Echoes in the Darkness (2 page)

“Would that work, Eddie?” I frowned, trying to apply logic to the illogical. “How will your parents react if you arrive at your family home with me on your arm? We have lived openly under the same roof these many months—all Montmartre believes I am your mistress.” In the bohemian world we inhabited, it was natural for our acquaintances to assume we were lovers. The truth, that our relationship was entirely platonic, would have provided considerably more fuel for speculation in this decadent society. “The rumours about us may well have reached your English acquaintances. Even if they haven’t, I earn my living by taking my clothes off for men. I cannot imagine my presence will be welcome to your parents. It might even make your father’s illness worse.”

“We’ll tell them we are getting married!” Sometimes his wild impetuosity shocked me. “What the hell, Dita, let’s do just that! We can walk down the aisle together. Now! Today! Why should we not?”

I could think of one very good reason. My hand closed more tightly over the letter. But Sandor must remain my secret. Instead, I hazarded a second, less dangerous, but equally compelling reason. “Because we don’t love each other?”

“Well, at least we already know that! Most people find it out
after
the ceremony. Say yes, Dita! Anyway, if we really try, I know we could learn to love each other. I
do
love you. And making love to you would certainly be no hardship.” Before I could reply, he gripped my upper arms, lifting me hard against him as his mouth sought mine. There was desperation in his mounting passion. His teeth were sharp against my lips. Dragging me to the sofa, he drew me down with him, and I cried out in protest as his fingers dug into the tender flesh of my thighs. He stopped instantly, scanning my face with those endlessly tortured, blue eyes. Mercurial as a child in a sweet shop, he drew me gently into his arms. “Oh damn it, Dita. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”

I was used to his wild moods. They sometimes troubled, but never frightened me. It was the desolation on his face this time that chilled my blood. Although he held me close, his touch did not excite me. Nor did he intend it to. Our world might believe we were lovers, but that had never been so. Sometimes the thought saddened me. We led oddly parallel lives, both battling our private demons. If we had ever allowed ourselves to console each other, perhaps together we might have defeated them.

I had to get away from Paris. As I returned Eddie’s embrace, the thought persisted. Now. Tonight. The knock I dreaded could fall on the door at any minute. Maybe I could lose myself at last in England, land of my mother’s birth.

“Very well. We will say we are betrothed. That way I can be a true friend and support you while you make this transition. It will also satisfy the proprieties,” I conceded, keeping my real intentions hidden. My secrets were part of me, and I was skilled at keeping them safe. I turned to throw Magda’s letter into the fire. “For the rest—let us see what happens.”

* * *

The channel crossing was wild and I stayed on deck, allowing the wind and driving rain to sting my face. The boat listed and tilted its tortuous path across the billowing waves. Fellow passengers with green-tinged faces rushed past me to hang over the deck rails. Eddie slumped in a chair, systematically draining the silver hip flask he carried and staring gloomily into the churning pewter water. When the famous white cliffs came into view, my feelings were a curious mix of pride and gloom. I had been conditioned to think of this land with love. But how could I be heartened by low-slung, marble skies? I could not see the cliff tops because of the cloud of murk shrouding them. Gulls hung still and limp, like a badly constructed paper chain, against the backdrop of the silver-lined heavens. Their mournful music echoed across the busy harbour where bright fishing boats bobbed and danced. The cold, dank smell of winter settled like a chilly blanket upon my shoulders. England had its own unique climate. On first acquaintance, we did not like each other.

An elderly roué twirled his whiskers at me and told me cheerfully that rough weather often held the larger vessels out in the bay for hours. A flotilla of tiny boats left the safety of the harbour walls to encircle us. Their hard-faced owners would row us ashore for an extortionate figure should we be prevented from docking. Thankfully, that fate did not befall us, and Eddie joined me as we disembarked. The grim set of his jaw as he took my arm sent my ageing admirer scuttling away.

Dusk was falling, although it was difficult to tell. How did the lamplighters know when to begin their task? There seemed to be no discernible difference between the dingy afternoon and the lowering darkness. Twilight was clearly an alien concept in this land of fog and drear. I shivered and drew my woefully inadequate cloak closer about me.

Eddie arranged for our baggage to be taken on ahead to the Harbour House Hotel. When we entered this bustling establishment, I was considerably cheered by the bright, elegant furnishings and, most importantly of all, the welcoming warmth of a crackling fire. I was also faintly surprised at the eagerness of the staff to ensure our needs were met. The manager himself came out of his office to greet us, which seemed a somewhat excessive courtesy to extend to a struggling artist and his foreign fiancée. We were escorted to our suite, which comprised a sitting room with two bedrooms leading from it and a well-equipped bathroom. The furnishings were old-fashioned but expensive, and I untied the ribbons of my bonnet, gazing around me with wide-eyed astonishment.

“Eddie, are you sure we can afford this place?” I asked. He was more than audacious enough, I knew, to indulge to the full in all the luxury the hotel had to offer and then dash off at dawn without paying. A prison cell loomed. “They seem to think we are important guests.”

“Ah,” Eddie said with his irrepressible grin. “There is a reason for that, Dita. Something I keep forgetting to mention.” I raised my brows in a silent question. “My father is the Earl of Athal and, as his oldest son, I am the heir to the title and a substantial fortune. Actually, I already have quite a lot of money of my own. I don’t know why it is, but those things often tend to impress people.”

We dined in the hotel’s restaurant and, despite the season, it was a busy night. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the huge mirrors that lined one wall and knew that the rosy hue of my velvet gown suited the creaminess of my skin. The light from a dozen chandeliers lent golden highlights to my rich chestnut hair, which was piled high with loose curls framing my face. Eddie had already raised a mocking brow at the young waiter who blushed and stammered when he spoke to me. Many other admiring glances were directed my way. These, together with Eddie’s nonchalant, brooding good looks, confirmed that we were easily the most glamorous couple in the vast room.

“They say if you fall in love in Paris, your heart will remain forever there,” Eddie said. He sat back in his chair, twirling the amber brandy around in his glass while he studied my face. “What about you, Dita? Did you leave your heart behind in the city of light and love?”

I remained silent. I wanted to reassure him, and perhaps myself, that no part of me could be claimed by Paris. But, if I said that, I’d have been lying. The events of one drizzling never-to-be-forgotten night had made sure of that forever. But there was no point in repining. Memories were all that remained of that time now, so instead I answered him with a question of my own. “You are the poet, Eddie. Doesn’t your soul slumber in Paris?”

His laugh was a short, harsh bark. “My soul will never find a resting place.” Accustomed as I was to his dark moods, a strange sense of foreboding assailed me then.

When dinner was over, we bade each other a formal goodnight and went to our separate rooms. I heaved a sigh of relief at this arrangement, which left our platonic status unchanged. I wasn’t sure whether Eddie wanted to make our pretended love affair a reality. And I didn’t know how I would feel should he attempt to change things between us. Of course I had speculated about what it would be like with him. He was devastatingly attractive, after all. But I worried that, if we slept together, our friendship would be at an end. Another part of me was slightly bemused that, apart from that one wild attempt when we decided on this betrothal, he had never attempted to make love to me.

I was brushing out the long length of my hair, clad only in my nightdress, when the door to my room opened and Eddie paused on the doorstep, watching me. It was immediately obvious that I was about to find out how I would react to the suggestion of a new relationship. With a determined look on his face, he trod across the room toward me. Rising from my seat at the dressing table, I faced him, and he caught hold of one long strand of my hair. Winding it around his hand, he drew me closer.

“You are so beