing on your way feeling lighter?'
On the shelves were all the books I'd invested so much money and time in buying, reading and annotating. There were my personality, my education, my true teachers.
'How many books have you got? Over a thousand, I'd say. But most of them you'll probably never open again. You hang on to them because you don't believe.'
'I don't believe?'
'No, you don't believe, full stop. Anyone who believes, will go and read up about theatre as I did when Andrea asked me about it, but, after that, it's a question of letting the Mother speak through you and making discoveries as she speaks. And as you make those discoveries, you'll manage to fill in the blank spaces that all those writers left there on purpose to provoke the reader's imagination. And when you fill in the spaces, you'll start to believe in your own abilities.
'How many people would love to read those books, but don't have the money to buy them? Meanwhile, you sit here surrounded by all this stagnant energy, purely to impress the friends who visit you. Or is it that you don't feel you've learned anything from them and need to consult them again?'
I thought she was being rather hard on me, and that intrigued me. 'So you don't think I need this library?'
'I think you need to read, but why hang on to all these books? Would it be asking too much if we were to leave here right now, and before going to the restaurant, distribute most of them to whoever we happened to pass in the street?'
'They wouldn't all fit in my car.' 'We could hire a truck.'
'But then we wouldn't get to the restaurant in time for supper. Besides, you came here because you were feeling insecure, not in order to tell me what I should do with my books. Without them I'd feel naked.' 'Ignorant, you mean.'
'Uncultivated would be the right word.'
'So your culture isn't in your heart, it's on your bookshelves.'
Enough was enough. I picked up the phone to reserve a table and told the restaurant that we'd be there in fifteen minutes. Athena was trying to avoid the problem that had brought her here. Her deep insecurity was making her go on the attack, rather than looking at herself. She needed a man by her side and, who knows, was perhaps sounding me out to see how far I'd go, using her feminine wiles to discover just what I'd be prepared to do for her.
Simply being in her presence seemed to justify my very existence. Was that what she wanted to hear? Fine, I'd tell her over supper. I'd be capable of doing almost anything, even leaving the woman I was living with, but I drew the line, of course, at giving away my books.
In the taxi, we returned to the subject of the theatre group, although I was, at that moment, prepared to discuss something I never normally spoke about – love, a subject I found far more complicated than Marx, Jung, the British Labour Party or the day-to-day problems at a newspaper office.
'You don't need to worry,' I said, feeling a desire to hold her hand. 'It'll be all right. Talk about calligraphy. Talk about dancing. Talk about the things you know.'
'If I did that, I'd never discover what it is I don't know. When I'm there, I'll have to allow my mind to go still and let my heart begin to speak. But it's the first time I've done that, and I'm frightened.'
'Would you like me to come with you?'
She accepted at once. We arrived at the restaurant, ordered some wine and started to drink. I was drinking in order to get up the courage to say what I thought I was feeling, although it seemed absurd to me to be declaring my love to someone I hardly knew. And she was drinking because she was afraid of talking about what she didn't know.
After the second glass of wine, I realised how on edge she was. I tried to hold her hand, but she gently pulled away.
'I can't be afraid.'
'Of course you can, Athena. I often feel afraid, and yet, when I need to, I go ahead
and face up to whatever it is I'm afraid of.'
I was on edge too. I refilled our glasses. The waiter kept coming over to ask what we'd like to eat, and I kept telling him that we'd order later.
I was talking about whatever came into my head. Athena was listening politely, but she seemed far away, in some dark universe full of ghosts. At one point, she told me again about the woman in Scotland and what she'd said. I asked if it made sense to teach what you didn't know.
'Did anyone ever teach you how to love?' she replied. Could she be reading my thoughts?
'And yet,' she went on, 'you're as capable of love as any other human being. How did you learn? You didn't, you simply believe. You believe, therefore you love.' 'Athena…'
I hesitated, then managed to finish my sentence, although not at all as I had intended. '…perhaps we should order some food.'
I realised that I wasn't yet prepared to mention the things that were troubling my world. I called the waiter over and ordered some starters, then some more starters, a main dish, a pudding and another bottle of wine. The more time I had, the better.
'You're acting strangely. Was it my comment about your books? You do what you like. It's not my job to change your world. I was obviously sticking my nose in where it wasn't wanted.'
I had been thinking about that business of 'changing the world' only a few seconds before. 'Athena, you're always telling me about…no, I need to talk about something that happened in that bar in Sibiu, with the gipsy music.'
'In the restaurant, you mean?'
'Yes, in the restaurant. Today we were discussing books, the things that we accumulate and that take up space. Perhaps you're right. There's something I've been wanting to do ever since I saw you dancing that night. It weighs more and more heavily on my heart.'
'I don't know what you mean.'
'Of course you do. I'm talking about the love I'm discovering now and doing my best to destroy before it reveals itself. I'd like you to accept it. It's the little I have of myself, but it's not my own. It's not exclusively yours, because there's someone else in my life, but I would be happy if you could accept it anyway. An Arab poet from your country, Khalil Gibran, says: “It is well to give when asked, but it is
better to give unasked.” If I don't say everything I need to say tonight, I'll merely be a spectator watching events unfold rather than the person actually experiencing them.'
I took a deep breath. The wine had helped me to free myself.
She drained her glass, and I did the same. The waiter appeared with the food, making a few comments about the various dishes, explaining the ingredients and the way in which they had been cooked. Athena and I kept our eyes fixed on each other. Andrea had told me that this is what Athena had done when they met for the first time, and she was convinced it was simply a way of intimidating others.
The silence was terrifying. I imagined her getting up from the table and citing her famous, invisible boyfriend from Scotland Yard, or saying that she was very flattered, but she had to think about the class she was to give the next day.
'And is there anything you would withhold? Some day, all that you have shall be given. The trees give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.'
She was speaking quietly and carefully because of the wine she'd drunk, but her voice nevertheless silenced everything around us.
'And what greater merit shall there be than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving? You give but little when you give ofyour possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.'
She said all this without smiling. I felt as if I were conversing with a sphinx.
'Words written by the same poet you were quoting. I learned them at school, but I don't need the book where he wrote those words. I've kept his words in my heart.' She drank a little more wine. I did the same. I couldn't bring myself to ask if she accepted my love or not, but I felt lighter.
'You may be right. I'll donate my books to a public library and only keep those I really will re-read
one day.'
'Is that what you want to talk about now?'
'No. I just don't know how to continue the conversation.'
'Shall we eat then and enjoy the food. Does that seem a good idea?'
No, it didn't seem like a good idea. I wanted to hear something different, but I was afraid to ask, and so I babbled on about libraries, books and poets, regretting having ordered so many dishes. I was the one who wanted to escape now, because I didn't know how to continue.
In the end, she made me promise that I would be at the theatre for her first class,
and, for me, that was a signal. She needed me; she had accepted what I had unconsciously dreamed of offering her ever since I saw her dancing in a restaurant in Transylvania, but which I had only been capable of understanding that night.
Or, as Athena would have said, of believing. Andrea McCain, actress
Of course I'm to blame. If it hadn't been for me, Athena would never have come to the theatre that morning, gathered us all together, asked us to lie down on the stage and begin a relaxation exercise involving breathing and bringing our awareness to each part of the body.
'Relax your thighs…'
We all obeyed, as if we were before a goddess, someone who knew more than all of us, even though we'd done this kind of exercise hundreds of times before. We were all curious to know what would come after '…now relax your face and breathe deeply'.
Did she really think she was teaching us anything new? We were expecting a lecture, a talk! But I must control myself. Let's get back to what happened then. We relaxed and then came a silence which left us completely disoriented. When I discussed it with my colleagues afterwards, we all agreed that we felt the exercise was over, that it was time to sit up and look around, except that no one did. We remained lying down, in a kind of enforced meditation, for fifteen interminable minutes.
Then she spoke again.
'You've had plenty of time to doubt me now. One or two of you looked impatient. But now I'm going to ask you just one thing: when I count to three, be different. I don't mean be another person, an animal or a house. Try to forget everything you've learned on drama courses. I'm not asking you to be actors and to demonstrate your abilities. I'm asking you to cease being human and to transform yourselves into something you don't know.'
We were all still lying on the floor with our eyes closed and so couldn't see how anyone else was reacting. Athena was playing on that uncertainty.
'I'm going to say a few words and you'll immediately associate certain images with those words. Remember that you're all full of the poison of preconceived ideas and that if I were to say “fate”, you would probably start imagining your lives in the future. If I were to say “red”, you would probably make some psychoanalytic interpretation. That isn't what I want. As I said, I want you to be different.'
She couldn't explain what she really wanted. When no one complained, I felt sure they were simply being polite, but that when the 'lecture' was over, they would never invite Athena back. They would even tell me that I'd been naïve to have sought her out in the first place.
'The first word is “sacred”.'
So as not to die of boredom, I decided to join in the game. I imagined my mother, my boyfriend, my future children, a brilliant career.
'Make a gesture that means “sacred”.'
I folded my arms over my chest, as if I were embracing all my loved ones. I found out later that most people opened their arms to form a cross, and that one of the women opened her legs, as if she were making love.
'Relax again, and again forget about everything and keep your eyes closed. I'm not criticising, but from what I saw, you seem to be giving form to what you consider to be sacred. That isn't what I want. When I give you the next word, don't try to define it as it manifests itself in the world. Open all the channels and allow the poison of reality to drain away. Be abstract and then you will enter the world I'm guiding you towards.'
That last phrase had real authority, and I felt the energy in the theatre change. Now the voice knew where it wanted to take us. She was a teacher now, not a lecturer.
'Earth,' she said.
Suddenly I understood what she meant. It was no longer my imagination that mattered, but my body in contact with the soil. I was the Earth.
'Make a gesture that represents Earth.'
I didn't move. I was the soil of that stage.
'Perfect,' she said. 'None of you moved. For the first time you all experienced the same feeling. Instead of describing something, you transformed yourself into an idea.'
She fell silent again for what I imagined were five long minutes. The silence made us feel lost, unable to tell whether she simply had no idea how to continue, or if she was merely unfamiliar with our usual intense rhythm of working.
'I'm going to say a third word.' She paused. 'Centre.'
I felt – and this was entirely unconscious – that all my vital energy went to my navel, where it glowed yellow. This frightened me. If someone touched it, I could
die.
'Make a gesture for centre!'
Her words sounded like a command. I immediately placed my hands on my belly to protect myself. 'Perfect,' said Athena. 'You can sit up now.'
I opened my eyes and saw the extinguished stage lights up above me, distant and dull. I rubbed my face and got to my feet. I noticed that my colleagues looked surprised.
'Was that the lecture?' asked the director. 'You can call it a lecture if you like.'
'Well, thank you for coming. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have to start rehearsals for the next play.' 'But I haven't finished yet.'
'Perhaps another time.'
Everyone seemed confused by the director's reaction. After some initial doubts, I think we were enjoying the session – it was different, no pretending to be things or people, no visualising apples or candles. No sitting in a circle holding hands as if we were practising some sacred ritual. It was simply something slightly absurd and we wanted to know where it would take us.
Without a flicker of emotion, Athena bent down to pick up her bag. At that moment, we heard a voice from the stalls.
'Marvellous!'
Heron had come to join her. The director was afraid of him because Heron knew the theatre critics on his newspaper and had close ties with the media generally. 'You stopped being individuals and turned into ideas. What a shame you're so busy, but don't worry, Athena, we'll find another group to work with and then I can see how your “lecture” ends. I have contacts.'
I was still thinking about the light travelling through my whole body to my navel. Who was that woman? Had my colleagues experienced the same thing?
'Just a moment,' said the director, aware of the look of surprise on everyone's face. 'I suppose we could postpone rehearsals today…'
'No, you mustn't do that, besides I have to get back to the newspaper and write something about this woman. You carry on doing what you always do. I've just found an excellent story.'
If Athena felt lost in that debate between the two men, she didn't show it. She climbed down from the stage and went off with Heron. We turned to the director and asked him why he'd reacted like that.
'With all due respect, Andrea, I thought the conversation in the bar about sex was
far more interesting than the nonsense we've just been engaging in. Did you notice how she kept falling silent? She didn't know what to do next!'
'But I felt something strange,' said one of the older actors. 'When she said “centre”, it was as if all my vital energy were suddenly focused in my navel. I've never experienced that before.'
'Did you? Are you sure?' asked an actress, and judging by her words, she'd experienced the same
thing.
'She's a bit of a witch, that woman,' said the director, interrupting the conversation. 'Let's get back to work.'
We started doing our usual stretching exercises, warm-ups and meditation, all strictly by the book. Then after a few improvisations, we went straight into a read-through of the new script. Gradually, Athena's presence seemed to be dissolving, and everything was returning to what it was – a theatre, a ritual created by the Greeks thousands of years ago, where we were used to pretending to be different people.
But that was pure play-acting. Athena wasn't like that, and I was determined to see her again, especially after what the director had said about her.
Heron Ryan, journalist
Unbeknown to Athena, I'd followed exactly the same steps as the actors, obeying everything she told us to do, except that I kept my eyes open so that I could follow what was happening on stage. The moment she said 'Make a gesture for centre', I'd placed my hand on my navel, and, to my surprise, I saw that everyone, including the director, had done the same. What was going on?
That afternoon, I had to write a dreary article about a visiting head of state – a real drag. In order to amuse myself between phone calls, I decided to ask colleagues in the office what gesture they would make if I said the word 'centre'. Most of them made jokey comments about political parties. One pointed to the centre of the Earth. Another put his hand on his heart. But no one, absolutely no one, thought of their navel as the centre of anything. In the end, though, I managed to speak to someone who had some interesting information on the subject.
When I got home, Andrea had had a bath, laid the table and was waiting for me to start supper. She opened a bottle of very expensive wine, filled two glasses and offered me one.
'So how was supper last night?'
How long can a man live with a lie? I didn't want to lose the woman standing there before me, who had stuck with me through thick and thin, who was always by my side when I felt my life had lost meaning and direction. I loved her, but in the crazy world into which I was blindly plunging, my heart was far away, trying to adapt to something it possibly knew, but couldn't accept: being large enough for two people.
Since I would never risk letting go of a certainty in favour of a mere possibility, I tried to minimise the significance of what had happened at the restaurant, mainly because nothing had happened, apart from an exchange of lines by a poet who had suffered greatly for love.
'Athena's a difficult person to get to know.' Andrea laughed.
'That's precisely why men must find her so fascinating. She awakens that rapidly disappearing protective instinct of yours.'
Best to change the subject. I've always been convinced that women have a supernatural ability to know what's going on in a man's soul. They're all witches. 'I've been looking into what happened at the theatre today. You don't know this, but I had my eyes open throughout the exercises.'
'You've always got your eyes open. I assume it's part of being a journalist. And you're going to talk about the moment when we all did exactly the same thing. We talked a lot about that in the bar after rehearsals.'
'A historian told me about a Greek temple where they used to predict the future (Editor's note: the temple ofApollo at Delphi) and which housed a marble stone called “the navel”. Stories from the time describe Delphi as the centre of the planet. I went to the newspaper archives to make a few enquiries: in Petra, in Jordan, there's another “conic navel”, symbolising not just the centre of the planet, but of the entire universe. Both “navels” try to show the axis through which the energy of the world travels, marking in a visible way something that is only there on the “invisible” map. Jerusalem is also called the navel of the
world, as is an island in the Pacific Ocean, and another place I've forgotten now, because I had never associated the two things.'
'Like dance!' 'What?' 'Nothing.'
'No, I know what you mean – belly dancing, the oldest form of dance recorded, in which everything revolves about the belly. I was trying to avoid the subject because I told you that in Transylvania I saw Athena dance. She was dressed, of course, but…'
'…all the movement began with her navel, and gradually spread to the rest of the body.' She was right.
Best to change the subject again and talk about the theatre, about boring journalistic stuff, then drink a little wine and end up in bed making love while, outside, the rain was starting to fall. I noticed that, at the moment of orgasm, Andrea's body was all focused on her belly. I'd seen this many times before, but never thought anything of it.
Antoine Locadour, historian[/h1
Heron started spending a fortune on phone calls to France, asking me to get all the information I could by the weekend, and he kept going on about the navel, which seemed to me the least interesting and least romantic thing in the world. But, then, the English don't see things in the same way as the French, and so, instead of asking questions, I tried to find out what science had to say on the subject.
I soon realised that historical knowledge wasn't enough. I could locate a monument here, a dolmen there, but the odd thing was that the ancient cultures all seemed to agree on the subject and even use the same word to define the places they considered sacred. I'd never noticed this before and I started to get interested. When I saw the number of coincidences, I went in search of something that would complement them – human behaviour and beliefs.
I immediately had to reject the first and most logical explanation, that we're nourished through the umbilical cord, which is why the navel is, for us, the centre of life. A psychologist immediately pointed out that the theory made no sense at all: man's central idea is always to 'cut' the umbilical cord and, from then on, the brain or the heart become the more important symbols.
When we're interested in something, everything around us appears to refer to it (the mystics call these phenomena 'signs', the sceptics 'coincidence', and psychologists 'concentrated focus', although I've yet to find out what term historians should use). One night, my adolescent daughter came home with a navel piercing.
'Why did you do that?' 'Because I felt like it.'
A perfectly natural and honest explanation, even for a historian who needs to find a reason for everything. When I went into her room, I saw a poster of her favourite female pop star. She had a bare midriff and, in that photo on the wall, her navel did look like the centre of the world.
I phoned Heron and asked why he was so interested. For the first time, he told me
about what had happened at the theatre and how the people there had all responded to a command in the same spontaneous, unexpected manner. It was impossible to get any more information out of my daughter, and so I decided to consult some specialists.
No one seemed very interested, until I found François Shepka, an Indian psychologist (Editor's note: the scientist requested that his name and nationality be changed), who was starting to revolutionise the therapies currently in use. According to him, the idea that traumas could be resolved by a return to childhood had never got anyone anywhere. Many problems that had been overcome in adult life resurfaced, and grown-ups started blaming their parents for failures and defeats. Shepka was at war with the various French psychoanalytic associations, and a conversation about absurd subjects, like the navel, seemed to relax him.
He warmed to the theme, but didn't, at first, tackle it directly. He said that according to one of the most respected psychoanalysts in history, the Swiss analyst Carl Gustav Jung, we all drank from the same spring. It's called the 'soul of the world'. However much we try to be independent individuals, a part of our memory is the same. We all seek the ideal of beauty, dance, divinity and music.
Society, meanwhile, tries to define how these ideals should be manifested in reality. Currently, for example, the ideal of beauty is to be thin, and yet thousands of years ago all the images of goddesses were
fat. It's the same with happiness: there are a series of rules, and if you fail to follow them, your conscious mind will refuse to accept the idea that you're happy.
Jung used to divide individual progress into four stages: the first was the Persona – the mask we use every day, pretending to be who we are. We believe that the world depends on us, that we're wonderful parents and that our children don't understand us, that our bosses are unfair, that the dream of every human being is never to work and to travel constantly. Many people realise that there's something wrong with this story, but because they don't want to change anything, they quickly drive the thought from their head. A few do try to understand what is wrong and end up finding the Shadow.
The Shadow is our dark side, which dictates how we should act and behave. When we try to free ourselves from the Persona, we turn on a light inside us and we see the cobwebs, the cowardice, the meanness. The Shadow is there to stop our progress, and it usually succeeds, and we run back to what we were before we doubted. However, some do survive this encounter with their own cobwebs,
saying: 'Yes, I have a few faults, but I'm good enough, and I want to go forward.' At this moment, the Shadow disappears and we come into contact with the Soul.
By Soul, Jung didn't mean 'soul' in the religious sense; he speaks of a return to the Soul of the World, the source of all knowledge. Instincts become sharper, emotions more radical, the interpretation of signs becomes more important than logic, perceptions of reality grow less rigid. We start to struggle with things to which we are unaccustomed and we start to react in ways that we ourselves find unexpected.
And we discover that if we can channel that continuous flow of energy, we can organise it around a very solid centre, what Jung calls the Wise Old Man for men and the Great Mother for women.
Allowing this to manifest itself is dangerous. Generally speaking, anyone who reaches this stage has a tendency to consider themselves a saint, a tamer of spirits, a prophet. A great deal of maturity is required if someone is to come into contact with the energy of the Wise Old Man or the Great Mother.
'Jung went mad,' said my friend, when he had explained the four stages described by the Swiss psychoanalyst. 'When he got in touch with his Wise Old Man, he started saying that he was guided by a spirit called Philemon.'
'And finally…'
'…we come to the symbol of the navel. Not only people, but societies, too, fit these four stages. Western civilisation has a Persona, the ideas that guide us. In its attempt to adapt to changes, it comes into contact with the Shadow, and we see mass demonstrations, in which the collective energy can be manipulated both for good and ill. Suddenly, for some reason, the Persona or the Shadow are no longer enough for human beings, and then comes the moment to make the leap, the unconscious connection with the Soul. New values begin to emerge.'
'I've noticed that. I've noticed a resurgence in the cult of the female face of God.' 'An excellent example. And at the end of this process, if those new values are to become established, the entire race comes into contact with the symbols, the coded language by which present-day generations communicate with their ancestral knowledge. One of those symbols of rebirth is the navel. In the navel of Vishnu, the Indian divinity responsible for creation and destruction, sits the god who will rule each cycle. Yogis consider the navel one of the chakras, one of the sacred points on the human body. Primitive tribes often used to build monuments in the place they believed to be the navel of the world. In South America, people who go
into trances say that the true form of the human being is a luminous egg, which connects with other people through filaments that emerge from the navel. The mandala, a design said to stimulate meditation, is a symbolic representation of this.' I passed all this information on to Heron in England before the agreed date. I told him that the woman who had succeeded in provoking the same absurd reaction in a group of people must have enormous power, and that I wouldn't be surprised if she wasn't some kind of paranormal. I suggested that he study her more closely.
I had never thought about the subject before, and I tried to forget it at once. However, my daughter said that I was behaving oddly, thinking only of myself, that I was, in short, navel-gazing!
Deidre O'Neill, known as Edda
'It was a complete disaster. How could you have put the idea in my head that I could teach? Why humiliate me in front of other people? I should just forget you even exist. When I was taught to dance, I danced. When I was taught calligraphy, I practised calligraphy. But demanding that I go so far beyond my
limits was pure wickedness. That's why I caught the train up to Scotland, that's why I came here, so that you could see how much I hate you!'
She couldn't stop crying. Fortunately, she'd left the child with her parents, because she was talking rather too loudly and there was a faint whiff of wine on her breath. I asked her to come in. Making all that noise at my front door would do nothing to help my already somewhat tarnished reputation, with people putting it around that I received visits from both men and women and organised sex orgies in the name of Satan.
But she still stood there, shouting:
'It's all your fault! You humiliated me!'
One window opened, and then another. Well, anyone working to change the axis of the world must be prepared for the fact that her neighbours won't always be happy. I went over to Athena and did exactly what she wanted me to do: I put my arms around her.
She continued weeping, her head resting on my shoulder. Very gently I helped her up the steps and into the house. I made some tea, the recipe for which I share with no one because it was taught to me by my protector. I placed it in front of her and she drank it down in one. By doing so, she demonstrated that her trust in me was still intact.
'Why am I like this?' she asked.
I knew then that the effects of the alcohol had been neutralised.
'There are men who love me. I have a son who adores me and sees me as his model in life. I have adoptive parents whom I consider to be my real family and who would lay down their lives for me. I filled in all the blank spaces in my past when I went in search of my birth mother. I have enough money to spend the next three years doing nothing but enjoy life, and still I'm not content!
'I feel miserable and guilty because God blessed me with tragedies that I've managed to overcome and with miracles to which I've done credit, but I'm never content. I always want more. The last thing I needed was to go to that theatre and add a failure to my list of victories!'
'Do you think you did the wrong thing?' She looked at me in surprise: 'Why do you ask that?'
I said nothing, but awaited her answer.
'No, I did the right thing. I went there with a journalist friend, and I didn't have a clue what I was going to do, but suddenly things started to emerge as if out of the void. I felt the presence of the Great Mother by my side, guiding me, instructing me, filling my voice with a confidence I didn't really feel.' 'So why are you complaining?'
'Because no one understood!'
'Is that important? Important enough to make you travel up to Scotland and insult me in front of everyone?'
'Of course it's important! If I can do absolutely anything and know I'm doing the right thing, how come I'm not at least loved and admired?'
So that was the problem. I took her hand and led her into the same room where, weeks before, she had sat contemplating a candle. I asked her to sit down and try to calm herself a little, although I was sure the tea was already taking effect. I went to my room, picked up a round mirror and placed it before her.
'You have everything and you've fought for every inch of your territory. Now look at your tears. Look at your face and the bitterness etched on it. Look at the woman in the mirror, but don't laugh this time, try to understand her.'
I allowed her time to follow my instructions. When I saw that she was, as I intended, going into a trance, I went on:
'What is the secret of life? We call it “grace” or “blessing”. Everyone struggles to be satisfied with what they have. Apart from me. Apart from you. Apart from a few people who will, alas, have to make a small sacrifice in the name of something
greater.
'Our imagination is larger than the world around us; we go beyond our limits. This used to be called “witchcraft”, but fortunately things have changed, otherwise we would both already have been burned at the stake. When they stopped burning women, science found an explanation for our behaviour, normally referred to as “female hysteria”. We don't get burned any more, but it does cause problems, especially in the
workplace. But don't worry; eventually they'll call it “wisdom”. Keep looking into the mirror. Who can you see?'
'A woman.'
'And what is there beyond that woman?' She hesitated. I asked again and she said: 'Another woman, more authentic and more intelligent than me. It's as if she were a soul that didn't belong to me, but which is nonetheless part of me.'
'Exactly. Now I'm going to ask you to imagine one of the most important symbols in alchemy: a snake forming a circle and swallowing its own tail. Can you imagine that?'
She nodded.
'That's what life is like for people like you and me. We're constantly destroying and rebuilding ourselves. Everything in your life has followed the same pattern: from lost to found; from divorce to new love; from working in a bank to selling real estate in the desert. Only one thing remains intact – your son. He is the connecting thread, and you must respect that.'
She started to cry again, but her tears were different this time.
'You came here because you saw a female face in the flames. That face is the face you can see now in the mirror, so try to do honour to it. Don't let yourself be weighed down by what other people think, because in a few years, in a few decades, or in a few centuries, that way of thinking will be changed. Live now what others will only live in the future.
'What do you want? You can't want to be happy, because that's too easy and too boring. You can't want only to love, because that's impossible. What do you want? You want to justify your life, to live it as intensely as possible. That is at once a trap and a source of ecstasy. Try to be alert to that danger, and experience the joy and the adventure of being that woman who is beyond the image reflected in the mirror.' Her eyes closed, but I knew that my words had penetrated her soul and would stay there.
'If you want to take a risk and continue teaching, do so. If you don't want to, know that you've already gone further than most other people.'
Her body began to relax. I held her in my arms until she fell asleep, her head on my breast.
I tried to whisper a few more things to her, because I'd been through the same stages, and I knew how difficult it was – just as my protector had told me it would be and as I myself had found out through painful experience. However, the fact that it was difficult didn't make the experience any less interesting.
What experience? Living as a human being and as a divinity. Moving from tension into relaxation. From relaxation into trance. From trance into a more intense contact with other people. From that contact back into tension and so on, like the serpent swallowing its own tail.
It was no easy matter, mainly because it requires unconditional love, which does not fear suffering, rejection, loss.
Whoever drinks this water once can never quench her thirst at other springs.
Andrea McCain, actress
'The other day you mentioned Gaia, who created herself and had a child without the help of a man. You said, quite rightly, that the Great Mother was eventually superseded by the male gods. But you forgot about Hera, a descendant of your favourite goddess. Hera is more important because she's more practical. She rules the skies and the Earth, the seasons of the year and storms. According to the same Greeks you cited, the Milky Way that we see in the sky was created out of the milk that spurted forth from her breast. A beautiful breast, it must be said, because all-powerful Zeus changed himself into a bird purely in order to be able to have his way with her without being rejected.'
We were walking through a large department store in Knightsbridge. I'd phoned her, saying that I'd like to talk, and she'd invited me to the winter sales. It would have been far more pleasant to have a cup of tea together or lunch in some quiet restaurant.
'Your son could get lost in this crowd.'
'Don't worry about him. Go on with what you were telling me.'
'Hera discovered the trick and forced Zeus to marry her. Immediately after the ceremony, however, the great king of Olympus returned to his playboy lifestyle, seducing any woman, mortal or immortal, who happened by. Hera, however, remained faithful. Rather than blame her husband, she blamed the women for their
loose behaviour.'
'Isn't that what we all do?'
I didn't know what she meant and so I carried on talking as if I hadn't heard what she'd said.
'Then she decided to give him a taste of his own medicine and find a god or a man to take to her bed. Look, couldn't we stop for a while and have a coffee?'
But Athena had just gone into a lingerie shop.
'Do you think this is pretty?' she asked, holding up a provocative flesh-coloured bra and pantie set. 'Yes, very. Will anyone see it if you wear it?'
'Of course, or do you think I'm a saint? But go on with what you were saying about Hera.'
'Zeus was horrified by her behaviour, but Hera was leading an independent life and didn't give two hoots about her marriage. Have you really got a boyfriend?'
'Yes.'
'I've never seen him.'
She went over to the cash desk, paid for the lingerie and put it in her bag.
'Viorel's hungry, and I'm sure he's not the slightest bit interested in Greek myths, so hurry up and finish Hera's story.'
'It has a rather silly ending. Zeus, afraid of losing his beloved, pretended that he was getting married again. When Hera found out, she saw that things had gone too far. Lovers were one thing, but divorce was unthinkable.'
'Nothing new there, then.'
'She decided to go to the ceremony and kick up a fuss, and it was only then that she realised Zeus was marrying a statue.'
'What did Hera do?'
'She roared with laughter. That broke the ice between them, and she became once more the queen of the skies.'
'Great. So if that ever happens to you…' 'What?'
'If your man gets himself another woman, don't forget to laugh.'
'I'm not a goddess. I'd be much more vengeful. Anyway, why is it I've never seen your boyfriend?' 'Because he's always busy.'
'Where did you meet him?'
'At the bank where I used to work. He had an account there. And now, if you don't mind, my son's waiting for me. You're right, if I don't keep my eye on him, he could get lost amongst all these people. By the way, we're having a meeting at
my place next week. You're invited, of course.' 'Yes, and I know who organised it.'
Athena kissed me lightly on both cheeks and left. At least, she'd got the message. That afternoon, at the theatre, the director made a point of telling me that he was annoyed because, he said, I'd arranged for a group of actors to go and visit 'that woman'. I explained that it hadn't been my idea. Heron had become obsessed with the subject of navels and had asked me if some of the other actors would be prepared to continue the interrupted 'lecture'.
'That said,' I added, 'it was my choice to ask them.'
Of course it was, but the last thing I wanted was for him to go to Athena's house alone.
The actors had all arrived, but, instead of another read-through of the new play, the director decided to change the programme.
'Today we'll do another exercise in psychodrama.' (Editor's note: a therapeutic technique, which involves people acting out their personal experiences.)
There was no need. We all knew how the characters would behave in the situations described by the playwright.
'Can I suggest a subject?'
Everyone turned to look at me. The director seemed surprised. 'What's this, a revolt?'
'No, listen. We create a situation where a man, after great difficulty, manages to get a group of people together to celebrate an important ritual in the community, something, let's say, like the autumn harvest. Meanwhile, a strange woman arrives, and because of her beauty and the various rumours circulating
– about her being a goddess in disguise, for example – the group the man has formed in order to keep alive the traditions in his village breaks up, and its members all go off to see the woman instead.'
'But that's got nothing to do with the play we're rehearsing!' said one of the actresses. The director, however, had understood what I was driving at.
'That's an excellent idea. Let's begin.' And turning to me, he said:
'Andrea, you can be the new arrival. That way you can get a better understanding of the situation in the village. And I'll be the decent man trying to preserve the old ways. The group will be made up of couples who go to church, get together on Saturdays to do work in the community, and generally help each other.'
We lay down on the floor, did some relaxation, and then began the exercise
proper, which was really very simple. The main character (in this case, me) created various situations and the others reacted to them.
When the relaxation was over, I transformed myself into Athena. In my fantasy, she roamed the world like Satan in search of subjects for her realm, but she disguised herself as Gaia, the goddess who knows everything and created everything. For fifteen minutes, the other actors paired up into 'couples', got to know each other and invented a common history involving children, farms, understanding and friendship. When I felt this little universe was ready, I sat at one corner of the stage and began to speak about love.
'Here we are in this little village, and you think I'm a stranger, which is why you're interested in what I have to tell you. You've never travelled and don't know what goes on beyond the mountains, but I can tell you: there's no need to praise the Earth. The Earth will always be generous with this community. The important thing is to praise human beings. You say you'd love to travel, but you misuse the word “love”. Love is a relationship between people.
'Your one desire is for the harvest to be a good one and that's why you've decided to love the Earth. More nonsense: love isn't desire or knowledge or admiration. It's a challenge; it's an invisible fire. That's why, if you think I'm a stranger on this Earth, you're wrong. Everything is familiar to me because I come in strength and in fire, and when I leave, no one will be the same. I bring true love, not the love they write about in books or in fairytales.'
The 'husband' of one of the 'couples' began looking at me. His 'wife' became distraught.
During the rest of the exercise, the director – or, rather, the decent man – did all he could to explain the importance of maintaining traditions, praising the Earth and asking the Earth to be as generous this year as it had been last year. I spoke only of love.
'He says the Earth needs rituals, well, I can guarantee that if there's love enough amongst you, you'll have an abundant harvest, because love is the feeling that transforms everything. But what do I see? Friendship. Passion died out a long time ago, because you've all got used to each other. That's why the Earth gives only what it gave last year, neither more nor less. And that's why, in the darkness of your souls, you silently complain that nothing in your lives changes. Why? Because you've always tried to control the force that transforms everything so that your lives can carry on without being faced by any major challenges.'
The decent man explained:
'Our community has survived because we've always respected the laws by which even love itself is guided. Anyone who falls in love without taking into account the common good, will be condemned to live in constant fear of hurting his partner, of irritating his new love, of losing everything he built. A stranger with no ties and no history can say what she likes, but she doesn't know how hard it was to get where we are now. She doesn't know the sacrifices we made for our children. She doesn't know that we work tirelessly so that the Earth will be generous with us, so that we will be at peace, and so that we can store away provisions for the future.' For an hour, I defended the passion that devours everything, while the decent man spoke of the feeling that brings peace and tranquillity. In the end, I was left talking to myself, while the whole community gathered around him.
I'd played my role with great gusto and with a conviction I didn't even know I felt. Despite everything, though, the stranger left the village without having convinced anyone.
And that made me very, very happy. Heron Ryan, journalist
An old friend of mine always says: 'People learn twenty-five per cent from their teacher, twentyfive per cent from listening to themselves, twenty-five per cent from their friends and twenty-five per cent from time.' At that first meeting at Athena's apartment, where she was trying to conclude the class she had started at the theatre, we all learned from…well, I'm not quite sure from what.
She was waiting for us, with her son, in her small living room. I noticed that the room was entirely painted in white and was completely empty apart from one item of furniture with a sound system on it, and a pile of CDs. I thought it odd that her son should be there, because he was sure to be bored by the class. I was assuming she would simply pick up from where we had stopped, giving us commands through single words. But she had other plans. She explained that she was going to play some music from Siberia and that we should all just listen.
Nothing more.
'I don't get anywhere meditating,' she said. 'I see people sitting there with their eyes closed, a smile on their lips or else grave-faced and arrogant, concentrating on absolutely nothing, convinced that they're in touch with God or with the Goddess. So instead, let's listen to some music together.'
Again that feeling of unease, as if Athena didn't know exactly what she was doing.
But nearly all the actors from the theatre were there, including the director, who, according to Andrea, had come to spy on the enemy camp.
The music stopped.
'This time I want you to dance to a rhythm that has nothing whatever to do with the melody.' Athena put the music on again, with the volume right up, and started to dance, making no attempt to move gracefully. Only an older man, who took the role of the drunken king in the latest play, did as he was told. No one else moved. They all seemed slightly constrained. One woman looked at her watch – only ten minutes had passed.
Athena stopped and looked round. 'Why are you just standing there?'
'Well,' said one of the actresses timidly, 'it seems a bit ridiculous to be doing that. We've been trained in harmony, not its opposite.'
'Just do as I say. Do you need an explanation? Right, I'll give you one. Changes only happen when we go totally against everything we're used to doing.'
Turning to the 'drunken king', she said:
'Why did you agree to dance against the rhythm of the music?' 'Oh, I've never had any sense of rhythm anyway.'
Everyone laughed, and the dark cloud hanging over us seemed to disperse.
'Right, I'm going to start again, and you can either follow me or leave. This time, I'm the one who decides when the class ends. One of the most aggressive things a human being can do is to go against what he or she believes is nice or pretty, and that's what we're going to do today. We're all going to dance badly.'
It was just another experiment and in order not to embarrass our hostess, everyone obediently danced badly. I struggled with myself, because one's natural tendency was to follow the rhythms of that marvellous, mysterious percussion. I felt as if I were insulting the musicians who were playing and the composer who created it. Every so often, my body tried to fight against that lack of harmony and I was forced to make myself behave as I'd been told to. The boy was dancing as well, laughing all the time, then, at a certain
point, he stopped and sat down on the sofa, as if exhausted by his efforts. The CD was switched off in midstream.
'Wait.'
We all waited.
'I'm going to do something I've never done before.'
She closed her eyes and held her head between her hands. 'I've never danced
unrhythmically before…'
So the experiment had been worse for her than for any of us. 'I don't feel well…' Both the director and I got to our feet. Andrea shot me a furious glance, but I still went over to Athena. Before I could reach her, however, she asked us to return to our places.
'Does anyone want to say anything?' Her voice sounded fragile, tremulous, and she had still not uncovered her face.
'I do.'
It was Andrea.
'First, pick up my son and tell him that his mother's fine. But I need to stay like this for as long as necessary.'
Viorel looked frightened. Andrea sat him on her lap and stroked him. 'What do you want to say?'
'Nothing. I've changed my mind.'
'The boy made you change your mind, but carry on anyway.'
Slowly Athena removed her hands and looked up. Her face was that of a stranger. 'No, I won't speak.'
'All right. You,' Athena said, pointing to the older actor. 'Go to the doctor tomorrow. The fact that you can't sleep and have to keep getting up in the night to go to the toilet is serious. It's cancer of the prostate.'
The man turned pale.
'And you,' she pointed at the director, 'accept your sexual identity. Don't be afraid. Accept that you hate women and love men.'
'Are you saying–'
'Don't interrupt me. I'm not saying this because of Athena. I'm merely referring to your sexuality. You love men, and there is, I believe, nothing wrong with that.'
She wasn't saying that because of Athena? But she was Athena!
'And you,' she pointed to me. 'Come over here. Kneel down before me.'
Afraid of what Andrea might do and embarrassed to have everyone's eyes on me, I nevertheless did as she asked.
'Bow your head. Let me touch the nape of your neck.'
I felt the pressure of her fingers, but nothing else. We remained like that for nearly a minute, and then she told me to get up and go back to my seat.
'You won't need to take sleeping pills any more. From now on, sleep will return.'
I glanced at Andrea. I thought she might say something, but she looked as amazed
as I did. One of the actresses, possibly the youngest, raised her hand.
'I'd like to say something, but I need to know who I'm speaking to.' 'Hagia Sofia.' 'I'd like to know if…'
She glanced round, ashamed, but the director nodded, asking her to continue. '…if my mother is all right.'
'She's by your side. Yesterday, when you left the house, she made you forget your handbag. You went back to find it and discovered that you'd locked yourself out and couldn't get in. You wasted a whole hour looking for a locksmith, when you could have kept the appointment you'd made, met the man who was waiting for you and got the job you wanted. But if everything had happened as you planned that morning, in six months' time you would have died in a car accident. Forgetting your handbag yesterday changed your life.'
The girl began to weep.
'Does anyone else want to ask anything?' Another hand went up. It was the director. 'Does he love me?'
So it was true. The story about the girl's mother had stirred up a whirlwind of emotions in the room. 'You're asking the wrong question. What you need to know is, are you in a position to give him the love he needs. And whatever happens or doesn't happen will be equally gratifying. Knowing that you are capable of love is enough. If it isn't him, it will be someone else. You've discovered a wellspring, simply allow it to flow and it will fill your world. Don't try to keep a safe distance so as to see what happens. Don't wait to be certain before you take a step. What you give, you will receive, although it might sometimes come from the place you least expect.'
Those words applied to me too. Then Athena – or whoever she was – turned to Andrea. 'You!'
My blood froze.
'You must be prepared to lose the universe you created.' 'What do you mean by “universe”?'
'What you think you already have. You've imprisoned your world, but you know that you must liberate it. I know you understand what I mean, even though you don't want to hear it.'
'I understand.'
I was sure they were talking about me. Was this all a set-up by Athena? 'It's finished,' she said. 'Bring the child to me.'
Viorel didn't want to go; he was frightened by his mother's transformation. But Andrea took him gently by the hand and led him to her.
Athena – or Hagia Sofia, or Sherine, or whoever she was – did just as she had done with me, and pressed the back of the boy's neck with her fingers.
'Don't be frightened by the things you see, my child. Don't try to push them away because they'll go away anyway. Enjoy the company of the angels while you can. You're frightened now, but you're not as frightened as you might be because you know there are lots of people in the room. You stopped laughing and dancing when you saw me embracing your mother and asking to speak through her mouth. But you know I wouldn't be doing this if she hadn't given me her permission. I've always appeared before in the form of light, and I still am that light, but today I decided to speak.'
The little boy put his arms around her.
'You can go now. Leave me alone with him.'
One by one, we left the apartment, leaving the mother with her child. In the taxi home, I tried to talk to Andrea, but she said that we could talk about anything but what had just happened.
I said nothing. My soul filled with sadness. Losing Andrea was very hard. On the other hand, I felt an immense peace. The evening's events had wrought changes in us all, and that meant I wouldn't need to go through the pain of sitting down with a woman I loved very much and telling her that I was in love with someone else.
In this case, I chose silence. I got home, turned on the TV, and Andrea went to have a bath. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, the room was full of light. It was morning, and I'd slept for ten hours. Beside me was a note, in which Andrea said that she hadn't wanted to wake me, that she'd gone straight to the theatre, but had left me some coffee. The note was a romantic one, decorated in lipstick and a small cutout heart.
She had no intention of 'letting go of her universe'. She was going to fight. And my life would become a nightmare.
That evening, she phoned, and her voice betrayed no particular emotion. She told me that the elderly actor had gone to see his doctor, who had examined him and found that he had an enlarged prostate. The next step was a blood test, where they had detected a significantly raised level of a type of protein called PSA. They took a sample for a biopsy, but the clinical picture indicated that there was a high chance he had a malignant tumour.
'The doctor said he was lucky, because even if their worst fears were proved right, they can still operate and there's a ninety-nine per cent chance of a cure.'
Deidre O'Neill, known as Edda
What do you mean, Hagia Sofia! It was her, Athena, but by touching the deepest part of the river that flows through her soul, she had come into contact with the Mother.
All she did was to see what was happening in another reality. The young actress's mother, now that she's dead, lives in a place outside of time and so was able to change the course of events, whereas we human beings can only know about the present. But that's no small thing: discovering a dormant illness before it gets worse, touching nervous systems and unblocking energies is within the reach of all of us.
Of course, many died at the stake, others were exiled and many ended up hiding or suppressing the spark of the Great Mother in their souls. I never brought Athena into contact with the Power. She decided to do this, because the Mother had already given her various signs: she was a light while she danced, she changed into letters while she was learning calligraphy, she appeared to her in a fire and in a mirror. What my student didn't know was how to live with Her, until, that is, she did something that provoked this whole chain of events.
Athena, who was always telling everyone to be different, was basically just like all other mortals. She had her own rhythm, a kind of cruise control. Was she more curious than most? Possibly. Had she managed to overcome her sense of being a victim? Definitely. Did she feel a need to share what she was learning with others, be they bank employees or actors? In some cases the answer was 'Yes', but in others, I had to encourage her, because we are not meant for solitude, and we only know ourselves when we see ourselves in the eyes of others.
But that was as far as my interference went.
Maybe the Mother wanted to appear that night, and perhaps she whispered something in her ear: 'Go against everything you've learned so far. You, who are a mistress of rhythm, allow the rhythm to pass through your body, but don't obey it.' That was why Athena suggested the exercise. Her unconscious was already prepared to receive the Mother, but Athena herself was still dancing in time to the music and so any external elements were unable to manifest themselves.
The same thing used to happen with me. The best way to meditate and enter into contact with the light was by knitting, something my mother had taught me when I
was a child. I knew how to count the stitches, manipulate the needles and create beautiful things through repetition and harmony. One day, my protector asked me to knit in a completely irrational way! I found this really distressing, because I'd learned how to knit with affection, patience and dedication. Nevertheless, he insisted on me knitting really badly.
I knitted like this for two hours, thinking all the time that it was utterly ridiculous, absurd. My head ached, but I had to resist letting the needles guide my hands. Anyone can do things badly, so why was he asking this of me? Because he knew about my obsession with geometry and with perfection.
And suddenly, it happened: I stopped moving the needles and felt a great emptiness, which was filled by a warm, loving, companionable presence. Everything around me was different, and I felt like saying things that I would never normally dare to say. I didn't lose consciousness; I knew I was still me, but, paradoxically, I wasn't the person I was used to being with.
So I can 'see' what happened, even though I wasn't there. Athena's soul following the sound of the music while her body went in a totally contrary direction. After a time, her soul disconnected from her body, a space opened, and the Mother could finally enter.
Or, rather, a spark from the Mother appeared. Ancient, but apparently very young. Wise, but not omnipotent. Special, but not in the least arrogant. Her perceptions changed, and she began to see the same things she used to see when she was a child – the parallel universes that people this world. At such moments, we can see not only the physical body, but people's emotions too. They say cats have this same power, and I believe them.
A kind of blanket lies between the physical and the spiritual world, a blanket that changes in colour, intensity and light; it's what mystics call 'aura'. From then on, everything is easy. The aura tells you what's going on. If I had been there, she would have seen a violet colour with a few yellow splodges around my body. That means that I still have a long road ahead of me and that my mission on this Earth has not yet been accomplished.
Mixed up with human auras are transparent forms, which people usually call 'ghosts'. That was the case with the young woman's mother, and only in such case can someone's fate be altered. I'm almost certain that the young actress, even before she asked, knew that her mother was beside her, and the only real surprise to her was the story about the handbag.
Confronted by that rhythmless dance, everyone was really intimidated. Why? Because we're used to doing things 'as they should be done'. No one likes to make the wrong moves, especially when we're aware that we're doing so. Even Athena. It can't have been easy for her to suggest doing something that went against everything she loved.
I'm glad that the Mother won the battle at that point. A man has been saved from cancer, another has accepted his sexuality, and a third has stopped taking sleeping pills. And all because Athena broke the rhythm, slamming on the brakes when the car was travelling at top speed and thus throwing everything into disarray.
To go back to my knitting: I used that method of knitting badly for quite some time, until I managed to provoke the presence without any artificial means, now that I knew it and was used to it. The same thing happened with Athena. Once we know where the Doors of Perception are, it's really easy to open and close them, when we get used to our own 'strange' behaviour.
And it must be said that I knitted much faster and better after that, just as Athena danced with much more soul and rhythm once she had dared to break down those barriers.
Andrea McCain, actress
The story spread like wild fire. On the following Monday, when the theatre was closed, Athena's apartment was packed. We had all brought friends. She did as she had on the previous evening; she made us dance without rhythm, as if she needed that collective energy in order to get in touch with Hagia Sofia. The boy was there again, and I decided to watch him. When he sat down on the sofa, the music stopped and the trance began.
As did the questions. The first three questions were, as you can imagine, about love
– will he stay with me, does she love me, is he cheating on me. Athena said nothing. The fourth person to receive no answer asked again, more loudly this time:
'So is he cheating on me or not?'
'I am Hagia Sofia, universal wisdom. I came into the world accompanied only by Love. I am the beginning of everything, and before I existed there was chaos. Therefore, if any of you wish to control the forces that prevailed in chaos, do not ask Hagia Sofia. For me, love fills everything. It cannot be desired because it is an end in itself. It cannot betray because it has nothing to do with possession. It cannot be held prisoner because it is a river and will overflow its banks. Anyone
who tries to imprison love will cut off the spring that feeds it, and the trapped water will grow stagnant and rank.'
Hagia looked around the group, most of whom were there for the first time, and she began to point out what she saw: the threat of disease, problems at work, frictions between parents and children, sexuality, potentialities that existed but were not being explored. I remember her turning to one woman in her thirties and saying:
'Your father told you how things should be and how a woman should behave. You have always fought against your dreams, and “I want” has never even shown its face. It was always drowned out by “I must” or “I hope” or “I need”, but you're a wonderful singer. One year's experience could make a huge difference to your work.'
'But I have a husband and a child.'
'Athena has a child too. Your husband will be upset at first, but he'll come to accept it eventually. And you don't need to be Hagia Sofia to know that.'
said.'
'Maybe I'm too old.'
'You're refusing to accept who you are, but that is not my problem. I have said what needed to be
Gradually, everyone in that small room – unable to sit down because there wasn't enough space, sweating profusely even though the winter was nearly over, feeling ridiculous for having come to such an event – was called upon to receive Hagia Sofia's advice.
I was the last.
'Stay behind afterwards if you want to stop being two and to be one instead.'
This time, I didn't have her son on my lap. He watched everything that happened, and it seemed that the conversation they'd had after the first session had been enough for him to lose his fear.
I nodded. Unlike the previous session, when people had simply left when she'd asked to talk to her son alone, this time Hagia Sofia gave a sermon before ending the ritual.
'You are not here to receive definite answers. My mission is to provoke you. In the past, both governors and governed went to oracles who would foretell the future. The future, however, is unreliable because it is guided by decisions made in the here and now. Keep the bicycle moving, because if you stop pedalling, you will fall
off.
'For those of you who came to meet Hagia Sofia wanting her merely to confirm what you hoped to be true, please, do not come back. Or else start dancing and make those around you dance too. Fate will be implacable with those who want to live in a universe that is dead and gone. The new world belongs to the Mother, who came with Love to separate the heavens from the waters. Anyone who believes they have failed will always fail. Anyone who has decided that they cannot behave any differently will be destroyed by routine. Anyone who has decided to block all changes will be transformed into dust. Cursed be those who do not dance and who prevent others from dancing!'
Her eyes glanced fire. 'You can go.'
Everyone left, and I could see the look of confusion on most of their faces. They had come in search of comfort and had found only provocation. They had arrived wanting to be told how love can be controlled and had heard that the all-devouring flame will always burn everything. They wanted to be sure that their decisions were the right ones, that their husbands, wives and bosses were pleased with them, but, instead, they were given only words of doubt.
Some people, though, were smiling. They had understood the importance of the dance and from that night on would doubtless allow their bodies and souls to drift
– even though, as always happens, they would have to pay a price.
Only the boy, Hagia Sofia, Heron and myself were left in the room. 'I asked you to stay here alone.'
Without a word, Heron picked up his coat and left.
Hagia Sofia was looking at me. And, little by little, I watched her change back into Athena. The only way of describing that change is to compare it with the change that takes place in an angry child: we can see the anger in the child's eyes, but once distracted and once the anger has gone, the child is no longer the same child who, only moments before, was crying. The 'being', if it can be called that, seemed to have vanished into the air as soon as its instrument lost concentration.
And now I was standing before an apparently exhausted woman. 'Make me some tea.'
She was giving me an order! And she was no longer universal wisdom, but merely someone my boyfriend was interested in or infatuated with. Where would this relationship take us?
But making a cup of tea wouldn't destroy my self-esteem. I went into the kitchen, boiled some water, added a few camomile leaves and returned to the living room. The child was asleep on her lap.
'You don't like me,' she said. I made no reply.
'I don't like you either,' she went on. 'You're pretty and elegant, a fine actress, and have a degree of culture and education which I, despite my family's wishes, do not. But you're also insecure, arrogant and suspicious. As Hagia Sofia said, you are two, when you could be one.'
'I didn't know you remembered what you said during the trance, because in that case, you are two people as well: Athena and Hagia Sofia.'
'I may have two names, but I am only one – or else all the people in the world. And that is precisely what I want to talk about. Because I am one and everyone, the spark that emerges when I go into a trance gives me very precise instructions. I remain semi-conscious throughout, of course, but I'm saying things that come from some unknown part of myself, as if I were suckling on the breast of the Mother, drinking the milk that flows through all our souls and carries knowledge around the Earth. Last week, which was the first time I entered into contact with this new form, I received what seemed to me to be an absurd message: that I should teach you.'
She paused.
'Obviously, this struck me as quite mad, because I don't like you at all.' She paused again, for longer this time.
'Today, though, the source repeated the same message, and so I'm giving you that choice.' 'Why do you call it Hagia Sofia?'
'That was my idea. It's the name of a really beautiful mosque I saw in a book. You could, if you like, be my student. That's what brought you here on that first day. This whole new stage in my life, including the discovery of Hagia Sofia inside me, only happened because one day you came through that door and said: “I work in the theatre and we're putting on a play about the female face of God. I heard from a journalist friend that you've spent time in the Balkan mountains with some gipsies and would be prepared to tell me about your experiences there.”'
'Are you going to teach me everything you know?'
'No, everything I don't know. I'll learn through being in contact with you, as I said the first time we met, and as I say again now. Once I've learned what I need to learn, we'll go our separate ways.'
'Can you teach someone you dislike?'
'I can love and respect someone I dislike. On the two occasions when I went into a trance, I saw your aura, and it was the most highly developed aura I've ever seen. You could make a difference in this world, if you accept my proposal.'
'Will you teach me to see auras?'
'Until it happened to me the first time, I myself didn't know I was capable of doing so. If you're on the right path, you'll learn too.'
I realised then that I, too, was capable of loving someone I disliked. I said 'Yes'. 'Then let us transform that acceptance into a ritual. A ritual throws us into an unknown world, but we know that we cannot treat the things of that world lightly. It isn't enough to say “yes”, you must put your life at risk, and without giving it much thought either. If you're the woman I think you are, you won't say: “I need to think about it.” You'll say–'
'I'm ready. Let's move on to the ritual. Where did you learn the ritual, by the way?' 'I'm going to learn it now. I no longer need to remove myself from my normal rhythm in order to enter into contact with the spark from the Mother, because, once that spark is installed inside you, it's easy to find again. I know which door I need to open, even though it's concealed amongst many other entrances and exits. All I need is a little silence.'
Silence again!
We sat there, our eyes wide and staring, as if we were about to begin a fight to the death. Rituals! Before I even rang the bell of Athena's apartment for the first time, I had already taken part in various rituals, only to feel used and diminished afterwards, standing outside a door I could see, but not open. Rituals!
All Athena did was drink a little of the tea I prepared for her.
'The ritual is over. I asked you to do something for me. You did, and I accepted it. Now it is your turn to ask me something.'
I immediately thought of Heron, but it wasn't the right moment to talk about him. 'Take your clothes off.'
She didn't ask me why. She looked at the child, checked that he was asleep, and immediately began to remove her sweater.
'No, really, you don't have to,' I said. 'I don't know why I asked that.'
But she continued to undress, first her blouse, then her jeans, then her bra. I noticed her breasts, which were the most beautiful I'd ever seen. Finally, she removed her knickers. And there she was, offering me her nakedness.
'Bless me,' said Athena.
Bless my 'teacher'? But I'd already taken the first step and couldn't stop now, so I dipped my fingers in the cup and sprinkled a little tea over her body.
'Just as this plant was transformed into tea, just as the water mingled with the plant, I bless you and ask the Great Mother that the spring from which this water came will never cease flowing, and that the earth from which this plant came will always be fertile and generous.'
I was surprised at my own words. They had come neither from inside me nor outside. It was as if I'd always known them and had done this countless times before.
'You have been blessed. You can get dressed now.'
But she didn't move, she merely smiled. What did she want? If Hagia Sofia was capable of seeing auras, she would know that I hadn't the slightest desire to have sex with another woman.
'One moment.'
She picked up the boy, carried him to his room and returned at once. 'You take your clothes off too.'
Who was asking this? Hagia Sofia, who spoke of my potential and for whom I was the perfect disciple? Or Athena, whom I hardly knew, and who seemed capable of anything – a woman whom life had taught to go beyond her limits and to satisfy any curiosity?
We had started a kind of confrontation from which there was no retreat. I got undressed with the same nonchalance, the same smile and the same look in my eyes.
She took my hand and we sat down on the sofa.
During the next half hour, both Athena and Hagia Sofia were present; they wanted to know what my next steps would be. As they asked me this question, I saw that everything really was written there before
me, and that the doors had only been closed before because I hadn't realised that I was the one person in the world with the authority to open them.
Heron Ryan, journalist
The deputy editor hands me a video and we go into the projection room to watch it.
The video was made on the morning of 26 April 1986 and shows normal life in a normal town. A man is sitting drinking a cup of coffee. A mother is taking her
baby for a walk. People in a hurry are going to work. A few people are waiting at a bus stop. A man on a bench in a square is reading a newspaper.
But there's a problem with the video. There are various horizontal lines on the screen, as if the tracking button needed to be adjusted. I get up to do this, but the deputy editor stops me.
'That's just the way it is. Keep watching.'
Images of the small provincial town continue to appear, showing nothing of interest apart from these scenes from ordinary everyday life.
'It's possible that some people may know that there's been an accident two kilometres from there,' says my boss. 'It's possible that they know there have been thirty deaths – a large number, but not enough to change the routine of the town's inhabitants.'
Now the film shows school buses parking. They will stay there for many days. The images are getting worse and worse.
'It isn't the tracking, it's radiation. The video was made by the KGB. On the night of the twentysixth of April, at twenty-three minutes past one in the morning, the worst ever man-made disaster occurred at Chernobyl, in the Ukraine. When a nuclear reactor exploded, the people in the area were exposed to ninety times more radiation than that given out by the bomb dropped on Hiroshima. The whole region should have been evacuated at once, but no one said anything – after all, the government doesn't make mistakes. Only a week later, on page thirty-two of the local newspaper, a five-line article appeared, mentioning the deaths of workers, but giving no further explanation. Meanwhile, Workers' Day was celebrated throughout the Soviet Union, and in Kiev, the Ukrainian capital, people paraded down the street unaware of the invisible death in the air.'
And he concludes:
'I want you to go and see what Chernobyl is like now. You've just been promoted to special correspondent. You'll get a twenty per cent increase in your salary and be able to suggest the kind of article you think we should be publishing.'
I should be jumping for joy, but instead I'm gripped by a feeling of intense sadness, which I have to hide. It's impossible to argue with him, to say that there are two women in my life at the moment, that I don't want to leave London, that my life and my mental equilibrium are at stake. I ask when I should leave. As soon as possible, he says, because there are rumours that other countries are significantly increasing their production of nuclear energy.
I manage to negotiate an honourable way out, saying that, first, I need to talk to experts and really get to grips with the subject, and that I'll set off once I've collected the necessary material.
He agrees, shakes my hand and congratulates me. I don't have time to talk to Andrea, because when I get home, she's still at the theatre. I fall asleep at once and again wake up to find a note saying that she's gone to work and that the coffee is on the table.
I go to the office, try to ingratiate myself with the boss who has 'improved my life', and phone various experts on radiation and energy. I discover that, in total, 9 million people worldwide were directly affected by the disaster, including 3 to 4 million children. The initial 30 deaths became, according to the expert John Gofmans, 475,000 cases of fatal cancers and an equal number of non-fatal cancers.
A total of 2,000 towns and villages were simply wiped off the map. According to the Health Ministry in Belarus, the incidence of cancer of the thyroid will increase considerably between 2005 and 2010, as a consequence of continuing high levels of radioactivity. Another specialist explains that as well as the 9 million people directly exposed to radiation, more than 65 million in many countries round the world were indirectly affected by consuming contaminated foodstuffs.
It's a serious matter, which deserves to be treated with respect. At the end of the day, I go back to the deputy editor and suggest that I travel to Chernobyl for the actual anniversary of the accident, and
meanwhile do more research, talk to more experts and find out how the British government responded to the tragedy. He agrees.
I phone Athena. After all, she claims to be going out with someone from Scotland Yard and now is the time to ask her a favour, given that Chernobyl is no longer classified as secret and the Soviet Union no longer exists. She promises that she'll talk to her 'boyfriend', but says she can't guarantee she'll get the answers I want.
She also says that she's leaving for Scotland the following day, and will only be back in time for the next group meeting.
'What group?'
The group, she says. So that's become a regular thing, has it? What I want to know is when we can meet to talk and clear up various loose ends.
But she's already hung up. I go home, watch the news, have supper alone and, later, go out again to pick Andrea up from the theatre. I get there in time to see the
end of the play and, to my surprise, the person on stage seems totally unlike the person I've been living with for nearly two years; there's something magical about her every gesture; monologues and dialogues are spoken with an unaccustomed intensity. I am seeing a stranger, a woman I would like to have by my side, then I realise that she is by my side and is in no way a stranger to me.
'How did your chat with Athena go?' I ask on the way home. 'Fine. How was work?'
She was the one to change the subject. I tell her about my promotion and about Chernobyl, but she doesn't seem interested. I start to think that I'm losing the love I have without having yet won the love I hope to win. However, as soon as we reach our apartment, she suggests we take a bath together and, before I know it, we're in bed. First, she puts on that percussion music at full volume (she explains that she managed to get hold of a copy) and tells me not to worry about the neighbours – people worry too much about them, she says, and never live their own lives.
What happens from then on is something that goes beyond my understanding. Has this woman making positively savage love with me finally discovered her sexuality, and was this taught to her or provoked in her by that other woman? While she was clinging to me with a violence I've never known before, she kept saying:
'Today I'm your man, and you're my woman.'
We carried on like this for almost an hour, and I experienced things I'd never dared experience before. At certain moments, I felt ashamed, wanted to ask her to stop, but she seemed to be in complete control of the situation and so I surrendered, because I had no choice. In fact, I felt really curious.
I was exhausted afterwards, but Andrea seemed re-energised.
'Before you go to sleep, I want you to know something,' she said. 'If you go forward, sex will offer you the chance to make love with gods and goddesses. That's what you experienced today. I want you to go to sleep knowing that I awoke the Mother that was in you.'
I wanted to ask if she'd learned this from Athena, but my courage failed. 'Tell me that you liked being a woman for a night.'
'I did. I don't know if I would always like it, but it was something that simultaneously frightened me and gave me great joy.'
'Tell me that you've always wanted to experience what you've just experienced.'
It's one thing to allow oneself to be carried away by the situation, but quite another to comment coolly on the matter. I said nothing, although I was sure that she knew my answer.
'Well,' Andrea went on, 'all of this was inside me and I had no idea. As was the person behind the mask that fell away while I was on stage today. Did you notice anything different?'
'Of course. You were radiating a special light.'
'Charisma – the divine force that manifests itself in men and women. The supernatural power we don't need to show to anyone because everyone can see it, even usually insensitive people. But it only happens when we're naked, when we die to the world and are reborn to ourselves. Last night, I died. Tonight, when I walked on stage and saw that I was doing exactly what I had chosen to do, I was reborn from my ashes. I was always trying to be who I am, but could never manage it. I was always trying to impress other people, have intelligent conversations, please my parents and, at the same time, I used every available means to do the things I would really like to do. I've always forged my path with blood, tears and will power, but last night, I realised that I was going about it the wrong way. My dream doesn't require that
of me, I have only to surrender myself to it and, if I find I'm suffering, grit my teeth, because the suffering will pass.'
'Why are you telling me this?'
'Let me finish. In that journey where suffering seemed to be the only rule, I struggled for things for which there was no point struggling. Like love, for example. People either feel it or they don't, and there isn't a force in the world that can make them feel it. We can pretend that we love each other. We can get used to each other. We can live a whole lifetime of friendship and complicity, we can bring up children, have sex every night, reach orgasm, and still feel that there's a terrible emptiness about it all, that something important is missing. In the name of all I've learned about relationships between men and women, I've been trying to fight against things that weren't really worth the struggle. And that includes you.
'Today, while we were making love, while I was giving all I have, and I could see that you, too, were giving of your best, I realised that your best no longer interests me. I will sleep beside you tonight, but tomorrow I'll leave. The theatre is my ritual, and there I can express and develop whatever I want to express and develop.'
I started to regret everything – going to Transylvania and meeting a woman who
might be destroying my life, arranging that first meeting of the 'group', confessing my love in that restaurant. At that moment, I hated Athena.
'I know what you're thinking,' said Andrea. 'That your friend Athena has brainwashed me, but that isn't true.'
'I'm a man, even though tonight in bed I behaved like a woman. I'm a species in danger of extinction because I don't see many men around. Few people would risk what I have risked.'
'I'm sure you're right, and that's why I admire you, but aren't you going to ask me who I am, what I want and what I desire?'
I asked.
'I want everything. I want savagery and tenderness. I want to upset the neighbours and placate them too. I don't want a woman in my bed, I want men, real men, like you, for example. Whether they love me or are merely using me, it doesn't matter. My love is greater than that. I want to love freely, and I want to allow the people around me to do the same.
'What I talked about to Athena were the simple ways of awakening repressed energy, like making love, for example, or walking down the street saying: “I'm here and now”. Nothing very special, no secret ritual. The only thing that made our meeting slightly different was that we were both naked. From now on, she and I will meet every Monday, and if I have any comments to make, I will do so after that session. I have no desire to be her friend. Just as, when she feels the need to share something, she goes up to Scotland to talk with that Edda woman, who, it seems, you know as well, although you've never mentioned her.'
'I can't even remember meeting her!'
I sensed that Andrea was gradually calming down. I prepared two cups of coffee and we drank them together. She recovered her smile and asked about my promotion. She said she was worried about those Monday meetings, because she'd learned only that morning that friends of friends were inviting other people, and Athena's apartment was a very small place. I made an enormous effort to pretend that everything that had happened that evening was just a fit of nerves or premenstrual tension or jealousy on her part.
I put my arms around her and she snuggled into my shoulder. And despite my own exhaustion, I waited until she fell asleep. That night, I dreamed of nothing. I had no feelings of foreboding.
And the following morning, when I woke up, I saw that her clothes were gone, the
key was on the table, and there was no letter of farewell. Deidre O'Neill, known as Edda
People read a lot of stories about witches, fairies, paranormals and children possessed by evil spirits. They go to films showing rituals featuring pentagrams, swords and invocations. That's fine; people need to give free rein to their imagination and to go through certain stages. Anyone who gets through those stages without being deceived will eventually get in touch with the Tradition.
The real Tradition is this: the teacher never tells the disciple what he or she should do. They are merely travelling companions, sharing the same uncomfortable feeling of 'estrangement' when confronted
by ever-changing perceptions, broadening horizons, closing doors, rivers that sometimes seem to block their path and which, in fact, should never be crossed, but followed.
There is only one difference between teacher and disciple: the former is slightly less afraid than the latter. Then, when they sit down at a table or in front of a fire to talk, the more experienced person might say: 'Why don't you do that?' But he or she never says: 'Go there and you'll arrive where I did', because every path and every destination are unique to the individual.
The true teacher gives the disciple the courage to throw his or her world off balance, even though the disciple is afraid of things already encountered and more afraid still of what might be around the next
corner.
I was a young, enthusiastic doctor who, filled by a desire to help my fellow human beings, travelled to the interior of Romania on an exchange programme run by the British government. I set off with my luggage full of medicines and my head full of preconceptions. I had clear ideas about how people should behave, about what we need to be happy, about the dreams we should keep alive inside us, about how human relations should evolve. I arrived in Bucharest during that crazed, bloody dictatorship and went to Transylvania to assist with a mass vaccination programme for the local population.
I didn't realise that I was merely one more piece on a very complicated chessboard, where invisible hands were manipulating my idealism, and that ulterior motives lay behind everything I believed was being done for humanitarian purposes: stabilising the government run by the dictator's son, allowing Britain to sell arms in a market dominated by the Soviets.
All my good intentions collapsed when I saw that there was barely enough vaccine to go round; that there were other diseases sweeping the region; that however often I wrote asking for more resources, they never came. I was told not to concern myself with anything beyond what I'd been asked to do.
I felt powerless and angry. I'd seen poverty from close to and would have been able to do something about it if only someone would give me some money, but they weren't interested in results. Our government just wanted a few articles in the press, so that they could say to their political parties or to their electorate that they'd despatched groups to various places in the world on a humanitarian mission. Their intentions were good – apart from selling arms, of course.
I was in despair. What kind of world was this? One night, I set off into the icy forest, cursing God, who was unfair to everything and everyone. I was sitting beneath an oak tree when my protector approached me. He said I could die of cold, and I replied that I was a doctor and knew the body's limits, and that as soon as I felt I was getting near those limits, I would go back to the camp. I asked him what he was doing there. 'I'm speaking to a woman who can hear me, in a world in which all the men have gone deaf.'
I thought he meant me, but the woman he was referring to was the forest itself. When I saw this man wandering about amongst the trees, making gestures and saying things I couldn't understand, a kind of peace settled on my heart. I was not, after all, the only person in the world left talking to myself. When I got up to return to the camp, he came over to me again.
'I know who you are,' he said. 'People in the village say that you're a very decent person, always good-humoured and prepared to help others, but I see something else: rage and frustration.'
He might have been a government spy, but I decided to tell him everything I was feeling, even though I ran the risk of being arrested. We walked together to the field hospital where I was working; I took him to the dormitory, which was empty at the time (my colleagues were all having fun at the annual festival being held in the town), and I asked if he'd like a drink. He produced a bottle from his pocket. 'Palinka,' he said, meaning the traditional drink of Romania, with an incredibly high alcohol content.
'On me.'
We drank together, and I didn't even notice that I was getting steadily drunk. I only realised the state I was in when I tried to go to the toilet, tripped over something
and fell flat.
'Don't move,' said the man. 'Look at what is there before your eyes.' A line of ants. 'They all think they're very wise. They have memory, intelligence, organisational powers, a spirit of sacrifice. They look for food in summer, store it away for the winter, and now they are setting forth again, in this icy spring, to work. If the world were destroyed by an atomic bomb tomorrow, the ants would survive.' 'How do you know all this?'
'I studied biology.'
'Why the hell don't you work to improve the living conditions of your own people? What are you doing in the middle of the forest, talking to the trees?'
'In the first place, I wasn't alone; apart from the trees, you were listening to me too. But to answer your question, I left biology to work as a blacksmith.'
I struggled to my feet. My head was still spinning, but I was thinking clearly enough to understand the poor man's situation. Despite a university education, he had been unable to find work. I told him that the same thing happened in my country too.
'No, that's not what I meant. I left biology because I wanted to work as a blacksmith. Even as a child, I was fascinated by those men hammering steel, making a strange kind of music, sending out sparks all around, plunging the red-hot metal into water and creating clouds of steam. I was unhappy as a biologist, because my dream was to make rigid metal take on soft shapes. Then, one day, a protector appeared.'
'A protector?'
'Let's say that, on seeing those ants doing exactly what they're programmed to do, you were to exclaim: “How fantastic!” The guards are genetically prepared to sacrifice themselves for the queen, the workers carry leaves ten times their own weight, the engineers make tunnels that can resist storms and floods. They enter into mortal combat with their enemies, they suffer for the community, and they never ask: “Why are we doing this?” People try to imitate the perfect society of the ants, and, as a biologist, I was playing my part, until someone came along with this question: “Are you happy doing what you're doing?” “Of course I am,” I said. “I'm being useful to my own people.” “And that's enough?”
'I didn't know whether it was enough or not, but I said that he seemed to me to be both arrogant and egotistical. He replied: “Possibly. But all you will achieve is to repeat what has been done since man was man – keeping things organised.”
'“But the world has progressed,” I said. He asked if I knew any history. Of course I did. He asked another question: “Thousands of years ago, weren't we capable of building enormous structures like the pyramids? Weren't we capable of worshipping gods, weaving, making fire, finding lovers and wives, sending written messages? Of course we were. But although we've succeeded in replacing slaves with wage slaves, all the advances we've made have been in the field of science. Human beings are still asking the same questions as their ancestors. In short, they haven't evolved at all.” At that point, I understood that the person asking me these questions was someone sent from heaven, an angel, a protector.'
'Why do you call him a protector?'
'Because he told me that there were two traditions, one that makes us repeat the same thing for centuries at a time, and another that opens the door into the unknown. However, the second tradition is difficult, uncomfortable and dangerous, and if it attracted too many followers, it would end up destroying the society which, following the example of the ants, took so long to build. And so the second tradition went underground and has only managed to survive over so many centuries because its followers created a secret language of signs.'
'Did you ask more questions?'
'Of course I did, because, although I'd denied it, he knew I was dissatisfied with what I was doing. My protector said: “I'm afraid of taking steps that are not on the map, but by taking those steps despite my fears, I have a much more interesting life.” I asked more about the Tradition, and he said something like: “As long as God is merely man, we'll always have enough food to eat and somewhere to live. When the Mother finally regains her freedom, we might have to sleep rough and live on love, or we might be able to balance emotion and work.” The man, who, it turned out, was my protector, asked: “If you weren't a biologist, what would you be?” I said: “A blacksmith, but they don't earn enough money.” And he replied: “Well, when you grow tired of being what you're not, go and have fun and celebrate life, hammering metal into shape. In time, you'll discover that it will give you more than pleasure, it will give you meaning.” “How do I follow this tradition you spoke of?” I asked. “As I said, through symbols,” he replied. “Start doing what you want to do, and everything else will be revealed to you. Believe that God is the Mother and looks after her children and never lets anything bad happen to them. I did that and I survived. I discovered that there were other people who did the same, but who are considered to be mad, irresponsible, superstitious. Since time
immemorial, they've sought their inspiration in nature. We build pyramids, but we also develop symbols.”
'Having said that, he left, and I never saw him again. I only know, from that moment on, symbols did begin to appear because my eyes had been opened by that conversation. Hard though it was, one evening, I
told my family that, although I had everything a man could dream of having, I was unhappy, and that I had, in fact, been born to be a blacksmith. My wife protested, saying: “You were born a gipsy and had to face endless humiliations to get where you are, and yet you want to go back?” My son, however, was thrilled, because he, too, liked to watch the blacksmiths in our village and hated the laboratories in the big cities.
'I started dividing my time between biological research and working as a blacksmith's apprentice. I was always tired, but I was much happier. One day, I left my job and set up my own blacksmith's business, which went completely wrong from the start. Just when I was starting to believe in life, things got markedly worse. One day, I was working away and I saw that there before me was a symbol.
'The unworked steel arrives in my workshop and I have to transform it into parts for cars, agricultural machinery, kitchen utensils. Do you know how that's done? First, I heat the metal until it's redhot, then I beat it mercilessly with my heaviest hammer until the metal takes on the form I need. Then I plunge it into a bucket of cold water and the whole workshop is filled with the roar of steam, while the metal sizzles and crackles in response to the sudden change in temperature. I have to keep repeating that process until the object I'm making is perfect: once is not enough.'
The blacksmith paused for a long time, lit a cigarette, then went on:
'Sometimes the steel I get simply can't withstand such treatment. The heat, the hammer blows, the cold water cause it to crack. And I know that I'll never be able to make it into a good ploughshare or an engine shaft. Then I throw it on the pile of scrap metal at the entrance to my forge.'
Another long pause, then the blacksmith concluded:
'I know that God is putting me through the fire of afflictions. I've accepted the blows that life has dealt me, and sometimes I feel as cold and indifferent as the water that inflicts such pain on the steel. But my one prayer is this: “Please, God, my Mother, don't give up until I've taken on the shape that You wish for me. Do this by whatever means You think best, for as long as You like, but never ever
throw me on the scrap heap of souls.”'
I may have been drunk when I finished my conversation with that man, but I knew that my life had changed. There was a tradition behind everything we learn, and I needed to go in search of people who, consciously or unconsciously, were able to make manifest the female side of God. Instead of cursing my government and all the political shenanigans, I decided to do what I really wanted to do: to heal people. I wasn't interested in anything else.
Since I didn't have the necessary resources, I approached the local men and women, and they guided me to the world of medicinal herbs. I discovered that there was a popular tradition that went back hundreds of years and was passed from generation to generation through experience rather than through technical knowledge. With their help, I was able to do far more than I would otherwise have been able to do, because I wasn't there merely to fulfil a university task or to help my government to sell arms or, unwittingly, to spread party political propaganda. I was there because healing people made me happy.
This brought me closer to nature, to the oral tradition and to plants. Back in Britain, I decided to talk to other doctors and I asked them: 'Do you always know exactly which medicines to prescribe or are you sometimes guided by intuition?' Almost all of them, once they had dropped their guard, admitted that they were often guided by a voice and that when they ignored the advice of the voice, they ended up giving the wrong treatment. Obviously they make use of all the available technology, but they know that there is a corner, a dark corner, where lies the real meaning of the cure, and the best decision to make.
My protector threw my world off balance – even though he was only a gipsy blacksmith. I used to go at least once a year to his village and we would talk about how, when we dare to see things differently, life opens up to our eyes. On one of those visits, I met other disciples of his, and together we discussed our fears and our conquests. My protector said: 'I, too, get scared, but it's at such moments that I discover a wisdom that is beyond me, and I go forward.'
Now I earn a lot of money working as a GP in Edinburgh, and I would earn even more if I went to work in London, but I prefer to make the most of life and to take time out. I do what I like: I combine the healing processes of the ancients, the Arcane Tradition, with the most modern techniques of present-day medicine, the Hippocratic Tradition. I'm writing a paper on the subject, and many people in the 'scientific' community, when they see my text published in a specialist journal, will
dare to take the steps which, deep down, they've always wanted to take.
I don't believe that the mind is the source of all ills; there are real diseases too. I think antibiotics and antivirals were great advances for humanity. I don't believe that a patient of mine with appendicitis can be cured by meditation alone; what he needs is some good, emergency surgery. So I take each step with courage and fear, combining technique and inspiration. And I'm careful who I say these things to, because I might get dubbed a witchdoctor, and then many lives I could have saved would be lost.
When I'm not sure, I ask the Great Mother for help. She has never yet failed to answer me. But she has always counselled me to be discreet. She probably gave the same advice to Athena on more than one occasion, but Athena was too fascinated by the world she was just starting to discover and she didn't listen.
A London newspaper, 24 August 1991 THE WITCH OF PORTOBELLO
London (© Jeremy Lutton): 'That's another reason why I don't believe in God, I mean, look at the behaviour of people who do believe!' This was the reaction of Robert Wilson, one of the traders in Portobello Road.
This road, known around the world for its antique shops and its Saturday flea market, was transformed last night into a battlefield, requiring the intervention of at least fifty police officers from the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea to restore order. By the end of the fracas, five people had been injured, although none seriously. The reason behind this pitched battle, which lasted nearly two hours, was a demonstration organised by the Rev. Ian Buck to protest about what he called 'the Satanic cult at the heart of England'.
According to Rev. Buck, a group of suspicious individuals have been keeping the neighbourhood awake every Monday night for the last six months, Monday being their chosen night for invoking the Devil. The ceremonies are led by a Lebanese woman, Sherine H. Khalil, who calls herself Athena, after the goddess of wisdom.
About two hundred people began meeting in a former East India Company warehouse, but the numbers increased over time and, in recent weeks, an equally large crowd has been gathering outside, hoping to gain entry and take part in the ceremony. When his various verbal complaints, petitions and letters to the local newspapers achieved nothing, the Rev. Buck decided to mobilise the community, calling on his parishioners to gather outside the warehouse by 1900 hours yesterday to stop the 'devil-worshippers' getting in.
'As soon as we received the first complaint, we sent someone to inspect the place, but no drugs were found nor evidence of any other kind of illicit activity,' said an official who preferred not to be identified because an inquiry has just been set up to investigate what happened. 'They aren't contravening the noise nuisance laws because they turn off the music at ten o'clock prompt, so there's really nothing more we can do. Britain, after all, allows freedom of worship.'
The Rev. Buck has another version of events.
'The fact is that this witch of Portobello, this mistress of charlatanism, has contacts with people high up in the government, which explains why the police – paid for by taxpayers' money to maintain order and decency – refuse to do anything. We're living in an age in which everything is allowed, and democracy is being devoured and destroyed by that limitless freedom.'
The vicar says that he was suspicious of the group right from the start. They had rented a crumbling old building and spent whole days trying to renovate it, 'which is clear evidence that they belong to some sect and have undergone some kind of brainwashing, because no one in today's world works for free'. When asked if his parishioners ever did any charitable work in the community, the Rev. Buck replied: 'Yes, but we do it in the name of Jesus.'
Yesterday evening, when she arrived at the warehouse to meet her waiting followers, Sherine Khalil, her son, and some of her friends were prevented from entering by the Rev. Buck's parishioners who were carrying placards and using megaphones to call on the rest of the neighbourhood to join them. This verbal aggression immediately degenerated into fighting, and soon it was impossible to control either side.
'They say they're fighting in the name of Jesus, but what they really want is for people to continue to ignore the teachings of Christ, according to which “we are all gods”,' said the well-known actress Andrea McCain, one of Sherine Khalil or Athena's followers. Ms McCain received a cut above her right eye, which was treated at once, and she left the area before your reporter could find out more about her links with the sect.
Once order was restored, Mrs Khalil was anxious to reassure her 5-year-old son, but she did tell us that all that takes place in the warehouse is some collective dancing, followed by the invocation of a being known as Hagia Sofia, of whom people are free to ask questions. The celebration ends with a kind of sermon and a group prayer to the Great Mother. The officer charged with investigating the
original complaints confirmed this.
As far as we could ascertain, the group has no name and is not registered as a charity. According to the lawyer Sheldon Williams, this is not necessary: 'We live in a free country, and people can gather together in an enclosed space for non-profit-making activities, as long as these do not break any laws such as incitement to racism or the consumption of narcotics.'
Mrs Khalil emphatically rejected any suggestion that she should stop the meetings because of the disturbances.
'We gather together to offer mutual encouragement,' she said, 'because it's very hard to face social pressures alone. I demand that your newspaper denounce the religious discrimination to which we've been subjected over the centuries. Whenever we do something that is not in accord with State-instituted and Stateapproved religions, there is always an attempt to crush us, as happened today. Before, we would have faced martyrdom, prison, being burned at the stake or sent into exile, but now we are in a position to respond, and force will be answered with force, just as compassion will be repaid with compassion.'
When faced with the Rev. Buck's accusations, she accused him of 'manipulating his parishioners and using intolerance and lies as an excuse for violence'.
According to the sociologist Arthaud Lenox, phenomena like this will become increasingly common in the future, possibly involving more serious clashes between established religions. 'Now that the Marxist utopia has shown itself incapable of channelling society's ideals, the world is ripe for a religious revival, born of civilisation's natural fear of significant dates. However, I believe that when the year 2000 does arrive and the world survives intact, common sense will prevail and religions will revert to being a refuge for the weak, who are always in search of guidance.'
This view is contested by Dom Evaristo Piazza, the Vatican's auxiliary bishop in the United Kingdom: 'What we are seeing is not the spiritual awakening that we all long for, but a wave of what Americans call New Ageism, a kind of breeding ground in which everything is permitted, where dogmas are not respected, and the most absurd ideas from the past return to lay waste to the human mind. Unscrupulous people like this young woman are trying to instil their false ideas in weak, suggestible minds, with the one aim of making money and gaining personal power.'
The German historian Franz Herbert, currently working at the Goethe Institute in
London, has a different idea: 'The established religions no longer ask fundamental questions about our identity and our reason for living. Instead, they concentrate purely on a series of dogmas and rules concerned only with fitting in with a particular social and political organisation. People in search of real spirituality are, therefore, setting off in new directions, and that inevitably means a return to the past and to primitive religions, before those religions were contaminated by the structures of power.'
At the police station where the incident was recorded, Sergeant William Morton stated that should Sherine Khalil's group decide to hold their meeting on the following Monday and feel that they are under threat, then they must apply in writing for police protection and thus avoid a repetition of last night's events. (With additional information from Andrew Fish. Photos by Mark Guillhem)
Heron Ryan, journalist
I read the report on the plane, when I was flying back from the Ukraine, feeling full of doubts. I still hadn't managed to ascertain whether the Chernobyl disaster had been as big as it was said to have been, or whether it had been used by the major oil producers to inhibit the use of other sources of energy.
Anyway, I was horrified by what I read in the article. The photos showed broken windows, a furious Rev. Buck, and – there lay the danger – a beautiful woman with fiery eyes and her son in her arms. I saw at once what could happen, both good and bad. I went straight from the airport to Portobello, convinced that both my predictions would become reality.
On the positive side, the following Monday's meeting was one of the most successful events in the area's history: many local people came, some curious to see the 'being' mentioned in the article, others bearing placards defending freedom of religion and freedom of speech. The venue would only hold two
hundred people and so the rest of the crowd were all crammed together on the pavement outside, hoping for at least a glimpse of the woman who appeared to be the priestess of the oppressed.
When she arrived, she was received with applause, handwritten notes and requests for help; some people threw flowers, and one lady of uncertain age asked her to keep on fighting for women's freedom and for the right to worship the Mother. The parishioners from the week before must have been intimidated by the crowd and so failed to turn up, despite the threats they had made during the previous days. There were no aggressive comments, and the ceremony passed off as
normal, with dancing, the appearance of Hagia Sofia (by then, I knew that she was simply another facet of Athena herself), and a final celebration (this had been added recently, when the group moved to the warehouse lent by one of its original members), and that was that.
During her sermon, Athena spoke as if possessed by someone else:
'We all have a duty to love and to allow love to manifest itself in the way it thinks best. We cannot and must not be frightened when the powers of darkness want to make themselves heard, those same powers that introduced the word “sin” merely to control our hearts and minds. Jesus Christ, whom we all know, turned to the woman taken in adultery and said: “Has no man condemned thee? Neither do I condemn thee.” He healed people on the Sabbath, he allowed a prostitute to wash his feet, he promised a thief that he would enjoy the delights of Paradise, he ate forbidden foods, and he said that we should concern ourselves only with today, because the lilies in the field toil not neither do they spin, but are arrayed in glory. 'What is sin? It is a sin to prevent Love from showing itself. And the Mother is love. We are entering a new world in which we can choose to follow our own steps, not those that society forces us to take. If necessary, we will confront the forces of darkness again, as we did last week. But no one will silence our voice or our heart.'
I was witnessing the transformation of a woman into an icon. She spoke with great conviction, with dignity and with faith in what she was saying. I hoped that things really were like that, that we truly were entering a new world, and that I would live to see it.
She left the warehouse to as much acclaim as she had entered it, and when she saw me in the crowd, she called me over and said that she'd missed me. She was happy and confident, sure that she was doing the right thing.
This was the positive side of the newspaper article, and things might have ended there. I wanted my analysis of events to be wrong, but three days later, my prediction was confirmed. The negative side emerged in full force.
Employing the services of one of the most highly regarded and conservative law practices in Britain, whose senior partners – unlike Athena – really did have contacts in all spheres of government, and basing his case on published statements made by Athena, the Rev. Buck called a news conference to say that he was suing for defamation, calumny and moral damages.
The deputy editor called me in. He knew I was friendly with the central figure in
that scandal and suggested that we publish an exclusive interview. My first reaction was of disgust: how could I use my friendship to sell newspapers?
However, after we had talked further, I started to think that it might be a good idea. She would have the chance to put her side of the story; indeed, she could use the interview to promote all the things for which she was now openly fighting. I left the deputy editor's office with the plan we had drawn up together: a series of articles on new trends in society and on radical changes that were taking place in the search for religious belief. In one of those articles, I would publish Athena's point of view.
That same afternoon, I went to her house, taking advantage of the fact that the invitation had come from her when we met outside the warehouse. The neighbours told me that, the day before, court officials had attempted to serve a summons on her, but failed.
I phoned later on, without success. I tried again as night was falling, but no one answered. From then on, I phoned every half an hour, growing more anxious with each call. Ever since Hagia Sofia had cured my insomnia, tiredness drove me to bed at eleven o'clock, but this time anxiety kept me awake.
I found her mother's number in the phone book, but it was late, and if Athena wasn't there, then I would only cause the whole family to worry. What to do? I turned on the TV to see if anything had happened – nothing special, London continued as before, with its marvels and its perils.
I decided to try one last time. The phone rang three times, and someone answered. I recognised Andrea's voice at once.
'What do you want?' she asked.
'Athena asked me to get in touch. Is everything all right?'
'Everything's all right and not all right, depending on your way of looking at things. But I think you might be able to help.'
'Where is she?'
She hung up without saying any more. Deidre O'Neill, known as Edda
Athena stayed in a hotel near my house. News from London regarding local events, especially minor conflicts in the suburbs, never reaches Scotland. We're not much interested in how the English sort out their little problems. We have our own flag, our own football team, and soon we will have our own parliament.
I let Athena rest for a whole day. The following morning, instead of going into the
little temple and performing the rituals I know, I decided to take her and her son to a wood near Edinburgh. There, while the boy played and ran about among the trees, she told me in detail what was going on.
When she'd finished, I said:
'It's daylight, the sky is cloudy, and human beings believe that beyond the clouds lives an allpowerful God, guiding the fate of men. Meanwhile, look at your son, look at your feet, listen to the sounds around you: down here is the Mother, so much closer, bringing joy to children and energy to those who walk over Her body. Why do people prefer to believe in something far away and forget what is there before their eyes, a true manifestation of the miracle?'
'I know the answer. Because up there someone is guiding us and giving his orders, hidden behind the clouds, unquestionable in his wisdom. Down here, we have physical contact with a magical reality, and the freedom to choose where our steps will go.'
'Exactly. But do you think that is what people want? Do they want the freedom to choose their own
steps?'
'Yes, I think they do. The earth I'm standing on now has laid out many strange paths for me, from a village in Transylvania to a city in the Middle East, from there to another city on an island, and then to the desert and back to Transylvania. From a suburban bank to a real estate company in the Persian Gulf. From a dance group to a bedouin. And whenever my feet drove me onwards, I said “Yes” instead of saying “No”.' 'What did you gain from all that?'
'Today I can see people's auras. I can awaken the Mother in my soul. My life now has meaning, and I know what I'm fighting for. But why do you ask? You, too, gained the most important power of all – the gift of healing. Andrea can now prophesy and converse with spirits. I've followed her spiritual development every step of the way.'
'What else have you gained?'
'The joy of being alive. I know that I'm here, and that everything is a miracle, a revelation.'
The little boy fell over and grazed his knee. Instinctively, Athena ran to him, wiped the wound clean, told him not to worry, and the boy continued running about in the forest. I used that as a signal.
'What just happened to your little boy, happened to me. And it's happening to you
too, isn't it?' 'Yes, but I don't think I stumbled and fell. I think I'm being tested again, and that my next step will be revealed to me.'
At such moments, a teacher must say nothing, only bless the disciple. Because, however much the teacher may want to save her disciple from suffering, the paths are mapped out and the disciple's feet are eager to follow them. I suggested we go back to the wood that night, just the two of us. She asked where she could leave her son, and I said that I would take care of that. I had a neighbour who owed me a favour and who would be delighted to look after Viorel.
As evening fell, we returned to that same place, and on the way, we spoke of things that had nothing to do with the ritual we were about to perform. Athena had seen me using a new kind of depilatory wax and was intrigued to know what advantages it had over the old methods. We talked animatedly about vanity, fashion, the cheapest places to buy clothes, female behaviour, feminism, hairstyles. At one point she said something along the lines of: 'But if the soul is ageless, I don't know why we should be so worried about all this', then realised that it was all right just to relax and talk about superficial subjects. More than that, such conversations were really fun, and how we look is something that's still very important in women's lives (it is in men's lives too, but in a different way, and they're not as open about it as we are).
As we approached the place I'd chosen – or, rather, which the wood was choosing for me – I started to feel the presence of the Mother. In my case, this presence manifests itself in a certain, mysterious inner joy that always touches me and almost moves me to tears. It was the moment to stop and change the subject. 'Collect some wood for kindling,' I said.
'But it's dark.'
'There's enough light from the full moon even if it's obscured by clouds. Train your eyes: they were made to see more than you think.'
She began doing as I asked, occasionally cursing because she'd scratched herself on a thorn. Almost half an hour passed, and during that time, we didn't talk. I felt the excitement of knowing that the Mother was close by, the euphoria of being there with that woman who still seemed little more than a child and who trusted me and was keeping me company in that search which sometimes seemed too mad for the human mind.
Athena was still at the stage of answering questions, just as she'd responded to mine that afternoon. I had been like that once, until I allowed myself to be
transported completely into the kingdom of mystery, where it was simply a matter of contemplating, celebrating, worshipping, praising and allowing the gift to manifest itself.
I was watching Athena collecting firewood and I saw the girl I once was, in search of veiled secrets and secret powers. Life had taught me something completely different: the powers were not secret and the secrets had been revealed a long time ago. When I saw that she had gathered enough firewood, I indicated that she should stop.
I myself looked for some larger branches and put them on top of the kindling. So it was in life. In order for the more substantial pieces of wood to catch fire, the kindling must burn first. In order for us to liberate the energy of our strength, our weakness must first have a chance to reveal itself.
In order for us to understand the powers we carry within us and the secrets that have already been revealed, it was first necessary to allow the surface – expectations, fears, appearances – to be burned away. We were entering the peace now settling upon the forest, with the gentle wind, the moonlight behind the clouds, the noises of the animals that sally forth at night to hunt, thus fulfilling the cycle of birth and death of the Mother, and without ever being criticised for following their instincts and their nature.
I lit the fire.
Neither of us felt like saying anything. For what seemed like an eternity, we merely contemplated the dance of the fire, knowing that hundreds of thousands of people, all over the world, would also be sitting by their fireside, regardless of whether they had modern heating systems in their house or not; they did this because they were sitting before a symbol.
It took a great effort to emerge from that trance, which, although it meant nothing specific to me, and did not make me see gods, auras or ghosts, nonetheless left me in the state of grace I needed to be in. I focused once more on the present, on the young woman by my side, on the ritual I needed to perform.
'How is your student?' I asked.
'Difficult, but if she wasn't, I might not learn what I need to learn.' 'And what powers is she developing?'
'She speaks with beings in the parallel world.' 'As you converse with Hagia Sofia?' 'No, as you well know, Hagia Sofia is the Mother manifesting herself in me. She speaks with invisible beings.'
I knew this, but I wanted to be sure. Athena was more silent than usual. I don't know if she had discussed the events in London with Andrea, but that didn't matter. I got up, opened the bag I had with me, took out a handful of specially chosen herbs and threw them into the flames.
'The wood has started to speak,' said Athena, as if this were something perfectly normal, and that was good, it meant that miracles were now becoming part of her life.
'What is it saying?'
'Nothing at the moment, only noises.'
Minutes later, she heard a song coming from the fire. 'Oh, it's wonderful!' There spoke the little girl, not the wife or mother.
'Stay just as you are. Don't try to concentrate or follow my steps or understand what I'm saying. Relax and feel good. That is sometimes all we can hope for from life.'
I knelt down, picked up a red-hot piece of wood and drew a circle around her, leaving a small opening through which I could enter. I could hear the same music as Athena, and I danced around her, invoking the union of the male fire with the earth, which received it now with arms and legs spread wide, the fire that purified everything, transforming into energy the strength contained in the firewood, in those branches, in those beings, both human and invisible. I danced for as long as the melody from the fire lasted, and I made protective gestures to the child who was sitting, smiling, inside the circle.
When the flames had burned down, I took a little ash and sprinkled it on Athena's head. Then with my feet I erased the circle I'd drawn around her.
'Thank you,' she said. 'I felt very loved, wanted, protected.' 'In difficult moments, remember that feeling.'
'Now that I've found my path, there will be no more difficult moments. After all, I have a mission to fulfil, don't I?'
'Yes, we all have a mission to fulfil.' She started to feel uncertain. 'And what about the difficult moments?' she asked.
'That isn't an intelligent thing to ask. Remember what you said just now: you are loved, wanted, protected.'
'I'll do my best.'
Her eyes filled with tears. Athena had understood my answer. Samira R. Khalil, housewife
My own grandson! What has my grandson got to do with all this? What kind of world are we living in? Are we still in the Middle Ages, engaging in witch-hunts? away.
I ran to him. He had a bloody nose, but he didn't seem to care about my distress and pushed me
'I know how to defend myself, and I did.'
I may never have produced a child in my own womb, but I know the hearts of children. I was far more worried about Athena than I was about Viorel. This was just one of many fights he would have to face in his life, and there was a flicker of pride in his swollen eyes.
'Some children at school said that Mum was a devil-worshipper!'
Sherine arrived shortly afterwards, soon enough to see the boy's bloodied face and to kick up a fuss. She wanted to go straight to the school and talk to the head teacher, but first I put my arms around her. I let her cry out all her tears and all her frustrations, and the best thing I could do then was to keep silent and try to convey my love for her through that silence.
When she had calmed down a little, I explained carefully that she could come back home and live with us, that we would take care of everything. When her father read about the case being brought against her, he had immediately spoken to some lawyers. We would do everything we could to get her out of this situation regardless of comments from the neighbours, ironic looks from acquaintances, and the false solidarity of friends.
Nothing in the world was more important than my daughter's happiness, even though I'd never understood why she always had to choose the most difficult and painful of paths. But a mother doesn't have to understand anything, she simply has to love and protect. And feel proud. Knowing that we could give her almost everything, she nevertheless set off early in search of her independence. She'd had her stumbles and her failures, but she insisted on facing any storms alone. She went looking for her mother, aware of the risks she was running, and in the end, that encounter brought her closer to us. I knew she had never once heeded my advice – get a degree, get married, put up with the problems of living with someone without complaint, don't try to go beyond the limits set by society. And what had been the result?
By following my daughter's story, I became a better person. Obviously I didn't understand about the Mother Goddess or Athena's need always to surround herself
with strangers, or her inability to be contented with all that she'd achieved after so much work. But deep down, even though it may be rather late in the day for such ideas, I wish I could have been like her.
I was about to get up and prepare something to eat, but she stopped me.
'I want to stay here for a while with your arms around me. That's all I need. Viorel go and watch TV. I want to talk to your grandmother.'
The boy obeyed.
'I must have caused you a lot of suffering.'
'Not at all. On the contrary, you and your son are the source of all our joy and our reason for living.' 'But I haven't exactly–'
'I'm glad it's been the way it has. I can say it now: there were moments when I hated you, when I bitterly regretted not having followed the advice of that nurse and adopted another baby. Then I'd ask myself: “How can a mother hate her own daughter?” I took tranquillizers, played bridge with my friends, went on shopping sprees, and all to make up for the love I'd given you and which I felt I wasn't getting back.
'A few months ago, when you decided to give up yet another job that was bringing you both money and prestige, I was in despair. I went to the local church. I wanted to make a promise to the Virgin and beg her to bring you back to reality, to force you to change your life and make the most of the chances you were throwing away. I was ready to do anything in exchange for that.
'I stood looking at the Virgin and Child. And I said: “You're a mother and you know what's happening. Ask anything of me, but save my child, because I think she's bent on self-destruction.”'
I felt Sherine's arms holding me tighter. She was crying again, but her tears were different this time. I was doing my best to control my feelings.
'And do you know what I felt at that moment? I felt that she was talking to me and saying: “Listen, Samira, that's what I thought too. I suffered for years because my son wouldn't listen to anything I said. I used to worry about his safety, I didn't like the friends he chose, and he showed no respect for laws, customs, religion, or his elders.” Need I go on?'
'Yes, I'd like to hear the rest of the story.'
'The Virgin concluded by saying: “But my son didn't listen to me. And now I'm very glad that he
didn't.”'
I gently removed myself from her embrace and got up. 'You two need to eat.'
I went to the kitchen, prepared some onion soup and a dish of tabbouleh, warmed up some unleavened bread, put it all on the table, and we had lunch together. We talked about trivial things, which, at such moments, always help to bring us together and justify our pleasure at being there, quietly, even if, outside, a storm is uprooting trees and sowing destruction. Of course, at the end of that afternoon, my daughter and my grandson would walk out of the door to confront the winds, the thunder and the lightning all over again, but that was their choice.
'Mum, you said that you'd do anything for me, didn't you?' It was true. I would lay down my life if necessary.
'Don't you think I should be prepared to do anything for Viorel too?'
'I think that's a mother's instinct, but instinct aside, it's the greatest proof of love there is.' She continued eating.
'You know that your father is happy to help with this case being brought against you, if you want him to, that is.'
'Of course I do. This is my family we're talking about.'
I thought twice, three times, but couldn't hold back my words:
'Can I give you some advice? I know you have some influential friends, that journalist, for example. Why don't you ask him to write about your story and tell him your version of events? The press are giving a lot of coverage to that vicar, and people will end up thinking he's right.'
'So, as well as accepting what I do, you also want to help me?'
'Yes, Sherine. Even though I may not understand you, even though I sometimes suffer as the Virgin must have suffered all her life, even if you're not Jesus Christ with an all-important message for the world, I'm on your side and I want to see you win.'
Heron Ryan, journalist
Athena arrived while I was frantically making notes for what I imagined would be the ideal interview on the events in Portobello and the rebirth of the Goddess. It was a very, very delicate affair.
What I saw at the warehouse was a woman saying: 'You can do it, let the Great Mother teach you trust in love and miracles will happen.' And the crowd agreed, but that wouldn't last long, because we were living in an age in which slavery was the only path to happiness. Free will demands immense responsibility; it's hard work, it brings with it anguish and suffering.
'I need you to write something about me,' she said.
I told her that we should wait a little – after all, the whole affair could fade from view the following week – but that, meanwhile, I'd prepared a few questions about Female Energy.
'At the moment, all the fuss and the fighting is only of interest to people in the immediate area and to the tabloids. No respectable newspaper has published a single line about it. London is full of these little local disturbances, and getting into the broadsheets really isn't advisable. It would be best if the group didn't meet for two or three weeks. However, I think that the business about the Goddess, if treated with the seriousness it deserves, could make a lot of people ask themselves some really important questions.'
'Over supper that time, you said that you loved me. And now you're not only telling me you don't want to help me, you're asking me to give up the things I believe in.'
How to interpret those words? Was she finally accepting the love I'd offered her that night, and which accompanied me every minute of my life? According to the Lebanese poet Khalil Gibran, it was more important to give than to receive, but while these were wise words, I was part of what is known as 'humanity', with my frailties, my moments of indecision, my desire simply to live in peace, to be the slave
of my feelings and to surrender myself without asking any questions, without even knowing if my love was reciprocated. All she had to do was to let me love her; I was sure that Hagia Sofia would agree with me. Athena had been passing through my life now for nearly two years, and I was afraid she might simply continue on her way and disappear over the horizon, without my having even been able to accompany her on part of that journey.
'Are you talking about love?' 'I'm asking for your help.'
What to do? Control myself, stay cool, not precipitate things and end up destroying them? Or take the step I needed to take, embrace her and protect her from all dangers?
My head kept telling me to say: 'Don't you worry about a thing. I love you', but instead I said: 'I want to help. Please trust me. I'd do anything in the world for you, including saying “No” if I thought that was the right thing to do, even though you might not understand my reasoning.'
I told her that the deputy editor on my newspaper had proposed a series of articles
about the reawakening of the Goddess, which would include an interview with her. At first, it had seemed to me an excellent idea, but now I saw that it would be best to wait a little. I said:
'You either carry your mission forward or you defend yourself. You're aware, I know, that what you're doing is more important than how you're seen by other people. Do you agree?'
'I'm thinking of my son. Every day now he gets into some fight or argument at school.'
'That will pass. In a week, it'll be forgotten. That will be the moment to act, not in order to defend yourself against idiotic attacks, but to set out, confidently and wisely, the true breadth of your work. And if you have any doubts about my feelings and are determined to continue, then I'll come with you to the next meeting. And we'll see what happens.'
The following Monday I went with her to the meeting. I was not now just another person in the crowd; I could see things as she was seeing them.
People crowded into the warehouse; there were flowers and applause, young women calling her 'the priestess of the Goddess', a few smartly dressed ladies begging for a private audience because of some illness in the family. The crowd started pushing us and blocking the entrance. We had never imagined that we might need some form of security, and I was frightened. I took her arm, picked up Viorel, and we went in.
Inside the packed room, a very angry Andrea was waiting for us.
'I think you should tell them that you're not performing any miracles today!' she shouted at Athena. 'You're allowing yourself to be seduced by vanity! Why doesn't Hagia Sofia tell all these people to go away?'
'Because she can diagnose illnesses,' replied Athena defiantly. 'And the more people who benefit from that, the better.'
She was about to say more, but the crowd was applauding and she stepped up onto the improvised stage. She turned on the small sound system she'd brought from home, gave instructions for people to dance against the rhythm of the music, and the ritual began. At a certain point, Viorel went and sat down in a corner – that was the moment for Hagia Sofia to appear. Athena did as I'd seen her do many times before: she abruptly turned off the music, clutched her head in her hands, and the people waited in silence as if obeying an invisible command.
The ritual followed its unvarying path: there were questions about love, which were
rejected, although she agreed to comment on anxieties, illnesses and other personal problems. From where I was, I could see that some people had tears in their eyes, others behaved as if they were standing before a saint. Then came the moment for the closing sermon, before the group celebration of the Mother.
Since I knew what would happen next, I started thinking about the best way to get out of there with the minimum of fuss. I hoped that she would take Andrea's advice and tell them not to go looking for miracles there. I went over to where Viorel was sitting, so that we could leave the place as soon as his mother had finished speaking.
And that was when I heard the voice of Hagia Sofia.
'Today, before we close, we're going to talk about diet. Forget all about slimming regimes.' Diet? Forget about slimming regimes?
'We have survived for all these millennia because we have been able to eat. And now that seems to have become a curse. Why? What is it that makes us, at forty years old, want to have the same body we had when we were young? Is it possible to stop time? Of course not. And why should we be thin?'
I heard a kind of murmuring in the crowd. They were probably expecting a more spiritual message. 'We don't need to be thin. We buy books, we go to gyms, we expend a lot of brain power on trying to hold back time, when we should be celebrating the miracle of being here in this world. Instead of thinking about how to live better, we're obsessed with weight.
'Forget all about that. You can read all the books you want, do all the exercise you want, punish yourself as much as you want, but you will still have only two choices
– either stop living or get fat.
'Eat in moderation, but take pleasure in eating: it isn't what enters a person's mouth that's evil, but what leaves it. Remember that for millennia we have struggled in order to keep from starving. Whose idea was it that we had to be thin all our lives? I'll tell you: the vampires of the soul, those who are so afraid of the future that they think it's possible to stop the wheel of time. Hagia Sofia can guarantee that it's not possible. Use the energy and effort you put into dieting to nourish yourself with spiritual bread. Know that the Great Mother gives generously and wisely. Respect that and you will get no fatter than passing time demands. Instead of artificially burning those calories, try to transform them into the energy required to fight for your dreams. No one ever stayed slim for very long just because of a diet.'
There was complete silence. Athena began the closing ceremony, and we all
celebrated the presence of the Mother. I clasped Viorel in my arms, promising myself that next time I would bring a few friends along to provide a little improvised security. We left to the same shouts and applause as when we had arrived.
A shopkeeper grabbed my arm:
'This is absurd! If one of my windows gets smashed, I'll sue you!'
Athena was laughing and giving autographs. Viorel seemed happy. I just hoped that no journalist was there that night. When we finally managed to extricate ourselves from the crowd, we hailed a taxi.
I asked if they would like to go somewhere to eat. 'Of course,' said Athena, 'that's just what I've been talking about.'
Antoine Locadour, historian
In this long series of mistakes that came to be known as 'The Witch of Portobello affair', what surprises me most is the ingenuousness of Heron Ryan, an international journalist of many years' experience. When we spoke, he was horrified by the tabloid headlines:
'The Goddess Diet!' screamed one.
'Get thin while you eat says Witch of Portobello!' roared another from its front page.
As well as touching on the sensitive topic of religion, Athena had gone further: she had talked about diet, a subject of national interest, more important even than wars, strikes or natural disasters. We may not all believe in God, but we all want to get thin.
Reporters interviewed local shopkeepers, who all swore blind that, in the days preceding the mass meetings, they'd seen red and black candles being lit during rituals involving only a handful of people. It
may have been nothing but cheap sensationalism, but Ryan should have foreseen that, with a court case in progress, the accuser would take every opportunity to bring to the judges' attention what he considered to be not only a calumny, but an attack on all the values that kept society going.
That same week, one of the most prestigious British newspapers published in its editorial column an article by the Rev. Ian Buck, Minister at the Evangelical Church in Kensington. It said, amongst other things:
'As a good Christian, I have a duty to turn the other cheek when I am wrongly attacked or when my honour is impugned. However, we must not forget that while
Jesus may have turned the other cheek, he also used a whip to drive out those wanting to make the Lord's House into a den of thieves. That is what we are seeing at the moment in Portobello Road: unscrupulous people who pass themselves off as savers of souls, giving false hope and promising cures for all ills, even declaring that you can stay thin and elegant if you follow their teachings.
'For this reason, I have no alternative but to go to the courts to prevent this situation continuing. The movement's followers swear that they are capable of awakening hitherto unknown gifts and they deny the existence of an All-Powerful God, replacing him with pagan divinities such as Venus and Aphrodite. For them, everything is permitted, as long as it is done with “love”. But what is love? An immoral force which justifies any end? Or a commitment to society's true values, such as the family and tradition?'
At the next meeting, foreseeing a repetition of the pitched battle of August, the police brought in half a dozen officers to avoid any confrontations. Athena arrived accompanied by a bodyguard improvised by Ryan, and this time there was not only applause, there was booing and cursing too. One woman, seeing that Athena was accompanied by a child of five, brought a charge two days later under the Children Act 1989, alleging that the mother was inflicting irreversible damage on her child and that custody should be given to the father.
One of the tabloids managed to track down Lukás Jessen-Petersen, who refused to give an interview. He threatened the reporter, saying that if he so much as mentioned Viorel in his articles, he wouldn't be responsible for his actions.
The following day, the tabloid carried the headline: 'Witch of Portobello's ex would kill for son'. That same afternoon, two more charges under the Children Act 1989 were brought before the courts, calling for the child to be taken into care.
There was no meeting after that. Groups of people – for and against –gathered outside the door, and uniformed officers were on hand to keep the peace, but Athena did not appear. The same thing happened the following week, only this time, there were fewer crowds and fewer police.
The third week, there was only the occasional bunch of flowers to be seen and someone handing out photos of Athena to passers-by.
The subject disappeared from the front pages of the London dailies. And when the Rev. Ian Buck announced his decision to withdraw all charges of defamation and calumny, 'in the Christian spirit we should show to those who repent of their actions', no major paper was interested in publishing his statement, which turned
up instead on the readers' pages of some local rag.
As far as I know, it never became national news, but was restricted to the pages that dealt only with London news. I visited Brighton a month after the meetings ended, and when I tried to bring the subject up with my friends there, none of them had the faintest idea what I was talking about.
Ryan could have cleared up the whole business, and what his newspaper said would have been picked up by the rest of the media. To my surprise, though, he never published a line about Sherine Khalil.
In my view, the crime – given its nature – had nothing to do with what happened in Portobello. It was all just a macabre coincidence.
Heron Ryan, journalist
Athena asked me to turn on the tape-recorder. She had brought another one with her, of a type I'd never seen before – very sophisticated and very small.
'Firstly, I wish to state that I've been receiving death threats. Secondly, I want you to promise that, even if I die, you will wait five years before you allow anyone else to listen to this tape. In the future, people will be able to tell what is true and what is false. Say you agree; that way you will be entering a legally binding agreement.'
'I agree, but I think–'
'Don't think anything. Should I be found dead, this will be my testament, on condition that it won't be published now.'
I turned off the tape-recorder.
'You have nothing to fear. I have friends in government, people who owe me favours, who need or will need me. We can–'
'Have I mentioned before that my boyfriend works for Scotland Yard?'
Not that again. If he really did exist, why wasn't he there when we needed him, when both Athena and Viorel could have been attacked by the mob?
Questions crowded into my mind: Was she trying to test me? What was going through that woman's mind? Was she unbalanced, fickle, one hour wanting to be by my side, the next talking about this nonexistent man?
'Turn on the tape-recorder,' she said.
I felt terrible. I was beginning to think that she'd been using me all along. I would like to have been able to say: 'Go away. Get out of my life. Ever since I first met you, everything has been a hell. All I want is for you to come here, put your arms around me and kiss me and say you want to stay with me forever, but that never happens.'
'Is there anything wrong?'
She knew there was something wrong. Or, rather, she couldn't possibly not have known what I was feeling, because I had never concealed my love for her, even though I'd only spoken openly of it once. But I would cancel any appointment to see her; I was always there when she needed me; I was trying to build some kind of relationship with her son, in the belief that he would one day call me 'Dad'. I never asked her to stop what she was doing; I accepted her way of life, her decisions; I suffered in silence when she suffered; I was glad when she triumphed; I was proud of her determination.
'Why did you turn off the tape-recorder?'
I hovered for a second between heaven and hell, between rebellion and submission, between cold reason and destructive emotion. In the end, summoning up all my strength, I managed to control myself. I pressed the button.
'Let's continue.'
'As I was saying, I've been receiving death threats. I've been getting anonymous phone calls. They insult me and say I'm a menace, that I'm trying to restore the reign of Satan, and that they can't allow this to happen.'
'Have you spoken to the police?'
I deliberately omitted any reference to her boyfriend, showing that I'd never believed that story
anyway.
'Yes, I have. They've recorded the calls. They come from public phone boxes, but the police told me not to worry, that they're watching my house. They've arrested one person: he's mentally ill and believes he's the reincarnation of one of the apostles, and that “this time, he must fight so that Christ is not driven out again”. He's in a psychiatric hospital now. The police explained that he's been in hospital before for making similar threats to other people.'
'If they're on the case, there's no need to worry. Our police are the best in the world.'
'I'm not afraid of death. If I were to die today, I would carry with me moments that few people my age have had the chance to experience. What I'm afraid of, and this is why I've asked you to record our conversation today, is that I might kill someone.'
'Kill someone?'
'You know that there are legal proceedings underway to remove Viorel from me.
I've asked friends, but no one can do anything. We just have to await the verdict. According to them – depending on the judge, of course – these fanatics will get what they want. That's why I've bought a gun. I know what it means for a
child to be removed from his mother, because I've experienced it myself. And so, when the first bailiff arrives, I'll shoot, and I'll keep shooting until the bullets run out. If they don't shoot me first, I'll use the knives in my house. If they take the knives, I'll use my teeth and my nails. But no one is going to take Viorel from me, or only over my dead body. Are you recording this?'
'I am. But there are ways–'
'There aren't. My father is following the case. He says that when it comes to family law, there's little that can be done. Now turn off the tape-recorder.'
'Was that your testament?'
She didn't answer. When I did nothing, she took the initiative. She went over to the sound system and put on that music from the steppes, which I now knew almost by heart. She danced as she did during the rituals, completely out of rhythm, and I knew what she was trying to do. Her tape-recorder was still on, a silent witness to everything that was happening there. The afternoon sunlight was pouring in through the windows, but Athena was off in search of another light, one that had been there since the creation of the world.
When she felt the spark from the Mother she stopped dancing, turned off the music, put her head in her hands and didn't move for some time. Then she raised her head and looked at me.
'You know who is here, don't you?'
'Yes. Athena and her divine side, Hagia Sofia.'
'I've grown used to doing this. I don't think it's necessary, but it's the method I've discovered for getting in touch with her, and now it's become a tradition in my life. You know who you're talking to, don't you? To Athena. I am Hagia Sofia.'
'Yes, I know. The second time I danced at your house, I discovered that I had a spirit guide too: Philemon. But I don't talk to him very much, I don't listen to what he says. I only know that when he's present, it's as if our two souls have finally met.'
'That's right. And today Philemon and Hagia Sofia are going to talk about love.' 'Should I dance first?'
'There's no need. Philemon will understand me, because I can see that you were touched by my dance. The man before me suffers for something which he believes
he has never received – my love. But the man beyond your self understands that all the pain, anxiety and feelings of abandonment are unnecessary and childish. I love you. Not in the way that your human side wants, but in the way that the divine spark wants. We inhabit the same tent, which was placed on our path by Her. There we understand that we are not the slaves of our feelings, but their masters. We serve and are served, we open the doors of our rooms and we embrace. Perhaps we kiss too, because everything that happens very intensely on Earth will have its counterpart on the invisible plane. And you know that I'm not trying to provoke you, that I'm not toying with your feelings when I say that.' 'What is love, then?'
'The soul, blood and body of the Great Mother. I love you as exiled souls love each other when they meet in the middle of the desert. There will never be anything physical between us, but no passion is in vain, no love is ever wasted. If the Mother awoke that love in your heart, she awoke it in mine too, although your heart perhaps accepts it more readily. The energy of love can never be lost – it is more powerful than anything and shows itself in many ways.'
'I'm not strong enough for this. Such abstractions only leave me feeling more depressed and alone than ever.'
'I'm not strong enough either. I need someone by my side too. But one day, our eyes will open, the different forms of Love will be made manifest, and then suffering will disappear from the face of the Earth.
It won't be long now, I think. Many of us are returning from a long journey during which we were forced to search for things that were of no interest to us. Now we realise that they were false. But this return cannot be made without pain, because we have been away for a long time and feel that we are strangers in our own land. It will take some time to find the friends who also left, and the places where our roots and our treasures lie. But this will happen.'
For some reason, what she said touched me. And that drove me on. 'I want to continue talking about love,' I said.
'We are talking. That has always been the aim of everything I've looked for in my life – allowing love to manifest itself in me without barriers, letting it fill up my blank spaces, making me dance, smile,
justify my life, protect my son, get in touch with the heavens, with men and women, with all those who were placed on my path. I tried to control my feelings, saying such things as “he deserves my love” or “he doesn't”. Until, that is, I
understood my fate, when I saw that I might lose the most important thing in my life.'
'Your son.'
'Exactly. He is the most complete manifestation of love. When the possibility arose that he might be taken away from me, then I found myself and realised that I could never have anything or lose anything. I understood this after crying for many hours. It was only after intense suffering that the part of me I call Hagia Sofia said: “What nonsense! Love always stays, even though, sooner or later, your son will leave.”'
I was beginning to understand.
'Love is not a habit, a commitment, or a debt. It isn't what romantic songs tell us it is – love simply is. That is the testament of Athena or Sherine or Hagia Sofia – love is. No definitions. Love and don't ask too many questions. Just love.'
'That's difficult.' 'Are you recording?'
'You asked me to turn the machine off.' 'Well, turn it on again.' I did as she asked. Athena went on:
'It's difficult for me too. That's why I'm not going back home. I'm going into hiding. The police might protect me from madmen, but not from human justice. I had a mission to fulfil and it took me so far that I even risked the custody of my son. Not that I regret it. I fulfilled my destiny.'
'What was your mission?'
'You know what it was. You were there from the start. Preparing the way for the Mother. Continuing a tradition that has been suppressed for centuries, but which is now beginning to experience a resurgence.' 'Perhaps…'
I stopped, but she didn't say a word until I'd finished my sentence. '…perhaps you came too early, and people aren't yet ready.' Athena laughed.
'Of course they're not. That's why there were all those confrontations, all that aggression and obscurantism. Because the forces of darkness are dying, and they are thrown back on such things as a last resort. They seem very strong, as animals do before they die, but afterwards, they're too exhausted to get to their feet. I sowed the seed in many hearts, and each one will reveal the Renaissance in its own way, but one of those hearts will follow the full Tradition – Andrea.'
Andrea.
Who hated her, who blamed her for the collapse of our relationship, who said to anyone who would listen that Athena had been taken over by egotism and vanity,
and had destroyed something that had been very hard to create.
Athena got to her feet and picked up her bag – Hagia Sofia was still with her. 'I can see your aura. It's being healed of some needless suffering.'
'You know, of course, that Andrea doesn't like you.'
'Naturally. But we've been speaking for nearly half an hour about love. Liking has nothing to do with it. Andrea is perfectly capable of fulfilling her mission. She has more experience and more charisma than I do. She learned from my mistakes; she knows that she must be prudent because in an age in which the wild beast of obscurantism is dying, there's bound to be conflict. Andrea may hate me as a person, and that may be why she's developed her gifts so quickly – to prove that she was more able than me. When hatred makes a person grow, it's transformed into one of the many ways of loving.'
She picked up her tape-recorder, put it in her bag and left.
At the end of that week, the court gave its verdict: various witnesses were heard, and Sherine Khalil, known as Athena, was given the right to keep custody of her child.
Moreover, the head teacher at the boy's school was officially warned that any kind of discrimination against the boy would be punishable by law.
I knew there was no point in ringing the apartment where she used to live. She'd left the key with Andrea, taken her sound system, some clothes, and said that she would be gone for some time.
I waited for the telephone call to invite me to celebrate that victory together. With each day that passed, my love for Athena ceased being a source of suffering and became a lake ofjoy and serenity. I no longer felt so alone. At some point in space, our souls – and the souls of all those returning exiles – were joyfully celebrating their reunion.
The first week passed, and I assumed she was trying to recover from the recent tensions. A month later, I assumed she must have gone back to Dubai and taken up her old job; I telephoned and was told that they'd heard nothing more from her, but if I knew where she was, could I please give her a message: the door was always open, and she was greatly missed.
I decided to write a series of articles on the reawakening of the Mother, which provoked a number of offensive letters accusing me of 'promoting paganism', but which were otherwise a great success with our readership.
Two months later, when I was just about to have lunch, a colleague at work
phoned me. The body of Sherine Khalil, the Witch of Portobello, had been found in Hampstead. She had been brutally murdered.
[text2]
Now that I've finished transcribing all the taped interviews, I'm going to give her the transcript. She's probably gone for a walk in the Snowdonia National Park as she does every afternoon. It's her birthday – or, rather, the date that her parents chose for her birthday when they adopted her – and this is my present to her.
Viorel, who will be coming to the celebration with his grandparents, has also prepared a surprise for her. He's recorded hisfirst composition in afriend's studio and he's going to play it during supper.
She'll ask me afterwards: 'Why didyou do this?'
And I'll say: 'Because I needed to understandyou. ' During all the years we've been together, I've only heard what I thought were legends about her, but now I know that the legends are true.
Whenever I suggested going with her, be it to the Monday evening celebrations at her apartment, to Romania, or to get-togethers with friends, she always asked me not to. She wanted to be free, andpeople, she said, findpolicemen intimidating. Faced by someone like me, even the innocentfeel guilty.
However, I went to the Portobello warehouse twice without her knowledge. Again without her knowledge, I arrangedfor various colleagues to be around to protect her when she arrived and left, and at least one person, later identified as a militant member of some sect, was arrestedfor carrying a knife. He said he'd been told by spirits to acquire a little bloodfrom the Witch ofPortobello, who was a manifestation of the Great Mother. The blood, he said, was needed to consecrate certain offerings. He didn't intend to kill her; he merely wanted a little blood on a handkerchief. The investigation showed that there really was no intention to murder, but nevertheless, he was charged and sentenced to six months in prison.
It wasn't my idea to make it look as if she'd been murdered. Athena wanted to disappear and asked me if that would be possible. I explained that, if the courts decided that the State should have custody of her child, I couldn't go against the law, but when the judge found in herfavour, we were free to carry out her plan.
Athena wasfully aware that once the meetings at the warehouse became the focus of local gossip, her mission would be ruinedfor good. There was no point standing up in front of the crowd and denying that she was a queen, a witch, a divine manifestation, because people choose to follow the powerful and they give power
to whomever they wish. And that would go against everything she preached
–freedom to choose, to consecrate your own bread, to awaken your particular gifts, with no help from guides or shepherds.
Nor was there any point in disappearing. People would interpret such a gesture as a retreat into the wilderness, an ascent into the heavens, a secret pilgrimage to meet teachers in the Himalayas, and they would always be awaiting her return. Legends andpossibly a cult could grow up around her. We started to notice this when she stopped going to Portobello. My informants said that, contrary to everyone's expectations, her cult was growing with frightening speed: other similar groups were being created, people turned up claiming to be the 'heirs' ofHagia Sofia, the newspaper photograph of her holding Viorel was being sold on the black market, depicting her as a victim, a martyr to intolerance. Occultists started talking about an 'Order ofAthena', through which – upon payment – one could be put in touch with the founder.
All that remained was 'death', but the death had to take place in completely normal circumstances, like the death of any other person murdered in a big city. This obliged us to take certain precautions:
(a) The crime could not in any way be associated with martyrdom for religious reasons, because, if it was, we would only aggravate the very situation we were trying to avoid.
(b) The victim would have to be so badly disfigured as to be unrecognisable.
(c) The murderer could not be arrested.
(d) We would need a corpse.
In a city like London, dead, disfigured, burned bodies turn up every day, but normally we find the culprit. So we had to wait nearly two months until the Hampstead murder. We found a murderer too, who was also conveniently dead – he hadfled to Portugal and committed suicide by blowing his brains out. Justice had been done, and all I needed was a little cooperation from my closestfriends. One hand washes the other: they sometimes asked me to do things that were not entirely orthodox, and as long as no major law was broken, there was – shall we say – a certain degree offlexibility in interpreting the facts.
That is what happened. As soon as the body wasfound, I and a colleague of many years' standing were given the case and, almost simultaneously, we got news that the Portuguese police hadfound the body of a suicide in Guimarães, along with a note confessing to a murder whose detailsfitted the case we were
dealing with, and giving instructionsfor all his money to be donated to charitable institutions. It had been a crime ofpassion – love often ends like that.
In the note he left behind, the dead man said that he'd brought the woman from one of the ex-Soviet republics and done everything he could to help her. He was prepared to marry her so that she would have the same rights as a British citizen, and then he'dfound a letter she was about to send to some German man, who had invited her to spend afew days at his castle.
In the letter, she said she couldn't wait to leave and asked the German to send her a plane ticket at once so that they could meet again as soon as possible. They had met in a London café and had only exchanged two letters.
We had the perfect scenario.
Myfriend hesitated – no one likes to have an unsolved crime on theirfiles – but when I said that I'd take the blame for this, he agreed.
I went to the place where Athena was in hiding – a delightful house in Oxford. I used a syringe to take some of her blood. I cut off a lock of her hair and singed it slightly. Back at the scene of the crime, I scattered this 'evidence' around. I knew that since no one knew the identity of her real mother andfather, no DNA identification would be possible, and so all I needed was to cross myfingers and hope the murder didn't get too much coverage in the press.
A few journalists turned up. I told them the story of the murderer's suicide, mentioning only the country, not the town. I said that no motive had been foundfor the crime, but that we had completely discounted any idea that it was a revenge killing or that there had been some religious motive. As I understood it (after all, the police can make mistakes too), the victim had been raped. She hadpresumably recognised her attacker, who had then killed and mutilated her.
If the German ever wrote again, his letters would have been sent back marked 'Return to sender'. Athena's photograph had appeared only once in the newspapers, during the first demonstration in Portobello, and so the chances of her being recognised were minimal. Apartfrom me, only three people know this story – her parents and her son. They all attended the burial of 'her' remains and the gravestone bears her name.
Her son goes to see her every weekend and is doing brilliantly at school.
Of course, Athena may one day tire of this isolated life and decide to return to London. Nevertheless, people have very short memories, and apartfrom her closestfriends, no one will remember her. By then, Andrea will be the catalyst and
– to be fair – she is better able than Athena to continue the mission. As well as having all the necessary gifts, she's an actress and knows how deal with the public. I understand that Andrea's work is spreading, although without attracting unwanted attention. I hear about people in key positions in society who are in contact with her and, when necessary, when the right critical mass is reached, they will put an end to the hypocrisy of the Rev. Ian Bucks of this world.
And that's what Athena wants, notfame for herself, as many (including Andrea) thought, but that the mission should be completed.
At the start of my investigations, ofwhich this transcript is the result, I thought I was reconstructing her life so that she would see how brave and important she had been. But as the conversations went on, I gradually discovered my own hidden side, even though I don't much believe in these things. And I reached the conclusion that the real reason behind all this work was a desire to answer a question to which I'd never known the answer: why did Athena love me, when we're so different and when we don't even share the same world view?
I remember when I kissed herfor the first time, in a bar near Victoria Station. She was workingfor a bank at the time, and I was a detective at Scotland Yard. After we'd been out together afew times, she invited me to go and dance at her landlord's apartment, but I never did – it's not really my style.
And instead ofgetting annoyed, she said that she respected my decision. When I re-read the statements made by herfriends, Ifeel really proud, because Athena doesn't seem to have respected anyone else's decisions.
Months later, before she set off to Dubai, I told her that I loved her. She said that she felt the same way, but added that we must be prepared to spend long periods apart. Each of us would work in a different country, but true love could withstand such a separation.
That was the only time I dared to ask her: 'Why do you love me?' She replied: 'I don't know and I don't care. '
Now, as Iput the finishing touches to these pages, I believe I may have found the answer in her last conversation with the journalist.
Love simply is.
25 February 2006 19:47:00 Revised version completed on St Expeditus' Day, 2006
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Someone was following her. She had read about stalkers,
but they belonged in a different, violent world. She had no idea who it could be, who would want to harm her. She was trying desperately hard not to panic, but lately her sleep had been filled with unbearable nightmares, and she had awakened each morning with a feeling of impending doom.
Perhaps it's all in my imagination, Ashley Patterson thought. I'm working too hard. I need a vacation.
She turned to study herself in her bedroom mirror. She was looking at the image of a woman in her late twenties, neatly dressed, with patrician features, a slim figure and intelligent, anxious brown eyes. There was a quiet elegance about her, a subtle attractiveness. Her dark hair fell softly to her shoulders. I hate my looks, Ashley thought. I'm too thin. I must start eating more. She walked into the kitchen and began to fix breakfast, forcing her mind to forget about the frightening thing that was happening, and concentrating on preparing a fluffy omelette. She turned on the coffeemaker and put a slice of bread in the toaster. Ten minutes later, everything was ready. Ashley placed the dishes on the table and sat down. She picked up a fork, stared at the food for a moment, then shook her head in despair. Fear had taken away her appetite.
This can't go on, she thought angrily. Whoever he is, I won't let him do this to me. I won't.
Ashley glanced at her watch. It was time to leave for work. She looked around the familiar apartment, as though seeking some kind of reassurance from it. It was an attractively furnished third-floor apartment on Via Camino
Court, with a living room, bedroom and den, bathroom, kitchen and guest powder room. She had lived here in Cupertino, California, for three years. Until two weeks ago, Ashley had thought of it as a comfortable nest, a haven. Now it had turned into a fortress, a place where no one could get in to harm her. Ashley walked to the front door and examined the
lock. I'll have a dead bolt put in, she thought. Tomorrow. She turned off all the lights, checked to make sure the door was firmly locked behind her and took the elevator to the basement garage.
The garage was deserted. Her car was twenty feet from the elevator. She looked around carefully, then ran to the car, slid inside and locked the doors, her heart pounding. She headed downtown, under a sky the color of malice, dark and foreboding. The weather report had said rain. But it's not going to rain, Ashley thought. The sun is going to come out. I'll make a deal with you, God. If it doesn't rain, it means that everything is all right, that I've been imagining things.
Ten minutes later, Ashley Patterson was driving through downtown Cupertino. She was still awed by the miracle of what this once sleepy little corner of Santa Clara Valley had become. Located fifty miles south of San Francisco, it was where the computer revolution had started, and it had been appropriately nicknamed Silicon Valley.
Ashley was employed at Global Computer Graphics Corporation, a successful, fast-growing young company with two hundred employees.
As Ashley turned the car onto Silverado Street, she had
the uneasy feeling that he was behind her, following her. But who? And why? She looked into her rearview mirror. Everything seemed normal. Every instinct told her otherwise. Ahead of Ashley was the sprawling, modem-looking building that housed Global Computer Graphics. She turned into the parking lot, showed the guard her identification and pulled into her parking space. She felt safe here. As she got out of the car, it began to rain.
At nine o'clock in the morning, Global Computer Graphics
was already humming with activity. There were eighty modular cubicles, occupied by computer whizzes, all young, busily building Web sites, creating logos for new companies, doing artwork for record and book publishing companies and composing illustrations for magazines. The work floor was divided into several divisions: administration, sales, marketing and technical support. The atmosphere was casual. The employees walked around in jeans, tank tops and sweaters. As Ashley headed toward her desk, her supervisor, Shane Miller, approached her. "Morning, Ashley."
Shane Miller was in his early thirties, a burly, earnest man with a pleasant personality. In the beginning, he had
tried to persuade Ashley to go to bed with him, but he had finally given up, and they had become good friends.
He handed Ashley a copy of the latest Time magazine. "Seen this?"
Ashley looked at the cover. It featured a picture of a distinguished-looking man in his fifties, with silver hair. The caption read "Dr. Steven Patterson, Father of Mini Heart Surgery."
"I've seen it."
"How does it feel to have a famous father?" Ashley smiled. "Wonderful."
"He's a great man."
"I'll tell him you said so. We're having lunch." "Good. By the way..." Shane Miller showed Ashley a
photograph of a movie star who was going to be used in an ad for a client. "We have a little problem here. Desiree has gained about ten pounds, and it shows. Look at those dark circles under her eyes. And even with makeup, her skin is splotchy. Do you think you can help this?"
Ashley studied the picture. "I can fix her eyes by applying the blur filter. I could try to thin her face by using the distort tool, but-No. That would probably end up making her look odd." She studied the picture again. "I'll have to airbrush or use the clone tool in some areas." "Thanks. Are we on for Saturday night?"
"Yes."
Shane Miller nodded toward the photograph. "There's no
hurry on this. They want it last month." Ashley smiled. "What else is new?"
She went to work. Ashley was an expert in advertising and graphic design, creating layouts with text and images.
Half an hour later, as Ashley was working on the photograph, she sensed someone watching her. She looked up. It was Dennis Tibble. "Morning, honey."
His voice grated on her nerves. Tibble was the company's computer genius. He was known around the plant as "The Fixer." Whenever a computer crashed, Tibble was sent for. He was in his early thirties, thin and bald with an unpleasant, arrogant attitude. He had an obsessive personality, and the word around the plant was that he was fixated on Ashley. "Need any help?"
"No, thank you."
"Hey, what about us having a little dinner Saturday night?"
"Thank you. I'm busy."
"Going out with the boss again?"
Ashley turned to look at him, angry. "Look, it's none of your-"
"I don't know what you see in him, anyway. He's a nerd, cubed. I can give you a better time." He winked. "You know what I mean?"
Ashley was trying to control her temper. "I have work to do, Dennis."
Tibble leaned close to her and whispered, "There's
something you're going to learn about me, honey. I don't give up. Ever."
She watched him walk away, and wondered: Could he be the one?
At 12:30, Ashley put her computer in suspend mode and headed for Margherita di Roma, where she was joining her father for lunch.
She sat at a corner table in the crowded restaurant,
watching her father come toward her. She had to admit that he was handsome. People were turning to stare at him as he walked to Ashley's table. "How does it feel to have a famous father?"
Years earlier, Dr. Steven Patterson had pioneered a breakthrough in minimally invasive heart surgery. He was constantly invited to lecture at major hospitals around the world. Ashley's mother had died when Ashley was twelve, and she had no one but her father.
"Sorry I'm late, Ashley." He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
"That's all right. I just got here."
He sat down. "Have you seen Time magazine?" "Yes. Shane showed it to me."
He frowned. "Shane? Your boss?"
"He's not my boss. He's-he's one of the supervisors." "It's never good to mix business with pleasure, Ashley. You're seeing him socially, aren't you? That's a mistake." "Father, we're just good-"
A waiter came up to the table. "Would you like to see a menu?"
Dr. Patterson turned to him and snapped, "Can't you see we're in the middle of a conversation? Go away until you're sent for."
"I-I'm sorry." The waiter turned and hurried off. Ashley cringed with embarrassment. She had forgotten how savage her
father's temper was. He had once punched an intern during an operation for making an error in judgment. Ashley remembered the screaming arguments between her mother and father when she was a little girl. They had terrified her. Her parents had always fought about the same thing, but try as she might, Ashley could not remember what it was. She had blocked it from her mind.
Her father went on, as though there had been no interruption. "Where were we? Oh, yes. Going out with Shane Miller is a mistake. A big mistake." And his words brought back another terrible memory.
She could hear her father's voice saying, "Going out with Jim Cleary is a mistake. A big mistake..." Ashley had just turned eighteen and was living in Bedford, Pennsylvania, where she was born. Jim Cleary was the most popular boy in Bedford Area High School. He was on the football team, was handsome and amusing and had a killer smile. It seemed to Ashley that every girl in school wanted to sleep with him. And most of them probably have, she had thought, wryly. When Jim Cleary started asking Ashley out, she was determined not to go to bed with him. She was sure he was interested in her only for sex, but as time went on, she changed her mind. She liked being with him, and he seemed to genuinely enjoy her company.
That winter, the senior class went for a weekend skiing trip in the mountains. Jim Cleary loved to ski.
"We'll have a great time," he assured Ashley. "I'm not going."
He looked at her in astonishment. "Why?"
"I hate cold weather. Even with gloves, my fingers get numb."
"But it will be fun to-" "I'm not going."
And he had stayed in Bedford to be with her.
They shared the same interests and had the same ideals, and they always had a wonderful time together.
When Jim Cleary had said to Ashley, "Someone asked me this morning if you're my girlfriend. What shall I tell him?" Ashley had smiled and said, "Tell him yes."
Dr. Patterson was worried. "You're seeing too much of that Cleary boy."
"Father, he's very decent, and I love him."
"How can you love him? He's a goddamned football player. I'm not going to let you marry a football player. He's not
good enough for you, Ashley."
He had said that about every boy she had gone out with. Her father kept making disparaging remarks about Jim
Cleary, but the explosion occurred on the night of the high school graduation. Jim Cleary was taking Ashley to an evening graduation party. When he came to pick her up, she was sobbing.
"What's the matter? What's happened?"
"My-my father told me he's taking me away to London. He's registered me in-in a college there."
Jim Cleary looked at her, stunned. "He's doing this because of us, isn't he?"
Ashley nodded, miserable. "When do you leave?" "Tomorrow."
"No! Ashley, for God's sake, don't let him do this to us. Listen to me. I want to marry you. My uncle offered me a really good job in Chicago with his advertising agency. We'll run away. Meet me tomorrow morning at the railroad station.
There's a train leaving for Chicago at seven A.M. Will you come with me?"
She looked at him a long moment and said softly, "Yes." Thinking about it later, Ashley could not remember what the graduation party was like. She and Jim had spent the entire evening excitedly discussing their plans.
"Why don't we fly to Chicago?" Ashley asked.
"Because we would have to give our names to the airline. If we go by train, nobody will know where we've gone." As they were leaving the party, Jim Cleary asked softly,
"Would you like to stop off at my place? My folks are out of town for the weekend."
Ashley hesitated, torn. "Jim... we've waited this long. A few more days won't matter."
"You're right." He grinned. "I may be the only man on this continent marrying a virgin."
When Jim Cleary brought Ashley home from the party, Dr. Patterson was waiting, in a rage. "Do you have any idea how late it is?"
"I'm sorry, sir. The party-"
"Don't give me any of your goddamn excuses, Cleary. Who the hell do you think you're fooling?"
"I'm not-"
"From now on, you keep your goddamned hands off my daughter, do you understand?"
"Father-"
"You keep out of this." He was screaming now. "Cleary, I want you to get the hell out of here and stay out." "Sir, your daughter and I-"
"Jim-"
"Get up to your room." "Sir-"
"If I ever see you around here again, I'll break every bone in your body."
Ashley had never seen him so furious. It had ended
with everyone yelling. When it was over, Jim was gone and Ashley was in tears.
I'm not going to let my father do this to me, Ashley thought, determinedly. He's trying to ruin my life. She sat on her bed for a long time. Jim is my future. I want to be with him. I don't belong here anymore. She rose and began to pack an overnight bag. Thirty minutes later, Ashley slipped out the back door and started toward Jim Cleary's home, a
dozen blocks away. I'll stay with him tonight, and we'll take the morning train to Chicago. But as she got nearer to his house, Ashley thought. No. This is wrong. I don't want to spoil everything. I'll meet lam at the station.
And she turned and headed back home.
Ashley was up the rest of that night thinking about her
life with Jim and how wonderful it was going to be. At 5:30, she picked up her suitcase and moved silently past the closed door of her father's bedroom. She crept out of the house and took a bus to the railroad station. When she reached the station, Jim had not arrived. She was early. The train was not due for another hour. Ashley sat on a bench eagerly waiting. She thought about her father awakening and finding her gone. He would be furious.
But I can't let him live my life. One day he'll really get to know Jim, and he'll see how lucky I am. 6:30... 6:40... 6:45... 6:50... There was still no sign of Jim. Ashley was beginning to panic. What could have happened? She decided to
telephone him. There was no answer. 6:55...He'll be coming at any moment. She heard the train whistle in the distance, and she looked at her watch. 6:59. The train was pulling into the station. She rose to her feet and looked around frantically. Something terrible has happened to him. He's had an accident. He's in the hospital. A few minutes later, Ashley stood there watching the train to Chicago pull out of the station, taking all her dreams with it. She waited another half hour and
tried to telephone Jim again. When there was still no answer, she slowly headed home, desolate.
At noon, Ashley and her father were on a plane to London....
She had attended a college in London for two years, and
when Ashley decided she wanted to be involved in working with computers, she applied for the prestigious MEI Wang Scholarship for Women in Engineering at the University of California at Santa Cruz. She had been accepted, and three years later, she was recruited by the Global Computer Graphics Corporation.
In the beginning, Ashley had written half a dozen letters
to Jim Cleary, but she had torn them all up. His actions and his silence had told her only too clearly how he felt about her.
Her father's voice jarred Ashley back to the present. "You're a million miles away. What are you thinking about?"
Ashley studied her father across the table. "Nothing." Dr. Patterson signaled the waiter, smiled at him genially and said, "We're ready to look at menus now."
It was only when Ashley was on her way back to the office that she remembered she had forgotten to congratulate her father on his cover of Time magazine.
When Ashley walked up to her desk, Dennis Tibble was waiting for her.
"I hear you had lunch with your father."
He's an eavesdropping little creep. He makes it his business to know everything that's going on here. "Yes, I did."
"That can't have been much fun." He lowered his voice. "Why don't you ever have lunch with me?"
"Dennis... I've told you before. I'm not interested." He grinned. "You will be. Just wait"
There was something eerie about him, something scary. She wondered again whether he could be the one who... She shook her head. No. She had to forget about it, move on.
On her way home, Ashley stopped and parked her car in
front of the Apple Tree Book House. Before she went in, she studied the reflection in the storefront mirror to see if there was anyone behind her whom she recognized. No one. She went inside the store.
A young male clerk walked up to her. "May I help you?" "Yes. I- Do you have a book on stalkers?"
He was looking at her strangely. "Stalkers?"
Ashley felt like an idiot. She said quickly, "Yes. I also want a book on-er-gardening and-and animals of Africa." "Stalkers and gardening and animals of Africa?"
"That's right," she said firmly.
Who knows? Maybe someday I'll have a garden and I'll take a trip to Africa.
When Ashley returned to the car, it began to rain again. As she drove, the rain beat against the windshield,
fracturing space and turning the streets ahead into surreal pointillistic paintings. She turned on the windshield wipers. They began to sweep across the window, hissing, "He's gonna get you... gonna get you... gonna get you...." Hastily, Ashley turned them off. No, she thought. They're saying, "No one's there, no one's there, no one's there."
She turned the windshield wipers on again. "He's gonna get you... gonna get you... gonna get you. "
Ashley parked her car in the garage and pressed the button for the elevator. Two minutes later, she was heading for her apartment. She reached the front door, put the key in the lock, opened the door and froze. Every light in the apartment had been turned on.
CHAPTER TWO
"All around the mulberry bush, The monkey chased the weasel.
The monkey thought 'twas all in fun, Pop! goes the weasel."
Toni Prescott knew exactly why she liked to sing that
silly song. Her mum had hated it. "Stop singing that stupid song. Do you hear me? You have no voice, anyway."
"Yes, Mother." And Toni would sing it again and again, under her breath. That had been long ago, but the memory of defying her mother still gave her a glow.
Toni Prescott hated working at Global Computer Graphics.
She was twenty-two years old, impish, vivacious, and daring. She was half smoldering, half firecracker.
Her face was puckishly heart shaped, her eyes were a mischievous brown, her figure alluring. She had been born in London and she spoke with a delightful British accent She was athletic and loved sports, particularly winter sports: siding and bobsledding and ice-skating.
Going to college in London, Toni had dressed
conservatively during the day, but at night, she had donned miniskirts and disco gear and made the swinging rounds. She had spent her evenings and nights at the Electric Ballroom on Camden High Street, and at Subterania and the Leopard Lounge, mixing with the trendy West End crowd. She had a beautiful voice, sultry and sensuous, and at some of the clubs, she would go to the piano and play and sing, and the patrons would cheer her. That was when she felt most alive.
The routine inside the clubs would always follow the same pattern:
"Do you know you're a fantastic singer, Toni?" "Ta."
"Can I buy you a drink?"
She smiled. "A Pimm's would be lovely." "My pleasure."
And it would end the same way. Her date would lean close
to her and whisper in her ear, "Why don't we go up to my flat and have a shag?"
"Buzz off." And Toni would be out of there. She would lie in her bed at night, thinking about how stupid men were and
how bloody easy it was to control them. The poor sods did not know it, but they wanted to be controlled. They needed to be controlled.
And then came the move from London to Cupertino. In the beginning, it had been a disaster. Toni hated Cupertino and she loathed working at Global Computer Graphics. She was bored with hearing about plug-ins and dpi's and halftones and grids. She desperately missed the exciting nightlife of London. There were a few nightspots in the Cupertino area, and Toni frequented those: San Jose Live or P. J. Mulligan's or Hollywood Junction. She wore tight-fitting miniskirts and tube tops with open-toed shoes having five-inch heels or platform shoes with thick cork soles. She used a lot of makeup-thick, dark eye-liner, false eyelashes, colored eye shadow and bright lipstick. It was as though she were trying to hide her beauty.
Some weekends, Toni would drive up to San Francisco, where the real action was. She haunted the restaurants and clubs that had music bars. She would visit Harry Denton's and One Market restaurant and the California Cafe, and during the evening, while the musicians took their break, Toni would go to the piano and play and sing. The customers loved it. When Toni tried to pay her dinner bills, the owners would say, "No, this is on the house. You're wonderful. Please come back
again."
Did you hear that? Mother? "You're wonderful. Please come back again."
On a Saturday night, Toni was having dinner in the French Room at the Cliff Hotel. The musicians had fin-
ished their set and left the bandstand. The maitre d' looked at Toni and nodded invitingly.
Toni rose and walked across the room to the piano. She sat down and began to play and sing an early Cole Porter number. When she was finished, there was enthusiastic applause. She sang two more songs and returned to her table.
A bald, middle-aged man came up to her. "Excuse me. May I join you for a moment?"
Toni started to say no, when he added, "I'm Norman Zimmerman. I'm producing a road company of The King and I. I'd like to talk to you about it."
Toni had just read a glowing article about him. He was a theatrical genius.
He sat down. "You have a remarkable talent, young lady. You're wasting your time fooling around in places like this. You should be on Broadway."
Broadway. Did you hear that. Mother? "I'd like to audition you for-"
"I'm sorry. I can't."
He looked at her in surprise. "This could open a lot of
doors for you. I mean it. I don't think you know how talented you are."
"I have a job."
"Doing what, may I ask?"
"I work at a computer company."
"I'll tell you what. I'll start by paying you double whatever you're getting now and-"
Toni said, "I appreciate it, but I... I can't."
Zimmerman sat back in his chair. "You're not interested in show business?"
"I'm very interested." "Then what's the problem?"
Toni hesitated, then said carefully, "I'd probably have to leave in the middle of the tour."
"Because of your husband or-?" "I'm not married."
"I don't understand. You said you're interested in show business. This is the perfect showcase for you to-" "I'm sorry. I can't explain."
If I did explain, he wouldn't understand, Toni thought miserably. No one would. It's the unholy curse I have to live with. Forever.
A few months after Toni started working at Global Computer Graphics, she learned about the Internet, the worldwide open door to meeting men.
She was having dinner at the Duke of Edinburgh with Kathy Healy, a friend who worked for a rival computer company. The restaurant was an authentic pub from England that had been torn down, packed in containers and shipped to California.
Toni would go there for Cockney fish and chips, prime ribs with Yorkshire pudding, bangers and mash and English sherry trifle. One foot on tile ground, she would say. I have to remember my roots.
Toni looked up at Kathy. "I want you to do me a favor." "Name it."
"I want you to help me with the Internet, luv. Tell me how to use it."
"Toni, the only computer I have access to is at work, and it's against company policy to-"
"Sod company policy. You know how to use the Internet, don't you?"
"Yes."
Toni patted Kathy Healy's hand and smiled. "Great." The following evening, Toni went to Kathy Healy's office, and Kathy introduced Toni to the world of the Internet. After clicking on the Internet icon, Kathy entered her password and waited a moment to connect, then double clicked another icon and entered a chat room. Toni sat in amazement, watching rapid, typed conversations taking place among people all over the globe.
"I've got to have that!" Toni said. "I'll get a computer for my flat. Would you be an angel and set me up on the Internet?"
"Sure. It's easy. All you do is click your mouse into the URL field, the uniform resource locator, and-"
"Like the song says, 'Don't tell me, show me."
The next night, Toni was on the Internet, and from that time on, her life changed. She was no longer bored. The Internet became a magic carpet that flew her all over the world. When Toni got home from work, she would immediately turn on her computer and go on-line to explore various chat rooms that were available.
It was so simple. She accessed the Internet, pressed a key
and a window opened on the screen, split into an upper portion and a lower portion. Toni typed in "Hello. Is anyone there?"
The lower portion of the screen flashed the words "Bob. I'm here. I'm waiting for you."
She was ready to meet the world. There was Hans in Holland.
"Tell me about yourself, Hans."
"I'm a DJ in Amsterdam at a great club. I'm into hip-hop, rave, world beat. You name it."
Toni typed in her reply. "Sounds great I love to dance. I can go all night long. I live in a horrible little town that has nothing to offer except a few disco nights."
"Sounds sad."
"It bloody well is."
"Why don't you let me cheer you up? What are the chances of our meeting?"
"Ta ta." She exited the chat room. There was Paul, in South Africa:
"I've been waiting for you to check back in, Toni." "I'm here. I'm dying to know all about you, Paul." "I'm thirty-two. I'm a doctor at a hospital in Johannesburg. I-"
Toni angrily signed off. A doctor! Terrible memories came flooding through her. She closed her eyes a moment, her heart pounding. She took several deep breaths. No more tonight, she thought, shakily. She went to bed.
The following evening, Toni was back on the Internet. On-line was Sean from Dublin:
"Toni... That's a pretty name." "Thank you, Sean."
"Have you ever been to Ireland?" "No."
"You'd love it. It's the land of leprechauns. Tell me what you look like, Toni. I'll bet you're beautiful."
"You're right. I'm beautiful. I'm exciting and I'm single. What do you do, Sean?"
"I'm a bartender. I-"
Toni ended the chat session.
Every night was different. There was a polo player in Argentina, an automobile salesman in Japan, a department store clerk in Chicago, a television technician in New York. The Internet was a fascinating game, and Toni enjoyed it to the fullest. She could go as far as she wanted and yet know
that she was safe because she was anonymous.
And then one night, in an on-line chat room, she met Jean Claude Parent.
"Bon soir. I am happy to meet you, Toni."
"Nice to meet you, Jean Claude. Where are you?" "In Quebec City."
"I've never been to Quebec. Would I like it?" Toni expected to see the word yes on the screen.
Instead, Jean Claude typed, "I do not know. It depends on what kind of person you are."
Toni found his answer intriguing. "Really? What kind of person would I have to be to enjoy Quebec?"
"Quebec is like the early North American frontier. It is very French. Quebecois are independent. We do not like to take orders from anyone."
Toni typed in, "Neither do I."
"Then you would enjoy it. It is a beautiful city, sur- rounded by mountains and lovely lakes, a paradise for hunting and fishing."
Looking at the typed words appearing on her screen, Toni could almost feel Jean Claude's enthusiasm. "It sounds great. Tell me about yourself."
"Moi? There is not much to tell. I am thirty-eight years
old, unmarried. I just ended a relationship, and I would like to settle down with the right woman. Et vous? Are you married?"
Toni typed back, "No. I'm looking for someone, too. What do you do?"
"I own a little jewelry store. I hope you will come and visit it one day."
"Is that an invitation?" "Mais oui. Yes."
Toni typed in, "It sounds interesting." And she meant it. Maybe I'll find a way to go there, Toni thought. Maybe he's the person who can save me.
Toni communicated with Jean Claude Parent almost every
night. He had scanned in a picture of himself, and Toni found herself looking at a very attractive, intelligent-looking man.
When Jean Claude saw the photograph of Toni that she scanned in, he wrote, "You are beautiful, ma cherie. I knew you would be. Please come to visit me."
"I will."
"Soon?"
"Ta ta." Toni signed off.
On the work floor the next morning, Toni heard Shane
Miller talking to Ashley Patterson and thought. What the hell does he see in her? She's a right git. To Toni, Ashley was a frustrated, spinsterish Miss Goody Two-shoes. She doesn't bloody know how to have any fun, Toni thought. Toni disapproved of everything about her. Ashley was a
stick-in-the-mud who liked to stay home at night and read a book or watch the History Channel or CNN. She had no interest in sports. Boring! She had never entered a chat room. Meeting strangers through a computer was something Ashley would never do, the cold fish. She doesn't know what she's missing, Toni thought. Without the on-line chat room, I never would have met Jean Claude.
Toni thought about how much her mother would have hated
the Internet. But then her mother had hated everything. She had only two means of communicating: screaming or whining. Toni could never please her. "Can't you ever do anything right, you stupid child?" Well, her mother had yelled at her once too often. Toni thought about the terrible accident in which her mother had died. Toni could still hear her screams for help. The memory of it made Toni smile.
"A penny for a spool of thread, A penny for a needle.
That's the way the money goes, Pop! goes the weasel."
CHAPTER THREE
In another place, at another time, Alette Peters could have been a successful artist. As far back as she could
remember, her senses were tuned to the nuances of color. She could see colors, smell colors and hear colors.
Her father's voice was blue and sometimes red. Her mother's voice was dark brown.
Her teacher's voice was yellow. The grocer's voice was purple.
The sound of the wind in the trees was green. The sound of running water was gray.
Alette Peters was twenty years old. She could be
plain-looking, attractive or stunningly beautiful, depending on her mood or how she was feeling about herself. But she was never simply pretty. Part of her charm was that she was completely unaware of her looks. She was shy and soft-spoken,
with a gentleness that was almost an anachronism. Alette had been born in Rome, and she had a musical
Italian accent. She loved everything about Rome. She had stood at the top of the Spanish Steps and looked over the city and felt that it was hers. When she gazed at the ancient temples and the giant Colosseum, she knew she belonged to that era. She had strolled in the Piazza Navona, listened to the music of the waters in the Fountain of the Four Rivers and walked the Piazza Venezia, with its wedding cake monument to Victor Emanuel. She had spent endless hours at St. Peter's Basilica, the Vatican Museum and the Borghese Gallery, enjoying the timeless works of Raphael and Fra Bartolommeo and Andrea del Sarto and Pontormo. Their talent both transfixed her and frustrated her. She wished she had been born in the sixteenth century and had known them. They were more real to Alette than the passers-by on the streets. She wanted desperately to be an artist.
She could hear her mother's dark brown voice: "You're wasting paper and paint. You have no talent. "
The move to California had been unsettling at first. Alette had been concerned as to how she would adjust, but Cupertino had turned out to be a pleasant surprise. She enjoyed the privacy that the small town afforded, and she
liked working for Global Computer Graphics Corporation. There were no major art galleries in Cupertino, but on weekends, Alette would drive to San Francisco to visit the galleries there.
"Why are you interested in that stuff?" Toni Prescott would ask her. "Come on to P.J. Mulligans with me and have some fun."
"Don't you care about art?"
Toni laughed. "Sure. What's his last name?"
There was only one cloud hanging over Alette Peters' life. She was manic-depressive. She suffered from anomie, a feeling of alienation from others. Her mood swings always caught her unaware, and in an instant, she could go from a blissful euphoria to a desperate misery. She had no control over her emotions.
Toni was the only one with whom Alette would discuss her problems. Toni had a solution for everything, and it was usually: "Let's go and have some fun!"
Toni's favorite subject was Ashley Patterson. She was watching Shane Miller talking to Ashley.
"Look at that tight-assed bitch," Toni said
contemptuously. "She's the ice queen."
Alette nodded. "She's very serious. Someone should teach her how to laugh."
Toni snorted. "Someone should teach her how to fuck."
One night a week, Alette would go to the mission for the homeless in San Francisco and help serve dinner. There was one little old woman in particular who looked forward to Alette's visits. She was in a wheelchair, and Alette would help her to a table and bring her hot food.
The woman said gratefully, "Dear, if I had a daughter, I'd want her to be exactly like you."
Alette squeezed her hand. "That's such a great compliment. Thank you." And her inner voice said. If you had a daughter, she'd look like a pig like you. And Alette was horrified by her thoughts. It was as though someone else inside her was saying those words. It happened constantly.
She was out shopping with Betty Hardy, a woman who was a member of Alette's church. They stopped in front of a department store. Betty was admiring a dress in the window. "Isn't that beautiful?'"
"Lovely," Alette said. That's the ugliest dress I've ever seen. Perfect for you.
One evening, Alette had dinner with Ronald, a sexton at
the church. "I really enjoy being with you, Alette. Let's do this more often."
She smiled shyly. "I'd like that." And she thought, Non faccia, lo stupido. Maybe in another lifetime, creep. And again she was horrified. What's wrong with me? And she had no answer.
The smallest slights, whether intended or not, drove
Alette into a rage. Driving to work one morning, a car cut in front of her. She gritted her teeth and thought, I'll kill you, you bastard. The man waved apologetically, and Alette smiled sweetly. But the rage was still there.
When the black cloud descended, Alette would imagine
people on the street having heart attacks or being struck by automobiles or being mugged and killed. She would play the scenes out in her mind, and they were vividly real. Moments later, she would be filled with shame.
* * *
On her good days, Alette was a completely different person. She was genuinely kind and sympathetic and enjoyed
helping people. The only thing that spoiled her happiness was the knowledge that the darkness would come down on her again,
and she would be lost in it.
Every Sunday morning, Alette went to church. The church had volunteer programs to feed the homeless, to teach
after-school art lessons and to tutor students. Alette would lead children's Sunday school classes and help in the nursery. She volunteered for all of the charitable activities and devoted as much time as she could to them. She particularly enjoyed giving painting classes for the young.
One Sunday, the church had a fair for a fund-raiser, and Alette brought in some of her own paintings for the church to sell. The pastor, Frank Selvaggio, looked at them in amazement.
"These are-These are brilliant! You should be selling them at a gallery."
Alette blushed. "No, not really. I just do them for fun." The fair was crowded. The churchgoers had brought their friends and families, and game booths as well as
arts-and-crafts booths had been set up for their enjoyment. There were beautifully decorated cakes, incredible handmade quilts, homemade jams in beautiful jars, carved wooden toys. People were going from booth to booth, sampling the sweets, buying things they would have no use for the next day.
"But it's in the name of charity," Alette heard one woman explain to her husband.
Alette looked at the paintings that she had placed around the booth, most of them landscapes in bright, vivid colors that leaped from the canvas. She was filled with misgivings. "You're wasting good money on paint, child."
A man came up to the booth. "Hi, there. Did you paint these?"
His voice was a deep blue.
No, stupid. Michelangelo dropped by and painted them. "You're very talented."
"Thank you." What do you know about talent?
A young couple stopped at Alette's booth. "Look at those colors! I have to have that one. You're really good."
And all afternoon people came to her booth to buy her paintings and to tell her how much talent she had. And Alette wanted to believe them, but each time the black curtain came down and she thought. They're all being cheated.
An art dealer came by. "These are really lovely. You should merchandise your talent."
"I'm just an amateur," Alette insisted. And she refused to discuss it any further.
At the end of the day, Alette had sold every one of her paintings. She gathered the money that people had paid her, put it in an envelope and handed it to Pastor Frank Selvaggio.
He took it and said, "Thank you, Alette. You have a great gift, bringing so much beauty into people's lives."
Did you hear that, Mother?
When Alette was in San Francisco, she spent hours visiting the Museum of Modem Art, and she haunted the De Young Museum to study their collection of American art.
Several young artists were copying some of the paintings on the museum's walls. One young man in particular caught Alette's eye. He was in his late twenties, slim and blond, with a strong, intelligent face. He was copying Georgia O'Keeffe's Petunias, and his work was remarkably good. The artist noticed Alette watching him. "Hi."
His voice was a warm yellow. "Hello," Alette said shyly.
The artist nodded toward the painting he was working on. "What do you think?"
"Bellissimo. I think it's wonderful." And she waited for her inner voice to say. For a stupid amateur. But it didn't happen. She was surprised. "It's really wonderful."
He smiled. "Thank you. My name is Richard, Richard Melton."
"Alette Peters."
"Do you come here often?" Richard asked.
"Si. As often as I can. I don't live in San Francisco." "Where do you live?"
"In Cupertino." Not-"It's none of your damn business" or "Wouldn't you like to know?" but-"In Cupertino." What is happening to me?
"That's a nice little town."
"I like it." Not-"What the hell makes you think it's a nice little town?" or "What do you know about nice little towns?" but-"I like it."
He was finished with the painting. "I'm hungry. Can I buy you lunch? Cafe De Young has pretty good food."
Alette hesitated only a moment. "Va bene. I'd like that."
Not-"You look stupid" or "I don't have lunch with strangers," but-"I'd like that. " It was a new, exhilarating experience for Alette.
The lunch was extremely enjoyable and not once did
negative thoughts come into Alette's mind. They talked about
some of the great artists, and Alette told Richard about growing up in Rome.
"I've never been to Rome," he said. "Maybe one day." And Alette thought, It would be fun to go to Rome with you.
As they were finishing their lunch, Richard saw his roommate across the room and called him over to the table.
"Gary, I didn't know you were going to be here. I'd like you to meet someone. This is Alette Peters. Gary King."
Gary was in his late twenties, with bright blue eyes and hair down to his shoulders.
"It's nice to meet you, Gary."
"Gary's been my best friend since high school, Alette." "Yeah. I have ten years of dirt on Richard, so if you're looking for any good stories-"
"Gary, don't you have somewhere to go?"
"Right." He turned to Alette. "But don't forget my offer. I'll see you two around."
They watched Gary leave. Richard said, "Alette..." "Yes?"
"May I see you again?"
"I would like that." Very much.
Monday morning, Alette told Toni about her experience. "Don't get involved with an artist," Toni warned. "You'll be living on the fruit he paints. Are you going to see him again?"
Alette smiled. "Yes. I think he likes me. And I like him. I really like him."
It started as a small disagreement and ended up as a ferocious argument Pastor Frank was retiring after forty years of service. He had been a very good and caring pastor, and the congregation was sorry to see him leave. There were secret meetings held to decide what to give him as a
going-away present A watch... money... a vacation... a painting... He loved art.
"Why don't we have someone do a portrait of him, with the church in the background?" They turned to Alette. "Will you do it?"
"Of course," she said happily.
Walter Manning was one of the senior members of the church and one of its biggest contributors. He was a very successful businessman, but he seemed to resent everyone else's success. He said, "My daughter is a fine painter. Perhaps she should do it."
Someone suggested, "Why not have them both do it, and we'll vote on which one to give Pastor Frank?"
Alette went to work. The painting took her five days, and it was a masterpiece, glowing with the compassion and
goodness of her subject. The following Sunday, the group met to look at the paintings. There were exclamations of appreciation over Alette's painting.
"It's so real, he could almost walk off the canvas. "
"Oh, he's going to love that. "
"That should be in a museum, Alette. "
Walter Manning unwrapped the canvas painted by his
daughter. It was a competent painting, but it lacked the fire of Alette's portrait.
"That's very nice," one of the members of the congregation said tactfully, "but I think Alette's is-"
"I agree. "
"Alette's portrait is the one. "
Walter Manning spoke up. "This has to be a unanimous decision. My daughter's a professional artist"- he looked at Alette-"not a dilettante. She did this as a favor. We can't turn her down."
"But, Walter-"
"No, sir. This has to be unanimous. We're either giving
him my daughter's painting or we don't give him anything at all."
Alette said, "I like her painting very much. Let's give it to the pastor."
Walter Manning smiled smugly and said, "He's going to be very pleased with this."
On his way home that evening, Walter Manning was killed by a hit-and-run driver.
When Alette heard the news, she was stunned. CHAPTER FOUR
Ashley Patterson was taking a hurried shower, late for
work, when she heard the sound. A door opening? Closing? She turned off the shower, listening, her heart pounding.
Silence. She stood there a moment, her body glistening with drops of water, then hurriedly dried herself and cautiously stepped into the bedroom. Everything appeared to be normal. It's my stupid imagination again. I've got to get dressed. She walked over to her lingerie drawer, opened it and stared down at it, unbelievingly. Someone had gone through her
undergarments. Her bras and pantyhose were all piled together. She always kept them neatly separated.
Ashley suddenly felt sick to her stomach. Had he unzipped his pants, picked up her pantyhose and rubbed them against himself? Had he fantasized about raping her? Raping her and murdering her? She was finding it difficult to breathe. I should go to the police, but they would laugh at me.
You want us to investigate this because you think someone got into your lingerie drawer?
Someone has been following me. Have you seen who it is?
No.
Has anyone threatened you? No.
Do you know why anyone would want to harm you? No.
It's no use, Ashley thought despairingly. I can't go to
the police. Those are the questions they would ask me, and I would look like a fool.
She dressed as quickly as she could, suddenly eager to escape from the apartment. I'll have to move. I'll go somewhere where he can't find me.
But even as she thought it, she had the feeling that it
was going to be impossible. He knows where I live, he knows where I work. And what do I know about him? Nothing.
She refused to keep a gun in the apartment because she hated violence. But I need some protection now, Ashley
thought. She went into the kitchen, picked up a steak knife, carried it to her bedroom and put it in the dresser drawer next to her bed.
It's possible that I mixed my lingerie up myself. That's probably what happened. Or is it wishful thinking?
* * *
There was an envelope in her mailbox in the downstairs entrance hall. The return address read "Bedford Area High School, Bedford, Pennsylvania."
Ashley read the invitation twice. Ten-Year Class Reunion!
Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. Have you often wondered how your classmates have fared during the last ten years? Here's your chance to find out. The weekend of June 15th we're going to have a spectacular get-together. Food, drinks, a great orchestra and dancing. Join the fun.
Just mail the enclosed acceptance card so we'll know
you're coming. Everyone looks forward to seeing you. Driving to work, Ashley thought about the invitation. "Everyone looks forward to seeing you." Everyone except Jim Cleary, she thought bitterly.
"I want to marry you. My uncle offered me a realty good job in Chicago with his advertising agency.... There's a train leaving for Chicago at seven AM. Will you come with me?"
And she remembered the pain of desperately waiting at the station for Jim, believing in him, trusting him. He had changed his mind, and he had not been man enough to come and tell her. Instead, he had left her sitting in a train station, alone. Forget the invitation. I'm not going.
Ashley had lunch with Shane Miller at TGI Friday's. They sat in a booth, eating in silence.
"You seem preoccupied," Shane said.
"Sorry." Ashley hesitated a moment. She was tempted to tell him about the lingerie, but it would sound stupid.
Someone got into your drawers? Instead, she said, "I got an invitation to my ten-year high school reunion."
"Are you going?"
"Certainly not." It came out stronger than Ashley had intended.
Shane Miller looked at her curiously. "Why not? Those things can be fun."
Would Jim Cleary be there? Would he have a wife and children? What would he say to her? "Sorry I wasn't able to meet you at the train station. Sorry I lied to you about marrying you?"
"I'm not going."
But Ashley was unable to get the invitation out of her
mind. It would be nice to see some of my old classmates, she thought. There were a few she had been close to. One in particular was Florence Schiffer. I wonder what's become of her? And she wondered whether the town of Bedford had changed.
Ashley Patterson had grown up in Bedford, Pennsylvania, a small town two hours east of Pittsburgh, deep in the Allegheny Mountains. Her father had been head of the Memorial Hospital of Bedford County, one of the top one hundred hospitals in the country.
Bedford had been a wonderful town to grow up in. There
were parks for picnics, rivers to fish in and social events that-went on all year. Ashley enjoyed visiting Big
Valley, where there was an Amish colony. It was a common sight to see horses pulling Amish buggies with different colored tops, colors that depended on the degree of orthodoxy of the owners.
There were Mystery Village evenings and live theater and the Great Pumpkin Festival. Ashley smiled at the thought of the good times she had had there. Maybe I will go back, she thought. Jim Cleary won't have the nerve to show up.
Ashley told Shane Miller of her decision. "It's a week I from Friday," she said. "I'll be back Sunday night." "Great. Let me know what time you're getting back. I'll pick you up at the airport."
"Thank you, Shane."
When Ashley returned from lunch, she walked into her work cubicle and turned her computer on. To her surprise, a sudden hail of pixels began rolling down the screen, creating an image. She stared at it, bewildered. The dots were forming a picture of her. As Ashley watched, horrified, a hand holding a butcher knife appeared at the top of the screen. The hand was racing toward her image, ready to plunge the knife into her chest.
Ashley screamed, "No!"
She snapped off the monitor and jumped to her feet. Shane Miller had hurried to her side. "Ashley! What is it?"
She was trembling. "On the... the screen-"
Shane turned on the computer. A picture of a kitten chasing a ball of yarn across a green lawn appeared. Shane turned to look at Ashley, bewildered. What-?" "It's-it's gone," she whispered.
"What's gone?"
She shook her head. "Nothing. I-I've been under a of stress lately, Shane. I'm sorry."
"Why don't you go have a talk with Dr. Speakman?", Ashley
had seen Dr. Speakman before. He was the company psychologist hired to counsel stressed-out computer whizzes. He was not a medical doctor, but he is intelligent and understanding, and it was helpful to be able to talk to someone.
"I'll go," Ashley said.
Dr. Ben Speakman was in his fifties, a patriarch at the fountain of youth. His office was a quiet oasis at the far end of the building, relaxed and comfortable.
"I had a terrible dream last night," Ashley said. She
closed her eyes, reliving it. "I was running. I was in a huge garden filled with flowers... They had weird, ugly faces...
They were screaming at me... I couldn't hear what they were saying. I just kept running toward something... I don't know what...." She stopped and opened her eyes.
"Could you have been running away from something? Was something chasing you?"
"I don't know. I-I think I'm being followed. Dr. Speakman. It sounds crazy, but-I think someone wants to kill me."
He studied her a moment. "Who would want to kill you?" "I-I have no idea."
"Have you seen anyone following you?" "No."
"You live alone, don't you?" "Yes."
"Are you seeing anyone? I mean romantically?" "No. Not right now."
"So it's been a while since you-I mean sometimes when a
woman doesn't have a man in her life-well, a kind of physical tension can build up. "
What he's trying to tell me is that I need a good- She could not bring herself to say the word. She could hear her father yelling at her, "Don't ever say that word again.
People will think you're a little slut. Nice people don't say flick. Where do you pick up that kind of language?"
"I think you've just been working too hard, Ashley. I
don't believe you have anything to worry about. It's probably just tension. Take it a little easier for a while. Get more rest."
"I'll try."
Shane Miller was waiting for her. "What did Dr. Speakman say?"
Ashley managed a smile. "He says I'm fine. I've just been working too hard."
"Well, we'll have to do something about that," Shane said. "For openers, why don't you take the rest of the day off?" His voice was filled with concern.
"Thanks." She looked at him and smiled. He was a dear man.
A good friend. He can't be the one, Ashley thought. He can't.
During the following week, Ashley could think of nothing but the reunion. I wonder if my going is a mistake? What if
Jim Cleary does show up? Does he have any a how much he hurt me? Does he care? Will he even remember me?
The night before Ashley was to leave for Bedford, she was unable to sleep. She was tempted to cancel her flight. I'm being silly, she thought. The past is the past.
When Ashley picked up her ticket at the airport, she examined it and said, "I'm afraid there's been some mistake. I'm flying tourist. This is a first-class ticket."
"Yes. You changed it."
She stared at the clerk. "I what?"
"You telephoned and said to change it to a first-class ticket." He showed Ashley a slip of paper. "Is this your 'Credit card number?"
She looked at it and said slowly, "Yes..." She had not made that phone call.
Ashley arrived in Bedford early and checked in at the
Bedford Springs Resort. The reunion festivities did not start until six o'clock that evening, so she decided to explore the town. She hailed a taxi in front of the hotel.
"Where to, miss?"
"Let's just drive around."
Hometowns were supposed to look smaller when a native returned years later, but to Ashley, Bedford looked larger than she had remembered. The taxi drove up and down familiar streets, passing the offices of the Bedford Gazette and television station WKYE and a dozen familiar restaurants and art galleries. The Baker's Loaf of Bedford was still there and Clara's Place, the Fort Bedford Museum and Old Bedford Village. They passed the Memorial Hospital, a graceful
three-story brick building with a portico. It was there that her father had become famous.
She recalled again the terrible, screaming fights between her mother and father. They had always been about the same thing. About what? She could not remember.
At five o'clock, Ashley returned to her hotel room. She changed clothes three times before finally deciding on what she was going to wear. She settled on a simple, flattering black dress.
When Ashley entered the festively decorated gymnasium of Bedford Area High School, she found herself surrounded by 120 vaguely familiar-looking strangers. Some of her former classmates were completely unrecognizable, others had changed little. Ashley was looking for one person: Jim Cleary. Would he have changed much? Would he have his wife with him? People were approaching Ashley.
"Ashley, it's Trent Waterson. You look great!" "Thanks. So do you, Trent."
"I want you to meet my wife. "
"Ashley, it is you, isn't it?"
"Yes. Er-"
"Art. Art Davies. Remember me?"
"Of course." He was badly dressed and looked ill at ease. "How is everything going, Art?"
"Well, you know I wanted to become an engineer, but it didn't work out."
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah. Anyway, I became a mechanic."
"Ashley! It's Lenny Holland. For God's sake, you look beautiful!"
"Thank you, Lenny." He had gained weight and was wearing a large diamond ring on his little finger.
"I'm in real estate now, doing great. Did you ever get married?"
Ashley hesitated. "No."
"Remember Nicki Brandt? We got married. We have twins." "Congratulations."
It was amazing how much people could change in ten years. They were fatter and thinner... prosperous and downtrodden. They were married and divorced... parents and parentless....
As the evening wore on, there was dining and music and dancing. Ashley made conversation with her former classmates and caught up on their lives, but her mind was on Jim Cleary. There was still no sign of him. He won't come, she decided.
He knows I might be here and he's afraid to face me.
An attractive-looking woman was approaching. "Ashley! I
was hoping I'd see you." It was Florence Schiffer. Ashley was genuinely glad to see her. Florence had been one of her closest friends. The two of them found a table in the corner, where they could talk.
"You look great, Florence," Ashley said.
"So do you. Sorry I'm so late. The baby wasn't feeling
well. Since I last saw you, I've gotten married and divorced. I'm going out with Mr. Wonderful now. What about you? After the graduation party, you disappeared. I tried to find you, but you'd left town."
"I went to London," Ashley said. "My father enrolled me in a college over there. We left here the morning after our graduation."
"I tried every way I could think of to reach you. The detectives thought I might know where you were. They were looking for you because you and Jim Cleary were going together."
Ashley said slowly, "The detectives?"
"Yes. The ones investigating the murder."
Ashley felt the blood drain from her face. "What... murder?".
Florence was staring at her. "My God! You don't know?" "Know what?" Ashley demanded fiercely. "What are you talking about?"
"The day after the graduation party, Jim's parents came
back and found his body. He had been stabbed to death and... castrated."
The room started to spin. Ashley held on to the edge of the table. Florence grabbed her arm.
"I'm-I'm sorry, Ashley. I thought you would have read about it, but of course... you had left for London." Ashley squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She saw herself sneaking out of the house that night, heading toward Jim
Cleary's house. But she had turned and gone back home to wait for him in the morning. If only I had gone to him, Ashley thought miserably, he would still be alive. And all these years I've hated him. Oh, my God. Who could have killed him? Who-?
She could hear her father's voice, "You keep your
goddamned hands off my daughter, do you understand? ... If I ever see you around here again, I'll break every bone in your body."
She got to her feet. "You'll have to excuse me, Florence. I-I'm not feeling very well." And Ashley fled.
The detectives. They must have gotten in touch with her father. Why didn't he tell me?
She took the first plane back to California. It was early in the morning before she could fall asleep. She had a
nightmare. A figure standing in the dark was stabbing Jim and screaming at him. The figure stepped into the light.
It was her father. CHAPTER FIVE
The next few months were misery for Ashley. The image of Jim Cleary's bloody, mutilated body kept going through her
mind. She thought of seeing Dr. Speakman again, but she knew she dare not discuss this with anyone. She felt guilty even thinking that her father might have done such a terrible thing. She pushed the thought away and tried to concentrate on her work. It was impossible. She looked down in dismay at a logo she had just botched.
Shane Miller was watching her, concerned. "Are you all right, Ashley?" She forced a smile. "I'm fine."
"I really am sorry about your friend." She had told him about Jim. "I'll-I'll get over it."
"What about dinner tonight?"
"Thanks, Shane. I-I'm not up to it just yet. Next week." "Right. If there's anything I can do-"
"I appreciate it. There's nothing anyone can do."
Toni said to Alette, "Miss Tight Ass has a problem. Well, she can get stuffed."
"I feel dispiace - sorry for her. She is troubled." "Sod her. We all have our problems, don't we, luv?"
As Ashley was leaving on a Friday afternoon before a holiday weekend, Dennis Tibble stopped her. "Hey, babe. I need a favor."
"I'm sorry, Dennis, I-"
"Come on. Lighten up!" He took Ashley's arm. "I need some advice from a woman's point of view."
"Dennis, I'm not in the-"
"I've fallen in love with somebody, and I want to marry her, but there are problems. Will you help me?"
Ashley hesitated. She did not like Dennis Tibble, but she could see no harm in trying to help him. "Can this wait until tomorrow?"
"I need to talk to you now. It's really urgent." Ashley took a deep breath. "All right."
"Can we go to your apartment?" She shook her head. "No."
She would never be able to make him leave. "Will you stop by my place?" Ashley hesitated. "Very well." That way I can leave when I want to. If I can help him get the woman he's in love with, maybe he'll leave me alone.
* * *
Toni said to Alette, "God! Goody Two-shoes is going to the twerp's apartment. Can you believe she could be that stupid? Where's her sodding brains?"
"She's just trying to help him. There's nothing wrong with-"
"Oh, come on, Alette. When are you going to grow up? The man wants to bonk her."
"Non va. Non si fa cosi."
"I couldn't have said it better myself."
Dennis Tibble's apartment was furnished in neonightmare. Posters of old horror movies hung from the walls, next to pinups of naked models and wild animals feeding. Tiny erotic
wood carvings were spread out on tables.
It's the apartment of a madman, Ashley thought. She could not wait to get out of there.
"Hey, I'm glad you could come, baby. I really appreciate this. If-"
"I can't stay long, Dennis." Ashley warned him. "Tell me about this woman you're in love with."
"She's really something." He held out a cigarette. "Cigarette?"
"I don't smoke." She watched him light up. "How about a drink?"
"I don't drink."
He grinned. "You don't smoke, you don't drink. That leaves an interesting activity, doesn't it?" She said to him sharply, "Dennis, if you don't-"
"Only kidding." He walked over to the bar and poured some wine. "Have a little wine. That can't hurt you." He handed her the glass. She took a sip of wine. "Tell me about Miss Right." Dennis Tibble sat down on the couch next to Ashley. "I've never met anybody like her. She's sexy like you and-" "Stop it or I'll leave."
"Hey, that was meant as a compliment. Anyway, she's crazy about me, but her mother and father are very social, and they hate me." Ashley made no comment.
"So the thing is, if I push it, she'll marry me, but
she'll alienate her family. She's really close to them, and if I marry her, they'll sure as hell disown her. Then one day, she'll probably blame me. Do you see the problem?" Ashley took another sip of wine. "Yes. I..." After that, time seemed to vanish in a mist.
She awakened slowly, knowing that something was terribly wrong. She felt as though she had been drugged. It was an enormous effort merely to open her eyes. Ashley looked around the room and began to panic. She was lying in a bed, naked, in a cheap hotel room. She managed to sit up, and her head started to pound. She had no idea where she was or how she had gotten there. There was a room service menu on the nightstand, and she reached over and picked it up. The Chicago Loop Hotel. She read it again, stunned. What am I doing in Chicago? How long have I been here? The visit to Dennis Tibble's apartment had been on Friday. What day is this? With growing alarm, she picked up the telephone. "May I help you?"
It was difficult for Ashley to speak. "What-what day is
this?"
"Today is the seventeenth of-"
"No. I mean what day of the week is this?"
"Oh. Today is Monday. Can I-" Ashley replaced the receiver in a daze. Monday. She had lost two days and two nights. She sat up at the edge of the bed, trying to remember. She had gone to Dennis Tibble's apartment.... She had had a glass of wine.... After that, everything was a blank.
He had put something in her glass of wine that had made
her temporarily lose her memory. She had read about incidents where a drug like that had been used. It was called the "date rape drug." That was what he had given her. The talk about wanting her advice had been a ruse. And like a fool, I fell for it. She had no recollection of going to the airport, flying to Chicago or checking into this seedy hotel room with Tibble. And worse- no recollection of what had happened in this room.
I've got to get out of here, Ashley thought desperately.
She felt unclean, as though every inch of her body had been violated. What had he done to her? Trying not to think about it, she got out of bed, walked into the tiny bathroom and stepped into the shower. She let the stream of hot water pound against her body, trying to wash away whatever terrible, dirty things had happened to her. What if he had gotten her pregnant? The thought of having his child was sickening. Ashley got out of the shower, dried herself and walked over to the closet. Her clothes were missing. The only things inside the closet were a black leather miniskirt, a cheap-looking tube top and a pair of spiked high-heeled shoes. She was repelled by the thought of putting on the clothes, but she had no choice. She dressed quickly and glanced in the mirror. She looked like a prostitute.
Ashley examined her purse. Only forty dollars. Her checkbook and credit card were still there. Thank God!
She went out into the corridor. It was empty. She took the elevator down to the seedy-looking lobby and walked over to the checkout desk, where she handed the elderly cashier her credit card.
"Leavin' us already?" He leered. "Well, you had a good time, hub?"
Ashley stared at him, wondering what he meant and afraid to find out. She was tempted to ask him when Dennis Tibble
had checked out, but she decided it was better not to bring it up.
The cashier was putting her credit card through a machine. He frowned and put it through again. Finally, he said, "I'm sorry. This card won't go through. You've exceeded your limit."
Ashley's mouth dropped open. "That's impossible! There's some mistake!"
The clerk shrugged. "Do you have another credit card?" "No. I-I don't Will you take a personal check?" He was eyeing her outfit disapprovingly. "I guess so, if you have some ID."
"I need to make a telephone call. "
"Telephone booth in the corner." "San Francisco Memorial Hospital. "
"Dr. Steven Patterson." "One moment, please. "
"Dr. Patterson's office."
"Sarah? This is Ashley. I need to speak to my father." "I'm sorry. Miss Patterson. He's in the operating room and-"
Ashley's grip tightened on the telephone. "Do you know how long he'll be there?"
"It's hard to say. I know he has another surgery scheduled after-"
Ashley found herself fighting hysteria. "I need to talk to him. It's urgent. Can you get word to him, please? As soon as he gets a chance, have him call me." She looked at the telephone number in the booth and gave it to her father's receptionist. "I'll wait here until he calls."
"I'll be sure to tell him."
She sat in the lobby for almost an hour, willing the telephone to ring. People passing by stared at her or ogled her, and she felt naked in the tawdry outfit she was wearing. When the phone finally rang, it startled her. She hurried back into the phone booth. "Hello. "
"Ashley?" It was her father's voice. "Oh, Father, I-" "What's wrong?"
"I'm in Chicago and-"
"What are you doing in Chicago?"
"I can't go into it now. I need an airline ticket to San Jose. I don't have any money with me. Can you help me?" "Of course. Hold on." Three minutes later, her father came
back on the line. "There's an American Airlines plane leaving O'Hare at ten-forty A.M., Flight 407. There will be a ticket waiting for you at the check-in counter. I'll pick you up at
the airport in San Jose and-"
"No!" She could not let him see her like this. "I'll- I'll go to my apartment to change."
"All right. I'll come down and meet you for dinner. You can tell me all about it then."
"Thank you, Father. Thank you."
On the plane going home, Ashley thought about the unforgivable thing Dennis Tibble had done to her. I'm going to have to go to the police, she decided. I can't let him get away with this. How many other women has he done this to?
When Ashley got back to her apartment, she felt as though she had returned to a sanctuary. She could not wait to get out of the tacky outfit she was wearing. She stripped it off as quickly as she could. She felt as though she needed
another shower before she met her father. She started to walk over to her closet and stopped. In front of her, on the dressing table, was a burned cigarette butt.
* * *
They were seated at a corner table in a restaurant at The Oaks. Ashley's father was studying her, concerned. "What were you doing in Chicago?"
"I-I don't know."
He looked at her, puzzled. "You don't know?" Ashley hesitated, trying to make up her mind whether to tell him what had happened. Perhaps he could give her some advice. She said carefully, "Dennis Tibble asked me up to his apartment to help him with a problem. "
"Dennis Tibble? That snake?" Long ago, Ashley had introduced her father to the people she worked with. "How could you have anything to do with him?"
Ashley knew instantly that she had made a mistake. Her father had always overreacted to any problems she had. Especially when it involved a man.
"If I ever see you around here again, Cleary. I'll break every bone in your body."
"It's not important," Ashley said. "I want to hear it." Ashley sat still for a moment, filled with a sense of foreboding. "Well, I had a drink at Dennis's apartment and. "
As she talked, she watched her father's face grow grim.
There was a look in his eyes that frightened her. She tried to cut the story short. "No," her father insisted. "I want to hear it all. "
Ashley lay in bed that night, too drained to sleep, her
thoughts chaotic. If what Dennis did to me becomes public, it will be humiliating. Everyone at work will know what happened. But I can't let him do this to anyone else. I have to tell the police.
People had tried to warn her that Dennis was obsessed with her, but she had ignored them. Now, looking back ID it, she could see all the signs: Dennis had hated to see anyone else talking to her; he was constantly begging her for dates; he was always eavesdropping...
At least I know who the stalker is, Ashley thought.
At 8:30 in the morning, as Ashley was getting ready to leave for work, the telephone rang. She picked it up. "Hello."
"Ashley, it's Shane. Have you heard the news?" "What news?"
"It's on television. They just found Dennis Tibble's body."
For an instant the earth seemed to shift. "Oh, my God! What happened?"
"According to the sheriff's office, somebody stabbed him to death and then castrated him."
CHAPTER SIX
DEPUTY Sam Blake had earned his position in the Cupertino Sheriff's Office the hard way: He had married the sheriff's sister, Serena Dowling, a virago with a tongue sharp enough to fell the forests of Oregon. Sam Blake was the only man Serena had ever met who was able to handle her. He was a short, gentle, mild-mannered person with the patience of a saint. No matter how outrageous Serena's behavior, he would wait until she had calmed down and then have a quiet talk with her.
Blake had joined the sheriff's department because Sheriff Matt Dowling was his best friend. They had gone to school together and grown up together. Blake enjoyed police work and was exceedingly good at it. He had a keen, inquiring intelligence and a stubborn tenacity. The combination made him the best detective on the force.
* * *
Earlier that morning, Sam Blake and Sheriff Dowling were having coffee together.
Sheriff Dowling said, "I hear my sister gave you a bad
time last night. We got half a dozen calls from the neighbors
complaining about the noise. Serena's a champion screamer, all right."
Sam shrugged. "I finally got her calmed down, Matt." "Thank God she's not living with me anymore, Sam. I don't know what gets into her. Her temper tantrums-"
Their conversation was interrupted. "Sheriff, we just got a 911. There's been a murder over on Sunnyvale Avenue." Sheriff Dowling looked at Sam Blake.
Blake nodded. "I'll catch it."
Fifteen minutes later. Deputy Blake was walking into
Dennis Tibble's apartment. A patrolman in the living room was talking to the building superintendent.
"Where's the body?" Blake asked.
The patrolman nodded toward the bedroom. "In there, sir." He looked pale.
Blake walked to the bedroom and stopped, in shock. A man's naked body was sprawled across the bed, and Blake's first impression was that the room was soaked in blood. As he stepped closer to the bed, he saw where the blood had come from. The ragged edge of a broken bottle had punctured the victim's back, over and over again, and there were shards of glass in his body. The victim's testicles had been slashed off.
Looking at it, Blake felt a pain in his groin. "How the hell could a human being do a thing like this?" he said
aloud. There was no sign of the weapon, but they would make a thorough search.
Deputy Blake went back into the living room to talk to the building superintendent. "Did you know the deceased?" "Yes, sir. This is his apartment."
"What's his name?" "Tibble. Dennis Tibble."
Deputy Blake made a note. "How long had he lived here?" "Almost three years."
"What can you tell me about him?"
"Not too much, sir. Tibble kept pretty much to himself, always paid his rent on time. Once in a while he'd have a woman in here. I think they were mostly pros."
"Do you know where he worked?"
"Oh, yes. Global Computer Graphics Corporation. He was one of them computer nerds."
Deputy Blake made another note. "Who found the body?" "One of the maids. Maria. Yesterday was a holiday, so she didn't come in until this morning-"
"I want to talk to her." "Yes, sir. I'll get her."
Maria was a dark-looking Brazilian woman in her forties, nervous and frightened.
"You discovered the body, Maria?"
"I didn't do it. I swear to you." She was on the verge of hysteria. "Do I need a lawyer?"
"No. You don't need a lawyer. Just tell me what happened." "Nothing happened. I mean- I walked in here this morning
to clean, the way I always do. I-I thought he was gone. He's always out of here by seven in the morning. I tidied up the living room and-"
Damn! "Maria, do you remember what the room looked like before you tidied up?"
"What do you mean?"
"Did you move anything? Take anything out of here?" "Well, yes. There was a broken wine bottle on the floor. It was all sticky. I-"
"What did you do with it?" he asked excitedly.
"I put it in the garbage compactor and ground it up." "What else did you do?"
"Well, I cleaned out the ashtray and-" "Were there any cigarette butts in it?"
She stopped to remember. "One. I put it in the trash basket in the kitchen."
"Let's take a look at it." He followed her to the kitchen, and she pointed to a wastebasket. Inside was a cigarette butt with lipstick on it. Carefully, deputy Blake scooped it up in a coin envelope.
He led her back to the living room. "Maria, do you know if anything is missing from the apartment? Does it look as if any valuables are gone?"
She looked around. "I don't think so. Mr. Tibble, he liked to collect those little statues. He spent a lot of money on them. It looks like they're all here."
So the motive was not robbery. Drugs? Revenge? A love affair gone wrong?
"What did you do after you tidied up here, Maria?"
"I vacuumed in here, the way I always do. And then-" Her voice faltered. "I walked into the bedroom and... I saw him." She looked at deputy Blake. "I swear I didn't do it."
The coroner and his assistants arrived in a coroner's wagon, with a body bag.
Three hours later, deputy Sam Blake was back in the
sheriff's office.
"What have you got, Sam?"
"Not much." Deputy Blake sat down across from Sheriff Dowling. "Dennis Tibble worked over at Global. He was apparently some kind of genius."
"But not genius enough to keep himself from getting killed."
"He wasn't just killed, Matt. He was slaughtered. You should have seen what someone did to his body. It has to be some kind of maniac."
"Nothing to go on?"
"We aren't sure what the murder weapon is, we're waiting
for results from the lab, but it may be a broken wine bottle. The maid threw it in the compactor. It looks like there's a fingerprint on one of the pieces of glass in his back. I talked to the neighbors. No help there. No one saw anyone coming in or out of his apartment. No unusual noises.
Apparently, Tibble stuck pretty much to himself. He wasn't the neighborly type. One thing. Tibble had sex before he died. We have vaginal traces, pubic hairs, other trace evidence and a cigarette stub with lipstick. We'll test for DNA."
"The newspapers are going to have a good time with this
one, Sam. I can see the headlines now-MANIAC STRIKES SILICON VALLEY." Sheriff Dowling sighed. "Let's knock this off as fast as we can."
"I'm on my way over to Global Computer Graphics now."
It had taken Ashley an hour to decide whether she should go into the office. She was torn. One look at me, and everyone will know that something is wrong. But if I don't
show up, they'll want to know why. The police will probably be there asking questions. If they question me, I'll have to tell them the truth. They won't believe me. They'll blame me for killing Dennis Tibble. And if they do believe me, and if I tell them my father knew what he did to me, they'll blame him.
She thought of Jim Cleary's murder. She could hear Florence's voice: "Jim's parents came back and found his body. He had been stabbed to death and castrated." Ashley squeezed her eyes shut tightly. My God, what's happening? What's happening?
Deputy Sam Blake walked onto the work floor where groups of somber employees stood around, talking quietly. Blake could imagine what the subject of conversation was. Ashley
watched him apprehensively as he headed toward Shane Miller's office.
Shane rose to greet him. "Deputy Blake?" "Yes." The two men shook hands.
"Sit down. Deputy."
Sam Blake took a seat. "I understand Dennis Tibble was an employee here?"
"That's right. One of the best. It's a terrible tragedy." "He worked here about three years?"
"Yes. He was our genius. There wasn't anything he couldn't do with a computer."
"What can you tell me about his social life?"
Shane Miller shook his head. "Not much. I'm afraid. Tibble was kind of a loner."
"Do you have any idea if he was into drugs?" "Dennis? Hell, no. He was a health nut."
"Did he gamble? Could he have owed someone a lot of money?"
"No. He made a damned good salary, but I think he was pretty tight with a buck."
"What about women? Did he have a girlfriend?"
"Women weren't very attracted to Tibble." He thought for a moment. "Lately, though, he was going around telling people there was someone he was thinking of marrying."
"Did he happen to mention her name?"
Miller shook his head. "No. Not to me, anyway."
"Would you mind if I talked to some of your employees?" "Not at all. Go ahead. I have to tell you, they're all pretty shaken up."
They would be more shaken up if they could have seen his body, Blake thought.
The two men walked out onto the work floor.
Shane Miller raised his voice. "May I have your attention, please? This is deputy Blake. He'd like to ask a few questions."
The employees had stopped what they were doing and were listening.
Deputy Blake said, "I'm sure that all of you have heard
what happened to Mr. Tibble. We need your help in finding out who killed him. Do any of you know of any enemies he had?
Anyone who hated him enough to want to murder him?" There was a silence. Blake went on. "There was a woman he was interested in marrying. Did he discuss her with any of you?" Ashley was finding it difficult to breathe. Now was the
time to speak up. Now was the time to tell the deputy what Tibble had done to her. But Ashley remembered the look on her father's face when she had told him about it. They would blame him for the murder.
Her father could never kill anyone. He was a doctor.
He was a surgeon.
Dennis Tibble had been castrated.
Deputy Blake was saying, "... and none of you saw him after he left here on Friday?"
Toni Prescott thought. Go ahead. Tell him. Miss Goody
Two-shoes. Tell him you went to his apartment. Why don't you speak up?
Deputy Blake stood there a moment, trying to hide his disappointment. "Well, if any of you remembers anything that might be helpful. I'd appreciate it if you'd give me a call. Mr. Miller has my number. Thank you."
They watched as he moved toward the exit with Shane. Ashley felt faint with relief.
Deputy Blake turned to Shane. "Was there anyone here he was particularly close to?"
"No, not really," Shane said. "I don't think Dennis was close to anybody. He was very attracted to one of our computer operators, but he never got anywhere with her." Deputy Blake stopped. "Is she here now?"
"Yes, but-"
"I'd like to talk to her."
"All right. You can use my office." They walked back into the room, and Ashley saw them coming. They were headed straight for her cubicle. She could feel her face redden. "Ashley, deputy Blake would like to talk to you."
So he knew! He was going to ask her about her visit to Tibble's apartment. I've got to be careful, Ashley thought. The deputy was looking at her. "Do you mind, Miss Patterson?"
She found her voice. "No, not at all." She followed him into Shane Miller's office.
"Sit down." They both took chairs. "I understand that Dennis Tibble was fond of you?"
"I-I suppose..." Careful. "Yes." "Did you go out with him?"
Going to his apartment would not be the same as going out with him. "No."
"Did he talk to you about this woman he wanted to marry?"
She was getting in deeper and deeper. Could he be taping this? Maybe he already knew she had been in Tibble's apartment. They could have found her fingerprints. Now was the time to tell the deputy what Tibble had done to her. But if I do, Ashley thought in despair, it will lead to my father, and they'll connect that to Jim Cleary's murder. Did they know about that, too? But the police department in Bedford would have no reason to notify the police department in Cupertino. Or would they?
Deputy Blake was watching her, waiting for an answer. "Miss Patterson?"
"What? Oh, I'm sorry. This has got me so upset..." "I understand. Did Tibble ever mention this woman he wanted to marry?"
"Yes... but he never told me her name." That, at least, was true.
"Have you ever been to Tibble's apartment?"
Ashley took a deep breath. If she said no, the questioning would probably end. But if they had found her fingerprints... "Yes."
"You have been to his apartment?" "Yes."
He was looking at her more closely now. "You said you'd never been out with him."
Ashley's mind was racing now. "That's right. Not on a
date, no. I went to bring him some papers he had forgotten." "When was this?"
She felt trapped. "It was... it was about a week ago." "And that's the only time you've been to his place?' "That's right."
Now if they had her fingerprints, she would be in clear. Deputy Blake sat there, studying her, and she felt guilty. She wanted to tell him the truth. Maybe some burglar had broken in and killed him-the same burglar who had killed Jim Cleary ten years earlier and three thousand miles away. If you believed in coincidences. If you believed in Santa Claus. If you believed in the tooth fairy.
Damn you, Father.
Deputy Blake said, "This is a terrible crime. There
doesn't seem to be any motive. But you know, in all the years I've been on the force, I've never seen a crime without a motive." There was no response. "Do you know if Dennis Tibble was into drugs?"
"I'm sure he wasn't."
"So what do we have? It wasn't drugs. He wasn't robbed. He didn't owe anybody money. That kind of leaves a romantic situation, doesn't it? Someone who was jealous of him."
Or a father who wanted to protect his daughter. "I'm as puzzled as you are, Deputy."
He stared at her for a moment and his eyes seemed to say, "I don't believe you, lady."
Deputy Blake got to his feet. He took out a card and
handed it to Ashley. "If there's anything you can think of, I'd appreciate your giving me a call."
"I'll be happy to." "Good day."
She watched him leave. It's over. Father's in the clear. When Ashley returned to her apartment that evening, there was a message on the answering machine: "You got me real hot last night, baby. I'm talking blue balls. But you'll take care of me tonight, though, the way you promised. Same time, same place."
Ashley stood there, listening in disbelief. I'm going crazy, she thought. This has nothing to do with Father. Someone else must be behind all this. But who? And why? Five days later, Ashley received a statement from the credit card company. Three items caught her attention: A bill from the Mod Dress Shop for $450.
A bill from the Circus Club for $300.
A bill from Louie's Restaurant for $250.
She had never heard of the dress shop, the club or the restaurant.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ASHLEY Patterson followed the investigation of Dennis Tibble's murder in the newspapers and on television every day. The police appeared to have reached a dead end.
It's over, Ashley thought. There's nothing more to worry about.
That evening deputy Sam Blake appeared at her apartment. Ashley looked at him, her mouth suddenly dry.
"I hope I'm not bothering you," deputy Blake said. "I was
on my way home, and I just thought I'd drop in for a minute." Ashley swallowed. "No. Come in."
Deputy Blake walked into the apartment. "Nice place you have here."
"Thank you."
"I'll bet Dennis Tibble didn't like this kind of furniture."
Ashley's heart began to pound. "I don't know. He's never been in this apartment."
"Oh. I thought he might have, you know."
"No, I don't know, Deputy. I told you, I never dated him."
"Right. May I sit down?" "Please."
"You see, I'm having a big problem with this case, Miss Patterson. It doesn't fit into any pattern. Like I said, there's always a motive. I've talked to some of the people over at Global Computer Graphics, and no one seems to have known Tibble very well. He kept pretty much to himself." Ashley listened, waiting for the blow to fall.
"In fact, from what they tell me, you're the only one he was really interested in."
Had he found out something, or was he on a fishing expedition?
Ashley said carefully, "He was interested in me, Deputy, but I was not interested in him. I made that quite clear to him."
He nodded. "Well, I think it was nice of you to deliver those papers to his apartment."
Ashley almost said, "What papers?" and then suddenly remembered. "It-it was no trouble. It was on my way." "Right. Someone must have hated Tibble a lot to do what they did."
Ashley sat there tense, saying nothing.
"Do you know what I hate?" Deputy Blake said. "Unsolved murders. They always leave me frustrated. Because when a murder goes unsolved, I don't think it means that the criminals were that smart. I think it means that the police weren't smart enough. Well, so far, I've been lucky. I've solved all the crimes that have come my way." He got to his feet. "I don't intend to give up on this one. If you can think of anything that will helpful, you'll call me, won't you, Miss Patterson?"
"Yes, of course."
Ashley watched him leave, and she thought. Did he come here as a warning? Does he know more than he's telling me?
Toni was more absorbed than ever in the Internet. She
enjoyed her chats with Jean Claude the most, but that did not stop her from having other chat-room correspondents. At every
chance, she sat in front of her computer, and the typed messages flew back and forth, spilling onto the computer screen.
"Toni? Where have you been? I've been in the chat room waiting for you."
"I'm worth waiting for, luv. Tell me about yourself. What do you do?"
"I work at a pharmacy. I can be good to you. Do you do drugs?"
"Sod off."
"Is that you, Toni?"
"The answer to your dreams. Is it Mark?" "Yes."
"You haven't been on the Internet lately." "I've been busy. I'd like to meet you, Toni." "Tell me. Mark, what do you do?"
"I'm a librarian."
"Isn't that exciting! All those books and everything. "
"When can we meet?"
"Why don't you ask Nostradamus?" "Hello, Toni. My name is Wendy." "Hello, Wendy."
"You sound like fun." "I enjoy life."
"Maybe I can help you enjoy it more." "What did you have in mind?"
"Well, I hope you're not one of those narrow-minded people who are afraid to experiment and try exciting new things. I'd like to show you a good time."
"Thanks, Wendy. You don't have the equipment I need". And then, Jean Claude Parent came back on.
"Bonne nuit. Comment ca va? How are you?" "I'm great. How about you?"
"I have missed you. I wish very much to meet you in person."
"I want to meet you, too. Thanks for sending me your photograph. You're a good-looking bloke."
"And you are beautiful. I think it is very important for us to get to know each other. Is your company coming to Quebec for the computer convention?"
"What? Not that I know of. When is it?"
"In three weeks. Many big companies will be coming, I hope you will be here."
"I hope so, too."
"Can we meet in the chat room tomorrow at the same time?" "Of course. Until tomorrow."
"`A demain."
The following morning, Shane Miller walked up to Ashley. "Ashley, have you heard about the big computer convention coming up in Quebec City?"
She nodded. "Yes. It sounds interesting."
"I was just debating whether we should send a contingent up there.
"All the companies are going," Ashley said. "Symantec, Microsoft, Apple. Quebec City is putting on a big show for them. A trip like that could be kind of a Christmas bonus." Shane Miller smiled at her enthusiasm. "Let me check it out."
The following morning, Shane Miller called Ashley into his office.
"How would you like to spend Christmas in Quebec City?" "We're going? That's great," Ashley said, enthusiastically. In the past, she had spent the Christmas
holidays with her father, but this year she had dreaded the prospect.
"You'd better take plenty of warm clothes."
"Don't worry. I will. I'm really looking forward to this, Shane."
Toni was in the Internet chat room. "Jean Claude, the Company is sending a group of us to Quebec City!" "Formidable! I am so pleased. When will you arrive?" "In two weeks. There will be fifteen of us."
"Merveilleux! I feel as though something very important is going to happen."
"So do I." Something very important.
Ashley anxiously watched the news every night, but, there still no new developments in the Dennis Tibble murder. She began to relax. If the police could not connect her with the case, there was no way they could a connection to her father. Half a dozen times she steeled herself to ask him about it, but each time she backed off. What if he were innocent? Could he ever forgive her for accusing him of being a murderer? And if he is guilty, I don't want to know, Ashley thought. I couldn't bear it. And if he has done those terrible things, in his mind, he would have done them to protect me. At least I won't have to face him this Christmas.
Ashley telephoned her father in San Francisco. She said, without preamble, "I'm not going to be able to spend
Christmas with you this year, Father. My company is sending me to a convention in Canada."
There was a long silence. "That's bad timing, Ashley. You and I have always spent Christmas together."
"I can't help-"
"You're all I have, you know."
"Yes, Father, and... you're all I have." "That's what's important."
Important enough to kill for? "Where is this convention?" "In Quebec City. It's-"
"Ah. Lovely place. I haven't been there in years. I'll tell you what I'll do. I haven't anything scheduled at the hospital around that time. I'll fly up, and we'll have a Christmas dinner together."
Ashley said quickly, "I don't think it's-"
"You just make a reservation for me at whatever hotel
you're staying at. We don't want to break tradition, do we?" She hesitated and said slowly, "No, Father."
How can I face him?
Alette was excited. She said to Toni, "I've never been to Quebec City. Do they have museums there?"
"Of course they have museums there," Toni told her. "They have everything. A lot of winter sports. Skiing, skating..." Alette shuddered. "I hate cold weather. No sports for me.
Even with gloves, my fingers get numb. I will stick to the museums. "
On the twenty-first of December, the group from Global Computer Graphics arrived at the Jean-Lesage International Airport in Sainte-Foy and were driven to the storied Chateau Frontenac in Quebec City. It was below zero outside, and the streets were blanketed with snow.
Jean Claude had given Toni his home telephone number. She called as soon as she checked into her room. "I hope I'm not calling too late."
"Mais non! I cannot believe you are here. When may I see you?"
"Well, we're all going to the convention center tomorrow morning, but I could slip away and have lunch with you." "Bon! There is a restaurant, Le Paris-Brest, on the Grande Allee Est. Can you meet me there at one o'clock?"
"I'll be there."
The Centre des Congres de Quebec on Rene Levesque
Boulevard is a four-story, glass-and-steel, state-of-the-art
building that can accommodate thousands of conventioneers. At nine o'clock in the morning, the vast halls were crowded with computer experts from all over the world, exchanging information on up-to-the-minute developments. They filled multimedia rooms, exhibit halls and video-conferencing centers. There were half a dozen and seminars going on simultaneously. Toni was bored. All talk and no action, she thought. At 12:45, she slipped out of the convention hall and took a taxi to the restaurant.
Jean Claude was waiting for her. He took her hand and said warmly, "Toni, I am so pleased you could come."
"So am I."
"I will try to make certain that your time here is very agreeable," Jean Claude told her. "This is a beautiful city to explore."
Toni looked at him and smiled. "I know I'm going to enjoy it."
"I would like to spend as much time with you as I can." "Can you take the time off? What about the jewelry store?" Jean Claude smiled. "It will have to manage without me." The maitre brought menus.
Jean Claude said to Toni, "Would you like to try some of our French-Canadian dishes?"
"Fine."
"Then please let me order for you." He said to the maitre d', "Nous voudrions ie Brome Lake Duckling." He explained to Toni, "It is a local dish, duckling cooked in calvados and stuffed with apples."
"Sounds delicious." And it was.
During luncheon, they filled each other in on their pasts.
"So. You've never been married?" Toni asked. "No. And you?"
"No."
"You have not found the right man."
Oh, God, wouldn't it be wonderful if it were that simple. "No."
They talked of Quebec City and what there was to do there. "Do you ski?"
Toni nodded. "I love it."
"Ah, bon, moi aussi. And there is snowmobiling, ice-skating, wonderful shopping..."
There was something almost boyish about his enthusiasm.
Toni had never felt more comfortable with anyone. Shane Miller arranged it so his group attended the convention mornings and had their afternoons free.
"I don't know what to do here," Alette complained to Toni. "It's freezing. What are you going to do?"
"Everything." Toni grinned. "A piu tardi."
Toni and Jean Claude had lunch together every day, and every afternoon, Jean Claude took Toni on a tour. She had
never seen any place like Quebec City. It was like finding a turn-of-the-century picturesque French village in North America. The ancient streets had colorful names like Break Neck Stairs and Below the Fort and Sailor's Leap. It was a Currier & Ives city, framed in snow.
They visited La Citadelle, with its walls protecting Old Quebec, and they watched the traditional changing of the guard inside the walls of the fort. They explored the shopping streets. Saint Jean, Cartier, C6te de la Fabrique, and wandered through the Quartier Petit Champlain.
"This is the oldest commercial district in North America," Jean Claude told her.
"It's super."
Everywhere they went, there were sparkling Christmas trees, nativity scenes and music for the enjoyment of the strollers.
Jean Claude took Toni snowmobiling in the countryside. As they raced down a narrow slope, he called out, "Are you having a good time?"
Toni sensed that it was not an idle question. She nodded and said softly, "I'm having a wonderful time."
Alette spent her time at museums. She visited the Basilica of Notre-Dame and the Good Shepherd Chapel and the Augustine Museum, but she had no interest in anything else that Quebec City offered. There were dozens of gourmet restaurants, but when she was not dining at the hotel, she ate at Le Commensal, a vegetarian cafeteria.
From time to time, Alette thought about her artist friend, Richard Melton, in San Francisco, and wondered what he was doing and if he would remember her.
Ashley was dreading Christmas. She was tempted to call her father and tell him not to come. But what excuse can I give? You're a murderer. I don't want to see you?
And each day Christmas was coming closer.
"I would like to show you my jewelry store," Jean Claude
told Toni. "Would you care to see it?" Toni nodded. "Love to."
Parent Jewelers was located in the heart of Quebec City, on rue Notre-Dame. When she walked in the door, Toni was stunned. On the Internet, Jean Claude had said, "I have a
little jewelry store." It was a very large store, tastefully done. Half a dozen clerks were busy with customers.
Toni looked around and said, "It's-it's smashing."
He smiled. "Merci. I would like to give you a cadeau- a gift, for Christmas."
"No. That isn't necessary. I-"
"Please do not deprive me of the pleasure." Jean Claude
led Toni to a showcase filled with rings. "Tell me what you like."
Toni shook her head. "Those are much too expensive. I couldn't-"
"Please."
Toni studied him a moment, then nodded. "All right." She examined the showcase again. In the center was a large emerald ring set with diamonds.
Jean Claude saw her looking at it "Do you like the emerald ring?"
"It's lovely, but it's much too-"
"It is yours." Jean Claude took out a small key, unlocked the case and pulled out the ring.
"No, Jean Claude-"
"Pour moi." He slipped it on Toni's finger. It was a perfect fit.
"Voila! It is a sign."
Toni squeezed his hand. "I-I don't know what to say."
"I cannot tell you how much pleasure this gives me. There is a wonderful restaurant here called Pavilion. Would you like to have dinner there tonight?"
"Anywhere you say."
"I will call for you at eight o'clock."
At six o'clock that night, Ashley's father telephoned. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you, Ashley. I
won't be able to be there for Christmas. An important patient of mine in South America has had a stroke. I'm flying to Argentina tonight."
"I'm-I'm sorry, Father," Ashley said. She tried to sound convincing.
"We'll make up for it, won't we, darling?" "Yes, Father. Have a good flight."
Toni was looking forward to dinner with Jean Claude. It was going to be a lovely evening. As she dressed, she sang softly to herself.
"Up and down the city road, In and out of the Eagle,
That's the way the money goes, Pop! goes the weasel. "
I think Jean Claude is in love with me, Mother. Pavilion is located in the cavernous Gare du Palais,
Quebec City's old railroad station. It is a large restaurant with a long bar at the entrance and rows of tables spreading toward the back. At eleven o'clock each night, a dozen tables are moved to the side to create a dance floor, and a disc jockey takes over with a variety of tapes ranging from reggae to jazz to blues.
Toni and Jean Claude arrived at nine, and they were warmly greeted at the door by the owner.
"Monsieur Parent. How nice to see you."
"Thank you, Andre. This is Miss Toni Prescott. Mr. Nicholas."
"A pleasure, Miss Prescott. Your table is ready."
"The food is excellent here," Jean Claude assured Toni, when they were seated. "Let us start with champagne."
They ordered paillard de veau and torpille and salad and a bottle of Valpolicella.
Toni kept studying the emerald ring Jean Claude had given her. "It's so beautiful!" she exclaimed.
Jean Claude leaned across the table. "Tu aussi. I cannot tell you how happy I am that we have finally met."
"I am, too," Toni said softly.
The music began. Jean Claude looked at Toni. "Would you like to dance?"
"I'd love to."
Dancing was one of Toni's passions, and when she got out on the dance floor, she forgot everything else. She was a little girl dancing with her father, and her mother said, "The child is clumsy."
Jean Claude was holding her close. "You're a wonderful dancer."
"Thank you." Do you hear that, Mother?
Toni thought, I wish this could go on forever.
On the way back to the hotel, Jean Claude said, "Ch`erie,
would you like to stop at my house and have a nightcap?" Toni hesitated. "Not tonight, Jean Claude."
"Tomorrow, peut-etre?"
She squeezed his hand. "Tomorrow."
At 3:00 A.M„ Police Officer Rene Picard was in a squad car cruising down Grande Allee in the Quartier Montcalm when he noticed that the front door of a two-story redbrick house was wide open. He pulled over to the curb and stepped out to investigate. He walked to the front door and called, "Bon soir. Y a-t-il, quelqu'un?"
There was no answer. He stepped into the foyer and moved toward the large drawing room. "C'est la police. Y a-t-il, quelqu'un?"
There was no response. The house was unnaturally quiet. Unbuttoning his gun holster, Officer Picard began to go through the downstairs rooms, calling out as he moved from room to room. The only response was an eerie silence. He returned to the foyer. There was a graceful staircase leading to the floor above. "Allo!" Nothing.
Officer Picard started up the stairs. When he got to the top of the stairs, his gun was in his hand. He called out again, then started down the long hallway. Ahead, a bedroom door was ajar. He walked over to it, opened it wide and turned pale. "Mon Dieu!"
At five o'clock that morning, in the gray stone and yellow brick building on Story Boulevard, where Centrale de Police is located. Inspector Paul Cayer was asking, "What do we have?" Officer Guy Fontaine replied, "The victim's name is Jean Claude Parent. He was stabbed at least a dozen times, and his body was castrated. The coroner says that the murder took place in the last three or four hours. We found a restaurant receipt from Pavilion in Parent's jacket pocket. He had dinner there earlier in the evening. - We got the owner of the restaurant out of bed."
"Yes?"
"Monsieur Parent was at Pavilion with a woman named Toni Prescott, a brunette, very attractive, with an English accent. The manager of Monsieur Parent's jewelry store said that earlier that day. Monsieur Parent had brought a woman answering that description into the store and introduced her as Toni Prescott. He gave her an expensive emerald ring. We also believe that Monsieur Parent had sex with someone before he died, and that the murder weapon was a steel-blade letter opener. There were fingerprints on it. We sent them on to our
lab and to the FBI. We are waiting to hear." "Have you picked up Toni Prescott?"
"Non."
"And why not?"
"We cannot find her. We have checked all the local hotels. We have checked our files and the files of the FBI. She has no birth certificate, no social security number, no driver's license."
"Impossible! Could she have gotten out of the city?" Officer Fontaine shook his head. "I don't think so,
Inspector. The airport closed at midnight. The last train out of Quebec City left at five-thirty-five last night. The first train this morning will be at six-thirty-nine. We have sent a description of her to the bus station, the two taxi companies and the limousine company."
"For God's sake, we have her name, her description and her fingerprints. She can't just have disappeared."
One hour later, a report came in from the FBI. They were unable to identify the fingerprints. There was no record of Toni Prescott.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FIVE days after Ashley returned from Quebec City, father was on the telephone. "I just got back."
"Back?" It took Ashley a moment to remember. "Oh, Your patient in Argentina. How is he?"
"He'll live."
"I'm glad."
"Can you come up to San Francisco for dinner tomorrow?" She dreaded the thought of facing him, but she could think of no excuse. "All right."
"I'll see you at Restaurant Lulu. Eight o'clock."
Ashley was waiting at the restaurant when her father
walked in. Again, she saw the admiring glances of recognition on people's faces. Her father was a famous man. Would he risk everything he had just to-?
He was at the table.
"It's good to see you, sweetheart. Sorry about our Christmas dinner."
She forced herself to say, "So am I."
She was staring at the menu, not seeing it, trying to get her thoughts together.
"What would you like?"
"I-I'm not really hungry," she said.
"You have to eat something. You're getting too thin." "I'll have the chicken."
She watched her father as he ordered, and she wondered if she dared to bring up the subject.
"How was Quebec City?"
"It was very interesting," Ashley said. "It's a beautiful place."
"We must go there together sometime."
She made a decision and tried to keep her voice as casual as possible. "Yes. By the way... last June I went to my ten-year high school reunion in Bedford."
He nodded. "Did you enjoy it?"
"No." She spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. "I-I found out that the day after you and I left for London, Jim Cleary's body... was found. He had been stabbed... and castrated." She sat there, watching him, waiting for a reaction.
Dr. Patterson frowned. "Cleary? Oh, yes. That boy who was panting after you. I saved you from him, didn't I?"
What did that mean? Was it a confession? Had he saved her from Jim Cleary by killing him?
Ashley took a deep breath and went on. "Dennis Tibble was murdered the same way. He was stabbed and castrated." She watched her father pick up a roll and carefully butter it. When he spoke, he said, "I'm not surprised, Ashley. Bad people usually come to a bad end."
And this was a doctor, a man dedicated to saving lives. I'll never understand him, Ashley thought. I don't think I want to.
By the time dinner was over, Ashley was no closer to the truth.
Toni said, "I really enjoyed Quebec City, Alette. I'd like to go back someday. Did you have a good time?"
Alette said shyly, "I enjoyed the museums."
"Have you called your boyfriend in San Francisco yet?" "He's not my boyfriend."
"I'll bet you want him to be, don't you?" "Forse. Perhaps."
"Why don't you call him?"
"I don't think it would be proper to-" "Call him."
They arranged to meet at the De Young Museum.
"I really missed you," Richard Melton said. "How was
Quebec?" "Va bene."
"I wish I had been there with you."
Maybe one day, Alette thought hopefully. "How is the painting coming along?"
"Not bad. I just sold one of my paintings to a really well-known collector."
"Fantastic!" She was delighted. And she could not help thinking. It's so different when I'm with him. If it were anyone else, I would have thought, Who is tasteless enough to pay money for your paintings? or Don't give up your day job or a hundred other cruel remarks. But/ don't do that with Richard.
It gave Alette an incredible feeling of freedom, as though she had found a cure for some debilitating disease.
They had lunch at the museum.
"What would you like?" Richard asked. "They have great roast beef here."
"I'm a vegetarian. I'll just have a salad. Thank you." "Okay."
A young, attractive waitress came over to the table. "Hello, Richard."
"Hi, Bernice."
Unexpectedly, Alette felt a pang of jealousy. Her reaction surprised her.
"Are you ready to order?"
"Yes. Miss Peters is going to have a salad, and I'm going to have a roast beef sandwich."
The waitress was studying Alette. Is she jealous of me? Alette wondered. When the waitress left, Alette said, "She's very pretty. Do you know her well?" Immediately she blushed. I wish I hadn't asked that.
Richard smiled. "I come here a lot. When I first came here, I didn't have much money. I'd order a sandwich, and Bernice would bring me a banquet. She's great."
"She seems very nice," Alette said. And she thought, She has fat thighs.
After they had ordered, they talked about artists. "One day I want to go to Giverny," Alette said, "where Monet painted."
"Did you know Monet started out as a caricaturist?" "No."
"It's true. Then he met Boudin, who became his; teacher
and persuaded him to start painting out of doors. There's a
great story about that. Monet got so hooked on painting out of doors that when he decided to paint a picture of a woman in the garden, with a canvas over eight feet high, he had a trench dug in the garden so he could raise or lower the canvas by pulleys. The picture is hanging at the Musee d'Orsay in Paris."
The time went by swiftly and happily.
After lunch, Alette and Richard walked around looking at the various exhibits. There were more than forty thousand objects in the collection, everything from ancient Egyptian artifacts to contemporary American paintings.
Alette was filled with the wonderment of being with
Richard and her complete lack of negative thoughts. Che cosa significa?
A uniformed guard approached them. "Good afternoon, Richard."
"Afternoon, Brian. This is my friend, Alette Peters. Brian Hill."
Brian said to Alette, "Are you enjoying the museum?" "Oh, yes. It's wonderful."
"Richard's teaching me to paint," Brian said. Alette looked at Richard. "You are?"
Richard said modestly, "Oh, I'm just guiding him little bit."
"He's doing more than that, miss. I've always wanted to be
a painter. That's why I took this job at the museum because I love art. Anyway, Richard comes here and paints. When I saw his work, I thought, I want to be like him. So I asked him if he'd teach me, and he's been great. Have you seen any of his paintings?"
"I have," Alette said. "They're wonderful."
When they left him, Alette said, "It's lovely of you to do that, Richard."
"I like to do things for people," and he was looking at Alette.
When they were walking out of the museum, Richard said,
"My roommate is at a party tonight. Why don't we stop up at my place?" He smiled. "I have some paintings I'd like to show you."
Alette squeezed his hand. "Not yet, Richard." "Whatever you say. I'll see you next weekend?" "Yes."
And he had no idea how much she was looking forward to it. Richard walked Alette to the parking lot where she had
parked her car. He waved good-bye as she drove off.
* * *
As Alette was going to sleep that night, she thought. It's like a miracle. Richard has freed me. She fell asleep, earning of him.
At two o'clock in the morning, Richard Melton's roommate, Gary, returned from a birthday party. The apartment was dark. He switched on the lights in the living room. "Richard?"
He started toward the bedroom. At the door he looked inside and was sick to his stomach.
"Calm down, son." Detective Whittier looked at the
shivering figure in the chair. "Now, let's go over it again. Did he have any enemies, someone mad enough at him to do this?"
Gary swallowed. "No. Everyone... everyone liked Richard." "Someone didn't. How long have you and Richard lived together?"
"Two years."
"Were you lovers?"
"For God's sake," Gary said indignantly. "No. We were friends. We lived together for financial reasons." Detective Whittier looked around the small apartment.
"Sure as hell wasn't a burglary," he said. "There's nothing here to steal. Was your roommate seeing anyone romantically?" "No- Well, yes. There was a girl he was interested in. I think he was really starting to like her."
"Do you know her name?"
"Yes. Alette. Alette Peters. She works in Cupertino." Detective Whittier and Detective Reynolds looked at each other.
"Cupertino?"
"Jesus," Reynolds said.
Thirty minutes later, Detective Whittier was on the phone with Sheriff Dowling. "Sheriff, I thought you might be interested to know that we have a murder here that's the same
M.O. as the case you had in Cupertino- multiple stab wounds and castration."
"My God!"
"I just had a talk with the FBI. Their computer shows that there have been three previous castration killings very similar to this one. The first one happened in Bedford, Pennsylvania, about ten years ago, the next one was a man named Dennis Tibble-that was your case-then there was the same M.O. in Quebec City, and now this one."
"It doesn't make sense. Pennsylvania... Cupertino... Quebec City... San Francisco... Is there any link?" "We're trying to find one. Quebec requires passports. The
FBI is doing a cross-check to see if anyone who was in Quebec City around Christmas was in any of the other cities at the times of the murders. "
When the media got wind of what was happening, their stories were splashed across the front pages across the world:
SERIAL KILLER LOOSE...
QUATRES HOMMES BRUTALEMENT TUES ET CASTRES…
SUCHT WIRD EIN MANN DER SEINE OFFER KAS-TRIERT...
QUATTRO UOMINI SONO STATI CASTRATI E UCCISI.
On the networks, self-important psychologists analyzed the killings.
"... and all the victims were men. Because of the way they were stabbed and castrated, it is undoubtedly the work of a homosexual who. "
"...so if the police can find a connection between the victims, they will probably discover that it was the work of a lover the men had all scorned. "
"... but I would say they were random killings committed by someone who had a dominating mother. "
Saturday morning, Detective Whittier called deputy Blake from San Francisco.
"Deputy, I have an update for you." "Go ahead."
"I just got a call from the FBI. Cupertino is listed as
the residence of an American who was in Quebec on the date of the Parent murder."
"That's interesting. What's his name?" "Her. Patterson. Ashley Patterson."
At six o'clock that evening, deputy Sam Blake rang the
bell at Ashley Patterson's apartment. Through the closed door he heard her call out cautiously, "Who is it?"
"Deputy Blake. I'd like to talk to you. Miss Patterson". There was a long silence, then the door opened. Ashley was standing there, looking wary.
"May I come in?"
"Yes, of course." Is this about Father? I must be careful. Ashley led the deputy to a couch. "What can I do for you, Deputy?"
"Would you mind answering a few questions?"
Ashley shifted uncomfortably. "I-I don't know. Am I under
suspicion for something?"
He smiled reassuringly. "Nothing like that. Miss Patterson. This is just routine. We're investigating some murders."
"I don't know anything about any murders," she said quickly. Too quickly?
"You were in Quebec City recently, weren't you?" "Yes."
"Are you acquainted with Jean Claude Parent?"
"Jean Claude Parent?" She thought for a moment, "No. I've never heard of him. Who is he?"
"He owns a jewelry store in Quebec City."
Ashley shook her head. "I didn't do any jewelry shopping in Quebec."
"You worked with Dennis Tibble."
Ashley felt the fear beginning to rise again. This was about her father. She said cautiously, "I didn't work with him. He worked for the same company."
"Of course. You go into San Francisco occasionally, don't you. Miss Patterson?"
Ashley wondered where this was leading. Careful. "From time to time, yes."
"Did you ever meet an artist there named Richard Melton?" "No. I don't know anyone by that name."
Deputy Blake sat there studying Ashley, frustrated. "Miss Patterson, would you mind coming down to headquarters and taking a polygraph test? If you want to, you can call your lawyer and-"
"I don't need a lawyer. I'll be glad to take a test."
The polygraph expert was a man named Keith Rosson, and he was one of the best. He had had to cancel a dinner ate, but he was happy to oblige Sam Blake.
Ashley was seated in a chair, wired to the polygraph
chine. Rosson had already spent forty-five minutes chatting with her, getting background information and evaluating her emotional state. Now he was ready to begin.
"Are you comfortable?" "Yes."
"Good. Let's start." He pressed a button. "What's your name?"
"Ashley Patterson."
Rosson's eyes kept darting between Ashley and the polygraph printout.
"How old are you. Miss Patterson?"
"Twenty-eight." "Where do you live?"
"10964 Via Camino Court in Cupertino." "Are you employed?"
"Yes."
"Do you like classical music?" "Yes."
"Do you know Richard Melton?" "No."
There was no change on the graph. "Where do you work?" "At Global Computer Graphics Corporation."
"Do you enjoy your job?" "Yes."
"Do you work five days a week?" "Yes."
"Have you ever met Jean Claude Parent?" "No."
Still no change on the graph.
"Did you have breakfast this morning?" "Yes."
"Did you kill Dennis Tibble?" "No."
The questions continued for another thirty minutes and were repeated three times, in a different order.
When the session was over, Keith Rosson walked in Sam Blake's office and handed him the polygraph test "Clean as a whistle. There's a less than one percent chance that she's lying. You've got the wrong person."
Ashley left police headquarters, giddy with relief. Thank God it's over. She had been terrified that they might ask questions that would involve her father, but that had not happened. No one can connect Father with any of this now. She parked her car in the garage and took the elevator up to her apartment floor. She unlocked the door, went inside and carefully locked the door behind her. She felt drained, and at the same time, elated. A nice hot bath, Ashley
thought. She walked into the bathroom and turned dead white. On her bathroom mirror, someone had scrawled in bright red lipstick YOU WILL DIE.
CHAPTER NINE
She was fighting hysteria. Her fingers were trembling so hard that she dialed three times trying to reach the number.
She took a deep breath and tried again. Two... nine... nine... two... one... zero... one...
The phone began to ring. "Sheriff's Office."
"Deputy Blake, please. Hurry!"
"Deputy Blake has gone home. Can someone else-?' "No! I- Would you ask him to call me? This is Ashley Patterson. I need to talk to him right away."
"Let me put you on hold, miss, and I'll see if I reach him."
Deputy Sam Blake was patiently listening to his wife
Serena, screaming at him. "My brother works you a horse, day and night, and he doesn't give you enough money to support me decently. Why don't you demand a raise? Why?"
They were at the dinner table. "Would you pass the potatoes, dear?"
Serena reached over and slammed the dish of potatoes in front of her husband. "The trouble is that they don't appreciate you."
"You're right, dear. May I have some gravy?"
"Aren't you listening to what I'm saying?" she yelled. "Every word, my love. This dinner is delicious. You're a great cook."
"How can I fight you, you bastard, if you won't fight back?"
He took a mouthful of veal. "It's because I love you, darling."
The telephone rang. "Excuse me." He got up and picked up the receiver. "Hello... Yes... Put her trough. Miss
Patterson?" He could hear her sobbing.
"Something-something terrible has happened. You've got to come over here right away."
"I'm on my way."
Serena got to her feet. "What? You're going out? We are in the middle of dinner!"
"It's an emergency, darling. I'll be back as soon as I
can." She watched him strap on his gun. He leaned over kissed her. "Wonderful dinner."
* * *
Ashley opened the door for him the instant he arrived. Her cheeks were tear stained. She was shivering.
Sam Blake stepped into the apartment, looking around warily.
"Is anyone else here?"
"S-someone was here." She was fighting for self-control. "L-look...." She led him to the bathroom.
Deputy Blake read the words on the mirror out loud: "You will die."
He turned to Ashley. "Do you have any idea who could have written that?"
"No," Ashley said. "This is my apartment. No one else has
a key.... And someone has been coming in here. Someone's
been following me. Someone's planning to kill me." She burst into tears. "I can't s-stand this any longer."
She was sobbing uncontrollably. Deputy Blake put his arm around her and patted her shoulder. "Come on. It's going to be all right. We'll give you protection, and we'll find out who's behind this."
Ashley took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I-I don't usually carry on like this. It's-it's just been horrible." "Let's talk," Sam Blake said.
She managed to force a smile. "All right." "How about a nice cup of tea?"
They sat talking over cups of hot tea. "When did all this start, Miss Patterson?"
"About-about six months ago. I felt I was being followed.
At first it was just a vague feeling, but then it began to grow. I knew I was being followed, but I couldn't see anyone. Then at work, someone got into my computer and drew a picture of a hand with a knife in it trying to-to stab me."
"And do you have any idea who it could have been?" "No."
"You said someone has gotten into this apartment before today?"
"Yes. Once, someone turned on all the lights when I was gone. Another time I found a cigarette butt on my dressing table. I don't smoke. And someone opened a drawer and went through my... my underwear." She took a deep breath. "And now. this."
"Do you have any boyfriends who might feel rejected?" Ashley shook her head. "No."
"Have you had any business dealings where somebody's lost money because of you?"
"No."
"No threats from anyone?"
"No." She thought of telling him about the lost weekend in Chicago, but that might involve mentioning her father. She decided to say nothing.
"I don't want to be alone here tonight," Ashley said. "All right. I'll call the station and have them send someone here to-"
"No! Please! I'm afraid to trust anyone else. Could you stay here with me, just until morning?"
"I don't think I-"
"Oh, please." She was trembling.
He looked into her eyes and thought he had never seen anyone so terrified.
"Isn't there someplace you could stay tonight? Don't you have any friends who-?"
"What if it's one of my friends who's doing this?"
He nodded. "Right. I'll stay. In the morning, I'll arrange for twenty-four-hour protection for you."
"Thank you." Her voice was filled with relief.
He patted Ashley's hand. "And don't worry. I promise you that we'll get to the bottom of this. Let me call Sheriff Dowling and tell him what's going on."
He spoke on the phone for five minutes, and when he bung up, he said, "I'd better call my wife."
"Of course."
Deputy Blake picked up the telephone again and dialed. "Hello, darling. I won't be home tonight, so why don't you watch some tel-?"
"You won't what? Where are you, with one of your cheap whores?"
Ashley could hear her screaming over the phone. "Serena-"
"You're not fooling me." "Serena- "
"That's all you men think about-getting laid." "Serena-"
"Well, I won't put up with it any longer." "Serena-"
"That's the thanks I get for being such a go wife. "
The one-sided conversation went on for another ten
minutes. Finally, Deputy Blake replaced the receiver a turned to Ashley, embarrassed.
"I'm sorry about that. She's not like that." Ashley looked at him and said, "I understand." "No-I mean it. Serena acts that way because she's scared."
"Ashley looked at him curiously. "Scared?"
He was silent for a moment. "Serena is dying. She has
cancer. It was in remission for a while. It first started about seven years ago. We've been married for five years." "So you knew...?"
"Yes. It didn't matter. I love her." He stopped. "It's
gotten worse lately. She's scared because she's afraid to die and she's afraid I'll leave her. All the yelling is a
cover-up to hide that fear." "I'm-I'm so sorry."
"She's a wonderful person. Inside, she's gentle and caring and loving. That's the Serena I know."
Ashley said, "I'm sorry if I caused any-" "Not at all." He looked around.
Ashley said, "There's just the one bedroom. You can take it, and I'll sleep on the couch."
Deputy Blake shook his head. "The couch will be fine for me."
Ashley said, "I can't tell you how grateful I am."
"No problem. Miss Patterson." He watched her go into a linen closet and take out sheets and blankets.
She walked over to the couch and spread the linen out. "I hope that you'll-"
"Perfect. I don't plan on doing much sleeping, anyway." He checked the windows to make sure they were locked and then walked over to the door and double-bolted it. "All right." He placed his gun on the table next to the couch. "You get a good night's sleep. In the morning, we'll get everything organized."
Ashley nodded. She walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you."
Deputy Blake watched her walk into the bedroom and close the door. He walked back to the windows and checked them again. It was going to be a long night.
At FBI headquarters in Washington, Special Agent Ra-mirez was talking to Roland Kingsley, the chief of his section. "We have the fingerprints and DNA reports found at the murder scenes in Bedford, Cupertino, Quebec, and San Francisco. We just got in the final DNA report. The fingerprints from the scenes all match, and the DNA traces match."
Kingsley nodded. "So it's definitely a serial killer." "No question."
"Let's find the bastard."
At six o'clock in the morning, deputy Sam Blake's naked
body was found by the wife of the building superintendent in
the alley that ran behind Ashley Patterson's apartment building.
He had been stabbed to death and castrated. CHAPTER TEN
THERE were five of them: Sheriff Dowling, two
plain-clothes detectives and two uniformed policemen. They stood in the living room watching Ashley, sitting in a chair, weeping hysterically.
Sheriff Dowling said, "You're the only one who can help us. Miss Patterson."
Ashley looked up at the men and nodded. She took several deep breaths. "I'll- I'll try."
"Let's start at the beginning. Deputy Blake spent the night here?"
"Y-yes. I asked him to. I-I was desperately afraid." "This apartment has one bedroom."
"That's right."
"Where did deputy Blake sleep?"
Ashley pointed to the couch, which had a blanket and a pillow on it. "He-he spent the night there."
"What time did you go to bed?"
Ashley thought for a moment "It-it must have been around midnight. I was nervous. We had some tea and talked for a while, and I felt calmer. I brought out blankets and a pillow for him, then I went into my bedroom." She was fighting for self-control.
"Was that the last time you saw him?" "Yes."
"And you went to sleep?"
"Not immediately. I finally took a sleeping pill. The next thing I remember, I was awakened by a woman's screams coming from the alley." She began to tremble.
"Do you think someone came into this apartment and lolled deputy Blake?"
"I-I don't know," Ashley said desperately. "Someone has been getting in here. They even wrote a threatening message on my mirror."
"He told me about that on the telephone."
"He might have beard something and-and gone outside to investigate," Ashley said.
Sheriff Dowling shook his head. "I don't think he would have gone out naked."
Ashley cried. "I don't know! I don't know! It's a I nightmare." She covered her eyes with her hands.
Sheriff Dowling said, "I'd like to look around the apartment. Do I need a search warrant?"
"Of course not G-go ahead."
Sheriff Dowling nodded to the detectives. One them went into the bedroom. The other one went into the kitchen. "What did you and deputy Blake talk about?"
Ashley took a deep breath. "I-I told him about- about the things that have been happening to me. He was very-" She looked up at the sheriff. "Why would anyone kill him? Why?" "I don't know. Miss Patterson. We're going to find out." Lieutenant Elton, the detective who had gone into the kitchen, stood in the doorway. "Could I see you for a moment, Sheriff?"
"Excuse me."
Sheriff Dowling walked into the kitchen. "What?"
Lieutenant Eiton said, "I found this in the sink." He was holding up a bloodstained butcher knife by the edge of the blade. "It hasn't been washed. I think we're going to get some prints."
Kostoff, the second detective, came in from the bed-room
and hurried into the kitchen. He was holding an emerald ring, mounted with diamonds. "I found this in jewelry box in the bedroom. It fits the description we got from Quebec of the ring that Jean Claude Parent gave to Toni Prescott." The three men were looking at one another.
"This doesn't make any sense," the sheriff said. Gingerly, he took the butcher knife and the ring and walked back into the living room. He held out the knife and said, "Miss Patterson, is this your knife?"
Ashley looked at it. "I- Yes. It could be. Why?" Sheriff Dowling held out the ring. "Have you ever seen this ring before?"
Ashley looked at it and shook her head. "No." "We found it in your jewelry box."
They watched her expression. She was completely bewildered.
She whispered, "I- Someone must have put it there. "
"Who would do a thing like that?" Her face was pale. "I don't know."
A detective walked in the front door. "Sheriff?"
"Yes, Baker?" He motioned the detective over to a corner.
"What have you got?"
"We found bloodstains on the corridor rug and in the elevator. It looks like the body was laid on a sheet, dragged into the elevator and dumped in the alley."
"Holy shit!" Sheriff Dowling turned to Ashley. "Miss Patterson, you're under arrest. I'm going to read you your rights. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You are entitled to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you by the courts."
When they reached the sheriff's office. Sheriff Dowling said, "Fingerprint her and book her."
Ashley went through the procedure like an automaton. When
it was finished, Sheriff Dowling said, "You have the right to make one phone call."
Ashley looked up at him and said dully, "I have no one to call. "I can't call my father. Sheriff Dowling watched Ashley being led into a cell.
"I'll be goddamned if I understand it. Did you see her polygraph test? I would swear she's innocent."
Detective Kostoff walked in. "Sam had sex before he died. We ran an ultraviolet light over his body and the sheet he was wrapped in. We got a positive result for semen and vaginal stains. We-"
Sheriff Dowling groaned. "Hold it!" He had been putting off the moment when he would have to give his sister the news. It had to be done now. He sighed and said, "I'll be back."
Twenty minutes later, he was at Sam's house.
"Well, this is an unexpected pleasure," Serena said. "Is Sam with you?"
"No, Serena. I have to ask you a question." This was going to be difficult.
She was looking at him curiously. "Yes?"
"Did-did you and Sam have sex within the last twenty-four hours?"
The expression on her face changed. "What? We... No. Why do you want to-? Sam's not coming back, is he?"
"I hate to tell you this, but he-"
"He left me for her, didn't he? I knew it would happen. I don't blame him. I was a terrible wife to him. I-" "Serena, Sam's dead."
"I was always yelling at him. I really didn't mean it. I
remember-"
He took her by the arms. "Serena, Sam's dead." "One time we were going out to the beach and-" He was shaking her. "Listen to me. Sam is dead." "-and we were going to have a picnic."
As he looked at her, he realized that she had heard him. "So we're at the beach and this man comes up and says,
'Give me your money.' And Sam says, 'Let me see your gun.' " Sheriff Dowling stood there and let her talk. She was in a state of shock, in complete denial.
"... that was Sam. Tell me about this woman he went away with. Is she pretty? Sam tells me I'm pretty all the time, but I know I'm not. He says it to make me feel good because he loves me. He'll never leave me. He'll be back. You'll see. He loves me." She went on talking.
Sheriff Dowling went to the phone and dialed a number.
"Get a nurse over here." He went over and put his arms around his sister. "Everything's going to be all right."
"Did I tell you about the time that Sam and I-?" Fifteen minutes later, a nurse arrived.
"Take good care of her," Sheriff Dowling said. There was a conference in Sheriff Dowling's office. "There's a call for you on line one."
Sheriff Dowling picked up the phone. "Yeah?" "Sheriff, this is Special Agent Ramirez at FBI
headquarters in Washington. We have some information for you on the serial killer case. We didn't have any prints on file for Ashley Patterson because she had no criminal record, and before 1988, the DMV didn't require thumb-prints in the state of California to get a driver's license."
"Go ahead."
"In the beginning, we thought it had to be a computer glitch, but we checked it out and..."
For the next five minutes, Sheriff Dowling sat there listening, an incredulous expression on his face. When he finally spoke, he said, "Are you sure there's no mistake? It doesn't seem... All of them... ? I see.... Thank you very much."
He replaced the receiver and sat there for a long moment. Then he looked up. "That was the FBI lab in Washington.
They've finished cross-checking the fingerprints on the bodies of the victims. Jean Claude Parent in Quebec was seeing an English woman named Toni Prescott when he was murdered."
"Yes."
"Richard Melton in San Francisco was seeing an Italian lady named Alette Peters when he was killed." They nodded. "And last night Sam Blake was with Ashley Patterson." "Right."
Sheriff Dowling took a deep breath. "Ashley Patterson..." "Yes?"
"Toni Prescott..." "Yes?"
"Alette Peters..." "Yes?"
"They're all the same fucking person."
BOOK TWO CHAPTER ELEVEN
ROBERT Crowther, the real estate broker from Bryan & Crowther, opened the door with a flourish and announced, "Here's the terrace. You can look down on Coit Tower from here."
He watched the young husband and wife step outside and walk over to the balustrade. The view from there was
magnificent, the city of San Francisco spread out far below them in a spectacular panorama. Robert Crowther saw the couple exchange a glance and a secret smile, and he was amused. They were trying to bide their excitement. The pattern was always the same: Prospective buyers believed that if they showed too much enthusiasm, the price would go up.
For this duplex penthouse, Crowther thought wryly, the
price is high enough already. He was concerned about whether the couple could afford it. The man was a lawyer, and young lawyers did not make that much.
They were an attractive couple, obviously very much in love. David Singer was in his early thirties, blond and intelligent-looking, with an engaging boyishness about him. His wife, Sandra, was lovely looking and warm.
Robert Crowther had noticed the bulge around her stomach and had said, "The second guest room would be perfect for a
nursery. There's a playground a block away and two schools in the neighborhood." He had watched them exchange that secret smile again.
The duplex penthouse consisted of an upstairs master
bedroom with a bath and a guest room. On the first floor was a spacious living room, a dining room, a library, a kitchen,
a second guest bedroom and two bathrooms. Almost every room had a view of the city.
Robert watched the two of them as they walked through the apartment again. They stood in a corner whispering.
"I love it," Sandra was saying to David. "And it would be great for the baby. But, darling, can we afford it? It's six hundred thousand dollars!"
"Plus maintenance," David added. "The bad news is that we can't afford it today. The good news is that we're going to be able to afford it on Thursday. The genie is coming out of the magic bottle, and our lives are going to change."
"I know," she said happily. "Isn't it wonderful!" "Should we go ahead with it?" Sandra took a deep breath. "Let's go for it."
David grinned, waved a hand and said, "Welcome home. Miss. Singer."
Arm in arm, they walked over to where Robert Crowther was waiting. "We'll take it," David told him. "Congratulations. It's one of the choicest residences in San Francisco. You're going to be very happy here."
"I'm sure we are."
"You're lucky. I have to tell you, we have a few other people who are very interested in it."
"How much of a down payment will you want?"
"A deposit of ten thousand dollars now will be fine. I'll have the papers drawn up. When you sign, we'll require another sixty thousand dollars. Your bank can work out a schedule of monthly payments on a twenty-or thirty-year mortgage." David glanced at Sandra. "Okay."
"I'll have the papers prepared."
"Can we look around once more?" Sandra asked eagerly. Crowther smiled benevolently. "Take all the time you want, Mrs. Singer. It's yours."
"It all seems like a wonderful dream, David. I can't believe it's really happening."
"It's happening." David took her in his arms. "I want to make all your dreams come true."
"You do, darling."
They had been living in a small, two-bedroom apartment in the Marina District, but with the baby coming, it was going to be crowded. Until now, they could never have afforded the duplex on Nob Hill, but Thursday was partnership day at the international law firm of Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley,
where David worked. Out of a possible twenty-five candidates,
six would be chosen to enter the rarefied air of the firm's partnership, and everyone agreed that David was one of those who would be selected. Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley, with offices in San Francisco, New York, London, Paris and Tokyo, was one of the most prestigious law firms in the world, and it was usually the number one target for graduates of all the top law schools.
The firm used the stick-and-carrot approach on their young associates. The senior partners took merciless advantage of them, disregarding their hours and illnesses and handing the younger lawyers the donkey's work that they themselves did not want to be bothered with. It was a heavy pressure, twenty-four-hour-a-day job. That was the stick. Those who stayed on did so because of the carrot. The carrot was the promise of a partnership in the firm. Becoming a partner meant a larger salary, a piece of the huge corporate-profit pie, a spacious office with a view, a private washroom, assignments overseas and myriad other perks.
David had practiced corporate law with Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley for six years, and it had been a mixed blessing. The hours were horrific and the stress was enormous, but David, determined to hang in there for the
partnership, had stayed and had done a brilliant job. Now the day was finally at hand.
When David and Sandra left the real estate agent, they
went shopping. They bought a bassinet, highchair, stroller, playpen and clothes for the baby, whom they were already thinking of as Jeffrey. "Let's get him some toys," David said. "There's plenty of time for that." Sandra laughed.
After shopping, they wandered around the city, walking along the waterfront at Ghirardelli Square, past the Cannery to Fisherman's Wharf. They had lunch at the American Bistro.
It was Saturday, a perfect San Francisco day for
monogrammed leather briefcases and power ties, dark suits and discreetly monogrammed shirts, a day for power lunches and penthouses. A lawyer's day.
David and Sandra had met three years earlier at a small dinner party. David had gone to the party with the daughter of a client of the firm. Sandra was a paralegal, working for a rival firm. At dinner, Sandra and David had gotten into an argument about a decision that had been rendered in a political case in Washington. As the others at the dinner table watched, the argument between the two of them had become more and more heated. And in the middle of it, David
and Sandra realized that neither of them cared about the court's decision. They were showing off for each other, engaged in a verbal mating dance.
David telephoned Sandra the next day. "I'd like to finish discussing that decision," David said. "I think it's important."
"So do I," Sandra agreed. "Could we talk about it at dinner tonight?" Sandra hesitated. She had already made a
dinner date for that evening. "Yes," she said. "Tonight will be fine."
They were together from that night on. One year from the day they met, they were married.
Joseph Kincaid, the firm's senior partner, had given David the weekend off.
David's salary at Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley was
$45,000 a year. Sandra kept her job as a paralegal. But now, with the baby coming, their expenses were about to go up. "I'll have to give up my job in a few months," Sandra
said. "I don't want a nanny bringing up our baby, darling. I want to be here for him." The sonogram had shown that the baby was a boy.
"We'll be able to handle it," David assured her. The partnership was going to transform their lives.
David had begun to put in even longer hours. He wanted to make sure that he was not overlooked on partnership day. Thursday morning, as David got dressed, he was watching the news on television.
An anchorman was saying breathlessly, "We have a breaking story.... Ashley Patterson, the daughter of the prominent San Francisco doctor Steven Patterson, has been arrested as the suspected serial killer the police and the FBI have been searching for...." David stood in front of the television set, frozen. "... last night Santa Clara County Sheriff Matt Dowling announced Ashley Patterson's arrest for a series of murders that included bloody castrations. Sheriff Dowling told reporters, 'There's no doubt that we have the right person. The evidence is conclusive.' "
Dr. Steven Patterson. David's mind went back, remembering the past...
He was twenty-one years old and just starting law school. He came home from class one day to find his mother on the bedroom floor, unconscious. He called 911, and an ambulance took his mother to San Francisco Memorial Hospital. David
waited outside the emergency room until a doctor came to talk
to him. "Is she-Is she going to be all right?" The doctor hesitated. "We had one of our cardiologists examine her. She has a ruptured cord in her mitral valve."
"What does that mean?" David demanded. "I'm afraid there's nothing we can do for her. She's too weak to have a transplant, and mini heart surgery is new and too risky." David felt suddenly faint "How-how long can she-?"
"I'd say a few more days, maybe a week. I'm sorry, son." David stood there, panicky. "Isn't there anyone who can help her?"
"I'm afraid not. The only one who might have been able to help is Steven Patterson, bat he's a very-"
"Who's Steven Patterson?"
"Dr. Patterson pioneered minimally invasive heart surgery. But between his schedule and his research, there's no chance that-" David was gone.
He called Dr. Patterson's office from a pay phone in the hospital corridor. "I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Patterson. It's for my mother. She-"
"I'm sorry. We're not accepting any new appointments. The first available time would be six months from now."
"She doesn't have six months," David shouted. "I'm sorry.
I can refer you to-" David slammed down the phone. The following morning David went to Dr. Patterson's office. The waiting room was crowded. David walked up to the receptionist. "I'd like to make an appointment to see Dr.
Patterson. My mother's very ill and-"
She looked up at him and said, "You called yesterday, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"I told you then. We don't have any appointments open, and we're not making any just now."
"I'll wait," David said stubbornly. "You can't wait. The doctor is-" David took a seat. He watched the people in the waiting room being called into the inner office one by one until finally he was the only one left.
At six o'clock, the receptionist said, "There's no point in waiting any longer. Dr. Patterson has gone home." David went to visit his mother in intensive care that evening.
"You can only stay a minute," a nurse warned him. "She's very weak."
David stepped inside the room, and his eyes filled with tears. His mother was attached to a respirator with tubes
running into her arms and through her nose. She looked whiter than the sheets she lay on. Her eyes were closed.
David moved close to her and said, "It's me, Mom. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. You're going to be fine." Tears were running down his cheeks. "Do you hear me? We're going to fight this thing. Nobody can lick the two of us, not as long as we're together. I'm going to get you the best doctor in the world. You just hang in there. I'll be back tomorrow." He bent down and gently kissed her cheek.
Will she be alive tomorrow?
The following afternoon, David went to the garage in the basement of the building where Dr. Patterson had his offices. An attendant was parking cars. He came up to David. "May I help you?"
"I'm waiting for my wife," David said. "She's seeing Dr. Patterson." The attendant smiled. "He's a great guy." "He was telling us about some fancy car that he owns."
David paused, trying to remember. "Was it a Cadillac?" The attendant shook his head. "No." He pointed to a Rolls-Royce parked in the corner. "It's that Rolls over there."
David said, "Right. I think he said he has a Cadillac, too."
"Wouldn't surprise me," the attendant said. He hurried off to park an incoming car.
David walked casually toward the Rolls. When he was sure no one was watching, he opened the door, slipped into the
backseat and got down on the floor. He lay there, cramped and uncomfortable, willing Dr. Patterson to come out
At 6:15, David felt a slight jar as the front door of the
car opened and someone moved into the driver's seat. He heard the engine start, and then the car began to move. "Good night. Dr. Patterson."
"Good night, Marco."
The car left the garage, and David felt it turn a corner. He waited for two minutes, then took a deep breath and sat up.
Dr. Patterson saw him in the rearview mirror. He said calmly, "If this is a holdup, I have no cash with me." "Turn onto a side street and pull over to the curb." Dr. Patterson nodded. David watched warily as the doctor turned the car onto a side street, pulled over to the curb and stopped.
"I'll give you what cash I have on me," Dr. Patterson said. "You can take the car. There's no need for violence.
If-"
David had slid into the front seat. "This isn't a holdup. I don't want the car."
Dr. Patterson was looking at him with annoyance. "What the hell do you want?"
"My name is Singer. My mother's dying. I want you to save her."
There was a flicker of relief on Dr. Patterson's face, replaced by a look of anger. "Make an appointment with my-" "There's no time to make a goddamn appointment" David was yelling. "She's going to die, and I'm not going to let that happen." He was fighting to control himself. "Please. The other doctors told me you're the only hope we have."
Dr. Patterson was watching him, still wary. "What's her problem?"
"She has a-a ruptured cord in her mitral valve. The
doctors are afraid to operate. They say that you're the only one who can save her life." Dr. Patterson shook his head. "My schedule-"
"I don't give a shit about your schedule! This is my mother. You've got to save her! She's all have. "
There was a long silence. David sat there, his eyes tightly shut. He heard Dr. Patterson's voice.
"I won't promise a damn thing, but I'll see her. Where is she?"
David turned to look at him. "She's in the intensive care unit at San Francisco Memorial Hospital."
"Meet me there at eight o'clock tomorrow morning." David had difficulty finding his voice. "I don't know how to-" "Remember, I'm not promising anything. And don't
appreciate being scared out of my wits, young man. Next time, try the telephone."
David sat there, rigid. Dr. Patterson looked at him. "What?"
"There's another problem." "Oh, really?"
"I-I don't have any money. I'm a law student, and I'm
working my way through law school." Dr. Patterson was staring at him. David said passionately, "I swear I'll find a way to pay you back. If it takes all my life, I'll see that you get paid know how expensive you are, and I-"
"I don't think you do, son."
"I have no one else to torn to, Dr. Patterson. I-I'm begging you." There was another silence. "How many years of
law school have you had?" "None. I'm just starting."
"But you expect to be able to pay me back?" "I swear it."
"Get the hell out."
When David got home, he was certain he was going to be picked up by the police for kidnapping, threatening bodily harm, God only knew what. But nothing happened. The question
in his mind was whether Dr. Patterson was going to show up at the hospital.
When David walked into the intensive care ward the next morning. Dr. Patterson was there, examining David's mother. David watched, his heart pounding, his throat dry.
Dr. Patterson turned to one of a group of doctors standing there. "Get her up to the operating room, Al. Stat!"
As they started to slide David's mother onto a gurney, David said hoarsely, "Is she-?"
"We'll see."
Six hours later, David was in the waiting room when Dr. Patterson approached him.
David jumped to his feet. "How is-?" He was afraid to finish the question.
"She's going to be fine. Your mother's a strong lady." David stood there, filled with an overpowering sense of relief. He breathed a silent prayer. Thank you, God.
Dr. Patterson was watching him. "I don't even know your first name."
"David, sir."
"Well, David sir, do you know why decided to do this?" "No..."
"Two reasons. Your mother's condition was a challenge for me. I like challenges. The second reason was you."
"I-I don't understand."
"What you did was the kind of thing I might have done myself when I was younger. You showed imagination. Now"-his tone changed-"you said you were going to repay me." David's heart sank. "Yes, sir. One day-"
"How about now?" David swallowed. "Now?"
"I'll make you a deal. Do you know how to drive?" "Yes, sir..."
"All right. I get tired of driving that big car around.
You drive me to work every morning and pick me up at six or seven o'clock every evening for one year. At the end of that time, I'll consider my fee paid. "
That was the deal. David drove Dr. Patterson to the office and back home every day, and in exchange. Dr. Patterson saved the life of David's mother.
During that year, David learned to revere Dr. Patterson. Despite the doctor's occasional outbursts of temper, he was the most selfless man David had ever known. He was heavily involved in charity work and donated his spare time to free clinics. Driving to and from the office or hospital, he and David had long talks. "What kind of law are you studying, David?"
"Criminal law."
"Why? So you can help the damn scoundrels get off scot-free?"
"No, sir. There are a lot of honest people caught up in the law who need help want to help them."
When the year was up. Dr. Patterson shook David's hand and said, "We're even. "
David had not seen Steven Patterson in years, but he kept coming across his name.
"Dr. Steven Patterson opened a free clinic for babies with AIDS. "
"Dr. Steven Patterson arrived in Kenya today to open the Patterson Medical Center. "
"Work on the Patterson Charity Shelter began today. "
He seemed to be everywhere, donating his time and his money to those who needed him.
Sandra's voice shook David out of his reverie. "David. Are you all right?"
He turned away from the television set "They've just arrested Steven Patterson's daughter for those serial killings."
Sandra said, "That's terrible! I'm so sorry, darling."
"He gave Mother seven more years of a wonderful life. It's unfair that anything like that should happen to a man like him. He's the greatest gentleman I've ever known, Sandra. He doesn't deserve this. How could he have a monster like that for a daughter?" He looked at his watch. "Damn! I'm going to be late."
"You haven't had breakfast."
"I'm too upset to eat." He glanced toward the television set. "This... and today's partnership day. "
"You're going to get it. There's no question about." "There's always a question about it, honey. Every year, someone who's supposed to be a shoo-in winds up in the
loser's box."
She bugged him and said, "They'll be lucky to have you." He leaned over and kissed her. "Thanks, baby. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You'll never have to. You'll call me as soon as you get the news, won't you, David?"
"Of course I will. We'll go out and celebrate." And the words reverberated in his mind. Years ago, he had said to someone else, "We'll go out and celebrate. " And he had lolled her.
The offices of Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley occupied three floors in the TransAmerica Pyramid in downtown San
Francisco. When David Singer walked through the doors, he was greeted with knowing smiles. It seemed to him that there was even a different quality in the "good mornings." They knew they were addressing a future partner in the firm.
On the way to his small office, David passed the newly decorated office that would belong to one of the chosen partners, and he could not resist looking inside. It was a large, beautiful office with a private washroom, a desk and chairs facing a picture window with a magnificent view of the Bay. He stood there a moment, drinking it in.
When David walked into his office, his secretary, Holly, said, "Good morning, Mr. Singer." There was a lilt in her voice. "Good morning, Holly."
"I have a message for you." "Yes?"
"Mr. Kincaid would like to see you in his office at five o'clock." She broke into a broad smile.
So it was really happening. "Great!"
She moved closer to David and said, "I think I should also tell you, I had coffee with Dorothy, Mr. Kincaid's secretary, this morning. She says you're at the top of the list."
David grinned. "Thanks, Holly." "Would you like some coffee?" "Love it."
"Hot and strong, coming up." David walked over to his desk. It was heaped with briefs and contracts and files. Today was the day. Finally. "Mr. Kincaid would like to see you in his office at five o'clock.... You're at the top of the list."
He was tempted to telephone Sandra with the news. Something held him back. I'll wait until it happens, he thought.
David spent the next two hours dealing with the material
on his desk. At eleven o'clock. Holly came in. "There's a Dr. Patterson here to see you. He has no app-"
He looked up in surprise. "Dr. Patterson is here?" "Yes."
David rose. "Send him in."
Steven Patterson came in, and David tried to conceal his reaction. The doctor looked old and tired.
"Hello, David."
"Dr. Patterson. Please, sit down." David watched him slowly take a chair. "I saw the news this morning. I-can't tell you how very sorry I am."
Dr. Patterson nodded wearily. "Yes. It's been quite a blow." He looked up. "I need your help, David."
"Of course," David said eagerly. "Anything I can do. Anything."
"I want you to represent Ashley." It took a moment for the words to sink in. "I-I can't do that I'm not a criminal defense lawyer."
Dr. Patterson looked him in the eye and said, "Ashley's not a criminal."
"I-You don't understand, Dr. Patterson. I'm a corporate lawyer. I can recommend an excellent-"
"I've already had calls from half a dozen top criminal defense lawyers. They all want to represent her." He leaned forward in his chair. "But they're not interested in my daughter, David. This is a high-profile case, and they're looking for the limelight. They don't give a damn about her. I do. She's all I have."
"I want you to save my mother's life. She's all I have." David said, "I really want to help you, but-"
"When you got out of law school, you went to work for a criminal law firm."
David's heart began to beat faster. ' "That's true, but-" "You were a criminal defense lawyer for several years." David nodded. "Yes, but I-I gave it up. That was a long time ago and-"
"Not that long ago, David. And you told me how much you loved it. Why did you quit and go into corporate law?" David sat there, silent for a moment. "It's not important."
Dr. Patterson took out a handwritten letter and banded it to David. David knew what it said, without reading it.
Dear Dr. Patterson,
There are no words that can ever express bow much I owe you and how much I appreciate your great generosity. If
there's ever anything at all that I can do for you, all you have to do is ask me, and it shall be done without question. David stared at the letter without seeing it. "David, will you talk to Ashley?" David nodded. "Yes, of course I'll talk to her, but-"
Dr. Patterson rose. "Thank you." David watched him walk out the door.
"Why did you quit and go into corporate law?"
Because I made a mistake, and an innocent woman I loved is dead. I swore I would never take anyone's life in my hands again. Ever.
I can't defend Ashley Patterson.
David pressed down the intercom button. "Holly, would you ask Mr. Kincaid if he can see me now?"
"Yes, sir."
Thirty minutes later, David was walking into the elaborate offices of Joseph Kincaid. Kincaid was in his sixties, a gray monochrome of a man, physically, mentally and emotionally. "Well," he said as David walked in the door, "you're an anxious young fellow, aren't you? Our meeting wasn't supposed to be until five o'clock."
David approached the desk. "I know. I came here to discuss something else, Joseph." Years ago, David had made the mistake of calling him Joe, and the old man had had a fit. "Don't you ever call me Joe."
"Sit down, David." David took a seat.
"Cigar? They're from Cuba." "No, thanks."
"What's on your mind?"
"Dr. Steven Patterson was just in to see me."
Kincaid said, "He was on the news this morning. Damned shame. What did he want with you?"
"He asked me to defend his daughter."
Kincaid looked at David, surprised. "You're not a criminal defense lawyer."
"I told him that."
"Well, then." Kincaid was thoughtful for a moment "You know. I'd like to get Dr. Patterson as a client. He's very influential. He could bring a lot of business to this firm.
He has connections with several medical organizations that-" "There's more."
Kincaid looked at David, quizzically. "Oh?" "I promised him I'd talk to his daughter."
"I see. Well, I suppose there's no harm in that. Talk to
her, and then we'll find a good defense attorney to represent her."
"That's my plan."
"Good. We'll be building up some points with him. You go ahead." He smiled. "I'll see you at five o'clock." "Right. Thank you, Joseph."
As David walked back to his office, he wondered to himself. Why in the world would Dr. Patterson insist on having me represent his daughter?
CHAPTER TWELVE
AT the Santa Clara County Jail, Ashley Patterson sat in
her cell, too traumatized to try to make sense of how she got there. She was fiercely glad that she was in jail because the bars would keep out whoever was doing this to her. She wrapped the cell around herself like a blanket, trying to ward off the awful, inexplicable things that were happening to her. Her whole life had become a screaming nightmare.
Ashley thought of all the mysterious events that had been happening: Someone breaking into her apartment and playing tricks on her... the trip to Chicago... the writing on her mirror... and now the police accusing her of unspeakable things she knew nothing about. There was some terrible conspiracy against her, but she had no idea who could be behind it or why.
Early that morning one of the guards had come to Ashley's cell. "Visitor."
The guard had led Ashley to the visitors' room, where her father was waiting for her.
He stood there, looking at her, his eyes grief stricken. "Honey...I don't know what to say."
Ashley whispered, "I didn't do any of the terrible things they said I did."
"I know you didn't. Someone's made an awful mistake, but we're going to straighten everything out."
Ashley looked at her father and wondered how she could have ever thought he was the guilty one.
"... don't you worry," he was saying. "Everything's going
to be fine. I am getting a lawyer for you. David Singer. He's one of the brightest young men I know. He'll be coming to see
you. I want you to tell him everything."
Ashley looked at her father and said hopelessly, "Father, I-I don't know what to tell him. I don't know what's happening."
"We'll get to the bottom of this, baby. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you. No one! Ever! You mean too much to me. You're all I have, honey."
"And you're all I have," Ashley whispered.
Ashley's father stayed for another hour. When he left, Ashley's world narrowed down to the small cell she was confined in. She lay on her cot, forcing herself not to think about anything. This will be over soon, and I'll find that this is only a dream.... Only a dream... Only a dream... She slept.
The voice of a guard awakened her. "You have a visitor." She was taken to the visitors' room, and Shane Miller was there, waiting. He rose as Ashley entered. "Ashley..." Her
heart began to pound. "Oh, Shane!" She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. Somehow she had known that he would come and free her, that he would arrange for than to let her go. "Shane, I'm so glad to see you!"
"I'm glad to see you," Shane said awkwardly. He looked around the drab visitors' room. "Although I must say, not under these circumstances. When I heard the news, I-I couldn't believe it. What happened? What made you do it, Ashley?"
The color slowly drained from her face. "What made me-? Do you think that I-?"
"Never mind," Shane said quickly. "Don't say any more. You shouldn't talk to anyone but your attorney."
Ashley stood there, staring at him. He believed she was guilty. "Why did you come here?"
"Well, I-I hale to do this now, but under-under the circumstances, I-the company-is terminating you. I mean... naturally, we can't afford to be connected with anything like this. It's had enough that the newspapers have already mentioned that you work for Global. You understand, don't you? There's nothing personal in this."
* * *
Driving down to San Jose, David Singer decided what he was going to say to Ashley Patterson. He would find oat what he could from her and then turn the information over to Jesse Quiller, one of the best criminal defense lawyers in the country. If anyone could help Ashley, it was Jesse.
David was ushered into the office of Sheriff Dowling. He handed the sheriff his card. "I'm an attorney. I'm here to see Ashley Patterson and-"
"She's expecting you." David looked at him in surprise. "She is?"
"Yeah." Sheriff Dowling turned to a deputy and nodded. The deputy said to David, "This way." He led David into the visitors' room, and a few minutes later, Ashley was brought in from her cell.
Ashley Patterson was a complete surprise to David. He had met her once years ago, when he was in law school, chauffeuring her father. She had struck David as being an attractive, intelligent young girl. Now, he found himself looking at a beautiful young woman with frightened eyes. She took a seat across from him. "Hello, Ashley. I'm David Singer."
"My father told me you would be coming." Her voice was shaky.
"I just came to ask a few questions." She nodded.
"Before I do, I want you to know that anything you tell me is privileged. It will just be between the two of us. But I
need to know the truth." He hesitated. He had not intended to go this far, but he wanted to be able to give Jesse Quiller all the information he could, to persuade him to take the case. "Did you kill those men?"
"No!" Ashley's voice rang with conviction. "I'm innocent!" David pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and glanced at it "Were you acquainted with a Jim Cleary?"
"Yes. We-we were going to be married. I would have had no reason to harm Jim. I loved him."
David studied Ashley a moment, then looked at the sheet of paper again. "What about Dennis Tibble?"
"Dennis worked at the company I worked for. I saw him the night he was murdered, but I had nothing to do with that. I was in Chicago." David was watching Ashley's face. "You have to believe me. I-I had no reason to kill him."
David said, "All right." He glanced at the sheet again. "What was your relationship with Jean Claude Parent?" "The police asked me about him. I had never even heard of him. How could I have killed him when I didn't even know
him?" She looked at David pleadingly. "Don't you see? They have the wrong person. They've arrested the wrong person." She began to weep. "I haven't killed anyone."
"Richard Melton?"
"I don't know who he is either."
David waited while Ashley regained control of herself. "What about deputy Blake?"
Ashley shook her head. "Deputy Blake stayed at my apartment that night to watch over me. Someone had been
stalking me and threatening me. I slept in my bedroom, and he slept on the couch in the living room. They-they found his body in the alley." Her lips were trembling. "Why would I kill him? He was helping me!"
David was studying Ashley, puzzled. Something's very wrong here, David thought, Either she's telling the truth or she's one hell of an actress. He stood up. "I'll be back. I want to talk to the sheriff." Two minutes later, he was in the sheriff's office. "Well, did you talk to her?" Sheriff Dowling asked. "Yes. I think you've gotten yourself in a box. Sheriff."
"What does that mean. Counselor?"
"It means you might have been too eager to make an arrest Ashley Patterson doesn't even know two of the people you're accusing her of killing."
A small smile touched Sheriff Dowling's lips. "She fooled you, too, hub? She sure as hell fooled us."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'll show you, mister." He opened a file folder on his desk and handed David some papers. "These are copies of coroner's reports, FBI reports, DNA reports and Interpol
reports on the five men who were murdered and castrated. Each victim had had sex with a woman before he was murdered. There were vaginal traces and fingerprints at each of the murder scenes. There were supposed to have been three different women involved. Well, the FBI collated all this evidence, and guess what they came up with? The three women turned out to be Ashley Patterson. Her DNA and fingerprints are positive on every one of the murders."
David was staring at him in disbelief. "Are-are you sure?" "Yeah. Unless you want to believe that Interpol, the FBI and five different coroner's offices are out to frame your
client. It's all there, mister. One of the men she killed was my brother-in-law. Ashley Patterson's going to be tried for first-degree murder, and she's going to be convicted.
Anything else?"
"Yes." David took a deep breath. "I'd like to see Ashley Patterson again."
They brought her back to the visitors' room. When she
walked inside, David asked angrily, "Why did you lie to me?" "What? I didn't lie to you. I'm innocent. I-"
"They have enough evidence against you to bum you a dozen times over. I told you I wanted the truth."
Ashley looked at him for a full minute, and when she spoke, she said in a quiet voice, "I told you the truth. I have nothing more to say."
Listening to her, David thought. She really believes what she's saying. I'm talking to a nut case. What am I going to tell Jesse Quiller? "Would you talk to a psychiatrist?"
"I don't-Yes. If you want me to."
"I'll arrange it." On his way back to San Francisco, David thought, I kept my end of the bargain. I talked to her. If she really thinks she's telling the truth, then she's crazy. I'll get her to Jesse, who will plead insanity, and that will be the end of it.
His heart went out to Steven Patterson.
At San Francisco Memorial Hospital, Dr. Patterson was receiving the condolences of his fellow doctors. "It's a damn shame, Steven. You sure don't deserve anything like this. "
"It must be a terrible burden for you. If there's anything I can do. "
"I don't know what gets into kids these days. Ashley always seemed so normal. "
And behind each expression of condolence was the thought: Thank God it's not my kid.
When David returned to the law firm, he hurried in to see Joseph Kincaid.
Kincaid looked up and said, "Well, it's after six o'clock, David, but I waited for you. Did you see Dr. Patterson's daughter?"
"Yes, I did."
"And did you find an attorney to defend her?" David hesitated. "Not yet, Joseph. I'm arranging for a psychiatrist to see her. I'll be going back in the morning to talk to her again."
Joseph Kincaid looked at David, puzzled. "Oh? Frankly, I'm surprised that you're getting this involved. Naturally, we can't have this firm associated with anything as ugly as this trial is going to be."
"I'm not really involved, Joseph. It's just that I owe a great deal to her father. I made him a promise." "There's nothing in writing, is there?"
"No."
"So it's only a moral obligation?" David studied him a moment, started to say something, then stopped. "Yes. It's only a moral obligation."
"Well, when you're through with Miss Patterson, I come back and we'll talk."
Not a word about the partnership.
When David got home that evening, the apartment was in darkness.
"Sandra?"
There was no answer. As David started to turn on the lights in the hallway, Sandra suddenly appeared from the kitchen, carrying a cake with lit candles.
"Surprise! We're having a celebration-" She saw the look on David's face and stopped. "Is something wrong, darling?
Didn't you get it, David? Did they give it to someone else?" "No, no," he said reassuringly. "Everything's fine."
Sandra put down the cake and moved closer to him. "Something's wrong."
"It's just that there's been a... a delay." "Wasn't your meeting with Joseph Kincaid today?"
"Yes. Sit down, honey. We have to talk." They sat down on
the couch, and David said, "Something unexpected has come up. Steven Patterson came to see me this morning."
"He did? What about?"
"He wants me to defend his daughter."
Sandra looked at him in surprise. "But, David... you're not-"
"I know. I tried to tell him that. But I have practiced criminal law."
"But you're not doing that anymore. Did you tell him you're about to become a partner in your firm?"
"No. He was very insistent that I was the only one who could defend his daughter. It doesn't make any sense, of
course I tried to suggest someone like Jesse Quiller, but he wouldn't even listen."
"Well, he'll have to get someone else."
"Of course. I promised to talk to his daughter, and I did."
Sandra sat back on the couch. "Does Mr. Kincaid know about this?"
"Yes. I told him. He wasn't thrilled." He mimicked Kincaid's voice. " 'Naturally, we can't have this firm associated with anything as ugly as this trial is going to
be.'"
"What's Dr. Patterson's daughter like?" "In medical terms, she's a fruitcake."
"I'm not a doctor," Sandra said. "What does that mean?" "It means that she really believes she's innocent." "Isn't that possible?"
"The sheriff in Cupertino showed me the file on her. Her DNA and fingerprints are all over the murder scenes." "What are you going to do now?"
"I've called Royce Salem. He's a psychiatrist that Jesse Quiller's office uses. I'm going to have him examine. Ashley and turn the report over to her father. Dr. Patterson can bring in another psychiatrist if he likes, or turn the report over to whichever attorney is going to handle the case."
"I see." Sandra studied her husband's troubled face. "Did Mr. Kincaid say anything about the partnership, David?" He shook his head. "No."
Sandra said brightly, "He will. Tomorrow's another day." Dr. Royce Salem was a tall, thin man with a Sigmund Freud beard.
Maybe that's just a coincidence, David told himself. Surely he's not trying to look like Freud.
"Jesse talks about you often," Dr. Salem said. "He's very fond of you."
"I'm fond of him. Dr. Salem."
"The Patterson case sounds very interesting. Obviously the work of a psychopath. You're planning an insanity plea?" "Actually," David told him, "I'm not handling the case.
Before I get an attorney for her. I'd like to get an evaluation of her mental state." David briefed Dr. Salem on the facts as he knew them. "She claims she's innocent, but the evidence shows she committed the crimes."
"Well, let's have a look at the lady's psyche, shall we?" The hypnotherapy session was to take place in the Santa
Clara County Jail, in an interrogation room. The furniture in the room consisted of a rectangular wooden table and four wooden chairs.
Ashley, looking pale and drawn, was led into the room by a matron.
"I'll wait outside," the matron said, and withdrew. David said, "Ashley, this is Dr. Salem. Ashley Patterson."
Dr. Salem said, "Hello, Ashley." She stood there, nervously looking from one to the other, without speaking. David had the feeling that she was ready to flee the room.
"Mr. Singer tells me that you have no objection to being hypnotized." Silence.
Dr. Salem went on. "Would you let me hypnotize you, Ashley?"
Ashley closed her eyes for a second and nodded. "Yes." "Why don't we get started?"
"Well, I'll be running along," David said. "If-"
"Just a moment." Dr. Salem walked over to David. "I want you to stay."
David stood there, frustrated. He regretted now that he
had gone this far. I'm not going to get in any deeper, David resolved. This will be the end of it.
"All right," David said reluctantly. He was eager to have it over with so he could get back to the office. The coming meeting with Kincaid loomed large in his mind.
Dr. Salem said to Ashley, "Why don't you sit in this chair?" Ashley sat down.
"Have you ever been hypnotized before, Ashley?" She hesitated an instant, then shook her head. "No." "There's nothing to it. All you have to do is relax and
listen to the sound of my voice. You have nothing to worry about. No one's going to hurt you. Feel your muscles relax. That's it. Just relax and feel your eyes getting heavy.
You've been through a lot. Your body is tired, very tired. All you want to do is to go to sleep. Just close your eyes and relax. You're getting very sleepy... very sleepy. "
It took ten minutes to put her under. Dr. Salem walked over to Ashley. "Ashley, do you know where you are?" "Yes. I'm in jail." Her voice sounded hollow, as though coming from a distance. "Do you know why you're in jail?" "People think I did something bad."
"And is it true? Did you do something bad?" "No."
"Ashley, did you ever kill anyone?" "No."
David looked at Dr. Salem in surprise. Weren't people supposed to tell the truth under hypnosis?
"Do you have any idea who could have committed those murders?"
Suddenly, Ashley's face contorted and she began breathing hard, in short, raspy breaths. The two men watched in astonishment as her persona started changing. Her Ups tightened and her features seemed to shift. She sat up straight, and there was a sudden liveliness in her face. She
opened her eyes, and they were sparkling. It was an amazing transformation. Unexpectedly, she began to sing, in a sultry voice with an English accent:
"Half a pound of tupenny rice, Half a pound of treacle,
Mix it up and make it nice, Pop! goes the weasel."
David listened in astonishment. Who does she think she's fooling? She's pretending to be someone else. "I want to ask you some more questions, Ashley." She tossed her head and said in an English accent, "I'm not Ashley."
Dr. Salem exchanged a look with David, then turned back to Ashley. "If you're not Ashley, who are you?"
"Toni. Toni Prescott."
And Ashley is doing this with a straight face, David thought How long is she going to go on with this stupid charade? She was wasting their time.
"Ashley," said Dr. Salem. "Toni."
She's determined to keep it up, David thought "All right, Toni. What I'd like is-"
"Let me tell you what I'd like. I'd like to get out of this bloody place. Can you get us out of here?"
"That depends," Dr. Salem said. "What do you know about-?" "-those murders that little Goody Two-shoes is in here for? I can tell you things that-"
Ashley's expression suddenly started to change again. As David and Dr. Salem watched, Ashley seemed to shrink in her chair, and her face began to soften and go through an incredible metamorphosis until she seemed to become another distinct personality.
She said in a soft voice with an Italian accent, "Toni... don't say any more, per piacere."
David was watching in bewilderment. "Toni?" Dr. Salem edged closer.
The soft voice said, "I apologize for the interruption, Dr. Salem."
Dr. Salem asked, "Who are you?" "I am Alette. Alette Peters."
My God, it's not an act, David thought. It's real. He turned to Dr. Salem.
Dr. Salem said quietly, "They're alters."
David stared at him, totally confused. "They're what?" "I'll explain later."
Dr. Salem turned back to Ashley. "Ashley... I mean Alette... How-how many of you are in there?"
"Beside Ashley, only Toni and me," Alette answered. "You have an Italian accent."
"Yes. I was born in Rome. Have you ever been to Rome?" "No, I've never been to Rome."
I can't believe I'm hearing this conversation, David thought.
"E molto bello."
"I'm sure. Do you know Toni?" "Si, naturalmente."
"She has an English accent." "Toni was born in London."
"Right Alette, I want to ask you about these murders. Do you have any idea who-?"
And David and Dr. Salem watched as Ashley's face and personality changed again before their eyes. Without her saying a word, they knew that she had become Toni. "You're wasting your time with her, luv."
There was that English accent.
"Alette doesn't know anything. I'm the one you're going to have to talk to."
"All right, Toni. I'll talk to you. I have some questions for you."
"I'm sure you do, but I'm tired." She yawned. "Miss Tight Ass has kept us up all night I've got to get some sleep." "Not now, Toni. Listen to me. You have to help us to-" Her face hardened. "Why should I help you? What has Miss
Goody Two-shoes done for Alette or me? All she ever does is keep us from having fun. Well, I'm sick of it, and I'm sick of her. Do you hear me?" She was screaming, her face contorted.
Dr. Salem said, "I'm going to bring her out of it." David was perspiring. "Yes."
Dr. Salem leaned close to Ashley. "Ashley... Ashley... Everything is fine. Close your eyes now. They're very heavy, very heavy. You're completely relaxed. Ashley, your mind is at peace. Your body is relaxed. You're going to wake up at the count of five, completely relaxed. One..." He looked over at David and then back at Ashley. "Two..."
Ashley began to stir. They watched her expression start to change.
"Three..."
Her face softened. "Tour..."
They could sense her returning, and it was an eerie feeling.
"Five."
Ashley opened her eyes. She looked around the room. "I feel- Was I asleep?"
David stood there, staring at her, stunned. "Yes," Dr. Salem said.
Ashley turned to David. "Did I say anything? I mean... was helpful?"
My God, David thought. She doesn't know! She really
doesn't know! David said, "You did fine, Ashley. I'd like to talk to Dr. Salem alone."
"All right."
"I'll see you later."
The men stood there, watching the matron lead Ashley away. David sank into a chair.
"What-what the hell was that all about?"
Dr. Salem took a deep breath. "In all the years that I've been practicing, I've never seen a more clear-cut case." "A case of what?"
"Have you ever heard of multiple personality disorder?" "What is it?"
"It's a condition where there are several completely different personalities in one body. It's also known as dissociatve identity disorder. It's been in the psychiatric literature for more than two hundred years. It usually starts because of a childhood trauma. The victim shuts out the trauma by creating another identity. Sometimes a person will have dozens of different personalities or alters."
"And they know about each other?"
"Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no. Toni and Alette know each other. Ashley is obviously not aware of either of them.
Alters are created because the host can't stand the pain of the trauma. It's a way of escape. Every time a fresh shock occurs, a new alter can be born. The psychiatric literature on the subject shows that alters can be totally different from one another. Some alters are stupid, while others are brilliant. They can speak different languages. They have varied tastes and personalities."
"How-how common is this?"
"Some studies suggest that one percent of the entire
population suffers from multiple personality disorder, and that up to twenty percent of all patients in psychiatric hospitals have it."
David said, "But Ashley seems so normal and-"
"People with MPD are normal... until an alter takes over. The host can have a job, raise a family and live a perfectly ordinary life, but an alter can take over at any time. An
alter can be in control for an hour, a day or even weeks, and then the host suffers a fugue, a loss of time and memory, for the period that the alter is in charge."
"So Ashley-the host-would have no recollection of anything that the alter does?"
"None." David listened, spellbound.
"The most famous case of multiple personality disorder was Bridey Murphy. That's what first brought the subject to the public's attention. Since then, there have been an endless number of cases, but none as spectacular or as well publicized."
"It-it seems so incredible."
"It's a subject that's fascinated me for a long time. There are certain patterns that almost never change. For instance, frequently, alters use the same initials as then-host-Ashley Patterson... Alette Peters... Toni Prescott....
"Toni-?" David started to ask. Then he realized, "Antoinette?"
"Right. You've heard the expression 'alter ego.' " "Yes."
"In a sense, we all have alter egos, or multiple personalities. A kind person can commit acts of cruelty. Cruel people can do kind things. There's no limit to the incredible range of human emotions. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is fiction, but it's based on fact."
David's mind was racing. "If Ashley committed the murders. "
"She would not be aware of it. It was done by one of her alters."
"My God! How can I explain that in court?" Dr. Salem looked at David curiously. "I thought you said you weren't going to be her attorney."
David shook his head. "I'm not. I mean, don't know. I-At this point, I'm a multiple personality myself." David was silent for a moment. "Is this curable?"
"Often, yes."
"And if it can't be cured, what happens?" There was a pause. "The suicide rate is quite high."
"And Ashley knows nothing about this?" "No."
"Would-would you explain it to her?" "Yes, of course."
"No!" It was a scream. She was cowering against the wall
of her cell, her eyes filled with terror. "You're lying! It's not true!"
Dr. Salem said, "Ashley, it is. You have to face it. I've explained to you that what happened to you is not your fault. I-"
"Don't come near me!"
"No one's going to hurt you."
"I want to die. Help me die!" She began sobbing uncontrollably.
Dr. Salem looked at the matron and said, "You'd better give her a sedative. And put a suicide watch on her." David telephoned Dr. Patterson. "I need to talk to you." "I've been waiting to hear from you, David. Did you see Ashley?"
"Yes. Can we meet somewhere?" "I'll wait in my office for you."
* * *
Driving back to San Francisco, David thought. There's no way that I can take this case. I have too much to lose. I'll find her a good criminal attorney and that will be the end of it.
Dr. Patterson was waiting for David in his office. "You talked to Ashley?"
"Yes."
"Is she all right?"
How do I answer that question? David took a deep breath. "Have you ever heard of multiple personality disorder?" Dr. Patterson frowned. "Vaguely..."
"It's when one or more personalities-or alters-exist in a person and take control from time to time, and that person is not aware of it. Your daughter has multiple personality disorder."
Dr. Patterson was looking at him, stunned. "What? I-can't believe it. Are you sure?"
"I listened to Ashley while Dr. Salem had her under hypnosis. She has two alters. At various times, they possess
her." David was talking more rapidly now. "The sheriff showed
me the evidence against your daughter. There's no doubt that she committed the murders."
Dr. Patterson said. "Oh, my God! Then she's-she's guilty?" "No. Because I don't believe she was aware that she committed the murders. She was under the influence of one of the alters. Ashley had no reason to commit those crimes. She
had no motive, and she was not in control of herself. I think the state may have a difficult time proving motive or intent."
"Then your defense is going to be that-" David stopped
him. "I'm not going to defend her. I'm going to get you Jesse Quiller. He's a brilliant trial lawyer. I used to work with him, and he's the most-"
"No." Dr. Patterson's voice was sharp. "You must defend Ashley."
David said patiently, "You don't understand. I'm not the right one to defend her. She needs-"
"I told you before that you're the only one I trust. My daughter means everything in the world to me, David. You're going to save her life."
"I can't. I'm not qualified to-"
"Of course you are. You were a criminal attorney." "Yes, but I-"
"I won't have anyone else." David could see that Dr. Patterson was trying to keep his temper under control. This makes no sense, David thought. He tried again. "Jesse Quiller is the best-"
Dr. Patterson leaned forward, the color rising in his
face. "David, your mother's life meant a lot to you. Ashley's life means as much to me. You asked for my help once, and you put your mother's life in my hands. I'm asking for your help now, and I'm putting Ashley's life in your hands. I want you to defend Ashley. You owe me that."
He won't listen, David thought despairingly. What's the matter with him? A dozen objections flashed through David's mind, but they all faded before that one line: "You owe me that." David tried one last time. "Dr. Patterson-"
"Yes or no, David." CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WHEN David got home, Sandra was waiting for him. "Good evening, darling."
He took her in his arms and thought. My God, she's lovely.
What idiot said that pregnant woman weren't beautiful? Sandra said excitedly, "The baby lacked again today." She took David's band and put it on her belly. "Can you feel him?"
After a few moments, David said, "No. He's a stubborn little devil."
"By the way, Mr. Crowther called." "Crowther?"
"The real estate broker. The papers are ready to be signed." David felt a sudden sinking feeling. "Oh." "I want to show you something," Sandra said eagerly. "Don't go away."
David watched her hurry into the bedroom and thought. What am I going to do? I have to make a decision.
Sandra came back into the room holding up several samples of blue wallpaper. "We're doing the nursery in blue, and
we'll do the living room of the apartment in blue and white, your favorite colors. Which color wallpaper do you like, the lighter shade or the darker?"
David forced himself to concentrate. "The lighter looks good."
"I like it, too. The only problem is that the rug is going to be a dark blue. Do you think they should match?"
I can't give up the partnership. I've worked too hard for it. It means too much.
"David. Do you think they should match?"
He looked at her. "What? Oh. Yes. Whatever you think, honey."
"I'm so excited. It's going to be beautiful." There's no way we can afford it tf I don't get the partnership.
Sandra looked around the little apartment. "We can use
some of this furniture, but I'm afraid we're going to need a lot of new things." She looked at him anxiously. "We can handle it, can't we, darling? I don't want to go overboard." "Right," David said absently.
She snuggled against his shoulder. "It's going to be like
a whole new life, isn't it? The baby and the partnership and the penthouse went by there today wanted to see the playground and the school. The playground's beautiful. It has slides and swings and jungle gyms want you to come with me Saturday to look at it. Jeffrey's going to adore it."
Maybe I can convince Kincaid that this would be a good thing for the firm.
"The school looks nice. It's just a couple blocks from our condo, and it's not too large think that's important."
David was listening to her now and thought, I can't let
her down can't take away her dreams. I'll tell Kincaid in the morning that I'm not taking the Patterson case. Patterson will have to find someone else.
"We'd better get ready, darling. We're due at the Quillers' at eight o'clock."
This was the moment of truth. David felt himself tense. "There's something we have to talk about."
"Yes?"
"I went to see Ashley Patterson this morning."
"Oh? Tell me about it. Is she guilty? Did she do those terrible things?"
"Yes and no."
"Spoken like a lawyer. What does that mean?"
"She committed the murders... but she's not guilty." "David-!"
"Ashley has a medical condition called multiple
personality disorder. Her personality is split, so that she does things without knowing she's doing them."
Sandra was staring at him. "How horrible."
"There are two other personalities. I've heard them." "You've heard them?"
"Yes. And they're real. I mean, she's not faking." "And she has no idea that she-?"
"None."
"Then is she innocent or guilty?"
"That's for the courts to decide. Her father won't talk to Jesse Quiller, so I'll have to find some other attorney." "But Jesse's perfect. Why won't he talk to him?" David hesitated. "He wants me to defend her."
"But you told him you can't, of course." "Of course."
"Then-?"
"He won't listen."
"What did he say, David?"
He shook his head. "It doesn't matter." "What did he say?"
David replied slowly, "He said that I trusted him enough
to put my mother's life in his hands, and he saved her, and now he was trusting me enough to put his daughter's life in my hands, and he is asking me to save her." Sandra was studying his face. "Do you think you could?"
"I don't know. Kincaid doesn't want me to take the case. If I did take it, I could lose the partnership."
"Oh." There was a long silence.
When he spoke, David said, "I have a choice. I can say no to Dr. Patterson and become a partner in the firm, or I can defend his daughter and probably go on an unpaid leave, and see what happens afterward."
Sandra was listening quietly.
"There are people much better qualified to handle Ashley's case, but for some damn reason, her father won't hear of anyone else. I don't know why he's so stubborn about it, but he is. If I take the case and I don't get the partnership, we'll have to forget about moving. We'll have to forget about a lot of our plans, Sandra."
Sandra said softly, "I remember before we were married,
you told me about him. He was one of the busiest doctors in the world, but he found time to help a penniless young boy. He was your hero, David. You said that if we ever had a son, you would want him to grow up to be like Steven Patterson." David nodded.
"When do you have to decide?"
"I'm seeing Kincaid first thing in the morning." Sandra took his hand and said, "You don't need that much time. Dr. Patterson saved your mother. You're going to save his daughter." She looked around and smiled. "Anyway, we can always do this apartment over in blue and white."
Jesse Quiller was one of the top criminal defense attorneys in the country. He was a tall, rugged man with a
homespun touch that made jurors identify with him. They felt that he was one of them, and they wanted to help him. That was one of the reasons he seldom lost a case. The other reasons were that he had a photographic memory and a brilliant mind.
Instead of vacationing, Quiller used his summers to teach law, and years earlier David had been one of his pupils. When David graduated, Quiller invited him to join his criminal law firm, and two years later, David had become a partner. David loved practicing criminal law and excelled at it. He made sure that at least 10 percent of his cases were pro bono.
Three years after becoming a partner, David had abruptly resigned and gone to work for Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley to practice corporate law.
Over the years, David and Quiller had remained close friends. They, and their wives, had dinner together once a
week.
Jesse Quiller had always fancied tall, sylphlike, sophisticated blondes. Then he had met Emily and fallen in love with her. Emily was a prematurely gray dumpling of a woman, from an Iowa farm-the exact opposite of other women Quiller had dated. She was a caretaker, mother earth. They made an unlikely couple, but the marriage worked because they were deeply in love with each other.
Every Tuesday, the Singers and the Quillers had dinner and then played a complicated card game called Liverpool.
When Sandra and David arrived at the Quillers' beautiful home on Hayes Street, Jesse met them at the door. He gave Sandra a bug and said, "Come in. We've got the champagne on ice. It's a big day for you, hub? The new penthouse and the partnership. Or is it the partnership and the penthouse?" David and Sandra looked at each other. "Emily's in the kitchen fixing a celebration dinner." He looked at their faces. "I think it's a celebration dinner. Am I missing something?"
David said, "No, Jesse. It's just that we may have a- a little problem."
"Come on in. Fix you a drink?" He looked at Sandra. "No, thanks. I don't want the baby to get into bad habits."
"He's a lucky kid, having parents like you," Quiller said warmly. He turned to David. "What can I get for you?" "I'm fine," David said.
Sandra started toward the kitchen. "I'll go see if I can help Emily."
"Sit down, David. You look serious." "I'm in a dilemma," David admitted.
"Let me guess. Is it the penthouse or the partnership?" "Both."
"Both?"
"Yes. You know about the Patterson case?"
"Ashley Patterson? Sure. What's that got to do with-?" He stored. "Wait a minute. You told me about Steven Patterson, in law school. He saved your mother's life."
"Yes. He wants me to defend his daughter. I tried to torn the case over to you, but he won't hear of anyone but me defending her."
Quiller frowned. "Does he know you're not practicing criminal law anymore?"
"Yes. That's what's so damn strange. There are dozens of
lawyers who can do a hell of a lot better job than I can." "He knows that you were a criminal defense lawyer?"
"Yes."
Quiller said carefully, "How does he feel about his daughter?"
What a strange question, David thought "She means more to him than anything in the world."
"Okay. Suppose you took her case. The downside is that-" "The downside is that Kincaid doesn't want me to take it. If I do, I have a feeling that I'll lose the partnership." "I see. And that's where the penthouse comes in?" David said angrily, "That's where my whole god-damn future comes in. It would be stupid for me to do this, Jesse. I mean really stupid!"
"What are you getting mad about?" David took a deep breath. "Because I'm going to do it."
Quiller smiled. "Why am I not surprised?" David ran his hand across his forehead, "if I turned him down, and his daughter was convicted and executed, and I did nothing to help, I-I couldn't live with myself."
"I understand. How does Sandra feel about this?" David managed a smile. "You know Sandra."
"Yeah. She wants you to go a bead with it." "Right."
Quiller leaned forward. "I'll do everything I can to help you, David."
David sighed. "No. That's part of my bargain. I have to handle this alone."
Quiller frowned. "That doesn't make any sense."
"I know. I tried to explain that to Dr. Patterson, but he wouldn't listen."
"Have you told Kincaid about this yet?"
"I'm having a meeting with him in the morning." "What do you think will happen?"
"I know what's going to happen. He's going to advise me
not to take the case and, if I insist, he'll ask me to take a leave of absence without pay."
"Let's have lunch tomorrow. Rubicon, one o'clock." David nodded. "Fine."
Emily came in from the kitchen wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. David and Quiller rose.
"Hello, David." Emily hustled up to him, and he gave her a kiss on the cheek.
"I hope you're hungry. Dinner's almost ready. Sandra's in
the kitchen helping me. She's such a dear." She picked up a tray and hurried back into the kitchen.
Quiller turned to David. "You mean a great deal to Emily
and me. I'm going to give you some advice. You've got to let go." David sat there, saying nothing. "That was a long time ago, David. And what happened wasn't your fault. It could have happened to anyone."
David looked at Quiller. "It happened to me, Jesse. I killed her."
* * *
It was deja vu. All over again. And again. David sat there, transported back to another time and another place. It had been a pro bono case, and David had said to Jesse Quiller, "I'll handle it."
Helen Woodman was a lovely young woman accused of murdering her wealthy stepmother. There had been bitter
public quarrels between the two, but all the evidence against Helen was circumstantial. After David had gone to the jail and met with her, he was convinced she was innocent. With each meeting, he had become more emotionally involved. In the end, he had broken a basic rule: Never fall in love with a client.
The trial had gone well. David had refuted the prosecutor's evidence bit by bit, and he had won the jury
over to his client's side. And unexpectedly, a disaster had occurred. Helen's alibi was that at the time of the murder she had been at the theater with a friend. Under questioning in court, her friend admitted that the alibi was a lie, and a witness had come forward to say that he had seen Helen at her stepmother's apartment at the time of the murder. Helen's credibility was completely gone. The jury convicted her of first-degree murder, and the judge sentenced her to be executed. David was devastated.
"How could you have done this, Helen?" he demanded. "Why did you lie to me?"
"I didn't kill my stepmother, David. When I got to her apartment, I found her on the floor, dead. I was afraid you wouldn't believe me, so I-I made up the story about being at the theater."
He stood there, listening, a cynical expression on his face.
"I'm telling you the truth, David."
"Are you?" He turned and stormed out. Sometime during the night, Helen committed suicide. One week later, an ex-convict
caught committing a burglary confessed to the murder of Helen's stepmother.
The next day, David quit Jesse Quiller's firm. Quiller had tried to dissuade him.
"It wasn't your fault, David. She lied to you and-" "That's the point. I let her. I didn't do my job. I didn't
make sure she was telling me the truth. I wanted to believe her, and because of that, I let her down."
Two weeks later, David was working for Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley.
"I'll never be responsible for another person's life," David had sworn. And now he was defending Ashley Patterson.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AT ten o'clock the following morning, David walked into Joseph Kincaid's office. Kincaid was signing some papers and he glanced up as David entered.
"Ah. Sit down, David. I'll be through in a moment." David sat down and waited.
When Kincaid had finished, he smiled and said, "Well! You have some good news, I trust?"
Good news for whom? David wondered.
"You have a very bright future here, David, and I'm sure
you wouldn't want to do anything to spoil that. The firm has big plans for you."
David was silent, trying to find the right words. Kincaid said, "Well? Have you told Dr. Patterson that you'd find another lawyer for him?"
"No. I've decided that I'm going to defend her." Kincaid's smile faded. "Are you really going to defend that woman, David? She's a vicious, sick murderer. Anyone who defends her will be tarred with the same brush."
"I'm not doing this because I want to, Joseph. I'm obligated. I owe Dr. Patterson a great deal, and this is the only way I can ever repay him."
Kincaid sat there, silent. When he finally spoke, he said, "If you've really decided to go ahead with this, then I suggest that it would be appropriate for you to take a leave of absence. Without pay, of course."
Good-bye, partnership.
"After the trial, naturally, you'll come back to us and the partnership will be waiting for you."
David nodded. "Naturally."
"I'll have Collins take over your workload. I'm sure you'll want to begin concentrating on the trial." Thirty minutes later, the partners of Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley were in a meeting.
"We can't afford to have this firm be involved in a trial like that," Henry Turner objected.
Joseph Kincaid was quick to respond. "We're not really involved, Henry. We're giving the boy a leave of absence." Albert Rose spoke up. "I think we should cut him loose." "Not yet. That would be shortsighted. Dr. Patterson could be a cash cow for us. He knows everybody, and he'll be grateful to us for letting him borrow David. No matter what happens at the trial, it's a win-win situation. If it goes well, we get the doctor as a client and make Singer a partner. If the trial goes badly, we'll drop Singer and see if we can't keep the good doctor. There's really no downside."
There was a moment of silence, then John Ripley grinned. "Good thinking, Joseph."
When David left Kincaid's office, he went to see Steven Patterson. He had telephoned ahead, and the doctor was waiting for him.
"Well, David?"
My answer is going to change my life, David thought. And not for the better. "I'm going to defend your daughter, Dr. Patterson."
Steven Patterson took a deep breath. "I knew it I would
have bet my life on it." He hesitated a moment. "I'm betting my daughter's life on it."
"My firm has given me a leave of absence. I'm going to get help from one of the best trial lawyers in the-"
Dr. Patterson raised a hand. "David, I thought I made it clear to you that I don't want anyone else involved in this case. She's in your hands and your hands only."
"I understand," David said. "But Jesse Quiller is-"
Dr. Patterson got to his feet. "I don't want to hear
anything more about Jesse Quiller or any of the rest of them. I know trial lawyers, David. They're interested in the money and the publicity. This isn't about money or publicity. This is about Ashley."
David started to speak, then stopped. There was nothing he could say. The man was fanatic on the subject.
I can use all the help I can get, David thought. Why won't he let me?
"Have I made myself clear?" David nodded. "Yes."
"I'll take care of your fee and your expenses, of course." "No. This is pro bono."
Dr. Patterson studied him a moment then nodded. "Quid pro quo?"
"Quid pro quo." David managed a smile. "Do you drive?" "David, if you're on a leave of absence, you'll need some expense money to keep you going. I insist."
"As you wish," David said.
At least we'll eat during the trial.
Jesse Quiller was waiting for David at Rubicon. "How did it go?"
David sighed. "It was predictable. I'm on a leave of absence, no salary."
"Those bastards. How can they-?"
"I can't blame them," David interrupted. "They're a very conservative firm."
"What are you going to do now?" "What do you mean?"
"What do I mean? You're handling the trial of the century. You don't have an office to work in anymore; you don't have access to research files or case files, criminal law books or a fax machine, and I've seen that outdated computer that you and Sandra have. It won't be able to run the legal software you'll need or get you on the Internet."
"I'll be all right," David said.
"You're damn right you will. There's an empty office in my suite that you're going to use. You'll find everything you need there."
It took David a moment to find his voice. "Jesse, I can't-"
"Yes, you can." Quiller grinned. "You'll find a way to pay me back. You always pay people back, don't you, and Saint
David?" He picked up a menu. "I'm starved." He looked up. "By the way, lunch is on you."
David went to visit Ashley in the Santa Clara County Jail.
"Good morning, Ashley."
"Good morning." She looked even paler than usual. "Father
was here this morning. He told me that you're going to get me out of here."
I wish I were that optimistic, David thought. He said carefully, "I'm going to do everything I can, Ashley. The
trouble is that not many people are familiar with the problem you have. We're going to let them know about it. We're going to get the finest doctors in the world to come here and testify for you."
"It scares me," Ashley whispered. "What does?"
"It's as though two different people are living inside me, and I don't even know them." Her voice was trembling. "They can take over anytime they want to, and I have no control over them. I'm so frightened." Her eyes filled with tears.
David said quietly, "They're not people, Ashley. They're in your mind. They're part of you. And with the proper treatment, you're going to be well."
When David got home that evening, Sandra gave him a hug and said, "Did I ever tell you how proud I am of you?" "Because I'm out of a job?" David asked.
"That, too. By the way, Mr. Crowther called. The real estate broker. He said the papers are ready to sign. They want the down payment of sixty thousand dollars. I'm afraid we'll have to tell him we can't afford-"
"Wait! I have that much in the company pension plan. With Dr. Patterson giving us some expense money, maybe we can still swing this."
"It doesn't matter, David. We don't want to spoil the baby with a penthouse, anyway."
"Well, I have some good news. Jesse is going to let me-" "I know. I talked to Emily. We're moving into Jesse's offices."
David said, "We?"
"You forget, you married a paralegal. Seriously, darling,
I can be very helpful. I'll work with you until"- she touched her stomach-"Jeffrey comes along, and then we'll see."
"Mrs. Singer, do you have any idea how much I love you?" "No. But take your time. Dinner's not for another hour." "An hour isn't enough time," David told her.
She put her arms around him and murmured, "Why don't you get undressed, Tiger?"
"What?" He pulled back and looked at her, worried. "What about the-What does Dr. Bailey say?"
"The doctor says if you don't get undressed in a hurry, I should attack you."
David grinned. "His word's good enough for me."
The following morning, David moved into the back office of Jesse Quiller's suite. It was a serviceable office, part of a
five-office suite.
"We've expanded a little since you were here," Jesse explained to David. "I'm sure you'll find everything. The law library is next door; you've got faxes, computers, everything you need. If there's anything you don't see, just ask." "Thanks," David said. "I-I can't tell you how much I appreciate this, Jesse."
Jesse smiled. "You're going to pay me back. Remember?" Sandra arrived a few minutes later. "I'm ready," she said. "Where do we begin?"
"We begin by looking up every case we can find on multiple personality trials. There's probably a ton of stuff on die Internet. We'll try the California Criminal Law Observer, the Court TV site and some other criminal law links, and we'll gather whatever useful information we can get from Westlaw and Lexis-Nexis. Next, we get hold of doctors who specialize in multiple personality problems, and we contact them as possible expert witnesses. We'll need to interview them and see if we can use their testimony to strengthen our case.
I'll have to brush up on criminal court procedures and get ready for voir dire. We've also got to get a list of the district attorney's witnesses and the witnesses' statements. I want his whole discovery package."
"And we have to send him ours. Are you going to call Ashley to the stand?"
David shook his head. "She's much too fragile. The prosecution would tear her apart." He looked up at Sandra. "This is going to be a hard one to win."
Sandra smiled. "But you're going to win it. I know you are."
David put in a call to Harvey Udell, the accountant at Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley.
"Harvey. David Singer."
"Hello, David. I hear you're leaving us for a little while."
"Yes."
"That's an interesting case you're taking on. The papers are full of it. What can I do for you?"
David said, "I have sixty thousand dollars in my pension
plan there, Harvey. I wasn't going to take it out this early, but Sandra and I just bought a penthouse, and I'm going to need the money for a down payment."
"A penthouse. Well, congratulations." "Thanks. How soon can I get the money?"
There was a brief hesitation. "Can I get back to you?" "Of course." David gave him his telephone number. "I'll call you right back."
"Thanks."
Harvey Udell replaced the receiver and then picked up the telephone again. "Tell Mr. Kincaid I'd like to see him." Thirty minutes later he was in Joseph Kincaid's office. "What is it, Harvey?"
"I got a call from David Singer, Mr. Kincaid. He's bought a penthouse, and he needs the sixty thousand he has in his pension fund for a down payment. In my opinion, we're not
obligated to give him the money now. He's on leave, and he's not-"
"I wonder if he knows how expensive it is to maintain a penthouse?"
"Probably not. I'll just tell him we can't-" "Give him the money."
Harvey looked at him in surprise. "But we don't have to-" Kincaid leaned forward in his chair. "We're going to help him dig a hole for himself, Harvey. Once he puts a down payment on that penthouse... we own him."
Harvey Udell telephoned David. "I've good news for you, David. That money you have in the pension plan, you're taking it out early, but there's no problem. Mr. Kincaid says to give you anything you want."
"Mr. Crowther. David Singer."
"I've been waiting to hear from you, Mr. Singer."
"The down payment on the penthouse is on its way. You'll have it tomorrow."
"Wonderful. As I told you, we have some other folks who are anxious to get it, but I have the feeling that you and your wife are the right owners for it. You're going to be very happy there."
All it will take, David thought, is a few dozen miracles. Ashley Patterson's arraignment took place in the Superior Court of the County of Santa Clara on North First Street in San Jose. The legal wrangling about jurisdiction had gone on for weeks. It had been complicated, because the murders had taken place in two countries and two different states. A meeting was held in San Francisco, attended by Officer Guy Pontaine from the Quebec Police Department, Sheriff Dowling from Santa Clara County, Detective Eagan from Bedford, Pennsylvania, Captain Rudford from the San Francisco Police Department, and Roger Toland, the chief of police in San
Jose.
Fontaine said, "We would like to try her in Quebec because we have absolute evidence of her guilt. There's no way she can win a trial there."
Detective Eagan said, "For that matter, so do we, Officer Fontaine. Jim Cleary's was the first murder she committed, and I think that should take precedence over the others." Captain Rudford of the San Francisco police said,
"Gentlemen, there's no doubt that we can all prove her guilt. But three of these murders took place in California, and she should be tried here for all of them. That gives us a much stronger case."
"I agree," Sheriff Dowling said. "And two of them took place in Santa Clara County, so this is where the jurisdiction should lie."
They spent the next two hours arguing the merits of their positions, and in the end, it was decided that the trial for the murders of Dennis Tibble, Richard Melton and deputy Sam Blake would be held at the Hall of Justice in San Jose. They agreed that the murders in Bedford and Quebec would be put on hold.
On the day of arraignment, David stood at Ashley's side. The judge on the bench said, "How do you plead?"
"Not guilty and not guilty by reason of insanity." The judge nodded. "Very well."
"Your Honor, we're requesting bail at this time."
The attorney from the prosecutor's office jumped in. "Your Honor, we strongly object. The defendant is accused of three savage murders and faces the death penalty. If she were given the opportunity, she would flee the country."
"That's not true," David said. "There's no-"
The judge interrupted. "I've reviewed the file and the prosecutor's affidavit in support of no bail. Bail denied. This case is assigned to Judge Williams for all purposes. The defendant will be held in custody at the Santa Clara County Jail until trial."
David sighed. "Yes, Your Honor." He turned to Ashley. "Don't worry. Everything's going to work out. Remember... you're not guilty."
When David returned to the office. Sandra said, "Have you seen the headlines? The tabloids are calling Ashley 'the Butcher Bitch.' The story is all over television."
"We knew this was going to be rough," David said. "And this is only the beginning. Let's go to work."
The trial was eight weeks away.
The next eight weeks were filled with feverish activity. David and Sandra worked all day and far into the night, digging up transcripts of trials of defendants with multiple personality disorder. There were dozens of cases. The various defendants had been tried for murder, rape, robbery, drug dealing, arson.... Some had been convicted, some had been acquitted.
"We're going to get Ashley acquitted," David told Sandra. Sandra gathered the names of prospective witnesses and telephoned them.
"Dr. Nakamoto, I'm working with David Singer. I believe you testified in The State of Oregon Versus Bo-hannan. Mr.
Singer is representing Ashley Patterson.... Oh, you did? Yes. Well, we would like you to come to San Jose and testify in her behalf. "
"Dr. Booth, I'm calling from David Singer's office. He's defending Ashley Patterson. You testified in the Dickerson case. We're interested in your expert testimony.... We would like you to come to San Jose and testify for Miss Patterson. We need your expertise. "
"Dr. Jameson, this is Sandra Singer. We need you to come to. "
And so it went, from morning until midnight. Finally, a list of a dozen witnesses was compiled. David looked at it and said, "It's pretty impressive. Doctors, a dean. heads
of law schools." He looked up at Sandra and smiled. "I think we're in good shape."
From time to time, Jesse Quiller came into the office David was using. "How are you getting along?" he asked. "Anything can do to help?"
"I'm fine."
Quiller looked around the office. "Do you have everything you need?"
David smiled. "Everything, including my best friend."
On a Monday morning, David received a package from the prosecutor's office listing the state's discovery. As David read it, his spirits sank.
Sandra was watching him, concerned. "What is it?" "Look at this. He's bringing in a lot of heavyweight medical experts to testify against MPD."
"How are you going to handle that?" Sandra asked.
"We're going to admit that Ashley was at the scenes when the murders took place, but that the murders were actually
committed by an alter ego." Can I persuade a jury to believe that?
* * *
Five days before the trial was to begin, David received a telephone call saying that Judge Williams wanted to meet with him.
David walked into Jesse Quiller's office. "Jesse, what can you tell me about Judge Williams?"
Jesse leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. "Tessa Williams... Were you ever a Boy Scout, David?"
"Yes..."
"Do you remember the Boy Scout motto,-'be prepared'?" "Sure."
"When you walk into Tessa Williams's courtroom, be prepared. She's brilliant. She came up the hard way. Her folks were Mississippi sharecroppers. She went through
college on a scholarship, and the people in her hometown were so proud of her, they raised the money to put her through law school. There's a rumor that she turned down a big appointment in Washington because she likes it where she is. She's a legend."
"Interesting," David said.
"The trial is going to be in Santa Clara County?" "Yes."
"Then you'll have my old friend Mickey Brennan prosecuting."
"Tell me about him."
"He's a feisty Irishman, tough on the inside, tough on the outside. Brennan comes from a long line of over-achievers. His father runs a huge publishing business; his mother's a doctor; his sister is a college professor. Brennan was a football star in his college days, and he was at the top of his law class." He leaned forward. "He's good, David. Be careful. His trick is to disarm witnesses and then move in for the kill. He likes to blind-side them.... Why does Judge Williams want to see you?"
"I have no idea. The call just said she wants to discuss the Patterson case with me."
Jesse Quiller frowned. "That's unusual. When are you meeting with her?"
"Wednesday morning." "Watch your back." "Thanks, Jesse. I will."
The superior courthouse in Santa Clara County is a white, four-story building on North First Street. Directly inside the courthouse entrance is a desk manned by a uniformed guard; there is a metal detector, a railing alongside and an elevator. There are seven courtrooms m the building, each one presided over by a judge and staff.
At ten o'clock Wednesday morning, David Singer was ushered into the chambers of Judge Tessa Williams, in the room with her was Mickey Brennan. The leading prosecutor from the district attorney's office was in his fifties, a short, burly man with a slight brogue. Tessa Williams was in her late forties, a slim, attractive African-American woman with a crisp, authoritative manner.
"Good morning, Mr. Singer. I'm Judge Williams. This is Mr. Brennan."
The two men shook hands.
"Sit down, Mr. Singer. I want to talk about the Patterson case. According to the records, you've filed a plea of not guilty and not guilty by reason of insanity?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
Judge Williams said, "I brought you two together because think we can save a lot of time and save the state a great deal of expense. I'm usually against plea bargaining, but in this case, think it's justified."
David was listening, puzzled.
The judge turned to Brennan. "I've read the preliminary hearing transcript, and see no reason for this case to go to trial. I'd like the state to waive the death penalty and accept a guilty plea with no chance of parole."
David said, "Wait a minute. That's out of the question!" They both turned to look at him. "Mr. Singer-"
"My client is not guilty. Ashley Patterson passed a lie detector test that proves-"
"That doesn't prove anything, and as you well know it's
not admissible in court. Because of all the publicity, this is going to be a long and messy trial."
"I'm sure that-"
"I've been practicing law a long time, Mr. Singer. I've heard the whole basket of legal pleas. I've heard pleas of self-defense-that's an acceptable plea; murder by reason of temporary insanity-that's a reasonable plea; diminished capacity.... But I'll tell you what don't believe in, Counselor. 'Not guilty because didn't commit the crime, my alter ego did it.' To use a term you might not find in
Blackstone, that's 'bullshit.' Your client either committed the crimes or she didn't. If you change your plea to guilty, we can save a lot of-"
"No, Your Honor, won't."
Judge Williams studied David a moment. "You're very stubborn. A lot of people find that an admirable quality." She leaned forward in her chair. "I don't."
"Your Honor-"
"You're forcing us into a trial that's going to last at least three months-maybe longer."
Brennan nodded. "I agree." "I'm sorry that you feel-"
"Mr. Singer, I'm here to do you a favor. If we try your client, she's going to die."
"Hold on! You're prejudging this case without-" "Prejudging it? Have you seen the evidence?" "Yes, I-"
"For God's sake. Counselor, Ashley Patterson's DNA and fingerprints are at every crime scene. I've never seen a more clear-cut case of guilt. If you insist on going ahead with this, it could turn into a circus. Well, I'm not going to let that happen. I don't like circuses in my court. Let's dispose of this case here and now. I'm going to ask you once more, will you plead your client to life without parole?"
David said stubbornly, "No."
She was glaring at him. "Right. I'll see you next week." He had made an enemy.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SAN Jose had quickly taken on the atmosphere of a carnival town. Media from all over the world were pouring in. Every hotel was booked, and some of the members of the press were forced to take rooms in the outlying towns of Santa Clara, Sunnyvale and Palo Alto. David was besieged by reporters. "Mr. Singer, tell us about the case. Are you pleading your client not guilty...?"
"Are you going to put Ashley Patterson on the stand...?" "Is it true that the district attorney was willing to plea-bargain?"
"Is Dr. Patterson going to testify for his daughter...?" "My magazine will pay fifty thousand dollars for an interview with your client..."
* * *
Mickey Brennan was also pursued by the media.
"Mr. Brennan, would you say a few words about the trial?" Brennan turned and smiled at the television cameras. "Yes. I can sum up the trial in five words. 'We're going to win it.' No further comment."
"Wait! Do you think she's insane...?"
"Is the state going to ask for the death penalty...?" "Did you call it an open-and-shut case...?"
David rented an office in San Jose close to the
court-house, where he could interview his witnesses and prepare them for the trial. He had decided that Sandra would work out of Quiller's office in San Francisco until the trial started. Dr. Salem had arrived in San Jose.
"I want you to hypnotize Ashley again," David said. "Let's get all the information we can from her and the alters before the trial starts."
They met Ashley in a holding room at the county detention center. She was trying hard to conceal her nervousness. To David, she looked like a deer trapped in the headlights of a Juggernaut.
"Morning, Ashley. You remember Dr. Salem?" Ashley nodded. "He's going to hypnotize you again. Will that be all right?"
Ashley said, "He's going to talk to the... the others?" "Yes. Do you mind?"
"No. But I-I don't want to talk to them." "That's all right. You don't have to."
"I hate this!" Ashley burst out angrily.
"I know," David said soothingly. "Don't worry. It's going to be over soon." He nodded to Dr. Salem.
"Make yourself comfortable, Ashley. Remember how easy this was. Close your eyes and relax. Just try to clear your mind. Feel your body relaxing. Listen to the sound of my voice. Let everything else go. You're getting very sleepy. Your eyes are getting very heavy. You want to go to sleep.... Go to sleep. "
In ten minutes, she was under. Dr. Salem signaled to David. David walked over to Ashley.
"I'd like to talk to Alette. Are you in there, Alette?" And they watched Ashley's face soften and go through the same transformation they had seen earlier. And then, that soft, mellifluous Italian accent.
"Buon giorno."
"Good morning, Alette. How do you feel?"
"Male. This is a very difficult time."
"It's difficult for all of us," David assured her, "but everything's going to be all right."
"I hope so."
"Alette, I'd like to ask you a few questions." "Si..."
"Did you know Jim Cleary?" "No."
"Did you know Richard Melton?"
"Yes." There was a deep sadness in her voice. "It was... it was terrible what happened to him."
David looked over at Dr. Salem. "Yes, it was terrible. When was the last time you saw him?"
"I visited him in San Francisco. We went to a museum and then had dinner. Before I left, he asked me to go to his apartment with him."
"And did you go?"
"No. I wish I had," Alette said regretfully. "I might have saved his life." There was a short silence. "We said
good-bye, and drove back to Cupertino." "And that was the last time you saw him?" "Yes."
"Thank you, Alette."
David moved closer to Ashley and said, "Toni? Are you there, Toni? I'd like to talk to you."
As they watched, Ashley's face went through another remarkable transformation. Her persona changed before their eyes. There was a new assurance, a sexual awareness. She began to sing in that clear, throaty voice:
"Up and down the city road, In and out of the Eagle.
That's the way the money goes, Pop! goes the weasel. "
She looked at David. "Do you know why I like to sing that song, luv?"
"No."
"Because my mother hated it. She hated me." "Why did she hate you?"
"Well, we can't ask her now, can we?" Toni laughed.
"Not where she is. I couldn't do anything right for her. What kind of mother did you have, David?"
"My mother was a wonderful person."
"You're lucky then, aren't you? It's really the luck of the draw, I suppose. God plays games with us, doesn't he?" "Do you believe in God? Are you a religious person, Toni?" "I don't know. Maybe there's a God. If there is, he has a
strange sense of humor, doesn't he? Alette is the religious one. She goes to church regularly, that one."
"And do you?"
Toni gave a short laugh. "Well, if she's there. I'm there."
"Toni, do you believe it's right to kill people?" "No, of course not."
"Then-"
"Not unless you have to."
David and Dr. Salem exchanged a look. "What do you mean by that?"
Her tone of voice changed. She suddenly sounded defensive. "Well, you know, like if you have to protect yourself. If someone's hurting you." She was getting agitated. "If some git is trying to do dirty things to you." She was becoming hysterical.
"Toni-"
She started sobbing. "Why can't they leave me alone? Why did they have to-?" She was screaming.
"Toni-" Silence. "Toni..." Nothing.
Dr. Salem said, "She's gone. I'd like to wake Ashley up." David sighed. "All right."
A few minutes later, Ashley was opening her eyes. "How do you feel?" David asked.
"Tired. Did it...did it go all right?" "Yes. We talked to Alette and Toni. They-" "I don't want to know."
"All right. Why don't you go rest now, Ashley? I'll be back to see you this afternoon."
They watched a female jailer lead her away.
Dr. Salem said, "You have to put her on the stand, David. That will convince any jury in the world that-"
"I've given it a lot of thought," David said. "I don't think I can."
Dr. Salem looked at him a moment. "Why not?"
"Brennan, the prosecuting attorney, is a killer. He would tear her apart can't take that chance."
David and Sandra were having dinner with the Quillers two days before the preliminaries of the trial were to begin. "We've checked into the Wyndham Hotel," David said. "The manager did me a special favor. Sandra's coming down with me. The town is crowded beyond belief."
"And if it's that bad now," Emily said, "imagine what it's going to be like when the trial starts."
Quiller looked at David. "Anything can do to help?" David shook his head. "I have a big decision to make. Whether to put Ashley on the stand or not."
"It's a tough call," Jesse Quiller said. "You're damned if you do and damned if you don't. The problem is that Brennan is going to build Ashley Patterson up as a sadistic, murdering monster. If you don't put her on the stand, that's the image the jurors will carry in then-minds when they go into the jury room to reach a verdict. On the other hand, from what you tell me, if you do put Ashley on the stand, Brennan can destroy her."
"Brennan's going to have all his medical experts there to discredit multiple personality disorder."
"You've got to convince them that it's real."
"And I intend to," David said. "Do you know what bothers me, Jesse? The jokes. The latest one going around is that wanted to ask for a change of venue, but decided not to
because there are no places left where Ashley hasn't murdered someone. Do you remember when Johnny Carson was on television? He was funny and he always remained a gentleman. Now, the hosts on the late-night shows are all malicious.
Then-humor at the expense of other people is savage." "David?"
"Yes."
Jesse Quiller said quietly, "It's going to get worse." David Singer was unable to sleep the night before he was to go into court. He could not stem the negative thoughts swirling through his head. When he finally fell asleep, he
heard a voice saying. You let your last client die. What if you let this one die?
He sat up in bed, bathed in perspiration. Sandra opened her eyes. "Are you all right?"
"Yes. No. What the hell am I doing here? All I had to do was say no to Dr. Patterson."
Sandra squeezed his aim and said softly, "Why didn't you?" He grunted. "You're right. I couldn't."
"All right then. Now, how about getting some sleep so
you'll be nice and fresh in the morning?" "Great idea."
He was awake the rest of the night.
Judge Williams had been correct about the media. The reporters were relentless. Journalists were swarming in from around the world, avid to cover the story of a beautiful young woman being tried as a serial killer who sexually mutilated her victims.
The fact that Mickey Brennan was forbidden to bring the names of Jim Cleary or Jean Claude Parent into the trial had been frustrating, but the media had solved the problem for him. Television talk shows, magazines and newspapers all carried lurid stories of the five murders and castrations.
Mickey Brennan was pleased.
When David arrived at the courtroom, the press was out in full force. David was besieged.
"Mr. Singer, are you still employed by Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley...?"
"Look this way, Mr. Singer. "
"Is it true you were fired for taking this case. ?"
"Can you tell us about Helen Woodman? Didn't you handle her murder trial. ?"
"Did Ashley Patterson say why she did it. ?"
"Are you going to put your client on the stand. ?"
"No comment," David said curtly.
When Mickey Brennan drove up to the courthouse, he was instantly surrounded by the media.
"Mr. Brennan, how do you think the trial is going to go. ?"
"Have you ever tried an alter ego defense before. ?"
Brennan smiled genially. "No. I can't wait to talk to all the defendants." He got the laugh that he wanted. "If there are enough of them, they can have their own ball club." Another laugh. "I've got to get inside. I don't want to keep any of the defendants waiting."
The voir dire started with Judge Williams asking general questions of the potential jurors. When she had finished, it was the defense's turn and then the prosecution's.
To laymen, the selection of a jury seems simple: Choose the prospective juror who seemed friendly and dismiss the others. In fact, voir dire was a carefully planned ritual.
Skilled trial lawyers did not ask direct questions that would bring yes or no answers. They asked general questions that would encourage the jurors to talk and reveal something of
themselves and their true feelings.
Mickey Brennan and David Singer had different agendas. In this case, Brennan wanted a preponderance of men on the jury, men who would be disgusted and shocked at the idea of a woman stabbing and castrating her victims. Brennan's questions were meant to pinpoint people who were traditional in their thinking, who would be less likely to believe in spirits and goblins and people who claimed they were inhabited by alters. David took the opposite approach.
"Mr. Harris, is it? I'm David Singer. I'm representing the defendant. Have you ever served on a jury before, Mr. Hams?" "No."
"I appreciate your taking the time and trouble to do this."
"It should be interesting, a big murder trial like this." "Yes. I think it will be."
"In fact, I've been looking forward to it." "Have you?"
"Yeah."
"Where do you work, Mr. Hams?" "At United Steel."
"I imagine you and your fellow workers have talked about the Patterson case."
"Yes. As a matter of fact, we have."
David said, "That's understandable. Everyone seems to be talking about it. What's the general opinion? Do your fellow workers think Ashley Patterson is guilty?"
"Yeah. I have to say they do." "And do you think so?"
"Well, it sure looks like it."
"But you're willing to listen to the evidence before making up your mind?"
"Yeah. I'll listen to it."
"What do you like to read, Mr. Hams?"
"I'm not a big reader. I like to camp out and hunt and fish."
"An outdoorsman. When you're camping out at night and you look at the stars, do you ever wonder if there are other civilizations up there?"
"You mean that crazy UFO stuff? I don't believe in all that nonsense."
David turned to Judge Williams. "Pass for cause, Your Honor."
Another juror interrogation:
"What do you like to do in your spare time, Mr. Alien?" "Well, I like to read and watch television."
"I like to do the same things. What do you watch on television?"
"There's some great shows on Thursday nights. It's hard to choose. The damn networks put all the good shows on at the same time."
"You're right. It's a shame. Do you ever watch the X-Files?'
"Yeah. My kids love it."
"What about Sabrina, the Teenage Witch?" "Yeah. We watch that. That's a good show." "What do you like to read?"
"Anne Rice, Stephen King..." Yes.
* * *
Another juror interrogation:
"What do you like to watch on television, Mr. Mayer?" "Sixty Minutes, the News Hour with Jim Lehrer, documentaries..."
"What do you like to read?"
"Mainly history and political books." "Thank you."
No.
Judge Tessa Williams sat on the bench, listening to the questioning, her face betraying nothing. But David could feel her disapproval every time she looked at him.
When the last juror was finally selected, the panel consisted of seven men and five women. Brennan glanced at David triumphantly. This is going to be a slaughter.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EARLY ON the morning the trial of Ashley Patterson was to begin, David went to see Ashley at the detention center. She was near hysteria.
"I can't go through with this. I can't! Tell them to leave me alone."
"Ashley, it's going to be all right. We're going to face them, and we're going to win."
"You don't know-You don't know what this is like. I feel as though I'm in some kind of hell."
"We're going to get you out of it. This is the first step."
She was trembling. "I'm afraid they're-they're going to do something terrible to me."
"I won't let them," David said firmly. "I want you to
believe in me. Just remember, you're not responsible for what happened. You haven't done anything wrong. They're waiting for us."
She took a deep breath. "All right. I'm going to be fine. I'm going to be fine. I'm going to be fine."
Seated in the spectators' section was Dr. Steven
Patter-son. He had responded to the barrage of reporters' questions outside the courtroom with one answer: "My daughter is innocent."
Several rows away were Jesse and Emily Quiller, there for moral support.
At the prosecutor's table were Mickey Brennan and two associates, Susan Freeman and Eleanor Tucker.
Sandra and Ashley were seated at the defendant's table, with David between them. The two women had met the previous week.
"David, you can look at Ashley and know she's innocent." "Sandra, you can look at the evidence she left on her victims and know she killed them. But killing them and being guilty are two different things. Now all I have to do is convince the jury."
Judge Williams entered the courtroom and moved to the
bench. The court clerk announced, "All rise. Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Tessa Williams presiding."
Judge Williams said, "You may be seated. This is the case of The People of the State of California Versus Ashley Patterson. Let's get started." Judge Williams looked at Brennan. "Would the prosecutor like to make an opening statement?"
Mickey Brennan rose. "Yes, Your Honor." He turned to the jury and moved toward them. "Good morning. As you know, ladies and gentlemen, the defendant is on trial, accused of committing three bloody murders. Murderers come in many
disguises." He nodded toward Ashley. "Her disguise is that of an innocent, vulnerable young woman. But the state will prove to you beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant willfully and knowingly murdered and mutilated three innocent men.
"She used an alias to commit one of these murders, hoping
not to get caught. She knew exactly what she was doing. We're talking calculated, cold-blooded murder. As the trial goes on, I will show you all the strands, one by one, that tie
this case to the defendant sitting there. Thank you." He returned to his seat.
Judge Williams looked at David. "Does the defense have an opening statement?"
"Yes, Your Honor." David stood and faced the jury. He took a deep breath. "Ladies and gentlemen, in the course of this trial, I will prove to you that Ashley Patterson is not responsible for what happened. She had no motive for any of the murders, nor any knowledge of them. My client is a victim. She is a victim of MPD- multiple personality
disorder, which in the course of this trial will be explained to you."
He glanced at Judge Williams and said firmly, "MPD is an established medical fact. It means that there are other personalities, or alters, that take over their hosts and control their actions. MPD has a long history. Benjamin Rush, a physician and signer of the Declaration of Independence, discussed case histories of MPD in his lectures. Many incidents of MPD were reported through-out the nineteenth century and in this century of people taken over by alters."
Brennan was listening to David, a cynical smile on his face.
"We will prove to you that it was an alter who took
command and committed the murders that Ashley Patterson had absolutely no reason to commit None. She had no control over what happened, and therefore is not responsible for what happened. During the course of the trial, I will bring in eminent doctors who will explain in greater detail about MPD. Fortunately, it is curable."
He looked into the faces of the jurors. "Ashley Patterson
had no control over what she did, and in the name of justice, we ask that Ashley Patterson not be convicted of crimes for which she is not responsible."
David took his seat.
Judge Williams looked at Brennan. "Is the state ready to proceed?"
Brennan rose. "Yes, Your Honor." He flashed a smile at his associates and moved in front of the jury box. Brennan stood there a moment and deliberately let out a loud burp. The jurors were staring at him, surprised.
Brennan looked at them a moment as though puzzled and then his face cleared. "Oh, I see. You were waiting for me to say 'excuse me.' Well, I didn't say it because I didn't do that. My alter ego, Pete, did it."
David was on his feet, furious. "Objection. Your Honor, this is the most outrageous-"
"Sustained."
But the damage had already been done.
Brennan gave David a patronizing smile and then turned
back to the jury. "Well, I guess there hasn't been a defense like this since the Salem witch trials three hundred years ago." He turned to look at Ashley. "I didn't do it. No, sir. The devil made me do it."
David was on his feet again. "Objection. The-" "Overruled."
David slammed back into his seat.
Brennan stepped closer to the jury box. "I promised you that I was going to prove that the defendant willfully and cold-bloodedly murdered and mutilated three men- Dennis
Tibble, Richard Melton and deputy Samuel Blake. Three men! In spite of what the defense says"- he turned and pointed to Ashley again-"there's only one defendant sitting there, and she's the one who committed the murders. What did Mr. Singer call it? Multiple personality disorder? Well, I'm going to bring some prominent doctors here who will tell you, under oath, that there is no such thing! But first, let's hear from some experts who are going to tie the defendant to the crimes."
Brennan turned to Judge Williams. "I would like to call my first witness. Special Agent Vincent Jordan."
A short bald man stood up and moved toward the witness box.
The clerk said, "Please state your full name and spell it for the record."
"Special Agent Vincent Jordan, J-o-r-d-a-n."
Brennan waited until he was sworn in and took a seat. "You are with the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington, D.C.?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what do you do with the FBI, Special Agent Jordan?" "I'm in charge of the fingerprints section."
"How long have you had that job?" "Fifteen years."
"Fifteen years. In all that time have you ever come across a duplicate set of fingerprints from different people?" "No, sir."
"How many sets of fingerprints are currently on file with the FBI?"
"At last count, just over two hundred and fifty million,
but we receive over thirty-four thousand fingerprint cards a day."
"And none of them matches any others?" "No, sir."
"How do you identify a fingerprint?"
"We use seven different fingerprint patterns for identification purposes. Fingerprints are unique. They're formed before birth and last throughout one's life. Barring accidental or intentional mutilation, no two patterns are alike."
"Special Agent Jordan, you were sent the fingerprints
found at the scenes of the three victims who the defendant is accused of murdering?"
"Yes, sir. We were."
"And you were also sent the fingerprints of the defendant, Ashley Patterson?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you personally examine those prints?" "I did."
"And what was your conclusion?"
"That the prints left at the murder scenes and the prints that were taken from Ashley Patterson were identical." There was a loud buzz in the courtroom.
"Order! Order!"
Brennan waited until the courtroom quieted down. "They were identical? Is there any doubt in your mind, Agent Jordan? Could there be any mistake?"
"No, sir. All the prints were clear and easily identifiable."
"Just to clarify this... we're talking about the fingerprints left at the murder scenes of Dennis Tibble, Richard Melton and deputy Samuel Blake?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the fingerprints of the defendant, Ashley Patterson, were found at all the scenes of the murders?"
"That is correct."
"And what would you say was the margin of error?" "None."
"Thank you. Agent Jordan." Brennan turned to David Singer. "Your witness."
David sat there a moment, then rose and walked over to the witness box. "Agent Jordan, when you examine fingerprints, do you ever find that some have been deliberately smudged, or
damaged in some way, in order for the felon to conceal his crime?"
"Yes, but we're usually able to correct them with high-intensity laser techniques."
"Did you have to do that in the case of Ashley Patterson?" "No, sir."
"Why was that?"
"Well, like I said... the fingerprints were all clear."
David glanced at the jury. "So what you're saying is that the defendant made no attempt to erase or disguise her fingerprints?"
"That is correct."
"Thank you. No further questions." He turned to the jury. "Ashley Patterson made no attempt to conceal her prints because she was innocent and-"
Judge Williams snapped, "That's enough. Counselor! You'll have your chance to plead your case later."
David resumed his seat.
Judge Williams turned to Special Agent Jordan. "You're excused." The FBI agent stepped down.
Brennan said, "I would like to call as my next witness, Stanley Clarke."
A young man with long hair was ushered into the courtroom. He walked toward the witness stand. The courtroom was still as he was sworn in and took his seat.
Brennan said, "What is your occupation, Mr. Clarke?" "I'm with National Biotech Laboratory work with deoxyribonucleic acid."
"More commonly known to us simple nonscientists as DNA?" "Yes, sir."
"How long have you worked at National Biotech Laboratory?" "Seven years."
"And what is your position?" "I'm a supervisor."
"So, in that seven years, I assume that you've had a lot of experience with testing DNA?"
"Sure. I do it every day."
Brennan glanced at the jury. "I think we're all familiar with the importance of DNA." He pointed to the spectators. "Would you say that perhaps half a dozen people in this courtroom have identical DNA?"
"Hell no, sir. If we took a profile of DNA strands and assigned it a frequency based on collected databases, only one in five hundred billion unrelated Caucasians would have
the same DNA profile."
Brennan looked impressed. "One in five hundred billion. Mr. Clarke, how do you obtain DNA from a crime scene?" "Lots of ways. We find DNA in saliva or semen or vaginal discharge, blood, a strand of hair, teeth, bone marrow..." "And from any one of those things you can match it to a specific person?"
"That's correct."
"Did you personally compare the DNA evidence in the
murders of Dennis Tibble, Richard Melton and Samuel Blake?" "I did."
"And were you later given several strands of hair from the defendant, Ashley Patterson?"
"I was."
"When you compared the DNA evidence from the various murder scenes with the strands of hair from the defendant, what was your conclusion?"
"They were identical."
This time the reaction from the spectators was even noisier.
Judge Williams slammed down her gavel. "Order! Be quiet, or I'll have the courtroom cleared."
Brennan waited until the room was still. "Mr. Clarke, did
you say that the DNA taken from every one of the three murder scenes and the DNA of the accused were identical?" Brennan leaned on the word.
"Yes, sir."
Brennan glanced over at the table where Ashley was sitting, then turned back to the witness. "What about contamination? We're all aware of a famous criminal trial
where the DNA evidence was supposedly contaminated. Could the evidence in this case have been mishandled so that it was no longer valid or-?"
"No, sir. The DNA evidence in these murder cases was very carefully handled and sealed."
"So there's no doubt about it. The defendant murdered the three-?"
David was on his feet. "Objection, Your Honor. The prosecutor is leading the witness and-" "Sustained."
David took his seat.
"Thank you, Mr. Clarke." Brennan turned to David. "Nothing further."
Judge Williams said, "Your witness, Mr. Singer."
"No questions."
The jurors were staring at David. Brennan acted surprised. "No questions?"
Brennan looked at the jurors and said, "I'm amazed that the defense is not questioning the evidence, because it proves beyond a doubt that the defendant murdered and castrated three innocent men and-"
David was on his feet. "Your Honor-"
"Sustained. You're stepping over the boundaries, Mr. Brennan!"
"Sorry, Your Honor. No more questions." Ashley was looking at David, frightened.
He whispered, "Don't worry. It will be our turn soon." The afternoon consisted of more witnesses for the prosecution, and their testimony was devastating.
"The building superintendent summoned you to Dennis Tibble's apartment. Detective Light man?"
"Yes."
"Would you tell as what you found there?"
"It was a mess. There was blood all over the place." "What was the condition of the victim?"
"He had been stabbed to death and castrated."
Brennan glanced at the jury, a look of horror on his face. "Stabbed to death and castrated. Did you find any evidence at the scene of the crime?"
"Oh, yes. The victim had had sex before he died. We found some vaginal discharge and fingerprints."
"Why didn't you arrest someone immediately?"
"The fingerprints we found didn't match any that we had on record. We were waiting for a match on the prints we had." "But when you finally got Ashley Patterson's fingerprints and her DNA, it all came together?"
"It sure did. It all came together."
Dr. Steven Patterson was at the trial every day. He sat in the spectators' section just behind the defendant's table. Whenever he entered or left the courtroom, he was besieged by reporters.
"Dr. Patterson, how do you think the trial is going?" "It's going very well."
"What do you think is going to happen?"
"My daughter is going to be found innocent."
Late one afternoon when David and Sandra got back to the hotel, there was a message waiting for them. "Please call Mr. Kong at your bank."
David and Sandra looked at each other. "Is it time for another payment already?" Sandra asked.
"Yes. Time flies when you're having fan," he said dryly. David was thoughtful for a moment. "The trial's going to be over soon, honey. We have enough left in our bank account to give them this month's payment."
Sandra looked at him, worried. "David, if we can't make all the payments... do we lose everything we've put in?" "We do. But don't worry. Good things happen to good people."
And he thought about Helen Woodman.
* * *
Brian Hill was sitting in the witness box after being sworn in. Mickey Brennan gave him a friendly smile. "Would you tell us what you do, Mr. Hill?"
"Yes, sir. I'm a guard at the De Young Museum in San Francisco."
"That must be an interesting job."
"It is, if you like art. I'm a frustrated painter." "How long have you worked there?"
"Four years."
"Do a lot of the same people visit the museum? That is, do people come again and again?"
"Oh, yes. Some people do."
"So I suppose that over a period of time, they would become familiar to you, or at least they would be familiar faces?"
"That's true."
"And I'm told that artists are permitted to come in to copy some of the museum's paintings?"
"Oh, yes. We have a lot of artists."
"Did you ever meet any of them, Mr. Hill?"
"Yes, we-You kind of become friendly after a while." "Did you ever meet a man named Richard Melton?" Brian Hill sighed. "Yes. He was very talented."
"So talented, in fact that you asked him to teach you to paint?"
"That's right."
David got to his feet. "Your Honor, this is fascinating, but I don't see what it has to do with the trial. If Mr. Brennan-"
"It's relevant, Your Honor. I'm establishing that Mr. Hill could identify the victim by sight and by name and tell us who the victim associated with."
"Objection overruled. You may go ahead." "And did he teach you to paint?"
"Yes, he did, when he had time."
"When Mr. Melton was at the museum, did you ever see him with any young ladies?"
"Well, not in the beginning. But then he met somebody he was kind of interested in, and I used to see him with her." "What was her name?"
"Alette Peters."
Brennan looked puzzled. "Alette Peters? Are you sure you have the right name?"
"Yes, sir. That's the way he introduced her."
"You don't happen to see her in this courtroom right now, do you, Mr. Hill?"
"Yes, sir." He pointed to Ashley. "That's her sitting there."
Brennan said, "But that's not Alette Peters. That's the defendant, Ashley Patterson."
David was on his feet. "Your Honor, we have already said
that Alette Peters is a part of this trial. She is one of the alters who controls Ashley Patterson and-"
"You're getting ahead of yourself, Mr. Singer. Mr. Brennan, please continue."
"Now, Mr. Hill, you're sure that the defendant, who's here under the name of Ashley Patterson, was known to Richard Melton as Alette Peters?"
"That's right."
"And there's no doubt that this is the same woman?" Brian Hill hesitated. "Well... Yeah, it's the same woman."
"And you saw her with Richard Melton the day that Melton was murdered?"
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you." Brennan turned to David. "Your witness." David got up and slowly walked over to the witness box. "Mr. Hill, I would think it's a big responsibility being a guard in a place where so many hundreds of millions of dollars' worth of art was being exhibited."
"Yes, sir. It is."
"And to be a good guard, you have to be on the alert all the time."
"That's right."
"You have to be aware of what's going on all the me." "You bet."
"Would you say that you're a trained observer, Mr. Hill?"
"Yes, I would."
"I ask that because I noticed when Mr. Brennan asked you
if you had any doubts about whether Ashley Patterson was the woman who was with Richard Melton, you hesitated. Weren't you sure?"
There was a momentary pause. "Well, she looks a lot like the same woman, but in a way she seems different."
"In what way, Mr. Hill?"
"Alette Peters was more Italian, and she had an Italian accent... and she seemed younger than the defendant." "That's exactly right, Mr. Hill. The person you saw in San Francisco was an alter of Ashley Patterson. She was born in Rome, she was eight years younger-"
Brennan was on his feet, furious. "Objection." David turned to Judge Williams. "Your Honor, was-"
"Will counsel approach the bench, please?" David and
Brennan walked over to Judge Williams. "I don't want to have to tell you this again, Mr. Singer. The defense will have its chance when the prosecution rests. Until then, stop pleading your case."
Bernice Jenkins was on the stand.
"Would you tell us your occupation. Miss Jenkins?" "I'm a waitress."
"And where do you work?"
"The cafe at the De Young Museum."
"What was your relationship with Richard Melton?" "We were good friends."
"Could you elaborate on that?"
"Well, at one time we had a romantic relationship and then things kind of cooled off. Those things happen."
"I'm sure they do. And then what?"
"Then we became like brother and sister. I mean, I-I told him about all my problems, and he told me about all his problems."
"Did he ever discuss the defendant with you?"
"Well, yeah, but she called herself by a different name." "And that name was?"
"Alette Peters."
"But he knew her name was really Ashley Patterson?" "No. He thought her name was Alette Peters."
"You mean she deceived him?"
David sprang to his feet, furious. "Objection." "Sustained. You will stop leading the witness, Mr. Brennan."
"Sorry, Your Honor." Brennan turned back to the witness box. "He spoke to you about this Alette Peters, but did you ever see the two of them together?"
"Yes, I did. He brought her into the restaurant one day and introduced us."
"And you're speaking of the defendant, Ashley Patterson?" "Yeah. Only she called herself Alette Peters."
Gary King was on the stand.
Brennan asked, "You were Richard Melton's roommate?" "Yes."
"Were you also friends? Did you go out with him socially?" "Sure. We double-dated a lot together."
"Was Mr. Melton interested in any young lady in particular?"
"Yeah."
"Do you know her name?"
"She called herself Alette Peters." "Do you see her in this courtroom?" "Yeah. She's sitting over there."
"For the record, you are pointing to the defendant, Ashley Patterson?"
"Right."
"When you came home on the night of the murder, you found Richard Melton's body in the apartment?"
"I sure did."
"What was the condition of the body?" "Bloody."
"The body had been castrated?"
A shudder. "Yeah. Man, it was awful."
Brennan looked over at the jury for their reaction. It was exactly what he hoped for.
"What did you do next, Mr. King?" "I called the police."
"Thank you." Brennan turned to David. "Your witness." David rose and walked over to Gary King.
"Tell us about Richard Melton. What kind of man was he?" "He was great."
"Was he argumentative? Did he like to get into fights?" "Richard? No. Just the opposite. He was very quiet, laid back."
"But he liked to be around women who were tough and kind of physical?"
Gary was looking at him strangely. "Not at all. Richard liked nice, quiet women."
"Did he and Alette have a lot of fights? Did she yell at him a lot?"
Gary was puzzled. "You've got it all wrong. They never yelled at each other. They were great together."
"Did you ever see anything that would lead you to believe that Alette Peters would do anything to harm-?" "Objection. He's leading the witness."
"Sustained."
"No more questions," David said.
When David sat down, he said to Ashley, "Don't worry. They're building up our case for us."
He sounded more confident than he felt.
David and Sandra were having dinner at San Fresco, the restaurant in the Wyndham Hotel, when the maitre d' came up to David and said, "There's an urgent telephone call for you, Mr. Singer."
"Thank you." David said to Sandra, "I'll be right back." He followed the maitre d' to a telephone. "This is David Singer."
"David-Jesse. Go up to your room and call me back. The goddamn roof is falling in!"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN JESSE -?"
"David, I know I'm not supposed to interfere, but I think you should ask for a mistrial."
"What's happened?"
"Have you been on the Internet in the past few days?" "No. I've been a little busy."
"Well, the trial is all over the damned Internet. That's all they're talking about in the chat rooms."
"That figures," David said. "But what's the-?"
"It's all negative, David. They're saying that Ashley is guilty and that she should be executed. And they're saying it in very colorful ways. You can't believe how vicious they are."
David, suddenly realizing, said, "Oh, my God! If any of the jurors are on the Internet-"
"The odds are pretty good that some of them are, and
they'll be influenced. I would ask for a mistrial, or at the very least, to have the jurors sequestered."
"Thanks, Jesse. Will do." David replaced the receiver.
When he returned to the restaurant where Sandra was waiting,
she asked, "Bad?" "Bad."
Before court convened the following morning, David asked to see Judge Williams. He was ushered into her chambers, along with Mickey Brennan. "You asked to see me?"
"Yes, Your Honor. I learned last night that this trial is the number one subject on the Internet. It's what all the chat rooms are discussing, and they've already convicted the defendant. It's very prejudicial. And since I'm sure that some of the jurors have computers with on-line access, or talk to friends who have on-line access, it could seriously damage the defense. Therefore, I'm making a motion for a mistrial."
She was thoughtful for a moment. "Motion denied."
David sat there, fighting to control himself. "Then I make a motion to immediately sequester the jury so that-"
"Mr. Singer, every day the press is at this courtroom in
full force. This trial is the number one topic on television, on radio and in the newspapers all over the world. I waned you that this was going to turn into a circus, and you wouldn't listen." She leaned forward. "Well, it's your circus, if you wanted the jury sequestered, you should have made that motion before the trial. And I probably would not have granted it. Is there anything else?"
David sat there, his stomach churning. "No, Your Honor." "Then let's get into the courtroom."
Mickey Brennan was questioning Sheriff Dowling.
"Deputy Sam Blake called to tell you that he was going to spend the night at the defendant's apartment in order to protect her? She told him that someone was threatening her life?"
"That is correct."
"When did you hear from deputy Blake again?"
"I-I didn't. I got a call in the morning that his-his body had been found in the alley in back of Miss Patterson's apartment building."
"And of course you went there immediately?" "Of course."
"And what did you find?"
He swallowed. "Sam's body was wrapped in a bloody sheet.
He had been stabbed to death and castrated like the other two victims."
"Like the other two victims. So all those murders were carried out in a similar fashion?"
"Yes, sir."
"As though they were killed by the same person?" David was on his feet. "Objection!"
"Sustained."
"I'll withdraw that. What did you do next. Sheriff?" "Well, up until that time, Ashley Patterson wasn't a
suspect. But after this happened, we took her in and had her fingerprints taken."
"And then?"
"We sent them to the FBI, and we got a positive make on her."
"Would you explain to the jury what you mean by a positive make?"
Sheriff Dowling turned to the jury. "Her fingerprints matched other fingerprints on file that they were trying to identify from the previous murders."
"Thank you. Sheriff." Brennan turned to David. "Your witness."
David got up and walked over to the witness box. "Sheriff, we've heard testimony in this courtroom that a bloody knife was found in Miss Patterson's kitchen."
"That's right."
"How was it hidden? Wrapped up in something? Stashed away where it couldn't be found?"
"No. It was right out in the open."
"Right out in the open. Left there by someone who had nothing to hide. Someone who was innocent because-" "Objection!"
"Sustained."
"No more questions."
"The witness is dismissed." Brennan said, "If it pleases the court..." He signaled someone at the back of the
courtroom, and a man in overalls came in, carrying the mirror from Ashley Patterson's medicine cabinet. On it, in red lipstick, was written YOU WILL DIE.
David rose. "What is this?" Judge Williams turned to Mickey Brennan. "Mr. Brennan?"
"This is the bait the defendant used to get deputy Blake to come to her apartment so she could murder him. I would like this marked as exhibit D. It came from the medicine chest of the defendant."
"Objection, Your Honor. It has no relevance." "I will prove that there is a relevance."
"We'll see. In the meantime, you may proceed." Brennan
placed the mirror in full view of the jury. "This minor was taken from the defendant's bathroom." He looked at the jurors. "As you can see, scrawled across it is 'You Will Die.' This was the defendant's pretext for having deputy Blake come to her apartment that night to protect her." He turned to Judge Williams. "I would like to call my next witness. Miss Laura Niven."
A middle-aged woman walking with a cane approached the witness box and was sworn in.
"Where do you work. Miss Niven?"
"I'm a consultant for the County of San Jose." "And what do you do?"
"I'm a handwriting expert."
"How long have you worked for the county. Miss Niven?" "Twenty-two years."
Brennan nodded toward the mirror. "You have been shown this mirror before?"
"Yes."
"And you've examined it?" "I have."
"And you've been shown an example of the defendant's handwriting?"
"Yes."
"And had a chance to examine that?" "Yes."
"And you've compared the two?" "I have."
"And what is your conclusion?"
"They were written by the same person." There was a collective gasp from the courtroom. "So what you're saying is that Ashley Patterson wrote this threat to herself?"
"That is correct."
Mickey Brennan looked over at David. "Your witness." David hesitated. He glanced at Ashley. She was staring down at the table, shaking her head. "No questions." Judge Williams was studying David. "No questions, Mr. Singer?"
David rose to his feet. "No. All this testimony is meaningless." He turned to the jury. "The prosecution will have to prove that Ashley Patterson knew the victims and had a motive to-"
Judge Williams said angrily, "I've warned you before. It is not your place to instruct the jury on the law. If-" "Someone has to," David exploded. "You're letting him get
away with-"
"That's enough, Mr. Singer. Approach the bench." David walked to the bench.
"I'm citing you for contempt of court and sentencing you
to a night here in our nice jail the day this trial is over." "Wait, Your Honor. You can't-" She said grimly, "I've sentenced you to one night. Would you like to try for two?" David stood there, glaring at her, taking deep breaths.
"For the sake of my client, I'll-I'll keep my feelings to myself."
"A wise decision," Judge Williams said curtly. "Court is adjourned." She turned to a bailiff. "When this trial is ended, I want Mr. Singer taken into custody."
"Yes, Your Honor."
Ashley turned to Sandra. "Oh, my God! What's happening?" Sandra squeezed her arm. "Don't worry. You have to trust David."
Sandra telephoned Jesse Quiller.
"I heard," he said. "It's all over the news, Sandra. I don't blame David for losing his temper. She's been goading
him from the beginning. What did David do to get her so down on him?"
"I don't know, Jesse. It's been horrible. You should see
the faces of the jurors. They hate Ashley. They can't wait to convict her. Well, it's the defense's turn next. David will change their minds."
"Hold the thought."
"Judge Williams hates me, Sandra, and it's banning Ashley.
If I don't do something about this, Ashley is going to die. I can't let that happen."
"What can you do?" Sandra asked. David took a deep breath. "Resign from the case." Both of them knew what that meant. The media would be full of his failure.
"I never should have agreed to take on the trial," David said bitterly. "Dr. Patterson trusted me to save his daughter's life, and I've-" He could not go on.
Sandra put her arms around him and held him close. "Don't worry, darling. Everything's going to turn out fine." I've let everyone down, David thought. Ashley, Sandra...
I'm going to be kicked out of the firm, I won't have a job and the baby is due soon. "Everything's going to turn out fine."
Right.
In the morning, David asked to see Judge Williams in her
chambers. Mickey Brenman was there.
Judge Williams said, "You asked to see me, Mr. Singer?" "Yes, Your Honor. I want to resign from the case." Judge Williams said, "On what grounds?" David spoke carefully. "I don't believe I'm the right lawyer for this trial. I think I'm hurting my client I would like to be replaced."
Judge Williams said quietly, "Mr. Singer, if you think I'm going to let you walk away from this and then have to start this trial all over again and waste even more time and money, you're quite mistaken. The answer is no. Do you understand me?"
David closed his eyes for an instant, forcing himself to stay calm. He looked up and said, "Yes, Your Honor. I understand you." He was trapped.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
More than three months had gone by since the beginning of the trial, and David could not remember when he had last had a full night's sleep.
One afternoon, when they returned from the court-room, Sandra said, "David, I think I should go back to San Francisco."
David looked at her in surprise. "Why? We're right in the middle of-Oh, my God." He put his arms around her. "The baby. Is it coming?"
Sandra smiled. "Anytime now. I'd feel safer if I were back there, closer to Dr. Bailey. Mother said she'd come and stay with me."
"Of course. You have to go back," David said. "I lost track of time. He's due in three weeks, isn't he?" "Yes." He grimaced. "And I can't be there with you." Sandra took his hand. "Don't be upset, darling. This trial's going to be over soon."
"This goddamn trial is ruining our lives."
"David, we're going to be fine. My old job's waiting for
me. After the baby comes, I can-" David said, "I'm so sorry, Sandra. I wish-"
"David, don't ever be sorry for doing something you believe is right."
"I love you." "I love you."
He stroked her stomach. "I love you both." He sighed. "All right I'll help you pack. I'll drive you back to San
Francisco tonight and-"
"No," Sandra said firmly. "You can't leave here. I'll ask Emily to come and pick me up."
"Ask her if she can join us here for dinner tonight." "All right."
Emily had been delighted. "Of course I'll come to pick you up." And she had arrived in San Jose two hours later.
The three of them had dinner that evening at Chai Jane. "It's terrible timing," Emily said. "I hate to see you two away from each other right now."
"The trial's almost over," David said hopefully. "Maybe it will end before the baby comes." Emily smiled. "We'll have a double celebration."
It was time to go. David held Sandra in his arms. "I'll talk to you every night," he said.
"Please don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I love you very much." Sandra looked at him and said, "Take care of yourself, David. You look tired."
It wasn't until Sandra left that David realized how utterly alone he was.
Court was in session. ÑÙÒ
Mickey Brennan rose and addressed the court. "I would like to call Dr. Lawrence Larkin as my next witness."
A distinguished gray-haired man was sworn in and took the stand.
"I want to thank you for being here. Dr. Larkin. I know
your time is very valuable. Would you tell us a little about your background?"
"I have a successful practice in Chicago. I'm a past resident of the Chicago Psychiatric Association." "How many years have you been in practice, Doctor?" "Approximately thirty years."
"And as a psychiatrist, I imagine you've seen many cases of multiple personality disorder?"
"No."
Brennan frowned. "When you say no, you mean you haven't seen a lot of them? Maybe a dozen?"
"I've never seen one case of multiple personality disorder."
Brennan looked at the jury in mock dismay, then back at the doctor. "In thirty years of working with mentally disturbed patients, you have never seen a single case of multiple personality disorder?"
"That's correct."
"I'm amazed. How do you explain that?"
"It's very simple. I don't think that multiple personality disorder exists."
"Well, I'm puzzled. Doctor. Haven't cases of multiple personality disorder been reported?"
Dr. Larkin snorted. "Being reported doesn't mean they're real. You see, what some doctors believe is MPD, they're confusing with schizophrenia, depressions and various other anxiety disorders."
"That's very interesting. So in your opinion, as an expert psychiatrist, you don't believe that multiple personality disorder even exists?"
"That is correct."
"Thank you. Doctor." Mickey Brennan turned to David. "Your witness."
David rose and walked over to the witness box. "You are a past president of the Chicago Psychiatric Association, Dr. Larkin?"
"Yes."
"You must have met a great many of your peers." "Yes. I'm proud to say that I have."
"Do you know Dr. Royce Salem?" "Yes. I know him very well." "Is he a good psychiatrist?" "Excellent. One of the best."
"Did you ever meet Dr. Clyde Donovan?" "Yes. Many times."
"Would you say that he's a good psychiatrist?"
"I would use him"-a small chuckle-"if I needed one." "And what about Dr. Ingram? Do you know him?"
"Ray Ingram? Indeed, I do. Fine man." "Competent psychiatrist?"
"Oh, yes."
"Tell me, do all psychiatrists agree on every mental condition?"
"No. Of course we have some disagreements. Psychiatry is not an exact science."
"That's interesting. Doctor. Because Dr. Salem, Dr. Donovan and Dr. Ingram are going to come here and testify that they have treated cases of multiple personality disorder. Perhaps none of them is as competent as you are.
That's all. No further questions." Judge Williams turned to Brennan. "Redirect?" Brennan got to his feet and walked over to the witness box.
"Dr. Larkin, do you believe that because these other
doctors disagree with your opinion about MPD that that makes them right and you wrong?"
"No. I could produce dozens of psychiatrists who don't believe in MPD."
"Thank you. Doctor. No more questions."
Mickey Brennan said, "Dr. Upton, we've heard testimony that sometimes what is thought to be multiple personality disorder is really confused with other disorders. What are
the tests that prove multiple personality disorder isn't one of those other conditions?"
"There is no test."
Brennan's mouth dropped open in surprise as he glanced at the jury. "There is no test? Are you saying that there's no
way to tell whether someone who claims he has MPD is lying or malingering or using it to excuse some crime he or she doesn't want to be held responsible for?"
"As I said, there is no test."
"So it's simply a matter of opinion? Some psychiatrists believe in it and some don't?"
"That's right."
"Let me ask you this, Doctor. If you hypnotize someone, surely you can tell whether they really have MPD or they're pretending to have it?"
Dr. Upton shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Even under hypnosis or with Sodium Amytal, there is no way of exposing someone if he or she is faking."
"That's very interesting. Thank you, Doctor. No more questions." Brennan turned to David. "Your witness."
David rose and walked over to the witness box. "Dr. Upton, have you ever had patients come to you, having been diagnosed by other doctors as having MPD?"
"Yes. Several times."
"And did you treat those patients?" "No, I didn't."
"Why not?"
"I can't treat conditions that don't exist. One of the patients was an embezzler who wanted me to testify that he wasn't responsible because he had an alter who did it.
Another patient was a housewife who was arrested for beating her children. She says that someone inside her made her do it. There were a few more like that with different excuses, but they were all trying to bide from something. In other words, they were faking."
"You seem to have a very definite opinion about this, Doctor."
"I do. I know I'm right." David said, "You know you're right?"
"Well, I mean-"
"-that everyone else must be wrong? All the doctors who believe in MPD are all wrong?"
"I didn't mean that-"
"And you're the only one who's right. Thank you, Doctor. That's all."
Dr. Simon Raleigh was on the stand. He was a short, bald man in his sixties.
Brennan said, "Thank you for coming here. Doctor. You've
had a long and illustrious career. You're a doctor, you're a professor, you went to school at-"
David stood up. "The defense will stipulate to the witness's distinguished background."
"Thank you." Brennan turned back to the witness. "Dr. Raleigh, what does iatrogenicity mean?"
"That's when there's an existing illness, and medical treatment of psychotherapy aggravates it."
"Would you be more specific. Doctor?"
"Well, in psychotherapy, very often the therapist influences the patient with his questions or attitude. He might make the patient feel that he has to meet the expectations of the therapist."
"How would that apply to MPD?"
" "If the psychiatrist is questioning the patient about different personalities within him, the patient might make up some in order to please the therapist. It's a very tricky area. Amytal and hypnosis can mimic MPD in patients who are otherwise normal."
"So what you're saying is that under hypnosis the psychiatrist himself can alter the condition of the patient so that the patient believes something that is not true?" "That has happened, yes."
"Thank you. Doctor." He looked at David. "Your witness." David said, "Thank you." He rose and walked over to the witness box. David said disarmingly, "Your credentials are very impressive. You're not only a psychiatrist, but you teach at a university."
"Yes."
"How long have you been teaching. Doctor?" "More than fifteen years."
"That's wonderful. How do you divide your time? By that I mean, do you spend half of your time teaching and the other half working as a doctor?"
"Now, I teach full-time."
"Oh? How long has it been since you actually practiced medicine?"
"About eight years. But I keep up on all the current medical literature."
"I have to tell you, I find that admirable. So you read up on everything. That's how you're so familiar with iatrogenicity?"
"Yes."
"And in the past, a lot of patients came to you claiming they had MPD?"
"Well, no..."
"Not a lot? In the years you were practicing as a doctor, would you say you had a dozen cases who claimed they had MPD?"
"No."
"Six?" Dr. Raleigh shook his head. "Four?" There was no answer.
"Doctor, have you ever had a patient who came to you with MPD?"
"Well, it's hard to-" "Yes or no. Doctor?" "No."
"So all you really know about MPD is what you've read? No further questions."
The prosecution called six more witnesses, and the pattern was the same with each. Mickey Brennan had assembled nine top psychiatrists from around the country, all united in their belief that MPD did not exist.
The prosecution's case was winding to a close.
When the last witness on the prosecution's list had been excused. Judge Williams turned to Brennan. "Do you have any more witnesses to call, Mr. Brennan?"
"No, Your Honor. But I would like to show the jury police photographs of the death scenes from the murders F-" David said furiously, "Absolutely not".
Judge Williams turned to David. "What did you say, Mr. Singer?"
"I said"-David caught himself-"objection. The prosecution is trying to inflame the jury by-"
"Objection overruled. The foundation was laid in a
pretrial motion." Judge Williams turned to Brennan. "You may show the photographs."
David took his seat, furious.
Brennan walked back to his desk and picked up a stack of photographs and handed them out to the jurors. "These are not pleasant to look at, ladies and gentlemen, but this is what the trial is about. It's not about words or theories or excuses. It's not about mysterious alter egos killing people. It's about three real people who were savagely and brutally murdered. The law says that someone has to pay for those murders. It's up to each one of you to see that justice is done."
Brennan could see the horror on the faces of the jurors as they looked at the photographs. He turned to Judge Williams. "The State rests." Judge Williams looked at her watch. "It's four o'clock. The court will recess for the day and begin again at ten o'clock Monday morning. Court adjourned."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ASHLY Patterson was on the gallows being hanged, when a policeman ran up and said, "Wait a minute. She's supposed to be electrocuted."
The scene changed, and she was in the electric chair. A guard reached up to pull the switch, and Judge Williams came running in screaming, "No. We're going to kill her with a lethal injection."
David woke up and sat upright in bed, his heart pounding. His pajamas were wet with perspiration. He started to get up and was suddenly dizzy. He had a pounding headache, and he felt feverish. He touched his forehead. It was hot.
As David started to get out of bed, he was overcome by a wave of dizziness. "Oh, no," he groaned. "Not today. Not now." This was the day he had been waiting for, the day the defense would begin to present its case. David stumbled into the bathroom and bathed his face in cold water. He looked in the mirror. "You look like hell."
When David arrived in court, Judge Williams was already on the bench. They were all waiting for him.
"I apologize for being late," David said. His voice was a croak. "May I approach the bench?"
"Yes."
David walked up to the bench, with Mickey Brennan close behind him. "Your Honor," David said, "I'd like to ask for a
one-day stay."
"On what grounds?"
"I-I'm not feeling very well, Your Honor. I'm sure a doctor can give me something and tomorrow I'll be fine." Judge Williams said, "Why don't you have your associate take over for you?"
David looked at her in surprise. "I don't have an associate."
"Why don't you, Mr. Singer?" "Because..."
Judge Williams leaned forward. "I've never seen a murder trial conducted like this. You're a one-man show looking for glory, aren't you? Well, you won't find it in this court.
I'll tell you something else. You probably think I should refuse myself because I don't believe in your
devil-made-me-do-it defense, but I'm not refusing myself. We're going to let the jury decide whether they think your client is innocent or guilty. Is there anything else, Mr. Singer?" David stood there looking at her, and the room was swimming. He wanted to tell her to go fuck herself. He wanted to get on his knees and beg her to be fair. He wanted to go home to bed. He said in a hoarse voice, "No. Thank you. Your Honor."
Judge Williams nodded. "Mr. Singer, you're on. Don't waste any more of this court's time."
David walked over to the jury box, trying to forget about he's headache and fever. He spoke slowly.
"Ladies and gentlemen, you have listened to the prosecution ridiculing the facts of multiple personality
disorder. I'm sure that Mr. Brennan wasn't being deliberately malicious. His statements were made out of ignorance. The fact is that he obviously knows nothing about multiple personality disorder, and the same is true of some of the witnesses he has put on the stand. But I'm going to have some people talk to you who do know about it. These are reputable doctors, who are experts in this problem. When you have heard their testimony. I'm sure that it will cast a whole different light on what Mr. Brennan has had to say.
"Mr. Brennan has talked about my client's guilt in committing these terrible crimes. That's a very important point. Guilt. For murder in the first degree to be proved, there must be not only a guilty act, but also a guilty intention. I will show you that there was no guilty
intention, because Ashley Patterson was not in control at the
time the crimes occurred. She was totally unaware that they were taking place. Some eminent doctors are going to testify that Ashley Patterson has two additional personalities, or alters, one of them a controlling one." David looked into the faces of the jurors. They seemed to be swaying in front of him. He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant.
"The American Psychiatric Association recognizes multiple personality disorder. So do prominent physicians around the world who have treated patients with this problem. One of Ashley Patterson's personalities committed murder, but it was a personality-an alter- over which she had no control." His voice was getting stronger. "To see the problem clearly, you must understand that the law does not punish an innocent person. So there is a paradox here. Imagine that a Siamese twin is being tried for murder. The law says that you cannot punish the guilty one because you would then have to punish the innocent one." The jury was listening intently.
David nodded toward Ashley. "In this case, we have not two but three personalities to deal with."
He turned to Judge Williams. "I would like to call my first witness. Dr. Joel Ashanti."
"Dr. Ashanti, where do you practice medicine?" "At Madison Hospital in New York."
"And did you come here at my request?"
"No. I read about the trial, and I wanted to testify. I've worked with patients who have multiple personality disorder, and I wanted to be helpful, if I could. MPD is much more common than the public realizes, and I want to try to clear up any misunderstandings about it."
"I appreciate that, Doctor. In cases like these, is it usual to find a patient with two personalities or alters?" "In my experience, people with MPD usually have many more alters, sometimes as many as a hundred."
Eleanor Tucker turned to whisper something to Mickey Brennan. Brennan smiled.
"How long have you been dealing with multiple personality disorder? Dr. Ashanti?"
"For the past fifteen years."
"In a patient with MPD, is there usually one alter who dominates?"
"Yes."
Some of the jurors were making notes.
"And is the host-the person who has those personalities within him or her-aware of the other alters?"
"It varies. Sometimes some of the alters know all the
other alters, sometimes they know only some of them. But the host is usually not aware of them, not until psychiatric treatment."
"That's very interesting. Is MPD curable?"
"Often, yes. It requires psychiatric treatment over long periods. Sometimes up to six or seven years."
"Have you ever been able to cure MPD patients?" "Oh, yes."
"Thank you. Doctor."
David turned to study the jury for a moment. Interested, but not convinced, he thought.
He looked over at Mickey Brennan. "Your witness." Brennan rose and walked over to the witness box.
"Dr. Ashanti, you testified that you flew here all the way from New Yolk because you wanted to be helpful?"
"That's correct."
"Your coming here couldn't have anything to do with the
fact that this is a high-profile case and that the publicity would be beneficial to-"
David was on his feet. "Objection. Argumentative." "Overruled."
Dr. Ashanti said calmly, "I stated why I came here." "Right. Since you've been practicing medicine. Doctor, how many patients would you say you've treated for mental disorders?"
"Oh, perhaps two hundred."
"And of those cases, how many would you say suffered from multiple personality disorder?"
"A dozen..."
Brennan looked at him in feigned astonishment. "Out of two bundled patients?"
"Well, yes. You see-"
"What I don't see. Dr. Ashanti, is how you can consider yourself an expert if you've dealt with only those few cases. I would appreciate it if you would give us some evidence that would prove or disprove the existence of multiple personality disorder."
"When you say proof-"
"We're in a court of law, Doctor. The jury is not going to make decisions based on theory and 'what if.' What if, for example, the defendant hated the men she murdered, and after killing them, decided to use the excuse of an alter inside her so that she-"
David was on his feet "Objection! That's argumentative and leading the witness."
"Overruled." "Your Honor-"
"Sit down, Mr. Singer."
David glared at Judge Williams and angrily took his seat. "So what you're telling us. Doctor, is that there's no evidence that will prove or disprove the existence of MPD?" "Well, no. But-"
Brennan nodded. "That's all."
Dr. Royce Salem was on the witness stand.
David said, "Dr. Salem, you examined Ashley Patterson?" "I did."
"And what was your conclusion?"
"Miss Patterson is suffering from MPD. She has two alters who call themselves Toni Prescott and Alette Peters." "Does she have any control over them?"
"None. When they take over, she is in a state of fugue amnesia."
"Would you explain that? Dr. Salem?"
"Fugue amnesia is a condition where the victim loses consciousness of where he is, or what he is doing. It can last for a few minutes, days or sometimes weeks."
"And during that time would you say that that person is responsible for his or her actions?"
"No."
"Thank you. Doctor." He turned to Brennan. "Your witness." Brennan said, "Dr. Salem, you are a consultant at several hospitals and you give lectures all around the world?" "Yes, sir."
"I assume that your peers are gifted, capable doctors?" "Yes, I would say they are."
"So, they all agree about multiple personality disorder?" "No."
"What do you mean, no?" "Some of them don't agree."
"You mean, they don't believe it exists?" "Yes."
"But they're wrong and you're right?"
"I've treated patients, and I know that there is such a thing. When-"
"Let me ask you something. If there were such a thing as multiple personality disorder, would one alter always be in charge of telling the host what to do? The alter says,
'Kill,' and the host does it?"
"It depends. Alters have various degrees of influence." "So the host could be in charge?"
"Sometimes, of course." "The majority of times?" "No."
"Doctor, where is the proof that MPD exists?"
"I have witnessed complete physical changes in patients under hypnosis, and I know-"
"And that's a basis of truth?" "Yes."
"Dr. Salem, if I hypnotized you in a warm room and told you that you were at the North Pole naked in a snowstorm, would your body temperature drop?"
"Well, yes, but-"
"That's all."
David walked over to the witness stand. "Dr. Salem, is there any doubt in your mind that these alters exist in Ashley Patterson?"
"None. And they are absolutely capable of taking over and dominating her."
"And she would not be aware of it?" "She would not be aware of it." "Thank you."
"I would like to call Shane Miller to the stand." David watched him being sworn in. "What do you do, Mr. Miller?" "I'm a supervisor at Global Computer Graphics Corporation."
"And how long have you worked there?" "About seven years."
"And was Ashley Patterson employed there?" "Yes."
"And did she work under your supervision?" "She did."
"So you got to know her pretty well?" "That's right."
"Mr. Miller, you've heard doctors testify that some of the symptoms of multiple personality disorder are paranoia, nervousness, distress. Have you ever noticed any of those symptoms in Miss Patterson?"
"Well, I-"
"Didn't Miss Patterson tell you that she felt someone was stalking her?"
"Yes. She did."
"And what she had no idea who it could be or why anyone would do that?"
"That's right."
"Didn't she once say that someone used her computer to threaten her with a knife?"
"Yes."
"And didn't things get so bad that you finally sent her to the psychologist who works at your company Dr Speakman?" "Yes."
"So Ashley Patterson did exhibit the symptoms we're talking about?"
"That's right."
"Thank you, Mr. Miller." David turned to Mickey Brennan. "Your witness."
"How many employees do you have directly under you Mr. Miller?"
"Thirty."
"And out of thirty employees, Ashley Patterson is the only one you've ever seen get upset?"
"Well, no..." "Oh, really?"
"Everyone gets upset sometimes."
"You mean other employees had to go and see your company psychologist?"
"Oh, sure. They keep him pretty busy." Brennan seemed impressed. "Is that so?"
"Yeah. A lot of them have problems. Hey, they're all human."
"No further questions." "Redirect."
David approached the witness stand. "Mr. Miller, you said that some of the employees under you had problems. What kind of problems?"
"Well, it could be about an argument with a boyfriend or a husband. "
"Yes?"
"Or it could be about a financial problem. "
"Yes?"
"Or their kids bugging them. "
"In other words, the ordinary kinds of domestic problems that any of us might face?"
"Yes."
"But no one went to see Dr. Speakman because they thought they were being stalked or because they thought someone was
threatening to kill them?" "No."
"Thank you."
The trial was recessed for lunch.
David got into his car and drove through the park, depressed. The trial was going badly. The doctors couldn't
make up their minds whether MPD existed or not. If they can't agree, David thought, how am I going to get a jury to agree? I can't let anything happen to Ashley. I can't. He was approaching Harold's Cafe, a restaurant near the courthouse.
He parked the car and went inside. The hostess smiled at him.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Singer." He was famous. Infamous?
"Right this way, please." He followed her to a booth and sat down. The hostess handed him the menu, gave him a lingering smile and walked away, her hips moving provocatively. The perks of fame, David thought wryly.
He was not hungry, but he could hear Sandra's voice saying, "You have to eat to keep up your strength."
There were two men and two women seated in the booth next to him. One of the men was saying, "She's a hell of a lot worse than Lizzie Borden. Borden killed only two people." The other man added, "And she didn't castrate them." "What do you think they'll do to her?"
"Are you kidding? She'll get the death sentence." "Too bad the Butcher Bitch can't get three death sentences."
That's the public speaking, David thought. He had the depressing feeling that if he walked around the restaurant, he would hear variations of the same comments. Brennan had built her up as a monster. He could hear Quiller's voice. "If you don't put her on the stand, that's the image the jurors will carry in their minds when they go into the jury room to reach a verdict."
I've got to take the chance. I've got to let the jurors see for themselves that Ashley's telling the truth.
The waitress was at his side. "Are you ready to order, Mr. Singer?"
"I've changed my mind," David said. "I'm not hungry." As he got up and walked out of the restaurant, he could feel
baleful eyes following him. I hope they're not armed, David thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY
When David returned to the courthouse, he visited Ashley
in her cell. She was seated on the little cot, staring at the floor.
"Ashley."
She looked up, her eyes filled with despair. David sat next to her. "We have to talk." She watched him, silent.
"These terrible things they're saying about you... none of them are true. But the jurors don't know that. They don't know you. We've got to let them see what you're really like."
Ashley looked at him and said dully, "What am I really like?"
"You're a decent human being who has an illness. They'll sympathize with that."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to get on the witness stand and testify." She was staring at him, horrified. "I-I can't. I don't know anything. I can't tell them anything."
"Let me handle that. All you have to do is answer my questions."
A guard came up to the cell. "Court's coming into session."
David rose and squeezed Ashley's hand. "It's going to work. You'll see."
"All rise. Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Tessa Williams presiding in the case of The People of the State of California Versus Ashley Patterson."
Judge Williams took her seat on the bench. David said, "May I approach the bench?"
"You may."
Mickey Brennan walked to the bench with David. "What is it, Mr. Singer?"
"I'd like to call a witness who's not on the discovery list."
Brennan said, "It's awfully late in the trial to introduce new witnesses."
"I would like to call Ashley Patterson as my next witness."
Judge Williams said, "I don't-"
Mickey Brennan said quickly, "The state has no objection,
Your Honor."
Judge Williams looked at the two attorneys. "Very well. You may call your witness, Mr. Singer."
"Thank you. Your Honor." He walked over to Ashley and held out his hand. "Ashley..."
She sat there in a panic. "You must."
She rose, her heart palpitating, and slowly made her way to the witness stand.
Mickey Brennan whispered to Eleanor, "I was praying that he'd call her."
Eleanor nodded. "It's over."
Ashley Patterson was being sworn in by the court cleric.
"You do solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
"I do." Her voice was a whisper. Ashley took her seat in the witness box.
David walked over to her. He said gently, "I know this is very difficult for you. You've been accused of horrible crimes that you did not commit. All I want is for the jury to know the truth. Do you have any memory of committing any of those crimes?"
Ashley shook her head. "No."
David glanced at the jury, and then went on. "Did you know Dennis Tibble?"
"Yes. We worked together at Global Computer Graphics Corporation."
"Did you have any reason to kill Dennis Tibble?"
"No." It was difficult for her to speak. "I-I went to his apartment to give him some advice that he had asked me for, and that was the last time I saw him."
"Did you know Richard Melton?" "No..."
"He was an artist. He was murdered in San Francisco. The police found evidence of your DNA and fingerprints there." Ashley was shaking her head from side to side. "I-I don't know what to say. I didn't know him!"
"You knew deputy Sam Blake?"
"Yes. He was helping me. I didn't kill him!"
"Are you aware that you have two other personalities, alters, within you, Ashley?"
"Yes." Her voice was strained. "When did you learn this?" "Before the trial. Dr. Salem told me about it. I couldn't believe it. I-I still can't believe it. It's-it's to awful."
"You had no previous knowledge of these alters." "No."
"You had never heard of Toni Prescott or Alette Peters?" "No!"
"Do you believe now that they exist within you?" "Yes...I have to believe it. They must have done all these-these horrible things. "
"So you have no recollection of ever having met Richard Melton, you had no motive for killing Dennis Tibble or for killing deputy Sam Blake, who was at your apartment to protect you?"
"That's right." Her eyes swept over the crowded courtroom, and she felt a sense of panic.
"One last question," David said. "Have you ever been in trouble with the law?"
"Never."
David put his hand on hers. "That's all for now." He tamed to Mickey Brennan. "Your witness."
Brennan rose, a big smile on his face. "Well, Miss Patterson, we finally get to talk to all of you. Did you ever, at any time, have sexual intercourse with Dennis Tibble?"
"No."
"Did you ever have sexual intercourse with Richard Melton?"
"No."
"Did you ever, at any time, have sexual intercourse; with deputy Samuel Blake?"
"No."
"That's very interesting." Brennan glanced at the jury. "Because traces of a vaginal discharge were found on the bodies of all three men. The DNA tests matched your DNA." "I...don't know anything about that."
"Maybe you've been framed. Maybe some fiend got hold of it-"
"Objection! It's argumentative." "Overruled."
"-and planted it on those three mutilated bodies. Do you have any enemies who would do such a thing to you?" "I... don't know."
"The FBI's fingerprint lab checked the fingerprints the police found at the scenes of the crimes. And I'm sure this will surprise you-"
"Objection."
"Sustained. Be careful, Mr. Brennan." "Yes, Your Honor."
Satisfied, David slowly sat down.
Ashley was on the verge of hysteria. "The alters must have-"
"The fingerprints at the scenes of the three murders were yours, and yours alone." Ashley sat there, silent.
Brennan walked over to a table, picked up a butcher knife wrapped in cellophane and held it up. "Do you recognize this?"
"It-it could be one of... one of my-"
"One of your knives? It is. It has already been admitted into evidence. The stains on it match the blood of deputy Blake. Your fingerprints are on this murder weapon." Ashley was mindlessly shaking her head from side to side.
"I've never seen a clearer case of cold-blooded murder or a more feeble defense. Hiding behind two nonexistent, imaginary characters is the most-"
David was on his feet again. "Objection." "Sustained. I've already warned you, Mr. Brennan." "Sorry, Your Honor."
Brennan went on. "I'm sure that the jury would like to meet the characters you're talking about. You are Ashley Patterson, correct?"
"Yes..."
"Fine. I would like to talk to Toni Prescott." "I...I can't bring her out."
Brennan looked at her in surprise. "You can't? Really? Well, then, how about Alette Peters?"
Ashley shook her head despairingly. "I...don't control them."
"Miss Patterson, I'm trying to help you," Brennan said. "I want to show the jury your alters who killed and mutilated three innocent men. Bring them out!"
"I...I can't." She was sobbing.
"You can't because they don't exist! You're hiding behind phantoms. You're the only one sitting in that box, and you're the only one who's guilty. They don't exist, but you do, and I'll tell you what else exists-irrefutable, undeniable proof that you murdered three men and cold-bloodedly emasculated them." He turned to Judge Williams. "Your Honor, the state rests."
David turned to look at the jury. They were all staring at Ashley and their faces were filled with repulsion. Judge
Williams turned to David. "Mr. Singer?" David rose. "Your Honor, I would like permission to have the defendant hypnotized so that-"
Judge Williams said curtly, "Mr. Singer, I warned you before that I will not have this trial turned into a
sideshow. You can't hypnotize her in my courtroom. The answer is no."
David said fiercely, "You have to let me do this. You don't know how important."
"That's enough, Mr. Singer." Her voice was ice. "I'm citing you a second time for contempt. Do you want to reexamine the witness or don't you?"
David stood there, frustrated. "Yes, Your Honor." He walked over to the witness box. "Ashley, you know you're under oath?"
"Yes." She was taking deep breaths, fighting to control herself.
"And everything you've said is the truth as you know it?" "Yes."
"You know that there are two alters in your mind and body and soul who you have no control over?"
"Yes."
"Toni and Alette?" "Yes."
"You didn't commit any of those terrible murders?" "No."
"One of them did, and you're not responsible." Eleanor looked at Brennan questioningly, but he smiled and shook his head. "Let him hang himself," he whispered.
"Helen-" David stopped, white-faced at his slip. "I mean, Ashley...want you to have Toni come out."
Ashley looked at David and shook her head helplessly. "I-I can't," she whispered.
David said, "Yes, you can. Toni is listening to us right now. She's enjoying herself, and why shouldn't she? She got away with three murders." He raised his voice. "You're very clever, Toni. Come on out and take a bow. No one can touch you. They can't punish you because Ashley is innocent, and they'd have to punish her to get at you."
Everyone in the courtroom was staring at David. Ashley sat there, frozen.
David moved closer to her. "Toni! Toni, can you hear me? I want you to come out. Now!"
He waited a moment. Nothing happened. He raised his voice.
"Toni! Alette! Come out! Come on out. We all know you're in there!"
There was not a sound in the courtroom.
David lost control. He was yelling, "Come out Show your faces.... Damn it! Now! Now!"
Ashley dissolved in tears.
Judge Williams said furiously, "Approach the bench, Mr. Singer."
Slowly, David walked over to the bench. "Are you through badgering your client, Mr. Singer? I'm going to send a report of your behavior to the state bar association. You're a disgrace to your profession, and I'm going to recommend that you're disbarred."
David had no answer.
"Do you have any more witnesses to call?"
David shook his head defeated. "No, Your Honor." It was over. He had lost Ashley was going to die. "The defense rests."
Joseph Kincaid was seated in the last row of the courtroom, watching, his face grim. He turned to Harvey Udell. "Get rid of him." Kincaid got up and left.
Udell stopped David as he was leaving the courtroom. "David..."
"Hello, Harvey."
"Sorry about the way this turned out." "It's not-"
"Mr. Kincaid hates to do this, but, well, he thinks it would be better if you didn't come back to the firm. Good luck."
The moment David stepped outside the courtroom, he was surrounded by television cameras and shouting reporters. "Do you have a statement, Mr. Singer...?"
"We hear Judge Williams says you're going to be disbarred. "
"Judge Williams says she's going to hold you for contempt of court. Do you think you-?"
"The experts feel you've lost this case. Do you plan to appeal. ?"
"Our network legal experts say that your client will get the death penalty. "
"Have you made any plans for the future...?" David got into his car without a word and drove away.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
HE rewrote the scenes in his mind, over and over again, endlessly.
I saw the news this morning. Dr. Patterson. I can't tell you how very sorry I am.
Yes. It's been quite a blow. I need your help, David. Of course. Anything I can do.
I want you to represent Ashley.
I can't do that. I'm not a criminal defense lawyer. But I can recommend a great attorney, Jesse Quitter.
That will be fine. Thank you, David....
You're an anxious young fellow, aren't you? Our meeting wasn't supposed to be until five o'clock. Well, I have good news for you. We're making you a partner.
* * *
You asked to see me?
Yes, Your Honor. They're talking about this trial on the Internet, and they've already convicted the defendant. This could seriously damage the defense. Therefore, I'm making a motion for a mistrial.
I think those are excellent grounds for a mistrial, Mr. Singer. I'm going to grant it....
The bitter-tasting game of "what if."...
The following morning, the court was in session.
"Is the prosecution ready to make its closing argument?" Brennan stood up. He walked over to the jury box and looked at the jurors one by one.
"You're in a position to make history here. If you believe that the defendant is really a lot of different people and she's not responsible for what she's done, for the terrible crimes she committed, and you let her go, then you're saying that anybody can get away with murder by simply claiming that they didn't do it, that some mysterious alter ego did it.
They can rob, rape and kill, and are they guilty? No. I didn't do it. My alter ego did it.' Ken or Joe or Suzy or whatever they want to call themselves. Well, I think you're all too intelligent to fall for that fantasy. The reality is in those photographs you looked at. Those people weren't murdered by any alter egos. They were all deliberately, calculatedly, cruelly murdered by the defendant sitting at that table, Ashley Patterson. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, what the defense has tried to do in this court has been tried before. In Mann Versus Teller, the decision was that a finding of MPD does not, per se, require a finding of
acquittal. In United States Versus Whirley, a nurse who murdered a baby pleaded that she had MPD. The court found her guilty.
"You know, I almost feel sorry for the defendant.. All those characters living in that poor girl. I'm sure none of
us would want a bunch of crazy strangers moving around inside us, would we? Going around murdering and castrating men. I'd be scared."
He turned to look at Ashley. "The defendant doesn't seem scared, does she? Not too scared to put on a pretty dress and comb her hair nicely and apply makeup. Six doesn't seem scared at all. She thinks you're going to believe her story and let her go. No one can prove whether this multiple personality disorder really exists at all, so we're going to have to make our own judgments.
"The defense claims that these characters come out and
take over. Let's see-there's Toni; she was born ii England. And Alette; she was born in Italy. They're al the same person. They were just born in different countries at different times. Does that confuse you? I know it confuses me. I offered the defendant a chance to let us see her alters, but she didn't take me up on it. I wonder why? Could it be because they don't exist...? Does California law recognize MPD as a mental condition? No. Colorado law? No.
Mississippi? No. Federal law? No. As a matter of fact, no state has a law confirming MPD as a legal defense. And why? Because it isn't a defense. Ladies and gentlemen, it's a fictitious alibi to punishment. "
"What the defense is asking you to believe is that are two people inside the defendant, so no one bears any responsibility for her criminal actions. But there is only one defendant sitting in this courtroom - Ashley Patterson. We have proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that she is a murderer. But she claims she didn't commit the crimes. That was done by someone else, someone who borrowed her body to kill innocent people - her alters. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we all had alters, someone to carry out anything we secretly wanted done that society doesn't permit? Or maybe not. Would you like to live in a world where people could go around murdering others and say, 'You can't touch me, my alter did it' and 'You can't punish my alter because my alter is really me'?
"But this trial is not about some mythical characters who don't exist. The defendant, Ashley Patterson, is on trial for
three vicious, cold-blooded murders, and the state is asking the death penalty. Thank you."
Mickey Brennan returned to his seat.
"Is the defense ready to present its closing argument?"
David rose. He walked to the jury box and looked into the faces of the jurors, and what he saw there was disheartening. "I know that this has been a very difficult case for all of us. You've heard experts testify that they've treated multiple personality disorder, and you've heard other experts testify that there is no such thing. You're not doctors, so no one expects you to make your judgment based on medical knowledge. I want to apologize to all of you if my behavior yesterday seemed boorish. I yelled at Ashley Patterson only because I wanted to force her alters to come out. I've talked to those alters. I know they exist. There really is an Alette and a Toni, and they can control Ashley anytime they want to. She has no knowledge of committing any murders.
"I told you at the beginning of this trial that for
someone to be convicted of first-degree murder, there has to be physical evidence and a motive. There is no motive here, ladies and gentlemen. None. And the law says that the prosecution must prove a defendant is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. I'm sure you'll agree that in this case, there is a reasonable doubt.
"As far as proof is concerned, the defense does not question it. There are Ashley Patterson's fingerprints and
traces of DNA at each of the crime scenes. But the very fact that they are there should give us pause. Ashley Patterson is an intelligent young woman. If she committed a murder and did not want to be caught, would she have been stupid enough to leave her fingerprints at each one of the scenes? The answer is no."
David went on for another thirty minutes. At the end, he looked at their faces and was not reassured. He sat down. Judge Williams turned to the jurors. "I want to instruct you now on the applicable law to this case. I want you to listen carefully." She talked for the next twenty minutes, detailing what was admissible and allowable by law.
"If you have any questions, or want any part of the testimony read back to you, the court reporter will do so. The jury is excused to go deliberate. Court is adjourned until they return with their verdict."
David watched the jury file out of the box and into the jury room. The longer the jurors take, the better our
chances, David thought. The jurors returned forty-five minutes later.
David and Ashley watched as the jurors filed in and took their seats in the jury box. Ashley was stone-faced. David found that he was perspiring.
Judge Williams turned to the jury foreman. "Have the jurors reached a verdict?"
"We have. Your Honor."
"Would you please hand it to the bailiff."
The bailiff carried the piece of paper to the judge. Judge Williams unfolded it. There was not a sound in the courtroom. The bailiff returned the paper to the jury foreman. "Would you read the verdict, please?"
In a slow, measured tone, he read, "In the case of The People of the State of California Versus Ashley Patterson, we, the jury, in the above entitled action, find the defendant, Ashley Patterson, guilty of the murder of Dennis Tibble, a violation of Penal Code Section 187."
There was a gasp in the courtroom. Ashley shut her eyes tightly.
"In the case of The People of the State of California
Versus Ashley Patterson, we, the jury, in the above entitled action, find the defendant, Ashley Patterson, guilty of the murder of deputy Samuel Blake, a violation of Penal Code Section 187.
"In the case of The People of the State of California
Versus Ashley Patterson, we, the jury, in the above entitled action, find the defendant, Ashley Patterson, guilty of the murder of Richard Melton, a violation of Penal Code Section
187. We, the jury, in all the verdicts, further fix the degree at first degree."
David was finding it difficult to breathe. He turned to Ashley, but he had no words. He leaned over and put his arms around her.
Judge Williams said, "I would like to have the jury polled." One by one, each juror stood up.
"Was the verdict read, your verdict?"
And when each one had affirmed it, Judge Williams said, "The verdict will be recorded and entered into the record." She went on. "I want to thank the jury for their time and service in this case. You're dismissed. Tomorrow the court will take up the issue of sanity."
David sat there, numb, watching Ashley being led away. Judge Williams got up and walked to her chambers without
looking at David. Her attitude told David more clearly than words what her decision was going to be in the morning.
Ashley was going to be sentenced to die.
Sandra called from San Francisco. "Are you all right, David?"
He tried to sound cheerful. "Yes, I'm great. How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine. I've been watching the news on television. The judge wasn't fair to you. She can't have you disbarred. You were only trying to help your client."
He had no answer.
"I'm so sorry, David. I wish were with you. I could drive down and-"
"No," David said. "We can't take any chances. Did you see the doctor today?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"Very soon now. Any day." Happy birthday, Jeffrey. Jesse Quiller called. "I bungled it," David said.
"Like hell you did. You got the wrong judge. What did you ever do to get ho: so down on you?"
David said, "She wanted me to plea-bargain. She didn't want this to go to trial. Maybe I should have listened to her."
All the television channels were full of the news of his disgrace. He watched one of the network's legal experts discussing the case.
"I've never heard of a defending attorney screaming at his own client before. I must tell you, the courtroom was stunned. It was one of the most outrageous-"
David switched off the station. Where did it all go wrong? Life is supposed to have a happy ending. Because I've bungled everything, Ashley's going to die. I'm going to be disbarred, the baby's going to be born any minute and I don't even have a job.
He sat in his hotel room in the middle of the night, staring into the darkness. It was the lowest moment of his life. Playing over and over again in his mind was the final courtroom scene. "You can't hypnotize her in my courtroom. The answer is no. "
If only she had let me hypnotize Ashley on the stand, I know she would have convinced the jury. Too late. It's all over now.
And a small, nagging voice in his mind said. Who says it's
over? I don't hear the fat lady singing. There's nothing more I can do.
Your client is innocent. Are you going to let her die? Leave me alone.
Judge Williams's words kept echoing in his mind. "You can't hypnotize her in my courtroom."
And three words kept repeating themselves-"in my courtroom."
At five o'clock in the morning, David made two excited, urgent phone calls. As he finished, the sun was just beginning to appear over the horizon. It's an omen, David thought. We're going to win.
A little later, David hurried into an antiques store. The clerk approached him. "May I help you, sir?" He recognized David. "Mr. Singer."
"I'm looking for a folding Chinese screen. Do you have something like that?"
"Yes, we do. We don't have any real antique screens, but-" "Let's see what you have."
"Certainly." He led David over to the section where there were several Chinese folding screens. The clerk pointed to the first one. "Now, this one-"
"That's fine," David said.
"Yes, sir. Where shall I send it?" "I'll take it with me."
David's next stop was at a hardware store, where he bought a Swiss Army knife. Fifteen minutes later, he was walking
into the lobby of the courthouse carrying the screen. He said to the guard at the desk, "I made arrangements to interview Ashley Patterson. I have permission to use Judge Goldberg's chambers. He's not here today."
The guard said, "Yes, sir. It's all set. I'll have the defendant brought up. Dr. Salem and another man are already up there, waiting."
"Thank you."
The guard watched David carry the Chinese screen into the elevator. Crazy as a loon, he thought.
Judge Goldberg's chamber was a comfortable-looking room with a desk facing the window, a swivel chair, and near one wall a couch and several chars. Dr. Salem and another man were standing in the room when David entered.
"Sorry I'm late," David said.
Dr. Salem said, "This is Hugh Iverson. He's the expert you asked for."
The two men shook hands. "Let's get set up fast," David said. "Ashley's on her way here."
He turned to Hugh Iverson and pointed to a corner of the room. "How's that for you?"
"Fine."
He watched Iverson go to work. A few minutes later, the door opened and Ashley entered with a guard. "I'll have to stay in the room," the guard said.
David nodded. "That's all right." He turned to Ashley. "Sit down, please."
He watched her take a seat. "First of all, I want to tell you how terribly sorry I am about the way things went." She nodded, almost dazed.
"But it's not over yet. We still have a chance." She looked at him with disbelieving eyes.
"Ashley, I would like Dr. Salem to hypnotize you again." "No. What's the point in-"
"Do it for me. Will you?" She shrugged.
David nodded to Dr. Salem.
Dr. Salem said to Ashley, "We've done this before, so you know that all you have to do is close your eyes and relax. Just relax. Feel all the muscles in your body letting go of all the tension. All you want to do is sleep. You're getting very drowsy. "
Ten minutes later. Dr. Salem looked at David and said, "She's completely under."
David moved toward Ashley, and his heart was pounding. "I want to talk to Toni."
There was no reaction.
David raised his voice. "Toni, I want you to come out. Do you hear me? Alette...want you both to talk tome." Silence.
David was yelling now. "What's the matter with you? Are you too frightened? That's what happened in the courtroom,
isn't it? Did you hear what the jury said? Ashley's guilty. You were afraid to come out. You're a coward, Toni!"
They looked at Ashley. There was no reaction. David looked at Dr. Salem in despair. It was not going to work.
"Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Tessa Williams presiding."
Ashley was seated at the defendant's table next to David. David's hand was wrapped in a large bandage.
David rose. "May I approach the bench? Your Honor?"
"You may."
David walked toward the bench. Brennan followed him. David said, "I would like to present new evidence to this case."
"Absolutely not," Brennan objected.
Judge Williams turned to him and said, "Let me make that decision, Mr. Brennan." She turned back to David.
"The trial is over. Your client has been convicted and-" "This concerns the insanity plea," David said. "All I'm asking for is ten minutes of your time."
Judge Williams said angrily, "Time doesn't mean much to you, does it, Mr. Singer? You have already wasted a great
deal of everyone's time." She made her decision. "All right. I hope this is the last request you'll ever be able to make in a court of law. The court is recessed for ten minutes." David and Brennan followed the judge to her chambers.
She turned to David. "I'm giving you your ten minutes. What is it, Counselor?"
"I want to show you a piece of film. Your Honor." Brennan said, I don't see what this has to do with-"
Judge Williams said to Brennan, "I don't, either." She turned to David. "You now have nine minutes."
David hurried over to the door leading to the hallway and opened it. "Come in."
Hugh Iverson walked in, carrying a sixteen-millimeter projector and a portable screen. "Where should I set it up?" David pointed to a corner of the room. "Over there."
They watched as the man set up the equipment and plugged in the projector.
"May I pull down the shades?" David asked.
It was all Judge Williams could do to hold back her anger. "Yes, you go right ahead, Mr. Singer." She looked at her watch. "You have seven minutes."
The projector was turned on. Judge Goldberg's chambers flickered onto the screen. David and Dr. Salem were watching Ashley, who was seated in a chair.
On the screen, Dr. Salem said, "She's completely under." David walked up to Ashley. "I want to talk to Toni....
Toni, want you to come out. Do you hear me? Alette...want you both to talk to me."
Silence.
Judge Williams sat there, her face tight, watching the film.
David was yelling now. "What's the matter with you? Are
you too frightened? That's what happened in the courtroom, isn't it? Did you hear what the jury said? Ashley's guilty. You were afraid to come out. You're a coward, Toni!"
Judge Williams got to her feet. "I've had enough of this! I've seen this disgusting performance before. Your time is up, Mr. Singer."
"Wait," David said. "You haven't-"
"It's finished," Judge Williams told him and started for the door. Suddenly, a song began to fill the room.
"A penny for a spool of thread. A penny for a needle.
That's the way the money goes, Pop! goes the weasel."
Puzzled, Judge Williams turned around. She looked at the picture on the screen.
Ashley's face had completely changed. It was Toni. Toni said angrily, "Too frightened to come out in court? Did you
really think I would come out just because you ordered me to? What do you think I am, a trained pony?"
Judge Williams slowly moved back into the room, staring at the film.
"I listened to all those bloody gits making fools of themselves." She mimicked one of their voices. " 'I don't think that multiple personality disorder exists.' What idiots. I've never seen such-"
As they watched, Ashley's face changed again. She seemed to relax in her chair, and her face took on a shy look. In her Italian accent, Alette said, "Mr. Singer, know you did
the best you could. I wanted to appear in court and help you, but Toni wouldn't let me." Judge Williams was watching, her face blank. The face and voice changed again. "You're bleeding right wouldn't," Toni said.
David said, "Toni, what do you think is going to happen to you if the judge gives Ashley the death sentence?"
"She's not going to give her the death sentence. Ashley didn't even know one of the men. Remember?"
David said, "But Alette knew them all. You committed those murders, Alette. You had sex with those men and then you stabbed them to death and castrated them. "
Toni said, "You bloody idiot! You don't know anything, do you? Alette would never have had the nerve to do that. I did it. They deserved to die. All they wanted to do was have
sex." She was breathing hard. "But I made them all pay for it, didn't I? And no one can ever prove I did it. Let little Miss Goody Two-shoes take the blame. We'll all go to a nice cozy asylum and-"
In the background, behind the Chinese screen in the corner, there was a loud click.
Toni turned. "What was that?"
"Nothing," David said quickly. "It was just-"
Toni rose and started running toward the camera until her face filled the screen. She pushed against something, and the scene tilled; part of the folding Chinese screen fell into the picture. A small hole had been cut in the center.
"You've got a fucking camera behind here," Toni screamed.
She turned to David. "You son of a bitch, what are you trying to do? You tricked me!"
On the desk was a letter opener. Toni grabbed it and
lunged at David, screaming, "I'm going to kill you. I'm going to kill you!"
David tried to hold her, but he was no match for her. The letter opener sliced into his hand.
Toni raised her arm to strike again, and the guard ran to
her and tried to grab her. Toni knocked him to the floor. The door opened and a uniformed officer ran in. When he saw what was happening, he lunged at Toni. She kicked him in the groin, and he went down. Two more officers came running in.
It took three of them to pin Toni to the chair, and all the time she was yelling and screaming at them.
Blood was pouring from David's hand. He said to Dr. Salem, "For God's sake, wake her up."
Dr. Salem said, "Ashley... Ashley... listen to me. You're going to come out now. Toni is gone. It's safe to come out now, Ashley. I'm going to count to three."
And as the group watched, Ashley's body became quiet and relaxed.
"Can you hear me?"
"Yes." It was Ashley's voice, sounding far away. "You'll awaken at the count of three. One... two... three... How do you feel?"
Her eyes opened. "I feel so tired. Did I say anything?" The screen in Judge Williams' s office went blank. David walked over to the wall and turned on the lights.
Brennan said, "Well! What a performance. If they were giving out Oscars for the best-"
Judge Williams turned to him. "Shut up." Brennan looked at
her, in shock. There was a momentary silence. Judge Williams turned to David. "Counselor."
"Yes?" There was a pause. "I owe you an apology."
Seated on the bench, Judge Tessa Williams said, "Both counsels have agreed that they will accept the opinion of a psychiatrist who has already examined the defendant, Dr.
Salem. The decision of this court is that the defendant is not guilty by reason of insanity. She will be ordered to a mental health facility, where she can be treated. The court is now adjourned.'
David stood up, drained. It's over, he thought. It's finally over. He and Sandra could start living their lives again.
He looked at Judge Williams and said happily, "We're having a baby."
Dr. Salem said to David, "I would like to make a suggestion. I'm not sure it can be done, but if you can arrange it, I think it would be helpful to Ashley." "What is it?"
"The Connecticut Psychiatric Hospital back east has handled more cases of MPD than any other place in the
country. A friend of mine, Dr. Otto Lewison, is in charge of it. If you could arrange for the court to have Ashley sent there, I think it would be very beneficial."
"Thanks," David said. "I'll see what I can do."
Dr. Steven Patterson said to David, "I-I don't know how to thank you."
David smiled. "You don't have to. It was quid pro quo. Remember?"
"You did a brilliant job. For a while I was afraid-" "So was I."
"But justice has been served. My daughter's going to be cured."
"I'm sure of it," David said. "Dr. Salem suggested a psychiatric hospital in Connecticut. Their doctors are trained in MPD."
Dr. Patterson was silent for a moment. "You know, Ashley didn't deserve any of this. She's such a beautiful person." "I agree. I'll talk to Judge Williams and try to get the transfer."
Judge Williams was in her chambers. "What can I do for you, Mr. Singer?"
"I'd like to ask a favor." She smiled. "I hope I can grant
it. What is it?" David explained to the judge what Dr. Salem had told him.
"Well, that's a rather unusual request. We have some fine psychiatric facilities right here in California."
David said, "All right. Thank you. Your Honor." He turned to leave, disappointed.
"I haven't said no, Mr. Singer." David stopped. "It's an unusual request, but this has been an unusual case." David waited.
"I think I can arrange for her to be transferred." "Thank you. Your Honor. I appreciate it."
In her cell, Ashley thought. They've sentenced me to
death. A long death in an asylum filled with crazy people. It would have been kinder to kill me now. She thought of the endless, hopeless years ahead of her, and she began to sob.
The cell door opened, and her father came in. He stood
there a moment, looking at her, his face filled with anguish. "Honey..." He sat down opposite her. "You're going to
live," he said.
She shook her head. "I don't want to live."
"Don't say that. You have a medical problem, but it can be cured. And it's going to be. When you're better, you're going to come and live with me, and I'll take care of you. No matter what happens, we'll always have each other. They can't take that away from us."
Ashley sat there, saying nothing.
"I know how you're feeling right now, but believe me,
that's going to change. My girl is going to come home to me, cured." He slowly got to his feet "I'm afraid I have to get back to San Francisco." He waited for Ashley to say something.
She was silent.
"David told me that he thinks you're going to be sent to one of the best psychiatric centers in the world. I'll come and visit you. Would you like that?"
She nodded, dully. "Yes."
"All right, honey." He kissed her on the cheek and gave her a hug. "I'm going to see to it that you have the best care in the world. I want my little girl back."
Ashley watched her father leave, and she thought, Why
can't I die now? Why won't they let me die? One hour later, David came to see her. "Well, we did it," he said. He looked at her in concern. "Are you all right?"
"I don't want to go to an insane asylum. I want to die. I
can't stand living like this. Help me, David. Please help me."
"Ashley, you're going to get help. The past is over. You
have a future now. The nightmare is going to be finished." He took her hand. "Look, you've trusted me this far. Keep trusting me. You're going to live a normal life again."
She sat there, silent.
"Say 'I believe you, David.' "
She took a deep breath. "I-I believe you, David."
He grinned. "Good girl. This is a new beginning for you." The moment the ruling was made public, the media went crazy. Overnight, David was a hero. He had taken an impossible case and won it. He called Sandra. "Honey, I-" "I know, darling. I know. I just saw it on television.
Isn't it wonderful? I'm so proud of you."
"I can't tell you how glad I am that it's over. I'll be coming back tonight. I can't wait to see-"
"David...?" "Yes?"
"David... oooh..."
"Yes? What's wrong, honey?"
"... Oooh... We're having a baby. "
"Wait for me!" David shouted.
Jeffrey Singer weighed eight pounds, ten ounces, and was the most beautiful baby David had ever seen.
"He looks just like you, David," Sandra said. "He does, doesn't he?" David beamed.
"I'm glad everything turned out so well," Sandra said. David sighed. "There were times when I wasn't so sure". "I never doubted you."
David bugged Sandra and said, "I'll be back, honey. I have to clean out my things at the office."
When David arrived at the offices of Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley, he was greeted warmly.
"Congratulations, David. "
"Good job. "
"You really showed them. "
David walked into his office. Holly was gone. David started cleaning out his desk.
"David-"
David turned around. It was Joseph Kincaid.
Kincaid walked up to him and said, "What are you doing?" "I'm cleaning out my office. I was fired."
Kincaid smiled. "Fired? Of course not No, no, no. There
was some kind of a misunderstanding." He beamed. "We're making you a partner, my boy. In fact, I've set up a press conference for you here this afternoon at three o'clock." David looked at him. "Really?"
Kincaid nodded. "Absolutely."
David said, "You'd better cancel it. I've decided to go back into criminal law. I've been offered a partnership by
Jesse Quiller. At least when you're dealing with that part of the law, you know who the criminals really are. So, Joey, baby, you take your partnership and shove it where the sun don't shine."
And David walked out of the office.
* * *
Jesse Quiller looked around the penthouse and said, "This is great. It really becomes you two."
"Thank you," Sandra said. She heard a sound from the nursery. "I'd better check on Jeffrey." She hurried off to the next room.
Jesse Quiller walked over to admire a beautiful sterling silver picture frame with Jeffrey's first photograph already in it. "This is lovely. Where did it come from?"
"Judge Williams sent it"
Jesse said, "I'm glad to have you back, partner." "I'm glad to be back, Jesse."
"You'll probably want a little time to relax now. Rest up a little. "
"Yes. We thought we'd take Jeffrey and drive up Oregon to visit Sandra's parents and-"
"By the way, an interesting case came into the of this morning, David. This woman is accused of murdering her two children. I have a feeling she's innocent. Unfortunately, I'm going to Washington on another case, but I thought that you might just talk to her and see what you think. "
BOOK THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
THE COnnecticut Psychiatric Hospital, fifteen miles north of Westport, was originally the estate of Wim Booker, a
wealthy Dutchman, who built the house in 1910. The forty lush acres contained a large manor house, a workshop, stable and swimming pool. The state had bought the property in 1925 and had refitted the manor house to accommodate a hundred patients. A tall chain-link fence had been erected around the
property, with a manned guard post at the entrance. Metal bars had been placed on all the windows, and one section of the house had been fortified as a security area to hold dangerous inmates.
In the office of Dr. Otto Lewison, head of the psychiatric clinic, a meeting was taking place. Dr. Gilbert Keller and Dr. Craig Poster were discussing a new patient who was about to arrive.
Gilbert Keller was a man in his forties, medium height,
blond hair and intense gray eyes. He was a renowned expert on multiple personality disorder.
Otto Lewison, the superintendent of the Connecticut Psychiatric Hospital, was in his seventies, a neat, dapper little man with a full beard and pince-nez glasses.
Dr. Craig Foster had worked with Dr. Keller for years and
was writing a book on multiple personality disorder. All were studying Ashley Patterson's records.
Otto Lewison said, "The lady has been busy. She's only twenty-eight and she's murdered five men." He glanced at the paper again. "She also tried to murder her attorney." "Everyone's fantasy," Gilbert Keller said dryly.
Otto Lewison said, "We're going to keep her in security ward A until we can get a full evaluation."
"When is she arriving?" Dr. Keller asked.
The voice of Dr. Lewison's secretary came over the
intercom. "Dr. Lewison, they're bringing Ashley Patterson in. Would you like to have them bring her into your office?" "Yes, please." Lewison looked up. "Does that answer your question?"
The trip had been a nightmare. At the end of her trial, Ashley Patterson had been taken back to her cell and held there for three days while arrangements were made to fly her back east.
A prison bus had driven her to the airport in Oakland, where a plane was waiting for her. It was a converted DC-6,
part of the huge National Prisoner Transportation System run by the U.S. Marshals Service. There were twenty-four prisoners aboard, all manacled and shackled.
Ashley was wearing handcuffs, and when she sat down, her feet were shackled to the bottom of the seat.
Why are they doing this to me? I'm not a dangerous criminal. I'm a normal woman. And a voice inside her said. Who murdered five innocent people?
The prisoners on the plane were hardened criminals,
convicted of murder, rape, armed robbery and a dozen other crimes. They were on their way to top security prisons around the country. Ashley was the only woman on board.
One of the convicts looked at her and grinned. "Hi, baby. How would you like to come over and warm up my lap?" "Cool it," a guard warned.
"Hey! Don't you have any romance in your soul? This bitch ain't going to get laid for-What's your sentence, baby?" Another convict said, "Are you have any, honey? How about me movin' into the seat next to you and slippin' you-?" Another convict was staring at Ashley. "Wait a minute!" he said. "That's the broad who killed five men and castrated them."
They were all looking at Ashley now. That was the end of the badgering.
On the way to New York, the plane made two landings to discharge or pick up passengers. It was a long flight, the air was turbulent and by the time they landed at La Guardia Airport, Ashley was airsick.
Two uniformed police officers were waiting for her on the tarmac when the plane landed. She was unshackled from the plane seat and shackled again in die interior of a police van. She had never felt so humiliated. The fact that she felt so normal made it all the more unbearable. Did they think she was going to try to escape or murder someone? All that was over, in the past. Didn't they know that? She was sure it would never happen again. She wanted to be away from there.
Anywhere.
Sometime during the long, dreary drive to Connecticut, she dozed off. She was awakened by a guard's voice.
"We're here."
They had reached the gates of the Connecticut Psychiatric Hospital.
When Ashley Patterson was ushered into Dr. Lewison's office, he said, "Welcome to Connecticut Psychiatric Hospital, Miss Patterson."
Ashley stood there, pale and silent.
Dr. Lewison made the introductions and held out a chair. "Sit down, please." He looked at the guard. "Take off the handcuffs and shackles."
The restraints were removed, and Ashley took a seat.
Dr. Foster said, "I know this must be very difficult for you. We're going to do everything we can to make it as easy as possible. Our goal is to see that one day you will leave
this place, cured."
Ashley found her voice. "How-how long could that -take?" Otto Lewison said, "It's too soon to answer that yet. If you can be cured, it could take five or six years."
Each word hit Ashley like a thunderbolt. '"If you can be cured, it could take five or six years. "
"The therapy is nonthreatening. It will consist of a combination of sessions with Dr. Keller-hypnotism, group therapy, art therapy. The important thing to remember is that we're not your enemies."
Gilbert Keller was studying her face. "We're here to help you, and we want you to help us do that."
There was nothing more to say.
Otto Lewison nodded to the attendant, and he walked over to Ashley and took her arm.
Craig Foster said, "He'll take you to your quarters now. We'll talk again later."
When Ashley had left the room, Otto Lewison turned to Gilbert Keller. "What do you think?"
"Well, there's one advantage. There are only two alters to work on."
Keller was trying to remember. "What's the most we've had?"
"The Beltrand woman-ninety alters."
Ashley had not known what to expect, but somehow she had envisioned a dark, dreary prison. The Connecticut Psychiatric Hospital was more like a pleasant clubhouse-with metal bars. As the attendant escorted Ashley through the long,
cheerful corridors, Ashley watched the inmates freely walking back and forth. There were people of every age, and all of them seemed normal. Why are they here? Some of them smiled at her and said, "Good morning," but Ashley was too bewildered to answer. Everything seemed surreal. She was in an insane asylum. Am I insane?
They reached a large steel door that closed off a part of the building. There was a male attendant behind the door. He pressed a red button and the huge door opened.
"This is Ashley Patterson."
The second attendant said, "Good morning, Miss Patterson." They made everything seem so normal. But nothing is normal anymore, Ashley thought. The world is upside down.
"This way. Miss Patterson." He walked her to another door and opened it. Ashley stepped inside. Instead of a cell, she was looking at a pleasant, medium-size room with pastel blue
walls, a small couch and a comfortable-looking bed.
"This is where you'll be staying. They'll be bringing your things in a few minutes."
Ashley watched the guard leave and close the door behind him. This is where you'll be staying.
She began to feel claustrophobic. What if I don't want to stay? What if I want to get out of here?
She walked over to the door. It was locked. Ashley sat
down on the couch, trying to organize her thoughts. She tried to concentrate on the positive. We're going to try to cure you.
We're going to try to cure you. We're going to cure you.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Dr. Gilbert Keller was in charge of Ashley's therapy. His specialty was treating multiple personality disorder, and while he had had failures, his success rate was high. In cases like this, there were no easy answers. His first job was to get the patient to trust him, to feel comfortable with him, and then to bring out the alters, one by one, so that in the end they could communicate with one another and understand why they existed, and finally, why there was no more need for them. That was the moment of blending, when the personality states came together as a single entity.
We're a long way from that. Dr. Keller thought.
The following morning, Dr. Keller had Ashley brought to his office.
"Good morning, Ashley." "Good morning. Dr. Keller."
"I want you to call me Gilbert. We're going to be friends. How do you feel?"
She looked at him and said, "They tell me I've killed five people. How should I feel?"
"Do you remember killing any of them?" "No."
"I read the transcript of your trial, Ashley. You didn't kill them. One of your alters did. We're going to get acquainted with your alters, and in time, with your help we'll make them disappear."
"I-I hope you can-"
"I can. I'm here to help you, and that's what I'm going to do. The alters were created in your mind to save you from an
unbearable pain. We have to find out what caused that pain. I need to find out when those alters were born and why."
"How-how do you do that?"
"We'll talk. Things will come to you. From time to time, we'll use hypnotism or Sodium Amytal. You've been hypnotized before, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"No one's going to pressure you. We're going to take our time." He added reassuringly, "And when we're through, you're going to be well."
They talked for almost an hour. At the end of that time, Ashley felt much more relaxed. Back in her room, she thought, I really think he can do it. And she said a little prayer.
Dr. Keller had a meeting with Otto Lewison. "We talked
this morning," Dr. Keller said. "The good news is that Ashley admits she has a problem, and she's willing to be helped." "That's a beginning. Keep me informed."
"I will, Otto."
Dr. Keller was looking forward to the challenge ahead of
him. There was something very special about Ashley Patterson. He was determined to help her.
They talked every day, and a week after Ashley arrived,
Dr. Keller said, "I want you to be comfortable and relaxed. I'm going to hypnotize you." He moved toward her.
"No! Wait!"
He looked at her, surprised. "What's the matter?"
A dozen terrible thoughts flashed through Ashley's head.
He was going to bring out her alters. She was terrified of the idea. "Please," she said. "I-I don't want to meet them." "You won't," Dr. Keller assured her. "Not yet."
She swallowed. "All right." "Are you ready?"
She nodded. "Yes." "Good. Here we go."
It took fifteen minutes to hypnotize her. When she was under, Gilbert Keller glanced at a piece of paper on his desk. Toni Prescott and Alette Peters. It was time for switching, the process of changing from one dominating personality state to another.
He looked at Ashley, asleep in her chair, then leaned forward. "Good morning, Tonni. Can you hear me?"
He watched Ashley's face transform, taken over by an entirely different personality. There was a sudden vivacity in her face. She began to sing:
"Half a pound of tupenny rice, Half a pound of treacle,
Mix it up and make it nice, Pop! goes the weasel..."
"That was very nice, Toni. I'm Gilbert Keller." "I know who you are," Toni said.
"I'm glad to meet you. Did anyone ever tell you that you have a beautiful singing voice?"
"Sod off."
"I mean it. Did you ever take singing lessons? I'll bet you did."
"No, I didn't. As a matter of fact, I wanted to, but my"-For God's sakes, will you stop that terrible noise! Whoever told you you could sing?-"never mind."
"Toni, I want to help you."
"No, you don't, Dockie baby. You want to lay me." "Why do you think that, Toni?"
"That's all you bloody men ever want to do. Ta." "Toni...? Toni...?"
Silence.
Gilbert Keller looked at Ashley's face again. It was serene. Dr. Keller leaned forward.
"Alette?" There was no change in Ashley's expression. "Alette...?"
Nothing.
"I want to speak to you, Alette." Ashley began to stir uneasily. "Come out, Alette."
Ashley took a deep breath, and then there was a sudden explosion of words spoken in Italian.
"C'i qualcuno che parla Italuaw?" "Alette-"
"Non so dove mi trovo"
"Alette, listen to me. You're safe. I want you to relax." "Mi sento stanca.... I'm tired."
"You've been through a terrible time, but all that is
behind you. Your future is going to be very peaceful. Do you know where you are?"
His voice was white.
"Si. It's some kind of place for people who are pazzo." That's why you're here, Doctor. You're the crazy one. "It's a place where you're going to be cored. Alette, when
you close your eyes and visualize this place, what comes to your mind?"
"Hogarth. He painted insane asylums and scenes that are terrifying." You're too ignorant ever to have heard of him. "I don't want you to think of this place as terrifying.
Tell me about yourself, Alette. What do you like to do? What would you like to do while you're here?"
"I like to paint."
"We'll have to get you some paints." "No!"
"Why?"
"I don't want to."
"What do you call that, child? It looks like an ugly blob to me."
Leave me alone.
"Alette?" Gilbert Keller watched Ashley's face change again.
Alette was gone. Dr. Keller awakened Ashley.
She opened her eyes and blinked. "Have you started?" "We've finished."
"How did I do?"
"Toni and Alette talked to me. We've made a good beginning, Ashley."
The letter from David Singer read:
Dear Ashley,
Just a note to let you know that I'm thinking about you
and hoping that you're making good progress. As a matter of fact, I think about you often. I feel as though we've gone through the wars together. It was a tough fight, but we won. And I have good news. I've been assured that the murder charges against you in Bedford and Quebec will be dropped. If there is anything I can do for you, let me know.
Warmest wishes, David
The following morning, Dr. Keller was talking to Toni while Ashley was under hypnosis.
"What is it now, Dockie?"
"I just want to have a little chat with you. I'd like to help you."
"I don't need your bloody help. I'm doing fine." "Well, I need your help, Toni. I want to ask you a question. What do you think of Ashley?"
"Miss Tight Ass? Don't get me started." "You don't like her?"
"In spades."
"What don't you like about her?"
There was a pause. "She tries to keep everybody from
having fun. If I didn't take over once in a while, our lives would be boring. Boring. She doesn't like to go to parties or travel or do any fun things."
"But you do?"
"You bet I do. That's what life's all about, isn't it, luv?"
"You were born in London, weren't you, Toni? Do you want to tell me about it?"
"I'll tell you one thing. I wish I were there now." Silence.
"Toni...? Toni...?" She was gone.
Gilbert Keller said to Ashley, "I'd like to speak to Alette." He watched the expression on Ashley's face change. He leaned forward and said softly, "Alette."
"Si."
"Did you hear my conversation with Toni?" "Yes."
"Do you and Toni know each other?" "Yes." 0f course we do, stupid.
"But Ashley doesn't know either of you?" "No."
"Do you like Ashley?"
"She's all right." Why are you asking me all these foolish questions?
"Why don't you talk to her?" "Toni does not want me to."
"Does Toni always tell you what to do?"
"Toni is my friend." It's none of your business.
"I want to be your friend, Alette. Tell me about yourself. Where were you born?"
"I was born in Rome." "Did you like Rome?"
Gilbert Keller watched the expression on Ashley's face change, and she began to weep.
Why? Dr. Keller leaned forward and said soothingly, "It's all right. You're going to awaken now. Ashley. "
She opened her eyes.
"I talked to Toni and Alette. They're friends. I want you all to be friends."
While Ashley was at lunch, a male nurse walked into her room and saw a painting of a landscape on the floor. He studied it a moment, then took it to Dr. Keller's office.
There was a meeting in Dr. Lewison's office. "How's it going, Gilbert?"
Dr. Keller said thoughtfully, "I've talked to the two alters. The dominant one is Toni. She has an English background and won't talk about it. The other one, Alette, was born in Rome, and she doesn't want to talk about it, either. So that's where I'm going to concentrate. That's where the traumas occurred. Toni is the more aggressive one. Alette is sensitive and withdrawn. She's interested in painting, but she's afraid to pursue it. I have to find out why."
"So you think Toni dominates Ashley?"
"Yes. Toni takes over. Ashley wasn't aware that she
exists, or for that matter, that Alette existed. But Toni and Alette know each other. It's interesting. Toni has a lovely singing voice, and Alette is a talented painter." He held up the painting that the male nurse had brought him. "I think their talents may be the key to getting through to them." Ashley received a letter from her father once a week.
After she read them, she would sit in her room quietly, not wanting to talk to anyone.
"They're her only link to home," Dr. Keller said to Otto Lewison. "I think it increases her desire to get out of here and start leading a normal life. Every little bit helps. "
Ashley was becoming used to her surroundings. The patients seemed to walk about, although there were attendants at every door and in the corridors. The gates to the grounds were always locked. There was a recreation room where they could gather and watch television, a gymnasium where inmates could work out and a common dining room. There were many kinds of people there: Japanese, Chinese, French, Americans. Every
effort had been made to make the hospital as ordinary- looking as possible, but when Ashley went to her room, the doors were always locked behind her.
"This isn't a hospital," Toni complained to Alette. "It's a bloody prison."
"But Dr. Keller thinks he can cure Ashley. Then we can get out of here."
"Don't be stupid, Alette. Don't you see? The only way he can cure Ashley is to get rid of us, make us disappear. In
other words, to cure her, we have to die. Well, I'm not going to let that happen."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to find a way for us to escape."
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
The following morning a male nurse was escorting Ashley back to her room. He said, "You seem different today." "Do I, Bill?"
"Yeah. Almost like another person." Toni said softly, "That's because of you."
"What do you mean?"
"You make me feel different." She touched his arm and looked into his eyes. "You make me feel wonderful." "Come on."
"I mean it. You're very sexy. Do you know that?" "No."
"Well, you are. Are you married. Bill?" "I was, once."
"Your wife was mad to ever let you go. How long have you worked here, Bill?"
"Five years."
"That's a long time. Do you ever feel you want to get out of here?"
"Sometimes, sure."
Toni lowered her voice. "You know there's nothing really wrong with me. I admit I had a little problem when I came in, but I'm cured now. I'd like to get out of here, too. I'll bet you could help me. The two of us could leave here together.
We'd have a wonderful time."
He studied her a moment. "I don't know what to say."
"Yes, you do. Look how simple it would be. All you have to do is let me out of here one night when everyone's asleep, and we'll be on our way." She looked over at him and said softly, "I'll make it worth your while."
He nodded. "Let me think about it." "You do that," Toni said confidently.
When Toni returned to the room, she said to Alette, "We're getting out of this place."
The following morning, Ashley was escorted into Dr. Keller's office.
"Good morning, Ashley." "Good morning, Gilbert."
"We're going to try some Sodium Amytal this morning. Have you ever had it?"
"No."
"Well, you'll find it's very relaxing."
Ashley nodded. "All right. I'm ready."
Five minutes later. Dr. Keller was talking to Toni. "Good morning, Toni."
"Hi, Dockie."
"Are you happy here, Toni?"
"It's funny you should ask that. To tell you the truth, I'm really beginning to like this place. I feel at home here."
"Then why do you want to escape?" Toni's voice hardened. "What?"
"Bill tells me that you asked him to help you escape from here."
"That son of a bitch!" There was fury in her voice. She flew out of the chair, ran over to the desk, picked up a paperweight and flung it at Dr. Keller's head.
He ducked.
"I'll kill you, and I'll kill him!" Dr. Keller grabbed her. "Toni-"
He watched the expression on Ashley's face change. Toni had gone. He found that his heart was pounding. "Ashley!"
When Ashley awakened, she opened her eyes, looked around, puzzled, and said, "Is everything all right?"
"Toni attacked me. She was angry because I found out she was trying to escape."
"I-I'm sorry. I had a feeling that something bad was happening."
"It's all right. I want to bring you and Toni and Alette together."
"No!"
"Why not?"
"I'm afraid. I-I don't want to meet them. Don't you understand? They're not real. They're my imagination." "Sooner or later, you're going to have to meet them, Ashley. You have to get to know one another. It's the only way you're going to be cured."
Ashley stood up. "I want to go back to my room."
When she was returned to her room, Ashley watched the attendant leave. She was filled with a deep sense of despair. She thought. I'm never going to get out of here. They're lying to me. They can't cure me. She could not face the reality that other personalities were living inside of her.... Because of them, people had been murdered, families destroyed. Why me, God? She began to weep. What did I ever do
to you? She sat down on the bed and thought, I can't go on like this. There's only one way to end it. I have to do it now.
She got up and walked around the small room, looking for something sharp. There was nothing. The rooms had been carefully designed so that there was nothing in them that would allow the patients to harm themselves.
As her eyes darted around the room, she saw the paints and canvas and paintbrushes and walked over to them. The handles of the paintbrushes were wooden. Ashley snapped one in half, exposing sharp, jagged edges. Slowly, she took the sharp edge and placed it on her wrist. In one fast, deep movement, she cut into her veins and her blood began to pour out. Ashley placed the jagged edge on her other wrist and repeated the movement. She stood there, watching the blood stain the carpet. She began to feel cold. She dropped to the floor and curled up into a fetal position.
And then the room went dark.
When Dr. Gilbert Keller heard the news, he was shocked. He went to visit Ashley in the infirmary. Her wrists were heavily bandaged. Watching her lying there, Dr. Keller thought, I can't ever let this happen again.
"We almost lost you," he said. "It would have made me look bad."
Ashley managed a wry smile. "I'm sorry. But everything seems so-so hopeless."
"That's where you're wrong," Dr. Keller assured her. "Do you want to be helped, Ashley?"
"Yes."
"Then you have to believe in me. You have to work with me. I can't do it alone. What do you say?"
There was a long silence. "What do you want me to do?" "First, I want a promise from you that you'll never try to harm yourself again."
"All right. I promise."
"I'm going to get the same promise now from Toni and Alette. I'm going to put you to sleep now."
A few minutes later. Dr. Keller was speaking to Toni. "That selfish bitch tried to kill us all. She thinks only about herself. Do you see what I mean?"
"Toni-"
"Well, I'm not having it. I-"
"Will you be quiet and listen to me?" "I'm listening."
"I want you to promise that you'll never harm Ashley." "Why should I promise?"
"I'll tell you why. Because you're part of her. You were born out of her pain. I don't know yet what you've had to go through, Toni, but I know that it must have been terrible.
But you have to realize that she went through the same thing, and Alette was born for the same reason as you. The three of you have a lot in common. You should help each other, not hate each other. Will you give me your word?"
Nothing. "Toni?"
"I suppose so," she said grudgingly.
"Thank you. Do you want to talk about England now?" "No."
"Alette. Are you there?"
"Yes." Where do you think I am, stupid?
"I want you to make me the same promise that Toni did. Promise never to harm Ashley."
That's the only one you care about, isn't it? Ashley, Ashley, Ashley. What about us?
"Alette?"
"Yes. I promise."
The months were going by, and there were no signs of progress. Dr. Keller sat at his desk, reviewing notes, recalling sessions, trying to find a clue to what was wrong. He was taking care of half a dozen other patients, but he found that it was Ashley he was most concerned about. There was such an incredible chasm between her innocent vulnerability and the dark forces that were able to take over her life. Every time he talked to Ashley, he had an overpowering urge to try to protect her. She's like a daughter to me, he thought. Who am I kidding? I'm falling in love with her.
Dr. Keller went to see Otto Lewison. "I have a problem, Otto."
"I thought that was reserved for our patients."
"This involves one of our patients. Ashley Patterson." "Oh?"
"I find that I'm-I'm very attracted to her." "Reverse transference?"
"Yes."
"That could be very dangerous for both of you, Gilbert." "I know."
"Well, as long as you're aware of it... Be careful." "I intend to."
NOVEMBER.
I gave Ashley a diary this morning.
"I want you and Toni and Alette to use this, Ashley. You can keep it in your room. Anytime that any of you has any thoughts or ideas that you prefer to write down instead of talking to me, just put them down."
"All right, Gilbert."
A month later. Dr. Keller wrote in his diary: DECEMBER
The treatment is at a standstill. Toni and Alette refuse to discuss the past. It is becoming more difficult to persuade Ashley to undergo hypnosis.
MARCH
The diary is still blank. I'm not sure whether the most resistance is coming from Ashley or Toni. When I do hypnotize Ashley, Toni and Alette come out very briefly. They are adamant about not discussing the past.
JUNE
I meet with Ashley regularly, but I feel there's no progress. The diary is still untouched. I have given Alette an easel and a set of paints. I am hoping that if she begins to paint, there may be a breakthrough.
JULY
Something happened, but I'm not sure if it's a sign of progress. Alette painted a beautiful picture of the hospital grounds. When I complimented her on it, she seemed pleased. That evening the painting was torn to shreds.
Dr. Keller and Otto Lewison were having coffee. "I think I'm going to try a little group therapy," Dr. Keller said. "Nothing else seems to be working."
"How many patients did you have in mind?"
"Not more than half a dozen. I want her to start interacting with other people. Right now she's living in a world of her own. I want her to break out of that."
"Good idea. It's worth a try."
Dr. Keller led Ashley into a small meeting room. There were six people in the room.
"I want you to meet some friends," Dr. Keller said. He took Ashley around the room introducing them, but
Ashley was too self-conscious to listen to their names. One name blurred into the next. There was Fat Woman, Bony Man, Bald Woman, Lame Man, Chinese Woman and Gentle Man. They all
seemed very pleasant.
"Sit down," Bald Woman said. "Would you like some coffee?"
Ashley took a seat. "Thank you."
"We've heard about you," Gentle Man said. "You've been through a lot."
Ashley nodded.
Bony Man said, "I guess we've all been through a lot, but we're being helped. This place is wonderful."
"They have the best doctors in the world," Chinese Woman said.
They all seem so normal, Ashley thought.
Dr. Keller sat to one side, monitoring the conversations. Forty-five minutes later he rose. "I think it's time to go, Ashley."
Ashley stood up. "It was nice meeting all of you."
Lame Man walked up to her and whispered, "Don't drink the water here. It's poisoned. They want to kill us and still collect the money from the state."
Ashley gulped. "Thanks. I'll- I'll remember."
As Ashley and Dr. Keller walked down the corridor, she said, "What are their problems?"
"Paranoia, schizophrenia, MPD, compulsive disoders. But, Ashley, their improvement since they came here has been remarkable. Would you like to chat with them regularly?" "No."
Dr. Keller walked into Otto Lewison's office.
"I'm not getting anywhere," he confessed. The group therapy didn't work, and the hypnotism sessions aren't working at all. I want to try something different." "What?"
"I need your permission to take Ashley to dinner off the grounds."
"I don't think that's a good idea, Gilbert. It could be dangerous. She's already-"
"I know. But right now I'm the enemy. I want to become a friend."
"Her alter, Toni, tried to kill you once. What if she tries again?"
"I'll handle it."
Dr. Lewison thought about it. "All right. Do you want someone to go with you?"
"No. I'll be fine, Otto."
"When do you want to start this?"
"Tonight."
'You want to take me out to dinner?"
"Yes. I think it would be good for you to get away from this place for a while, Ashley. What do you say?" "Yes."
* * *
Ashley was surprised at bow excited she was at the thought
of going out to dinner with Gilbert Keller. It will be fun to get out of here for an evening, Ashley thought. But she knew that it was more than that. The thought of being with Gilbert Keller on a date was exhilarating.
They were having dinner at a Japanese restaurant called Otani Gardens, five miles from the hospital. Dr. Keller knew that he was taking a risk. At any moment, Toni or Alette
could take over. He had been warned. It's more important that Ashley learns to trust me so that I can help her.
"It's funny, Gilbert," Ashley said, looking around the crowded restaurant.
"What is?"
"These people don't look any different from the people at the hospital."
"They aren't really different, Ashley. I'm sure they all have problems. The only difference is the people at the hospital aren't able to cope with them as well, so we help them."
"I didn't know I had any problems until- Well, you know." "Do you know why, Ashley? Because you buried them. You couldn't face what happened to you, so you built the fences in your mind and shut the bad things away. To one degree or another, a lot of people do that." He deliberately changed the subject. "How's your steak?"
"Delicious, thank you."
From then on, Ashley and Dr. Keller had meals away from the hospital once a week. They had lunch at an excellent little Italian restaurant called Banducci's and dinners at The Palm, Eveleene's and The Gumbo Pot Neither Toni nor Alette made an appearance.
One night, Dr. Keller took Ashley dancing. It was at a small nightclub with a wonderful band.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked.
"Very much. Thank you." She looked at him and said, "You're not like other doctors."
"They don't dance?" "You know what I mean."
He was holding her close, and both of them felt the urgency of the moment.
"That could be very dangerous for both of you, Gilbert. "
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
I know what the bloody hell you're trying to do, Dockie. You're trying to make Ashley think you're her friend." "I am her friend, Toni, and yours."
"No, you're not. You think she's great, and I'm nothing." "You're wrong. I respect you and Alette as much as I respect Ashley. You're all equally important to me."
"Is that true?"
"Yes. Toni, when I told you that you had a beautiful singing voice, I meant it. Do you play an instrument?" "Piano."
"If I could arrange for you to use the piano in the recreation hall so you can play and sing, would you be interested?"
"I might be." She sounded excited.
Dr. Keller smiled. "Then I'll be happy to do it. It will be there for you to use."
"Thanks."
Dr. Keller arranged for Toni to have private access to the recreation room for one hour every afternoon. In the beginning, the doors were closed, but as other inmates heard the piano music and the singing from inside, they opened the door to listen. Soon, Toni was entertaining dozens of patients.
Dr. Keller was looking over his notes with Dr. Lewison. Dr. Lewison said, "What about the other one-Alette?" "I've set it up for her to paint in the garden every
afternoon. She'll be watched, of course. I think it's going to be good therapy."
But Alette refused. In a session with her, Dr. Keller said, "You don't use the paints I gave you, Alette. It's a shame to let them go to waste. You're so talented."
How would you know?
"Don't you enjoy painting?" "Yes."
"Then why don't you do it?"
"Because I'm no good." Stop pestering me. "Who told you that?"
"My-my mother."
"We haven't talked about your mother. Do you want to tell me about her?"
"There's nothing to tell."
"She died in an accident, didn't she?"
There was a long pause. "Yes. She died in an accident." The following day, Alette started to paint. She enjoyed being in the garden with her canvas and brushes. When she
painted, she was able to forget everything else. Some of the patients would gather around bar and watch. They talked in multicolored voices.
"Your paintings should be in a gallery." Black. "You're really good." Yellow.
"Where did you learn to do that?" Black.
"Can you paint a picture of me sometime?" Orange. "I wish I knew how to do that." Black.
She was always sorry when her time was up and she had to go back into the big building.
"I want you to meet someone, Ashley. This is Lisa Garrett." She was a woman in her fifties, small and wraithlike. "Lisa is going home today."
The woman beamed. "Isn't that wonderful? And I owe it all to Dr. Keller."
Gilbert Keller looked at Ashley and said, "Lisa suffered from MPD and had thirty alters."
"That's right, dear. And they're all gone."
Dr. Keller said pointedly, "She's the third MPD patient leaving us this year."
And Ashley felt a surge of hope.
Alette said, "Dr. Keller is sympathetic. He really seems to like us."
"You're bloody stupid," Toni scoffed. "Don't you see
what's happening? I told you once. He's pretending to like us so we'll do what he wants us to do. And do you know what that is? He wants to bring us all together, luv, and then convince Ashley that she doesn't need us. And do you know what happens then? You and I die. Is that what you want? I don't."
"Well, no," Alette said hesitantly. "Then listen to me. We go along with the doctor. We make him believe that we're really trying to help him. We string him along. We're in no hurry. And I promise you that one day I'll get us out of here."
"Whatever you say, Toni."
"Good. So we'll let old Dockie think he's doing just
great."
A letter arrived from David. In tile envelope was a photograph of a small boy. The letter read:
Dear Ashley,
I hope that you're coming along well and that the therapy
is progressing. Everything's fine here. I'm working hard and enjoying it. Enclosed is a photograph of our two-year-old, Jeffrey. At the rate he's growing, in a few inmates, he'll be getting married. There's no real news to report. I just wanted you to know that I was thinking about you.
Sandra joins me in sending our warm regards, David
Ashley studied the photograph. He's a beautiful little boy, she thought. I hope he has a happy life.
She went to lunch, and when she returned, the photograph was on the floor of her room, torn to bits.
June 15, 1:30 P.M.
Patient: Ashley Patterson. Therapy session using Sodium Amytal. Alter, Alette Peters.
"Tell me about Rome, Alette."
"It's the most beautiful city in the world. It's filled all the great museums. I used to visit all of them." What 'could you know about museums?
"And you wanted to be a painter?"
"Yes." What did you think I wanted to be, a firefighter? "Did you study painting?"
"No, I didn't." Can't you go bother someone else? "Why not? Because of what your mother told you?"
"Oh, no. I just decided that I wasn't good enough." Toni, get him away from me!
"Did you have any traumas during that period? Did any terrible things happen to you that you can recall?" "No. I was very happy." Toni!
August 15, 9:00 A.M.
Patient: Ashley Patterson. Hypnotherapy session with alter, Toni Prescott.
"Do you want to talk about London, Toni?"
"Yes. I had a lovely time there. London is so civilized. There's so much to do there."
"Did you have any problems?"
"Problems? No. I was very happy in London."
"Nothing had happened there at all that you remember?" "Of course not." What are you going to make of that, you
willy?
Each session brought back memories to Ashley. When she went to bed at night, she dreamed that she was at Global Computer Graphics. Shane Miller was there, and he was
complimenting her on some work she had done. "We couldn't get along without you, Ashley. We're going to keep you here forever." Then the scene shifted to a prison cell, and Shane Miller was saying, "Well, I hate to do this now, but under the circumstances, the company is terminating you. Naturally, we can't afford to be connected with anything like this. You understand, don't you? There's nothing personal in this."
In the morning, when Ashley awakened, her pillow I was wet with tears.
Alette was saddened by the therapy sessions. They reminded her of how much she missed Rome and how happy she had been with Richard Melton. We could have had such a happy life together, but now it is too late. Too late.
Toni hated the therapy sessions because they brought back too many bad memories for her, too. Everything she had done had been to protect Ashley and Alette. But did anybody appreciate her? No. She was locked away as though she were some kind of criminal. But I'll get out of here, Toni promised herself. I'll get out of here.
The pages of the calendar were wiped away by time, and another year came and went. Dr. Keller was getting more and more frustrated.
"I've read your latest report," Dr. Lewison told Gilbert Keller. "Do you think there's a genuine lacuna, or are they playing games?"
"They're playing games, Otto. It's as though they know
what I'm trying to do, and they won't let me. I think Ashley genuinely wants to help, but they won't allow her to. Usually under hypnosis you can get through to them, but Toni is very strong. She takes complete control, and she's dangerous." "Dangerous?"
"Yes. Imagine how much hatred she must have in her to murder and castrate five men."
The rest of the year went no better.
Dr. Keller was having success with his other patients, but Ashley, the one he was most concerned about, was making no progress. Dr. Keller had a feeling that Toni enjoyed playing games with him. She was determined that he was not going to succeed. And then, unexpectedly, there was a breakthrough.
It started with another letter from Dr. Patterson.
June 5
Dear Ashley,
I'm on my way to New York to take care of some business, and I would like very much to stop by and see you. I will
call Dr. Lewison, and if there's no objection, you can expect me around the 25th.
Much love, Father
Three weeks later, Dr. Patterson arrived with attractive, dark-haired woman in her early forties and three-year-old daughter, Katrina.
They were ushered into Dr. Lewison's office. He rose as they entered. "Dr. Patterson, I'm delighted to meet you." "Thank you. This is Miss Victoria Aniston and her daughter, Katrina."
"How do you do, Miss Aniston? Katrina." "I brought them along to meet Ashley."
"Wonderful. She's with Dr. Keller right now, but they should be finished soon."
Dr. Patterson said, "How is Ashley doing?"
Otto Lewison hesitated. "I wonder if I could speak to you alone for a few minutes?"
"Certainly."
Dr. Patterson turned to Victoria and Katrina. "It looks
like there's a beautiful garden out there. Why don't you wait for me, and I'll join you with Ashley."
Victoria Aniston smiled. "Fine." She looked over at Otto Lewison. "It was nice to meet you, Doctor."
"Thank you, Miss Aniston."
Dr. Patterson watched the two of them leave. He turned to Otto Lewison. "Is there a problem?"
"I'll be frank with you, Dr. Patterson. We're not making as much progress as I had hoped we would. Ashley says she wants to be helped, but she's not cooperating with us. In fact, she's fighting the treatment."
Dr. Patterson was studying him, puzzled. "Why?"
"It's not that unusual. At some stage, patients with MPD are afraid of meeting their alters. It terrifies them. The very thought that other characters can be living in their mind and body and take over at will- Well, you can imagine how devastating that can be."
Dr. Patterson nodded. "Of course."
"There's something that puzzles us about Ashley's problem.
Almost always, these problems start with a history of molestation when the patient is very young. We have no record of anything like that in Ashley's case, so we have no idea how or why this trauma began."
Dr. Patterson sat there silently for a moment. When he spoke, he said heavily, "I can help you." He took a deep breath. "I blame myself."
Otto Lewison was watching intently.
"It happened when Ashley was six. I had to go to England.
My wife couldn't go. I took Ashley with me. My wife had an elderly cousin over there named John. I didn't realize it at the time, but John had... emotional problems. I had to leave to give a lecture one day, and John offered to baby-sit. When I got back that evening, he was gone. Ashley was in a state of complete hysteria. It took a long, long time to calm her down. After that, she wouldn't let anyone come near her, she became timid and withdrawn and a week later, John was arrested as a serial child molester." Dr. Patterson's face was filled with pain. "I never forgave myself. I never left Ashley alone with anyone after that."
There was a long silence. Otto Lewison said, "I'm terribly sorry. But I think you've given us the answer to what we've been looking for, Dr. Patterson. Now Dr. Keller will have something specific to work on."
"It's been too painful for me even to discuss before." "I understand." Otto Lewison looked at his watch.
"Ashley's going to be a little while. Why don't you join Miss Aniston in the garden, and I'll send Ashley out when she comes."
Dr. Patterson rose. "Thank you. I will."
Otto Lewison watched him leave. He could not wait to tell Dr. Keller what he had learned.
Victoria Aniston and Katrina were waiting for him. "Did you see Ashley?" Victoria asked.
"They'll send her out in a few minutes," Dr. Patterson
said. He looked around the spacious grounds. "This is lovely, isn't it?"
Katrina ran up to him, "I want to go up to the sky again." He smiled. "All right." He picked her up, threw her into the air and caught her as she came down.
"Higher!"
"Hang on. Here we go." He threw her up again and caught her, and she was screaming with delight.
"Again!"
Dr. Patterson's back was to the main building, so he did not see Ashley and Dr. Keller come out.
"Higher!" Katrina screamed.
Ashley stopped in the doorway, frozen. She watched her father playing with the little girl, and time seemed to fragment. Everything after that happened in slow motion.
There were flashes of a little girl being thrown into the air.... "Higher, Papa!"
"Hang on. Here we go."
And then the girl being tossed onto a bed... A voice saying, "You'll like this. "
An image of the man getting into bed beside her. The little girl was screaming, "Stop it. No. Please, no."
The man was in the shadow. He was holding her down, and he was stroking her body. "Doesn't that feel good?"
And suddenly the shadow lifted, and Ashley could see the man's face. It was her father.
Looking at him now, in the garden, playing with the little girl, Ashley opened her mouth and began to scream, and could not stop.
Dr. Patterson, Victoria Aniston and Katrina turned around, startled.
Dr. Keller said quickly, "I'm terribly sorry. This is a bad day. Could you come back another time?" And he carried Ashley inside.
They had her in one of the emergency rooms.
"Her pulse is abnormally high," Dr. Keller said. "She's in
a fugue state." He moved close to her and said, "Ashley, you have nothing to be frightened about. You're safe here. No one's going to hurt you. Just listen to my voice and relax...
relax... relax. "
It took half an hour. "Ashley, tell me what happened. What upset you?"
"Father and the little girl. "
"What about them?"
It was Toni who answered. "She can't face it. She's afraid he's going to do to the little girl what he did to her." Dr. Keller stared at her a moment. "What-what did he do to her?"
It was in London. She was in bed. He sat down next to her
and said, "I'm going to make you very happy, baby," and began
tickling her, and she was laughing. And then... he took her pajamas off, and he started playing with her. "Don't my hands feel good?" Ashley started screaming, "Stop it. Don't do that." But he wouldn't stop. He held her down and went on and on....
Dr. Keller asked, "Was that the first time it happened, Toni?"
"Yes."
"How old was Ashley?" "She was six."
"And that's when you were born?"
"Yes. Ashley was too terrified to face it." "What happened after that?"
Father came to her every night and got into bed with her." The words were pouring out now. "She couldn't stop him. When they got home, Ashley told Mother what happened, and Mother called her a lying little bitch.
"Ashley was afraid to go to sleep at night because she
knew Papa was going to come to her room. He used to make her touch him and then play with himself. And he said to her, 'Don't tell anyone about this or I won't love you anymore.' She couldn't tell anyone. Mama and Papa were yelling at each other all the time, and Ashley thought it was her fault. She knew she had done something wrong, but she didn't know what. Mama hated her."
"How long did this go on?" Dr. Keller asked. "When I was eight..." Toni stopped. "Go on, Toni."
Ashley's face changed, and it was Alette sitting in the chair. She said, "We moved to Roma, where he did research at Policlinico Umberto Primo."
"And that's where you were born?"
"Yes. Ashley couldn't stand what happened one night, so I came to protect her."
"What happened, Alette?"
"Papa came into her room while she was asleep, and he was naked. And he crawled into her bed, and this time he forced himself inside her. She tried to stop him, but she couldn't. She begged him never to do it again, but he came to her every night. And he always said, "This is how a man shows a woman he loves her, and you're my woman, and I love you. You must never tell anyone about this.' And she could never tell anyone."
Ashley was sobbing, tears running down her cheeks.
It was all Gilbert Keller could do not to take her in his arms and hold her and tell her that he loved her and everything was going to be all right. But, of course, it was impossible. I'm her doctor.
When Dr. Keller returned to Dr. Lewison's office. Dr. Patterson, Victoria Aniston and Katrina had left. "Well, this is what we've been waiting for," Dr. Keller
told Otto Lewison. "We finally got a breakthrough. I know when Toni and Alette were born and why. We should see a big change from now on." Dr. Keller was right. Things began to move.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
THE hypnotherapy session had begun. Once Ashley was under. Dr. Keller said, "Ashley, tell me about Jim Cleary."
"I loved Jim. We were going to run away together and get married."
"Yes...?"
"At the graduation party, Jim asked me if I would go to his house with him, and I... I said no. When he brought me home, my father was waiting up for us. He was furious. He told Jim to get out and stay out."
"What happened then?"
"I decided to go to Jim. I packed a suitcase and I started toward his house." She hesitated. "Halfway to his house, I changed my mind and I went back home. I-"
Ashley's expression started to change. She began to relax in her chair, and it was Toni sitting there. "Like hell she did. She went to his house, Dockie."
When she reached Jim Cleary's house, it was dark. "My folks will be away for the weekend." Ashley rang the
doorbell. A few minutes later, Jim Cleary opened the door. He was in his pajamas.
"Ashley. " His face lit up in a grin. "You decided to come." He pulled her inside. "I came because I-"
"I don't care why you came. You're here." He put his arms around her and kissed her. "How about a drink?"
"No. Maybe some water." She was suddenly apprehensive. "Sure. Come on. " He took her hand and led her into the kitchen. He poured a glass of water for her and watched her drink it. "You look nervous."
"I-I am."
"There's nothing to be nervous about. There's no chance that my folks will come back. Let's go upstairs."
"Jim, I don't think we should."
He came up behind her, his arms reaching for her breasts. She turned. "Jim..."
His lips were on hers, and he was forcing her against the kitchen counter.
"I'm going to make you happy, honey." It was her father saying, "I'm going to make you happy, honey."
She froze. She felt him pulling her clothes off and entering her as she stood there naked, silently screaming. And the feral rage took over.
She saw the large butcher knife sticking out of a wooden block. She picked it up and began stabbing him in the chest, screaming, "Stop it, Father.... Stop it... Stop it... Stop it..."
She looked down, and Jim was tying on the floor, blood spurting out of him.
"You animal," she screamed. "You won't do this to anyone again. " She reached down and plunged the knife into his testicles.
At six o'clock in the morning, Ashley went to the railroad station to wait for Jim. There was no sign of him.
She was beginning to panic. What could have happened?
Ashley heard the train whistle in the distance. She looked at her watch: 7:00. The train was pulling into the station.
Ashley rose to her feet and looked around frantically. Something terrible has happened to him. A few minutes later, she stood there watching the train pull out of the station, taking her dreams with it.
She waited another half hour and then slowly headed home. That noon, Ashley and her father were on a plane to London....
The session was ending. Dr. Keller counted, "... four...
five. You're awake now."
Ashley opened her eyes. "What happened?"
"Toni told me how she killed Jim Cleary. He was attacking you." Ashley's face went white. "I want to go to my room."
* * *
Dr. Keller reported to Otto Lewison. "We're really
beginning to make some advances, Otto. Up to now, it's been a logjam, with each one of them afraid to make the first move.
But they're getting more relaxed. We're going in the right direction, but Ashley is still afraid to face reality." Dr. Lewison said, "She has no idea how these murders took place?"
"Absolutely none. She's completely blanked it out. Toni took over."
It was two days later. "Are you comfortable, Ashley?" "Yes." Her voice sounded far away.
"I want us to talk about Dennis Tibble. Was he a friend of yours?"
"Dennis and I worked for the same company. We weren't really friends."
"The police report says that your fingerprints were found at his apartment."
"That's right. I went there because he wanted me to give him some advice."
"And what happened?"
"We talked for a few minutes, and he gave me a glass of wine with a drug in it."
"What's the next thing you remember?" "I-I woke up in Chicago."
Ashley's expression began to change. In an instant, it was Toni talking to him. "Do you want to know what really happened...?"
"Tell me, Toni."
Dennis Tibble picked up the bottle of wine and said, "Let's get comfortable." He started leading her toward the bedroom. "Dennis, I don't want to-"
And they were in the bedroom, and he was taking off her clothes.
"I know what you want, baby. You want me to screw you. That's why you come up here."
She was fighting to get free. "Stop it, Dennis!"
"Not until I give you what you came here for. You're going to love it, baby. "
He pushed her onto the bed, holding her tightly, his hands moving down to her groin, it was her father's voice. "You're going to love it, baby." And he was forcing himself into her, again and again, and she was silently screaming, "No, Father. Stop" And then the unspeakable fury took over. She saw the wine bottle. She reached for it, smashed it against the edge of the table and jammed the ragged edge of the bottle into his back. He screamed and tried to get up, but she held him tightly while she kept ramming the broken bottle into him.
She watched him roll onto the floor. "Stop it," he whimpered.
"Do you promise to never do that again? Well, we'll make sure." She picked up the broken glass and reached for his groin."
Dr. Keller let a moment of silence pass. "What did you do after that, Toni?"
"I decided I'd better get out of there before the police came. I have to admit I was pretty excited. I wanted to get away from Ashley's boring life for a while, and I had a friend in Chicago, so I decided to go there. It turned out he wasn't home, so I did a little shopping, hit some of the bars and bad a good time."
"And what happened next?"
"I checked into a hotel and fell asleep." She shrugged. "From then on it was Ashley's party."
She awakened slowly, knowing something was wrong, terribly wrong. She felt as though she had been drugged. Ashley looked around the room and began to panic. She was tying in bed, naked, in some cheap hotel room. She had no idea where she was or how she had gotten there. She managed to sit up, and her head started to pound.
She got out of bed, walked into the tiny bathroom and stepped into the shower. She let the stream of hot water pound against her body, trying to wash away whatever terrible, dirty things had happened to her. What if he had gotten her pregnant? The thought of having his child was sickening. Ashley got out of the shower, dried herself and
walked over to the closet. Her clothes were missing. The only things inside the closet were a black leather miniskirt, a cheap-looking tube top and a pair of spiked high-heeled shoes. She was repelled by the thought of putting the clothes on, but she had no choice. She dressed quickly and glanced in the mirror. She looked like a prostitute.
"Father. I-" "What's wrong?"
"I'm in Chicago and-"
"What are you doing in Chicago?"
"I can't go into it now. I need on airline ticket to San Jose. I don't have any money with me. Can you help me?" "Of course. Hold on.... There's an American Airlines plane
leaving 0'Hare at ten-forty AM.. Flight 407. There will be a ticket waiting for you at the check-in counter."
"Alette, can you hear me? Alette." "I'm here. Dr. Keller."
"I want us to talk about Richard Melton. He was a friend of yours, wasn't he?"
"Yes. He was very... simp'atico. I was in love with him." "Was he in love with you?"
"I think so, yes. He was an artist. We would go to museums together and look at all of the wonderful paintings. When I was with Richard I felt... alive. I think if someone had not killed him, then one day we would have been married."
"Tell me about the last time you were together."
"When we were walking out of a museum, Richard said, 'My roommate is at a party tonight. Why don't we stop at my place? I have some paintings I'd like to show you.' "
" 'Not yet, Richard.' "
" 'Whatever you say. I'll see you next weekend?' " " 'Yes' "
"I drove away," Alette said. "And that was the last time I- "
Dr. Keller watched her face begin to take on Toni's animation.
"That's what she wants to think," Toni said. "That's not what happened."
"What did happen?" Dr. Keller asked.
She went to his apartment on Fell Street. It was small, but Richard's paintings made it look beautiful.
"It makes the room come alive, Richard."
"Thank you, Alette. "He took her in his arms. "I want to make love to you. You're beautiful."
"You're beautiful," her father said. And she froze.
Because she knew the terrible thing that was going to happen. She was tying on the bed, naked, feeling the familiar pain of him entering her, tearing her apart.
And she was screaming, "No! Stop it, Father! Stop it!" And then the manic-depressive frenzy took over. She had no recollection of where she got the knife, but she was stabbing his body over and over, yelling at him, "I told you to stop it! Stop it!"
Ashley was writhing in her chair, screaming.
"It's all right, Ashley," Dr. Keller said. "You're safe. You're going to wake up now, at the count of five." Ashley awoke, trembling. "Is everything all right?"
"Toni told me about Richard Melton. He made love to you. You thought it was your father, so you-"
She put her hands over her ears. "I don't want to hear any more!"
* * *
Dr. Keller went to see Otto Lewison.
"I think we're finally making the breakthrough. It's very traumatic for Ashley, but we're nearing the end. We still have two murders to retrieve."
"And then?"
"I'm going to bring Ashley, Toni and Alette together." CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Toni? Toni, can you hear me?" Dr. Keller watched Ashley's expression change.
"I hear you, Dockie."
"Let's talk about Jean Claude Parent."
"I should have known he was too good to be true." "What do you mean?"
"In the beginning, he seemed like a real gentleman. He took me out every day, and we really had a good time. I
thought he was different, but he was like all the others. All he wanted was sex."
"I see."
"He gave me a beautiful ring, and I guess he thought that he owned me. I went with him to his house."
The house was a beautiful two-story, redbrick house filled with antiques.
"It's lovely."
"There's something special I want to show you upstairs in the bedroom." And he was taking her upstairs, and she was powerless to stop him. They were in the bedroom, and he took her in his arms and whispered, "Get undressed."
"I don't want to-"
"Yes, you do. We both want it." He undressed her quickly, then laid her down on the bed and got on top of her. She was moaning, "Don't. Please don't. Father!"
But he paid no attention. He kept plunging into her until suddenly he said, "Ah," and then stopped. "You 're wonderful, " he said.
And the malevolent explosion shook her. She grabbed the sharp letter opener from the desk and plunged it into his
chest, up and down and up and down.
"You won't do that to anyone again." She reached for his groin.
Afterward, she took a leisurely shower, dressed and went back to the hotel.
"Ashley..." Ashley's face began to change. "Wake up now." Ashley slowly came awake. She looked at Dr. Keller and said, "Toni again?"
"Yes. She met Jean Claude on the Internet. Ashley, when you were in Quebec, were there periods when you seemed to
lose time? When suddenly it was hours later or a day later, and you didn't know where the time had gone?"
She nodded slowly. "Yes. It-it happened a lot." "That's when Toni took over."
"And that's when... when she-?" "Yes."
The next few months were uneventful. In the afternoons,
Dr. Keller would listen to Toni play the piano and sing, and he would watch Alette painting in the garden. There was one more murder to discuss, but he wanted Ashley to be relaxed before he started talking about it.
It had been five years now since she had come to the hospital. She's almost cured. Dr. Keller thought.
On a Monday morning, he sent for Ashley and watched her walk into the office. She was pale, as though she knew what she was facing.
"Good morning, Ashley." "Good morning, Gilbert." "How are you feeling?"
"Nervous. This is the last one, isn't it?"
"Yes. Let's talk about deputy Sam Blake. What was he doing in your apartment?"
"I asked him to come. Someone had written on my bathroom mirror, 'You Will Die.' I didn't know what to do. I thought someone was trying to kill me. I called the police, and deputy Blake came over. He was very sympathetic."
"Did you ask him to stay with you?"
"Yes. I was afraid to be alone. He said that he would spend the night, and then in the morning, he would arrange
for twenty-four-hour protection for me. I offered to sleep on the couch and let him sleep in the bedroom, but he said he would sleep on the couch. I remember he checked the windows to make sure they were locked, and then he double-bolted the
door. His gun was on the table next to the couch. I said good night and went into the bedroom and closed the door."
"And then what happened?"
"I- The next thing I remember is being awakened by someone screaming in the alley. Then the sheriff came in to tell me that deputy Blake had been found dead." She stopped, her face pale.
"All right. I'm going to put you to sleep now. Just
relax.... Close your eyes and relax...." It took ten minutes. Dr. Keller said, "Toni..."
"I'm here. You want to know what really happened, don't you? Ashley was a fool to invite Sam to stay at the apartment. I could have told her what he would do."
He heard a cry from the bedroom, quickly rose from the
couch and scooped up his gun. He hurried over to the bedroom door and listened a moment. Silence. He had imagined it. As he started to turn away, he heard it again. He pushed the door open, gun in hand. Ashley was in bed, naked, asleep.
There was no one else in the room. She was making little moaning sounds. He moved to her bedside. She looked beautiful tying there, curled up in a fetal position. She moaned again, trapped in some terrible dream. He meant only to comfort her, to take her in his arms and hold her. He lay down at her side and gently pulled her toward him, and he felt the heat of her body and began to be aroused. She was awakened by his voice saying, "It's all right now. You're safe." And his lips were on hers, and he was moving her legs apart and was inside
her.
And she was screaming, "No, Father!"
And he moved faster and faster in a primal urgency, and
then the savage revenge took over. She grabbed the knife from the dresser drawer at her bedside and began to slash into his body.
"What happened after you killed him?"
"She wrapped his body in the sheets and dragged him to the elevator and then through the garage to the alley in back." "... and then," Dr. Keller told Ashley, "Toni wrapped his body in the sheets and dragged him into the elevator and through the garage to the alley in back."
Ashley sat there, her face dead white. "She's a mon- I'm a monster."
Gilbert Keller said, "No. Ashley, you must remember that
Toni was born out of your pain, to protect you. The same is true of Alette. It's time to bring this to a closure. I want you to meet them. It's the next step to your getting well." Ashley's eyes were tightly shut. "All right. When do we... do this?"
"Tomorrow morning."
Ashley was in a deep hypnotic state. Dr. Keller started with Toni.
"Toni, I want you and Alette to talk to Ashley." "What makes you think she can handle us?"
"I think she can."
"All right, Dockie. Whatever you say." "Alette, are you ready to meet Ashley?" "If Toni says it's all right."
"Sure, Alette. It's about time."
Dr. Keller took a deep breath and said, "Ashley, I want you to say hello to Toni."
There was a long silence. Then, a timid, "Hello, Toni..." "Hello."
"Ashley, say hello to Alette." "Hello, Alette..."
"Hello, Ashley..."
Dr. Keller breathed a deep sigh of relief. "I want you all to get to know one another. You've suffered through the same
terrible traumas. They've separated you from one another. But there's no reason for that separation anymore. You're going to become one whole, healthy person. It's a long journey, but you've begun it. I promise you, the most difficult part is over."
From that point on, Ashley's treatment moved swiftly. Ashley and her two alters talked to one another every day. "I had to protect you," Toni explained. "I suppose every
time I killed one of those men, I was killing Father for what he had done to you."
"I tried to protect you, too," Alette said. "I-I appreciate that. I'm grateful to both of you."
Ashley turned to Dr. Keller and said wryly, "It's really all me, isn't it? I'm talking to myself."
"You're talking to two other parts of yourself," he corrected her gently. "It's time for all of you to unify and become one again."
Ashley looked at him and smiled. "I'm ready."
That afternoon. Dr. Keller went to see Otto Lewison.
Dr. Lewison said, "I hear good reports, Gilbert."
Dr. Keller nodded. "Ashley's made remarkable progress. In another few months, I think she can be released and go on with her treatment as an outpatient."
"That's wonderful news. Congratulations."
I'll miss her. Dr. Keller thought. I'll miss her terribly. "Dr. Salem is on line two for you, Mr. Singer."
"Right." David reached for the phone, puzzled. Why would
Dr. Salem be calling? It had been years since the two men had talked. "Royce?"
"Good morning, David. I have some interesting information for you. It's about Ashley Patterson."
David felt a sudden sense of alarm. "What about her?"
"Do you remember how hard we tried to find the trauma that had caused her condition, and we failed?"
David remembered it well. It had been a major weakness in their case. "Yes."
"Well, I just learned the answer. My friend, Dr. Lewison, who's head of the Connecticut Psychiatric Hospital, just called. The missing piece of the puzzle is Dr. Steven Patterson. He's the one who molested Ashley when she was a child."
David asked incredulously, "What?" "Dr. Lewison just learned about it."
David sat listening as Dr. Salem went on, but his mind was elsewhere. He was recalling Dr. Patterson's words. "You're the only one I trust, David. My daughter means everything in the world to me. You're going to save her life.... I want you to defend Ashley, and I won't have anyone else involved in this case. "
And David suddenly realized why Dr. Patterson had been so insistent on his representing Ashley alone. The doctor was sure that if David had ever discovered what he had done, he would have protected him. Dr. Patterson had had to decide between his daughter and his reputation, and he had chosen his reputation. The son of a bitch!
"Thanks, Royce."
That afternoon, as Ashley passed the recreation room, she saw a copy of the Westport News that someone had left there. On the front page of the newspaper was a photograph of her father with Victoria Aniston and Katrina. The beginning of the story read, "Dr. Steven Patterson is to be married to
socialite Victoria Aniston, who has a three-year-old daughter from a previous marriage. Dr. Patterson is joining the staff
of St. John's Hospital in Manhattan, and he and his future wife have bought a house on Long Island. "
Ashley stopped and her face contorted into a mask of rage. "I'll kill the son of a bitch," Toni screamed. "I'll kill him!"
She was completely out of control. They had to put her in
a padded room where she could not hurt herself, restrained by handcuffs and leg-irons. When the attendants came to feed her, she tried to grab them, and they had to be careful not to get too close to her. Toni had taken total possession of Ashley.
When she saw Dr. Keller, she screamed, "Let me out of here, you bastard. Now!"
"We're going to let you out of here," Dr. Keller said soothingly, "but first you have to calm down."
"I'm calm," Toni yelled. "Let me go!" Dr. Keller sat on the floor beside her and said, "Toni, when you saw that
picture of your father, you said you were going to hurt him, and-"
"You're a liar! I said I was going to kill him!" "There's been enough killing. You don't want to stab anyone else."
"I'm not going to stab him. Have you heard of hydrochloric acid? It will eat through anything, including skin. Wait until I-"
"I don't want you to think like that."
"You're right. Arson! Arson is better. He won't have to wait until hell to burn to death. I can do it so they'll never catch me if-"
"Toni, forget about this."
"All right. I can think of some other ways that are even better."
He studied her a moment, frustrated. "Why are you so angry?"
"Don't you know? I thought you were supposed to be such a great doctor. He's marrying a woman with a teen-year-old daughter. What's going to happen to that little girl, Mr. Famous Doctor? I'll tell you what. The same thing that happened to us. Well, I'm going to stop it!"
"I'd hoped we'd gotten rid of all that hate." "Hate? You want to hear about hate?"
It was raining, a steady downpour of raindrops flitting the roof of the speeding car. She looked at her mother
sitting at the wheel, squinting at the road ahead, and she smiled, in a happy mood. She began to sing:
"All around the mulberry bush, The monkey chased-"
Her mother turned to her and screamed, "Shut up. I told you I detest that song. You make me sick, you miserable little-"
After that, everything seemed to happen in slow motion.
The curve ahead, the car skidding off the road, the tree. The crash flung her out of the car. She was shaken, but unhurt.
She got to her feet. She could hear her mother, trapped in the car, screaming, "Get me out of here. Help me! Help me!" And she stood there watching until the car finally exploded.
"Hate? Do you want to hear more?"
Walter Manning said, "This has to be a unanimous decision. My daughter's a professional artist, not a dilettante. She did this as a favor. We can't turn her down.... This has to be unanimous. We're either giving him my daughter's painting or we don't give him anything at all."
She was parked at the curb, with the motor running. She watched Walter Manning cross the street, headed for the garage where he kept his car. She put the car in gear and slammed her foot down on the accelerator. At the last moment, he heard the sound of the car coming toward him, and he turned. She watched the expression on his face as the car smashed into him and then hurled his broken body aside. She kept driving. There were no witnesses. God was on her side.
"That's hate, Dockie! That's real hate!"
Gilbert Keller listened to her recital, appalled, shaken
by the cold-blooded viciousness of it. He canceled the rest of his appointments for the day. He needed to be alone.
The following morning when Dr. Keller walked into the padded cell, Alette had taken over.
"Why are you doing this to me. Dr. Keller?" Alette asked. "Let me out of here."
"I will," Dr. Keller assured her. "Tell me about Toni. What has she told you?"
"She said we have to escape from here and kill Father."
Toni took over. "Morning, Dockie. We're fine now. Why don't you let us go?"
Dr. Keller looked into her eyes. There was cold-blooded murder there.
* * *
Dr. Otto Lewison sighed. "I'm terribly sorry about what's happened, Gilbert. Everything was going so well."
"Right now, I can't even reach Ashley."
"I suppose this means having to start the treatment all over."
Dr. Keller was thoughtful. "Not really, Otto. We've arrived at the point where the three alters have gotten to
know one another. That was a big breakthrough. The next step was to get them to integrate. I have to find a way to do that."
"That damned article-"
"It's fortunate for us that Toni saw that article." Otto Lewison looked at him in surprise. "Fortunate?"
"Yes. Because there's that residual hate in Toni. Now that we know it's there, we can work on it. I want to try an experiment. If it works, we'll be in good shape. If it
doesn't"-he paused and added quietly-"then I think Ashley may have to be confined here for the rest of her life."
"What do you want to do?"
"I think it's a bad idea for Ashley's father to see her again, but I want to hire a national clipping service, and I want them to send me every article that appears about Dr.
Patterson."
Otto Lewison blinked. "What's the point?"
"I'm going to show them all to Toni. Eventually, her hate has to bum itself out. That way I can monitor it and try to control it."
"It may take a long time, Gilbert."
"At least a year, maybe longer. But it's the only chance Ashley has."
Five days later Ashley had taken over.
When Dr. Keller walked into the padded cell, Ashley said, "Good morning, Gilbert. I'm sorry that all this happened." "I'm glad it did, Ashley. We're going to get all of our feelings oat in the open." He nodded to the guard to remove the leg-irons and handcuffs.
Ashley stood up and rubbed her wrists. "That wasn't very comfortable," she said. They walked out into the corridor. "Toni's very angry."
"Yes, but she's going to get over it. Here's my plan. "
There were three or four articles about Dr. Steven
Pat-terson every month. One read: "Dr. Steven Patterson is to wed Victoria Aniston in an elaborate wedding ceremony on Long Island this Friday. Dr. Patterson's colleagues will fly in to attend. "
Toni was hysterical when Dr. Keller showed the story to her.
"That marriage isn't going to last long." "Why do you say that, Toni?"
"Because he's going to be dead."
"Dr. Steven Patterson has resigned from St. John's Hospital and will head the cardiac staff at Manhattan Methodist Hospital. "
"So he can rape all the little girls there," Toni screamed.
"Dr. Steven Patterson received the Lasker Award for his
work in medicine and is being honored at the White House. "
"They should hang the bastard!" Toni yelled.
Gilbert Keller saw to it that Toni received all the
articles written about her father. And as time went by, with each new item, Toni's rage seemed to be diminishing. It was as though her emotions had been worn out. She went from hatred to anger and, finally, to a resigned acceptance.
There was a mention in the real estate section. "Dr.
Steven Patterson and his new bride have moved into a home in Manhattan, but they plan to purchase a second home in the Hamptons and will be spending their summers there with their daughter, Katrina."
Toni started sobbing. "How could he do that to us?"
"Do you feel that that little girl has taken your place, Toni?"
"I don't know. I'm-I'm confused."
Another year went by. Ashley had therapy sessions three times a week. Alette painted almost every day, but Toni refused to sing or play the piano.
At Christmas, Dr. Keller showed Toni a new clipping. There was a picture of her father and Victoria and Katrina.
The caption read: THE PATTERSONS CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS IN THE HAMPTONS.
Toni said wistfully, "We used to spend Christmases together. He always gave me wonderful gifts." She looked at Dr. Keller. "He wasn't all bad. Aside from the-you know-he was a good father. I think he really loved me."
It was the first sign of a new breakthrough.
One day, as Dr. Keller passed the recreation room, he heard Toni singing and playing the piano. Surprised, he stepped into the room and watched her. She was completely absorbed in the music.
The next day, Dr. Keller had a session with Toni. "Your father's getting older, Toni. How do you think you'll feel when he dies?"
"I-I don't want him to die. I know I said a lot of stupid things, but I said them because I was angry with him." "You're not angry anymore?"
She thought about it. "I'm not angry, I'm hurt. I think
you were right. I did feel that the little girl was taking my place." She looked up at Dr. Keller and said, "I was confused. But my father has a right to get on with his life, and Ashley has a right to get on with hers."
Dr. Keller smiled. We're back on track.
The three of them talked to one another freely now.
Dr. Keller said, "Ashley, you needed Toni and Alette because you couldn't stand the pain. How do you feel about your father now?"
There was a brief silence. She said slowly, "I can never forget what he did to me, but I can forgive him. I want to put the past behind me and start my future."
"To do that, we must make you all one again. How do you feel about that, Alette?"
Alette said, "If I'm Ashley, can I still go on painting?" "Of course you can."
"Well, then, all right." "Toni?"
"Will I still be able to sing and play the piano?" "Yes," he said. "Then, why not?"
"Ashley?"
"I'm ready for all of us to be one. I-I want to thank them for helping me when I needed them."
"My pleasure, luv."
"Anche il mio," Alette said.
It was time for the final step: integration.
"All right I'm going to hypnotize you now, Ashley. I want you to say good-bye to Toni and Alette."
Ashley took a deep breath. "Good-bye, Toni. Goodbye, Alette."
"Good-bye, Ashley."
"Take care of yourself, Ashley."
Ten minutes later, Ashley was in a deep hypnotic state. "Ashley, there's nothing more to be afraid of. All your problems are behind you. You don't need anyone to protect you anymore. You're able to handle your life without help, without shutting out any bad experiences.
You're able to face whatever happens. Do you agree with me?"
"Yes, I do. I'm ready to face the future." "Good. Toni?"
There was no answer. "Toni?"
There was no answer. "Alette?"
Silence. "Alette?" Silence.
"They're gone, Ashley. You're whole now and you're cured." He watched Ashley's face light up.
"You'll awaken at the count of three. One... two... three..."
Ashley opened her eyes and a beatific smile lit her face. "It-it happened, didn't it?"
He nodded. "Yes."
She was ecstatic. "I'm free. Oh, thank you, Gilbert! I
feel-I feel as though a terrible dark curtain has been taken away."
Dr. Keller took her hand. "I can't tell you how pleased I am. We'll be doing some more tests over the next few months, but if they turn out as I think they will, well, we'll be sending you home. I'll arrange for some outpatient treatment for you wherever you are." Ashley nodded, too overcome with emotion to speak.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
OVER the next few months, Otto Lewison had three psychiatrists examine Ashley. They used hypnotherapy and Sodium Amytal.
"Hello, Ashley. I'm Dr. Montfort, and I need to ask you some questions. How do you feel about yourself?"
"I feel wonderful, Doctor. It's as though I've just gotten over a long illness."
"Do you think you're a bad person?"
"No. I know some bad things have happened, but I don't
believe I'm responsible for them." "Do you hate anyone?"
"No."
"What about your father? Do you hate him?"
"I did. I don't hate him anymore. I don't think he could help what he did. I just hope he's all right now." "Would you like to see him again?"
"I think it would be better if I didn't. He has his life. I want to start a new life for myself."
"Ashley?"
"Yes."
"I'm Dr. Vaughn. I'd like to have a little chat with you." "All right."
"Do you remember Toni and Alette?" "Of course. But they're gone." "How do you feel about them?"
"In the beginning, I was terrified, but now I know I needed them. I'm grateful to them."
"Do you sleep well at night?" "Now I do, yes."
"Tell Me Your Dreams."
"I used to have terrible dreams; something was always chasing me. I thought I was going to be murdered." "Do you still have those dreams?"
"Not anymore. My dreams are very peaceful. I see bright colors and smiling people. Last night, I dreamed I was at a ski resort, flying down the slopes. It was wonderful. I don't mind cold weather at all anymore."
"How do you feel about your father?"
"I want him to be happy, and I want to be happy." "Ashley?"
"Yes."
"I'm Dr. Hoelterhoff." "How do you do, Doctor?"
"They didn't tell me how beautiful you were. Do you think you're beautiful?"
"I think I'm attractive. "
"I hear that you have a lovely voice. Do you think you do?"
"It's not a trained voice, but, yes"-she laughed- "I do manage to sing on key."
"And they tell me you paint. Are you good?" "For an amateur, I think I'm quite good. Yes."
He was studying her thoughtfully. "Do you have any
problems that you would like to discuss with me?" "I can't think of any. I'm treated very well here."
"How do you feel about leaving here and getting out into the world?"
"I've thought a lot about it. It's scary, but at the same time it's exciting."
"Do you think you would be afraid out there?"
"No. I want to build a new life. I'm good with computers.
I can't go back to the company I worked for, but I'm sure I can get a job at another company."
Dr. Hoelterhoff nodded. "Thank you, Ashley. It was a pleasure talking to you."
Dr. Montfort, Dr. Vaughn, Dr. Hoelterhoff and Dr. Keller
were gathered in Otto Lewison's office. He was studying their reports. When he finished, he looked up at Dr. Keller and smiled.
"Congratulations," he said. "These reports are all positive. You've done a wonderful job."
"She's a wonderful woman. Very special, Otto. I'm glad she's going to have her life back again."
"Has she agreed to outpatient treatment when she leaves here?"
"Absolutely."
Otto Lewison nodded. "Very well. I'll have the release
papers drawn up." He turned to the other doctors. "Thank you, gentlemen. I appreciate your help."
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Two days later, she was called into Dr. Lewison's office. Dr. Keller was there. Ashley was to be discharged and would return to her home in Cupertino, where regular therapy and evaluation sessions had been arranged with a court approved psychiatrist.
Dr. Lewison said, "Well, today's the day. Are you excited?"
Ashley said, "I'm excited. I'm frightened. I'm-I don't know. I feel like a bird that's just been set free. I feel like I'm flying." Her face was glowing.
"I'm glad you're leaving, but I'm-I'm going to miss you," Dr. Keller said.
Ashley took his hand and said warmly, "I'm going to miss you, too. I don't know how I... how I can ever thank you." Her eyes filled with tears. "You've given me my life back."
She turned to Dr. Lewison. "When I'm back in California, I'll get a job at one of the computer plants there. I'll let you know how it works out and how I get on with the outpatient therapy. I want to make sure that what happened before never happens to me again."
"I don't think you have anything to worry about," Dr. Lewison assured her.
When she left. Dr. Lewison turned to Gilbert Keller. "This makes up for a lot of the ones that didn't succeed, doesn't it, Gilbert?"
It was a sunny June day, and as she walked down Madison Avenue in New York City, her radiant smile made people turn back to look at her. She had never been so happy. She thought of the wonderful life ahead of her, and all that she was going to do. There could have been a terrible ending for her, she thought, but this was the happy ending she had prayed for.
She walked into Pennsylvania Station. It was the busiest train station in America, a charmless maze of airless rooms and passages. The station was crowded with people. And each person has an interesting story to tell, she thought. They're all going to different places, living their own lives, and now. I'm going to live my own life.
She purchased a ticket from one of the machines. Her train was just pulling in. Serendipity, she thought.
She boarded the train and took a seat. She was filled with excitement at what was about to happen. The train gave a jerk and then started picking up speed. I'm on my way at last. And as the train headed toward the Hamptons, she began to sing softly:
"All around the mulberry bush, The monkey chased the weasel.
The monkey thought 'twas oil in fun, Pop! goes the weasel. "
AUTHOR'S NOTE
DURING the past twenty years, there have been dozens of criminal trials involving defendants claiming to have multiple personalities. The charges covered a wide range of activities, including murder, kidnapping, rape and arson.
Multiple personality disorder (MPD), also known as dissociative identity disorder (DID), is a controversial topic among psychiatrists. Some psychiatrists believe that it
does not exist. On the other hand, for years many doctors, hospitals and social services organizations have been treating patients who suffer from MPD. Some studies estimate that between 5 and 15 percent of psychiatric patients are afflicted with it.
Current statistics from the Department of Justice indicate that approximately one third of juvenile victims of sexual abuse are children under six years of age, and
that one out of three girls is sexually abused before the age of eighteen.
Most reported cases of incest involve a father and daughter.
A research project in three countries suggests that MPD affects percent of the general population.
Dissociative disorders are often misdiagnosed, and studies have shown that, on average, people with MPD have spent seven years seeking treatment, prior to an accurate diagnosis.
Two thirds of the cases of multiple personality disorder are treatable.
http://www.esnips.com/web/eb00ks
👁 :21
Her name is Esther; she is a war correspondent who has just returned from Iraq
because of the imminent invasion of that country; she is thirty years old, married, without children. He is an unidentified male, between twenty-three and twenty-five years old, with dark, Mongolian features. The two were last seen in a café on the Rue du Faubourg St-Honoré.
The police were told that they had met before, although no one knew how often: Esther had always said that the man—who concealed his true identity behind the name Mikhail—was someone very important, although she had never explained whether he was important for her career as a journalist or for her as a woman.
The police began a formal investigation. Various theories were put forward—kidnapping, blackmail, a kidnapping that had ended in murder—none of which were beyond the bounds of possibility given that, in her search for information, her work brought her into frequent contact with people who had links with terrorist cells. They discovered that, in the weeks prior to her disappearance, regular sums of money had been withdrawn from her bank account: those in charge of the investigation felt that these could have been payments made for information. She had taken no change of clothes with her, but, oddly enough, her passport was nowhere to be found.
He is a stranger, very young, with no police record, with no clue as to his identity.
She is Esther, thirty years old, the winner of two international prizes for journalism, and married.
My wife.
I immediately come under suspicion and am detained because I refuse to say where I was on the day she disappeared. However, a prison officer has just opened the door of my cell, saying that I’m a free man.
And why am I a free man? Because nowadays, everyone knows everything about everyone; you just have to ask and the information is there: where you’ve used your credit card, where you spend your time, whom you’ve slept with. In my case, it was even easier: a woman, another journalist, a friend of my wife, and divorced—which is why she doesn’t mind revealing that she slept with me—came forward as a witness in my favor when she heard that I had been detained. She provided concrete proof that I was with her on the day and the night of Esther’s disappearance.
I talk to the chief inspector, who returns my belongings and offers his apologies, adding that my rapid detention was entirely within the law, and that I have no grounds on which to accuse or sue the state. I say that I haven’t the slightest intention of doing either of those things, that I am perfectly aware that we are all under constant suspicion and under twenty-four-hour surveillance, even when we have committed no crime.
“You’re free to go,” he says, echoing the words of the prison officer.
I ask: Isn’t it possible that something really has happened to my wife? She had said to me once that—understandably given her vast network of contacts in the terrorist underworld—she occasionally got the feeling she was being followed.
The inspector changes the subject. I insist, but he says nothing.
I ask if she would be able to travel on her passport, and he says, of course, since she has committed no crime. Why shouldn’t she leave and enter the country freely?
“So she may no longer be in France?”
“Do you think she left you because of that woman you’ve been sleeping with?”
That’s none of your business, I reply. The inspector pauses for a second and grows serious; he says that I was arrested as part of routine procedure, but that he is nevertheless very sorry about my wife’s disappearance. He is married himself and although he doesn’t like my books (So he isn’t as ignorant as he looks! He knows who I am!), he can put himself in my shoes and imagine what I must be going through.
I ask him what I should do next. He gives me his card and asks me to get in touch if I hear anything. I’ve watched this scene in dozens of films, and I’m not convinced; inspectors always know more than they say they do.
He asks me if I have ever met the person who was with Esther the last time she was seen alive. I say that I knew his code name, but didn’t know him personally.
He asks if we have any domestic problems. I say that we’ve been together for ten years and have the same problems most married couples have—nothing more.
He asks, delicately, if we have discussed divorce recently, or if my wife was considering leaving me. I tell him we have never even considered the possibility, and say again that “like all couples” we have our occasional disagreements.
Frequent or only occasional? Occasional, I say.
He asks still more delicately if she suspected that I was having an affair with her friend. I tell him that it was the first—and last—time that her friend and I had slept together. It wasn’t an affair; it came about simply because we had nothing else to do. It had been a bit of a dull day, neither of us had any pressing engagements after lunch, and the game of seduction always adds a little zest to life, which is why we ended up in bed together.
“You go to bed with someone just because it’s a bit of a dull day?”
I consider telling him that such matters hardly form part of his investigations, but I need his help, or might need it later on. There is, after all, that invisible institution called the Favor Bank, which I have always found so very useful.
“Sometimes, yes. There’s nothing else very interesting to do, the woman is looking for excitement, I’m looking for adventure, and that’s that. The next day, you both pretend that nothing happened, and life goes on.”
He thanks me, holds out his hand and says that in his world, things aren’t quite like that. Naturally, boredom and tedium exist, as does the desire to go to bed with someone, but everything is much more controlled, and no one ever acts on their thoughts or desires.
“Perhaps artists have more freedom,” he remarks.
I say that I’m familiar with his world, but have no wish to enter into a comparison between our different views of society and people. I remain silent, awaiting his next move.
“Speaking of freedom,” he says, slightly disappointed at this writer’s refusal to enter into a debate with a police officer, “you’re free to go. Now that I’ve met you, I’ll read your books. I know I said I didn’t like them, but the fact is I’ve never actually read one.”
This is not the first or the last time that I will hear these words. At least this whole episode has gained me another reader. I shake his hand and leave.
I’m free. I’m out of prison, my wife has disappeared under mysterious circumstances, I have no fixed timetable for work, I have no problem meeting new people, I’m rich, famous, and if Esther really has left me, I’ll soon find someone to replace her. I’m free, independent.
But what is freedom?
I’ve spent a large part of my life enslaved to one thing or another, so I should know the meaning of the word. Ever since I was a child, I have fought to make freedom my most precious commodity. I fought with my parents, who wanted me to be an engineer, not a writer. I fought with the other boys at school, who immediately homed in on me as the
butt of their cruel jokes, and only after much blood had flowed from my nose and from theirs, only after many afternoons when I had to hide my scars from my mother—because it was up to me, not her, to solve my problems—did I manage to show them that I could take a thrashing without bursting into tears. I fought to get a job to support myself, and went to work as a delivery man for a hardware store, so as to be free from that old line in family blackmail: “We’ll give you money, but you’ll have to do this, this, and this.”
I fought—although without success—for the girl I was in love with when I was an adolescent, and who loved me too; she left me in the end because her parents convinced her that I had no future.
I fought against the hostile world of journalism—my next job—where my first boss kept me hanging around for three whole hours and only deigned to take any notice of me when I started tearing up the book he was reading: he looked at me in surprise and saw that here was someone capable of persevering and confronting the enemy, essential qualities for a good reporter. I fought for the socialist ideal, went to prison, came out and went on fighting, feeling like a working-class hero—until, that is, I heard the Beatles and decided that rock music was much more fun than Marx. I fought for the love of my first, second, and third wives. I fought to find the courage to leave my first, second, and third wives, because the love I felt for them hadn’t lasted, and I needed to move on, until I found the person who had been put in this world to find me—and she was none of those three.
I fought for the courage to leave my job on the newspaper and launch myself into the adventure of writing a book, knowing full well that no one in my country could make a living as a writer. I gave up after a year, after writing more than a thousand pages—pages of such genius that even I couldn’t understand them.
While I was fighting, I heard other people speaking in the name of freedom, and the more they defended this unique right, the more enslaved they seemed to be to their parents’ wishes, to a marriage in which they had promised to stay with the other person “for the rest of their lives,” to the bathroom scales, to their diet, to half-finished projects, to lovers to whom they were incapable of saying “No” or “It’s over,” to weekends when they were obliged to have lunch with people they didn’t even like. Slaves to luxury, to the appearance of luxury, to the appearance of the appearance of luxury. Slaves to a life they had not chosen, but which they had decided to live because someone had managed to convince them that it was all for the best. And so their identical days and nights passed, days and nights in which adventure was just a word in a book or an image on the television that was always on, and whenever a door opened, they would say:
“I’m not interested. I’m not in the mood.”
How could they possibly know if they were in the mood or not if they had never tried? But there was no point in asking; the truth was they were afraid of any change that would upset the world they had grown used to.
The inspector says I’m free. I’m free now and I was free in prison too, because freedom continues to be the thing I prize most in the world. Of course, this has led me to drink wines I did not like, to do things I should not have done and which I will not do again; it has left scars on my body and on my soul, it has meant hurting certain people, although I have since asked their forgiveness, when I realized that I could do absolutely anything except force another person to follow me in my madness, in my lust for life. I don’t regret the painful times; I bear my scars as if they were medals. I know that freedom has a high price, as high as that of slavery; the only difference is that you pay with pleasure and a smile, even when that smile is dimmed by tears.
I leave the police station, and it’s a beautiful day outside, a sunny Sunday that does not reflect my state of mind at all. My lawyer is waiting for me with a few consoling words and a bunch of flowers. He says that he’s phoned around to all the hospitals and morgues (the kind of thing you do when someone fails to return home), but has not as yet found Esther. He says that he managed to prevent journalists from finding out where I was being held. He says he needs to talk to me in order to draw up a legal strategy that will help me defend myself against any future accusation. I thank him for all his trouble; I know he’s not really interested in drawing up a legal strategy, he just doesn’t want to leave me alone, because he’s not sure how I’ll react. (Will I get drunk and be arrested again? Will I cause a scandal? Will I try to kill myself?) I tell him I have some important business to sort out and that we both know perfectly well that I have no problem with the law. He insists, but I give him no choice—after all, I’m a free man.
Freedom. The freedom to be wretchedly alone.
I take a taxi to the center of Paris and ask to be dropped near the Arc de Triomphe. I set off down the Champs-Elysées toward the Hôtel Bristol, where Esther and I always used to meet for hot chocolate whenever one of us came back from some trip abroad. It was our coming-home ritual, a plunge back into the love that bound us together, even though life kept sending us off along ever more diverging paths.
I keep walking. People smile, children are pleased to have been given these few hours of spring in the middle of winter, the traffic flows freely, everything seems to be in order— except that none of them know that I have just lost my wife; they don’t even pretend not to know, they don’t even care. Don’t they realize the pain I’m in? They should all be feeling sad, sympathetic, supportive of a man whose soul is losing love as if it were losing blood; but they continue laughing, immersed in their miserable little lives that only happen on weekends.
What a ridiculous thought! Many of the people I pass must also have their souls in tatters, and I have no idea how or why they are suffering.
I go into a bar and buy some cigarettes; the person answers me in English. I go into a chemist’s to buy a mint I particularly like, and the assistant speaks to me in English (both
times I asked for the products in French). Before I reach the hotel, I am stopped by two boys just arrived from Toulouse who are looking for a particular shop; they have asked several other people, but no one understands what they say. What’s going on? Have they changed languages on the Champs-Elysées in the twenty-four hours since I was arrested?
Tourism and money can perform miracles, but how come I haven’t noticed this before? It has obviously been a long time since Esther and I met here to drink hot chocolate, even though we have each been away and come back several times during that period. There is always something more important. There is always some unpostponable appointment.
Yes, my love, we’ll have that hot chocolate next time, come back soon; I’ve got a really important interview today and won’t be able to pick you up at the airport, take a taxi; my cell phone’s on, call me if there’s anything urgent; otherwise, I’ll see you tonight.
My cell phone! I take it out of my pocket and immediately turn it on; it rings several times, and each time my heart turns over. On the tiny screen I see the names of the people who have been trying to get in touch with me, but reply to none of them. I hope for someone “unidentified” to appear, because that would be she, since only about twenty people know my number and have sworn not to pass it on. It doesn’t appear, only the numbers of friends or trusted colleagues. They must be eager to know what happened, they want to help (but how?), to ask if I need anything.
The telephone keeps ringing. Should I answer it? Should I arrange to meet up with some of these people?
I decide to remain alone until I’ve managed to work out what is going on.
I reach the Hôtel Bristol, which Esther always described as one of the few hotels in Paris where customers are treated like guests rather than homeless people in search of shelter. I am greeted as if I were a friend of the family; I choose a table next to an exquisite clock; I listen to the piano and look out at the garden.
I need to be practical, to study the options; after all, life goes on. I am not the first nor will I be the last man whose wife has left him, but did it have to happen on a sunny day, with everyone in the street smiling and children singing, with the first signs of spring just beginning to show, the sun shining, and drivers stopping at pedestrian crossings?
I pick up a napkin. I’m going to get these ideas out of my head and put them down on paper. Let’s leave sentiment to one side and see what I should do:
(a) Consider the possibility that she really has been kidnapped and that her life is in danger at this very moment, and that I, as her husband and constant companion, must therefore move heaven and earth to find her.
Response to this possibility: she took her passport with her. The police don’t know this, but she also took several other personal items with her, among them a wallet containing
images of various patron saints which she always carries with her whenever she goes abroad. She also withdrew money from her bank.
Conclusion: she was clearly preparing to leave.
(b) Consider the possibility that she believed a promise someone gave her and it turned out to be a trap.
Response: she had often put herself in dangerous situations before; it was part of her job, but she always warned me when she did so, because I was the only person she could trust completely. She would tell me where she was going to be, who she was going to see (although, so as not to put me at risk, she usually used the person’s nom de guerre), and what I should do if she did not return by a certain time.
Conclusion: she was not planning a meeting with one of her informants.
(c) Consider the possibility that she has met another man.
Response: there is no response. Of all the hypotheses, this is the only one that makes any sense. And yet I can’t accept it, I can’t accept that she would leave like that, without giving me a reason. Both Esther and I have always prided ourselves on confronting all life’s difficulties together. We suffered, but we never lied to each other, although it was part of the rules of the game not to mention any extramarital affairs. I was aware that she had changed a lot since meeting this fellow Mikhail, but did that justify ending a marriage that has lasted ten years?
Even if she had slept with him and fallen in love, wouldn’t she weigh in the balance all the time that we had spent together and everything we had conquered before setting off on an adventure from which there was no turning back? She was free to travel whenever she wanted to, she lived surrounded by men, soldiers who hadn’t seen a woman in ages, but I never asked any questions, and she never told me anything. We were both free, and we were proud of that.
But Esther had disappeared and left clues that were visible only to me, as if it were a secret message: I’m leaving.
Why?
Is that question worth answering?
No. Because hidden in the answer is my own inability to keep the woman I love by my side. Is it worth finding her and persuading her to come back? Begging and imploring her to give our marriage another chance?
That seems ridiculous: it would be better merely to suffer as I had in the past, when other people I loved had left me. It would be better just to lick my wounds, as I had also done
in the past. For a while, I’ll think obsessively about her, I’ll become embittered, I’ll bore my friends because all I ever talk about is my wife leaving me. I’ll try to justify what happened, spend days and nights reviewing every moment spent by her side, I’ll conclude that she was too hard on me, even though I always tried to do my best. I’ll find other women. When I walk down the street, I’ll keep seeing women who could be her. I’ll suffer day and night, night and day. This could take weeks, months, possibly a year or more.
Until one morning, I’ll wake up and find I’m thinking about something else, and then I’ll know the worst is over. My heart might be bruised, but it will recover and become capable of seeing the beauty of life once more. It’s happened before, it will happen again, I’m sure. When someone leaves, it’s because someone else is about to arrive—I’ll find love again.
For a moment, I savor the idea of my new state: single and a millionaire. I can go out in broad daylight with whomever I want. I can behave at parties in a way I haven’t behaved in years. The news will travel fast, and soon all kinds of women, the young and the not so young, the rich and the not as rich as they would like to be, the intelligent and those trained to say only what they think I would like to hear, will all come knocking at my door.
I want to believe that it is wonderful to be free. Free again. Ready to find my one true love, who is waiting for me and who will never allow me to experience such humiliation again.
I finish my hot chocolate and look at the clock; I know it is still too soon for me to be able to enjoy the agreeable feeling that I am once more part of humanity. For a few moments, I imagine that Esther is about to come in through that door, walk across the beautiful Persian carpets, sit down beside me and say nothing, just smoke a cigarette, look out at the courtyard garden and hold my hand. Half an hour passes, and for half an hour I believe in the story I have just created, until I realize that it is pure fantasy.
I decide not to go home. I go over to reception, ask for a room, a toothbrush, and some deodorant. The hotel is full, but the manager fixes things for me: I end up with a lovely suite looking out at the Eiffel Tower, a terrace, the rooftops of Paris, the lights coming on one by one, the families getting together to have Sunday supper. And the feeling I had in the Champs-Elysées returns: the more beautiful everything is around me, the more wretched I feel.
No television. No supper. I sit on the terrace and look back over my life, a young man who dreamed of becoming a famous writer, and who suddenly saw that the reality was completely different—he writes in a language almost no one reads, in a country which is said to have almost no reading public. His family forces him to go to university (any university will do, my boy, just as long as you get a degree; otherwise you’ll never be
anyone). He rebels, travels the world during the hippie era, meets a singer, writes a few song lyrics, and is suddenly earning more money than his sister, who listened to what her parents said and decided to become a chemical engineer….
I write more songs, the singer goes from strength to strength; I buy a few apartments and fall out with the singer, but still have enough capital not to have to work for the next few years. I get married for the first time, to an older woman, I learn a lot—how to make love, how to drive, how to speak English, how to lie in bed until late—but we split up because she considers me to be “emotionally immature, and too ready to chase after any girl with big enough breasts.” I get married for a second and a third time to women I think will give me emotional stability: I get what I want, but discover that the stability I wanted is inseparable from a deep sense of tedium.
Two more divorces. Free again, but it’s just a feeling; freedom is not the absence of commitments, but the ability to choose—and commit myself to—what is best for me.
I continue my search for love, I continue writing songs. When people ask me what I do, I say I’m a writer. When they say they only know my song lyrics, I say that’s just part of my work. When they apologize and say they’ve never read any of my books, I explain that I’m working on a project—which is a lie. The truth is that I have money, I have contacts, but what I don’t have is the courage to write a book. My dream is now realizable, but if I try and fail, I don’t know what the rest of my life will be like; that’s why it’s better to live cherishing a dream than face the possibility that it might all come to nothing.
One day, a journalist comes to interview me. She wants to know what it’s like to have my work known all over the country but to be entirely unknown myself, since normally it’s only the singer who appears in the media. She’s pretty, intelligent, quiet. We meet again at a party, where there’s no pressure of work, and I manage to get her into bed that same night. I fall in love, but she’s not remotely interested. When I phone, she always says she’s busy. The more she rejects me, the more interested I become, until, at last, I manage to persuade her to spend a weekend at my house in the country. (I may have been the black sheep of the family, but sometimes rebellion pays off: I was the only one of my friends at that stage in our lives to have bought a house in the country.)
We spend three days alone, contemplating the sea. I cook for her, and she tells me stories about her work and ends up falling in love with me. We come back to the city, she starts sleeping at my apartment on a regular basis. One morning, she leaves earlier than usual and returns with her typewriter; from then on, without anything being said, my home becomes her home too.
The same conflicts I had with my previous wives begin to surface: women are always looking for stability and fidelity, while I’m looking for adventure and the unknown. This time, though, the relationship lasts longer. Nevertheless, two years on, I decide it’s time for Esther to take her typewriter back to her own apartment, along with everything else she brought with her.
“It’s not going to work.”
“But you love me and I love you, isn’t that right?”
“I don’t know. If you’re asking me if I like your company, the answer is yes. If, on the other hand, you’re asking me if I could live without you, the answer is also yes.”
“I’m glad I wasn’t born a man. I’m very content with my female condition. All you expect of us women is that we can cook well. Men, on the other hand, are expected to be able to do everything—they’ve got to be able to keep a home afloat, make love, take care of the children, bring in the money, and be successful.”
“That’s not it either: I’m very happy with myself. I enjoy your company, but I just don’t think it’s going to work.”
“You enjoy my company, but hate being by yourself. You’re always looking for adventure in order to forget more important things. You always want to feel the adrenaline flowing in your veins and you forget that the only thing that should be flowing through them is blood.”
“I’m not running away from important things. Give me an example of something important.”
“Writing a book.”
“I can do that any time.”
“Go on then, do it. Then, if you like, we can go our separate ways.”
I find her comment absurd; I can write a book whenever I want to; I know publishers, journalists, all of whom owe me favors. Esther is just a woman who’s afraid of losing me, she’s inventing things. I tell her it’s over, our relationship is at an end, it isn’t a matter of what she thinks would make me happy, it’s about love.
What is love? she asks. I spend half an hour explaining and realize that I can’t come up with a good definition.
She says that, since I don’t know how to define love, I should try and write a book.
I say that the two things are completely unrelated. I’m going to leave the apartment that very day; she can stay there for as long as she likes. I’ll go and stay in a hotel until she has found somewhere else to live. She says that’s fine by her, I can leave now, the
apartment will be free within the month—she’ll start looking for a new place tomorrow. I pack my bags, and she goes and reads a book. I say it’s getting late, I’ll leave tomorrow. She says I should leave at once because, tomorrow, I won’t feel as strong or as determined. I ask her if she’s trying to get rid of me. She laughs and says I was the one who wanted to end the relationship. We go to bed, and the following day, the desire to leave is not as urgent, and I decide I need to think things through. Esther, however, says the matter isn’t over yet: this scenario will simply keep recurring as long as I refuse to risk everything for what I believe to be my real reason for living; in the end, she’ll become unhappy and will leave me. Except that, if she left, she would do so immediately and burn any bridges that would allow her to come back. I ask her what she means. She’d get another boyfriend, she says, fall in love.
She goes off to her work at the newspaper, and I decide to take a day’s leave (apart from writing lyrics, I’m also working for a recording company). I sit down at the typewriter. I get up again, read the papers, reply to some urgent letters, and, when I’ve done that, start replying to nonurgent letters. I make a list of things I need to do, I listen to music, I take a walk around the block, chat to the baker, come home, and suddenly the whole day has gone and I still haven’t managed to type a single sentence. I decide that I hate Esther, that she’s forcing me to do things I don’t want to do.
When she gets home, she doesn’t ask me anything, but I admit that I haven’t managed to do any writing. She says that I have the same look in my eye as I did yesterday.
The following day I go to work, but that evening I again go over to the desk on which the typewriter is sitting. I read, watch television, listen to music, go back to the machine, and so two months pass, with me accumulating pages and more pages of “first sentences,” but never managing to finish a paragraph.
I come up with every possible excuse—no one reads in this country; I haven’t worked out a plot; I’ve got a fantastic plot, but I’m still looking for the right way to develop it.
Besides, I’m really busy writing an article or a song lyric. Another two months pass, and one day, she comes home bearing a plane ticket.
“Enough,” she says. “Stop pretending that you’re busy, that you’re weighed down by responsibilities, that the world needs you to do what you’re doing, and just go traveling for a while.” I can always become the editor of the newspaper where I publish a few articles, I can always become the president of the recording company for which I write lyrics, and where I work simply because they don’t want me to write lyrics for their competitors. I can always come back to do what I’m doing now, but my dream can’t wait. Either I accept it or I forget it.
Where is the ticket for? Spain.
I’m shocked. Air tickets are expensive; besides, I can’t go away now, I’ve got a career ahead of me, and I need to look after it. I’ll lose out on a lot of potential music partnerships; the problem isn’t me, it’s our marriage. If I really wanted to write a book, no one would be able to stop me.
“You can, you want to, but you don’t,” she says. “Your problem isn’t me, but you, so it would be best if you spent some time alone.”
She shows me a map. I must go to Madrid, where I’ll catch a bus up to the Pyrenees, on the border with France. That’s where a medieval pilgrimage route begins: the road to Santiago. I have to walk the whole way. She’ll be waiting for me at the other end and then she’ll accept anything I say: that I don’t love her anymore, that I still haven’t lived enough to create a literary work, that I don’t even want to think about being a writer, that it was nothing but an adolescent dream.
This is madness! The woman I’ve been living with for two long years—a real eternity in relationship terms—is making decisions about my life, forcing me to give up my work and expecting me to walk across an entire country! It’s so crazy that I decide to take it seriously. I get drunk several nights running, with her beside me getting equally drunk— even though she hates drinking. I get aggressive; I say she’s jealous of my independence, that the only reason this whole mad idea was born is because I said I wanted to leave her. She says that it all started when I was still at school and dreaming of becoming a writer— no more putting things off; if I don’t confront myself now, I’ll spend the rest of my life getting married and divorced, telling cute anecdotes about my past and going steadily downhill.
Obviously, I can’t admit she’s right, but I know she’s telling the truth. And the more aware I am of this, the more aggressive I become. She accepts my aggression without complaint; she merely reminds me that the departure date is getting closer.
One night, shortly before that date, she refuses to make love. I smoke a whole joint of marijuana, drink two bottles of wine, and pass out in the middle of the living room. When I come to, I realize that I have reached the bottom of the pit, and now all that remains is for me to clamber back up to the top. And I, who so pride myself on my courage, see how cowardly, mean, and unadventurous I am being with my own life. That morning, I wake her with a kiss and tell her that I’ll do as she suggests.
I set off, and for thirty-eight days I follow the road to Santiago. When I arrive, I understand that my real journey only starts there. I decide to settle in Madrid and live off my royalties, to allow an ocean to separate me from Esther’s body, even though we are still officially together and often talk on the phone. It’s very comfortable being married and knowing that I can always return to her arms, meanwhile enjoying all the independence in the world.
I fall in love with a Catalan scientist, with an Argentine woman who makes jewelry, and with a young woman who sings in the metro. The royalties from my lyrics keep rolling in
and are enough for me to live comfortably without having to work and with plenty of time to do everything—even write a book.
The book can always wait until tomorrow, though, because the mayor of Madrid has decreed that the city should be one long party and has come up with an interesting slogan—“Madrid is killing me”—and urges us all to visit several bars each night, coining the phrase la movida madrileña (“the Madrid scene”), which is something I cannot possibly put off until tomorrow; everything is such fun; the days are short and the nights are long.
One day, Esther phones to say that she’s coming to see me: according to her, we need to sort out our situation once and for all. She has booked her ticket for the following week, which gives me just enough time to organize a series of excuses. (“I’m going to Portugal, but I’ll be back in a month,” I tell the blonde girl who used to sing in the metro and who now sleeps in the rented apartment where I live and with whom I go out every night to enjoy la movida madrileña.) I tidy the apartment, expunge any trace of a female presence, and ask my friends not to breathe a word, because my wife is coming to stay for a month.
Esther gets off the plane sporting a hideous, unrecognizable haircut. We travel to the interior of Spain, discover little towns that mean a great deal for one night, but which, if I went back there today, I wouldn’t even be able to find. We go to bullfights, flamenco shows, and I am the best husband in the world, because I want her to go home feeling that I still love her. I don’t know why I want to give this impression—perhaps because, deep down, I know that the Madrid dream will eventually end.
I complain about her haircut and she changes it and is pretty again. There are only ten days left of her holiday and I want her to go home feeling happy and to leave me alone to enjoy this Madrid that is killing me, the discotheques that open at ten in the morning, the bullfights, the endless conversations about the same old topics, the alcohol, the women, more bullfights, more alcohol, more women, and absolutely no timetable.
One Sunday, while we are walking to a bar that serves food all night, she brings up the forbidden topic: the book I said I was writing. I drink a whole bottle of sherry, kick any metal doors we pass on the way back, verbally abuse other people in the street, ask why she bothered traveling all this way if her one aim was to make my life a hell and destroy my happiness. She says nothing, but we both know that our relationship has reached its limits. I have a dreamless night’s sleep, and the following morning, having complained to the building manager about the phone that doesn’t work, having told off the cleaning woman because she hasn’t changed the sheets for a week, having taken a long, long bath to get rid of the hangover from the night before, I sit down at my typewriter, just to show Esther that I am trying, honestly trying, to work.
And suddenly, the miracle happens. I look across at the woman who has just made some coffee and is now reading the newspaper, whose eyes look tired and desperate, who is her usual silent self, who does not always show her affection in gestures, the woman who
made me say yes when I wanted to say no, who forced me to fight for what she, quite rightly, believed was my reason for living, who let me set off alone because her love for me was greater even than her love for herself, who made me go in search of my dream; and, suddenly, seeing that small, quiet woman, whose eyes said more than any words, who was often terrified inside, but always courageous in her actions, who could love someone without humbling herself and who never ever apologized for fighting for her man—suddenly, my fingers press down on the keys.
The first sentence emerges. Then the second.
I spend two days without eating, I sleep the bare minimum, the words seem to spring from some unknown place, as they did when I used to write lyrics, in the days when, after much arguing and much meaningless conversation, my musical partner and I would know that “it” was there, ready, and it was time to set “it” down in words and notes. This time, I know that “it” comes from Esther’s heart; my love is reborn, I write the book because she exists, because she has survived all the difficult times without complaint, without ever once seeing herself as a victim. I start by describing the experience that has affected me most profoundly in those last few years—the road to Santiago.
As I write, I realize that the way I see the world is going through a series of major changes. For many years, I studied and practiced magic, alchemy, and the occult; I was fascinated by the idea of a small group of people being in possession of an immense power that could in no way be shared with the rest of humanity, because it would be far too dangerous to allow such vast potential to fall into inexperienced hands. I was a member of secret societies, I became involved in exotic sects, I bought obscure, extremely expensive books, spent an enormous amount of time performing rituals and invocations. I was always joining and leaving different groups and fraternities, always thinking that I had finally met the person who could reveal to me the mysteries of the invisible world, but in the end I was always disappointed to discover that most of these people, however well-intentioned, were merely following this or that dogma and tended to be fanatics, because fanaticism is the only way to put an end to the doubts that constantly trouble the human soul.
I discovered that many of the rituals did actually work, but I discovered, too, that those who declared themselves to be the masters and holders of the secrets of life, who claimed to know techniques that gave them the ability to achieve their every desire, had completely lost touch with the teachings of the ancients. Following the road to Santiago, coming into contact with ordinary people, discovering that the universe spoke its own language of “signs” and that, in order to understand this language, we had only to look with an open mind at what was going on around us—all this made me wonder if the occult really was the one doorway into those mysteries. In my book about the road to Santiago, I discuss other possible ways of growing and end with this thought: All you have to do is to pay attention; lessons always arrive when you are ready, and if you can read the signs, you will learn everything you need to know in order to take the next step.
We humans have two great problems: the first is knowing when to begin; the second is knowing when to stop.
A week later, I have finished the first, second, and third draft. Madrid is no longer killing me, it is time to go back home. I feel that one cycle has ended and that I urgently need to begin another. I say goodbye to the city as I have always said goodbye in life: thinking that I might change my mind and come back one day.
I return to my own country with Esther, convinced that it might be time to get another job, but until I do (and I don’t because I don’t need to) I continue revising the book. I can’t believe that anyone will have much interest in the experiences of one man following a romantic but difficult route across Spain.
Four months later, when I am busy on my tenth draft, I discover that both the typescript and Esther have gone. Just as I’m about to go mad with anxiety, she returns with a receipt from the post office—she has sent it off to an old boyfriend of hers, who now runs a small publishing house.
The ex-boyfriend publishes the book. There is not a word about it in the press, but a few people buy it. They recommend it to other people, who also buy it and recommend it to others. Six months later, the first edition has sold out. A year later, there have been three more print runs and I am beginning to earn money from the one thing I never dreamed I would—from literature.
I don’t know how long this dream will continue, but I decide to live each moment as if it were the last. And I see that this success opens the door I have so long wanted to open: other publishers are keen to publish my next book.
Obviously, I can’t follow the road to Santiago every year, so what am I going to write about next? Will I have to endure the same rigmarole of sitting down in front of the typewriter and then finding myself doing everything but writing sentences and paragraphs? It’s important that I continue to share my vision of the world and to describe my experiences of life. I try for a few days and for many nights, and decide that it’s impossible. Then, one evening, I happen upon (happen upon?) an interesting story in The Thousand and One Nights; in it I find the symbol of my own path, something that helps me to understand who I am and why I took so long to make the decision that was always there waiting for me. I use that story as the basis for another story about a shepherd who goes in search of his dream, a treasure hidden in the pyramids of Egypt. I speak of the love that lies waiting for him there, as Esther had waited for me while I walked around and around in circles.
I am no longer someone dreaming of becoming something: I am. I am the shepherd crossing the desert, but where is the alchemist who helps him to carry on? When I finish this novel, I don’t entirely understand what I have written: it is like a fairy tale for grown-
ups, and grown-ups are more interested in war, sex, or stories about power. Nevertheless, the publisher accepts it, the book is published, and my readers once again take it into the bestseller lists.
Three years later, my marriage is in excellent shape; I am doing what I always wanted to do; the first translation appears, then the second, and success—slowly but surely—takes my work to the four corners of the earth.
I decide to move to Paris because of its cafés, its writers, and its cultural life. I discover that none of this exists anymore: the cafés are full of tourists and photographs of the people who made those places famous. Most of the writers there are more concerned with style than content; they strive to be original, but succeed only in being dull. They are locked in their own little world, and I learn an interesting French expression: renvoyer l’ascenseur, meaning literally “to send the elevator back,” but used metaphorically to mean “to return a favor.” In practice, this means that I say nice things about your book, you say nice things about mine, and thus we create a whole new cultural life, a revolution, an apparently new philosophy; we suffer because no one understands us, but then that’s what happened with all the geniuses of the past: being misunderstood by one’s contemporaries is surely just part and parcel of being a great artist.
They “send the elevator back,” and, at first, such writers have some success: people don’t want to run the risk of openly criticizing something they don’t understand, but they soon realize they are being conned and stop believing what the critics say.
The Internet and its simple language are all that it takes to change the world. A parallel world emerges in Paris: new writers struggle to make their words and their souls understood. I join these new writers in cafés that no one has heard of, because neither the writers nor the cafés are as yet famous. I develop my style alone and I learn from a publisher all I need to know about mutual support.
What is this Favor Bank?” “You know. Everyone knows.”
“Possibly, but I still haven’t quite grasped what you’re saying.”
“It was an American writer who first mentioned it. It’s the most powerful bank in the world, and you’ll find it in every sphere of life.”
“Yes, but I come from a country without a literary tradition. What favors could I do for anyone?”
“That doesn’t matter in the least. Let me give you an example: I know that you’re an up- and-coming writer and that, one day, you’ll be very influential. I know this because, like you, I too was once ambitious, independent, honest. I no longer have the energy I once had, but I want to help you because I can’t or don’t want to grind to a halt just yet. I’m not dreaming about retirement, I’m still dreaming about the fascinating struggle that is life, power, and glory.
“I start making deposits in your account—not cash deposits, you understand, but contacts. I introduce you to such-and-such a person, I arrange certain deals, as long as they’re legal. You know that you owe me something, but I never ask you for anything.”
“And then one day…”
“Exactly. One day, I’ll ask you for a favor and you could, of course, say no, but you’re conscious of being in my debt. You do what I ask, I continue to help you, and other people see that you’re a decent, loyal sort of person and so they too make deposits in your account—always in the form of contacts, because this world is made up of contacts and nothing else. They too will one day ask you for a favor, and you will respect and help the people who have helped you, and, in time, you’ll have spread your net worldwide, you’ll know everyone you need to know and your influence will keep on growing.”
“I could refuse to do what you ask me to do.”
“You could. The Favor Bank is a risky investment, just like any other bank. You refuse to grant the favor I asked you, in the belief that I helped you because you deserved to be helped, because you’re the best and everyone should automatically recognize your talent. Fine, I say thank you very much and ask someone else into whose account I’ve also made various deposits; but from then on, everyone knows, without me having to say a word, that you are not to be trusted.
“You’ll grow only half as much as you could have grown, and certainly not as much as you would have liked to. At a certain point, your life will begin to decline, you got halfway, but not all the way, you are half-happy and half-sad, neither frustrated nor fulfilled. You’re neither cold nor hot, you’re lukewarm, and as an evangelist in some holy book says: ‘Lukewarm things are not pleasing to the palate.’”
The publisher places a lot of deposits—or contacts—into my account at the Favor Bank. I learn, I suffer, my books are translated into French, and, in the tradition of that country, the stranger is welcomed. Not only that, the stranger is an enormous success! Ten years on, I have a large apartment with a view over the Seine, I am loved by my readers and loathed by the critics (who adored me until I sold my first 100,000 copies, but, from that moment on, I ceased to be “a misunderstood genius”). I always repay
promptly any deposits made and soon I too am a lender—of contacts. My influence grows. I learn to ask for favors and to do the favors others ask of me.
Esther gets permission to work as a journalist in France. Apart from the normal conflicts in any marriage, I am contented. I understand for the first time that all the frustrations I felt about previous love affairs and marriages had nothing to do with the women involved, but with my own bitterness. Esther, however, was the only woman who understood one very simple thing: in order to be able to find her, I first had to find myself. We have been together for eight years; I believe she is the love of my life, and although I do occasionally (or, to be honest, frequently) fall in love with other women who cross my path, I never consider the possibility of divorce. I never ask her if she knows about my extramarital affairs. She never makes any comment on the subject.
That is why I am astonished when, as we are leaving a cinema, she tells me that she has asked her magazine if she can file a report on a civil war in Africa.
What are you saying?”
“That I want to be a war correspondent.”
“You’re mad. You don’t need to do that. You’re already doing the work you want to do now. You earn good money—not that you need that money to live on. You have all the contacts you need in the Favor Bank. You have talent and you’ve earned your colleagues’ respect.”
“All right then, let’s just say I need to be alone.” “Because of me?”
“We’ve built our lives together. I love my man and he loves me, even though he’s not always the most faithful of husbands.”
“You’ve never said anything about that before.”
“Because it doesn’t matter to me. I mean, what is fidelity? The feeling that I possess a body and a soul that aren’t mine? Do you imagine I haven’t been to bed with other men during all these years we’ve been together?”
“I don’t care and I don’t want to know.” “Well, neither do I.”
“So, what’s all this about wanting to write about a war in some godforsaken part of the world?”
“As I said, I need to.”
“Haven’t you got everything you need?” “I have everything a woman could want.” “What’s wrong with your life then?”
“Precisely that. I have everything, but I’m not happy. And I’m not the only one either; over the years, I’ve met and interviewed all kinds of people: the rich, the poor, the powerful, and those who just make do. I’ve seen the same infinite bitterness in everyone’s eyes, a sadness which people weren’t always prepared to acknowledge, but which, regardless of what they were telling me, was nevertheless there. Are you listening?”
“Yes, I’m listening. I was just thinking. So, according to you, no one is happy?”
“Some people appear to be happy, but they simply don’t give the matter much thought. Others make plans: I’m going to have a husband, a home, two children, a house in the country. As long as they’re busy doing that, they’re like bulls looking for the bullfighter: they react instinctively, they blunder on, with no idea where the target is. They get their car, sometimes they even get a Ferrari, and they think that’s the meaning of life, and they never question it. Yet their eyes betray the sadness that even they don’t know they carry in their soul. Are you happy?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t know if everyone is unhappy. I know they’re all busy: working overtime, worrying about their children, their husband, their career, their degree, what they’re going to do tomorrow, what they need to buy, what they need to have in order not to feel inferior, etc. Very few people actually say to me: ‘I’m unhappy.’ Most say: ‘I’m fine, I’ve got everything I ever wanted.’ Then I ask: ‘What makes you happy?’ Answer: ‘I’ve got everything a person could possibly want—a family, a home, work, good health.’ I ask again: ‘Have you ever stopped to wonder if that’s all there is to life?’ Answer: ‘Yes, that’s all there is.’ I insist: ‘So the meaning of life is work, family, children who will grow up and leave you, a wife or husband who will become more like a friend than a real lover. And, of course, one day your work will end too. What will you do when that happens?’ Answer: There is no answer. They change the subject.”
“No, what they say is: ‘When the children have grown up, when my husband—or my wife—has become more my friend than my passionate lover, when I retire, then I’ll have time to do what I always wanted to do: travel.’ Question: ‘But didn’t you say you were
happy now? Aren’t you already doing what you always wanted to do?’ Then they say they’re very busy and change the subject.”
“If I insist, they always do come up with something they’re lacking. The businessman hasn’t yet closed the deal he wanted, the housewife would like to have more independence and more money, the boy who’s in love is afraid of losing his girlfriend, the new graduate wonders if he chose his career or if it was chosen for him, the dentist wanted to be a singer, the singer wanted to be a politician, the politician wanted to be a writer, the writer wanted to be a farmer. And even when I did meet someone who was doing what he had chosen to do, that person’s soul was still in torment. He hadn’t found peace yet either. So I’ll ask you again: ‘Are you happy?’”
“No. I have the woman I love, the career I always dreamed of having, the kind of freedom that is the envy of all my friends, the travel, the honors, the praise. But there’s something…”
“What?”
“I have the idea that, if I stopped, life would become meaningless.”
“You can’t just relax, look at Paris, take my hand and say: I’ve got what I wanted, now let’s enjoy what life remains to us.”
“I can look at Paris, take your hand, but I can’t say those words.”
“I bet you everyone walking along this street now is feeling the same thing. The elegant woman who just passed us spends her days trying to hold back time, always checking the scales, because she thinks that is what love depends on. Look across the street: a couple with two children. They feel intensely happy when they’re out with their children, but, at the same time, their subconscious keeps them in a constant state of terror: they think of the job they might lose, the disease they might catch, the health insurance that might not come up with the goods, one of the children getting run over. And in trying to distract themselves, they try as well to find a way of getting free of those tragedies, of protecting themselves from the world.”
“And the beggar on the corner?”
“I don’t know about him. I’ve never spoken to a beggar. He’s certainly the picture of misery, but his eyes, like the eyes of any beggar, seem to be hiding something. His sadness is so obvious that I can’t quite believe in it.”
“What’s missing?”
“I haven’t a clue. I look at the celebrity magazines with everyone smiling and contented, but since I am myself married to a celebrity, I know that it isn’t quite like that: everyone is laughing and having fun at that moment, in that photo, but later that night, or in the
morning, the story is always quite different. ‘What do I have to do in order to continue appearing in this magazine?’ ‘How can I disguise the fact that I no longer have enough money to support my luxurious lifestyle?’ ‘How can I best manipulate my luxurious lifestyle to make it seem even more luxurious than anyone else’s?’ ‘The actress in the photo with me and with whom I’m smiling and celebrating could steal a part from me tomorrow!’ ‘Am I better dressed than she is? Why are we smiling when we loathe each other?’ ‘Why do we sell happiness to the readers of this magazine when we are profoundly unhappy ourselves, the slaves of fame.’”
“We’re not the slaves of fame.”
“Don’t get paranoid. I’m not talking about us.” “What do you think is going on, then?”
“Years ago, I read a book that told an interesting story. Just suppose that Hitler had won the war, wiped out all the Jews and convinced his people that there really was such a thing as a master race. The history books start to be changed, and, a hundred years later, his successors manage to wipe out all the Indians. Three hundred years later and the Blacks have been eliminated too. It takes five hundred years, but, finally, the all-powerful war machine succeeds in erasing all Asians from the face of the earth as well. The history books speak of remote battles waged against barbarians, but no one reads too closely, because it’s of no importance.
“Two thousand years after the birth of Nazism, in a bar in Tokyo, a city that has been inhabited for five centuries now by tall, blue-eyed people, Hans and Fritz are enjoying a beer. At one point, Hans looks at Fritz and asks: ‘Fritz, do you think it was always like this?’
“‘What?’ asks Fritz. “‘The world.’
“‘Of course the world was always like this, isn’t that what we were taught?’
“‘Of course, I don’t know what made me ask such a stupid question,’ says Hans. They finish their beer, talk about other things and forget the question entirely.”
“You don’t even need to go that far into the future, you just have to go back two thousand years. Can you see yourself worshipping a guillotine, a scaffold, or an electric chair?”
“I know where you’re heading—to that worst of all human tortures, the cross. I remember that Cicero referred to it as ‘an abominable punishment’ that inflicted terrible suffering on the crucified person before he or she died. And yet, nowadays people wear it around their neck, hang it on their bedroom wall, and have come to identify it as a religious symbol, forgetting that they are looking at an instrument of torture.”
“Two hundred and fifty years passed before someone decided that it was time to abolish the pagan festivals surrounding the winter solstice, the time when the sun is farthest from the earth. The apostles, and those who came after them, were too busy spreading Jesus’ message to worry about the natalis invict Solis, the Mithraic festival of the birth of the sun, which occurred on December 25. Then a bishop decided that these solstice festivals were a threat to the faith and that was that! Now we have masses, Nativity scenes, presents, sermons, plastic babies in wooden mangers, and the cast-iron conviction that Christ was born on that very day!”
“And then there’s the Christmas tree. Do you know where that comes from?” “No idea.”
“Saint Boniface decided to ‘christianize’ a ritual intended to honor the god Odin when he was a child. Once a year, the Germanic tribes would place presents around an oak tree for the children to find. They thought this would bring joy to the pagan deity.”
“Going back to the story of Hans and Fritz: do you think that civilization, human relations, our hopes, our conquests, are all just the product of some other garbled story?”
“When you wrote about the road to Santiago, you came to the same conclusion, didn’t you? You used to believe that only a select few knew the meaning of magic symbols, but now you realize that we all know the meaning, it’s just that we’ve forgotten it.”
“Knowing that doesn’t make any difference. People do their best not to remember and not to accept the immense magical potential they possess, because that would upset their neat little universes.”
“But we all have the ability, don’t we?”
“Absolutely, we just don’t all have the courage to follow our dreams and to follow the signs. Perhaps that’s where the sadness comes from.”
“I don’t know. And I’m not saying that I’m unhappy all the time. I have fun, I love you, I adore my work. Yet now and then, I feel this profound sadness, occasionally mingled with feelings of guilt or fear; the feeling passes, but always comes back later on, and then passes off again. Like Hans, I ask that same question; when I can’t answer it, I simply forget. I could go and help starving children, set up a foundation for street children, start trying to save people in the name of Jesus, do something that would give me the feeling I was being useful, but I don’t want to.”
“So why do you want to go and cover this war?”
“Because I think that in time of war, men live life at the limit; after all, they could die the next day. Anyone living like that must act differently.”
“So you want to find an answer to Hans’s question?” “Yes, I do.”
Today, in this beautiful suite in the Hôtel Bristol, with the Eiffel Tower glittering for five minutes every time the clock strikes the hour, with an empty bottle of wine beside me and my cigarettes fast running out, with people greeting me as if nothing very serious had happened, I ask myself: Was it then, coming out of the cinema, that it all began?
Should I have let her go off in search of that garbled story or should I have put my foot down and told her to forget the whole idea because she was my wife and I needed her with me, needed her support?
Nonsense. At the time, I knew, as I know now, that I had no option but to accept what she wanted. If I had said: “Choose between me and becoming a war correspondent,” I would have been betraying everything that Esther had done for me. I wasn’t convinced by her declared aim—to go in search of “a garbled story”—but I concluded that she needed a bit of freedom, to get out and about, to experience strong emotions. And what was wrong with that?
I accepted, not without first making it clear that this constituted a very large withdrawal from the Favor Bank (which, when I think about it now, seems a ludicrous thing to say). For two years, Esther followed various conflicts at close quarters, changing continents more often than she changed her shoes. Whenever she came back, I thought that this time she would give it up—it’s just not possible to live for very long in a place where there’s no decent food, no daily bath, and no cinemas or theaters. I asked her if she had found the answer to Hans’s question, and she always told me that she was on the right track, and I had to be satisfied with that. Sometimes, she was away from home for months at a time; contrary to what it says in the “official history of marriage” (I was starting to use her terminology), that distance only made our love grow stronger, and showed us how important we were to each other. Our relationship, which I thought had reached its ideal point when we moved to Paris, was getting better and better.
As I understand it, she first met Mikhail when she needed a translator to accompany her to some country in Central Asia. At first, she talked about him with great enthusiasm—he was a very sensitive person, someone who saw the world as it really was and not as we had been told it should be. He was five years younger than she, but had a quality that Esther described as “magical.” I listened patiently and politely, as if I were really interested in that boy and his ideas, but the truth is, I was far away, going over in my mind all the things I had to do, ideas for articles, answers to questions from journalists and publishers, strategies for how to seduce a particular woman who appeared to be interested in me, plans for future book promotions.
I don’t know if Esther noticed this. I certainly failed to notice that Mikhail gradually disappeared from our conversations, then vanished completely. Esther’s behavior became increasingly eccentric: even when she was in Paris, she started going out several nights a week, telling me that she was researching an article on beggars.
I thought she must be having an affair. I agonized for a whole week and asked myself: should I tell her my doubts or just pretend that nothing is happening? I decided to ignore it, on the principle that “what the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.” I was utterly convinced that there wasn’t the slightest possibility of her leaving me; she had worked so hard to help me become the person I am, and it would be illogical to let all that go for some ephemeral affair.
If I had really been interested in Esther’s world, I should at least have asked what had happened to her translator and his “magical” sensibility. I should have been suspicious of that silence, that lack of information. I should have asked to go with her on one of those “research trips” to visit beggars.
When she occasionally asked if I was interested in her work, my answer was always the same: “Yes, I’m interested, but I don’t want to interfere, I want you to be free to follow your dream in your chosen way, just as you helped me to do the same.”
This, of course, was tantamount to saying that I wasn’t the slightest bit interested. But because people always believe what they want to believe, Esther seemed satisfied with my response.
The words spoken by the inspector when I was released from the police cell come back to me again: You’re a free man. But what is freedom? Is it seeing that your husband isn’t interested in what you are doing? Is it feeling alone and having no one with whom to share your innermost feelings, because the person you married is entirely focused on his own work, on his important, magnificent, difficult career?
I look at the Eiffel Tower: another hour has passed, and it is glittering again as if it were made of diamonds. I have no idea how often this has happened since I have been at the window.
I know that, in the name of the freedom of our marriage, I did not notice that Mikhail had disappeared from my wife’s conversations, only to reappear in a bar and disappear again, this time taking her with him and leaving behind the famous, successful writer as prime suspect.
Or, worse still, as a man abandoned.
HANS’S QUESTION
In Buenos Aires, the Zahir is a common 20-centavo coin; the letters N and T and the number 2 bear the marks of a knife or a letter opener; 1929 is the date engraved on the reverse. (In Gujarat, at the end of the eighteenth century, the Zahir was a tiger; in Java, it was a blind man from the Surakarta Mosque who was stoned by the faithful; in Persia, an astrolabe that Nadir Shah ordered to be thrown into the sea; in the Mahdi’s prisons, in around 1892, a small compass that had been touched by Rudolf Karl von Slatin….)
A year later, I wake thinking about the story by Jorge Luis Borges, about something which, once touched or seen, can never be forgotten, and which gradually so fills our thoughts that we are driven to madness. My Zahir is not a romantic metaphor—a blind man, a compass, a tiger, or a coin.
It has a name, and her name is Esther.
Immediately after leaving prison, I appeared on the covers of various scandal sheets: they began by alleging a possible crime, but, in order to avoid ending up in court, they always concluded with the statement that I had been cleared. (Cleared? I hadn’t even been accused!) They allowed a week to pass; they checked to see if the sales had been good (they had, because I was the kind of writer who was normally above suspicion, and everyone wanted to find out how it was possible for a man who writes about spirituality to have such a dark side). Then they returned to the attack, alleging that my wife had run away because of my many extramarital affairs: a German magazine even hinted at a possible relationship with a singer, twenty years my junior, who said she had met me in Oslo, in Norway (this was true, but the meeting had only taken place because of the Favor Bank—a friend of mine had asked me to go and had been with us throughout the only supper we had together). The singer said that there was nothing between us (so why put a photo of us on the cover?) and took the opportunity to announce that she was releasing a new album: she had used both the magazine and me, and I still don’t know whether the failure of the album was a consequence of this kind of cheap publicity. (The album wasn’t bad, by the way—what ruined everything were the press releases.)
The scandal over the famous writer did not last long; in Europe, and especially in France, infidelity is not only accepted, it is even secretly admired. And no one likes to read about the sort of thing that could so easily happen to them.
The topic disappeared from the front covers, but the hypotheses continued: she had been kidnapped, she had left home because of physical abuse (photo of a waiter saying that we often argued: I remember that I did, in fact, have an argument with Esther in a restaurant about her views on a South American writer, which were completely opposed to mine). A British tabloid alleged—and luckily this had no serious repercussions—that my wife had gone into hiding with an Islamist terrorist organization.
This world is so full of betrayals, divorces, murders, and assassination attempts that a month later the subject had been forgotten by the ordinary public. Years of experience
had taught me that this kind of thing would never affect my faithful readership (it had happened before, when a journalist on an Argentinian television program claimed that he had “proof” that I had had a secret meeting in Chile with the future first lady of the country—but my books remained on the bestseller lists). As an American artist almost said: Sensationalism was only made to last fifteen minutes. My main concern was quite different: to reorganize my life, to find a new love, to go back to writing books, and to put away any memories of my wife in the little drawer that exists on the frontier between love and hate.
Or should I say memories of my ex-wife (I needed to get used to the term).
Part of what I had foreseen in that hotel room did come to pass. For a while, I barely left the apartment: I didn’t know how to face my friends, how to look them in the eye and say simply: “My wife has left me for a younger man.” When I did go out, no one asked me anything, but after a few glasses of wine I felt obliged to bring the subject up—as if I could read everyone’s mind, as if I really believed that they had nothing more to occupy them than what was happening in my life, but that they were too polite or smug to say anything. Depending on my mood, Esther was either a saint who deserved better or a treacherous, perfidious woman who had embroiled me in such a complicated situation that I had even been thought a criminal.
Friends, acquaintances, publishers, people I sat next to at the many gala dinners I was obliged to attend, listened with some curiosity at first. Gradually, though, I noticed that they tended to change the subject; they had been interested in the subject at some point, but it was no longer part of their current curiosities: they were more interested in talking about the actress who had been murdered by a singer or about the adolescent girl who had written a book about her affairs with well-known politicians. One day, in Madrid, I noticed that the number of guests at events and suppers was beginning to fall off.
Although it may have been good for my soul to unburden myself of my feelings, to blame or to bless Esther, I began to realize that I was becoming something even worse than a betrayed husband: I was becoming the kind of boring person no one wants to be around.
I decided, from then on, to suffer in silence, and the invitations once more flooded in through my mailbox.
But the Zahir, about which I initially used to think with either irritation or affection, continued to grow in my soul. I started looking for Esther in every woman I met. I would see her in every bar, every cinema, at bus stops. More than once I ordered a taxi driver to stop in the middle of the street or to follow someone, until I could persuade myself that the person was not the person I was looking for.
With the Zahir beginning to occupy my every thought, I needed an antidote, something that would not take me to the brink of despair.
There was only one possible solution: a girlfriend.
I encountered three or four women I felt drawn to, but then I met Marie, a thirty-five- year-old French actress. She was the only one who did not spout such nonsense as: “I like you as a man, not as the celebrity everyone wants to meet” or “I wish you weren’t quite so famous,” or worse still: “I’m not interested in money.” She was the only one who was genuinely pleased at my success, because she too was famous and knew that celebrity counts. Celebrity is an aphrodisiac. It was good for a woman’s ego to be with a man and know that he had chosen her even though he had had the pick of many others.
We were often seen together at parties and receptions; there was speculation about our relationship, but neither she nor I confirmed or denied anything, and the matter was left hanging, and all that remained for the magazines was to wait for the photo of the famous kiss—which never came, because both she and I considered such public exhibitionism vulgar. She got on with her filming and I with my work; when I could, I would travel to Milan, and when she could, she would meet me in Paris; we were close, but not dependent on each other.
Marie pretended not to know what was going on in my soul, and I pretended not to know what was going on in hers (an impossible love for a married neighbor, even though she could have had any man she wanted). We were friends, companions, we enjoyed the same things; I would even go so far as to say that there was between us a kind of love, but different from the love I felt for Esther or that Marie felt for her neighbor.
I started taking part in book signings again, I accepted invitations to give lectures, write articles, attend charity dinners, appear on television programs, help out with projects for up-and-coming young artists. I did everything except what I should have been doing, namely, writing a book.
This didn’t matter to me, however, for in my heart of hearts I believed that my career as a writer was over, because the woman who had made me begin was no longer there. I had lived my dream intensely while it lasted, I had got further than most people are lucky enough to get, I could spend the rest of my life having fun.
I thought this every morning. In the afternoon, I realized that the only thing I really liked doing was writing. By nightfall, there I was once more trying to persuade myself that I had fulfilled my dream and should try something new.
The following year was a Holy Year in Spain, the Año Santo Compostelano, which occurs whenever the day of Saint James of Compostela, July 25, falls on a Sunday. A special door to the cathedral in Santiago stands open for 365 days, and, according to tradition, anyone who goes through that door receives a series of special blessings.
There were various commemorative events throughout Spain, and since I was extremely grateful for the pilgrimage I had made, I decided to take part in at least one event: a talk, in January, in the Basque country. In order to get out of my routine—trying to write a book/going to a party/to the airport/visiting Marie in Milan/going out to supper/to a hotel/to the airport/surfing the Internet/going to the airport/to an interview/to another airport—I chose to drive the 1,400 kilometers there alone.
Everywhere—even those places I have never visited before—reminds me of my private Zahir. I think how Esther would love to see this, how much she would enjoy eating in this restaurant or walking by this river. I spend the night in Bayonne and, before I go to sleep, I turn on the television and learn that there are about five thousand trucks stuck on the frontier between France and Spain, due to a violent and entirely unexpected snowstorm.
I wake up thinking that I should simply drive back to Paris: I have an excellent excuse for canceling the engagement, and the organizers will understand perfectly—the traffic is in chaos, there is ice on the roads, both the French and Spanish governments are advising people not to leave home this weekend because the risk of accidents is so high. The situation is worse than it was last night: the morning paper reports that on one stretch of road alone seventeen thousand people are trapped; civil defense teams have been mobilized to provide them with food and temporary shelters, since many people have already run out of fuel and cannot use their car heaters.
The hotel staff tell me that if I really have to travel, if it’s a matter of life or death, there is a minor road I can take, which, while it will avoid the blockages, will add about two hours to my journey time, and no one can guarantee what state the road will be in.
Instinctively, I decide to go ahead; something is forcing me on, out onto the icy asphalt and to the hours spent patiently waiting in bottlenecks.
Perhaps it is the name of the city: Vitória—Victory. Perhaps it is the feeling that I have grown too used to comfort and have lost my ability to improvise in crisis situations.
Perhaps it is the enthusiasm of the people who are, at this moment, trying to restore a cathedral built many centuries ago and who, in order to draw attention to their efforts, have invited a few writers to give talks. Or perhaps it is the old saying of the conquistadors of the Americas: “It is not life that matters, but the journey.”
And so I keep on journeying. After many long, tense hours, I reach Vitória, where some even tenser people are waiting for me. They say that there hasn’t been a snowstorm like it for more than thirty years, they thank me for making the effort, and continue with the official program, which includes a visit to the Cathedral of Santa María.
A young woman with shining eyes starts telling me the story. To begin with there was the city wall. The wall remained, but one part of it was used to build a chapel. Many years passed, and the chapel became a church. Another century passed, and the church became a Gothic cathedral. The cathedral had had its moments of glory, there had been structural problems, for a time it had been abandoned, then restoration work had distorted the whole shape of the building, but each generation thought it had solved the problem and would
rework the original plans. Thus, in the centuries that followed, they raised a wall here, took down a beam there, added a buttress over there, created or bricked up stained-glass windows.
And the cathedral withstood it all.
I walk through the skeleton of the cathedral, studying the restoration work currently being carried out: this time the architects guarantee that they have found the perfect solution.
Everywhere there are metal supports, scaffolding, grand theories about what to do next, and some criticism about what was done in the past.
And suddenly, in the middle of the central nave, I realize something very important: the cathedral is me, it is all of us. We are all growing and changing shape, we notice certain weaknesses that need to be corrected, we don’t always choose the best solution, but we carry on regardless, trying to remain upright and decent, in order to do honor not to the walls or the doors or the windows, but to the empty space inside, the space where we worship and venerate what is dearest and most important to us.
Yes, we are all cathedrals, there is no doubt about it; but what lies in the empty space of my inner cathedral?
Esther, the Zahir.
She fills everything. She is the only reason I am alive. I look around, I prepare myself for the talk I am to give, and I understand why I braved the snow, the traffic jams, and the ice on the roads: in order to be reminded that every day I need to rebuild myself and to accept—for the first time in my entire existence—that I love another human being more than I love myself.
On the way back to Paris—in far more favorable weather conditions—I am in a kind of trance: I do not think, I merely concentrate on the traffic. When I get home, I ask the maid not to let anyone in, and ask her if she can sleep over for the next few nights and make me breakfast, lunch, and supper. I stamp on the small apparatus that connects me to the Internet, destroying it completely. I unplug the telephone. I put my cell phone in a box and send it to my publisher, saying that he should only give it back to me when I come around personally to pick it up.
For a week, I walk by the Seine each morning, and when I get back, I lock myself in my study. As if I were listening to the voice of an angel, I write a book, or, rather, a letter, a long letter to the woman of my dreams, to the woman I love and will always love. This book might one day reach her hands and even if it doesn’t, I am now a man at peace with his spirit. I no longer wrestle with my wounded pride, I no longer look for Esther on every corner, in every bar and cinema, at every supper. I no longer look for her in Marie or in the newspapers.
On the contrary, I am pleased that she exists; she has shown me that I am capable of a love of which I myself knew nothing, and this leaves me in a state of grace.
I accept the Zahir, and will let it lead me into a state of either holiness or madness.
A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew—the title is from a line in Ecclesiastes—was published at the end of April. By the second week of May, it was already number one on the bestseller lists.
The literary supplements, which have never been kind to me, redoubled their attacks. I cut out some of the key phrases and stuck them in a notebook along with reviews from previous years; they said basically the same thing, merely changing the title of the book:
“…once again, despite the troubled times we live in, the author offers us an escape from reality with a story about love…” (as if people could live without love).
“…short sentences, superficial style…” (as if long sentences equaled profundity). “…the author has discovered the secret of success—marketing…” (as if I had been born
in a country with a long literary tradition and had had millions to invest in my first book).
“…it will sell as well as all his other books, which just proves how unprepared human beings are to face up to the encircling tragedy…” (as if they knew what it meant to be prepared).
Some reviews, however, were different, adding that I was profiting from last year’s scandal in order to make even more money. As always, these negative reviews only served to sell more of my books: my faithful readers bought the book anyway, and those who had forgotten about the whole sorry business were reminded of it again and so also bought copies, because they wanted to hear my version of Esther’s disappearance (since the book was not about that, but was, rather, a hymn to love, they must have been sorely disappointed and would doubtless have decided that the critics were spot-on). The rights were immediately sold to all the countries where my books were usually published.
Marie, who read the typescript before I sent it to the publisher, showed herself to be the woman I had hoped she was: instead of being jealous, or saying that I shouldn’t bare my soul like that, she encouraged me to go ahead with it and was thrilled when it was a success. At the time, she was reading the teachings of a little-known mystic, whom she quoted in all our conversations.
When people praise us, we should always keep a close eye on how we behave.”
“The critics never praise me.”
“I mean your readers: you’ve received more letters than ever. You’ll end up believing that you’re better than you are, and allow yourself to slip into a false sense of security, which could be very dangerous.”
“Ever since my visit to the cathedral in Vitória, I do think I’m better than I thought I was, but that has nothing to do with readers’ letters. Absurd though it may seem, I discovered love.”
“Great. What I like about the book is the fact that, at no point, do you blame your ex- wife. And you don’t blame yourself either.”
“I’ve learned not to waste my time doing that.”
“Good. The universe takes care of correcting our mistakes.”
“Do you think Esther’s disappearance was some kind of ‘correction,’ then?”
“I don’t believe in the curative powers of suffering and tragedy; they happen because they’re part of life and shouldn’t be seen as a punishment. Generally speaking, the universe tells us when we’re wrong by taking away what is most important to us: our friends. And that, I think I’m right in saying, is what was happening with you.”
“I learned something recently: our true friends are those who are with us when the good things happen. They cheer us on and are pleased by our triumphs. False friends only appear at difficult times, with their sad, supportive faces, when, in fact, our suffering is serving to console them for their miserable lives. When things were bad last year, various people I had never even seen before turned up to ‘console’ me. I hate that.”
“I’ve had the same thing happen to me.”
“But I’m very grateful that you came into my life, Marie.”
“Don’t be too grateful too soon, our relationship isn’t strong enough. As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking of moving to Paris or asking you to come and live in Milan: it wouldn’t make any difference to either of us in terms of work. You always work at home and I always work away. Would you like to change the subject now or shall we continue discussing it as a possibility?”
“I’d like to change the subject.”
“Let’s talk about something else then. It took a lot of courage to write that book. What surprises me, though, is that you don’t once mention the young man.”
“I’m not interested in him.”
“You must be. Every now and again you must ask yourself: Why did she choose him?” “I never ask myself that.”
“You’re lying. I’d certainly like to know why my neighbor didn’t divorce his boring, smiling wife, always busy with the housework, the cooking, the children, and the bills. If I ask myself that, you must too.”
“Are you saying that I hate him because he stole my wife?” “No, I want to hear you say that you forgive him.”
“I can’t do that.”
“It’s hard, I know, but you’ve no option. If you don’t do it, you’ll always be thinking of the pain he caused you and that pain will never pass. I’m not saying you’ve got to like him. I’m not saying you should seek him out. I’m not suggesting you should start thinking of him as an angel. What was his name now? Something Russian wasn’t it?”
“It doesn’t matter what his name was.”
“You see? You don’t even want to say his name. Are you superstitious?” “Mikhail. There you are, that’s his name.”
“The energy of hatred won’t get you anywhere; but the energy of forgiveness, which reveals itself through love, will transform your life in a positive way.”
“Now you’re sounding like some Tibetan sage, spouting stuff that is all very nice in theory, but impossible in practice. Don’t forget, I’ve been hurt before.”
“Exactly, and you’re still carrying inside you the little boy, the school weakling, who had to hide his tears from his parents. You still bear the marks of the skinny little boy who couldn’t get a girlfriend and who was never any good at sports. You still haven’t managed to heal the scars left by some of the injustices committed against you in your life. But what good does that do?”
“Who told you about that?”
“I just know. I can see it in your eyes, and it doesn’t do you any good. All it does is feed a constant desire to feel sorry for yourself, because you were the victim of people
stronger than you. Or else it makes you go to the other extreme and disguise yourself as an avenger ready to strike out at the people who hurt you. Isn’t that a waste of time?”
“It’s just human.”
“Oh, it is, but it’s not intelligent or reasonable. Show some respect for your time on this earth, and know that God has always forgiven you and always will.”
Looking around at the crowd gathered for my book signing at a megastore on the Champs-Elysées, I thought: How many of these people will have had the same experience I had with my wife?
Very few. Perhaps one or two. Even so, most of them would identify with what was in my new book.
Writing is one of the most solitary activities in the world. Once every two years, I sit down in front of the computer, gaze out on the unknown sea of my soul, and see a few islands—ideas that have developed and which are ripe to be explored. Then I climb into my boat—called The Word—and set out for the nearest island. On the way, I meet strong currents, winds, and storms, but I keep rowing, exhausted, knowing that I have drifted away from my chosen course and that the island I was trying to reach is no longer on my horizon.
I can’t turn back, though, I have to continue somehow or else I’ll be lost in the middle of the ocean; at that point, a series of terrifying scenarios flash through my mind, such as spending the rest of my life talking about past successes, or bitterly criticizing new writers, simply because I no longer have the courage to publish new books. Wasn’t my dream to be a writer? Then I must continue creating sentences, paragraphs, chapters, and go on writing until I die, and not allow myself to get caught in such traps as success or failure. Otherwise, what meaning does my life have? Being able to buy an old mill in the south of France and tending my garden? Giving lectures instead, because it’s easier to talk than to write? Withdrawing from the world in a calculated, mysterious way, in order to create a legend that will deprive me of many pleasures?
Shaken by these alarming thoughts, I find a strength and a courage I didn’t know I had: they help me to venture into an unknown part of my soul. I let myself be swept along by the current and finally anchor my boat at the island I was being carried toward. I spend days and nights describing what I see, wondering why I’m doing this, telling myself that it’s really not worth the pain and the effort, that I don’t need to prove anything to anyone, that I’ve got what I wanted and far more than I ever dreamed of having.
I notice that I go through the same process as I did when writing my first book: I wake up at nine o’clock in the morning, ready to sit down at my computer immediately after breakfast; then I read the newspapers, go for a walk, visit the nearest bar for a chat, come home, look at the computer, discover that I need to make several phone calls, look at the computer again, by which time lunch is ready, and I sit eating and thinking that I really ought to have started writing at eleven o’clock, but now I need a nap, I wake at five in the afternoon, finally turn on the computer, go to check my e-mails, then remember that I’ve destroyed my Internet connection; I could go to a place ten minutes away where I can get online, but couldn’t I, just to free my conscience from these feelings of guilt, couldn’t I at least write for half an hour?
I begin out of a feeling of duty, but suddenly “the thing” takes hold of me and I can’t stop. The maid calls me for supper and I ask her not to interrupt me; an hour later, she calls me again; I’m hungry, but I must write just one more line, one more sentence, one more page. By the time I sit down at the table, the food is cold, I gobble it down and go back to the computer—I am no longer in control of where I place my feet, the island is being revealed to me, I am being propelled along its paths, finding things I have never even thought or dreamed of. I drink a cup of coffee, and another, and at two o’clock in the morning I finally stop writing, because my eyes are tired.
I go to bed, spend another hour making notes of things to use in the next paragraph— notes which always prove completely useless, they serve only to empty my mind so that sleep can come. I promise myself that the next morning, I’ll start at eleven o’clock prompt. And the following day, the same thing happens—the walk, the conversations, lunch, a nap, the feelings of guilt, then irritation at myself for destroying the Internet connection, until I, at last, make myself sit down and write the first page….
Suddenly, two, three, four, eleven weeks have passed, and I know that I’m near the end; I’m gripped by a feeling of emptiness, the feeling of someone who has set down in words things he should have kept to himself. Now, though, I have to reach the final sentence— and I do.
When I used to read biographies of writers, I always thought they were simply trying to make their profession seem more interesting when they said that “the book writes itself, the writer is just the typist.” Now I know that this is absolutely true, no one knows why the current took them to that particular island and not to the one they wanted to reach. The obsessive redrafting and editing begins, and when I can no longer bear to reread the same words one more time, I send it to my publisher, where it is edited again, and then published.
And it is a constant source of surprise to me to discover that other people were also in search of that very island and that they find it in my book. One person tells another person about it, the mysterious chain grows, and what the writer thought of as a solitary exercise becomes a bridge, a boat, a means by which souls can travel and communicate.
From then on, I am no longer the man lost in the storm: I find myself through my readers, I understand what I wrote when I see that others understand it too, but never before. On a few rare occasions, like the one that is just about to happen, I manage to look those people in the eye and then I understand that my soul is not alone.
At the appointed time, I start signing books. There is brief eye-to-eye contact and a feeling of solidarity, joy, and mutual respect. There are handshakes, a few letters, gifts, comments. Ninety minutes later, I ask for a ten-minute rest, no one complains, and my publisher (as has become traditional at my book signings in France) orders champagne to be served to everyone still in line. (I have tried to get this tradition adopted in other countries, but they always say that French champagne is too expensive and end up serving mineral water instead. But that, too, shows respect for those still waiting.)
I return to the table. Two hours later, contrary to what anyone observing the event might think, I am not tired, but full of energy; I could carry on all night. The shop, however, has closed its doors and the queue is dwindling. There are forty people left inside, they become thirty, twenty, eleven, five, four, three, two…and suddenly our eyes meet.
“I waited until the end. I wanted to be the last because I have a message for you.”
I don’t know what to say. I glance to one side, at the publishers, salespeople, and booksellers, who are all talking enthusiastically; soon we will go out to eat and drink and share the excitement of the day and describe some of the strange things that happened while I was signing books.
I have never seen him before, but I know who he is. I take the book from him and write: “For Mikhail, with best wishes.”
I say nothing. I must not lose him—a word, a sentence, a sudden movement might cause him to leave and never come back. In a fraction of a second, I understand that he and only he can save me from the blessing—or the curse—of the Zahir, because he is the only one who knows where to find it, and I will finally be able to ask the questions I have been repeating to myself for so long.
“I wanted you to know that she’s all right, that she may even have read your book.”
The publishers, salespeople, and booksellers come over. They all embrace me and say it’s been a great afternoon. Let’s go and relax and drink and talk about it all.
“I’d like to invite this young man to supper,” I say. “He was the last in the queue and he can be the representative of all the other readers who were here with us today.”
“I can’t, I’m afraid. I have another engagement.”
And turning to me, rather startled, he adds: “I only came to give you that message.” “What message?” asks one of the salespeople.
“He never usually invites anyone!” says my publisher. “Come on, let’s all go and have supper!”
“It’s very kind of you, but I have a meeting I go to every Thursday.” “When does it start?”
“In two hours’ time.” “And where is it?”
“In an Armenian restaurant.”
My driver, who is himself Armenian, asks which one and says that it’s only fifteen minutes from the place where we are going to eat. Everyone is doing their best to please me: they think that the person I’m inviting to supper should be happy and pleased to be so honored, that anything else can surely wait.
“What’s your name?” asks Marie. “Mikhail.”
“Well, Mikhail,” and I see that Marie has understood everything, “why don’t you come with us for an hour or so; the restaurant we’re going to is just around the corner. Then the driver will take you wherever you want to go. If you prefer, though, we can cancel our reservation and all go and have supper at the Armenian restaurant instead. That way, you’d feel less anxious.”
I can’t stop looking at him. He isn’t particularly handsome or particularly ugly. He’s neither tall nor short. He’s dressed in black, simple and elegant—and by elegance I mean a complete absence of brand names or designer labels.
Marie links arms with Mikhail and heads for the exit. The bookseller still has a pile of books waiting to be signed for readers who could not come to the signing, but I promise that I will drop by the following day. My legs are trembling, my heart pounding, and yet I have to pretend that everything is fine, that I’m glad the book signing was a success, that I’m interested in what other people are saying. We cross the Champs-Elysées, the sun is setting behind the Arc de Triomphe, and, for some reason, I know that this is a sign, a good sign.
As long as I can keep control of the situation.
Why do I want to speak to him? The people from the publishing house keep talking to me and I respond automatically; no one notices that I am far away, struggling to understand why I have invited to supper someone whom I should, by rights, hate. Do I want to find out where Esther is? Do I want to have my revenge on this young man, so lost, so insecure, and yet who was capable of luring away the person I love? Do I want to prove to myself that I am better, much better than he? Do I want to bribe him, seduce him, make him persuade my wife to come back?
I can’t answer any of these questions, and that doesn’t matter. The only thing I have said up until now is: “I’d like to invite this young man to supper.” I had imagined the scene so often before: we meet, I grab him by the throat, punch him, humiliate him in front of Esther; or I get a thrashing and make her see how hard I’m fighting for her, suffering for her. I had imagined scenes of aggression or feigned indifference or public scandal, but the words “I’d like to invite this young man to supper” had never once entered my head.
No need to ask what I will do next, all I have to do now is to keep an eye on Marie, who is walking along a few paces ahead of me, holding on to Mikhail’s arm, as if she were his girlfriend. She won’t let him go and yet I wonder, at the same time, why she’s helping me, when she knows that a meeting with this young man could also mean that I’ll find out where my wife is living.
We arrive. Mikhail makes a point of sitting far away from me; perhaps he wants to avoid getting caught up in a conversation with me. Laughter, champagne, vodka, and caviar—I glance at the menu and am horrified to see that the bookseller is spending about a thousand dollars on the entrées alone. There is general chatter; Mikhail is asked what he thought of the afternoon’s event; he says he enjoyed it; he is asked about the book; he says he enjoyed it very much. Then he is forgotten, and attention turns to me—was I happy with how things had gone, was the queue organized to my liking, had the security team been up to scratch? My heart is still pounding, but I present a calm front. I thank them for everything, for the efficient way in which the event was run.
Half an hour of conversation and a lot of vodka later, I can see that Mikhail is beginning to relax. He isn’t the center of attention anymore, he doesn’t need to say very much, he just has to endure it for a little while longer and then he can go. I know he wasn’t lying about the Armenian restaurant, so at least now I have a clue. My wife must still be in Paris! I must pretend to be friendly, try to win his confidence, the initial tensions have all disappeared.
An hour passes. Mikhail looks at his watch and I can see that he is about to leave. I must do something—now. Every time I look at him, I feel more and more insignificant and understand less and less how Esther could have exchanged me for someone who seems so unworldly (she mentioned that he had “magical” powers). However difficult it might be to pretend that I feel perfectly at ease talking to someone who is my enemy, I must do something.
“Let’s find out a bit more about our reader,” I say, and there is an immediate silence. “Here he is, about to leave at any moment, and he’s hardly said a word about his life. What do you do?”
Despite the number of vodkas he has drunk, Mikhail seems suddenly to recover his sobriety.
“I organize meetings at the Armenian restaurant.” “What does that involve?”
“I stand on stage and tell stories. And I let the people in the audience tell their stories too.”
“I do the same thing in my books.” “I know, that’s how I first met…” He’s going to say who he is!
“Were you born here?” asks Marie, thus preventing him from finishing his sentence. “I was born in the Kazakhstan steppes.”
Kazakhstan. Who’s going to be brave enough to ask where Kazakhstan is? “Where’s Kazakhstan?” asks the sales representative.
Blessed are those who are not afraid to admit that they don’t know something.
“I was waiting for someone to ask that,” and there is an almost gleeful look in Mikhail’s eyes now. “Whenever I say where I was born, about ten minutes later people are saying that I’m from Pakistan or Afghanistan…. My country is in Central Asia. It has barely fourteen million inhabitants in an area far larger than France with its population of sixty million.”
“So it’s a place where no one can complain about the lack of space, then,” says my publisher, laughing.
“It’s a place where, during the last century, no one had the right to complain about anything, even if they wanted to. When the Communist regime abolished private ownership, the livestock were simply abandoned and 48.6 percent of the population died. Do you understand what that means? Nearly half the population of my country died of hunger between 1932 and 1933.”
Silence falls. After all, tragedies get in the way of celebrations, and one of the people present tries to change the subject. However, I insist that my “reader” tells us more about his country.
“What are the steppes like?” I ask.
“They’re vast plains with barely any vegetation, as I’m sure you know.”
I do know, but it had been my turn to ask a question, to keep the conversation going.
“I’ve just remembered something about Kazakhstan,” says my publisher. “Some time ago, I was sent a typescript by a writer who lives there, describing the atomic tests that were carried out on the steppes.”
“Our country has blood in its soil and in its soul. Those tests changed what cannot be changed, and we will be paying the price for many generations to come. We even made an entire sea disappear.”
It is Marie’s turn to speak.
“No one can make a sea disappear.”
“I’m twenty-five years old, and that is all the time it took, just one generation, for the water that had been there for millennia to be transformed into dust. Those in charge of the Communist regime decided to divert two rivers, Amu Darya and Syr Darya, so that they could irrigate some cotton plantations. They failed, but by then it was too late—the sea had ceased to exist, and the cultivated land became a desert.
“The lack of water affected the whole climate. Nowadays, vast sandstorms scatter 150,000 tons of salt and dust every year. Fifty million people in five countries were affected by the Soviet bureaucrats’ irresponsible—and irreversible—decision. The little water that was left is polluted and is the source of all kinds of diseases.”
I made a mental note of what he was saying. It could be useful in one of my lectures. Mikhail went on, and his tone of voice was no longer technical, but tragic.
“My grandfather says that the Aral Sea was once known as the Blue Sea, because of the color of its waters. It no longer exists, and yet the people there refuse to leave their houses and move somewhere else: they still dream of waves and fishes, they still have their fishing rods and talk about boats and bait.”
“Is it true about the atomic tests, though?” asks my publisher.
“I think that everyone born in my country feels what the land felt, because every Kazakh carries his land in his blood. For forty years, the plains were shaken by nuclear or thermonuclear bombs, a total of 456 in 1989. Of those tests, 116 were carried out in the
open, which amounts to a bomb twenty-five hundred times more powerful than the one that was dropped on Hiroshima during the Second World War. As a result, thousands of people were contaminated by radioactivity and subsequently contracted lung cancer, while thousands of children were born with motor deficiencies, missing limbs, or mental problems.”
Mikhail looks at his watch.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I have to go.”
Half of those around the table are sorry, the conversation was just getting interesting. The other half are glad: it’s absurd to talk about such tragic events on such a happy occasion.
Mikhail says goodbye to everyone with a nod of his head and gives me a hug, not because he feels a particular affection for me, but so that he can whisper:
“As I said before, she’s fine. Don’t worry.”
Don’t worry,’ he says. Why should I worry about a woman who left me? It was because of her that I was questioned by the police, splashed all over the front pages of the scandal sheets; it was because of her that I spent all those painful days and nights, nearly lost all my friends and…”
“…and wrote A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew. Come on, we’re both adults, with plenty of life experience. Let’s not deceive ourselves. Of course, you’d like to know how she is. In fact, I’d go further: you’d like to see her.”
“If you’re so sure about that, why did you help persuade him to come to supper with us? Now I have a clue: he appears every Thursday at that Armenian restaurant.”
“I know. You’d better follow up on that.” “Don’t you love me?”
“More than yesterday and less than tomorrow, as it says on those postcards you can buy in stationery shops. Yes, of course, I love you. I’m hopelessly in love, if you must know. I’m even considering changing my address and coming to live in this huge, empty apartment of yours, but whenever I suggest it, you always change the subject.
Nevertheless, I forget my pride and try to explain what a big step it would be for us to live together, and hear you say that it’s too soon for that; perhaps you’re afraid you’ll lose me the way you lost Esther, or perhaps you’re still waiting for her to come back, or perhaps you don’t want to lose your freedom, or are simultaneously afraid of being alone
and afraid of living with someone—in short, our relationship’s a complete disaster. But, now that you ask, there’s my answer: I love you very much.”
“So why did you help?”
“Because I can’t live forever with the ghost of a woman who left without a word of explanation. I’ve read your book. I believe that only by finding her and resolving the matter will your heart ever truly be mine. That’s what happened with the neighbor I was in love with. I was close enough to him to be able to see what a coward he was when it came to our relationship, how he could never commit himself to the thing he wanted with all his heart, but which he always felt was too dangerous to actually have. You’ve often said that absolute freedom doesn’t exist; what does exist is the freedom to choose anything you like and then commit yourself to that decision. The closer I was to my neighbor, the more I admired you: a man who decided to go on loving the wife who had abandoned him and who wanted nothing more to do with him. You not only decided to do that, you made your decision public. This is what you say in your book; it’s a passage I know by heart:
“‘When I had nothing more to lose, I was given everything. When I ceased to be who I am, I found myself. When I experienced humiliation and yet kept on walking, I understood that I was free to choose my destiny. Perhaps there’s something wrong with me, I don’t know, perhaps my marriage was a dream I couldn’t understand while it lasted. All I know is that even though I can live without her, I would still like to see her again, to say what I never said when we were together: I love you more than I love myself. If I could say that, then I could go on living, at peace with myself, because that love has redeemed me.’”
“Mikhail told me that Esther had probably read my book. That’s enough.”
“Maybe, but for you to be able to love her fully, you need to find her and tell her that to her face. It might not be possible, she might not want to see you, but you would, at least, have tried. I would be free from the ‘ideal woman’ and you would be free from the absolute presence of what you call the Zahir.”
“You’re very brave.”
“No, I’m not, I’m afraid. But I have no choice.”
The following morning, I swore to myself that I would not try to find out where Esther was living. For two years, I had unconsciously preferred to believe that she had been forced to leave, that she had been kidnapped or was being blackmailed by some terrorist group. Now that I knew she was alive and well (that was what the young man
had told me), why try to see her again? My ex-wife had the right to look for happiness, and I should respect her decision.
This idea lasted a little more than four hours; later in the afternoon, I went to a church, lit a candle, and made another promise, this time a sacred, ritual promise: to try to find her. Marie was right. I was too old to continue deceiving myself by pretending I didn’t care. I respected her decision to leave, but the very person who had helped me build my life had very nearly destroyed me. She had always been so brave. Why, this time, had she fled like a thief in the night, without looking her husband in the eye and explaining why? We were both old enough to act and face the consequences of our actions: my wife’s (or, rather, my ex-wife’s) behavior was completely out of character, and I needed to know why.
It was another week—an eternity—before the “performance” at the restaurant. In the next few days, I agreed to do interviews that I would never normally accept; I wrote various newspaper articles, practiced yoga and meditation, read a book about a Russian painter, another about a crime committed in Nepal, wrote prefaces for two books and recommendations for another four, something which publishers were always asking me to do, and which I usually refused.
There was still an awful lot of time to kill, so I decided to pay off a few debts at the Favor Bank—accepting supper invitations, giving brief talks at schools where the children of friends were studying, visiting a golf club, doing an improvised book signing at a bookshop on the Avenue de Suffren owned by a friend (he put an advertisement in the window three days before and all of twenty people turned up). My secretary remarked that I was obviously very happy, because she hadn’t seen me so active in ages; I said that having a book on the bestseller list encouraged me to work even harder than I usually did.
There were two things I didn’t do that week. First, I didn’t read any unsolicited typescripts: according to my lawyers, these should always be returned immediately to the sender; otherwise, sooner or later I would run the risk of someone claiming that I had plagiarized one of their stories. (I’ve never understood why people send me their typescripts anyway—after all, I’m not a publisher.)
Second, I didn’t look in an atlas to find out where Kazakhstan was, even though I knew that, in order to gain Mikhail’s trust, I should try to find out a bit more about where he came from.
People are waiting patiently for someone to open the door that leads to the room at the back of the restaurant. The place has none of the charm of bars in St-Germain-des-Prés,
no cups of coffee served with a small glass of water, no well-dressed, well-spoken people. It has none of the elegance of theater foyers, none of the magic of other shows being put on all over the city in small bistros, with the actors always trying their hardest, in the hope that some famous impresario will be in the audience and will introduce himself at the end of the show, tell them they’re wonderful, and invite them to appear at some important arts center.
To be honest, I can’t understand why the place is so full: I’ve never seen it mentioned in the magazines that specialize in listing entertainment and the arts in Paris.
While I’m waiting, I talk to the owner and learn that he is planning to turn the whole restaurant area into a theater.
“More and more people come every week,” he says. “I agreed initially because a journalist asked me as a favor and said that, in return, he’d publish a review of my restaurant in his magazine. Besides, the room is rarely used on Thursdays, and while people are waiting, they have a meal; in fact, I probably make more money on a Thursday than I do on any other night of the week. The only thing that concerned me was that the actors might belong to a sect. As you probably know, the laws here are very strict.”
Yes, I did know; certain people had even suggested that my books were linked to some dangerous philosophical trend, to a strand of religious teaching that was out of step with commonly accepted values. France, normally so liberal, was slightly paranoid about the subject. There had been a recent long report about the “brainwashing” practiced on certain unwary people. As if those same people were able to make all kinds of other choices about school, university, toothpaste, cars, films, husbands, wives, lovers, but, when it came to matters of faith, were easily manipulated.
“How do they advertise these events?” I ask.
“I’ve no idea. If I did, I’d use the same person to promote my restaurant.”
And just to clear up any doubts, since he doesn’t know who I am, he adds: “By the way, it isn’t a sect. They really are just actors.”
The door to the room is opened, the people flock in, depositing five euros in a small basket. Inside, standing impassive on the improvised stage, are two young men and two young women, all wearing full, white skirts, stiffly starched to make them stand out. As well as these four, there is an older man carrying a conga drum and a woman with a huge bronze cymbal covered in small, tinkling attachments; every time she inadvertently brushes against this instrument, it emits a sound like metallic rain.
Mikhail is one of the young men, although he looks completely different from the person I met at the book signing: his eyes, fixed on some point in space, shine with a special light.
The audience sits down on the chairs scattered around the room. Young men and women dressed in such a way that if you met them on the street, you would think they were into hard drugs. Middle-aged executives or civil servants with their wives. A few nine- or ten- year-old children, possibly brought by their parents. A few older people, who must have made a great effort to get here, since the nearest metro station is five blocks away.
They drink, smoke, talk loudly, as if the people on the stage did not exist. The volume of conversation gradually increases; there is much laughter, it’s a real party atmosphere. A sect? Only if it’s a confraternity of smokers. I glance anxiously about, thinking I can see Esther in all the women there, sometimes even when they bear no physical resemblance at all to my wife. (Why can’t I get used to saying “my ex-wife”?)
I ask a well-dressed woman what this is all about. She doesn’t seem to have the patience to respond; she looks at me as if I were a novice, a person who needs to be educated in the mysteries of life.
“Love stories,” she says. “Stories and energy.”
Stories and energy. Perhaps I had better not pursue the subject, although the woman appears to be perfectly normal. I consider asking someone else, but decide that it’s best to say nothing. I’ll find out soon enough for myself. A gentleman sitting by my side looks at me and smiles:
“I’ve read your books and so, of course, I know why you’re here.”
I’m shocked. Does he know about the relationship between Mikhail and my wife—I must again correct myself—the relationship between one of the people on stage and my ex- wife?
“An author like you would be bound to know about the Tengri. They’re intimately connected with what you call ‘warriors of light.’”
“Of course,” I say, relieved.
And I think: I’ve never even heard of the Tengri.
Twenty minutes later, by which time the air in the room is thick with cigarette smoke, we hear the sound of that cymbal. Miraculously, the conversations stop, the anarchic atmosphere seems to take on a religious aura; audience and stage are equally silent; the only sounds one can hear come from the restaurant next door.
Mikhail, who appears to be in a trance and is still gazing at some point in the distance, begins:
“In the words of the Mongolian creation myth: ‘There came a wild dog who was blue and gray and whose destiny was imposed on him by the heavens. His mate was a roe deer.’”
His voice sounds different, more feminine, more confident.
“Thus begins another love story. The wild dog with his courage and strength, the doe with her gentleness, intuition, and elegance. Hunter and hunted meet and love each other. According to the laws of nature, one should destroy the other, but in love there is neither good nor evil, there is neither construction nor destruction, there is merely movement.
And love changes the laws of nature.”
He gestures with his hand and the four people on stage turn on the spot.
“In the steppes where I come from, the wild dog is seen as a feminine creature. Sensitive, capable of hunting because he has honed his instincts, but timid too. He does not use brute force, but strategy. Courageous, cautious, quick. He can change in a second from a state of complete relaxation to the tension he needs to pounce on his prey.”
Accustomed as I am to writing stories, I think: “And what about the doe?” Mikhail is equally used to telling stories and answers the question hanging in the air:
“The roe deer has the male attributes of speed and an understanding of the earth. The two travel along together in their symbolic worlds, two impossibilities who have found each other, and because they overcome their own natures and their barriers, they make the world possible too. That is the Mongolian creation myth: out of two different natures love is born. In contradiction, love grows in strength. In confrontation and transformation, love is preserved.
“We have our life. It took the world a long time and much effort to get where it is, and we organize ourselves as best we can; it isn’t ideal, but we get along. And yet there is something missing, there is always something missing, and that is why we are gathered here tonight, so that we can help each other to think a little about the reason for our existence. Telling stories that make no sense, looking for facts that do not fit our usual way of perceiving reality, so that, perhaps in one or two generations, we can discover another way of living.
“As Dante wrote in The Divine Comedy, ‘The day that man allows true love to appear, those things which are well made will fall into confusion and will overturn everything we believe to be right and true.’ The world will become real when man learns how to love; until then we will live in the belief that we know what love is, but we will always lack the courage to confront it as it truly is.
“Love is an untamed force. When we try to control it, it destroys us. When we try to imprison it, it enslaves us. When we try to understand it, it leaves us feeling lost and confused.
“This force is on earth to make us happy, to bring us closer to God and to our neighbor, and yet, given the way that we love now, we enjoy one hour of anxiety for every minute of peace.”
Mikhail paused. The strange cymbal sounded again.
“As on every Thursday, we are not going to tell stories about love. We are going to tell stories about the lack of love. We will see what lies on the surface—the layer where we find all our customs and values—in order to understand what lies beneath. When we penetrate beneath that layer we will find ourselves. Who would like to begin?”
Several people raised their hand. Mikhail pointed to a young woman of Arab appearance. She turned to a man on his own, on the other side of the room.
“Have you ever failed to get an erection when you’ve been to bed with a woman?” Everyone laughed. The man, however, avoided giving a direct answer.
“Are you asking that because your boyfriend is impotent?”
Again everyone laughed. While Mikhail had been speaking, I had once more begun to suspect that this was indeed some new sect, but when sects hold meetings, I can’t imagine that they smoke and drink and ask embarrassing questions about each other’s sex lives.
“No, he’s not,” said the girl firmly. “But it has occasionally happened to him. And I know that if you had taken my question seriously, your answer would have been ‘Yes, I have.’ All men, in all cultures and countries, independent of any feelings of love or sexual attraction, have all experienced impotence at one time or another, often when they’re with the person they most desire. It’s normal.”
Yes, it was normal, and the person who had told me this was a psychiatrist, to whom I went when I thought I had a problem.
The girl went on:
“But the story we’re told is that all men can always get an erection. When he can’t, the man feels useless, and the woman is convinced she isn’t attractive enough to arouse him. Since it’s a taboo subject, he can’t talk to his friends about it. He tells the woman the old lie: ‘It’s never happened to me before.’ He feels ashamed of himself and often runs away from someone with whom he could have had a really good relationship, if only he had allowed himself a second, third, or fourth chance. If he had trusted more in the love of his
friends, if he had told the truth, he would have found out that he wasn’t the only one. If he had trusted more in the love of the woman, he would not have felt humiliated.”
Applause. Cigarettes are lit, as if a lot of the people there—men and women—feel a great sense of relief.
Mikhail points to a man who looks like an executive in some big multinational. “I’m a lawyer and I specialize in contested divorces.”
“What does that mean?” asks someone in the audience.
“It’s when one of the parties won’t agree to the separation,” replies the lawyer, irritated at being interrupted and as if he found it absurd that anyone should not know the meaning of such a straightforward legal term.
“Go on,” says Mikhail, with an authority that I would never have imagined in the young man I had met at the book signing.
The lawyer continues:
“Today I received a report from the London-based firm Human and Legal Resources. This is what it says:
(a) ‘Two-thirds of all employees in a company have some kind of love relationship. Imagine! That means that in any office of three people, two will end up having some form of intimate contact.
(b) ‘Ten percent leave their job because of this, 40 percent have relationships that last more than three months, and in the case of certain professions that require people to spend long periods away from home, at least eight out of ten end up having an affair.’
“Isn’t that unbelievable?”
“Well, of course, we have to bow down to statistics!” remarks one of a group of young men who are all dressed as if they were members of some dangerous band of robbers. “We all believe in statistics! That means that my mother must be being unfaithful to my father, but it’s not her fault, it’s the fault of the statistics!”
More laughter, more cigarettes, more relief, as if the people in the audience were hearing things they had always been afraid to hear and that hearing them freed them from some kind of anxiety. I think about Esther and about Mikhail in “professions that require people to spend long periods away from home…”
I think about myself and the many times this has happened to me. They are, after all, statistics. We are not alone.
Other stories are told of jealousy, abandonment, depression, but I am no longer listening. My Zahir has returned in its full intensity—even though, for a few moments, I had believed I was merely engaging in a little group therapy, I am, in fact, in the same room as the man who stole my wife. My neighbor, the one who recognized me, asks if I’m enjoying myself. He distracts me for a moment from my Zahir, and I am happy to respond.
“I still can’t quite see the point. It’s like a self-help group, like Alcoholics Anonymous or marriage counseling.”
“But doesn’t what you hear strike you as genuine?” “Possibly, but again, I can’t see the point.”
“This isn’t the most important part of the evening; it’s just a way of not feeling so alone. By talking about our lives, we come to realize that most people have experienced the same thing.”
“And what’s the practical result?”
“If we’re not alone, then we have more strength to find out where we went wrong and to change direction. But, as I said, this is just an interval between what the young man says at the beginning and the moment when we invoke the energy.”
“Who is the young man?”
Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of the cymbal. This time, it is the older man with the conga drum who speaks.
“The time for reasoning is over. Let us move on now to the ritual, to the emotion that crowns and transforms everything. For those of you who are here for the first time tonight, this dance develops our capacity to accept love. Love is the only thing that activates our intelligence and our creativity, that purifies and liberates us.”
The cigarettes are extinguished, the clink of glasses stops. That same strange silence descends upon the room; one of the young women says a prayer:
“We will dance, Lady, in homage to you. May our dancing make us fly up to heaven.” Did I hear right? Did she say “Lady”? She did.
The other young woman lights the candles in four candelabra; the other lights are switched off. The four figures in white, with their starched white skirts, come down from the stage and mingle with the audience. For nearly half an hour, the second young man, with a voice that seems to emerge from his belly, intones a monotonous, repetitive song, which, curiously, makes me forget the Zahir a little and slip into a kind of somnolence.
Even one of the children, who had kept running up and down during the “talking about love” session, is now quiet and still, her eyes fixed on the stage. Some of those present have their eyes closed, others are staring at the floor or at some invisible point in space, as I had seen Mikhail do.
When he stops singing, the percussion—the cymbal and the drum—strike up a rhythm familiar to me from religious ceremonies originating in Africa.
The white-clothed figures start to spin, and in that packed space, the audience makes room so that the wide skirts can trace movements in the air. The instruments play faster, the four spin ever faster too, emitting sounds that belong to no known language, as if they were speaking directly with angels or with the Lady.
My neighbor gets to his feet and begins to dance too and to utter incomprehensible words. Ten or twelve other people in the audience do the same, while the rest watch with a mixture of reverence and amazement.
I don’t know how long the dance went on for, but the sound of the instruments seemed to keep time with the beating of my heart, and I felt an enormous desire to surrender myself, to say strange things, to move my body; it took a mixture of self-control and a sense of the absurd to stop myself from spinning like a mad thing on the spot. Meanwhile, as never before, the figure of Esther, my Zahir, seemed to hover before me, smiling, calling on me to praise the Lady.
I struggled not to enter into that unknown ritual, wanting it all to end as quickly as possible. I tried to concentrate on my main reason for being there that night—to talk to Mikhail, to have him take me to my Zahir—but I found it impossible to remain still. I got up from my chair and just as I was cautiously, shyly, taking my first steps, the music abruptly stopped.
In the room lit only by the candles, all I could hear was the labored breathing of those who had danced. Gradually, the sound faded, the lights were switched back on, and everything seemed to have returned to normal. Glasses were again filled with beer, wine, water, soft drinks; the children started running about and talking loudly, and soon everyone was chatting as if nothing, absolutely nothing, had happened.
“It’s nearly time to close the meeting,” said the young woman who had lit the candles. “Alma has one final story.”
Alma was the woman playing the cymbal. She spoke with the accent of someone who has lived in the East.
“The master had a buffalo. The animal’s widespread horns made him think that if he could manage to sit between them, it would be like sitting on a throne. One day, when the
animal was distracted, he climbed up between the horns and did just that. The buffalo, however, immediately lumbered to its feet and threw him off. When his wife saw this, she began to cry.
“‘Don’t cry,’ said the master, once he had recovered. ‘I may have suffered, but I also realized my dream.’”
People started leaving. I asked my neighbor what he had felt. “You should know. You write about it in your books.”
I didn’t know, but I had to pretend that I did. “Maybe I do know, but I want to be sure.”
He looked at me, unconvinced, and clearly began to doubt that I really was the author he thought he knew.
“I was in touch with the energy of the universe,” he replied. “God passed through my soul.”
And he left, so as not to have to explain what he had said.
In the empty room there were now only the four actors, the two musicians, and myself. The women went off to the ladies’ bathroom, presumably to change their clothes. The men took off their white costumes right there in the room and donned their ordinary clothes. They immediately began putting away the candelabra and the musical instruments in two large cases.
The older man, who had played the drum during the ceremony, started counting the money and putting it into six equal piles. I think it was only then that Mikhail noticed my presence.
“I thought I’d see you here.”
“And I imagine you know the reason.”
“After I’ve let the divine energy pass through my body, I know the reason for everything. I know the reason for love and for war. I know why a man searches for the woman he loves.”
I again felt as if I were walking along a knife edge. If he knew that I was here because of my Zahir, then he also knew that this was a threat to his relationship with Esther.
“May we talk, like two men of honor fighting for something worthwhile?”
Mikhail seemed to hesitate slightly. I went on:
“I know that I’ll emerge bruised and battered, like the master who wanted to sit between the buffalo’s horns, but I deserve it. I deserve it because of the pain I inflicted, however unconsciously. I don’t believe Esther would have left me if I had respected her love.”
“You understand nothing,” said Mikhail.
These words irritated me. How could a twenty-five-year-old tell an experienced man who had suffered and been tested by life that he understood nothing? I had to control myself, to humble myself, to do whatever was necessary. I could not go on living with ghosts, I could not allow my whole universe to continue being dominated by the Zahir.
“Maybe I really don’t understand, but that’s precisely why I’m here—in order to understand. To free myself by understanding what happened.”
“You understood everything quite clearly, and then suddenly stopped understanding; at least that’s what Esther told me. As happens with all husbands, there came a point when you started to treat your wife as if she were just part of the goods and chattel.”
I was tempted to say: “Why didn’t she tell me that herself? Why didn’t she give me a chance to correct my mistakes and not leave me for a twenty-five-year-old who will only end up treating her just as I did.” Some more cautious words emerged from my mouth however.
“I don’t think that’s true. You’ve read my book, you came to my book signing because you knew what I felt and wanted to reassure me. My heart is still in pieces: have you ever heard of the Zahir?”
“I was brought up in the Islamic religion, so, yes, I’m familiar with the idea.”
“Well, Esther fills up every space in my life. I thought that by writing about my feelings, I would free myself from her presence. Now I love her in a more silent way, but I can’t think about anything else. I beg you, please, I’ll do anything you want, but I need you to explain to me why she disappeared like that. As you yourself said, I understand nothing.”
It was very hard to stand there pleading with my wife’s lover to help me understand what had happened. If Mikhail had not come to the book signing, perhaps that moment in the cathedral in Vitória, where I acknowledged my love for her and out of which I wrote A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew, would have been enough. Fate, however, had other plans, and the mere possibility of being able to see my wife again had upset everything.
“Let’s have lunch together,” said Mikhail, after a long pause. “You really don’t understand anything. But the divine energy that today passed through my body is generous with you.”
We arranged to meet the next day. On the way home, I remembered a conversation I had had with Esther three months before she disappeared.
A conversation about divine energy passing through the body.
Their eyes really are different. There’s the fear of death in them, of course, but beyond that, there’s the idea of sacrifice. Their lives are meaningful because they are ready to offer them up for a cause.”
“You’re talking about soldiers, are you?”
“Yes, and I’m talking as well about something I find terribly hard to accept, but which I can’t pretend I don’t see. War is a ritual. A blood ritual, but also a love ritual.”
“You’re mad.”
“Maybe I am. But I’ve met other war correspondents, too, who go from one country to the next, as if the routine of death were part of their lives. They’re not afraid of anything, they face danger the way a soldier does. And all for a news report? I don’t think so. They can no longer live without the danger, the adventure, the adrenaline in their blood. One of them, a married man with three children, told me that the place where he feels most at ease is in a war zone, even though he adores his family and talks all the time about his wife and kids.”
“I just can’t understand it at all. Look, Esther, I don’t want to interfere in your life, but I think this experience will end up doing you real harm.”
“It would harm me more to be living a life without meaning. In a war, everyone knows they’re experiencing something important.”
“A historic moment, you mean?”
“No, that isn’t enough of a reason for risking your life. No, I mean that they’re experiencing the true essence of man.”
“War?”
“No, love.”
“You’re becoming like them.” “I think I am.”
“Tell your news agency you’ve had enough.”
“I can’t. It’s like a drug. As long as I’m in a war zone, my life has meaning. I go for days without having a bath, I eat whatever the soldiers eat, I sleep three hours a night and wake up to the sound of gunfire. I know that at any moment someone could lob a grenade into the place where we’re sitting, and that makes me live, do you see? Really live, I mean, loving every minute, every second. There’s no room for sadness, doubts, nothing; there’s just a great love for life. Are you listening?”
“Absolutely.”
“It’s as if there was a divine light shining in the midst of every battle, in the midst of that worst of all possible situations. Fear exists before and after, but not while the shots are being fired, because, at that moment, you see men at their very limit, capable of the most heroic of actions and the most inhumane. They run out under a hail of bullets to rescue a comrade, and at the same time shoot anything that moves—children, women—anyone who comes within their line of fire will die. People from small, provincial towns where nothing ever happened and where they were always decent citizens find themselves invading museums, destroying centuries-old works of art, and stealing things they don’t need. They take photos of atrocities that they themselves committed and, rather than trying to conceal these, they feel proud. And people who, before, were always disloyal and treacherous feel a kind of camaraderie and solidarity and become incapable of doing wrong. It’s a mad world, completely topsy-turvy.”
“Has it helped you answer the question that Hans asked Fritz in that bar in Tokyo in the story you told me?”
“Yes, the answer lies in some words written by the Jesuit Teilhard de Chardin, the same man who said that our world is surrounded by a layer of love. He said: ‘We can harness the energy of the winds, the seas, the sun. But the day man learns to harness the energy of love, that will be as important as the discovery of fire.’”
“And you could only learn that by going to a war zone?”
“I’m not sure, but it did allow me to see that, paradoxical though it may seem, people are happy when they’re at war. For them, the world has meaning. As I said before, total power or sacrificing themselves for a cause gives meaning to their lives. They are capable of limitless love, because they no longer have anything to lose. A fatally wounded soldier never asks the medical team: ‘Please save me!’ His last words are usually: ‘Tell my wife and my son that I love them.’ At the last moment, they speak of love!”
“So, in your opinion, human beings only find life meaningful when they’re at war.”
“But we’re always at war. We’re at war with death, and we know that death will win in the end. In armed conflicts, this is simply more obvious, but the same thing happens in daily life. We can’t allow ourselves the luxury of being unhappy all the time.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I need help. And that doesn’t mean saying to me, ‘Go and hand in your notice,’ because that would only leave me feeling even more confused than before. We need to find a way of channeling all this, of allowing the energy of this pure, absolute love to flow through our bodies and spread around us. The only person so far who has helped me understand this is a rather otherworldly interpreter who says he’s had revelations about this energy.”
“Are you talking about the love of God?”
“If someone is capable of loving his partner without restrictions, unconditionally, then he is manifesting the love of God. If the love of God becomes manifest, he will love his neighbor. If he loves his neighbor, he will love himself. If he loves himself, then everything returns to its proper place. History changes.”
“History will never change because of politics or conquests or theories or wars; that’s mere repetition, it’s been going on since the beginning of time. History will only change when we are able to use the energy of love, just as we use the energy of the wind, the seas, the atom.”
“Do you think we two could save the world?”
“I think there are more people out there who think the same way. Will you help me?” “Yes, as long as you tell what I have to do.”
“But that’s precisely what I don’t know!”
I had been a regular customer at this charming pizzeria ever since my very first visit to Paris, so much so that it has become part of my history. Most recently, I had held a supper here to celebrate receiving the medal of Officer of Arts and Literature presented to me by the Ministry of Culture, even though many people felt that the commemoration of such an important event should have taken place somewhere more elegant and more expensive. But Roberto, the owner, had become a kind of good-luck charm to me; whenever I went to his restaurant, something good happened in my life.
“I could start with some small talk about the success of A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew or the contradictory emotions I felt last night as I watched your performance.”
“It’s not a performance, it’s a meeting,” he said. “We tell stories and we dance in order to feel the energy of love.”
“I could talk about anything just to put you at your ease, but we both know why we’re here.”
“We’re here because of your wife,” said Mikhail, who was now full of a young man’s defiance and in no way resembled the shy boy at the book signing or the spiritual leader of that “meeting.”
“You mean my ex-wife. And I would like to ask you a favor: take me to her. I want her to look me in the eye and tell me why she left. Only then will I be free of the Zahir.
Otherwise, I’ll go on thinking about her day and night, night and day, going over and over our story, our history, again and again, trying to pinpoint the moment when I went wrong and our paths began to diverge.”
He laughed.
“Reviewing history’s a great idea, that’s the only way you can make things change.”
“Very clever, but I’d prefer to leave philosophical discussions to one side for the moment. I’m sure that, like all young men, you hold in your hands the precise formula for putting the world to rights. However, like all young men, you will one day be as old as me and then you’ll see that it’s not so easy to change things. But there’s no point talking about that now. Can you grant me that favor?”
“I must first ask you something: Did she say goodbye?” “No.”
“Did she say she was going away?” “No, she didn’t. You know that.”
“Do you think that, given the kind of person Esther is, she would be capable of leaving a man she had lived with for more than ten years without first confronting him and explaining her reasons?”
“That’s precisely what I find most troubling. But what are you getting at?”
The conversation was interrupted by Roberto, who wanted to know if we were ready to order. Mikhail asked for a Napolitana and I told Roberto to choose for me—this was hardly the moment to be worrying about what I should eat. The only thing we needed urgently was a bottle of red wine, as quickly as possible. When Roberto asked me what sort of wine and I muttered an inaudible reply, he understood that he should simply leave us alone and not ask me anything else during lunch, but take all the necessary decisions himself, thus leaving me free to concentrate on my conversation with the young man before me.
The wine arrived within thirty seconds. I filled our glasses. “What’s she doing?”
“Do you really want to know?”
It irritated me to receive a question in response to mine. “Yes, I do.”
“She’s making carpets and giving French lessons.”
Carpets! My wife (ex-wife, please, do try and get used to it), who had all the money she could possibly need, had a degree in journalism, spoke four languages, was now obliged to making a living weaving carpets and giving French lessons to foreigners? I must get a grip on myself. I couldn’t risk wounding the young man’s male pride, even though I thought it shameful that he couldn’t give Esther everything she deserved.
“Please, you must understand what I’ve been going through for the last year or more. I’m no threat to your relationship with Esther. I just need a couple of hours with her, or one hour, it doesn’t matter.”
Mikhail appeared to be savoring my words.
“You haven’t answered my question,” he said, with a smile. “Do you think that, given the kind of person Esther is, she would leave the man of her life without at least saying goodbye and without explaining why?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then why all this stuff about ‘she left me’? Why do you say, ‘I’m no threat to your relationship with Esther’?”
I was confused. I felt something like hope stirring inside me—not that I knew what I was hoping for or where that hope had come from.
“Are you telling me that…”
“Exactly. I’m telling you that she hasn’t left you or me. She has just disappeared for a while, possibly forever, but we must both respect that.”
It was as if a bright light were suddenly shining in that pizzeria, a place that had always brought me good memories and good stories. I desperately wanted to believe what the young man was saying; the Zahir was now pulsating all around me.
“Do you know where she is?”
“Yes, I do. But even though I miss her as much as you do, I must respect her silence. I find this whole situation as confusing as you do. Esther may have found satisfaction in the Love That Devours, she might be waiting for one of us to go and find her, she may have met a new man, or she may have withdrawn from the world altogether. Whatever the truth, if you do decide to go and find her, I can’t stop you. But, if you do, you must know one thing: you must find not only her body, but also her soul.”
I felt like laughing. I felt like hugging him, or possibly killing him—my emotions changed with startling speed.
“Did you and she…”
“Did we sleep together? That’s none of your business. I found in Esther the partner I was looking for, the person who helped me set out on the mission I was entrusted with, the angel who opened the doors, the roads, the paths that will allow us—if our Lady is willing—to restore the energy of love to the earth. We share the same mission. And just to put your mind at rest: I have a girlfriend, the blonde girl who was on stage with me last night. Her name’s Lucrecia; she’s Italian.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“Yes, in the name of the Divine Energy, I am.” He took a scrap of dark fabric out of his pocket.
“Do you see this? The cloth is actually green; it looks black because it’s caked with dried blood. A soldier somewhere in the world asked her before he died to remove his shirt, then cut it into tiny pieces and distribute those pieces to anyone capable of understanding the message of his death. Do you have a piece?”
“No, Esther has never even mentioned it to me.”
“Whenever she meets someone whom she feels should receive the message, she also gives them a little of the soldier’s blood.”
“And what is the message?”
“If she didn’t give you a piece of the shirt, I don’t think I can tell you; not, of course, that she swore me to secrecy.”
“Do you know anyone else who has a piece of that cloth?”
“All the people who appear with me at the restaurant do. We’re only there because Esther brought us together.”
I needed to tread carefully, to build up a relationship, to make a deposit in the Favor Bank. I mustn’t frighten him or seem overeager; I should ask him about himself and his work, about his country, of which he had spoken with such pride; I needed to find out if what he was telling me was true or if he had some ulterior motive; I needed to be absolutely sure that he was still in touch with Esther or if he had lost track of her as well. He may have come from a remote country, where the values are different, but I knew that the Favor Bank operated everywhere: it was an institution that knew no frontiers.
On the one hand, I wanted to believe everything he was saying. On the other, my heart had suffered and bled enough during the thousand and one nights I had lain awake, waiting for the sound of the key in the door, for Esther to come in and lie down beside me, without saying a word. I had promised myself that if this ever happened, I would ask her no questions. I would just kiss her and say, “Sleep well, my love,” and we would wake the next day, hand in hand, as if this whole nightmare had never happened.
Roberto arrived with the pizzas. He seemed to be endowed with some kind of sixth sense that told him when I needed time to think.
I looked at Mikhail again. Keep calm; if you don’t get your pulse rate under control, you’ll have a heart attack. I drank a whole glass of wine and noticed that he had done the same.
Why was he so nervous?
“Oh, I believe what you say. But we’ve got plenty of time to talk.” “You’re going to ask me to take you to her.”
He had spoiled my game. I would have to start again.
“Yes, I am. I’m going to try to persuade you. I’m going to do everything in my power to do just that. I’m in no hurry though; we’ve got a whole pizza to eat first. Besides, I want to know more about you.”
I noticed that he was trying to keep his hands from trembling.
“I’m a person with a mission. I haven’t yet managed to fulfill it, but I think I still have time to do so.”
“Perhaps I can help you.”
“Oh, you can. Anyone can; you just have to help spread the energy of love throughout the world.”
“I can do more than that.”
I didn’t want to go any further; I didn’t want it to look as if I were trying to buy his loyalty. Careful. I had to be very careful. He could be telling the truth, but he could also be lying, trying to take advantage of my suffering.
“I only know of one kind of loving energy,” I went on. “The one I feel for the woman who left, or, rather, went away and who is waiting for me. If I could see her again, I would be a happy man. And the world would be a better place because one soul would be content.”
He glanced up at the ceiling and back down at the table, and I allowed the silence to last as long as possible.
“I can hear a voice,” he said at last, unable to look at me.
The great advantage of writing about spirituality is that I know I’m bound to keep encountering people with some kind of gift. Some of those gifts are real, others are fraudulent, some of those people are trying to use me, others are merely testing me out. I have seen so many amazing things that I no longer have the slightest doubt that miracles can happen, that everything is possible, and that people are beginning to relearn the inner powers they long ago forgot.
However, this was not the ideal moment to speak of such matters. I was only interested in the Zahir. I needed the Zahir to become Esther again.
“Mikhail…”
“Mikhail isn’t my real name. My real name is Oleg.” “Oleg, then…”
“Mikhail is the name I chose when I decided to be reborn to life. Like the warrior archangel, with his fiery sword, opening up a path so that—what is it you call them?—so that the ‘warriors of light’ can find each other. That is my mission.”
“It’s my mission too.”
“Wouldn’t you rather talk about Esther?”
What? Was he changing the subject again back to the very thing that interested me?
“I’m not feeling very well.” His gaze was starting to wander; he kept glancing around the restaurant as if I were not there. “I don’t want to talk about that. The voice…”
Something strange, something very strange, was happening. How far was he prepared to go in order to impress me? Would he end up asking me to write a book about his life and powers, like so many others had before him?
Whenever I have a clear objective, I will do anything to achieve it; that, after all, was what I said in my books and I could hardly betray my own words. I had an objective now: to gaze once more into the eyes of the Zahir. Mikhail had given me a lot of new information: He wasn’t her lover, Esther hadn’t left me, it was just a matter of time before I could bring her back. There was also the possibility that this meeting in the pizzeria was all a farce, that he was just someone with no other means of earning a living than by exploiting someone else’s pain in order to achieve his own ends.
I drank another glass of wine; Mikhail did the same. Take care, my instinct was telling me.
“Yes, I do want to talk about Esther, but I want to know more about you too.”
“That’s not true. You’re just trying to seduce me, to persuade me to do things I was perfectly prepared to do anyway. Your pain is preventing you from seeing things clearly; you think I could be lying, that I’m trying to take advantage of the situation.”
Mikhail might know exactly what I was thinking, but he was speaking more loudly than good manners permit. People were starting to turn around to see what was going on.
“You’re just trying to impress me; you don’t realize what an impact your books had on my life or how much I learned from them. Your pain has made you blind, mean-spirited, and obsessed with the Zahir. It isn’t your love for her that made me accept your invitation to have lunch; in fact, I’m not sure I’m entirely convinced of your love; it might just be wounded pride. The reason I’m here…”
His voice was growing louder; he was still glancing wildly around, as if he were losing control.
“The lights…” “What’s wrong?”
“The reason I’m here is her love for you!” “Are you all right?”
Roberto had noticed that something was wrong. He came over to the table, smiling, and put his hand casually on Mikhail’s shoulder.
“Well, the pizza was obviously pretty terrible. No need to pay, you can leave when you like.”
That was the way out we needed. We could simply get up and go, thus avoiding the depressing spectacle of someone in a pizzeria pretending to be communing with the spirit
world just to impress or embarrass me, although I did feel that this was more than just a theatrical performance.
“Can you feel the wind blowing?”
At that moment, I was sure he wasn’t acting; on the contrary, he was making an enormous effort to control himself and was more frightened by what was happening than I was.
“The lights, the lights are starting to appear! Please, get me out of here!”
His body began to be shaken by tremors. There was now no hiding what was going on; the people at the other tables had got up.
“In Kazakh…”
He did not manage to finish the sentence. He pushed the table away from him; pizzas, glasses, and cutlery went flying, hitting the diners on the next table. His expression had changed completely. His whole body was shaking and only the whites of his eyes were now visible. His head was violently thrown back and I heard the sound of bones cracking. A gentleman from one of the other tables leapt to his feet. Roberto caught Mikhail before he fell, while the other man picked up a spoon from the floor and placed it in Mikhail’s mouth.
The whole thing can only have lasted a matter of seconds, but to me it seemed like an eternity. I could imagine the tabloids describing how a famous writer—and, despite all the adverse reviews, a possible candidate for a major literary prize—had concocted some sort of séance in a pizzeria just to get publicity for his new book. My paranoia was racing out of control. They would find out that the medium in question was the same man who had run off with my wife. It would all start again, and this time I wouldn’t have the necessary courage or energy to face the same test.
I knew a few of the other diners, but which of them were really my friends? Who would be capable of remaining silent about what they were seeing?
Mikhail’s body stopped shaking and relaxed; Roberto was holding him upright in his chair. The other man took Mikhail’s pulse, examined his eyes, and then turned to me:
“It’s obviously not the first time this has happened. How long have you known him?”
“Oh, they’re regular customers,” replied Roberto, seeing that I had become incapable of speech. “But this is the first time it’s happened in public, although, of course, I’ve had other such cases in my restaurant before.”
“Yes,” said the man. “I noticed that you didn’t panic.”
The remark was clearly aimed at me, for I must have looked deathly pale. The man went back to his table and Roberto tried to reassure me:
“He’s the personal physician of a very famous actress,” he said. “Although it looks to me as if you’re more in need of medical attention than your guest here.”
Mikhail—or Oleg or whatever the name was of the young man sitting opposite me—was beginning to come to. He looked around him and, far from seeming embarrassed, he merely smiled rather shyly.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I did try to control it.”
I was doing my best to remain calm. Roberto again came to my rescue.
“Don’t worry. Our writer here has enough money to pay for the broken plates.” Then he turned to me: “Epilepsy. It was just an epileptic fit, that’s all.”
I left the restaurant with Mikhail, who immediately hailed a taxi. “But we haven’t talked yet! Where are you going?”
“I’m in no state to talk now. And you know where to find me.”
There are two kinds of world: the one we dream about and the real one.
In my dream world, Mikhail had told the truth: I was just going through a difficult patch, experiencing the kind of misunderstanding that can occur in any love relationship. Esther was somewhere, waiting patiently for me to discover what had gone wrong in our marriage and then to go to her and ask her forgiveness so that we could resume our life together.
In that dream world, Mikhail and I talked calmly, left the pizzeria, took a taxi, rang the doorbell of a house where my ex-wife (or my wife? The question now formulated itself the other way around) wove carpets in the morning, gave French lessons in the afternoon, and slept alone at night, waiting, like me, for the bell to ring, for her husband to enter bearing a large bouquet of flowers and carry her off to drink hot chocolate in a hotel near the Champs-Elysées.
In the real world, any meeting with Mikhail would always be tense, because I feared a recurrence of what had happened at the pizzeria. Everything he had said was just the product of his imagination; he had no more idea where Esther was than I did. In the real
world, I was at the Gare de l’Est at 11:45 in the morning, waiting for the Strasbourg train to arrive, bringing with it an important American actor and director who very much wanted to produce a film based on one of my books.
Up until then, whenever anyone had mentioned the possibility of making a film adaptation, my answer had always been, “No, I’m not interested.” I believe that each reader creates his own film inside his head, gives faces to the characters, constructs every scene, hears the voices, smells the smells. And that is why, whenever a reader goes to see a film based on a novel that he likes, he leaves feeling disappointed, saying: “The book is so much better than the film.”
This time, my agent had been more insistent. She told me that this actor-filmmaker was very much “on our side,” and was hoping to do something entirely different from any of the other proposals we had received. The meeting had been arranged two months earlier, and we were to have supper that night to discuss details and see if we really were thinking along the same lines.
In the last two weeks, however, my diary had changed completely: it was Thursday, and I needed to go to the Armenian restaurant, to try to reestablish contact with the young epileptic who swore that he could hear voices, but who was nevertheless the only person who knew where to find the Zahir. I interpreted this as a sign not to sell the film rights of the book and so tried to cancel the meeting with the actor; he insisted and said that it didn’t matter in the least; we could have lunch instead the following day: “No one could possibly feel sad about having to spend a night in Paris alone,” he said, leaving me with no possible comeback.
In the world of my imagination, Esther was still my companion, and her love gave me the strength to go forward and explore all my frontiers.
In the real world, she was pure obsession, sapping my energy, taking up all the available space, and obliging me to make an enormous effort just to continue with my life, my work, my meetings with film producers, my interviews.
How was it possible that, even after two years, I had still not managed to forget her? I could not bear having to think about it anymore, analyzing all the possibilities, and trying various ways out: deciding simply to accept the situation, writing a book, practicing yoga, doing some charity work, seeing friends, seducing women, going out to supper, to the cinema (always avoiding adaptations of books, of course, and seeking out films that had been specially written for the screen), to the theater, the ballet, to soccer games. The Zahir always won, though; it was always there, making me think, “I wish she was here with me.”
I looked at the station clock—fifteen minutes to go. In the world of my imagination, Mikhail was an ally. In the real world, I had no concrete proof of this, apart from my great desire to believe what he was saying; he could well be an enemy in disguise.
I returned to the usual questions: Why had she said nothing to me? Or had she been trying to do just that when she asked me the question that Hans had asked? Had Esther decided to save the world, as she had hinted in our conversation about love and war, and was she preparing me to join her on this mission?
My eyes were fixed on the railway tracks. Esther and I, walking along parallel to each other, never touching. Two destinies that…
Railway tracks.
How far apart were they?
In order to forget about the Zahir, I tried asking one of the platform staff. “They’re 143.5 centimeters, or 4 feet 8½ inches, apart,” he replied.
He seemed to be a man at peace with life, proud of his job; he didn’t fit Esther’s stereotype at all, that we all harbor a great sadness in our soul.
But his answer didn’t make any sense at all: 143.5 centimeters or 4 feet 8½ inches?
Absurd. Logically, it should be either 150 centimeters or 5 feet. A round number, easy for builders of carriages and railway employees to remember.
“But why?” I asked the man.
“Because that’s the width between the wheels on the carriages.”
“But surely the wheels are that distance apart because the tracks are.”
“Look, just because I work in a railway station doesn’t mean I know everything about trains. That’s just the way things are.”
He was no longer a happy person, at peace with his work; he could answer one question, but could go no further. I apologized and spent what remained of the fifteen minutes staring at the tracks, feeling intuitively that they were trying to tell me something.
Strange though it may seem, the tracks seemed to be saying something about my marriage, and about all marriages.
The actor arrived, and he was far nicer than I expected, despite being so famous. I left him at my favorite hotel and went home. To my surprise, Marie was there waiting for me, saying that, due to adverse weather conditions, filming had been put off until the following week.
I assume that, since today is Thursday, you’ll be going to the restaurant.”
“Do you want to come too?”
“Yes, I do. Why? Would you prefer to go alone?” “Yes, I would.”
“Well, I’ve decided to come anyway. The man hasn’t yet been born who can tell me where I can and cannot go.”
“Do you know why all railway tracks are 143.5 centimeters apart?” “I can try and find out on the Internet. Is it important?”
“Very.”
“Leaving railway tracks to one side for the moment, I was talking to some friends of mine who are fans of your books. They think that anyone who can write books like A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew, or the one about the shepherd or the pilgimage to Santiago, must be some kind of sage who has an answer for everything.”
“Which is not quite true, as you know.”
“What is the truth, then? How is it that you can pass on to your readers things that are beyond your own knowledge?”
“They’re not beyond my knowledge. Everything that’s written in my books is part of my soul, part of the lessons I’ve learned throughout my life, and which I try to apply to myself. I’m a reader of my own books. They show me things that I already knew, even if only unconsciously.”
“What about the reader?”
“I think it’s the same for the reader. A book—and we could be talking about anything here, a film, a piece of music, a garden, the view of a mountain—reveals something. ‘Reveal’ means both to unveil and to reveil. Removing the veil from something that already exists is different from me trying to teach others the secret of how to live a better life.
“Love is giving me a pretty hard time at the moment, as you know. Now this could be seen as a descent into hell or it could be seen as a revelation. It was only when I wrote A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew that I understood my own capacity for love. And I learned this while I was actually typing the words and sentences.”
“But what about the spiritual side? What about the spirituality that appears to be present on every page of your books?”
“I’m beginning to like the idea of you coming with me to the Armenian restaurant, because you’ll learn—or, rather, become conscious of—three important things. First, that as soon as people decide to confront a problem, they realize that they are far more capable than they thought they were. Second, that all energy and all knowledge come from the same unknown source, which we usually call God. What I’ve tried to do in my life, ever since I first started out on what I believe to be my path, is to honor that energy, to connect up with it every day, to allow myself to be guided by the signs, to learn by doing and not by thinking about doing.
“Third, that no one is alone in their troubles; there is always someone else thinking, rejoicing, or suffering in the same way, and that gives us the strength to confront the challenge before us.”
“Does that include suffering for love?”
“It includes everything. If there is suffering, then it’s best to accept it, because it won’t go away just because you pretend it’s not there. If there is joy, then it’s best to accept that too, even though you’re afraid it might end one day. Some people can only relate to life through sacrifice and renunciation. Some people can only feel part of humanity when they think they are ‘happy.’ But why all these questions?”
“Because I’m in love and I’m afraid of suffering.”
“Don’t be afraid; the only way to avoid that suffering would be to refuse to love.”
“I can feel Esther’s presence. Apart from the young man’s epileptic fit, you haven’t told me anything else about what happened at the pizzeria. That’s a bad sign for me, although it might be a good sign for you.”
“It might be a bad sign for me too.”
“Do you know what I would like to know? I’d like to know if you love me as much as I love you. But I don’t have the courage to ask. Why do I have such frustrating relationships with men? I always feel like I have to be in a relationship and that means I have to be this fantastic, intelligent, sensitive, exceptional person. The effort of seduction forces me to give of my best and that helps me. Besides, it’s really hard living on your own, and I don’t know if that’s the best option either.”
“So you want to know if I’m still capable of loving a woman, even though she left me without a word of explanation.”
“I read your book. I know you are.”
“You want to know whether, despite loving Esther, I’m still capable of loving you?” “I wouldn’t dare ask that question because the answer could ruin my life.”
“You want to know if the heart of a man or a woman can contain enough love for more than one person?”
“Since that’s a less direct question than the previous one, yes, I’d like an answer.” “I think it’s perfectly possible as long as one of those people doesn’t turn into…”
“…a Zahir. Well, I’m going to fight for you anyway, because I think you’re worth it. Any man capable of loving a woman as much as you loved—or love—Esther deserves all my respect and all my efforts. And to show that I want to keep you by my side, to show how important you are in my life, I’m going to do as you ask, however absurd it might be: I’m going to find out why railway tracks are always 4 feet 8½ inches apart.”
The owner of the Armenian restaurant had done exactly what he had told me he was planning to do: the whole restaurant, and not just the room at the back, was now full of people who had come for the meeting. Marie eyed them with some curiosity and occasionally commented on what a varied crowd they were.
“Why bring children to something like this? It’s absurd.” “Perhaps they haven’t got anyone they can leave them with.”
At nine o’clock on the dot, the six performers—the two musicians in oriental dress and the four young people in their white shirts and full skirts—walked onto the stage. Service at the tables came to an immediate halt, and the people in the audience fell silent.
“In the Mongolian creation myth, doe and wild dog come together,” said Mikhail in that voice which was not his own. “Two beings with very different natures: in the wild, the dog would normally kill the deer for food. In the Mongolian myth, they both understand that they each need the qualities of the other if they are to survive in a hostile world, and that they should, therefore, join forces.
“To do this, they must first learn to love. And in order to love, they must cease to be who they are, otherwise they will never be able to live together. With the passing of time, the wild dog comes to accept that his instinct, always focused on the struggle to survive, now serves a greater purpose: finding someone with whom he can rebuild the world.”
He paused.
“When we dance, we spin around that same Energy, which rises up to our Lady and returns to us imbued with all her strength, just as the water in rivers evaporates, is transformed into clouds, and returns in the form of rain. My story today is about the circle of love.
“One morning, a farmer knocked loudly on the door of a monastery. When Brother Porter opened the door, the farmer held out to him a magnificent bunch of grapes.
“‘Dear Brother Porter, these are the finest grapes from my vineyard. Please accept them as a gift from me.’
“‘Why, thank you! I’ll take them straight to the Abbot, who will be thrilled with such a gift.’
“‘No, no. I brought them for you.’
“‘For me? But I don’t deserve such a beautiful gift from nature.’
“‘Whenever I knocked on the door, you opened it. When the harvest had been ruined by drought, you gave me a piece of bread and a glass of wine every day. I want this bunch of grapes to bring you a little of the sun’s love, the rain’s beauty, and God’s miraculous power.’
“Brother Porter put the grapes down where he could see them and spent the whole morning admiring them: they really were lovely. Because of this, he decided to give the present to the Abbot, whose words of wisdom had always been such a boon to him.
“The Abbot was very pleased with the grapes, but then he remembered that one of the other monks was ill and thought: ‘I’ll give him the grapes. Who knows, they might bring a little joy into his life.’
“But the grapes did not remain for very long in the room of the ailing monk, for he in turn thought: ‘Brother Cook has taken such good care of me, giving me only the very best food to eat. I’m sure these grapes will bring him great happiness.’ And when Brother Cook brought him his lunch, the monk gave him the grapes.
“‘These are for you. You are in close touch with the gifts nature gives us and will know what to do with this, God’s produce.’
“Brother Cook was amazed at the beauty of the grapes and drew his assistant’s attention to their perfection. They were so perfect that no one could possibly appreciate them more than Brother Sacristan, who had charge of the Holy Sacrament, and whom many in the monastery considered to be a truly saintly man.
“Brother Sacristan, in turn, gave the grapes to the youngest of the novices in order to help him understand that God’s work is to be found in the smallest details of the Creation.
When the novice received them, his heart was filled with the Glory of God, because he had never before seen such a beautiful bunch of grapes. At the same time, he remembered the day he had arrived at the monastery and the person who had opened the door to him; that gesture of opening the door had allowed him to be there now in that community of people who knew the value of miracles.
“Shortly before dark, he took the bunch of grapes to Brother Porter.
“‘Eat and enjoy. You spend most of your time here all alone, and these grapes will do you good.’
“Brother Porter understood then that the gift really was intended for him; he savored every grape and went to sleep a happy man. In this way, the circle was closed; the circle of happiness and joy which always wraps around those who are in contact with the energy of love.”
The woman called Alma sounded the cymbal.
“As we do every Thursday, we listen to a story of love and tell stories about the lack of love. Let us look at what is on the surface and then, little by little, we will understand what lies beneath: our habits, our values. And when we can penetrate that layer, we will be able to find ourselves. Who would like to begin?”
Several hands went up, including—to Marie’s surprise—mine. The noise started up again; people shifted in their seats. Mikhail pointed to a tall, pretty woman with blue eyes.
“Last week, I went to see a male friend of mine who lives alone in the mountains, near the border with Spain; he loves the good things of life and has often said that any wisdom he may have acquired comes from the fact that he lives each moment to the fullest. Now, right from the start, my husband was against my going to see this friend. He knows what he’s like, that his favorite pastimes are shooting birds and seducing women. But I needed to talk to this friend; I was going through a difficult time and only he could help me. My husband suggested I see a psychiatrist or go on a trip; we even had a row about it, but despite all these domestic pressures, I set off. My friend came to meet me at the airport and we spent the afternoon talking; we ate supper, drank some wine, talked a bit more and then I went to bed. When I woke up the next morning, we went for a walk near where he lives and he dropped me back at the airport.
“As soon as I got home, the questions began. Was he alone? Yes. You mean he didn’t have a girlfriend with him? No, he didn’t. Did you have anything to drink? Yes, I did. Why don’t you want to talk about it? But I am talking about it! Alone together in a house in the mountains, eh? Very romantic. So? And all you did was talk, you say? Yes, that’s all. And you expect me to believe that? Why shouldn’t you believe it? Because it goes against human nature—if a man and a woman get together, have a bit to drink, and talk about personal things, they’re bound to end up in bed!
“I agree with my husband. It does go against everything we’re taught. He’ll never believe the story I’ve just told, but it’s absolutely true. Since then, our life has become a little hell. It will pass, but going through all this pain is pointless, and all because we’ve been told that if a man and a woman like each other and circumstances allow, they’re bound to end up in bed together.”
Applause. Cigarettes were lit. The clink of glasses and bottles. “What’s going on?” whispered Marie. “Group therapy for couples?”
“It’s all part of the meeting. No one says whether it’s right or wrong, they just tell stories.”
“But why do they do it in public, in this irreverent way, with people drinking and smoking?”
“Perhaps it’s to stop things from getting too heavy. That way it’s easier. And if it helps to make things easier, what’s wrong with that?”
“Easier? Talking to a load of strangers who might go and repeat this story to her husband tomorrow?”
Someone else had started talking, and so I wasn’t able to tell Marie that it didn’t matter: everyone was there to talk about the lack of love disguised as love.
“I’m the husband of the woman who just told that story,” said a man, who must have been at least twenty years older than the pretty, young blonde woman. “Everything she said is true, but there’s something she doesn’t know and which I haven’t had the courage to tell her. I’ll do so now.
“When she went off to the mountains, I couldn’t sleep all night, and I started imagining, in detail, what was going on. When she arrives, the fire is already lit; she takes off her coat, takes off her sweater; she’s not wearing a bra under her thin T-shirt. He can clearly see the shape of her breasts.
“She pretends not to notice him looking at her. She says she’s going to the kitchen to get another bottle of champagne. She’s wearing very tight jeans, she walks slowly, and she doesn’t need to turn around to know that he’s watching her every move. She comes back, they talk about very personal things, which makes them feel even closer.
“They finish talking about the problem that took her there. Her cell phone rings; it’s me, wanting to know if she’s all right. She goes over to him, puts the phone to his ear, and they both listen to what I have to say; it’s an awkward conversation, because I know it’s too late to put any kind of pressure on her, it’s best just to pretend that everything’s fine and tell her to enjoy her time in the mountains, because the following day she’ll be back in Paris, taking care of the kids and doing the shopping.
“I hang up, knowing that he has heard the whole conversation. The two of them— because, before, they were sitting on separate sofas—are now very close indeed.
“At that point, I stopped thinking about what was happening in the mountains. I got up, went into my children’s bedroom, walked over to the window, and looked out over Paris, and do you know what I felt? I felt excited, very, very excited; the thought of the two of them together, knowing that my wife could, at that very moment, be kissing another man, making love with him, had aroused me sexually.
“I felt awful. How could I possibly get excited over something like that? The next day, I talked to two friends; obviously, I didn’t use myself as an example, but I asked them if they had ever felt aroused when they caught another man staring at their wife’s cleavage. They didn’t really answer the question because it’s such a taboo. But they both agreed that it’s always nice to know that your wife is desired by another man, although they wouldn’t go any further than that. Is this a secret fantasy hidden in the hearts of all men? I don’t know. This last week has been a little hell for both of us simply because I didn’t understand my own feelings. And because I can’t understand them, I blame her for provoking in me feelings that make my world seem suddenly unsafe.”
This time a lot of cigarettes were lit, but there was no applause. It was as if, even there, the subject continued to be a taboo.
I put up my hand again, and meanwhile asked myself if I agreed with what the man had just said. Yes, I did. I had imagined similar scenarios involving Esther and the soldiers she met in war zones, but I had never dared say as much, not even to myself.
Mikhail looked in my direction and nodded.
I don’t know how I managed to get to my feet and look at that audience, who were still visibly shocked by the story of the man who had felt aroused by the thought of his wife having sex with another man. No one seemed to be listening, and that helped me make a start.
“I apologize for not being as direct as the two previous speakers, but I nevertheless have something to say. I went to a train station today and learned that the distance between railway tracks is always 143.5 centimeters, or 4 feet 8½ inches. Why this absurd measurement? I asked my girlfriend to find out and this is what she discovered. When they built the first train carriages, they used the same tools as they had for building horse- drawn carriages. And why that distance between the wheels on carriages? Because that was the width of the old roads along which the carriages had to travel. And who decided that roads should be that width? Well, suddenly, we are plunged back into the distant past. It was the Romans, the first great road builders, who decided to make their roads that width. And why? Because their war chariots were pulled by two horses, and when placed side by side, the horses they used at the time took up 143.5 centimeters.
“So the distance between the tracks I saw today, used by our state-of-the-art high-speed trains, was determined by the Romans. When people went to the United States and started building railways there, it didn’t occur to them to change the width and so it stayed as it was. This even affected the building of space shuttles. American engineers thought the fuel tanks should be wider, but the tanks were built in Utah and had to be transported by train to the Space Center in Florida, and the tunnels couldn’t take anything wider. And so they had to accept the measurement that the Romans had decided was the ideal. But what has all this to do with marriage?”
I paused. Some people were not in the slightest bit interested in railway tracks and had started talking among themselves. Others were listening attentively, among them Marie and Mikhail.
“It has everything to do with marriage and with the two stories we have just heard. At some point in history, someone turned up and said: When two people get married, they must stay frozen like that for the rest of their lives. You will move along side by side like two tracks, keeping always that same distance apart. Even if sometimes one of you needs to be a little farther away or a little closer, that is against the rules. The rules say: Be sensible, think of the future, think of your children. You can’t change, you must be like two railway tracks that remain the same distance apart all the way from their point of departure to their destination. The rules don’t allow for love to change, or to grow at the start and diminish halfway through—it’s too dangerous. And so, after the enthusiasm of the first few years, they maintain the same distance, the same solidity, the same functional nature. Your purpose is to allow the train bearing the survival of the species to head off into the future: your children will only be happy if you stay just as you were—
143.5 centimeters apart. If you’re not happy with something that never changes, think of them, think of the children you brought into the world.
“Think of your neighbors. Show them that you’re happy, eat roast beef on Sundays, watch television, help the community. Think of society. Dress in such a way that everyone knows you’re in perfect harmony. Never glance to the side, someone might be watching you, and that could bring temptation; it could mean divorce, crisis, depression.
“Smile in all the photos. Put the photos in the living room, so that everyone can see them. Cut the grass, practice a sport—oh, yes, you must practice a sport in order to stay frozen in time. When sport isn’t enough, have plastic surgery. But never forget, these rules were established long ago and must be respected. Who established these rules? That doesn’t matter. Don’t question them, because they will always apply, even if you don’t agree with them.”
I sat down. There was a mixture of enthusiastic applause and indifference, and I wondered if I had gone too far. Marie was looking at me with a mixture of admiration and surprise.
The woman on stage sounded the cymbal.
I told Marie to stay where she was, while I went outside to smoke a cigarette: “They’ll perform a dance now in the name of love, in the name of the Lady.” “You can smoke in here, can’t you?”
“Yes, but I need to be alone.”
It may have been early spring, but it was still very cold; nevertheless, I was in need of some fresh air. Why had I told that story? My marriage to Esther had never been the way I described: two railway tracks, always beside each other, always forming two correct, straight lines, We had had our ups and downs; one or other of us had occasionally threatened to leave for good; and yet we continued on together.
Until two years ago.
Or until the moment when she began to want to know why she was unhappy.
No one should ever ask themselves that: Why am I unhappy? The question carries within it the virus that will destroy everything. If we ask that question, it means we want to find out what makes us happy. If what makes us happy is different from what we have now, then we must either change once and for all or stay as we are, feeling even more unhappy.
I now found myself in precisely that situation: I had a lively, interesting girlfriend, my work was going well, and there was every chance that, in the fullness of time, things would sort themselves out. I should resign myself to the situation. I should accept what life was offering me, not follow Esther’s example, not look at anyone else, but remember Marie’s words, and build a new life with her.
No, I can’t think like that. If I behave in the way people expect me to behave, I will become their slave. It requires enormous self-control not to succumb, because our natural tendency is to want to please, even if the person to be pleased is us. If I do that, I will lose not only Esther, but Marie, my work, my future, as well as any respect I have for myself and for what I have said and written.
When I went back in, I found that people were starting to leave. Mikhail appeared, having already changed out of his stage clothes.
“Listen, what happened at the pizzeria…”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” I said. “Let’s go for a walk by the Seine.”
Marie got the message and said that she needed an early night. I asked her to give us a lift in her taxi as far as the bridge just opposite the Eiffel Tower; that way, I could walk home afterward. I thought of asking where Mikhail lived, but felt that the question might be construed as an attempt to verify, with my own eyes, that Esther really wasn’t living with him.
On the way, Marie kept asking him what the meeting was about, and he always gave the same answer: it’s a way of recovering love. He said that he had liked my story about the railway tracks.
“That’s how love got lost,” he said. “When we started laying down rules for when love should or shouldn’t appear.”
“When was that?” Marie asked.
“I don’t know, but I know it’s possible to retrieve that Energy. I know, because when I dance, or when I hear the voice, love speaks to me.”
Marie didn’t know what he meant by “hearing the voice,” but, by then, we had reached the bridge. Mikhail and I got out and started walking in the cold Paris night.
“I know you were frightened by what you saw. The biggest danger when someone has a fit is that their tongue will roll back and they’ll suffocate. The owner of the restaurant knew what to do, so it’s obviously happened there before. It’s not that unusual. But your diagnosis is wrong. I’m not an epileptic. It happens whenever I get in touch with the Energy.”
Of course he was an epileptic, but there was no point in contradicting him. I was trying to act normally. I needed to keep the situation under control. I was surprised how easily he had agreed to this second meeting.
“I need you. I need you to write something about the importance of love,” said Mikhail. “Everyone knows that love is important. That’s what most books are about.”
“All right, let me put my request another way. I need you to write something about the new Renaissance.”
“What’s the new Renaissance?”
“It’s similar to the Italian Renaissance of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, when geniuses like Erasmus, Leonardo, and Michelangelo rejected the limitations of the present and the oppressive conventions of their own time and turned instead to the past. We’re beginning to see a return to a magical language, to alchemy and the idea of the
Mother Goddess, to people reclaiming the freedom to do what they believe in and not what the church or the government demand of them. As in fifteenth- and sixteenth- century Florence, we are discovering that the past contains the answers to the future.
“Your story about the railway tracks, for example: In how many other areas of our lives are we obeying rules we don’t understand? People read what you write—couldn’t you introduce the subject somewhere?”
“I never make deals over what I write,” I replied, remembering once more that I needed to keep my self-respect. “If it’s an interesting subject, if it’s in my soul, if the boat called The Word carries me to that particular island, I might write about it. But none of this has anything to do with my search for Esther.”
“I know, and I’m not trying to impose any conditions, I’m just suggesting something that seems important to me.”
“Did she tell you about the Favor Bank?”
“She did. But this isn’t a matter for the Favor Bank. It’s to do with a mission that I can’t fulfill on my own.”
“What you do in the Armenian restaurant, is that your mission?”
“That’s just a tiny part of it. We do the same thing on Fridays with a group of beggars. And on Wednesdays we work with a group of new nomads.”
New nomads? It was best not to interrupt; the Mikhail who was talking to me now had none of the arrogance he had shown in the pizzeria, none of the charisma he had revealed on stage or the vulnerability he had revealed on that evening at the book signing. He was a normal person, a colleague with whom we always end up, late at night, talking over the world’s problems.
“I can only write about things that really touch my soul,” I insist. “Would you like to come with us to talk to the beggars?”
I remembered Esther’s remark about the phony sadness in the eyes of those who should be the most wretched people in the world.
“Let me think about it first.”
We were approaching the Louvre, but he paused to lean on the parapet, and we both stood there contemplating the passing boats, which dazzled us with their spotlights.
“Look at them,” I said, because I needed to talk about something, afraid that he might get bored and go home. “They only see what the spotlights show them. When they go home,
they’ll say they know Paris. Tomorrow, they’ll go and see the Mona Lisa and claim they’ve visited the Louvre. But they don’t know Paris and have never really been to the Louvre. All they did was go on a boat and look at a painting, one painting, instead of looking at a whole city and trying to find out what’s happening in it, visiting the bars, going down streets that don’t appear in any of the tourist guides, and getting lost in order to find themselves again. It’s the difference between watching a porn movie and making love.”
“I admire your self-control. There you are talking about the boats on the Seine, all the while waiting for the right moment to ask the question that brought you to me. Feel free to talk openly about anything you like.”
There was no hint of aggression in his voice, and so I decided to come straight to the point.
“Where is Esther?”
“Physically, she’s a long way away, in Central Asia. Spiritually, she’s very close, accompanying me day and night with her smile and the memory of her enthusiastic words. She was the one who brought me here, a poor twenty-one-year-old with no future, an aberration in the eyes of the people in my village, or else a madman or some sort of shaman who had made a pact with the devil, and, in the eyes of the people in the city, a mere peasant looking for work.
“I’ll tell you my story another day, but the long and the short of it is that I knew English and started working as her interpreter. We were near the border of a country where the Americans were building a lot of military bases, preparing for the war in Afghanistan, and it was impossible to get a visa. I helped her cross the mountains illegally. During the week we spent together, she made me realize that I was not alone, that she understood me.
“I asked her what she was doing so far from home. After a few evasive answers, she finally told me what she must have told you: that she was looking for the place where love had hidden itself away. I told her about my mission to make the energy of love circulate freely in the world again. Basically, we were both looking for the same thing.
“Esther went to the French embassy and arranged a visa for me, as an interpreter of the Kazakh language, even though no one in my country speaks anything but Russian. I came to live here. We always met up when she returned from her missions abroad; we made two more trips together to Kazakhstan. She was fascinated by the Tengri culture, and by a nomad she had met and whom she believed held the key to everything.”
I would have liked to know what Tengri was, but the question could wait. Mikhail continued talking, and in his eyes I saw the same longing to be with Esther that I myself was feeling.
“We started working here in Paris. It was her idea to get people together once a week. She said, ‘The most important thing in all human relationships is conversation, but people don’t talk anymore, they don’t sit down to talk and listen. They go to the theater, the cinema, watch television, listen to the radio, read books, but they almost never talk. If we want to change the world, we have to go back to a time when warriors would gather around a fire and tell stories.’”
I remember Esther saying that all the really important things in our lives had arisen out of long conversations we’d had sitting at a table in some bar or walking along a street or in a park.
“It was my idea that these meetings should be on a Thursday because that’s how it is in the tradition in which I was brought up. But it was her idea to make occasional forays into the Paris streets at night. She said that beggars were the only ones who never pretend to be happy; on the contrary, they pretend to be sad.
“She gave me your books to read. I sensed that you too—possibly unconsciously— imagined the same world as we did. I realized that I wasn’t alone, even if I was the only one to hear the voice. Gradually, as more and more people started coming to the meetings, I began to believe that I really could fulfill my mission and help the energy of love to return, even if that meant going back into the past, back to the moment when that Energy left or went into hiding.”
“Why did Esther leave me?”
Was that all I was interested in? The question irritated Mikhail slightly.
“Out of love. Today, you used the example of the railway tracks. Well, she isn’t just another track running along beside you. She doesn’t follow rules, nor, I imagine, do you. I miss her too, you know.”
“So…”
“So if you want to find her, I can tell you where she is. I’ve already felt the same impulse, but the voice tells me that now is not the moment, that no one should interrupt her encounter with the energy of love. I respect the voice, the voice protects us, protects me, you, Esther.”
“When will the moment be right?”
“Perhaps tomorrow, in a year’s time, or never, and, if that were the case, then we would have to respect that decision. The voice is the Energy, and that is why she only brings people together when they are both truly prepared for that moment. And yet we all try and force the situation even if it means hearing the very words we don’t want to hear: ‘Go away.’ Anyone who fails to obey the voice and arrives earlier or later than he should, will never get the thing he wants.”
“I’d rather hear her tell me to go away than be stuck with the Zahir day and night. If she said that, she would at least cease to be an idée fixe and become a woman who now has a different life and different thoughts.”
“She would no longer be the Zahir, but it would be a great loss. If a man and a woman can make the Energy manifest, then they are helping all the men and women of the world.”
“You’re frightening me. I love her, you know I do, and you say that she still loves me. I don’t know what you mean by being prepared; I can’t live according to other people’s expectations, not even Esther’s.”
“As I understand it from conversations I had with her, at some point you got lost. The world started revolving exclusively around you.”
“That’s not true. She was free to forge her own path. She decided to become a war correspondent, even though I didn’t want her to. She felt driven to find out why people were unhappy, even though I told her this was impossible. Does she want me to go back to being a railway track running alongside another railway track, always keeping the same stupid distance apart, just because the Romans decided that was the way it should be?”
“On the contrary.”
Mikhail started walking again, and I followed him. “Do you believe that I hear a voice?”
“To be perfectly honest, I don’t know. But now that we’re here, let me show you something.”
“Everyone thinks I’m just having an epileptic fit, and I let them believe that because it’s easier. But the voice has been speaking to me ever since I was a child, when I first saw the Lady.”
“What lady?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Whenever I ask you something, you say: ‘I’ll tell you later.’”
“The voice is telling me something now. I know that you’re anxious and frightened. In the pizzeria, when I felt that warm wind and saw the lights, I knew that these were symptoms of my connection with the Power. I knew it was there to help us both. If you think that all the things I’ve been telling you are just the ravings of a young epileptic who wants to manipulate the feelings of a famous writer, I’ll bring you a map tomorrow
showing you where Esther is living, and you can go and find her. But the voice is telling us something.”
“Are you going to say what exactly, or will you tell me later?”
“I’ll tell you in a moment. I haven’t yet properly understood the message.” “But you promise to give me the address and the map.”
“I promise. In the name of the divine energy of love, I promise. Now what was it you wanted to show me?”
I pointed to a golden statue of a young woman riding a horse.
“This. She used to hear voices. As long as people respected what she said, everything was fine. When they started to doubt her, the wind of victory changed direction.”
Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orléans, the heroine of the Hundred Years War, who, at the age of seventeen, was made commander of the French troops because she heard voices and the voices told her the best strategy for defeating the English. Two years later, she was condemned to be burned at the stake, accused of witchcraft. I had used part of the interrogation, dated February 24, 1431, in one of my books.
She was questioned by Maître Jean Beaupère. Asked how long it had been since she had heard the voice, she replied:
“I heard it three times, yesterday and today. In the morning, at Vespers, and again when the Ave Maria rang in the evening…”
Asked if the voice was in the room, she replied that she did not know, but that she had been woken by the voice. It wasn’t in the room, but it was in the castle.
She asked the voice what she should do, and the voice asked her to get out of bed and place the palms of her hands together.
Then she said to the bishop who was questioning her:
“You say you are my judge. Take care what you are doing; for in truth I am sent by God, and you place yourself in great danger. My voices have entrusted to me certain things to tell to the King, not to you. The voice comes to me from God. I have far greater fear of doing wrong in saying to you things that would displease it than I have of answering you.”
Mikhail looked at me: “Are you suggesting…”
“That you’re the reincarnation of Joan of Arc? No, I don’t think so. She died when she was barely nineteen, and you’re twenty-five. She took command of the French troops and, according to what you’ve told me, you can’t even take command of your own life.”
We sat down on the wall by the Seine.
“I believe in signs,” I said. “I believe in fate. I believe that every single day people are offered the chance to make the best possible decision about everything they do. I believe that I failed and that, at some point, I lost my connection with the woman I loved. And now, all I need is to put an end to that cycle. That’s why I want the map, so that I can go to her.”
He looked at me and he was once more the person who appeared on stage and went into a trancelike state. I feared another epileptic fit—in the middle of the night, here, in an almost deserted place.
“The vision gave me power. That power is almost visible, palpable. I can manage it, but I can’t control it.”
“It’s getting a bit late for this kind of conversation. I’m tired, and so are you. Will you give me that map and the address?”
“The voice…Yes, I’ll give you the map tomorrow afternoon. What’s your address?”
I gave him my address and was surprised to realize that he didn’t know where Esther and I had lived.
“Do you think I slept with your wife?”
“I would never even ask. It’s none of my business.” “But you did ask when we were in the pizzeria.”
I had forgotten. Of course it was my business, but I was no longer interested in his answer.
Mikhail’s eyes changed. I felt in my pocket for something to place in his mouth should he have a fit, but he seemed calm and in control.
“I can hear the voice now. Tomorrow I will bring you the map, detailed directions, and times of flights. I believe that she is waiting for you. I believe that the world would be happier if just two people, even two, were happier. Yet the voice is telling me that we will not see each other tomorrow.”
“I’m having lunch with an actor over from the States, and I can’t possibly cancel, but I’ll be home during the rest of the afternoon.”
“That’s not what the voice is telling me.”
“Is the voice forbidding you to help me find Esther?”
“No, I don’t think so. It was the voice that encouraged me to go to the book signing. From then on, I knew more or less how things would turn out because I had read A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew.”
“Right, then,” and I was terrified he might change his mind, “let’s stick to our arrangement. I’ll be at home from two o’clock onward.”
“But the voice says the moment is not right.” “You promised.”
“All right.”
He held out his hand and said that he would come to my apartment late tomorrow afternoon. His last words to me that night were:
“The voice says that it will only allow these things to happen when the time is right.”
As I walked back home, the only voice I could hear was Esther’s, speaking of love. And as I remembered that conversation, I realized that she had been talking about our marriage.
When I was fifteen, I was desperate to find out about sex. But it was a sin, it was forbidden. I couldn’t understand why it was a sin, could you? Can you tell me why all religions, all over the world, even the most primitive of religions and cultures, consider that sex is something that should be forbidden?”
“How did we get onto this subject? All right, why is sex something to be forbidden?” “Because of food.”
“Food?”
“Thousands of years ago, tribes were constantly on the move; men could make love with as many women as they wanted and, of course, have children by them. However, the larger the tribe, the greater chance there was of it disappearing. Tribes fought among themselves for food, killing first the children and then the women, because they were the
weakest. Only the strongest survived, but they were all men. And without women, men cannot continue to perpetuate the species.
“Then someone, seeing what was happening in a neighboring tribe, decided to avoid the same thing happening in his. He invented a story according to which the gods forbade men to make love indiscriminately with any of the women in a tribe. They could only make love with one or, at most, two. Some men were impotent, some women were sterile, some members of the tribe, for perfectly natural reasons, thus had no children at all, but no one was allowed to change partners.
“They all believed the story because the person who told it to them was speaking in the name of the gods. He must have been different in some way: he perhaps had a deformity, an illness that caused convulsions, or some special gift, something, at any rate, that marked him out from the others, because that is how the first leaders emerged. In a few years, the tribe grew stronger, with just the right number of men needed to feed everyone, with enough women capable of reproducing and enough children to replace the hunters and reproducers. Do you know what gives a woman most pleasure within marriage?”
“Sex.”
“No, making food. Watching her man eat. That is a woman’s moment of glory, because she spends all day thinking about supper. And the reason must lie in that story hidden in the past—in hunger, the threat of extinction, and the path to survival.”
“Do you regret not having had any children?”
“It didn’t happen, did it? How can I regret something that didn’t happen?” “Do you think that would have changed our marriage?”
“How can I possibly know? I look at my friends, both male and female. Are they any happier because they have children? Some are, some aren’t. And if they are happy with their children that doesn’t make their relationship either better or worse. They still think they have the right to control each other. They still think that the promise to live happily ever after must be kept, even at the cost of daily unhappiness.”
“War isn’t good for you, Esther. It brings you into contact with a very different reality from the one we experience here. I know I’ll die one day, but that just makes me live each day as if it were a miracle. It doesn’t make me think obsessively about love, happiness, sex, food, and marriage.”
“War doesn’t leave me time to think. I simply am, full stop. Whenever it occurs to me that, at any moment, I could be hit by a stray bullet, I just think: ‘Good, at least I don’t have to worry about what will happen to my child.’ But I think too: ‘What a shame, I’m going to die and nothing will be left of me. I am only capable of losing a life, not bringing a life into the world.’”
“Do you think there’s something wrong with our relationship? I only ask because I get the feeling sometimes that you want to tell me something, but that you keep stopping yourself.”
“Yes, there is something wrong. We feel obliged to be happy together. You think you owe me everything that you are, and I feel privileged to have a man like you at my side.”
“I have a wife whom I love, but I don’t always remember that and find myself asking: ‘What’s wrong with me?’”
“It’s good that you’re able to recognize that, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, or with me, because I ask myself the same question. What’s wrong is the way in which we show our love now. If we were to accept that this creates problems, we could live with those problems and be happy. It would be a constant battle, but it would at least keep us active, alive and cheerful, with many universes to conquer; the trouble is we’re heading toward a point where things are becoming too comfortable, where love stops creating problems and confrontations and becomes instead merely a solution.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Everything. I can no longer feel the energy of love, what people call passion, flowing through my flesh and through my soul.”
“But something is left.”
“Left? Does every marriage have to end like this, with passion giving way to something people call ‘a mature relationship’? I need you. I miss you. Sometimes I’m jealous. I like thinking about what to give you for supper, even though sometimes you don’t even notice what you’re eating. But there’s a lack of joy.”
“No, there isn’t. Whenever you’re far away, I wish you were near. I imagine the conversations we’ll have when you or I come back from a trip. I phone you to make sure everything’s all right. I need to hear your voice every day. I’m still passionate about you, I can guarantee you that.”
“It’s the same with me, but what happens when we’re together? We argue, we quarrel over nothing, one of us wants to change the other, to impose his or her view of reality. You demand things of me that make no sense at all, and I do the same. Sometimes, in the silence of our hearts, we say to ourselves: ‘How good it would be to be free, to have no commitments.’”
“You’re right. And at moments like that, I feel lost, because I know that I’m with the woman I want to be with.”
“And I’m with the man I always wanted to have by my side.”
“Do you think that could change?”
“As I get older, and fewer men look at me, I find myself thinking: ‘Just leave things as they are.’ I’m sure I can happily deceive myself for the rest of my life. And yet, whenever I go off to cover a war, I see that a greater love exists, much greater than the hatred that makes men kill each other. And then, and only then, do I think I can change things.”
“But you can’t be constantly covering wars.”
“Nor can I live constantly in the sort of peace that I find with you. It’s destroying the one important thing I have: my relationship with you, even if the intensity of my love remains undiminished.”
“Millions of people the world over are thinking the same thing right now, they resist fiercely and allow those moments of depression to pass. They withstand one, two, three crises and, finally, find peace.”
“You know that isn’t how it is. Otherwise you wouldn’t have written the books you’ve written.”
I had arranged to meet the American actor-director for lunch at Roberto’s pizzeria. I needed to go back there as soon as possible in order to dispel any bad impression I might have made. Before I left, I told the maid and the caretaker of the apartment building that if I was not back in time and a young man with Mongolian features should deliver a package for me, they must take him up to my apartment, ask him to wait in the living room, and give him anything he needed. If, for some reason, the young man could not wait, then they should ask him to leave the package with one of them.
Above all, they must not let him leave without handing over the package!
I caught a taxi and asked to be dropped off on the corner of Boulevard St-Germain and Rue des Sts-Pères. A fine rain was falling, but it was only a few yards to the restaurant, its discreet sign, and Roberto’s generous smile, for he sometimes stood outside, smoking a cigarette. A woman with a baby stroller was coming toward me along the narrow pavement, and because there wasn’t room for both of us, I stepped off the curb to let her pass.
It was then, in slow motion, that the world gave a giant lurch: the ground became the sky, the sky became the ground; I had time to notice a few architectural details on the top of the building on the corner—I had often walked past before, but had never looked up. I remember the sensation of surprise, the feeling of a wind blowing hard in my ear, and the sound of a dog barking in the distance; then everything went dark.
I was bundled abruptly down a black hole at the end of which was a light. Before I could reach it, however, invisible hands were dragging me roughly back up, and I woke to voices and shouts all around me: it could only have lasted a matter of seconds. I was aware of the taste of blood in my mouth, the smell of wet asphalt, and then I realized that I had had an accident. I was conscious and unconscious at the same time; I tried without success to move; I could make out another person lying on the ground beside me; I could smell that person’s smell, her perfume; I imagined it must be the woman who had been pushing her baby along the pavement. Oh, dear God!
Someone came over and tried to help me up; I yelled at them not to touch me, any movement could be dangerous. I had learned during a trivial conversation one trivial night that if I ever injured my neck, any sudden movement could leave me permanently paralyzed.
I struggled to remain conscious; I waited for a pain that never came; I tried to move, then thought better of it. I experienced a feeling like cramp, like torpor. I again asked not to be moved. I heard a distant siren and knew then that I could sleep, that I no longer needed to fight to save my life; whether it was won or lost, it was no longer up to me, it was up to the doctors, to the nurses, to fate, to “the thing,” to God.
I heard the voice of a child—she told me her name, but I couldn’t quite grasp it—telling me to keep calm, promising me that I wouldn’t die. I wanted to believe what she said, I begged her to stay by my side, but she vanished; I was aware of someone placing something plastic around my neck, putting a mask over my face, and then I went to sleep again, and this time there were no dreams.
When I regained consciousness, all I could hear was a horrible buzzing in my ears; the rest was silence and utter darkness. Suddenly, I felt everything moving, and I was sure I was being carried along in my coffin, that I was about to be buried alive!
I tried banging on the walls, but I couldn’t move a muscle. For what seemed an eternity, I felt as if I were being propelled helplessly forward; then, mustering all my remaining strength, I uttered a scream that echoed around the enclosed space and came back to my own ears, almost deafening me; but I knew that once I had screamed, I was safe, for a light immediately began to appear at my feet: they had realized I wasn’t dead!
Light, blessed light—which would save me from that worst of all tortures, suffocation— was gradually illuminating my whole body: they were finally removing the coffin lid. I broke out in a cold sweat, felt the most terrible pain, but was also happy and relieved that they had realized their mistake and that joy could return to the world!
The light finally reached my eyes: a soft hand touched mine, someone with an angelic face was wiping the sweat from my brow.
“Don’t worry,” said the angelic face, with its golden hair and white robes. “I’m not an angel, you didn’t die, and this isn’t a coffin, it’s just a body scanner, to find out if you suffered any other injuries. There doesn’t appear to be anything seriously wrong, but you’ll have to stay in for observation.”
“No broken bones?”
“Just general abrasions. If I brought you a mirror, you’d be horrified, but the swelling will go down in a few days.”
I tried to get up, but she very gently stopped me. Then I felt a terrible pain in my head and groaned.
“You’ve had an accident; it’s only natural that you should be in pain.”
“I think you’re lying to me,” I managed to say. “I’m a grown man, I’ve had a good life, I can take bad news without panicking. Some blood vessel in my head is about to burst, isn’t it?”
Two nurses appeared and put me on a stretcher. I realized that I had an orthopedic collar around my neck.
“Someone told us that you asked not to be moved,” said the angel. “Just as well. You’ll have to wear this collar for a while, but barring any unforeseen events—because one can never tell what might happen—you’ll just have had a nasty shock. You’re very lucky.”
“How long? I can’t stay here.”
No one said anything. Marie was waiting for me outside the radiology unit, smiling. The doctors had obviously already told her that my injuries were not, in principle, very serious. She stroked my hair and carefully disguised any shock she might feel at my appearance.
Our small cortège proceeded along the corridor—Marie, the two nurses pushing the stretcher, and the angel in white. The pain in my head was getting worse all the time.
“Nurse, my head…”
“I’m not a nurse. I’m your doctor for the moment. We’re waiting for your own doctor to arrive. As for your head, don’t worry. When you have an accident, your body closes down all the blood vessels as a defense mechanism, to avoid loss of blood. When it sees that the danger is over, the vessels open up again, the blood starts to flow, and that feels
painful, but that’s all it is. Anyway, if you like, I can give you something to help you sleep.”
I refused. And as if surfacing from some dark corner of my soul, I remembered the words I had heard the day before:
“The voice says that it will only allow these things to happen when the time is right.”
He couldn’t have known. It wasn’t possible that everything that had happened on the corner of Boulevard St-Germain and Rue des Sts-Pères was the result of some universal conspiracy, of something predetermined by the gods, who, despite being fully occupied in taking care of this precariously balanced planet on the verge of extinction, had all downed tools merely to prevent me from going in search of the Zahir. Mikhail could not possibly have foreseen the future, unless he really had heard a voice and there was a plan and this was all far more important than I imagined.
Everything was beginning to be too much for me: Marie’s smiles, the possibility that someone really had heard a voice, the increasingly agonizing pain in my head.
“Doctor, I’ve changed my mind. I want to sleep. I can’t stand the pain.”
She said something to one of the nurses pushing the trolley, who went off and returned even before we had reached my room. I felt a prick in my arm and immediately fell asleep.
When I woke up, I wanted to know exactly what had happened; I wanted to know if the woman passing me on the pavement had escaped injury and what had happened to her baby. Marie said that I needed to rest, but, by then, Dr. Louit, my doctor and friend, had arrived and felt that there was no reason not to tell me. I had been knocked down by a motorbike. The body I had seen lying on the ground beside me had been the young male driver. He had been taken to the same hospital and, like me, had escaped with only minor abrasions. The police investigation carried out immediately after the accident made it clear that I had been standing in the middle of the road at the time of the accident, thus putting the motorcyclist’s life at risk.
It was, apparently, all my fault, but the motorcyclist had decided not to press charges. Marie had been to see him and talk to him; she had learned that he was an immigrant working illegally and was afraid of having any dealings with the police. He had been discharged twenty-four hours later, because he had been wearing a helmet, which lessened the risk of any damage to the brain.
“Did you say he left twenty-four hours later? Does that mean I’ve been in here more than a day?”
“You’ve been in here for three days. When you came out of the body scanner, the doctor here phoned me to ask if she could keep you on sedatives. It seemed to me that you’d been rather tense, irritated, and depressed lately, and so I told her she could.”
“So what happens next?”
“Two more days in the hospital and then three weeks with that contraption around your neck; you’re through the critical forty-eight-hour period. Of course, part of your body could still rebel against the idea of continuing to behave itself and then we’d have a problem on our hands. But let’s face that emergency if and when it arises; there’s no point in worrying unnecessarily.”
“So, I could still die?”
“As you well know, all of us not only can, but will, die.” “Yes, but could I still die as a result of the accident?” Dr. Louit paused.
“Yes. There’s always the chance that a blood clot could have formed which the machines have failed to pick up and that it could break free at any moment and cause an embolism. There’s also the possibility that a cell has gone berserk and is starting to form a cancer.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” said Marie.
“We’ve been friends for five years. He asked me a question and I gave him an answer. And now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to my office. Medicine isn’t quite as you think. In the world we live in, if a boy goes out to buy five apples, but arrives home with only two, people would conclude that he had eaten the three missing apples. In my world, there are other possibilities: he could have eaten them, but he could also have been robbed; the money he’d been given might not have been enough to buy the five apples he’d been sent for; he could have lost them on the way home; he could have met someone who was hungry and decided to share the fruit with that person, and so on. In my world, everything is possible and everything is relative.”
“What do you know about epilepsy?”
Marie knew at once that I was talking about Mikhail and could not conceal a flicker of displeasure. She said she had to go, there was a film crew waiting.
Dr. Louit, however, having picked up his things ready to leave, stopped to answer my question.
“It’s an excess of electrical impulses in one specific area of the brain, which provokes convulsions of greater or lesser severity. There’s no definitive study on the subject, but
they think attacks may be provoked when the person is under great strain. But don’t worry, while epileptic symptoms can appear at any age, epilepsy itself is unlikely to be brought on by colliding with a motorcycle.”
“So what causes it?”
“I’m not a specialist, but, if you like, I can find out.”
“Yes, if you would. And I have another question too, but please don’t go thinking that my brain’s been affected by the accident. Is it possible that epileptics can hear voices and have premonitions?”
“Did someone tell you this accident was going to happen?” “Not exactly, but that’s what I took it to mean.”
“Look, I can’t stay any longer, I’m giving Marie a lift, but I’ll see what I can find out about epilepsy for you.”
For the two days that Marie was away, and despite the shock of the accident, the Zahir took up its usual space in my life. I knew that if Mikhail had kept his word, there would be an envelope waiting for me at home containing Esther’s address; now, however, the thought frightened me.
What if Mikhail was telling the truth about the voice?
I started trying to remember the details of the accident: I had stepped down from the curb, automatically looking to see if anything was coming; I’d seen a car approaching, but it had appeared to be a safe distance away. And yet I had still been hit, possibly by a motorbike that was trying to overtake the car and was outside my field of vision.
I believe in signs. After I had walked the road to Santiago, everything had changed completely: what we need to learn is always there before us, we just have to look around us with respect and attention in order to discover where God is leading us and which step we should take next. I also learned a respect for mystery. As Einstein said, God does not play dice with the universe; everything is interconnected and has a meaning. That meaning may remain hidden nearly all the time, but we always know we are close to our true mission on earth when what we are doing is touched with the energy of enthusiasm.
If it is, then all is well. If not, then we had better change direction.
When we are on the right path, we follow the signs, and if we occasionally stumble, the Divine comes to our aid, preventing us from making a mistake. Was the accident a sign? Had Mikhail intuited a sign that was intended for me?
I decided that the answer to these questions was yes.
And perhaps because of this, because I accepted my destiny and allowed myself to be guided by something greater than myself, I noticed that, during the day, the Zahir began to diminish in intensity. I knew that all I had to do was open the envelope, read her address, and go and knock on her door, but the signs all indicated that this was not the moment. If Esther really was as important in my life as I thought, if she still loved me (as Mikhail said she did), why force a situation that would simply lead me into making the same mistakes I had made in the past?
How to avoid repeating them?
By knowing myself better, by finding out what had changed and what had provoked this sudden break in a road that had always been marked by joy.
Was that enough?
No, I also needed to know who Esther was, what changes she had undergone during the time we were together.
And was it enough to be able to answer these two questions? There was a third: Why had fate brought us together?
I had a lot of free time in that hospital room, and so I made a general review of my life. I had always sought both adventure and security, knowing that the two things did not really mix. I was sure of my love for Esther and yet I easily fell in love with other women, merely because the game of seduction is the most interesting game in the world.
Had I shown my wife that I loved her? Perhaps for a while, but not always. Why? Because I didn’t think it was necessary; she must know I loved her; she couldn’t possibly doubt my feelings.
I remember that, many years ago, someone asked me if there was a common denominator among all the various girlfriends I had had in my life. The answer was easy: me. And when I realized this, I saw how much time I had wasted looking for the right person—the women changed, but I remained the same and so got nothing from those shared experiences. I had lots of girlfriends, but I was always waiting for the right person. I controlled and was controlled and the relationship never went any further than that, until Esther arrived and changed everything.
I was thinking tenderly of my ex-wife; I was no longer obsessed with finding her, with finding out why she had left without a word of explanation. A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew had been a true account of my marriage, but it was, above all, my own testimony, declaring that I am capable of loving and needing someone else. Esther deserved more than just words, especially since I had never said those words while we were together.
It is always important to know when something has reached its end. Closing circles, shutting doors, finishing chapters, it doesn’t matter what we call it; what matters is to leave in the past those moments in life that are over. Slowly, I began to realize that I could not go back and force things to be as they once were: those two years, which up until then had seemed an endless inferno, were now beginning to show me their true meaning.
And that meaning went far beyond my marriage: all men and all women are connected by an energy which many people call love, but which is, in fact, the raw material from which the universe was built. This energy cannot be manipulated, it leads us gently forward, it contains all we have to learn in this life. If we try to make it go in the direction we want, we end up desperate, frustrated, disillusioned, because that energy is free and wild.
We could spend the rest of our life saying that we love such a person or thing, when the truth is that we are merely suffering because, instead of accepting love’s strength, we are trying to diminish it so that it fits the world in which we imagine we live.
The more I thought about this, the weaker the Zahir became and the closer I moved to myself. I prepared myself mentally to do a great deal of work, work that would require much silence, meditation, and perseverance. The accident had helped me understand that I could not force something that had not yet reached its time to sew.
I remembered what Dr. Louit had said: after such a trauma to the body, death could come at any moment. What if that were true? What if in ten minutes’ time, my heart stopped beating?
A nurse came into the room to bring me my supper and I asked him: “Have you thought about your funeral?”
“Don’t worry,” he replied. “You’ll survive; you already look much better.” “I’m not worried. I know I’m going to survive. A voice told me I would.”
I mentioned the “voice” deliberately, just to provoke him. He eyed me suspiciously, thinking that perhaps it was time to call for another examination and check that my brain really hadn’t been affected.
“I know I’m going to survive,” I went on. “Perhaps for a day, for a year, for thirty or forty years, but one day, despite all the scientific advances, I’ll leave this world and I’ll have a funeral. I was thinking about it just now and I wondered if you had ever thought about it.”
“Never. And I don’t want to either; besides, that’s what really terrifies me, knowing that everything will end.”
“Whether you like it or not, whether you agree or disagree, that is a reality none of us can escape. Do you fancy having a little chat about it?”
“I’ve got other patients to see, I’m afraid,” he said, putting the food down on the table and leaving as quickly as possible, as if running away—not from me, but from my words.
The nurse might not want to talk about it, but how about me thinking about it alone? I remembered some lines from a poem I had learned as a child:
When the Unwanted Guest arrives… I might be afraid.
I might smile or say:
My day was good, let night fall.
You will find the fields ploughed, the house clean, the table set,
and everything in its place.
It would be nice if that were true—everything in its place. And what would my epitaph be? Esther and I had both made wills, in which, among other things, we had chosen cremation: my ashes were to be scattered to the winds in a place called Cebreiro, on the road to Santiago, and her ashes were to be scattered over the sea. So there would be no inscribed headstone.
But what if I could choose an epitaph? I would ask to have these words engraved: “He died while he was still alive.”
That might sound like a contradiction in terms, but I knew many people who had ceased to live, even though they continued to work and eat and engage in their usual social activities. They did everything automatically, oblivious to the magic moment that each day brings with it, never stopping to think about the miracle of life, never understanding that the next minute could be their last on the face of this planet.
It was pointless trying to explain this to the nurse, largely because it was a different nurse who came to collect the supper dish. This new nurse started bombarding me with questions, possibly on the orders of some doctor. He wanted to know if I could remember my name, if I knew what year it was, the name of the president of the United States, the sort of thing they ask when they’re assessing your mental state.
And all because I asked the questions that every human being should ask: Have you thought about your funeral? Do you realize that sooner or later you’re going to die?
That night, I went to sleep smiling. The Zahir was disappearing, and Esther was returning, and if I were to die then, despite all that had happened in my life, despite all my failures, despite the disappearance of the woman I loved, the injustices I had suffered or inflicted on others, I had remained alive until the last moment, and could, with all certainty, affirm: “My day was good, let night fall.”
Two days later, I was back home. Marie went to prepare lunch, and I glanced through the accumulated correspondence. The entry phone rang. It was the caretaker to say that the envelope I had expected the previous week had been delivered and should be on my desk.
I thanked him, but, contrary to all my expectations, I was not in a rush to open it. Marie and I had lunch; I asked her how filming had gone and she asked me about my immediate plans, given that I wouldn’t be able to go out much while I was wearing the orthopedic collar. She said that she could, if necessary, come and stay.
“I’m supposed to do an appearance on some Korean TV channel, but I can always put it off or even cancel it altogether. That’s, of course, if you need my company.”
“Oh, I do, and it would be lovely to have you around.”
She smiled broadly and picked up the phone to call her manager and ask her to change her engagements. I heard her say: “Don’t tell them I’m ill though. I’m superstitious, and whenever I’ve used that excuse in the past, I’ve always come down with something really horrible. Just tell them I’ve got to look after the person I love.”
I had a series of urgent things to do too: interviews to be postponed, invitations that required replies, letters to be written thanking various people for the phone calls and flowers I’d received, things to read, prefaces and recommendations to write. Marie spent the whole day on the phone to my agent, reorganizing my diary so that no one would be left without a response. We had supper at home every evening, talking about the interesting and the banal, just like any other couple. During one of these suppers, after a few glasses of wine, she remarked that I had changed.
“It’s as if having a brush with death had somehow brought you back to life,” she said. “That happens to everyone.”
“But I must say—and, don’t worry, I don’t want to start an argument and I’m not about to have an attack of jealousy—you haven’t mentioned Esther once since coming home. The same thing happened when you finished A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew: the book acted as a kind of therapy, the effects of which, alas, didn’t last very long.”
“Are you saying that the accident has affected my brain?”
My tone wasn’t aggressive, but she nevertheless decided to change the subject and started telling me about a terrifying helicopter trip she’d had from Monaco to Cannes. Later, in bed, we made love—with great difficulty given my orthopedic collar—but we made love nevertheless and felt very close.
Four days later, the vast pile of paper on my desk had disappeared. There was only a large, white envelope bearing my name and the number of my apartment. Marie went to open it, but I told her it could wait.
She didn’t ask me about it; perhaps it was information about my bank accounts or some confidential correspondence, possibly from another woman. I didn’t explain either. I simply removed it from the desk and placed it on a shelf among some books. If I kept looking at it, the Zahir would come back.
At no point had the love I felt for Esther diminished, but every day spent in the hospital had brought back some intriguing memory: not of conversations we had had, but of moments we had spent together in silence. I remembered her eyes, which reflected her inner being. Whenever she set off on some new adventure, she was an enthusiastic young girl, or a wife proud of her husband’s success, or a journalist fascinated by every subject she wrote about. Later, she was the wife who no longer seemed to have a place in my life. That look of sadness in her eyes had started before she told me she wanted to be a war correspondent; it became a look of joy every time she came back from an assignment, but it was only a matter of days before the look of sadness returned.
One afternoon, the phone rang.
“It’s that young man,” Marie said, passing me the phone.
At the other end I heard Mikhail’s voice, first saying how sorry he was about the accident and then asking me if I had received the envelope.
“Yes, it’s here with me.”
“Are you going to go and find her?”
Marie was listening to our conversation and so I thought it best to change the subject. “We can talk about that when I see you.”
“I’m not nagging or anything, but you did promise to help me.”
“And I always keep my promises. As soon as I’m better, we’ll get together.”
He left me his cell phone number, and when I hung up, I looked across at Marie, who seemed a different woman.
“So nothing’s changed then,” she said. “On the contrary. Everything’s changed.”
I should have expressed myself more clearly and explained that I still wanted to see Esther, that I knew where she was. When the time was right, I would take a train, taxi, plane, or whatever just to be by her side. This would, of course, mean losing the woman who was there by my side at that moment, steadfastly doing all she could to prove how important I was to her.
I was, of course, being a coward. I was ashamed of myself, but that was what life was like, and—in a way I couldn’t really explain—I loved Marie too.
The other reason I didn’t say more was because I had always believed in signs, and when I recalled the moments of silence I had shared with my wife, I knew that—with or without voices, with or without explanations—the time to find Esther had still not yet arrived. I needed to concentrate more on those shared silences than on any of our conversations, because that would give me the freedom I needed to understand the time when things had gone right between us and the moment when they had started to go wrong.
Marie was there, looking at me. Could I go on being disloyal to someone who was doing so much for me? I started to feel uncomfortable, but I couldn’t tell her everything, unless…unless I could find an indirect way of saying what I was feeling.
“Marie, let’s suppose that two firemen go into a forest to put out a small fire. Afterward, when they emerge and go over to a stream, the face of one is all smeared with black, while the other man’s face is completely clean. My question is this: Which of the two will wash his face?”
“That’s a silly question. The one with the dirty face, of course.”
“No, the one with the dirty face will look at the other man and assume that he looks like him. And, vice versa, the man with the clean face will see his colleague covered in grime and say to himself: I must be dirty too. I’d better have a wash.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying that, during the time I spent in the hospital, I came to realize that I was always looking for myself in the women I loved. I looked at their lovely, clean faces and saw myself reflected in them. They, on the other hand, looked at me and saw the dirt on my face and, however intelligent or self-confident they were, they ended up seeing themselves reflected in me and thinking that they were worse than they were. Please, don’t let that happen to you.”
I would like to have added: that’s what happened to Esther, and I’ve only just realized it, remembering now how the look in her eyes changed. I’d always absorbed her life and her energy, and that made me feel happy and confident, able to go forward. She, on the other hand, had looked at me and felt ugly, diminished, because, as the years passed, my career—the career that she had done so much to make a reality—had relegated our relationship to second place.
If I was to see her again, my face needed to be as clean as hers. Before I could find her, I must first find myself.
ARIADNE’S THREAD
I am born in a small village, some kilometers from a slightly larger village where they have a school and a museum dedicated to a poet who lived there many years before. My father is nearly fifty years old, my mother is twenty-five. They met only recently when he was selling carpets; he had traveled all the way from Russia, but when he met her he decided to give up everything for her sake. She could be his daughter, but she behaves more like his mother, even helping him to sleep, something he has been unable to do properly since he was seventeen and was sent to fight the Germans in Stalingrad, one of the longest and bloodiest battles of the Second World War. Out of a battalion of three thousand men, only three survived.”
Oddly, Mikhail speaks almost entirely in the present tense. He doesn’t say “I was born” but “I am born.” It is as if everything were happening here and now.
“In Stalingrad, my father and his best friend are caught in an exchange of fire on their way back from a reconnaissance patrol. They take cover in a bomb crater and spend two days in the mud and snow, with no food and no means of keeping warm. They can hear other Russians talking in a nearby building and know that they must try to reach them, but the firing never stops, the smell of blood fills the air, the wounded lie screaming for help day and night. Suddenly, everything falls silent. My father’s friend, thinking that the
Germans have withdrawn, stands up. My father tugs at his legs, yelling, ‘Get down!’ But it’s too late; a bullet pierces his friend’s skull.
“Another two days pass, my father is alone, with his friend’s corpse beside him. He can’t stop yelling, ‘Get down!’ At last, someone rescues him and takes him to the nearby building. There is no food, only ammunition and cigarettes. They eat the tobacco. A week later, they start to eat the flesh of their dead, frozen companions. A third battalion arrives and shoots a way through to them; the survivors are rescued, the wounded are treated and then immediately sent back to the front. Stalingrad must not fall; the future of Russia is at stake. After four months of intense fighting, of cannibalism, of limbs being amputated because of frostbite, the Germans finally surrender—it is the beginning of the end for Hitler and his Third Reich. My father returns on foot to his village, almost a thousand kilometers from Stalingrad. He now finds it almost impossible to sleep, and when he does manage to drop off, he dreams every night of the friend he could have saved.
“Two years later, the war ends. He receives a medal, but cannot find employment. He takes part in services of commemoration, but has almost nothing to eat. He is considered one of the heroes of Stalingrad, but can only survive by doing odd jobs, for which he is paid a pittance. In the end, someone offers him work selling carpets. Suffering as he does from insomnia, he chooses to travel at night; he gets to know smugglers, wins their confidence, and begins to earn some money.
“He is caught out by the Communist government, who accuse him of consorting with criminals and, despite being a war hero, he spends the next ten years in Siberia labeled ‘a traitor of the people.’ When he is finally released, he is an old man and the only thing he knows anything about is carpets. He manages to reestablish his old contacts, someone gives him a few carpets to sell, but no one is interested in buying—times are hard. He decides to go a long way away, begging as he goes, and ends up in Kazakhstan.
“He is old and alone, but he needs to work in order to eat. He spends the days doing odd jobs and, at night, sleeps only fitfully and is woken by his own cries of ‘Get down!’ Strangely enough, despite all that he has been through, despite the insomnia, the poor food, the frustrations, the physical wear and tear, and the cigarettes that he smokes whenever he can scrounge them, he still has an iron constitution.
“In a small village, he meets a young woman. She lives with her parents; she takes him to her house, for, in that region, hospitality is paramount. They let him sleep in the living room, but are woken by his screams. The girl goes to him, says a prayer, strokes his head, and for the first time in many decades, he sleeps peacefully.
“The following day, she says that, when she was a girl, she had dreamed that a very old man would give her a child. She waited for years, had various suitors, but was always disappointed. Her parents were terribly worried, for they did not want to see their only daughter end up a spinster, rejected by the community.
“She asks him if he will marry her. He is taken aback; after all, she is young enough to be his granddaughter, and so he says nothing. At sunset, in the small living room, she asks if she can stroke his head before he goes to sleep. He enjoys another peaceful night.
“The following day, the subject of marriage comes up again, this time in the presence of her parents, who seem to think it a good idea; they just want their daughter to find a husband and to cease being a source of family shame. They invent a story about an old man who has come from far away and who is, in fact, a wealthy trader in carpets, but has grown weary of living a life of luxury and comfort, and has given it all up in order to go in search of adventure. People are impressed, they imagine a generous dowry, huge bank accounts, and think how lucky my mother is to have finally found someone who can take her away from that village in the back of beyond. My father listens to these stories with a mixture of fascination and surprise; he thinks of all the years he has spent alone, traveling, of all he has suffered, of how he never again found his own family, and he thinks that now, for the first time in his life, he could have a home of his own. He accepts the proposal, colludes with the lies about his past, and they get married according to the Muslim tradition. Two months later, she is pregnant with me.
“I live with my father until I am seven years old; he sleeps well, works in the fields, goes hunting, and talks to the other villagers about his money and his lands; and he looks at my mother as if she were the only good thing that has ever happened to him. I grow up believing that I am the son of a rich man, but one night, by the fire, he tells me about his past and why he married, but begs me not to tell anyone else. Soon, he says, he will die, and four months later he does. He breathes his last in my mother’s arms, smiling, as if he had never known a moment’s sadness. He dies a happy man.”
Mikhail is telling his story on a very cold spring night, although it is certainly not as cold as in Stalingrad, where temperatures can plummet to -35°C. We are sitting with some beggars who are warming themselves before an improvised bonfire. I had gone there after a second phone call from Mikhail, asking me to keep my part of the promise. During our conversation, he did not once mention the envelope he had left at my apartment, as if he knew—perhaps through the voice—that I had, in the end, decided to follow the signs and allow things to happen in their own time and thus free myself from the power of the Zahir.
When he asked me to meet him in one of the most dangerous parts of Paris, my first reaction was one of alarm. Normally, I would have said that I was far too busy and tried to convince him that we would be better off going to some cozy bar where we could safely discuss important matters. I was still afraid that he might have another epileptic fit in public, even though I now knew what to do, but that was preferable to the risk of being mugged when I was wearing an orthopedic collar and had no way of defending myself.
Mikhail insisted: I had to meet the beggars; they were part of his life and part of Esther’s life too. I had realized while I was in the hospital that there was something wrong with
my own life and that change was urgently needed. How best to achieve that change? By doing something totally different; for example, going to dangerous places and meeting social outcasts.
There is a story about a Greek hero, Theseus, who goes into a labyrinth in order to slay a monster. His beloved, Ariadne, gives him one end of a thread so that he can unroll it as he goes and thus be able to find his way out again. Sitting with those people, listening to Mikhail’s story, it occurs to me that I have not experienced anything like this for a long time—the taste of the unknown, of adventure. Who knows, perhaps Ariadne’s thread was waiting for me in precisely the kind of place that I would never normally visit, or only if I was convinced that I had to make an enormous effort to change my story and my life.
Mikhail continued his story, and I saw that the whole group was listening to what he was saying: the most satisfying encounters do not always happen around elegant tables in nice, warm restaurants.
“Every day, I have to walk nearly an hour to the village where I go to school. I see the women going to fetch water, the endless steppes, the Russian soldiers driving past in long convoys, the snow-capped mountains which, I am told, conceal a vast country: China.
The village I walk to each day has a museum dedicated to its one poet, a mosque, a school, and three or four streets. We are taught about the existence of a dream, an ideal: we must fight for the victory of Communism and for equality among all human beings. I do not believe in this dream, because even in this wretchedly poor village, there are marked differences: the Party representatives are above everyone else; now and again, they visit the big city, Almaty, and return bearing packages of exotic food, presents for their children, expensive clothes.
“One afternoon, on my way home, I feel a strong wind blowing, see lights all around me, and lose consciousness for a few moments. When I come to, I am sitting on the ground, and a very white little girl, wearing a white dress with a blue belt, is floating in the air above me. She smiles but says nothing, then disappears.
“I run home, interrupt my mother’s work, and tell her what I have seen. She is terrified and asks me never to repeat what I have just told her. She explains to me—as well as one can explain such a complicated concept to an eight-year-old boy—that it was just a hallucination. I tell her that I really did see the girl, that I can describe her in every detail. I add that I wasn’t afraid and came home at once because I wanted her to know what had happened.
“The following day, coming back from school, I look for the girl, but she isn’t there. Nothing happens for a whole week, and I begin to think that perhaps my mother was right: I must simply have dropped asleep and dreamed it all.
“Then, this time very early one morning, on my way to school, I again see the girl floating in the air and surrounded by a white halo. I don’t fall to the ground or see any flashing lights. We stand for a while, looking at each other; she smiles and I smile back; I ask her name, but receive no answer. At school, I ask my classmates if they have ever seen a girl floating in the air. They all laugh.
“During class, I am summoned to the headmaster’s office. He explains to me that I must have some mental problem—there is no such thing as ‘visions’; the only reality is what we see around us; religion was merely invented to fool the people. I ask about the mosque in the city; he says that only the old and superstitious go there, ignorant, idle people who lack the necessary energy to rebuild the socialist world. Then he issues a threat: if I repeat the story about the little girl, I will be expelled. Terrified, I beg him not to say anything to my mother, and he agrees, as long as I tell my classmates that I made the whole thing up.
“He keeps his promise and I keep mine. My friends aren’t much interested anyway and don’t even ask me to show them the place where I saw the girl. However, she continues to appear to me for the whole of the following month. Sometimes I faint first, sometimes I don’t. We never talk, we simply stay together for as long as she chooses to stay. My mother is beginning to grow worried because I always arrive home at a different time.
One night, she forces me to explain what I do between leaving school and getting home. I again tell her about the little girl.
“To my surprise, this time, instead of scolding me, she says that she will go to the place with me. The following day, we wake early and, when we arrive, the girl appears, but my mother cannot see her. My mother tells me to ask the girl something about my father. I don’t understand the question, but I do as she requests, and then, for the first time, I hear the voice. The girl does not move her lips, but I know she is talking to me: She says that my father is fine and is watching over us, and that he is being rewarded now for all his sufferings on earth. She suggests that I remind my mother about the heater. I do so, and my mother starts to cry and explains that because of his many hardships during the war, the thing my father most enjoyed was sitting next to a heater. The girl says that the next time my mother passes that way she should tie a scrap of fabric and a prayer around the small tree growing there.
“The visions continue for a whole year. My mother tells some of her closest friends, who tell other friends, and soon the tree is covered in scraps of fabric. Everything is done in the greatest secrecy; the women ask about loved ones who have died; I listen to the voice’s answers and pass on the messages. Usually, their loved ones are fine, and on only two occasions does the girl ask the group to go to a nearby hill at sunrise and say a wordless prayer for the souls of those people. Apparently, I sometimes go into a trance, fall to the ground, and babble incomprehensibly, but I can never remember anything about it. I only know that when I am about to go into a trance, I feel a warm wind blowing and see bubbles of light all around me.
“One day, when I am taking a group to meet the little girl, we are prevented from doing so by the police. The women protest and shout, but we cannot get through. I am escorted to school, where the headmaster informs me that I have just been expelled for provoking rebellion and encouraging superstition.
“On the way back, I see that the tree has been cut down and the ribbons scattered on the ground. I sit down alone and weep, because those had been the happiest days of my life. At that moment, the girl reappears. She tells me not to worry, that this was all part of the plan, even the destruction of the tree, and that she will accompany me now for the rest of my days and will always tell me what I must do.”
“Did she never tell you her name?” asks one of the beggars.
“Never. But it doesn’t matter because I always know when she’s talking to me.” “Could we find out something about our dead?”
“No. That only happened during one particular period. Now my mission is different. May I go on with my story?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “But can I just ask one thing? There’s a town in southwest France called Lourdes. A long time ago, a shepherdess saw a little girl, who seems to correspond to your vision.”
“No, you’re wrong,” says one of the older beggars, who has an artificial leg. “The shepherdess, whose name was Bernadette, saw the Virgin Mary.”
“I’ve written a book about her visions and I had to study the matter closely,” I say. “I read everything that was published about it at the end of the nineteenth century; I had access to Bernadette’s many statements to the police, to the church, and to scholars. At no point does she say that she saw a woman; she insists it was a girl. She repeated the same story all her life and was deeply angered by the statue that was placed in the grotto; she said it bore no resemblance to her vision, because she had seen a little girl, not a woman. Nevertheless, the church appropriated the story, the visions, and the place and transformed the apparition into the Mother of Jesus, and the truth was forgotten. If a lie is repeated often enough, it ends up convincing everyone. The only difference is that ‘the little girl’—as Bernadette always referred to her—had a name.”
“What was it?” asks Mikhail.
“‘I am the Immaculate Conception.’ Obviously that isn’t a name like Beatriz or Maria or Isabelle. She describes herself as a fact, an event, a happening, which is sometimes translated as ‘I am birth without sex.’ Now, please, go on with your story.”
“Before he does, can I ask you something?” says another beggar, who must be about my age. “You just said that you’ve written a book; what’s the title?”
“I’ve written many books.”
And I tell him the title of the book in which I mention the story of Bernadette and her vision.
“So you’re the husband of the journalist?”
“Are you Esther’s husband?” asks a female beggar, wide-eyed; she is dressed garishly, in a green hat and a purple coat.
I don’t know what to say.
“Why hasn’t she been back here?” asks someone else. “I hope she isn’t dead. She was always going to such dangerous places. I often told her she shouldn’t. Look what she gave me!”
And she shows me a scrap of bloodstained fabric, part of the dead soldier’s shirt. “No, she’s not dead,” I say. “But I’m surprised to hear that she used to come here.” “Why? Because we’re different?”
“No, you misunderstand me. I’m not judging you. I’m surprised and pleased to know that she did.”
However, the vodka we have been drinking to ward off the cold is having an effect on all of us.
“Now you’re being ironic,” says a burly man with long hair, who looks as if he hasn’t shaved for several days. “If you think you’re in such bad company, why don’t you leave.”
I have been drinking too and that gives me courage.
“Who are you? What kind of life is this? You’re healthy, you could work, but instead you prefer to hang around doing nothing!”
“We choose to stay outside, outside a world that is fast collapsing, outside people who live in constant fear of losing something, who walk along the street as if everything was fine, when, in fact, everything is bad, very bad indeed! Don’t you beg too? Don’t you ask for alms from your boss to pay the owner of your apartment?”
“Aren’t you ashamed to be wasting your life?” asks the woman in the purple coat.
“Who said I’m wasting my life? I do precisely what I want to do.” The burly man interrupts, saying:
“And what is it you want? To live on top of the world? Who told you that the mountain is necessarily better than the plain? You think we don’t know how to live, don’t you? Well, your wife understood that we know exactly what we want from life. Do you know what we want? Peace! Freedom! And not to be obliged to follow the latest fashions—we make our own fashions here! We drink when we want to and sleep whenever we feel like it!
Not one person here chose slavery and we’re proud of it, even though you and people like you may think we’re just a lot of pathetic freeloaders!”
The voices are beginning to grow aggressive. Mikhail steps in: “Do you want to hear the rest of my story or shall we leave now?”
“He’s criticizing us!” says the man with the artificial leg. “He came here to judge us, as if he were God!”
There are a few more rumbles of complaint, someone slaps me on the back, I offer around my cigarettes, the bottle of vodka is placed in my hand again. People gradually calm down, and I am still surprised and shocked that these people knew Esther, apparently better than I did, since she gave them—and not me—a piece of that bloodstained shirt.
Mikhail goes on with his story.
“Since I have nowhere to go and study and I’m still too young to look after horses— which are the pride of our region and our country—I become a shepherd. During the first week, one of the sheep dies and a rumor goes around that I’m cursed, that I’m the son of a man who came from far away and promised my mother great wealth, then ended up leaving us nothing. The Communists may have told them that religion is just a way of giving false hopes to the desperate, they may all have been brought up to believe that only reality exists and that anything our eyes can’t see is just the fruit of the human imagination; but the ancient traditions of the steppes remain untouched and are passed by word of mouth across the generations.
“Now that the tree has been felled, I no longer see the little girl, although I still hear her voice. I ask her to help me in tending the flocks, and she tells me to be patient; there are difficult times ahead, but before I am twenty-two a woman from far away will come and carry me off to see the world. She also tells me that I have a mission to fulfill, and that mission is to spread the true energy of love throughout the world.
“The owner of the sheep is worried by the increasingly wild rumors. Oddly, the people spreading these rumors and trying to destroy my life are the very people whom the little girl had helped during the whole of the previous year. One day, he decides to go to the
Communist Party office in the next village, where he learns that both I and my mother are considered to be enemies of the people. I am immediately dismissed. Not that this greatly affects our life, because my mother does embroidery for a company in the largest city in the region and there no one knows that we are enemies of the people and of the working classes; all the factory owners want is for her to continue working on her embroidery from dawn to dusk.
“I now have all the time in the world and so I wander the steppes with the hunters, who know my story and believe that I have magical powers, because they always find foxes when I’m around. I spend whole days at the museum of the poet, studying his possessions, reading his books, listening to the people who come there to recite his verses. Now and then, I feel the warm wind blowing, see the lights, and fall to the ground, and then the voice tells me concrete facts—when the next drought will come, when the animals will fall sick, when the traders will arrive. I tell no one except my mother, who is becoming ever more anxious and concerned about me.
“One day, she takes me to see a doctor who is visiting the area. After listening attentively to my story, taking notes, peering into my eyes with a strange instrument, listening to my heart, and tapping my knee, he diagnoses a form of epilepsy. He says it isn’t contagious and that the attacks will diminish with age.
“I know it isn’t an illness, but I pretend to believe him so as to reassure my mother. The director of the museum, who notices me struggling to learn, takes pity on me and becomes my teacher. With him I learn geography and literature and the one thing that will prove vital to me in the future: English. One afternoon, the voice asks me to tell the director that he will shortly be offered an important post. When I tell him this, all I hear is a timid laugh and a firm response: there isn’t the remotest chance of this ever happening because not only has he never been a Party member, he is a devout Muslim.
“I am fifteen years old. Two months after this conversation, I sense that something is changing in the region. The normally arrogant civil servants are suddenly much kinder and ask if I would like to go back to school. Great convoys of Russian soldiers head off to the frontier. One evening, while I am studying in the little office that once belonged to the poet, the director comes running in and looks at me with a mixture of alarm and embarrassment. He tells me that the one thing he could never imagine happening—the collapse of the Communist regime—is happening right now, and with incredible speed. The former Soviet republics are becoming independent countries; the news from Almaty is all about the formation of a new government, and he has been appointed to govern the province!
“Instead of joyfully embracing me, he asks me how I knew this was going to happen. Had I overheard someone talking about it? Had I been engaged by the secret services to spy on him because he did not belong to the Party? Or—worst of all—had I, at some point in my life, made a pact with the devil?
“I remind him that he knows my story: the little girl, the voice, the attacks that allow me to hear things that other people do not know. He says this is just part of my illness; there is only one prophet, Mohammed, and everything that needed to be said has already been revealed. This, he goes on, does not mean that the devil is not still abroad in the world, using all kinds of tricks—including a supposed ability to foresee the future—to deceive the weak and lure people away from the true faith. He had given me a job because Islam demands that we should be charitable, but now he deeply regretted it: I am clearly either a tool of the secret services or an envoy of the devil.
“He dismisses me there and then.
“Life had not been easy before and it now becomes harder still. The factory for which my mother works, and which once belonged to the government, falls into private hands, and the new owners have very different ideas; they restructure the whole business and she, too, is dismissed. Two months later, we have nothing to live on, and all that remains for us is to leave the village where I have spent my whole life and go in search of work.
“My grandparents refuse to leave; they would rather die of hunger on the land where they were born and have spent their entire lives. My mother and I go to Almaty and I see my first big city: I am amazed at the cars, the huge buildings, the neon signs, the escalators and—above all—the elevators. My mother gets a job in a shop and I go to work at a garage as a trainee mechanic. Much of the money we earn is sent back to my grandparents, but there is enough left over for us to be able to eat and for me to see things I have never seen before: films, fairs, and football games.
“When we move to the city, my attacks vanish, but so does the voice and the little girl’s presence. It’s better that way, I decide. I am too fascinated by Almaty and too busy earning a living to miss the invisible friend who has been my companion since I was eight years old; I realize that all it takes to become someone in the world is a little intelligence. Then, one Sunday night, I am sitting at our small apartment’s only window, which looks out onto a small dirt alleyway. I am very worried because, the day before, I dented a car as I was maneuvering it inside the garage and am so frightened I might get the sack that I haven’t eaten all day.
“Suddenly, I feel the warm wind and see the lights. According to my mother, I fell to the floor and spoke in a strange language and the trance seemed to last longer than usual. I remember that it was then that the voice reminded me of my mission. When I come to, I can feel the presence of the little girl again, and although I cannot see her, I can talk to her.
“A change of home has meant a change of worlds too, and I am no longer interested in all this. Nevertheless, I ask her what my mission is: the voice tells me that it is the mission shared by all human beings—to fill the world with the energy of total love. I ask about the one thing that is really worrying me at that precise moment: the dented car and the owner’s reaction. She tells me not to worry, just tell the truth and he will understand.
“I work at the garage for five more years. I make friends, have my first girlfriends, discover sex, get involved in street fights; in short, I have an entirely normal adolescence. I have a few fits and, at first, my friends are surprised, but then I invent some story about being in possession of ‘higher powers’ and this earns me their respect. They ask for my help, consult me when they have problems with their girlfriends or with their families, but I never ask the voice for advice—the traumatic experience of seeing the tree cut down all those years ago has made me realize that when you help someone you get only ingratitude in return.
“If my friends probe further, I tell them I belong to a ‘secret society.’ After decades of religious repression in Kazakhstan, mysticism and the esoteric are now very fashionable in Almaty. Books are published about people with so-called higher powers, about gurus and teachers from India and China; courses of self-improvement abound. I go to a few, but realize that I have nothing to learn. The only thing I really trust is the voice, but I am too busy to pay attention to what it is saying.
“One day, a woman in a four-wheel drive stops at the garage where I work and asks me to fill up the tank. She addresses me in halting, heavily accented Russian, and I respond in English. She seems relieved and asks if I know of an interpreter who could go with her into the interior of Kazakhstan.
“The moment she says this, the little girl’s presence fills the whole place, and I understand that this is the person I have been waiting for all my life. She is my way out, and I must not miss this opportunity. I tell her that, if she wants, I can be her interpreter. She says that I obviously have a job already and, besides, she needs someone older, more experienced, someone who is free to travel. I say that I know every path in the steppes and the mountains, and I lie, saying that the job I have is only temporary. I beg her to give me a chance; reluctantly, she arranges to meet me later in the city’s most luxurious hotel.
“We meet in the lounge; she tests my knowledge of English, asks a series of questions about the geography of Central Asia, wants to know who I am and where I come from. She is suspicious and will not say exactly what she does or where she wants to go. I try to play my part as best I can, but I can see she’s not convinced.
“And I am surprised to realize that, for no apparent reason, I am in love with her, with this woman I have only known for a matter of hours. I control my anxiety and once more place my trust in the voice. I plead for help from the invisible girl and ask her to enlighten me; I promise that, if I get this job, I will carry out the mission entrusted to me; she had told me that one day a woman would come and take me far away from there; she had been there with me when the woman stopped to fill her tank; I need a positive response.
“After Esther’s intense questioning, I sense that I am beginning to win her confidence; she warns me that what she wants to do is completely illegal. She explains that she is a journalist and wants to write an article about the American bases being built in a
neighboring country in preparation for a war that is about to begin. Her application for a visa has been turned down and so we will have to travel on foot, crossing the border at points where there are no guards. Her contacts have given her a map and shown her where it is safe to cross, but she says she will reveal none of this until we are far from Almaty. If I want to go with her, I must be at the hotel in two days’ time at eleven o’clock in the morning. She promises me only a week’s wages, unaware that I have a permanent job, earn enough to help out my mother and my grandparents, and that my boss trusts me despite having been witness to several of the convulsive attacks—what he calls my “epileptic fits”—that always accompany my contacts with the unknown world.
“Before saying goodbye, the woman tells me her name—Esther—and warns me that if I go to the police to report her, she will be arrested and deported. She also says that there are moments in life when we need to trust blindly in intuition, which is what she is doing now. I tell her not to worry. I feel tempted to say something about the voice and the presence, but decide against it. I go home, talk to my mother, and tell her I’ve found a new job as an interpreter, which is better paid but will involve me going away for a while. She doesn’t seem in the least concerned; everything around me is developing as if it had long been planned and we were all just waiting for the right moment.
“I sleep badly and the following day I arrive earlier than usual at the garage. I tell my boss that I’m sorry, but I’ve found a new job. He says that, sooner or later, they’ll find out about my illness, that it’s very risky giving up steady employment for something less certain, but, just as happened with my mother, he makes no real fuss about letting me go, as if the voice were manipulating the minds of all the people I have to talk to that day, facilitating things, helping me take the first step.
“When Esther and I meet at the hotel, I tell her: ‘If we’re caught, you’ll just be deported but I’ll get put in prison, possibly for many years. Since I’m running the greater risk, you really ought to trust me.’ She seems to understand what I’m saying. We walk for two days; a group of men are waiting for her on the other side of the frontier; she goes off with them and returns shortly afterward, frustrated and angry. The war is about to start, all the roads are being guarded, and it’s impossible to go any farther without being arrested as a spy.
“We start the journey back. The usually self-confident Esther seems suddenly sad and confused. To distract her, I recite some lines written by the poet who used to live close to my village, at the same time thinking that in forty-eight hours this whole experience will be over. However, I prefer to trust in the voice. I must do everything I can to prevent Esther leaving as suddenly as she came; perhaps I should show her that I have always been waiting for her, that she is important to me.
“That night, after rolling out our sleeping bags near some rocks, I reach out and touch her hand. She gently pulls back, saying that she’s married. I realize that I have made a foolish blunder; then, since I now have nothing to lose, I tell her about the visions I had as a child, about my mission to spread love throughout the world, about the doctor’s diagnosis of epilepsy.
“To my surprise, she understands exactly what I’m talking about. She tells me a little about her life. She says that she loves her husband and that he loves her, but that, with the passing of time, something important has been lost, and she prefers now to be far away from him, rather than watch her marriage slowly disintegrate. She had everything in life, and yet she was unhappy; although she could easily go through the rest of her life pretending that this unhappiness didn’t exist, she was terrified of falling into a depression from which she might never emerge.
“That is why she decided to give up everything and go in search of adventure, in search of things that leave her no time to think about a love that is dying. However, the more she looked, the more confused she became, the more alone she felt. She feels she has completely lost her way, and the experience we have just had seems to be telling her that she is on the wrong track and should go back to her daily routine.
“I suggest trying a less closely guarded trail, say that I know smugglers in Almaty who could help us, but she seems to have no energy, no will to go on.
“At that moment, the voice tells me to bless Esther and to dedicate her to the earth. Without really knowing what I am doing, I get up, open my backpack, dip my fingers in the small bottle of oil we have taken with us for cooking, place my hand on her head and pray in silence, asking, at the end, that she continue her search, because it is important for all of us. The voice is telling me—and I repeat the words out loud to her—that if just one person changes, the whole human race is changed. She puts her arms around me, and I can feel the earth blessing her, and we stay like that together for several hours.
“Afterward, I ask if she believes what I told her about the voice. She says that she both does and doesn’t. She believes that we all have a power that we never use and that I have clearly come into contact with that power through my epileptic fits, but this is something we can find out about together. She has been thinking of interviewing a nomad who lives to the north of Almaty and who is said by everyone to have magical powers. I am welcome to accompany her. When she tells me the man’s name, I realize that I know his grandson and that this could greatly facilitate matters.
“We drive through Almaty, stopping only to fill the tank with gas and buy some food, then we drive on in the direction of a tiny village near an artificial lake constructed by the Soviet regime. I find out where the nomad is staying, but despite telling one of his assistants that I know the man’s grandson, we still have to wait many hours, for there is a large crowd wanting the advice of this man they consider to be a saint.
“At last, we are ushered in. By acting as interpreter at that interview and by reading and rereading Esther’s article when it was published, I learn several things I needed to know.
“Esther asks why people are sad.
“‘That’s simple,’ says the old man. ‘They are the prisoners of their personal history. Everyone believes that the main aim in life is to follow a plan. They never ask if that plan
is theirs or if it was created by another person. They accumulate experiences, memories, things, other people’s ideas, and it is more than they can possibly cope with. And that is why they forget their dreams.’
“Esther remarks that many people say to her, ‘You’re lucky, you know what you want from life, whereas I don’t even know what I want to do.’
“‘Of course they know,’ replies the nomad. ‘How many people do you know who say: I’ve never done what I wanted, but then, that’s life. If they say they haven’t done what they wanted, then, at some point, they must have known what it was that they did want. As for life, it’s just a story that other people tell us about the world and about how we should behave in the world.’
“‘Even worse are those people who say: I’m happy because I’m sacrificing my life for those I love.’
“‘And do you think that the people who love us want to see us suffering for their sakes? Do you think that love is a source of suffering?’
“‘To be honest, yes.’ “‘Well, it shouldn’t be.’
“‘If I forget the story other people have told me, I’ll also forget a lot of very important things life has taught me. What was the point of struggling to learn so much? What was the point of struggling to gain experience, so as to be able to deal with my career, my husband, my various crises?’
“‘Accumulated knowledge is useful when it comes to cooking or living within your means or wrapping up warm in winter or respecting certain limits or knowing where particular bus and train lines go. Do you believe that your past loves have taught you to love better?’
“‘They’ve taught me to know what I want.’
“‘I didn’t ask that. Have your past loves taught you to love your husband better?’
“‘No, on the contrary. In order to surrender myself to him, I had to forget all the scars left by other men. Is that what you mean?’
“‘In order for the true energy of love to penetrate your soul, your soul must be as if you had just been born. Why are people unhappy? Because they want to imprison that energy, which is impossible. Forgetting your personal history means leaving that channel clear, allowing that energy to manifest itself each day in whatever way it chooses, allowing yourself to be guided by it.’
“‘That’s all very romantic, but very difficult too, because that energy gets blocked by all kinds of things: commitments, children, your social situation…’
“‘…and, after a while, by despair, fear, loneliness, and your attempts to control the uncontrollable. According to the tradition of the steppes—which is known as the Tengri—in order to live fully, it is necessary to be in constant movement; only then can each day be different from the last. When they passed through cities, the nomads would think: The poor people who live here, for them everything is always the same. The people in the cities probably looked at the nomads and thought: Poor things, they have nowhere to live. The nomads had no past, only the present, and that is why they were always happy, until the Communist governors made them stop traveling and forced them to live on collective farms. From then on, little by little, they came to believe that the story society told them was true. Consequently, they have lost all their strength.’
“‘No one nowadays can spend their whole life traveling.’
“‘Not physically, no, but they can on a spiritual plane. Going farther and farther, distancing yourself from your personal history, from what you were forced to become.’
“‘How does one go about abandoning the story one was told?’
“‘By repeating it out loud in meticulous detail. And as we tell our story, we say goodbye to what we were and, as you’ll see if you try, we create space for a new, unknown world. We repeat the old story over and over until it is no longer important to us.’
“‘Is that all?’
“‘There is just one other thing: as those spaces grow, it is important to fill them up quickly, even if only provisionally, so as not to be left with a feeling of emptiness.’
“‘How?’
“‘With different stories, with experiences we never dared to have or didn’t want to have. That is how we change. That is how love grows. And when love grows, we grow with it.’
“‘Does that mean we might lose things that are important?’
“‘Never. The important things always stay; what we lose are the things we thought were important but which are, in fact, useless, like the false power we use to control the energy of love.’
“The old man tells her that her time is up and that he has other people to see. Despite my pleas he proves inflexible, but tells Esther that if she ever comes back, he will teach her more.”
“Esther is only staying in Almaty for another week, but promises to return. During that time, I tell her my story over and over and she tells me hers, and we see that the old man is right: something is leaving us, we are lighter, although we could not really say that we are any happier.
“The old man had given us another piece of advice: fill that space up quickly. Before she leaves, she asks if I would like to go to France so that we can continue this process of forgetting. She has no one with whom she can share all this; she can’t talk to her husband; she doesn’t trust the people she works with; she needs someone from outside, from far away, who has, up until then, had nothing to do with her personal history.
“I say that I would like to do that and only then mention what the voice had prophesied. I also tell her that I don’t know French and that my only work experience so far has been tending sheep and working in a garage.
“At the airport, she asks me to take an intensive course in French. I ask her why she wants me to go to France. She repeats what she has said and admits she’s afraid of the space opening up around her as she erases her personal history; she’s afraid that everything will rush back in more intensely than before, and then there will be no way of freeing herself from her past. She tells me not to worry about buying a ticket or getting a visa; she will take care of everything. Before going through passport control, she looks at me, smiles, and says that, although she may not have known it, she had been waiting for me as well. The days we had spent together had been the happiest she had known in the last three years.
“I start working at night, as a bouncer at a striptease joint, and during the day I devote myself to learning French. Oddly enough, the attacks diminish, but the presence also goes away. I tell my mother that I’ve been invited to go abroad, and she tells me not to be so naive, I’ll never hear from the woman again.
“A year later, Esther returns to Almaty. The expected war has begun, and someone else has written an article about the secret American bases, but Esther’s interview with the old man had been a great success and now she has been asked to write a long article on the disappearance of the nomads. ‘Apart from that,’ she said, ‘it’s been ages since I told my story to anyone and I’m starting to get depressed.’
“I help put her in touch with the few tribes who still travel, with the Tengri tradition, and with local shamans. I am now fluent in French, and over supper she gives me various forms from the consulate to fill in, gets me a visa, buys me a ticket, and I come to Paris. We both notice that, as we empty our minds of old stories, a new space opens up, a mysterious feeling of joy slips in, our intuitions grow sharper, we become braver, take more risks, do things which might be right or which might be wrong, we can’t be sure, but we do them anyway. The days seem longer and more intense.
“When I arrive in Paris, I ask where I’m going to work, but she has already made plans: she has persuaded the owner of a bar to allow me to appear there once a week, telling him
that I specialize in an exotic kind of performance art from Kazakhstan which consists of encouraging people to talk about their lives and to empty their minds.
“At first, it is very difficult to get the sparse audience to join in, but the drunks enjoy it and word spreads. ‘Come and tell your old story and discover a new one,’ says the small handwritten notice in the window, and people, thirsty for novelty, start to come.
“One night, I experience something strange: it is not me on the small improvised stage in one corner of the bar, it is the presence. And instead of telling stories from my own country and then moving on to suggest that they tell their stories, I merely say what the voice tells me to. Afterward, one of the spectators is crying and speaks about his marriage in intimate detail to the other strangers there.
“The same thing happens the following week—the voice speaks for me, asking people to tell stories not about love, but about the lack of love, and the energy in the air is so different that the normally discreet French begin discussing their personal lives in public. I am also managing to control my attacks better; if, when I’m on stage, I start to see the lights or feel that warm wind, I immediately go into a trance, lose consciousness, and no one notices. I only have ‘epileptic fits’ at moments when I am under great nervous strain.
“Other people join the group. Three young men the same age as me, who had nothing to do but travel the world—the nomads of the Western world; and a couple of musicians from Kazakhstan, who have heard about their fellow countryman’s ‘success,’ ask if they can join the show, since they are unable to find work elsewhere. We include percussion instruments in the performance. The bar is becoming too small, and we find a room in the restaurant where we currently appear; but now we are starting to outgrow that space too, because when people tell their stories, they feel braver; when they dance, they are touched by the energy and begin to change radically; love—which, in theory, should be threatened by all these changes—becomes stronger, and they recommend our meetings to their friends.
“Esther continues traveling in order to write her articles, but always comes to the meetings when she is in Paris. One night, she tells me that our work at the restaurant is no longer enough; it only reaches those people who have the money to go there. We need to work with the young. Where will we find them, I ask? They drift, travel, abandon everything, and dress as beggars or characters out of sci-fi movies.
“She says that beggars have no personal history, so why don’t we go to them and see what we can learn. And that is how I came to meet all of you.
“These are the things I have experienced. You have never asked me who I am or what I do, because you’re not interested. But today, because we have a famous writer in our midst, I decided to tell you.”
“But you’re talking about your past,” said the woman in the clashing hat and coat. “Even though the old nomad…”
“What’s a nomad?” someone asks.
“People like us,” she responds, proud to know the meaning of the word. “People who are free and manage to live with only what they can carry.”
I correct her:
“That’s not quite true. They’re not poor.”
“What do you know about poverty?” The tall, aggressive man, who now has even more vodka in his veins, looks straight at me. “Do you really think that poverty has to do with having no money? Do you think we’re miserable wretches just because we go around begging money from rich writers and guilt-ridden couples, from tourists who think how terribly squalid Paris has become or from idealistic young people who think they can save the world? You’re the one who’s poor—you have no control over your time, you can’t do what you want, you’re forced to follow rules you didn’t invent and which you don’t understand…”
Mikhail again interrupted the conversation and asked the woman: “What did you actually want to know?”
“I wanted to know why you’re telling us your story when the old nomad said you should forget it.”
“It’s not my story anymore: whenever I speak about the past now, I feel as if I were talking about something that has nothing to do with me. All that remains in the present are the voice, the presence, and the importance of fulfilling my mission. I don’t regret the difficulties I experienced; I think they helped me to become the person I am today. I feel the way a warrior must feel after years of training: he doesn’t remember the details of everything he learned, but he knows how to strike when the time is right.”
“And why did you and that journalist keep coming to visit us?”
“To take nourishment. As the old nomad from the steppes said, the world we know today is merely a story someone has told to us, but it is not the true story. The other story includes special gifts and powers and the ability to go beyond what we know. I have lived with the presence ever since I was a child and, for a time, was even capable of seeing her, but Esther showed me that I was not alone. She introduced me to other people with special gifts, people who could bend forks by sheer force of will, or carry out surgery using rusty penknives and without anaesthesia, so that the patient could get up after the operation and leave.
“I am still learning to develop my unknown potential, but I need allies, people like you who have no personal history.”
I felt like telling my story to these strangers too, in order to begin the process of freeing myself from the past, but it was late and I had to get up early the next day to see the doctor and have him remove the orthopedic collar.
I asked Mikhail if he wanted a lift, but he said no, he needed to walk a little, because he felt Esther’s absence particularly acutely that night. We left the group and headed for a street where I would be able to find a taxi.
“I think that woman was right,” I said. “If you tell a story, then that means you’re still not really free of it.”
“I am free, but, as I’m sure you’ll understand, therein lies the secret; there are always some stories that are ‘interrupted,’ and they are the stories that remain nearest to the surface and so still occupy the present; only when we close that story or chapter can we begin the next one.”
I remembered reading something similar on the Internet; it was attributed to me, although I didn’t write it:
That is why it is so important to let certain things go. To release them. To cut loose. People need to understand that no one is playing with marked cards; sometimes we win and sometimes we lose. Don’t expect to get anything back, don’t expect recognition for your efforts, don’t expect your genius to be discovered or your love to be understood. Complete the circle. Not out of pride, inability, or arrogance, but simply because whatever it is no longer fits in your life. Close the door, change the record, clean the house, get rid of the dust. Stop being who you were and become who you are.
But I had better find out what Mikhail means. “What are ‘interrupted stories’?”
“Esther isn’t here. She reached a point where she could go no further in the process of emptying herself of unhappiness and allowing joy to flow in. Why? Because her story, like that of millions of other people, is bound up with the energy of love. It can’t evolve on its own: she must either stop loving or wait until her beloved comes to her.
“In failed marriages, when one person stops walking, the other is forced to do the same. And while he or she is waiting, other lovers appear, or there is charitable work to get involved in, there are the children to worry about, there are long hours at the office, etc. It
would be much easier to talk openly about things, to insist, to yell: ‘Let’s move on, we’re dying of tedium, anxiety, fear.’”
“Are you telling me that Esther can’t continue with the process of freeing herself from sadness because of me?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I don’t believe that one person can blame another, under any circumstances. All I said was that she has a choice between stopping loving you or making you come to her.”
“That’s what she’s doing.”
“I know, but, if it were up to me, we would only go to her when the voice allows us to.”
Right, this should be the last you see of the orthopedic collar. I certainly hope so anyway. But, please, avoid making any sudden movements. Your muscles need to get used to working on their own again. By the way, what happened to the girl who made those predictions?”
“What girl? What predictions?”
“Didn’t you tell me at the hospital that someone had claimed to hear a voice warning that something was going to happen to you?”
“Oh, it wasn’t a girl. And you said you were going to find out about epilepsy for me.”
“Yes, I got in touch with a specialist and asked him if he knew of any such cases. His answer surprised me a bit, but let me just remind you that medicine has its mysteries. Do you remember the story I told you about the boy who goes out to buy five apples and returns with two?”
“Yes, and how he might have lost them or given them away, or else they might have turned out to be more expensive than expected, etc. Don’t worry, I know there are no absolute answers. But, first, did Joan of Arc suffer from epilepsy?”
“Oddly enough, my friend mentioned her during our conversation. Joan of Arc started hearing voices when she was thirteen. Her statements reveal that she saw lights, which is one of the symptoms of an attack. According to the neurologist, Dr. Lydia Bayne, the warrior-saint’s ecstatic experiences were caused by what we now call musicogenic epilepsy, which is provoked by hearing a particular kind of sound or music: in Joan’s case, it was the sound of bells. Were you there when the boy had a fit?”
“Yes.”
“Was there any music playing?”
“I can’t remember. But even if there was, the clatter of cutlery and the buzz of conversation would have drowned it out.”
“Did he seem tense?” “Yes, very.”
“That’s another thing that can provoke an attack. Epilepsy has been around for longer than you might think. In Mesopotamia, there are remarkably accurate descriptions of what they called ‘the falling sickness,’ which was followed by convulsions. Ancient people believed that it was caused by demons invading a person’s body; only much later on did the Greek Hippocrates relate these convulsions to some dysfunction of the brain. Even so, epileptics are still the victims of prejudice.”
“I’m sure. I was absolutely terrified when it happened.”
“You mentioned the word prophecy, and so I asked my friend to concentrate his researches in that area. According to him, most scientists agree that, although a lot of famous people have suffered from epilepsy, the disease itself does not confer greater or lesser powers on anyone. Nevertheless, the more famous epileptics did succeed in persuading other people to see their fits as having a mystical aura.”
“Give me an example of some famous epileptics.”
“Napoleon, Alexander the Great, Dante…I didn’t make a full list, since what you were interested in was the boy’s prophecy. What’s his name, by the way?”
“You don’t know him, and since you’ve nearly always got another appointment to go to, perhaps you’d better just finish your explanation.”
“All right. Medical scientists who study the Bible are sure that the apostle Paul was an epileptic. They base this on the fact that, on the road to Damascus, he saw a brilliant light near him which caused him to fall to the ground, leaving him temporarily blind and unable to eat or drink for some days. In medical terms, this is known as ‘temporal lobe epilepsy.’”
“I don’t think the church would agree.”
“I’m not even sure that I agree, but that’s what the medical literature says. Other epileptics develop their self-destructive side, as was the case with van Gogh. He described his convulsions as ‘the storm within.’ In Saint-Rémy, where he was a patient, one of the nurses saw him having a convulsive seizure.”
“At least he managed in his paintings to transform his self-destruction into a reconstruction of the world.”
“Some people suspect that Lewis Carroll wrote Alice in Wonderland in order to describe his own experiences of epilepsy. The story at the beginning of the book, when Alice falls down a black hole, is an experience familiar to most epileptics. During her journey through Wonderland, Alice often sees things flying and she herself feels very light— another very precise description of the effects of an epileptic attack.”
“So it would seem epileptics have a propensity for art.”
“Not at all, it’s just that because artists tend to become famous, art and epilepsy become linked in people’s minds. Literature is full of examples of writers with a suspected or confirmed diagnosis of epilepsy: Molière, Edgar Allan Poe, Flaubert…. Dostoevsky had his first attack when he was nine years old, and said that it brought him moments when he felt utterly at peace with the world as well as moments of terrible depression. Don’t take all of this too seriously, and don’t go thinking that you might develop epilepsy because of your accident. I haven’t come across a single case of epilepsy being caused by colliding with a motorbike.”
“As I said, this is someone I actually know.”
“Does the boy with the predictions really exist or did you invent all this simply because you think you might have passed out when you stepped off the pavement?”
“On the contrary, I hate knowing about illnesses. Whenever I read a medical book, I immediately start to get all the symptoms.”
“Let me tell you something, but please don’t take it the wrong way. I think this accident did you a lot of good. You seem calmer, less obsessed. A brush with death always helps us to live our lives better; that’s what your wife told me when she gave me a bit of bloodstained fabric, which I always carry with me, even though, as a doctor, I see death, close to, every day.”
“Did she say why she gave you the cloth?”
“She was very generous in her description of my work. She said that I was capable of combining technique with intuition, discipline with love. She told me that a soldier, before he died, had asked her to take his blood-soaked shirt, cut it into pieces, and share those pieces among people who were genuinely trying to reveal the world as it is. I imagine you, with all your books, must also have a bit of this shirt.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Do you know why?”
“I do, or, rather, I’m beginning to find out.”
“And since I’m not only your doctor, but your friend, may I give you some advice? If this epileptic boy did tell you that he can foresee the future, then he knows nothing about medicine.”
Zagreb, Croatia. 6:30 a.m.
Marie and I are sitting by a frozen fountain. It appears that, this year, spring has decided not to happen; indeed, it looks as if we will jump straight from winter into summer. In the middle of the fountain stands a column with a statue on top.
I have spent the entire afternoon giving interviews and cannot bear to say another word about my new book. The journalists all ask the usual questions: Has my wife read the book (I don’t know)? Do I feel I’ve been unfairly treated by the critics (what?)? Has A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew shocked my readers at all, given that I reveal a great deal about my personal life (a writer can only write about his own life)? Will the book be made into a film (I repeat for the nth time that the film happens in the reader’s mind and that I have forbidden the sale of film rights on any of my books)? What do I think about love? Why did I choose to write about love? How can one be happy in love, love, love, love?…
Once the interviews are over, there’s the publisher’s supper—it’s part of the ritual. The table is packed with local worthies who keep interrupting me just as I’m about to put my fork in my mouth, and usually ask the same thing: “Where do you find your inspiration?” I try to eat, but I must also be pleasant, I must chat, fulfill my role as celebrity, tell a few interesting stories, make a good impression. I know that the publisher is a real hero, because he can never tell whether a book will sell or not; he could be selling bananas or soap instead; it would certainly be easier: they’re not vain, they don’t have inflated egos, they don’t complain if they don’t like the publicity campaign or if their book doesn’t appear in a particular bookshop.
After supper, it’s the usual routine: they want to show me their city’s monuments, historic places, fashionable bars. There is always a guide who knows absolutely everything and fills my head with information, and I have to look as if I’m really listening and ask the occasional question just to show interest. I know nearly all the monuments, museums, and historic places of all the many cities I have visited to promote my work—and I can’t remember any of them. What I do remember are the unexpected things, the meetings with readers, the bars, perhaps a street I happened to walk down, where I turned a corner and came upon something wonderful.
One day, I’m going to write a travel guide containing only maps and addresses of hotels, and with the rest of the pages blank. That way people will have to make their own itinerary, to discover for themselves restaurants, monuments, and all the magnificent things that every city has, but which are never mentioned because “the history we have been taught” does not include them under the heading Things You Must See.
I’ve been to Zagreb before. And this fountain doesn’t appear in any of the local tourist guides, but it is far more important to me than anything else I saw here—because it is pretty, because I discovered it by chance, and because it is linked to a story in my life. Many years ago, when I was a young man traveling the world in search of adventure, I sat in this very spot with a Croatian painter who had traveled with me for much of the journey. I was heading off into Turkey and he was going home. We said goodbye here, drank two bottles of wine between us, and talked about everything that had happened while we had been together, about religion, women, music, the price of hotels, drugs. We talked about everything except love, because although there were people we loved, there was no need to talk about it.
After the painter had returned to his house, I met a young woman and we spent three days together and loved each other with great intensity because we both knew that it would not last very long. She helped me to understand the soul of those people and I never forgot her, just as I never forgot the fountain or saying goodbye to my traveling companion.
This was why—after the interviews, the autographs, the supper, the visits to monuments and historic places—I pestered my publishers into bringing me to this fountain. They asked me where it was, and I had no idea, just as I had no idea that Zagreb had so many fountains. After nearly an hour of searching, we finally managed to locate it. I asked for a bottle of wine, we said goodbye to everyone, and Marie and I sat down together in silence, our arms about each other, drinking wine and waiting for the sun to come up.
“You seem to get happier and happier by the day,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder.
“That’s because I’m trying to forget who I am. Or rather, I don’t need to carry the weight of my whole history on my shoulders.”
I tell her about Mikhail’s conversation with the nomad.
“It’s rather like that with actors,” she says. “With each new role, we have to stop being who we are in order to become the character. We tend to end up confused and neurotic. Is it such a good idea to abandon your personal history, do you think?”
“Didn’t you say I seemed better?”
“Less egotistical, yes. Although it amused me the way you wouldn’t let us rest until you found this fountain, but that goes against what you’ve just said, since the fountain is part of your past.”
“For me, it’s a symbol. But I don’t carry this fountain around with me, I don’t think about it all the time, I don’t take photos of it to show my friends, I don’t long for the painter or for the young woman I fell in love with. It’s really good to come back here again, but if I hadn’t come back, it wouldn’t make any difference to that initial experience.”
“I see what you’re saying.” “I’m glad.”
“And I’m sad, because it makes me think that you’re about to leave. I’ve known you would ever since we first met, but it’s still difficult, because I’ve got used to being with you.”
“That’s the problem, we do get used to things.” “It’s human too.”
“That’s why the woman I married became the Zahir. Until I had that accident, I had convinced myself that I could only be happy with her, not because I loved her more than anything and anyone in the world, but because I thought only she could understand me; she knew my likes, my eccentricities, my way of seeing the world. I was grateful for what she had done for me, and I thought she should be grateful for what I had done for her. I was used to seeing the world through her eyes. Do you remember that story about the two firemen who emerge from the fire and one has his face all blackened by smoke?”
She sat up straight. I noticed that her eyes were full of tears.
“Well, that is what the world was like for me,” I went on. “A reflection of Esther’s beauty. Is that love? Or is that dependency?”
“I don’t know. I think love and dependency go hand in hand.”
“Possibly. But let’s suppose that instead of writing A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew, which is really just a letter to a woman who is far away, I had chosen a different plot, for example, a husband and wife who have been together for ten years. They used to make love every day, now they only make love once a week, but that doesn’t really matter because there is also solidarity, mutual support, companionship. He feels sad when he has to have supper alone because she is working late. She hates it when he has to go away, but accepts that it is part of his job. They feel that something is missing, but they are both grown-ups, they are both mature people, and they know how important it is to keep their relationship stable, even if only for the children’s sake. They devote more and more time to work and to the children, they think less and less about their marriage. Everything appears to be going really well, and there’s certainly no other man or woman in their lives.
“Yet they sense that something is wrong. They can’t quite put their finger on the problem. As time passes, they grow more and more dependent on each other; they are getting older; any opportunities to make a new life are vanishing fast. They try to keep busy doing reading or embroidery, watching television, seeing friends, but there is always the conversation over supper or after supper. He is easily irritated, she is more silent than usual. They can see that they are growing further and further apart, but cannot understand why. They reach the conclusion that this is what marriage is like, but won’t talk to their friends about it; they are the image of the happy couple who support each other and share the same interests. She takes a lover, so does he, but it’s never anything serious, of course. What is important, necessary, essential, is to act as if nothing is happening, because it’s too late to change.”
“I know that story, although I’ve never experienced it myself. And I think we spend our lives being trained to put up with situations like that.”
I take off my coat and climb onto the edge of the fountain. She asks me what I’m doing. “I’m going to walk over to that column in the middle of the fountain.”
“You’re mad. It’s spring now, the ice will be getting really thin.” “I need to walk over to the column.”
I place one foot on the surface, the whole sheet of ice moves, but does not crack. With one eye on the rising sun, I make a kind of wager with God: if I manage to reach the column and come back without the ice cracking, that will be a sign that I am on the right path, and that his hand is showing me where I should go.
“You’ll fall in the water.”
“So? The worst that can happen is that I’ll get a bit cold, but the hotel isn’t far away and I won’t have to suffer for long.”
I put my other foot on the ice: I am now in the fountain. The ice breaks away from the edges and a little water laps onto the surface of the ice, but the ice does not break. I set off toward the column. It’s only about four meters there and back, and all I risk is getting a very cold bath. However, I mustn’t think about what might happen: I’ve taken the first step and I must continue to the end.
I reach the column, touch it with my hand, hear everything around me creaking, but I’m still on the ice. My first instinct is to run back, but something tells me that if I do that, my steps will become heavier, firmer, and I’ll fall into the water. I must walk back slowly, at the same pace.
The sun is rising ahead of me; it dazzles me slightly. I can see only Marie’s silhouette and the shapes of the buildings and the trees. The sheet of ice keeps shifting, water spills over
onto the surface, but I know—with absolute certainty—that I will reach the edge. I am in communion with the day, with my choices. I know the limits of the frozen water; I know how to deal with it, how to ask for its help, to keep me from falling. I begin to enter a kind of trance, a euphoric state; I am a child again, doing something that is wrong, forbidden, but which gives me enormous pleasure. Wonderful! Crazy pacts with God, along the lines of “If I manage to do this, then so and so will happen,” signs provoked not by anything that comes from outside, but by instinct, by my capacity to forget the old rules and create new situations.
I am grateful for having met Mikhail, the epileptic who thinks he can hear voices. I went to his meeting at the restaurant in search of my wife and discovered that I was turning into a pale reflection of myself. Is Esther still important? I think so, for it was her love that changed my life once and which is transforming me now. My history had grown old and was becoming ever heavier to carry, and far too serious for me ever to take risks like walking on ice, making a wager with God, forcing a sign to appear. I had forgotten that one has to continue walking the road to Santiago, to discard any unnecessary baggage, to keep only what you need in order to live each day, and to allow the energy of love to flow freely, from the outside in and from the inside out.
Another cracking sound, and a fault line appears across the surface, but I know I will make it, because I am light, so light that I could even walk on a cloud and not fall to earth. I am not carrying with me the weight of fame, of stories I have told, of itineraries to follow. I am so transparent that the sun’s rays can penetrate my body and illumine my soul. I see that there are still many dark areas inside me, but with perseverance and courage they will gradually be washed away.
Another step, and I remember the envelope on my desk at home. Soon I will open it and, instead of walking on ice, I will set off along the path that leads me to Esther. I will do so not because I want her by my side, for she is free to remain where she is. It is not because I dream day and night of the Zahir; that loving, destructive obsession seems to have vanished. It is not because I am used to my past as it was and passionately want to go back to it.
Another step, more sounds of cracking, but safety and the edge of the fountain are close.
I will open the envelope and go and find her because—as Mikhail, the epileptic, the seer, the guru of the Armenian restaurant, says—this story needs to reach its end. When everything has been told and retold countless times, when the places I have visited, the things I have experienced, the steps I have taken because of her are all transformed into distant memories, nothing will remain but pure love. I won’t feel as if I owe anything, I won’t feel that I need her because only she can understand me, because I’m used to her, because she knows my vices and my virtues, knows that I like to have a slice of toast before I go to bed and to watch the international news when I wake up, that I have to go for a walk every morning, or that she knows about my collection of books on archery, about the hours spent in front of the computer screen, writing, about how annoyed I get when the maid keeps calling me to tell me the food is on the table.
All that will disappear. What remains will be the love that moves the heavens, the stars, people, flowers, insects, the love that obliges us all to walk across the ice despite the danger, that fills us with joy and with fear, and gives meaning to everything.
I touch the edge of the fountain, a hand reaches out to me, I grab hold of it, and Marie helps to steady me as I step down.
“I’m proud of you. I would never do anything like that.”
“Not so long ago, I wouldn’t have either; it seems so childish, irresponsible, unnecessary, pointless. But I am being reborn and I need to take new risks.”
“The morning light is obviously good for you; you’re talking like a wise man.” “No wise man would do what I’ve just done.”
I have to write an important article for a magazine that is one of my major creditors in the Favor Bank. I have hundreds, thousands of ideas in my head, but I don’t know which of them merits my effort, my concentration, my blood.
It is not the first time this has happened, but I feel as if I have said everything of importance that I need to say. I feel as if I’m losing my memory and forgetting who I am.
I go over to the window and look out at the street. I try to convince myself that I am professionally fulfilled and have nothing more to prove, that I can justifiably withdraw to a house in the mountains and spend the rest of my life reading, walking, and talking about food and the weather. I tell myself over and over that I have achieved what almost no other writer has achieved—my books have been translated into nearly every written language in the world. Why worry about a mere magazine article, however important the magazine itself might be? Because of the Favor Bank. So I really do need to write something, but what have I got to say to people? Should I tell them that they need to forget all the stories that have been told to them and take more risks?
They’ll all say, “I’m an independent being, thank you very much. I’ll do as I please.” Should I tell them that they must allow the energy of love to flow more freely?
They’ll say, “I feel love already. In fact, I feel more and more love,” as if love could be measured the way we measure the distance between two railway tracks, the height of buildings, or the amount of yeast needed to make a loaf of bread.
I return to my desk. The envelope Mikhail left for me is open. I now know where Esther is; I just need to know how to get there. I phone him and tell him about my walk across the ice. He is impressed. I ask him what he’s doing tonight, and he says he’s going out with his girlfriend, Lucrecia. I suggest taking them both to supper. No, not tonight, but, if I like, I could go out with him and his friends next week.
I tell him that next week I’m giving a talk in the United States. There’s no hurry, he says, we can wait two weeks.
“You must have heard a voice telling you to walk on the ice,” he says. “No, I heard no voice.”
“So why did you do it?”
“Because I felt it needed to be done.”
“That’s just another way of hearing the voice.”
“I made a bet. If I could cross the ice, that meant I was ready. And I think I am.” “Then the voice gave you the sign you needed.”
“Did the voice say anything to you about it?”
“No, it didn’t have to. When we were on the banks of the Seine and I said that the voice would tell us when the time had come, I knew that it would also tell you.”
“As I said, I didn’t hear a voice.”
“That’s what you think. That’s what everyone thinks. And yet, judging by what the presence tells me, everyone hears voices all the time. They are what help us to know when we are face to face with a sign, you see.”
I decide not to argue. I just need some practical details: where to hire a car, how long the journey takes, how to find the house, because otherwise all I have, apart from the map, are a series of vague indications—follow the lakeshore, look for a company sign, turn right, etc. Perhaps he knows someone who can help me.
We arrange our next meeting. Mikhail asks me to dress as discreetly as possible—the “tribe” is going for a walkabout in Paris.
I ask him who this tribe is. “They’re the people who work with me at the restaurant,” he replies, without going into detail. I ask him if he wants me to bring him anything from the States, and he asks for a particular remedy for heartburn. There are, I think, more interesting things I could bring, but I make a note of his request.
And the article?
I go back to the desk, think about what I’m going to write, look again at the open envelope, and conclude that I was not surprised by what I found inside. After a few meetings with Mikhail, it was pretty much what I had expected.
Esther is living in the steppes, in a small village in Central Asia; more precisely, in a village in Kazakhstan.
I am no longer in a hurry. I continue reviewing my own story, which I tell to Marie in obsessive detail; she has decided to do the same, and I am surprised by some of the things she tells me, but the process seems to be working; she is more confident, less anxious.
I don’t know why I so want to find Esther, now that my love for her has illumined my life, taught me new things, which is quite enough really. But I remember what Mikhail said: “The story needs to reach its end,” and I decide to go on. I know that I will discover the moment when the ice of our marriage cracked, and how we carried on walking through the chill water as if nothing had happened. I know that I will discover this before I reach that village, in order to close the circle or make it larger still.
The article! Has Esther become the Zahir again, thus preventing me from concentrating on anything else?
No, when I need to do something urgent, something that requires creative energy, this is my working method: I get into a state of near hysteria, decide to abandon the task altogether, and then the article appears. I’ve tried doing things differently, preparing everything carefully, but my imagination only works when it’s under enormous pressure. I must respect the Favor Bank, I must write three pages about—guess what!—the problems of male-female relationships. Me, of all people! But the editors believe that the man who wrote A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew must know the human soul well.
I try to log on to the Internet, but it’s not working. It’s never been the same since I destroyed the connection. I called various technicians, but when they finally turned up, they could find nothing wrong with the computer. They asked me what I was complaining about, spent half an hour doing tests, changed the configuration, and assured me that the problem lay not with me but with the server. I allowed myself to be convinced that everything was, in fact, fine, and I felt ridiculous for having asked for help. Two or three hours later, the computer and the connection would both crash. Now, after months of physical and psychological wear and tear, I simply accept that technology is stronger and more powerful than me: it works when it wants to, and when it doesn’t, it’s best to sit down and read the paper or go for a walk, and just wait until the cables and the telephone links are in a better mood and the computer decides to work again. I am not, I have discovered, my computer’s master: it has a life of its own.
I try a few more times, but I know from experience that it’s best just to give up. The Internet, the biggest library in the world, has closed its doors to me for the moment. What about reading a few magazines in search of inspiration? I pick up one that has just arrived in the post and read a strange interview with a woman who has recently published a book about—guess what?—love. The subject seems to be pursuing me everywhere.
The journalist asks if the only way a human being can find happiness is by finding his or her beloved. The woman says no.
The idea that love leads to happiness is a modern invention, dating from the end of the seventeenth century. Ever since then, people have been taught to believe that love should last forever and that marriage is the best place in which to exercise that love. In the past, there was less optimism about the longevity of passion. Romeo and Juliet isn’t a happy story, it’s a tragedy. In the last few decades, expectations about marriage as the road to personal fulfilment have grown considerably, as have disappointment and dissatisfaction.
It’s quite a brave thing to say, but no good for my article, mainly because I don’t agree with her at all. I search my shelves for a book that has nothing to do with male-female relationships: Magical Practices in North Mexico. Since obsession will not help me to write my article, I need to refresh my mind, to relax.
I start leafing through it and suddenly I read something that surprises me:
The acomodador or giving-up point: there is always an event in our lives that is responsible for us failing to progress: a trauma, a particularly bitter defeat, a disappointment in love, even a victory that we did not quite understand, can make cowards of us and prevent us from moving on. As part of the process of increasing his hidden powers, the shaman must first free himself from that giving-up point and, to do so, he must review his whole life and find out where it occurred.
The acomodador. This fit in with my experience of learning archery—the only sport I enjoyed—for the teacher of archery says that no shot can ever be repeated, and there is no point trying to learn from good or bad shots. What matters is repeating it hundreds and thousands of times, until we have freed ourselves from the idea of hitting the target and have ourselves become the arrow, the bow, the target. At that moment, the energy of the “thing” (my teacher of kyudo—the form of Japanese archery I practiced—never used the word “God”) guides our movements and then we begin to release the arrow not when we want to, but when the “thing” believes that the moment has come.
The acomodador. Another part of my personal history resurfaces. If only Marie were here! I need to talk about myself, about my childhood, to tell her how, when I was little, I was always fighting and beating up the other children because I was the oldest in the class. One day, my cousin gave me a thrashing, and I was convinced from then on that I would never ever win another fight, and since then I have avoided any physical confrontation, even though this has often meant me behaving like a coward and being humiliated in front of girlfriends and friends alike.
The acomodador. For two years, I tried to learn how to play the guitar. To begin with, I made rapid progress, but then reached a point where I could progress no further, because I discovered that other people were learning faster than I was, which made me feel mediocre; and so as not to have to feel ashamed, I decided that I was no longer interested in learning. The same thing happened with snooker, football, bicycle racing. I learned enough to do everything reasonably well, but there was always a point where I got stuck.
Why?
Because according to the story we are told, there always comes a moment in our lives when we reach “our limit.” I often recalled my struggle to deny my destiny as a writer and how Esther had always refused to allow the acomodador to lay down rules for my dream. The paragraph I had just read fit in with the idea of forgetting one’s personal history and being left only with the instinct that develops out of the various difficulties and tragedies one has experienced. This is what the shamans of Mexico did and what the nomads on the steppes of Central Asia preached.
The acomodador: there is always an event in our lives that is responsible for us failing to progress.
It described exactly what happens in marriages in general and what had happened in my relationship with Esther in particular.
I could now write my article for that magazine. I went over to the computer and within half an hour I had written a first draft and was happy with the result. I wrote a story in the form of a dialogue, as if it were fiction, but which was, in fact, a conversation I had had in a hotel room in Amsterdam, after a day spent promoting my books and after the usual publishers’ supper and the statutory tour of the sights, etc.
In my article, the names of the characters and the situation in which they find themselves are omitted. In real life, Esther is in her nightdress and is looking out at the canal outside our window. She has not yet become a war correspondent, her eyes are still bright with joy, she loves her work, travels with me whenever she can, and life is still one big adventure. I am lying on the bed in silence; my mind is far away, worrying about the next day’s appointments.
Last week, I interviewed a man who’s an expert in police interrogations. He told me
that they get most of their information by using a technique they call ‘cold-hot.’ They always start with a very aggressive policeman who says he has no intention of sticking to the rules, who shouts and thumps the table. When he has scared the prisoner nearly witless, the ‘good cop’ comes in and tells his colleague to stop, offers the prisoner a cigarette, pretends to be his friend, and gets the information he wants.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about that.”
“Then he told me about something else that really frightened me. In 1971, a group of researchers at Stanford University, in California, decided to create a simulated prison in order to study the psychology of interrogations. They selected twenty-four student volunteers and divided them into ‘guards’ and ‘criminals.’
“After just one week, they had to stop the experiment. The ‘guards’—girls and boys with normal decent values, from nice families—had become real monsters. The use of torture had become routine and the sexual abuse of ‘prisoners’ was seen as normal. The students who took part in the project, both ‘guards’ and ‘criminals,’ suffered major trauma and needed long-term medical help, and the experiment was never repeated.”
“Interesting.”
“What do you mean ‘interesting’? I’m talking about something of real importance: man’s capacity to do evil whenever he’s given the chance. I’m talking about my work, about the things I’ve learned!”
“That’s what I found interesting. Why are you getting so angry?”
“Angry? How could I possibly get angry with someone who isn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to what I’m saying? How can I possibly be angry with someone who isn’t even provoking me, who’s just lying there, staring into space?”
“How much did you have to drink tonight?”
“You don’t even know the answer to that, do you? I’ve been by your side all evening, and you’ve no idea whether I’ve had anything to drink or not! You only spoke to me when you wanted me to confirm something you had said or when you needed me to tell some flattering story about you!”
“Look, I’ve been working all day and I’m exhausted. Why don’t you come to bed and sleep? We can talk in the morning.”
“Because I’ve been doing this for weeks and months, for the last two years in fact! I try to have a conversation, but you’re always tired, so we say, all right, we’ll go to sleep and
talk tomorrow. But tomorrow there are always other things to do, another day of work and publishers’ suppers, so we say, all right, we’ll go to sleep and talk tomorrow. That’s how I’m spending my life, waiting for the day when I can have you by my side again, until I’ve had my fill; that’s all I ask, to create a world where I can always find refuge if I need it: not so far away that I can’t be seen to be having an independent life, and not so close that it looks as if I’m invading your universe.”
“What do you want me to do? Stop working? Give up everything we’ve struggled so hard to achieve and go off on a cruise to the Caribbean? Don’t you understand that I enjoy what I’m doing and haven’t the slightest intention of changing my life?”
“In your books, you talk about the importance of love, the need for adventure, the joy of fighting for your dreams. And who do I have before me now? Someone who doesn’t read what he writes. Someone who confuses love with convenience, adventure with taking unnecessary risks, joy with obligation. Where is the man I married, who used to listen to what I was saying?”
“Where is the woman I married?”
“You mean the one who always gave you support, encouragement, and affection? Her body is here, looking out at the Singel Canal in Amsterdam, and she will, I believe, stay with you for the rest of her life. But that woman’s soul is standing at the door ready to leave.”
“But why?”
“Because of those three wretched words: We’ll talk tomorrow. Isn’t that enough? If not, just consider that the woman you married was excited about life, full of ideas and joy and desires, and is now rapidly turning into a housewife.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Of course it is! It’s nonsense! A trifle, especially considering that we have everything we could possibly want. We’re very fortunate, we have money, we never discuss any little flings we might have, we never have jealous rages. Besides, there are millions of children in the world starving to death, there are wars, diseases, hurricanes, tragedies happening every second. So what can I possibly have to complain about?”
“Do you think we should have a baby?”
“That’s how all the couples I know resolve their problems—by having a baby! You’re the one who has always prized your freedom and put off having children for later on. Have you really changed your mind?”
“I think the time is right.”
“Well, in my opinion, you couldn’t be more wrong! I don’t want your child. I want a child by the man I knew, who had dreams, who was always by my side! If I ever do become pregnant it will be by someone who understands me, keeps me company, listens to me, who truly desires me!”
“You have been drinking. Look, I promise, we’ll talk tomorrow, but, please, come to bed now, I’m tired.”
“All right, we’ll talk tomorrow. And if my soul, which is standing at the door, does decide to leave, I doubt it will affect our lives very much.”
“Your soul won’t leave.”
“You used to know my soul very well, but you haven’t spoken to it for years, you don’t know how much it has changed, how desperately it’s begging you to listen. Even to banal topics of conversation, like experiments at American universities.”
“If your soul has changed so much, how come you’re the same?”
“Out of cowardice. Because I genuinely think that tomorrow we will talk. Because of everything we’ve built together and which I don’t want to see destroyed. Or for that worst of all possible reasons, because I’ve simply given up.”
“That’s just what you’ve been accusing me of doing.”
“You’re right. I looked at you, thinking it was you I was looking at, but the truth is I was looking at myself. Tonight I’m going to pray with all my might and all my faith and ask God not to let me spend the rest of my days like this.”
I hear the applause, the theater is packed. I’m about to do the one thing that always gives me sleepless nights, I’m about to give a lecture.
The master of ceremonies begins by saying that there’s no need to introduce me, which is a bit much really, since that’s what he’s there for and he isn’t taking into account the possibility that there might be lots of people in the audience who have simply been invited along by friends. Despite what he says, however, he ends up giving a few biographical details and talking about my qualities as a writer, the prizes I’ve won, and the millions of books I’ve sold. He thanks the sponsors, turns to me, and the floor is mine.
I thank him too. I tell the audience that the most important things I have to say are in my books, but that I feel I have an obligation to my public to reveal the man who lies behind
those words and paragraphs. I explain that our human condition makes us tend to share only the best of ourselves, because we are always searching for love and approval. My books, however, will only ever be the mountaintop visible in the clouds or an island in the ocean: the light falls on it, everything seems to be in its place, but beneath the surface lies the unknown, the darkness, the incessant search for self.
I describe how difficult it was to write A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew, and that there are many parts of the book which I myself am only beginning to understand now, as I reread it, as if the created thing were always greater and more generous than its creator.
I say that there is nothing more boring than reading interviews or going to lectures by authors who insist on explaining the characters in their books: if a book isn’t self- explanatory, then the book isn’t worth reading. When a writer appears in public, he should attempt to show the audience his universe, not try to explain his books; and in this spirit, I begin talking about something more personal.
“Some time ago, I was in Geneva for a series of interviews. At the end of a day’s work, and because a woman friend I was supposed to have supper with canceled at the last minute, I set off for a stroll around the city. It was a particularly lovely night, the streets were deserted, the bars and restaurants still full of life, and everything seemed utterly calm, orderly, pretty, and yet suddenly…suddenly I realized that I was utterly alone.
“Needless to say, I had been alone on other occasions during the year. Needless to say, my girlfriend was only two hours away by plane. Needless to say, after a busy day, what could be better than a stroll through the narrow streets and lanes of the old city, without having to talk to anyone, simply enjoying the beauty around me. And yet the feeling that surfaced was one of oppressive, distressing loneliness—not having someone with whom I could share the city, the walk, the things I’d like to say.
“I got out my cell phone; after all, I had a reasonable number of friends in the city, but it was too late to phone anyone. I considered going into one of the bars and ordering a drink; someone was bound to recognize me and invite me to join them. But I resisted the temptation and tried to get through that moment, discovering, in the process, that there is nothing worse than the feeling that no one cares whether we exist or not, that no one is interested in what we have to say about life, and that the world can continue turning without our awkward presence.
“I began to imagine how many millions of people were, at that moment, feeling utterly useless and wretched—however rich, charming, and delightful they might be—because they were alone that night, as they were yesterday, and as they might well be tomorrow. Students with no one to go out with, older people sitting in front of the TV as if it were their sole salvation, businessmen in their hotel rooms, wondering if what they were doing made any sense, women who spent the afternoon carefully applying their makeup and doing their hair in order to go to a bar only to pretend that they’re not looking for company; all they want is confirmation that they’re still attractive; the men ogle them and chat them up, but the women reject them all disdainfully, because they feel inferior and
are afraid the men will find out that they’re single mothers or lowly clerks with nothing to say about what’s going on in the world because they work from dawn to dusk to scrape a living and have no time to read the newspapers. People who look at themselves in the mirror and think themselves ugly, believing that being beautiful is what really matters, and spend their time reading magazines in which everyone is pretty, rich, and famous.
Husbands and wives who wish they could talk over supper as they used to, but there are always other things demanding their attention, more important things, and the conversation can always wait for a tomorrow that never comes.
“That day, I had lunch with a friend who had just got divorced and she said to me: ‘Now I can enjoy the freedom I’ve always dreamed of having.’ But that’s a lie. No one wants that kind of freedom: we all want commitment, we all want someone to be beside us to enjoy the beauties of Geneva, to discuss books, interviews, films, or even to share a sandwich with because there isn’t enough money to buy one each. Better to eat half a sandwich than a whole one. Better to be interrupted by the man who wants to get straight back home because there’s a big game on TV tonight or by the woman who stops outside a shop window and interrupts what we were saying about the cathedral tower, far better that than to have the whole of Geneva to yourself with all the time and quiet in the world to visit it.
“Better to go hungry than to be alone. Because when you’re alone—and I’m talking here about an enforced solitude not of our choosing—it’s as if you were no longer part of the human race.
“A lovely hotel awaited me on the other side of the river, with its luxurious rooms, its attentive employees, its five-star service. And that only made me feel worse, because I should have felt contented, satisfied with all I had achieved.
“On the way back, I passed other people in the same situation and noticed that they fell into two categories: those who looked arrogant, because they wanted to pretend they had chosen to be alone on that lovely night, and those who looked sad and ashamed of their solitary state.
“I’m telling you all this because the other day I remembered being in a hotel room in Amsterdam with a woman who was talking to me about her life. I’m telling you all this because, although in Ecclesiastes it says there is a time to rend and a time to sew, sometimes the time to rend leaves deep scars. Being with someone else and making that person feel as if they were of no importance in our life is far worse than feeling alone and miserable in the streets of Geneva.”
There was a long moment of silence before the applause.
I arrived in a gloomy part of Paris, which was nevertheless said to have the most
vibrant cultural life of the whole city. It took me a while to recognize the scruffy group of people before me as the same ones who appeared on Thursdays in the Armenian restaurant immaculately dressed in white.
“Why are you all wearing fancy dress? Is this some kind of tribute to a movie?”
“It’s not fancy dress,” replied Mikhail. “Don’t you change your clothes to go to a gala supper? Would you wear a jacket and tie to play golf?”
“All right, let me put the question another way: Why have you decided to dress like young homeless people?”
“Because, at this moment, we are young homeless people, or, rather, four young homeless people and two homeless adults.”
“Let me put the question a third way, then: Why are you dressed like that?”
“In the restaurant, we feed our body and talk about the Energy to people with something to lose. Among the beggars, we feed our soul and talk to those who have nothing to lose. Now, we come to the most important part of our work: meeting the members of the invisible movement that is renewing the world, people who live each day as if it were their last, while the old live each day as if it were their first.”
He was talking about something I had already noticed and which seemed to be growing by the day: this was how young people dressed, in grubby, but highly imaginative outfits, based on military uniforms or sci-fi movies. They all went in for body piercing too and sported highly individual haircuts. Often, the groups were accompanied by threatening- looking Alsatian dogs. I once asked a friend why these people always had a dog with them and he told me—although I don’t know if it’s true—that the police couldn’t arrest the owners because they had nowhere to put the dogs.
A bottle of vodka began doing the rounds; we had drunk vodka when we were with the beggars and I wondered if this had to do with Mikhail’s origins. I took a sip, imagining what people would say if they saw me there.
I decided they would say, “He’s probably doing research for his next book,” and felt more relaxed.
“I’m ready now to go and find Esther, but I need some more information, because I know nothing about your country.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“What?”
That wasn’t in my plans at all. My journey was a return to everything I had lost in myself, and would end somewhere in the Central Asian steppes. It was something intimate and personal, something that did not require witnesses.
“As long as you pay for my ticket, of course. I need to go back to Kazakhstan. I miss my country.”
“I thought you had work to do here. Don’t you have to be at the restaurant on Thursdays for the performances.”
“You keep calling it a performance. I’ve told you before, it’s a meeting, a way of reviving what we have lost, the tradition of conversation. But don’t worry. Anastásia here,” and he pointed to a girl wearing a nose stud, “is already developing her gift. She can take care of everything while I’m away.”
“He’s jealous,” said Alma, the woman who played the instrument that looked like a cymbal and who told stories at the end of each meeting.
“Understandable, really,” said another boy, who was dressed in a leather outfit adorned with metal studs, safety pins, and buckles made to look like razor blades. “Mikhail is younger, better-looking, and more in touch with the Energy.”
“He’s also less famous, less rich, and less in touch with those in power,” said Anastásia. “From the female point of view, things are pretty evenly balanced, so I reckon they’re both going with what they’ve got.”
Everyone laughed and the bottle went the rounds again. I was the only one who didn’t see the joke. I was surprising myself, though; it had been many years since I had sat on a pavement in Paris, and this pleased me.
“The tribe is bigger than you think. They’re everywhere, from the Eiffel Tower down as far as the town of Tarbes where I was staying recently. But I can’t honestly say I understand what it’s all about.”
“They can be found farther south than Tarbes, and they follow routes every bit as interesting as the road to Santiago. They set off from somewhere in France or somewhere else in Europe, swearing that they’re going to be part of a society that exists outside of society. They’re afraid of going back home and getting a job and getting married—they’ll fight against all that for as long as they can. There are rich and poor among them, but they’re not that interested in money. They look completely different, and yet when people walk past them, they usually pretend not to see them because they’re afraid.”
“Do they have to look so aggressive?”
“Yes, because the passion to destroy is a creative passion. If they weren’t aggressive, the boutiques would immediately fill up with clothes like these; publishers would soon be producing magazines about the new movement ‘sweeping the world with its revolutionary attitudes’; TV programs would have a strand devoted to the tribe; sociologists would write learned articles; psychiatrists would counsel the families of tribe members, and it would lose all its impact. So the less they know about us, the better: our attack is really a defense.”
“Actually, I only came tonight so that I could ask you for some information, but, who knows, perhaps spending the night with you will turn out to be just the kind of rich and novel experience to move me on from a personal history that no longer allows for new experiences. As for the journey to Kazakhstan, I’ve no intention of taking anyone with me. If I can’t get help from you, the Favor Bank will provide me with all the necessary contacts. I’m going away in two days’ time and I’m a guest at an important supper tomorrow night, but after that, I’m free for two weeks.”
Mikhail appeared to hesitate.
“It’s up to you. You’ve got the map, the name of the village, and it shouldn’t be hard to find the house where she’s staying. I’m sure the Favor Bank can help get you as far as Almaty, but I doubt it will get you much farther than that, because the rules of the steppes are different. Besides, I reckon I’ve made a few deposits in your account at the Favor Bank too. It’s time to reclaim them. I miss my mother.”
He was right.
“We’ve got to start work,” said Alma’s husband.
“Why do you want to go with me, Mikhail? Is it really just because you miss your mother?”
He didn’t reply. The man started playing the drum and Alma was clanging the cymbal, while the others begged for money from passersby. Why did he want to go with me? And how would I be able to draw on the Favor Bank in the steppes, if I knew absolutely no one? I could get a visa from the Kazakhstan embassy, hire a car and a guide from the French consulate in Almaty—what else did I need?
I stood there observing the group, not knowing quite what to do. It wasn’t the right moment to discuss the trip, and I had work to do and a girlfriend waiting for me at home. Why didn’t I just leave now?
I didn’t leave because I was feeling free, doing things I hadn’t done for years, opening up a space in my soul for new experiences, driving the acomodador out of my life, experiencing things that might not interest me very much, but which were at least different.
The vodka ran out and was replaced by rum. I hate rum, but since that was all there was, it was best to adapt to the circumstances. The two musicians continued to play and whenever anyone was brave enough to come near, one of the girls would hold out her hand and ask if they had any spare change. The person approached would normally quicken their pace, but would always receive a “Thanks, have a nice evening.” One person, seeing that he had been offered thanks rather than abuse, turned back and gave us some money.
After watching this scene for more than ten minutes, without anyone in the group addressing a single word to me, I went into a bar, bought two bottles of vodka, came back, and poured the rum into the gutter. Anastásia seemed pleased by my gesture and so I tried to start a conversation.
“Can you explain why you all use body piercing?”
“Why do other people wear jewels or high heels or low-cut dresses even in winter?” “That’s not an answer.”
“We use body piercing because we’re the new barbarians sacking Rome. We don’t wear uniforms and so we need something to identify us as one of the invading tribes.”
She made it sound as if they were part of a important historical movement, but for the people going home, they were just a group of unemployed young people with nowhere to sleep, cluttering up the streets of Paris, bothering the tourists who were so good for the local economy, and driving to despair the mothers and fathers who had brought them into the world and now had no control over them.
I had been like that once, when the hippie movement was at its height—the huge rock concerts, the big hair, the garish clothes, the Viking symbol, the peace sign. As Mikhail said, the whole hippie thing had turned into just another consumer product and had vanished, destroying its icons.
A man came down the street. The boy in leather and safety pins went over to him with his hand outstretched. He asked for money. However, instead of hurrying on or muttering something like “I haven’t any change,” the man stopped and looked at us and said very loudly:
“I wake up every morning with a debt of approximately 100,000 euros, because of my house, because of the economic situation in Europe, because of my wife’s expensive tastes. In other words, I’m worse off than you are and with far more on my mind! How about you giving me a bit of change to help me decrease my debt just a little?”
Lucrecia—whom Mikhail claimed was his girlfriend—produced a fifty-euro note and gave it to the man.
“Buy yourself some caviar. You need a bit of joy in your miserable life.”
The man thanked her and walked off, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be given fifty euros by a beggar. The Italian girl had had a fifty-euro note in her bag and here we were begging in the street!
“Let’s go somewhere else,” said the boy in leather. “Where?” asked Mikhail.
“We could see if we can find the others. North or south?”
Anastásia chose west. After all, she was, according to Mikhail, developing her gift.
We passed by the Tour Saint-Jacques where, centuries before, pilgrims heading for Santiago de Compostela used to gather. We passed Notre-Dame, where there were a few more “new barbarians.” The vodka had run out and so I went to buy two more bottles, even though I wasn’t sure that everyone in the group was over eighteen. No one thanked me; they seemed to think it was perfectly normal.
I started to feel a little drunk and began eyeing one of the girls who had just joined us. Everyone talked very loudly, kicked a few litter bins—strange metal objects with a plastic bag dangling from them—and said absolutely nothing of any interest.
We crossed the Seine and were suddenly brought to a halt by one of those orange-and- white tapes that are used to mark off an area under construction. It prevented people from walking along the pavement, forcing them to step off the curb into the road and then rejoin the pavement five meters further on.
“It’s still here,” said one of the new arrivals. “What’s still here?” I asked.
“Who’s he?”
“A friend of ours,” replied Lucrecia. “In fact, you’ve probably read one of his books.”
The newcomer recognized me, but showed neither surprise nor reverence; on the contrary, he asked if I could give him some money, a request I instantly refused.
“If you want to know why the tape is there, you’ll have to give me a euro. Everything in life has its price, as you know better than anyone. And information is one of the most expensive products in the world.”
No one in the group came to my aid, so I had to pay him a euro for his answer.
“The tape is here because we put it there. As you can see, there are no repairs going on at all, just a stupid orange-and-white tape blocking the stupid pavement. But no one asks what it’s doing there; they step off the pavement, walk along the road at the risk of being knocked down, and get back on farther up. By the way, I read somewhere that you’d had an accident. Is that true?”
“Yes, I did, and all because I stepped off the pavement.”
“Don’t worry, when people step off the pavement here, they’re always extra careful. It was one of the reasons we put the tape up, to make people more aware of what was going on around them.”
“No, it wasn’t,” said the girl I was attracted to. “It’s just a joke, so that we can laugh at the people who obey without even thinking about what they’re obeying. There’s no reason, it’s not important, and no one will get knocked down.”
More people joined the group. Now there were eleven of us and two Alsatian dogs. We were no longer begging, because no one dared go near this band of savages who seemed to enjoy the fear they aroused. The drink had run out again and they all looked at me and asked me to buy another bottle, as if I had a duty to keep them drunk. I realized that this was my passport to the pilgrimage, so I set off in search of a shop.
The girl I was interested in—and who was young enough to be my daughter—seemed to notice me looking at her and started talking to me. I knew it was simply a way of provoking me, but I joined in. She didn’t tell me anything about her personal life, she just asked me how many cats and how many lampposts there were on the back of a ten-dollar bill.
“Cats and lampposts?”
“You don’t know, do you? You don’t give any real value to money at all. Well, for your information, there are four cats and eleven lampposts.”
Four cats and eleven lampposts. I promised myself that I would check this out the next time I saw a ten-dollar bill.
“Do any of you take drugs?”
“Some, but mainly it’s just alcohol. Not much at all, in fact, it’s not our style. Drugs are more for people of your generation, aren’t they? My mother, for example, drugs herself on cooking for the family, compulsively tidying the house, and suffering over me. When something goes wrong with my dad’s business, she suffers. Can you believe that? She suffers over me, my father, my brothers and sisters, everything. I was wasting so much energy pretending to be happy all the time, I thought it was best just to leave home.”
Another personal history.
“Like your wife,” said a young man with fair hair and an eyebrow ring. “She left home too, didn’t she? Was that because she had to pretend to be happy all the time?”
So she had been here too. Had she given some of these young people a piece of that bloodstained shirt?
“She suffered too,” laughed Lucrecia. “But as far as we know, she’s not suffering anymore. That’s what I call courage!”
“What was my wife doing here?”
“She came with the Mongolian guy, the one with all the strange ideas about love that we’re only just beginning to understand. And she used to ask questions and tell us her story. One day, she stopped doing both. She said she was tired of complaining. We suggested that she give up everything and come with us, because we were planning a trip to North Africa. She thanked us, but said she had other plans and would be heading off in the opposite direction.”
“Didn’t you read his latest book?” asked Anastásia.
“No, I didn’t fancy it. People told me it was too romantic. Now when are we going to get some more booze?”
People made way for us as if we were samurai riding into a village, bandits arriving in a frontier town, barbarians entering Rome. The tribe didn’t make any aggressive gestures, the aggression was all in the clothes, the body piercing, the loud conversations, the sheer oddness. We finally found a minimart: to my great discomfort and alarm, they all went in and started rummaging around on the shelves.
I didn’t know any of them, apart from Mikhail, and even then I didn’t know if what he had told me about himself was true. What if they stole something? What if one of them was armed? As the oldest member of the group, was I responsible for their actions?
The man at the cash register kept glancing up at the security mirror suspended from the ceiling in the tiny shop. The group, knowing that he was worried, spread out, gesturing to each other, and the tension grew. To cut things short, I picked up three bottles of vodka and walked quickly over to the cash register.
A woman buying cigarettes said that, in her day, Paris had been full of bohemians and artists, not threatening bands of homeless people. She suggested that the cashier call the police.
“I’ve got a feeling something bad is going to happen any minute now,” she muttered.
The cashier was terrified by this invasion of his little world, the fruit of years of work and many loans, where perhaps his son worked in the morning, his wife in the afternoon, and he at night. He nodded to the woman, and I realized that he had already called the police.
I hate getting involved in things that are none of my business, but I also hate being a coward. Every time it happens, I lose all self-respect for a week.
“Don’t worry…” I began. It was too late.
Two policemen came in and the owner beckoned them over, but the young people disguised as extraterrestrials paid no attention—it was all part of standing up to representatives of the established order. It must have happened to them many times before. They knew they hadn’t committed any crime (apart from crimes against fashion, but that could all change with next season’s haute couture). They must have been afraid, but they didn’t show it and continued talking loudly.
“I saw a comedian the other day. He said that stupid people should have the word ‘stupid’ written on their identity card,” said Anastásia to no one in particular. “That way, we’d know who we were talking to.”
“Yeah, stupid people are a real danger to society,” said the girl with the angelic face and vampire clothing, who, shortly before, had been talking to me about the number of lampposts and cats to be found on the back of a ten-dollar bill. “They should be tested once a year and have a license for walking the streets, like drivers do to drive.”
The policemen, who couldn’t have been very much older than the tribe, said nothing.
“Do you know what I’d like to do,” it was Mikhail’s voice, but I couldn’t see him because he was concealed behind a shelf. “I’d like to change the labels on everything in this shop. People would be completely lost. They wouldn’t know whether things should be eaten hot or cold, boiled or fried. If they don’t read the instructions, they don’t know how to prepare a meal. They’ve lost all their culinary instincts.”
Everyone who had spoken up until then had done so in perfect Parisian French. Only Mikhail had a foreign accent.
“May I see your passport,” said one of the policemen. “He’s with me.”
The words emerged naturally, even though I knew what it could mean—another scandal. The policeman looked at me.
“I wasn’t talking to you, but since you’re obviously with this lot, I hope you’ve got some kind of document to prove who you are, and a good reason for being surrounded by people half your age and buying vodka.”
I could refuse to show my papers. I wasn’t legally obliged to have them with me. But I was thinking about Mikhail. One of the policemen was standing next to him now. Did he really have permission to stay in France? What did I know about him apart from the stories he had told me about his visions and his epilepsy? What if the tension of the moment provoked an attack?
I stuck my hand in my pocket and took out my driver’s license. “So you’re…”
“I am.”
“I thought it was you. I’ve read one of your books. But that doesn’t put you above the law.”
The fact that he had read one of my books threw me completely. Here was this shaven- headed young man in a uniform, albeit a very different one from that worn by the tribes in order to tell each other apart. Perhaps he too had once dreamed of having the freedom to be different, of subtly challenging authority, although never disrespectfully enough to end up in jail. He probably had a father who had never offered him any alternative, a family who needed his financial support, or perhaps he was just afraid of going beyond his own familiar world.
I said gently:
“No, I’m not above the law. In fact, no one here has broken the law. Unless the gentleman at the cash register or the lady buying cigarettes would like to make some specific complaint.”
When I turned around, the woman who had mentioned the artists and bohemians of her day, that prophet of imminent doom, the embodiment of truth and good manners, had disappeared. She would doubtless tell her neighbors the next day that, thanks to her, an attempted robbery had been averted.
“I’ve no complaints,” said the man behind the register. “I got worried because they were talking so loudly, but it looks like they weren’t actually doing any harm.”
“Is the vodka for you, sir?”
I nodded. They knew that everyone there was drunk, but they didn’t want to make a big deal out of a harmless situation.
“A world without stupid people would be complete chaos!” said the boy wearing leather and metal studs. “Instead of all the unemployed people we have today, there would be too many jobs and no one to do the work!”
“Shut up!”
My voice sounded authoritative, decisive. “Just stop talking, all of you!”
To my surprise, silence fell. My heart was beating furiously, but I continued talking to the policemen as if I were the calmest person in the world.
“If they were really dangerous, they wouldn’t be talking like that.” The policeman turned to the cashier:
“If you need us, we’ll be around.”
And before going out, he said to his colleague, so that his voice echoed around the whole shop, “I love stupid people. If it wasn’t for them, we might be having to tackle some real criminals.”
“You’re right,” said the other policeman. “Stupid people are a nice safe distraction.” They gave their usual salute and left.
The only thing that occurred to me to do when we left the shop was to smash the bottles of vodka. I saved one of them, though, and it was passed rapidly from mouth to mouth. By the way they were drinking, I could see they were frightened, as frightened as I was. The only difference was that they had gone on the offensive when threatened.
“I don’t feel good,” said Mikhail to one of them. “Let’s go.”
I didn’t know what he meant by “Let’s go”: each to his own home or town or bridge? No one asked me if I wanted to go with them, so I simply followed after. Mikhail’s remark “I don’t feel good” unsettled me; that meant we wouldn’t have another chance that night to talk about the trip to Central Asia. Should I just leave? Or should I stick it out and see what “Let’s go” meant? I discovered that I was enjoying myself and that I’d like to try seducing the girl in the vampire outfit.
Onward, then.
I could always leave at the first sign of danger.
As we headed off—where, I didn’t know—I was thinking about this whole experience. A tribe. A symbolic return to a time when men traveled in protective groups and required very little to survive. A tribe in the midst of another hostile tribe called society, crossing society’s lands and using aggression as a defense against rejection. A group of people who had joined together to form an ideal society, about which I knew nothing beyond the body piercing and the clothes that they wore. What were their values? What did they think about life? How did they earn their money? Did they have dreams or was it enough just to wander the world? All this was much more interesting than the supper I had to go to the following evening, where I knew exactly what would happen. I was convinced that it must be the effect of the vodka, but I was feeling free, my personal history was growing ever more remote, there was only the present moment, instinct; the Zahir had disappeared….
The Zahir?
Yes, it had disappeared, but now I realized that the Zahir was more than a man obsessed with an object, with a vein in the marble of one of the twelve hundred columns in the mosque in Córdoba, as Borges puts it, or, as in my own painful case for the last two years, with a woman in Central Asia. The Zahir was a fixation on everything that had been passed from generation to generation; it left no question unanswered; it took up all the space; it never allowed us even to consider the possibility that things could change.
The all-powerful Zahir seemed to be born with every human being and to gain full strength in childhood, imposing rules that would thereafter always be respected:
People who are different are dangerous; they belong to another tribe; they want our lands and our women.
We must marry, have children, reproduce the species.
Love is only a small thing, enough for one person, and any suggestion that the heart might be larger than this is considered perverse.
When we marry, we are authorized to take possession of the other person, body and soul.
We must do jobs we detest because we are part of an organized society, and if everyone did what they wanted to do, the world would come to a standstill.
We must buy jewelry; it identifies us with our tribe, just as body piercing identifies those of a different tribe.
We must be amusing at all times and sneer at those who express their real feelings; it’s dangerous for a tribe to allow its members to show their feelings.
We must at all costs avoid saying no because people prefer those who always say yes, and this allows us to survive in hostile territory.
What other people think is more important than what we feel. Never make a fuss—it might attract the attention of an enemy tribe.
If you behave differently, you will be expelled from the tribe because you could infect others and destroy something that was extremely difficult to organize in the first place.
We must always consider the look of our new cave, and if we don’t have a clear idea of our own, then we must call in a decorator who will do his best to show others what good taste we have.
We must eat three meals a day, even if we’re not hungry, and when we fail to fit the current ideal of beauty we must fast, even if we’re starving.
We must dress according to the dictates of fashion, make love whether we feel like it or not, kill in the name of our country, wish time away so that retirement comes more quickly, elect politicians, complain about the cost of living, change our hairstyle, criticize anyone who is different, go to a religious service on Sunday, Saturday, or Friday, depending on our religion, and there beg forgiveness for our sins and puff ourselves up with pride because we know the truth and despise the other tribe, who worships a false god.
Our children must follow in our footsteps; after all, we are older and know about the world.
We must have a university degree even if we never get a job in the area of knowledge we were forced to study.
We must study things that we will never use, but which someone told us were important to know: algebra, trigonometry, the code of Hammurabi.
We must never make our parents sad, even if this means giving up everything that makes us happy.
We must play music quietly, talk quietly, weep in private, because I am the all-powerful Zahir, who lays down the rules and determines the distance between railway tracks, the meaning of success, the best way to love, the importance of rewards.
We stop outside a relatively chic building in an expensive area. One of the group taps in the code at the front door and we all go up to the third floor. I thought we would find one of those understanding families who put up with their son’s friends in order to keep him close to home and keep an eye on him. But when Lucrecia opened the door, everything was in darkness. As my eyes grew accustomed to the light from the street filtering in
through the windows, I saw a large empty living room. The only decoration was a fireplace that probably hadn’t been used for years.
A fair-haired boy, who was nearly six feet tall and wore a long rain cape and a mohawk, went into the kitchen and returned with some lighted candles. We all sat around in a circle on the floor and, for the first time that night, I felt afraid: it was like being in a horror movie in which a satanic ritual is about to begin, and where the victim will be the stranger who was unwise enough to tag along.
Mikhail was looking pale and his eyes kept darting about, unable to fix on any one place, and that only increased my feeling of unease. He was on the point of having an epileptic fit. Would the people there know what to do in that situation? Wouldn’t it be better just to leave now and not get involved in a potential tragedy?
That would perhaps be the most prudent thing to do, in keeping with a life in which I was a famous author who writes about spirituality and should therefore be setting an example. Yes, if I was being sensible, I would say to Lucrecia that, in case of an attack, she should place something in her boyfriend’s mouth to stop his tongue rolling back and prevent him choking to death. She must know this already, but in the world of the followers of the social Zahir, we leave nothing to chance, we need to be at peace with our conscience.
That is how I would have acted before my accident, but now my personal history had become unimportant. It had stopped being history and was once more becoming a legend, a search, an adventure, a journey into and away from myself. I was once more in a time in which the things around me were changing and that is how I wanted it to be for the rest of my days. (I remembered one of my ideas for an epitaph: “He died while he was still alive.”) I was carrying with me the experiences of my past, which allowed me to react with speed and precision, but I wasn’t bothered about the lessons I had learned. Imagine a warrior in the middle of a fight, pausing to decide which move to make next? He would be dead in an instant.
And the warrior in me, using intuition and technique, decided that I needed to stay, to continue the night’s experiences, even if it was late and I was tired and drunk and afraid that a worried or angry Marie might be waiting up for me. I sat down next to Mikhail so that I could act quickly if he had a fit.
I noticed that he seemed to be in control of his epileptic attack. He gradually grew calmer, and his eyes took on the same intensity as when he was the young man in white standing on the stage at the Armenian restaurant.
“We will start with the usual prayer,” he said.
And the young people, who, up until then, had been aggressive, drunken misfits, closed their eyes and held hands in a large circle. Even the two Alsatian dogs sitting in one corner of the room seemed calmer.
“Dear Lady, when I look at the cars, the shop windows, the people oblivious to everyone else, when I look at all the buildings and the monuments, I see in them your absence.
Make us capable of bringing you back.”
The group continued as one: “Dear Lady, we recognize your presence in the difficulties we are experiencing. Help us not to give up. Help us to think of you with tranquility and determination, even when it is hard to accept that we love you.”
I noticed that everyone there was wearing the same symbol
somewhere on their clothing. Sometimes it was in the form of a brooch, or a metal badge, or a piece of embroidery, or was even drawn on the fabric with a pen.
“I would like to dedicate tonight to the man sitting on my right. He sat down beside me because he wanted to protect me.”
How did he know that?
“He’s a good man. He knows that love transforms and he allows himself to be transformed by love. He still carries much of his personal history in his soul, but he is continually trying to free himself from it, which is why he stayed with us tonight. He is the husband of the woman we all know, the woman who left me a relic as proof of her friendship and as a talisman.”
Mikhail took out the piece of bloodstained cloth and put it down in front of him.
“This is part of the unknown soldier’s shirt. Before he died, he said to the woman: ‘Cut up my clothes and distribute the pieces among those who believe in death and who, for that reason, are capable of living as if today were their last day on earth. Tell those people that I have just seen the face of God; tell them not to be afraid, but not to grow complacent either. Seek the one truth, which is love. Live in accordance with its laws.’”
They all gazed reverently at the piece of cloth.
“We were born into a time of revolt. We pour all our enthusiasm into it, we risk our lives and our youth, and suddenly, we feel afraid, and that initial joy gives way to the real challenges: weariness, monotony, doubts about our own abilities. We notice that some of our friends have already given up. We are obliged to confront loneliness, to cope with sharp bends in the road, to suffer a few falls with no one near to help us, and we end up asking ourselves if it’s worth all that effort.”
Mikhail paused.
“It is. And we will carry on, knowing that our soul, even though it is eternal, is at this moment caught in the web of time, with all its opportunities and limitations. We will, as far as possible, free ourselves from this web. When this proves impossible and we return to the story we were told, we will nevertheless remember our battles and be ready to resume the struggle as soon as the conditions are right. Amen.”
“Amen,” echoed the others.
“I need to talk to the Lady,” said the fair young man with the Mohawk. “Not tonight. I’m tired.”
There was a general murmur of disappointment. Unlike those people at the Armenian restaurant, they knew Mikhail’s story and knew about the presence he felt by his side. He got up and went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. I went with him.
I asked how they had come by that apartment, and he explained that in French law anyone can legally move into a building that is not being used by its owner. It was, in short, a squat.
I began to be troubled by the thought that Marie would be waiting up for me. Mikhail took my arm.
“You said today that you were going to the steppes. I’ll say this one more time: Please, take me with you. I need to go back to my country, even if only for a short time, but I haven’t any money. I miss my people, my mother, my friends. I could say, ‘The voice tells me that you will need me,’ but that wouldn’t be true: you could find Esther easily enough and without any help at all. But I need an infusion of energy from my homeland.”
“I can give you the money for a return ticket.”
“I know you can, but I’d like to be there with you, to go with you to the village where she’s living, to feel the wind on my face, to help you along the road that will lead you back to the woman you love. She was—and still is—very important to me. I learned so much from the changes she went through, from her determination, and I want to go on learning. Do you remember me talking once about ‘interrupted stories’? I would like to be by your side right up until the moment we reach her house. That way, I will have lived through to the end this period of your—and my—life. When we reach her house, I will leave you alone.”
I didn’t know what to say. I tried to talk about something else and asked about the people in the living room.
“They’re people who are afraid of ending up like your generation, a generation that dreamed it could revolutionize the world, but ended up giving in to ‘reality.’ We pretend to be strong because we’re weak. There are still only a few of us, very few, but I think
that’s only a passing phase; people can’t go on deceiving themselves forever. Now what’s your answer to my question?”
“Mikhail, you know how much I want to free myself from my personal history. If you had asked me a while ago, I would have found it much more comfortable, more convenient even, to travel with you, since you know the country, the customs, and the possible dangers. Now, though, I feel that I should roll up Ariadne’s thread into a ball and escape from the labyrinth I got myself into, and that I should do this alone. My life has changed; I feel as if I were ten or even twenty years younger, and that in itself is enough for me to want to set off in search of adventure.”
“When will you leave?”
“As soon as I get my visa. In two or three days’ time.”
“May the Lady go with you. The voice is saying that it is the right moment. If you change your mind, let me know.”
I walked past the group of people lying on the floor, ready to go to sleep. On the way home, it occurred to me that life was a much more joyful thing than I had thought it would be at my age: it’s always possible to go back to being young and crazy again. I was so focused on the present moment that I was surprised when I saw that people didn’t recoil from me as I passed, didn’t fearfully lower their eyes. No one even noticed me, but I liked the idea. This city was once again the city about which Henry IV had said, when he was accused of betraying his Protestant religion by marrying a Catholic, “Paris is well worth a mass.”
It was worth much more than that. I could see again the religious massacres, the bloodlettings, the kings, the queens, the museums, the castles, the tortured artists, the drunken writers, the philosophers who took their own lives, the soldiers who plotted to conquer the world, the traitors who, with a gesture, brought down a whole dynasty, the stories that had once been forgotten and were now remembered and retold.
For the first time in ages, I arrived home and did not immediately go over to the computer to find out if anyone had e-mailed me, if there was some pressing matter requiring urgent action: nothing was that urgent. I didn’t go into the bedroom to see if Marie was asleep either, because I knew she would only be pretending to sleep.
I didn’t turn on the TV to watch the late-night news, because the news was exactly the same news I used to listen to as a child: one country was threatening another country; someone had betrayed someone else; the economy was going badly; some grand passion had come to an end; Israel and Palestine had failed, after fifty long years, to reach an agreement; another bomb had exploded; a hurricane had left thousands of people homeless.
I remembered that the major networks that morning, having no terrorist attacks to report, had all chosen as their main item a rebellion in Haiti. What did I care about Haiti? What difference would that make to my life or to that of my wife, to the price of bread in Paris, to Mikhail’s tribe? How could I have spent five minutes of my precious life listening to someone talking about the rebels and the president, watching the usual scenes of street protests being repeated over and over, and being reported as if it were a great event in the history of humanity—a rebellion in Haiti! And I had swallowed it whole! I had watched until the end! Stupid people really should be issued their own special identity cards because they are the ones who feed the collective stupidity.
I opened the window and let in the icy night air. I took off my clothes and told myself that I could withstand the cold. I stood there, not thinking anything, just aware of my feet on the floor, my eyes fixed on the Eiffel Tower, my ears hearing barking dogs, police sirens, and conversations I couldn’t quite understand.
I was not I, I was nothing—and that seemed to me quite marvelous.
You seem strange.”
“What do you mean ‘strange’?” “You seem sad.”
“I’m not sad. I’m happy.”
“You see? Even your tone of voice is false: you’re sad about me, but you don’t dare say anything.”
“Why should I be sad?”
“Because I came home late last night and I was drunk. You haven’t even asked me where I went.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Why aren’t you interested? I told you I was going out with Mikhail, didn’t I?” “Didn’t you go out with him, then?”
“Yes, I did.”
“So what’s there to ask?”
“Don’t you think that when your boyfriend, whom you claim you love, comes home late, you should at least try to find out what happened?”
“All right, then, what happened?”
“Nothing. I went out with Mikhail and some of his friends.” “Fine.”
“Do you believe me?” “Of course I do.”
“I don’t think you love me anymore. You’re not jealous. You don’t care. Do I normally get back home at two in the morning?”
“Didn’t you say you were a free man?” “And I am.”
“In that case, it’s normal that you should get back home at two in the morning and do whatever you want to do. If I were your mother, I’d be worried, but you’re a grown-up, aren’t you? You men should stop behaving as if you wanted the women in your life to treat you like children.”
“I don’t mean that kind of worried. I’m talking about jealousy.” “Would you prefer it if I made a scene right now, over breakfast?” “No, don’t do that, the neighbors will hear.”
“I don’t care about the neighbors. I won’t make a scene because I don’t feel like it. It’s been hard for me, but I’ve finally accepted what you told me in Zagreb, and I’m trying to get used to the idea. Meanwhile, if it makes you happy, I can always pretend to be jealous, angry, crazy, or whatever.”
“As I said, you seem strange. I’m beginning to think I’m not important in your life anymore.”
“And I’m beginning to think you’ve forgotten there’s a journalist waiting for you in the sitting room, who is quite possibly listening to our conversation.”
Ah, the journalist. I go on automatic pilot, because I know what questions he will ask.
I know how the interview will begin (“Let’s talk about your new novel. What’s the main message?”), and I know how I will respond (“If I wanted to put across a message, I’d write a single sentence, not a book.”).
I know he’ll ask me what I feel about the critics, who are usually very hard on my work. I know that he will end by asking: “And have you already started writing a new book?
What projects are you working on now?” To which I will respond: “That’s a secret.” The interview begins as expected:
“Let’s talk about your new book. What’s the main message?”
“If I wanted to put across a message, I’d write a single sentence, not a book.” “And why do you write?”
“Because that’s my way of sharing my feelings with others.”
This phrase is also part of my automatic pilot script, but I stop and correct myself: “Although that particular story could be told in a different way.”
“In a different way? Do you mean you’re not happy with A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew?”
“No, on the contrary, I’m very pleased with the book, but I’m not so pleased with the answer I’ve just given you. Why do I write? The real answer is this: I write because I want to be loved.”
The journalist eyed me suspiciously: What kind of confession was this?
“I write because when I was an adolescent, I was useless at football, I didn’t have a car or much of an allowance, and I was pretty much of a weed.”
I was making a huge effort to keep talking. The conversation with Marie had reminded me of a past that no longer made any sense; I needed to talk about my real personal history, in order to become free of it. I went on:
“I didn’t wear trendy clothes either. That’s all the girls in my class were interested in, and so they just ignored me. At night, when my friends were out with their girlfriends, I spent my free time creating a world in which I could be happy: my companions were writers and their books. One day, I wrote a poem for one of the girls in the street where I lived. A
friend found the poem in my room and stole it, and when we were all together, he showed it to the entire class. Everyone laughed. They thought it was ridiculous—I was in love!
“The only one who didn’t laugh was the girl I wrote the poem for. The following evening, when we went to the theater, she managed to fix things so that she sat next to me, and she held my hand. We left the theater hand in hand. There was ugly, puny, untrendy me strolling along with the girl all the boys in the class fancied.”
I paused. It was as if I were going back into the past, to the moment when her hand touched mine and changed my life.
“And all because of a poem,” I went on. “A poem showed me that by writing and revealing my invisible world, I could compete on equal terms with the visible world of my classmates: physical strength, fashionable clothes, cars, being good at sports.”
The journalist was slightly surprised, and I was even more surprised. He managed to compose himself, though, and asked:
“Why do you think the critics are so hard on your work?”
My automatic pilot would normally reply: “You just have to read the biography of any writer from the past who is now considered a classic—not that I’m comparing myself with them, you understand—to see how implacable their critics were then. The reason is simple: Critics are extremely insecure, they don’t really know what’s going on, they’re democrats when it comes to politics, but fascists when it comes to culture. They believe that people are perfectly capable of choosing who governs them, but have no idea when it comes to choosing films, books, music.”
I had abandoned my automatic pilot again, knowing full well that the journalist was unlikely to publish my response.
“Have you ever heard of the law of Jante?” “No, I haven’t,” he said.
“Well, it’s been in existence since the beginning of civilization, but it was only officially set down in 1933 by a Danish writer. In the small town of Jante, the powers that be came up with ten commandments telling people how they should behave, and it seems to exist not only in Jante, but everywhere else too. If I had to sum it up in one sentence, I’d say: ‘Mediocrity and anonymity are the safest choice. If you opt for them, you’ll never face any major problems in life. But if you try to be different…’”
“I’d like to know what these Jante commandments are,” said the journalist, who seemed genuinely interested.
“I don’t have them here, but I can summarize if you like.”
I went over to my computer and printed out a condensed and edited version.
“You are nobody, never even dare to think that you know more than we do. You are of no importance, you can do nothing right, your work is of no significance, but as long as you never challenge us, you will live a happy life. Always take what we say seriously and never laugh at our opinions.”
The journalist folded up the piece of paper and put it in his pocket.
“You’re right. If you’re a nobody, if your work has no impact, then it deserves to be praised. If, however, you climb out of that state of mediocrity and are a success, then you’re defying the law and deserve to be punished.”
I was so pleased that he had reached this conclusion on his own.
“And it isn’t only the critics who say that,” I added. “More people, far more people than you might think, say exactly the same thing.”
Later that afternoon, I rang Mikhail’s cell phone number:
“Let’s travel to Kazakhstan together.”
He didn’t seem in the least surprised; he merely thanked me and asked what had made me change my mind.
“For two years, my life has consisted of nothing but the Zahir. Since I met you, I’ve been following a long-forgotten path, an abandoned railway track with grass growing between the rails, but which can still be used by trains. I haven’t yet reached the final station, so I have no way of stopping along the way.”
He asked me if I had managed to get a visa. I explained that the Favor Bank had once again come to my aid: a Russian friend had phoned his girlfriend, who was the director of a major newspaper company in Kazakhstan. She had phoned the ambassador in Paris, and the visa would be ready that afternoon.
“When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow. In order to buy the tickets, I just need to know your real name; the travel agent is on the other line now.”
“Before you hang up, I’d just like to say one thing: I really liked what you said about the distance between the tracks and what you said just now about the abandoned railway line,
but I don’t think that’s why you’re asking me to come with you. I think it’s because of something you wrote once, and which I know by heart. Your wife was always quoting these lines, and what they say is far more romantic than that business about the Favor Bank:
A warrior of light knows that he has much to be grateful for.
He was helped in his struggle by the angels; celestial forces placed each thing in its place, thus allowing him to give of his best. That is why, at sunset, he kneels and gives thanks for the Protective Cloak surrounding him.
His companions say: “He’s so lucky!” But he knows that “luck” is knowing to look around him and to see where his friends are, because it was through their words that the angels were able to make themselves heard.
“I don’t always remember what I wrote, but thank you for that. Now I just need your name to give to the travel agent.”
It takes twenty minutes for the taxi company to answer the phone. An irritated voice tells me I’ll have to wait another half an hour. Marie seems happy in her exuberantly sexy black dress, and I think of the Armenian restaurant and the man who admitted to feeling aroused by the thought that his wife was desired by other men. I know that all the women at the gala supper will be wearing outfits designed to make their breasts and curves the center of attention, and that their husbands or boyfriends, knowing that their wives or girlfriends are desired by other men, will think: “All right, have a good look, but keep your distance, because she’s with me, she’s mine. I’m better than you are, because I have something you’d all like to have.”
I’m not going to be doing any business, I’m not going to be signing contracts or giving interviews; I am merely attending a ceremony, to repay a deposit made into my account at the Favor Bank. I will sit next to someone boring at supper, someone who will ask me where I find the inspiration for my books. Next to me, on the other side, a pair of breasts will perhaps be on show, possibly belonging to the wife of a friend, and I will constantly have to stop myself glancing down because, if I do, even for a second, she will tell her husband that I was coming on to her. While we wait for the taxi, I draw up a list of possible topics of conversation:
1. (a) Comments about people’s appearance: “You’re looking very elegant.” “What a beautiful dress.” “Your skin’s looking fabulous.” When they go back home, they’ll say how badly dressed everyone was and how ill they looked.
2. (b) Recent holidays: “You must visit Aruba, it’s fantastic.” “There’s nothing like a summer night in Cancún, sipping a martini by the seashore.” In fact, no one enjoys themselves very much on these holidays, they just experience a sense of freedom for a few days and feel obliged to enjoy themselves because they spent all that money.
3. (c) More holidays, this time to places which they feel free to criticize: “I was in Rio de Janeiro recently—such a violent city.” “The poverty in the streets of Calcutta is really shocking.” They only went to these places in order to feel powerful while they were there and privileged when they came back to the mean reality of their little lives, where at least there is no poverty or violence.
4. (d) New therapies: “Just one week of drinking wheatgrass juice really improves the texture of your hair.” “I spent two days at a spa in Biarritz; the water there opens the pores and eliminates toxins.” The following week, they will discover that wheatgrass has absolutely no special properties and that any old hot water will open the pores and eliminate toxins.
5. (e) Other people: “I haven’t seen so-and-so in ages—what’s he up to?” “I understand that what’s-her-name is in financial difficulties and has had to sell her apartment.” They can talk about the people who weren’t invited to the party in question, they can criticize all they like, as long as they end by saying, with an innocent, pitying air: “Still, he/she’s a wonderful person.”
6. (f) A few little complaints about life, just to add savor to the evening: “I wish something new would happen in my life.” “I’m so worried about my children, they never listen to proper music or read proper literature.” They wait for comments from other people with the same problem and then feel less alone and leave the party happy.
7. (g) At intellectual gatherings, like the one this evening, we will discuss the Middle East conflict, the problem of Islamism, the latest exhibition, the latest philosophy guru, the fantastic book that no one has heard of, the fact that music isn’t what it used to be; we will offer our intelligent, sensible opinions, which run completely counter to our real feelings—because we all know how much we hate having to go to those exhibitions, read those unbearable books, or see those dreary films, just so that we will have something to talk about on nights like tonight.
The taxi arrives, and while we are being driven to the venue I add another very personal item to my list: I complain to Marie about how much I loathe these suppers. She reminds me—and it’s true—that I always enjoy myself in the end and have a really good time.
We enter one of Paris’s most elegant restaurants and head for a room reserved for the event—a presentation of a literary prize for which I was one of the judges. Everyone is standing around talking; some people say hello and others merely look at me and make some comment to each other; the organizer of the prize comes over to me and introduces me to the people who are there, always with the same irritating words: “You know who this gentleman is, of course.” Some people give a smile of recognition, others merely smile and don’t recognize me at all, but pretend to know who I am, because to admit
otherwise would be to accept that the world they’re living in doesn’t exist, and that they are failing to keep up with the things that matter.
I remember the tribe of the previous night and think: stupid people should all be marooned on a ship on the high seas and forced to attend parties night after night, being endlessly introduced to people for several months, until they finally manage to remember who is who.
I draw up a catalog of the kind of people who attend events like this. Ten percent are Members, the decision makers, who came out tonight because of some debt they owe to the Favor Bank, but who always have an eye open for anything that might be of benefit to their work—how to make money, where to invest. They can soon tell whether or not an event is going to prove profitable or not, and they are always the first to leave the party; they never waste their time.
Two percent are the Talents, who really do have a promising future; they have already managed to ford a few rivers, have just become aware of the existence of the Favor Bank and are all potential customers; they have important services to offer, but are not as yet in a position to make decisions. They are nice to everyone because they don’t know who exactly they are talking to, and they are more open-minded than the Members, because, for them, any road might lead somewhere.
Three percent are what I call the Tupamaros—in homage to the former Uruguayan guerrilla group. They have managed to infiltrate this party and are mad for any kind of contact; they’re not sure whether to stay or to go on to another party that is taking place at the same time; they are anxious; they want to show how talented they are, but they weren’t invited, they haven’t scaled the first mountains, and as soon as the other guests figure this out, they immediately withdraw any attention they have been paying them.
The last eighty-five percent are the Trays. I call them this because, just as no party can exist without that particular utensil, so no event can exist without these guests. The Trays don’t really know what is going on, but they know it’s important to be there; they are on the guest list drawn up by the promoters because the success of something like this also depends on the number of people who come. They are all ex-something-or-other- important—ex-bankers, ex-directors, the ex-husband of some famous woman, the ex-wife of some man now in a position of power. They are counts in a country where the monarchy no longer exists, princesses and marchionesses who live by renting out their castles. They go from one party to the next, from one supper to the next—don’t they ever get sick of it, I wonder?
When I commented on this recently to Marie, she said that just as some people are addicted to work, so others are addicted to fun. Both groups are equally unhappy, convinced that they are missing something, but unable to give up their particular vice.
A pretty young blonde comes over while I’m talking to one of the organizers of a conference on cinema and literature and tells me how much she enjoyed A Time to Rend
and a Time to Sew. She’s from one of the Baltic countries, she says, and works in film. She is immediately identified by the group as a Tupamaro, because while appearing to be interested in one thing (me), she is, in fact, interested in something else (the organizers of the conference). Despite having made this almost unforgivable gaffe, there is still a chance that she might be an inexperienced Talent. The organizer of the conference asks what she means by “working in film.” The young woman explains that she writes film reviews for a newspaper and has published a book (About cinema? No, about her life— her short, dull life, I imagine).
She then commits the cardinal sin of jumping the gun and asking if she could be invited to this year’s event. The organizer explains that the woman who publishes my books in that same Baltic country, an influential and hardworking woman (and very pretty too, I think to myself), has already been invited. They continue talking to me; the Tupamaro lingers for a few more minutes, not knowing what to say, then moves off.
Given that it’s a literary prize, most of the guests tonight—Tupamaros, Talents, and Trays—belong to the world of the arts. The Members, on the other hand, are either sponsors or people connected with foundations that support museums, classical music concerts, and promising young artists. After various conversations about which of the candidates for the prize that night had applied most pressure in order to win, the master of ceremonies mounts the stage, asks everyone to take their places at the tables (we all sit down), makes a few jokes (it’s part of the ritual, and we all laugh), and says that the winners will be announced between the entrée and the first course.
I am at the head table; this allows me to keep the Trays at a safe distance, and also means that I don’t have to bother with any enthusiastic and self-interested Talents. I am seated between the female director of a car-manufacturing firm, which is sponsoring the party, and an heiress who has decided to invest in art. To my surprise, neither of them is wearing a dress with a provocative décolletage. The other guests at our table are the director of a perfumery; an Arab prince (who was doubtless passing through Paris and was pounced on by one of the promoters to add luster to the event); an Israeli banker who collects fourteenth-century manuscripts; the main organizer of tonight’s event; the French consul to Monaco; and a blonde woman whose presence here I can’t quite fathom, although I suspect she might be the organizer’s next mistress.
I have to keep putting on my glasses and surreptitiously reading the names of the people on either side of me (I ought to be marooned on that imaginary ship and invited to this same party dozens of times until I have memorized the names of all the guests). Marie, as protocol demands, has been placed at another table; someone, at some point in history, decided that at formal suppers couples should always be seated separately, thus leaving it open to doubt whether the person beside us is married, single, or married but available.
Or perhaps someone thought that if a couple were seated together, they would simply talk to each other; but, in that case, why go out—why take a taxi and go to the supper in the first place?
As foreseen in my list of possible conversational topics, we begin with cultural small talk—isn’t that a marvelous exhibition, wasn’t that an intelligent review…. I would like to concentrate on the entrée—caviar with salmon and egg—but I am constantly interrupted by the usual questions about how my new book is doing, where I find my inspiration, whether I’m working on a new project. Everyone seems very cultured, everyone manages to mention—as if by chance, of course—some famous person who also happens to be a close friend. Everyone can speak cogently about the current state of politics or about the problems facing culture.
“Why don’t we talk about something else?”
The question slips out inadvertently. Everyone at the table goes quiet. After all, it is extremely rude to interrupt other people and worse still to draw attention to oneself. It seems, however, that last night’s tour of the streets of Paris in the guise of a beggar has caused some irreparable damage, which means that I can no longer stand such conversations.
“We could talk about the acomodador: the moment in our lives when we decide to abandon our desires and make do, instead, with what we have.”
No one seems very interested. I decide to change the subject.
“We could talk about the importance of forgetting the story we’ve been told and trying to live an entirely different story. Try doing something different every day—like talking to the person at the next table to you in a restaurant, visiting a hospital, putting your foot in a puddle, listening to what another person has to say, allowing the energy of love to flow freely, instead of putting it in a jug and standing it in a corner.”
“Are you talking about adultery?” asks the director of the perfumery.
“No, I mean allowing yourself to be the instrument of love, not its master, being with someone because you really want to be, not because convention obliges you to be.”
With great delicacy, and just a touch of irony, the French consul to Monaco assures me that all the people around our table are, of course, exercising that right and freedom.
Everyone agrees, although no one believes that it’s true.
“Sex!” cries the blonde woman whose role that evening no one has quite identified. “Why don’t we talk about sex? It’s much more interesting and much less complicated!”
At least her remark is spontaneous. One of the women sitting next to me gives a wry laugh, but I applaud.
“Sex is certainly more interesting, but I’m not sure it’s a different topic of conversation. Besides, it’s no longer forbidden to talk about sex.”
“It’s also in extremely bad taste,” says one of my neighbors.
“May we know what is forbidden?” asks the organizer, who is starting to feel uncomfortable.
“Well, money, for example. All of us around this table have money, or pretend that we do. We assume we’ve been invited here because we’re rich, famous, and influential. But have any of us ever thought of using this kind of event to find out what everyone actually earns? Since we’re all so sure of ourselves, so important, why don’t we look at our world as it is and not as we imagine it to be?”
“What are you getting at?” asks the director of the car-manufacturing firm.
“It’s a long story. I could start by talking about Hans and Fritz sitting in a bar in Tokyo and go on to mention a Mongolian nomad who says we need to forget who we think we are in order to become who we really are.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“That’s my fault. I didn’t really explain. But let’s get down to the nitty-gritty: I’d like to know how much everyone here earns, what it means, in money terms, to be sitting at the head table.”
There is a momentary silence—my gamble is not paying off. The other people around the table are looking at me with startled eyes: asking about someone’s financial situation is a bigger taboo than sex, more frowned upon than asking about betrayals, corruption, or parliamentary intrigues.
However, the Arab prince—perhaps because he’s bored by all these receptions and banquets with their empty chatter, perhaps because that very day he has been told by his doctor that he is going to die, or perhaps for some other reason—decides to answer my question:
“I earn about twenty thousand euros a month, depending on the amount approved by the parliament in my country. That bears no relation to what I spend, though, because I have an unlimited so-called entertainment allowance. In other words, I am here courtesy of the embassy’s car and chauffeur; the clothes I’m wearing belong to the government; and tomorrow I will be traveling to another European country in a private jet, with the cost of pilot, fuel, and airport taxes deducted from that allowance.”
And he concludes:
“Apparent reality is not an exact science.”
If the prince can speak so frankly, and given that he is, hierarchically, the most important person at the table, the others cannot possibly embarrass him by remaining silent. They are going to have to participate in the game, the question, and the embarrassment.
“I don’t know exactly how much I earn,” says the organizer, one of the Favor Bank’s classic representatives, known to some as a lobbyist. “Somewhere in the region of ten thousand euros a month, but I, too, have an entertainment allowance from the various organizations I head. I can deduct everything—suppers, lunches, hotels, air tickets, sometimes even clothes—although I don’t have a private jet.”
The wine has run out; he signals to a waiter and our glasses are refilled. Now it was the turn of the director of the car-manufacturing firm, who, initially, had hated the idea of talking about money, but who now seems to be rather enjoying herself.
“I reckon I earn about the same, and have the same unlimited entertainment allowance.”
One by one, everyone confessed how much they earned. The banker was the richest of them all, with ten million euros a year, as well as shares in his bank that were constantly increasing in value.
When it came to the turn of the young blonde woman who had not been introduced to anyone, she refused to answer:
“That’s part of my secret garden. It’s nobody’s business but mine.” “Of course it isn’t, but we’re just playing a game,” said the organizer.
The woman refused to join in, and by doing so, placed herself on a higher level than everyone else: after all, she was the only one in the group who had secrets. However, by placing herself on a higher level, she only succeeded in earning everyone else’s scorn.
Afraid of feeling humiliated by her miserable salary, she had, by acting all mysterious, managed to humiliate everyone else, not realizing that most of the people there lived permanently poised on the edge of the abyss, utterly dependent on those entertainment allowances that could vanish overnight.
The question inevitably came around to me.
“It depends. In a year when I publish a new book, I could earn five million euros. If I don’t publish a book, then I earn about two million from royalties on existing titles.”
“You only asked the question so that you could say how much you earned,” said the young woman with the “secret garden.” “No one’s impressed.”
She had realized that she had made a wrong move earlier on and was now trying to correct the situation by going on the attack.
“On the contrary,” said the prince. “I would have expected a leading author like yourself to be far wealthier.”
A point to me. The blonde woman would not open her mouth again all night.
The conversation about money broke a series of taboos, given that how much people earn was the biggest of them all. The waiter began to appear more frequently, the bottles of wine began to be emptied with incredible speed, the emcee-cum-organizer rather tipsily mounted the stage, announced the winner, presented the prize, and immediately rejoined the conversation, which had carried on even though politeness demands that we keep quiet when someone else is talking. We discussed what we did with our money (this consisted mostly of buying “free time,” traveling, or practicing a sport).
I thought of changing tack and asking them what kind of funeral they would like—death was as big a taboo as money—but the atmosphere was so buoyant and everyone was so full of talk that I decided to say nothing.
“You’re all talking about money, but you don’t know what money is,” said the banker. “Why do people think that a bit of colored paper, a plastic card, or a coin made out of fifth-rate metal has any value? Worse still, did you know that your money, your millions of dollars, are nothing but electronic impulses?”
Of course we did.
“Once, wealth was what these ladies are wearing,” he went on. “Ornaments made from rare materials that were easy to transport, count, and share out. Pearls, nuggets of gold, precious stones. We all carried our wealth in a visible place. Such things were, in turn, exchanged for cattle or grain, because no one walks down the street carrying cattle or sacks of grain. The funny thing is that we still behave like some primitive tribe—we wear our ornaments to show how rich we are, even though we often have more ornaments than money.”
“It’s the tribal code,” I said. “In my day, young people wore their hair long, whereas nowadays they all go in for body piercing. It helps them identify like-minded people, even though it can’t buy anything.”
“Can our electronic impulses buy one extra hour of life? No. Can they buy back those loved ones who have departed? No. Can they buy love?”
“They can certainly buy love,” said the director of the car-manufacturing firm in an amused tone of voice.
Her eyes, however, betrayed a terrible sadness. I thought of Esther and of what I had said to the journalist in the interview I had given that morning. We rich, powerful, intelligent people knew that, deep down, we had acquired all these ornaments and credit cards only in order to find love and affection and to be with someone who loved us.
“Not always,” said the director of the perfumery, turning to look at me.
“No, you’re right, not always. After all, my wife left me, and I’m a wealthy man. But almost always. By the way, does anyone at this table know how many cats and how many lampposts there are on the back of a ten-dollar bill?”
No one knew and no one was interested. The comment about love had completely spoiled the jolly atmosphere, and we went back to talking about literary prizes, exhibitions, the latest film, and the play that was proving to be such an unexpected success.
How was it on your table?” “Oh, the usual.”
“Well, I managed to spark an interesting discussion about money, but, alas, it ended in tragedy.”
“When do you leave?”
“I have to leave here at half past seven in the morning. Since you’re flying to Berlin, we could share a taxi.”
“Where are you going?”
“You know where I’m going. You haven’t asked me, but you know.” “Yes, I know.”
“Just as you know that we’re saying goodbye at this very moment.”
“We could go back to the time when we first met: a man in emotional tatters over someone who had left him, and a woman madly in love with her neighbor. I could repeat what I said to you once: ‘I’m going to fight to the bitter end.’ Well, I fought and I lost, and now I’ll just have to lick my wounds and leave.”
“I fought and lost as well. I’m not trying to sew up what was rent. Like you, I want to fight to the bitter end.”
“I suffer every day, did you know that? I’ve been suffering for months now, trying to show you how much I love you, how things are only important when you’re by my side. But now, whether I suffer or not, I’ve decided that enough is enough. It’s over. I’m tired. After that night in Zagreb, I lowered my guard and said to myself: If the blow comes, it
comes. It can lay me out on the canvas, it can knock me out cold, but one day I’ll recover.”
“You’ll find someone else.”
“Of course I will: I’m young, pretty, intelligent, desirable, but will I experience all the things I experienced with you?”
“You’ll experience different emotions and, you know, although you may not believe it, I loved you while we were together.”
“I’m sure you did, but that doesn’t make it any the less painful. We’ll leave in separate taxis tomorrow. I hate goodbyes, especially at airports or train stations.”
THE RETURN TO ITHACA
We’ll sleep here tonight and, tomorrow, we’ll continue on horseback. My car can’t cope with the sand of the steppes.”
We were in a kind of bunker, which looked like a relic from the Second World War. A man, with his wife and his granddaughter, welcomed us and showed us a simple, but spotlessly clean room.
Dos went on:
“And don’t forget to choose a name.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” said Mikhail.
“Of course it is,” insisted Dos. “I was with his wife recently. I know how she thinks, I know what she has learned, I know what she expects.”
Dos’s voice was simultaneously firm and gentle. Yes, I would choose a name, I would do exactly as he suggested; I would continue to discard my personal history and, instead, embark on my personal legend—even if only out of sheer tiredness.
I was exhausted. The previous night I had slept for two hours at most: my body had still not adjusted to the enormous time difference. I had arrived in Almaty at about eleven o’clock at night local time, when in France it was only six o’clock in the evening.
Mikhail had left me at the hotel and I had dozed for a bit, then woken up in the small hours. I had looked out at the lights below and thought how in Paris it would just be time to go out to supper. I was hungry and asked room service if they could send me up
something to eat: “Of course we can, sir, but you really must try to sleep; if you don’t, your body will stay stuck on its European timetable.”
For me, the worst possible torture is not being able to sleep. I ate a sandwich and decided to go for a walk. I asked the receptionist my usual question: “Is it dangerous to go walking at this hour?” He told me it wasn’t, and so I set off down the empty streets, narrow alleyways, broad avenues; it was a city like any other, with its neon signs, the occasional passing police car, a beggar here, a prostitute there. I had to keep repeating out loud: “I’m in Kazakhstan!” If I didn’t, I would end up thinking I was merely in some unfamiliar quarter of Paris.
“I’m in Kazakhstan!” I said to the deserted city, and a voice replied: “Of course you are.”
I jumped. A man was sitting close by, on a bench in a square at dead of night, with his backpack by his side. He got up and introduced himself as Jan, from Holland, adding:
“And I know why you’re here.”
Was he a friend of Mikhail’s? Or was I being followed by the secret police? “Why am I here, then?”
“Like me, you’ve traveled from Istanbul, following the Silk Road.” I gave a sigh of relief, and decided to continue the conversation.
“On foot? As I understand it, that means crossing the whole of Asia.”
“It’s something I needed to do. I was dissatisfied with my life. I’ve got money, a wife, children, I own a hosiery factory in Rotterdam. For a time, I knew what I was fighting for—my family’s stability. Now I’m not so sure. Everything that once made me happy just bores me, leaves me cold. For the sake of my marriage, the love of my children, and my enthusiasm for my work, I decided to take two months off just for myself, and to take a long look at my life. And it’s working.”
“I’ve been doing the same thing these last few months. Are there a lot of pilgrims like you?”
“Lots of them. Loads. It can be dangerous, because the political situation in some of these countries is very tricky indeed, and they hate Westerners. But we get by. I think that, as a pilgrim, you’ll always be treated with respect, as long as you can prove you’re not a spy. But I gather from what you say that you have different reasons for being here. What brings you to Almaty?”
“The same thing as you. I came to reach the end of a particular road. Couldn’t you sleep either?”
“I’ve just woken up. The earlier I set out, the more chance I have of getting to the next town; if not, I’ll have to spend the night in the freezing cold steppes, with that constant wind blowing.”
“Have a good journey, then.”
“No, stay a while. I need to talk, to share my experiences. Most of the other pilgrims don’t speak English.”
And he started telling me about his life, while I tried to remember what I knew about the Silk Road, the old commercial route that connected Europe with the countries of the East. The traditional route started in Beirut, passed through Antioch and went all the way to the shores of the Yangtse in China; but in Central Asia it became a kind of web, with roads heading off in all directions, which allowed for the establishment of trading posts, which, in time, became towns, which were later destroyed in battles between rival tribes, rebuilt by the inhabitants, destroyed, and rebuilt again. Although almost everything passed along that route—gold, strange animals, ivory, seeds, political ideas, refugees from civil wars, armed bandits, private armies to protect the caravans—silk was the rarest and most coveted item. It was thanks to one of these branch roads that Buddhism traveled from China to India.
“I left Antioch with about two hundred dollars in my pocket,” said the Dutchman, having described mountains, landscapes, exotic tribes, and endless problems in various countries with police patrols. “I needed to find out if I was capable of becoming myself again. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I was forced to beg, to ask for money. To my surprise, people are much more generous than I had imagined.”
Beg? I studied his backpack and his clothes to see if I could spot the symbol of the tribe—Mikhail’s tribe—but I couldn’t find it.
“Have you ever been to an Armenian restaurant in Paris?” “I’ve been to lots of Armenian restaurants, but never in Paris.” “Do you know someone called Mikhail?”
“It’s a pretty common name in these parts. If I did know a Mikhail, I can’t remember, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“No, I don’t need your help. I’m just surprised by certain coincidences. It seems there are a lot of people, all over the world, who are becoming aware of the same thing and acting in a very similar way.”
“The first thing you feel, when you set out on a journey like this, is that you’ll never arrive. Then you feel insecure, abandoned, and spend all your time thinking about giving up. But if you can last a week, then you’ll make it to the end.”
“I’ve been wandering like a pilgrim through the streets of one city, and yesterday I arrived in a different one. May I bless you?”
He gave me a strange look.
“I’m not traveling for religious reasons. Are you a priest?”
“No, I’m not a priest, but I feel that I should bless you. Some things aren’t logical, as you know.”
The Dutchman called Jan, whom I would never see again, bowed his head and closed his eyes. I placed my hands on his shoulders and, in my native tongue—which he wouldn’t understand—I prayed that he would reach his destination safely and leave behind him on the Silk Road both his sadness and his sense that life was meaningless; I prayed, too, that he would return to his family with shining eyes and with his soul washed clean.
He thanked me, took up his backpack, and headed off in the direction of China. I went back to the hotel thinking that I had never, in my whole life, blessed anyone before. But I had responded to an impulse, and the impulse was right; my prayer would be answered.
The following day, Mikhail turned up with his friend, Dos, who would accompany us. Dos had a car, knew my wife, and knew the steppes, and he, too, wanted to be there when I reached the village where Esther was living.
I considered remonstrating with them—first, it was Mikhail, now it was his friend, and by the time we finally reached the village, there would be a huge crowd following me, applauding and weeping, waiting to see what would happen. But I was too tired to say anything. The next day, I would remind Mikhail of the promise he had made, not to allow any witnesses to that moment.
We got into the car and, for some time, followed the Silk Road. They asked me if I knew what it was and I told them that I had met a Silk Road pilgrim the previous night, and they said that such journeys were becoming more and more commonplace and could soon bring benefits to the country’s tourist industry.
Two hours later, we left the main road and continued along a minor road as far as the bunker where we are now, eating fish and listening to the soft wind that blows across the steppes.
“Esther was very important for me,” Dos explains, showing me a photo of one of his paintings, which includes one of those pieces of bloodstained cloth. “I used to dream of leaving here, like Oleg…”
“You’d better call me Mikhail, otherwise he’ll get confused.”
“I used to dream of leaving here, like lots of people my age. Then one day, Oleg—or, rather, Mikhail—phoned me. He said that his benefactress had decided to come and live in the steppes for a while and he wanted me to help her. I agreed, thinking that here was my chance and that perhaps I could extract the same favors from her: a visa, a plane ticket, and a job in France. She asked me to go with her to some remote village that she knew from an earlier visit.
“I didn’t ask her why, I simply did as she requested. On the way, she insisted on going to the house of a nomad she had visited years before. To my surprise, it was my grandfather she wanted to see! She was received with the hospitality that is typical of the people who live in this infinite space. My grandfather told her that, although she thought she was sad, her soul was, in fact, happy and free, and love’s energy had begun to flow again. He assured her that this would have an effect upon the whole world, including her husband. My grandfather taught her many things about the culture of the steppes, and asked me to teach her the rest. In the end, he decided that she could keep her name, even though this was contrary to tradition.
“And while she learned from my grandfather, I learned from her, and realized that I didn’t need to go far away, as Mikhail had done: my mission was to be in this empty space—the steppes—and to understand its colors and transform them into paintings.”
“I don’t quite understand what you mean about teaching my wife. I thought your grandfather said that we should forget everything.”
“I’ll show you tomorrow,” said Dos.
And the following day, he did show me and there was no need for words. I saw the endless steppes, which, although they appeared to be nothing but desert, were, in fact, full of life, full of creatures hidden in the low scrub. I saw the flat horizon, the vast empty space, heard the sound of horses’ hooves, the quiet wind, and then, all around us, nothing, absolutely nothing. It was as if the world had chosen this place to display, at once, its vastness, its simplicity, and its complexity. It was as if we could—and should—become like the steppes—empty, infinite, and, at the same time, full of life.
I looked up at the blue sky, took off my dark glasses, and allowed myself to be filled by that light, by the feeling of being simultaneously nowhere and everywhere. We rode on in silence, stopping now and then to let the horses drink from streams that only someone who knew the place would have been able to find. Occasionally, we would see other horsemen in the distance or shepherds with their flocks, framed by the plain and by the sky.
Where was I going? I hadn’t the slightest idea and I didn’t care. The woman I was looking for was somewhere in that infinite space. I could touch her soul, hear the song she was singing as she wove her carpets. Now I understood why she had chosen this place: there was nothing, absolutely nothing to distract her attention; it was the emptiness she had so yearned for. The wind would gradually blow her pain away. Could she ever have imagined that one day I would be here, on horseback, riding to meet her?
A sense of paradise descends from the skies. And I am aware that I am living through an unforgettable moment in my life; it is the kind of awareness we often have precisely when the magic moment has passed. I am entirely here, without past, without future, entirely focused on the morning, on the music of the horses’ hooves, on the gentleness of the wind caressing my body, on the unexpected grace of contemplating sky, earth, men. I feel a sense of adoration and ecstasy. I am thankful for being alive. I pray quietly, listening to the voice of nature, and understanding that the invisible world always manifests itself in the visible world.
I ask the sky some questions, the same questions I used to ask my mother when I was a child:
Why do we love certain people and hate others? Where do we go after we die?
Why are we born if, in the end, we die? What does God mean?
The steppes respond with the constant sound of the wind. And that is enough: knowing that the fundamental questions of life will never be answered, and that we can, nevertheless, still go forward.
Mountains loomed on the horizon, and Dos asked us to stop. I saw that there was a stream nearby.
“We’ll camp here.”
We removed the saddlebags from the horses and put up the tent. Mikhail started digging a hole in the ground.
“This is how the nomads used to do it; we dig a hole, fill the bottom with stones, put more stones all around the edge, and that way we have a place to light a fire without the wind bothering us.”
To the south, between the mountains and us, a cloud of dust appeared, which I realized at once was caused by galloping horses. I pointed this out to my two friends, who jumped to their feet. I could see that they were tense. Then they exchanged a few words in Russian and relaxed. Dos went back to putting up the tent and Mikhail set about lighting the fire.
“Would you mind telling me what’s going on?” I said.
“It may look as if we’re surrounded by empty space, but it can’t have escaped your notice that we’ve already seen all kinds of things: shepherds, rivers, tortoises, foxes, and horsemen. It feels as if we had a clear view all around us, so where do these people come from? Where are their houses? Where do they keep their flocks?
“That sense of emptiness is an illusion: we are constantly watching and being watched. To a stranger who cannot read the signs of the steppes, everything is under control and the only thing he can see are the horses and the riders. To those of us who were brought up here, we can also see the yurts, the circular houses that blend in with the landscape. We know how to read what’s going on by observing how horsemen are moving and in which direction they’re heading. In the olden days, the survival of the tribe depended on that ability, because there were enemies, invaders, smugglers.
“And now the bad news: they’ve found out that we’re riding toward the village at the foot of those mountains and are sending people to kill the shaman who sees visions of children as well as the man who has come to disturb the peace of the foreign woman.”
He gave a loud laugh.
“Just wait a moment and you’ll understand.”
The riders were approaching, and I was soon able to see what was going on. “It looks very odd to me—a woman being pursued by a man.”
“It is odd, but it’s also part of our lives.”
The woman rode past us, wielding a long whip, and, by way of a greeting, gave a shout and a smile directed at Dos, then started galloping around and around the place where we
were setting up camp. The smiling, sweating man pursuing her gave us a brief greeting too, all the while trying to keep up with the woman.
“Nina shouldn’t be so cruel,” said Mikhail. “There’s no need for all this.”
“It’s precisely because there’s no need for it that she can afford to be cruel,” replied Dos. “She just has to be beautiful and have a good horse.”
“But she does this to everyone.”
“I unseated her once,” said Dos proudly.
“The fact that you’re speaking English means that you want me to understand.”
The woman was laughing and riding ever faster; her laughter filled the steppes with joy.
“It’s a form of flirtation. It’s called Kyz Kuu, or ‘Bring the girl down.’ And we’ve all taken part in it at some time in our childhood or youth.”
The man pursuing her was getting closer and closer, but we could see that his horse couldn’t take much more.
“Later on, we’ll talk a bit about Tengri, the culture of the steppes,” Dos went on. “But now that you’re seeing this, let me just explain something very important. Here, in this land, the woman is in charge. She comes first. In the event of a divorce, she receives half the dowry back even if she’s the one who wants the divorce. Whenever a man sees a woman wearing a white turban, that means she’s a mother and we, as men, must place our hand on our heart and bow our head as a sign of respect.”
“But what’s that got to do with ‘Bring the girl down’?”
“In the village at the foot of the mountains, a group of men on horseback would have gathered around this girl; her name is Nina and she’s the most desirable girl in the area. They would have begun playing the game of Kyz Kuu, which was thought up in ancient times, when the women of the steppes, known as amazons, were also warriors.
At the time, no one would have dreamt of consulting the family if they wanted to get married: the suitors and the girl would simply get together in a particular place, all on horseback. She would ride around the men, laughing, provoking them, whipping them. Then the bravest of the men would start chasing her. If the girl was able to keep out of his grasp for a set period of time, then the man would have to call on the earth to cover him forever, because he would be considered a bad horseman—the warrior’s greatest shame.
If he got close, despite her whip, and pulled her to the ground, then he was a real man and was allowed to kiss her and to marry her. Obviously, then just as now, the girls knew who they should escape from and who they should let themselves be caught by.”
Nina was clearly just having a bit of fun. She had got ahead of the man again and was riding back to the village.
“She only came to show off. She knows we’re on our way and will take the news back to the village.”
“I have two questions. The first might seem stupid: Do you still choose your brides like that?”
Dos said that, nowadays, it was just a game. In the West, people got all dressed up and went to bars or fashionable clubs, whereas in the steppes, Kyz Kuu was the favored game of seduction. Nina had already humiliated quite a number of young men, and had allowed herself to be unseated by a few as well—exactly as happens in all the best discotheques.
“The second question will seem even more idiotic: Is the village at the foot of the mountains where my wife is living?”
Dos nodded.
“If we’re only two hours away, why don’t we sleep there? It’ll be a while yet before it gets dark.”
“You’re right, we are only two hours away, and there are two reasons why we’re stopping here for the night. First, even if Nina hadn’t come out here, someone would already have seen us and would have gone to tell Esther that we were coming. This way, she can decide whether or not she wants to see us, or if she would prefer to go to another village for a few days. If she did that, we wouldn’t follow her.”
My heart contracted.
“Even after all I’ve been through to get here?”
“If that’s how you feel, then you have understood nothing. What makes you think that your efforts should be rewarded with the submission, gratitude, and recognition of the person you love? You came here because this was the road you must follow, not in order to buy your wife’s love.”
However unfair his words might seem, he was right. I asked him about the second reason. “You still haven’t chosen your name.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Mikhail said again. “He doesn’t understand our culture, and he’s not part of it.”
“It’s important to me,” said Dos. “My grandfather said that I must protect and help the foreign woman, just as she protected and helped me. I owe Esther the peace of my eyes, and I want her eyes to be at peace too.
“He will have to choose a name. He will have to forget forever his history of pain and suffering, and accept that he is a new person who has just been reborn and that, from now on, he will be reborn every day. If he doesn’t do that, and if they ever do live together again, he will expect her to pay him back for all the pain she once caused him.”
“I chose a name last night,” I said. “Wait until this evening to tell me.”
As soon as the sun began to sink low on the horizon, we went to an area on the steppes that was full of vast sand dunes. I became aware of a different sound, a kind of resonance, an intense vibration. Mikhail said that it was one of the few places in the world where the dunes sing.
“When I was in Paris and I talked to people about this, they only believed me because an American said that he had experienced the same thing in North Africa; there are only thirty places like it in the world. Nowadays, of course, scientists can explain everything. It seems that because of the place’s unique formation, the wind penetrates the actual grains of sand and creates this sound. For the ancients, though, this was one of the magical places in the steppes, and it is a great honor that Dos should have chosen it for your name-changing.”
We started climbing one of the dunes, and as we proceeded the noise grew more intense and the wind stronger. When we reached the top, we could see the mountains standing out clearly to the south and the gigantic plain stretching out all around us.
“Turn toward the west and take off your clothes,” Dos said.
I did as he ordered, without asking why. I started to feel cold, but they seemed unconcerned about my well-being. Mikhail knelt down and appeared to be praying. Dos looked up at the sky, at the earth, at me, then placed his hands on my shoulders, just as I had done to the Dutchman, though without knowing why.
“In the name of the Lady, I dedicate you. I dedicate you to the earth, which belongs to the Lady. In the name of the horse, I dedicate you. I dedicate you to the world, and pray that the world helps you on your journey. In the name of the steppes, which are infinite, I dedicate you. I dedicate you to the infinite Wisdom, and pray that your horizon may always be wider than you can see. You have chosen your name and will speak it now for the first time.”
“In the name of the infinite steppes, I choose a name,” I replied, without asking if I was doing as the ritual demanded, merely allowing myself to be guided by the noise of the wind in the dunes. “Many centuries ago, a poet described the wanderings of a man called Ulysses on his way back to an island called Ithaca, where his beloved awaits him. He confronts many perils, from storms to the temptations of comfort. At one point, in a cave, he encounters a monster with only one eye.
“The monster asks him his name. ‘Nobody,’ says Ulysses. They fight and he manages to pierce the monster’s one eye with his sword and then seals the mouth of the cave with a rock. The monster’s companions hear his cries and rush to help him. Seeing that there is a rock covering the mouth of the cave, they ask who is with him. ‘Nobody! Nobody!’ replies the monster. His companions leave, since there is clearly no threat to the community, and Ulysses can then continue on his journey back to the woman who waits for him.”
“So your name is Ulysses?” “My name is Nobody.”
I am trembling all over, as if my skin were being pierced by hundreds of needles.
“Focus on the cold, until you stop trembling. Let the cold fill your every thought, until there is no space for anything else, until it becomes your companion and your friend. Do not try to control it. Do not think about the sun, that will only make it worse, because you will know then that something else—heat—exists and then the cold will feel that it is not loved or desired.”
My muscles were furiously stretching and contracting in order to produce energy and keep my organism alive. However, I did as Dos ordered, because I trusted him, trusted in his calm, his tenderness, and his authority. I let the needles pierce my skin, allowed my muscles to struggle, my teeth to chatter, all the while repeating to myself: “Don’t fight; the cold is your friend.” My muscles refused to obey, and I remained like that for almost fifteen minutes, until my muscles eventually gave in and stopped shaking, and I entered a state of torpor. I tried to sit down, but Mikhail grabbed hold of me and held me up, while Dos spoke to me. His words seemed to come from a long way off, from a place where the steppes meet the sky.
“Welcome, nomad who crosses the steppes. Welcome to the place where we always say that the sky is blue even when it is gray, because we know that the color is still there above the clouds. Welcome to the land of the Tengri. Welcome to me, for I am here to receive you and to honor you for your search.”
Mikhail sat down on the ground and asked me to drink something that immediately warmed my blood. Dos helped me to get dressed, and we made our way back down the dunes that continued to talk among themselves; we made our way back to our improvised
campsite. Before Dos and Mikhail had even started cooking, I had fallen into a deep sleep.
What’s happening? Isn’t it light yet?”
“It’s been light for ages. It’s just a sandstorm, don’t worry. Put your dark glasses on to protect your eyes.”
“Where’s Dos?”
“He’s gone back to Almaty, but he was very moved by the ceremony yesterday evening. He didn’t really need to do that. It was a bit of a waste of time for you really and a great opportunity to catch pneumonia. I hope you realize that it was just his way of showing you how welcome you are. Here, take the oil.”
“I overslept.”
“It’s only a two-hour ride to the village. We’ll be there before the sun is at its highest point.”
“I need a bath. I need to change my clothes.”
“That’s impossible. You’re in the middle of the steppes. Put the oil in the pan, but first offer it up to the Lady. Apart from salt, it’s our most valuable commodity.”
“What is Tengri?”
“The word means ‘sky worship’; it’s a kind of religion without religion. Everyone has passed through here—Buddhists, Hindus, Catholics, Muslims, different sects with their beliefs and superstitions. The nomads became converts to avoid being killed, but they continued and continue to profess the idea that the Divinity is everywhere all the time. You can’t take the Divinity out of nature and put it in a book or between four walls. I’ve felt so much better since coming back to the steppes, as if I had been in real need of nourishment. Thank you for letting me come with you.”
“Thank you for introducing me to Dos. Yesterday, during that dedication ceremony, I sensed that he was someone special.”
“He learned from his grandfather, who learned from his father, who learned from his father, and so on. The nomadic way of life, and the absence of a written language until the end of the nineteenth century, meant that they had to develop the tradition of the akyn, the person who must remember everything and pass on the stories. Dos is an akyn. When
I say ‘learn,’ though, I hope you don’t take that to mean ‘accumulate knowledge.’ The stories have nothing to do with dates and names and facts. They are legends about heroes and heroines, animals and battles, about the symbols of man’s essential self, not just his deeds. They’re not stories about the vanquishers or the vanquished, but about people who travel the world, contemplate the steppes, and allow themselves to be filled by the energy of love. Pour the oil in more slowly, otherwise it will spit.”
“I felt blessed.”
“I’d like to feel that too. Yesterday, I went to visit my mother in Almaty. She asked if I was well and if I was earning money. I lied and said I was fine, that I was putting on a successful theater production in Paris. I’m going back to my own people today, and it’s as if I had left yesterday, and as if during all the time I’ve spent abroad, I had done nothing of any importance. I talk to beggars, wander the streets with the tribe, organize the meetings at the restaurant, and what have I achieved? Nothing. I’m not like Dos, who learned from his grandfather. I only have the presence to guide me and sometimes I think that perhaps it is just a hallucination; perhaps my visions really are just epileptic fits, and nothing more.”
“A minute ago you were thanking me for bringing you with me, and now it seems to have brought you nothing but sadness. Make up your mind what you’re feeling.”
“I feel both things at once, I don’t have to choose. I can travel back and forth between the oppositions inside me, between my contradictions.”
“I want to tell you something, Mikhail. I too have traveled back and forth between many contradictions since I first met you. I began by hating you, then I accepted you, and as I’ve followed in your footsteps, that acceptance has become respect. You’re still young, and the powerlessness you feel is perfectly normal. I don’t know how many people your work has touched so far, but I can tell you one thing: you changed my life.”
“You were only interested in finding your wife.”
“I still am, but that didn’t just make me travel across the Kazakhstan steppes: it made me travel through the whole of my past life. I saw where I went wrong, I saw where I stopped, I saw the moment when I lost Esther, the moment that the Mexican Indians call the acomodador—the giving-up point. I experienced things I never imagined I would experience at my age. And all because you were by my side, guiding me, even though you might not have been aware that you were. And do you know something else? I believe that you do hear voices and that you did have visions when you were a child. I have always believed in many things, and now I believe even more.”
“You’re not the same man I first met.”
“No, I’m not. I hope Esther will be pleased.”
“Are you?” “Of course.”
“Then that’s all that matters. Let’s have something to eat, wait until the storm eases, and then set off.”
“Let’s face the storm.”
“No, it’s all right. Well, we can if you want, but the storm isn’t a sign, it’s just one of the consequences of the destruction of the Aral Sea.”
The furious wind is abating, and the horses seem to be galloping faster. We enter a kind of valley, and the landscape changes completely. The infinite horizon is replaced by tall, bare cliffs. I look to the right and see a bush full of ribbons.
“It was here! It was here that you saw…” “No, my tree was destroyed.”
“So what’s this, then?”
“A place where something very important must have happened.”
He dismounts, opens his saddlebag, takes out a knife, and cuts a strip off the sleeve of his shirt, then ties this to one of the branches. His eyes change; he may be feeling the presence beside him, but I prefer not to ask.
I follow his example. I ask for protection and help. I, too, feel a presence by my side: my dream, my long journey back to the woman I love.
We remount. He doesn’t tell me what he asked for, and nor do I. Five minutes later, we see a small village of white houses. A man is waiting for us; he comes over to Mikhail and speaks to him in Russian. They talk for a while, then the man goes away.
“What did he want?”
“He wanted me to go to his house to cure his daughter. Nina must have told him I was arriving today, and the older people still remember my visions.”
He seems uncertain. There is no one else around; it must be a time when everyone is working, or perhaps eating. We were crossing the main road, which seemed to lead to a white building surrounded by a garden.
“Remember what I told you this morning, Mikhail. You might well just be an epileptic who refuses to accept the diagnosis and who has allowed his unconscious to build a whole story around it, but it could also be that you have a mission in the world: to teach people to forget their personal history and to be more open to love as pure, divine energy.”
“I don’t understand you. All the months we’ve known each other, you’ve talked of nothing but this moment—finding Esther. And suddenly, ever since this morning, you seem more concerned about me than anything else. Perhaps Dos’s ritual last night had some effect.”
“Oh, I’m sure it did.”
What I meant to say was: I’m terrified. I want to think about anything except what is about to happen in the next few minutes. Today, I am the most generous person on the face of this earth, because I am close to my objective and afraid of what awaits me. My reaction is to try and help others, to show God that I’m a good person and that I deserve this blessing that I have pursued so long and hard.
Mikhail dismounted and asked me to do the same.
“I’m going to the house of the man whose daughter is ill. I’ll take care of your horse while you talk to Esther.”
He pointed to the small white building in the middle of the trees. “Over there.”
I struggled to keep control of myself. “What does she do?”
“As I told you before, she’s learning to make carpets and, in exchange, she teaches French. By the way, although the carpets may look simple, they are, in fact, very complicated—just like the steppes. The dyes come from plants that have to be picked at precisely the right time; otherwise the color won’t be right. Then the wool is spread out on the ground, mixed with hot water, and the threads are made while the wool is still wet; and then, after many days, when the sun has dried them, the work of weaving begins. The final details are done by children. Adult hands are too big for the smallest, most delicate bits of embroidery.”
He paused.
“And no jokes about it being child’s play. It’s a tradition that deserves respect.” “How is she?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her for about six months.” “Mikhail, these carpets are another sign.”
“The carpets?”
“Do you remember yesterday, when Dos asked me to choose my name, I told you the story of a warrior who returns to an island in search of his beloved? The island is called Ithaca and the woman is called Penelope. What do you think Penelope has been doing since Ulysses left? Weaving! She has been weaving a shroud for her father-in-law, Laertes, as a way of putting off her suitors. Only when she finishes the shroud will she remarry. While she waits for Ulysses to return, she unpicks her work every night and begins again the following day.
“Her suitors want her to choose one of them, but she dreams of the return of the man she loves. Finally, when she has grown weary of waiting, Ulysses returns.”
“Except that the name of this village isn’t Ithaca and Esther’s name isn’t Penelope.”
Mikhail had clearly not understood the story, and I didn’t feel like explaining that it was just an example.
I handed him the reins of my horse and then walked the hundred meters that separated me from the woman who had been my wife, had then become the Zahir, and who was once more the beloved whom all men dream of finding when they return from war or from work.
I am filthy. My clothes and my face are caked with sand, my body drenched in sweat, even though it’s very cold.
I worry about my appearance, the most superficial thing in the world, as if I had made this long journey to my personal Ithaca merely in order to show off my new clothes. As I walk the remaining hundred meters, I must make an effort to think of all the important things that have happened during her—or was it my?—absence.
What should I say when we meet? I have often pondered this and come up with such phrases as: “I’ve waited a long time for this moment,” or “I know now that I was wrong,” or “I came here to tell you that I love you,” or even “You’re lovelier than ever.”
I decide just to say hello. As if she had never left. As if only a day had passed, not two years, nine months, eleven days, and eleven hours.
And she needs to understand that I have changed as I’ve traveled through the same places she traveled through, places about which I knew nothing or in which I had simply never been interested. I had seen the scrap of bloodstained cloth in the hand of a beggar, in the hands of young people and adults in a Paris restaurant, in the hand of a painter, a doctor, and a young man who claimed to see visions and hear voices. While I was following in her footsteps, I had gotten to know the woman I had married and had rediscovered, too, the meaning of my own life, which had been through so many changes and was now about to change again.
Despite being married all those years, I had never really known my wife. I had created a love story like the ones I’d seen in the movies, read about in books and magazines, watched on TV. In my story, love was something that grew until it reached a certain size and, from then on, it was just a matter of keeping it alive, like a plant, watering it now and again and removing any dead leaves. Love was also a synonym for tenderness, security, prestige, comfort, success. Love could be translated into smiles, into words like “I love you” or “I feel so happy when you come home.”
But things were more complicated than I thought. I could be madly in love with Esther while I was crossing the road, and yet, by the time I had reached the other side, I could be feeling trapped and wretched at having committed myself to someone, and longing to be able to set off once more in search of adventure. And then I would think: “I don’t love her anymore.” And when love returned with the same intensity as before, I would doubt it and say to myself: “I must have just gotten used to it.”
Perhaps Esther had had the same thoughts and had said to herself: “Don’t be silly, we’re happy, we can spend the rest of our lives like this.” After all, she had read the same stories, seen the same films, watched the same TV series, and although none of them said that love was anything more than a happy ending, why give herself a hard time about it? If she repeated every morning that she was happy with her life, then she would doubtless end up believing it herself and making everyone around us believe it too.
However, she thought differently and acted differently. She tried to show me, but I couldn’t see. I had to lose her in order to understand that the taste of things recovered is the sweetest honey we will ever know. Now I was there, walking down a street in a tiny, cold, sleepy village, once again following a road because of her. The first and most important thread that bound me—“All love stories are the same”—had broken when I was knocked down by that motorbike.
In the hospital, love had spoken to me: “I am everything and I am nothing. I am the wind, and I cannot enter windows and doors that are shut.”
And I said to love: “But I am open to you.”
And love said to me: “The wind is made of air. There is air inside your house, but everything is shut up. The furniture will get covered in dust, the damp will ruin the paintings and stain the walls. You will continue to breathe, you will know a small part of me, but I am not a part, I am Everything, and you will never know that.”
I saw that the furniture was covered in dust, that the paintings were being corroded by damp, and I had no alternative but to open the windows and doors. When I did that, the wind swept everything away. I wanted to cling to my memories, to protect what I thought I had worked hard to achieve, but everything had disappeared and I was as empty as the steppes.
As empty as the steppes: I understood now why Esther had decided to come here. It was precisely because everything was empty that the wind brought with it new things, noises I had never heard, people with whom I had never spoken. I recovered my old enthusiasm, because I had freed myself from my personal history; I had destroyed the acomodador and discovered that I was a man capable of blessing others, just as the nomads and shamans of the steppes blessed their fellows. I had discovered that I was much better and much more capable than I myself had thought; age only slows down those who never had the courage to walk at their own pace.
One day, because of a woman, I made a long pilgrimage in order to find my dream. Many years later, the same woman had made me set off again, this time to find the man who had gotten lost along the way.
Now I am thinking about everything except important things: I am mentally humming a tune, I wonder why there aren’t any cars parked here, I notice that my shoe is rubbing, and that my wristwatch is still on European time.
And all because a woman, my wife, my guide, and the love of my life, is now only a few steps away; anything to fend off the reality I have so longed for and which I am so afraid to face.
I sit down on the front steps of the house and smoke a cigarette. I think about going back to France. I’ve reached my goal, why go on?
I get up. My legs are trembling. Instead of setting off on the return journey, I clean off as much sand from my clothes and my face as I can, grasp the door handle, and go in.
Although I know that I may have lost forever the woman I love, I must try to enjoy all the graces that God has given me today. Grace cannot be hoarded. There are no banks where
it can be deposited to be used when I feel more at peace with myself. If I do not make full use of these blessings, I will lose them forever.
God knows that we are all artists of life. One day, he gives us a hammer with which to make sculptures, another day he gives us brushes and paints with which to make a picture, or paper and a pencil to write with. But you cannot make a painting with a hammer, or a sculpture with a paintbrush. Therefore, however difficult it may be, I must accept today’s small blessings, even if they seem like curses because I am suffering and it’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and the children are singing in the street. This is the only way I will manage to leave my pain behind and rebuild my life.
The room was flooded with light. She looked up when I came in and smiled, then continued reading A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew to the women and children sitting on the floor, with colorful fabrics all around them. Whenever Esther paused, they would repeat the words, keeping their eyes on their work.
I felt a lump in my throat, I struggled not to cry, and then I felt nothing. I just stood studying the scene, hearing my words on her lips, surrounded by colors and light and by people entirely focused on what they were doing.
In the words of a Persian sage: Love is a disease no one wants to get rid of. Those who catch it never try to get better, and those who suffer do not wish to be cured.
Esther closed the book. The women and children looked up and saw me.
“I’m going for a stroll with a friend of mine who has just arrived,” she told the group. “Class is over for today.”
They all laughed and bowed. She came over and kissed my cheek, linked arms with me, and we went outside.
“Hello,” I said.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.
I embraced her, rested my head on her shoulder, and began to cry. She stroked my hair, and by the way she touched me I began to understand what I did not want to understand, I began to accept what I did not want to accept.
“I’ve waited for you in so many ways,” she said, when she saw that my tears were abating. “Like a desperate wife who knows that her husband has never understood her life, and that he will never come to her, and so she has no option but to get on a plane and go back, only to leave again after the next crisis, then go back and leave and go back….”
The wind had dropped; the trees were listening to what she was saying.
“I waited as Penelope waited for Ulysses, as Romeo waited for Juliet, as Beatrice waited for Dante. The empty steppes were full of memories of you, of the times we had spent together, of the countries we had visited, of our joys and our battles. Then I looked back at the trail left by my footprints and I couldn’t see you.
“I suffered greatly. I realized that I had set off on a path of no return and that when one does that, one can only go forward. I went to the nomad I had met before and asked him to teach me to forget my personal history, to open me up to the love that is present everywhere. With him I began to learn about the Tengri tradition. One day, I glanced to one side and saw that same love reflected in someone else’s eyes, in the eyes of a painter called Dos.”
I said nothing.
“I was still very bruised. I couldn’t believe it was possible to love again. He didn’t say much; he taught me to speak Russian and told me that in the steppes they use the word ‘blue’ to describe the sky even when it’s gray, because they know that, above the clouds, the sky is always blue. He took me by the hand and helped me to go through those clouds. He taught me to love myself rather than to love him. He showed me that my heart was at the service of myself and of God, and not at the service of others.
“He said that my past would always go with me, but that the more I freed myself from facts and concentrated on emotions, the more I would come to realize that in the present there is always a space as vast as the steppes waiting to be filled up with more love and with more of life’s joy.
“Finally, he explained to me that suffering occurs when we want other people to love us in the way we imagine we want to be loved, and not in the way that love should manifest itself—free and untrammeled, guiding us with its force and driving us on.”
I looked up at her.
“And do you love him?” “I did.”
“Do you still love him?”
“What do you think? If I did love another man and was told that you were about to arrive, do you think I would still be here?”
“No, I don’t. I think you’ve been waiting all morning for the door to open.” “Why ask silly questions, then?”
Out of insecurity, I thought. But it was wonderful that she had tried to find love again. “I’m pregnant.”
For a second, it was as if the world had fallen in on me. “By Dos?”
“No. It was someone who stayed for a while and then left again.” I laughed, even though my heart was breaking.
“Well, I suppose there’s not much else to do here in this one-horse town,” I said. “Hardly a one-horse town,” she replied, laughing too.
“But perhaps it’s time you came back to Paris. Your newspaper phoned me asking if I knew where to find you. They wanted you to report on a NATO patrol in Afghanistan, but you’ll have to say no.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re pregnant! You don’t want the baby being exposed to all the negative energy of a war, surely.”
“The baby? You don’t think a baby’s going to stop me working, do you? Besides, why should you worry? You didn’t do anything to contribute.”
“Didn’t contribute? It’s thanks to me that you came here in the first place. Or doesn’t that count?”
She took a piece of bloodstained cloth from the pocket of her white dress and gave it to me, her eyes full of tears.
“This is for you. I’ve missed our arguments.” And then, after a pause, she added:
“Ask Mikhail to get another horse.”
I placed my hands on her shoulders and blessed her just as I had been blessed.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I wrote The Zahir between January and June 2004, while I was making my own pilgrimage through this world. Parts of the book were written in Paris and St-Martin in France, in Madrid and Barcelona in Spain, in Amsterdam, on a road in Belgium, in Almaty and on the Kazakhstan steppes.
I would like to thank my French publishers, Anne and Alain Carrière, who undertook to check all the information about French law mentioned in the book.
I first read about the Favor Bank in The Bonfire of the Vanities by Tom Wolfe. The story that Esther tells about Fritz and Hans is based on a story in Ishmael by Daniel Quinn. The mystic quoted by Marie on the importance of remaining vigilant is Kenan Rifai. Most of what the “tribe” in Paris say was told to me by young people who belong to such groups. Some of them post their ideas on the Internet, but it’s impossible to pinpoint an author.
The lines that the main character learned as a child and remembers when he is in the hospital (“When the Unwanted Guest arrives…”) are from the poem Consoada by the Brazilian poet Manuel Bandeira. Some of Marie’s remarks following the chapter when the main character goes to the station to meet the American actor are based on a conversation with the Swedish actress Agneta Sjodin. The concept of forgetting one’s personal history, which is part of many initiation traditions, is clearly set out in Journey to Ixtlan by Carlos Castaneda. The law of Jante was developed by the Danish writer Aksel Sandemose in his novel A Fugitive Crossing His Tracks.
Two people who do me the great honor of being my friends, Dmitry Voskoboynikov and Evgenia Dotsuk, made my visit to Kazakhstan possible.
In Almaty, I met Imangali Tasmagambetov, author of the book The Centaurs of the Great Steppe and an expert on Kazakh culture, who provided me with much important information about the political and cultural situation in Kazakhstan, both past and present. I would also like to thank the president of the Kazakhstan Republic, Nursultan Nazarbaev, for making me so welcome, and I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate him for putting a stop to nuclear tests in his country, even though all the necessary technology is there, and for deciding instead to destroy Kazakhstan’s entire nuclear arsenal.
Lastly, I owe many of my magical experiences on the steppes to my three very patient companions: Kaisar Alimkulov, Dos (Dosbol Kasymov), an extremely talented painter, on whom I based the character of the same name who appears at the end of the book, and Marie Nimirovskaya, who, initially, was just my interpreter but soon became my friend.
👁 :
Nikola Tesla symbolizes a unifying force and inspiration for all nations in the name of peace and science. He was a true visionary far ahead of his contemporaries in the field of scientific development. New York State and many other states in the USA proclaimed July 10, Tesla’s birthday- Nikola Tesla Day.
Many United States Congressmen gave speeches in the House of Representatives on July 10, 1990 celebrating the 134th anniversary of scientist-inventor Nikola Tesla. Senator Levine from Michigan spoke in the US Senate on the same occasion.
The street sign “Nikola Tesla Corner” was recently placed on the corner of the 40th Street and 6th Avenue in Manhattan. There is a large photo of Tesla in the Statue of Liberty Museum. The Liberty Science Center in Jersey City, New Jersey has a daily science demonstration of the Tesla Coil creating a million volts of electricity before the spectators eyes. Many books were written about Tesla : Prodigal Genius: The Life of Nikola Tesla by John J. O’Neill and Margaret Cheney’s book Tesla: Man out of Time has contributed significantly to his fame. A documentary film Nikola Tesla, The Genius Who Lit the World, produced by the Tesla Memorial Society and the Nikola Tesla Museum in Belgrade, The Secret of Nikola Tesla (Orson Welles), BBC Film Masters of the Ionosphere are other tributes to the great genius.
Nikola Tesla was born on July 10, 1856 in Smiljan, Lika, which was then part of the Austo-Hungarian Empire, region of Croatia. His father, Milutin Tesla was a Serbian Orthodox Priest and his mother Djuka Mandic was an inventor in her own right of household appliances. Tesla studied at the Realschule, Karlstadt in 1873, the Polytechnic Institute in Graz, Austria and the University of Prague. At first, he intended to specialize in physics and mathematics, but soon he became fascinated with electricity. He began his career as an electrical engineer with a telephone company in Budapest in 1881. It was there, as Tesla was walking with a friend through the city park that the elusive solution to the rotating magnetic field flashed through his mind. With a stick, he drew a diagram in the sand explaining to his friend the principle of the induction motor. Before going to America, Tesla joined Continental Edison Company in Paris where he designed dynamos. While in Strassbourg in 1883, he privately built a prototype of the induction motor and ran it successfully. Unable to interest anyone in Europe in promoting this radical
device, Tesla accepted an offer to work for Thomas Edison in New York. His childhood dream was to come to America to harness the power of Niagara Falls.
Young Nikola Tesla came to the United States in 1884 with an introduction letter from Charles Batchelor to Thomas Edison: “I know two great men,” wrote Batchelor, “one is you and the other is this young man.” Tesla spent the next 59 years of his productive life living in New York. Tesla set about improving Edison’s line of dynamos while working in Edison’s lab in New Jersey. It was here that his divergence of opinion with Edison over direct current versus alternating current began. This disagreement climaxed in the war of the currents as Edison fought a losing battle to protect his investment in direct current equipment and facilities.
Tesla pointed out the inefficiency of Edison’s direct current electrical powerhouses that have been build up and down the Atlantic seaboard. The secret, he felt, lay in the use of alternating current ,because to him all energies were cyclic. Why not build generators that would send electrical energy along distribution lines first one way, than another, in multiple waves using the polyphase principle?
Edison’s lamps were weak and inefficient when supplied by direct current. This system had a severe disadvantage in that it could not be transported more than two miles due to its inability to step up to high voltage levels necessary for long distance transmission. Consequently, a direct current power station was required at two mile intervals.
Direct current flows continuously in one direction; alternating current changes direction 50 or 60 times per second and can be stepped up to vary high voltage levels, minimizing power loss across great distances. The future belongs to alternating current.
Nikola Tesla developed polyphase alternating current system of generators, motors and transformers and held 40 basic U.S. patents on the system, which George Westinghouse bought, determined to supply America with the Tesla system. Edison did not want to lose his DC empire, and a bitter war ensued. This was the war of the currents between AC and DC. Tesla - Westinghouse ultimately emerged the victor because AC was a superior technology. It was a war won for the progress of both America and the world.
Tesla introduced his motors and electrical systems in a classic paper, “A New System of Alternating Current Motors and Transformers” which he delivered before the American Institute of Electrical Engineers in 1888. One of the most impressed was the industrialist and inventor George Westinghouse. One day he visited Tesla’s laboratory and was amazed at what he saw. Tesla had constructed a model polyphase system consisting of an alternating current dynamo, step-up and step-down transformers and A.C. motor at the other end. The perfect partnership between Tesla and Westinghouse for the nationwide use of electricity in America had begun.
In February 1882, Tesla discovered the rotating magnetic field, a fundamental principle in physics and the basis of nearly all devices that use alternating current. Tesla brilliantly adapted the principle of rotating magnetic field for the construction of alternating current induction motor and the polyphase system for the generation, transmission, distribution and use of electrical power.
Tesla’s A.C. induction motor is widely used throughout the world in industry
and household appliances. It started the industrial revolution at the turn of the
century. Electricity today is generated transmitted and converted to mechanical
power by means of his inventions. Tesla’s greatest achievement is his polyphase
alternating current system, which is today lighting the entire globe.
Tesla astonished the world by demonstrating. the wonders of alternating current electricity at the World Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893. Alternating current became standard power in the 20th Century. This accomplishment changed the world. He designed the first hydroelectric powerplant in Niagara Falls in 1895, which was the final victory of alternating current. The achievement was covered widely in the world press, and Tesla was praised as a hero world wide. King Nikola of Montenegro conferred upon him the Order of Danilo.
Tesla was a pioneer in many fields. The Tesla coil, which he invented in 1891, is widely used today in radio and television sets and other electronic equipment. That year also marked the date of Tesla's United States citizenship. His alternating current induction motor is
considered one of the ten greatest discoveries of all time. Among his discoveries are the fluorescent light , laser beam, wireless communications, wireless transmission of electrical energy, remote control, robotics, Tesla’s turbines and vertical take off aircraft. Tesla is the father of the radio and the modern electrical transmissions systems. He registered over 700 patents worldwide. His vision included exploration of solar energy and the power of the sea. He foresaw interplanetary communications and satellites.
The Century Magazine published Tesla's principles of telegraphy without wires, popularizing scientific lectures given before Franklin Institute in February 1893.
The Electrical Review in 1896 published X-rays of a man, made by Tesla, with X-ray tubes of his own design. They appeared at the same time as when Roentgen announced his discovery of X-rays. Tesla never attempted to proclaim priority. Roentgen congratulated Tesla on his sophisticated X-ray pictures, and Tesla even wrote Roentgen's name on one of his films. He experimented with shadowgraphs similar to those that later were to be used by Wilhelm Rontgen when he discovered X-rays in 1895. Tesla's countless experiments included work on a carbon button lamp, on the power of electrical resonance, and on various types of lightning. Tesla invented the special vacuum tube which emitted light to be used in photography.
The breadth of his inventions is demonstrated by his patents for a bladeless steam turbine based on a spiral flow principle. Tesla also patented a pump design to operate at extremely high temperature.
Nikola Tesla patented the basic system of radio in 1896. His published schematic diagrams describing all the basic elements of the radio transmitter which was later used by Marconi.
In 1896 Tesla constructed an instrument to receive radio waves. He experimented with this device and transmitted radio waves from his laboratory on South 5th Avenue. to the Gerlach Hotel at 27th Street in Manhattan. The device had a magnet which gave off intense magnetic fields up to 20,000 lines per centimeter. The radio device clearly establishes his piority in the discovery of radio.
The shipboard quench-spark transmitter produced by the Lowenstein Radio Company and licensed under Nikola Tesla Company patents, was installed on the U.S. Naval vessels prior to World War I.
In December 1901, Marconi established wireless communication between Britain and the Newfoundland, Canada, earning him the Nobel prize in 1909. But much of Marconi's work was not original. In 1864, James Maxwell theorized electromagnetic waves. In 1887, Heinrich Hertz proved Maxwell's theories. Later, Sir Oliver Logde extended the Hertz prototype system. The Brandley coherer increased the distance messages could be transmitted. The coherer was perfected by Marconi.
However, the heart of radio transmission is based upon four tuned circuits for transmitting and receiving. It is Tesla's original concept demonstrated in his famous lecture at the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia in 1893. The four circuits, used in two pairs, are still a fundamental part of all radio and television equipment.
The United States Supreme Court, in 1943 held Marconi's most important patent invalid, recognizing Tesla's more significant contribution as the inventor of radio technology.
Tesla built an experimental station in Colorado Springs, Colorado in 1899, to experiment with high voltage, high frequency electricity and other phenomena.
When the Colorado Springs Tesla Coil magnifying transmitter was energized, it created sparks 30 feet long. From the outside antenna, these sparks could be seen from a distance of ten miles. From this laboratory, Tesla generated and sent out wireless waves which mediated energy, without wires for miles.
In Colorado Springs, where he stayed from May 1899 until 1900, Tesla made what he regarded as his most important discovery-- terrestrial stationary waves. By this discovery he proved that the Earth could be used as a conductor and would be as responsive as a tuning fork to electrical vibrations of a certain frequency. He also lighted 200 lamps without wires from a distance of 25 miles( 40 kilometers) and created man-made lightning. At one time he was
certain he had received signals from another planet in his Colorado laboratory, a claim that was met with disbelief in some scientific journals.
The old Waldorf Astoria was the residence of Nikola Tesla for many years. He lived there when he was at the height of financial and intellectual power. Tesla organized elaborate dinners, inviting famous people who later witnessed spectacular electrical experiments in his laboratory.
Financially supported by J. Pierpont Morgan, Tesla built the Wardenclyffe laboratory and its famous transmitting tower in Shoreham, Long Island between 1901 and 1905. This huge landmark was 187 feet high, capped by a 68-foot copper dome which housed the magnifying transmitter. It was planned to be the first broadcast system, transmitting both signals and power without wires to any point on the globe. The huge magnifying transmitter, discharging high frequency electricity, would turn the earth into a gigantic dynamo which would project its electricity in unlimited amounts anywhere in the world.
Tesla's concept of wireless electricity was used to power ocean liners, destroy warships, run industry and transportation and send communications instantaneously all over the globe. To stimulate the public's imagination, Tesla suggested that this wireless power could even be used for interplanetary communication. If Tesla were confident to reach Mars, how much less difficult to reach Paris. Many newspapers and periodicals interviewed Tesla and described his new system for supplying wireless power to run all of the earth's industry.
Because of a dispute between Morgan and Tesla as to the final use of the tower. Morgan withdrew his funds. The financier's classic comment was, "If anyone can draw on the power, where do we put the meter?"
The erected, but incomplete tower was demolished in 1917 for wartime security reasons. The site where the Wardenclyffe tower stood still exists with its 100 feet deep foundation still intact. Tesla's laboratory designed by Stanford White in 1901 is today still in good condition and is graced with a bicentennial plaque.
Tesla lectured to the scientific community on his inventions in New York, Philadelphia and St. Louis and before scientific organizations in both England and France in 1892. Tesla’s lectures and writings of the 1890s aroused wide admiration among contemporaries popularized his inventions and inspired untold numbers of younger men to enter the new field of radio and electrical science.
Nikola Tesla was one of the most celebrated personalities in the American press, in this century. According to Life Magazine's special issue of September, 1997, Tesla is among the 100 most famous people of the last 1,000 years. He is one of the great men who divert the stream of human history. Tesla's celebrity was in its height at the turn of the century. His discoveries, inventions and vision had widespread acceptance by the public, the scientific community and American press. Tesla's discoveries had extensive coverage in the scientific journals, the daily and weekly press as well as in the foremost literary and intellectual publications of the day. He was the Super Star.
Tesla wrote many autobiographical articles for the prominent journal Electrical Experimenter, collected in the book, My Inventions. Tesla was gifted with intense powers of visualization and exceptional memory from early youth on. He was able to fully construct, develop and perfect his inventions completely in his mind before committing them to paper.
According to Hugo Gernsback, Tesla was possessed of a striking physical appearance over six feet tall with deep set eyes and a stately manner. His impressions of Tesla, were of a man endowed with remarkable physical and mental freshness, ready to surprise the world with more and more inventions as he grew older. A lifelong bachelor he led a somewhat isolated existence, devoting his full energies to science.
In 1894, he was given honorary doctoral degrees by Columbia and Yale University and the Elliot Cresson medal by the Franklin Institute. In 1934, the city of Philadelphia awarded him the John Scott medal for his polyphase power system. He was an honorary member of the National Electric Light Association and a fellow of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. On one occasion, he turned down an invitation from Kaiser Wilhelm II to come to Germany to demonstrate his experiments and to receive a high decoration.
In 1915, a New York Times article announced that Tesla and Edison were to share the Nobel Prize for physics. Oddly, neither man received the prize, the reason being unclear. It was rumored that Tesla refused the prize because he would not share with Edison, and because Marconi had already received his.
On his 75th birthday in 1931, the inventor appeared on the cover of Time Magazine. On this occasion, Tesla received congratulatory letters from more than 70 pioneers in science and engineering including Albert Einstein. These letters were mounted and presented to Tesla in the form of a testimonial volume. Tesla died on January 7th, 1943 in the Hotel New Yorker, where he had lived for the last ten years of his life. Room 3327 on the 33rd floor is the two-room suites he occupied.
A state funeral was held at St. John the Divine Cathedral in New York City. Telegrams of condolence were received from many notables, including the first lady Eleanor Roosevelt and Vice President Wallace. Over 2000 people attended, including several Nobel Laureates. He was cremated in Ardsley on the Hudson, New York. His ashes were interned in a golden sphere, Tesla’s favorite shape, on permanent display at the Tesla Museum in Belgrade along with his death mask.
In his speech presenting Tesla with the Edison medal, Vice President Behrend of the Institute of Electrical Engineers eloquently expressed the following: "Were we to seize and eliminate from our industrial world the result of Mr. Tesla's work, the wheels of industry would cease to turn, our electric cars and trains would stop, our towns would be dark and our mills would be idle and dead. His name marks an epoch in the advance of electrical science." Mr. Behrend ended his speech with a paraphrase of Pope's lines on Newton: "Nature and nature's laws lay hid by night. God said 'Let Tesla be' and all was light."
“The world will wait a long time for Nikola Tesla’s equal in
achievement and imagination.” E. ARMSTRONG
source: https://www.teslasociety.com/biography.htm
; https://www.biography.com/inventors/nikola-tesla
: https://www.britannica.com/biography/Nikola-Tesla
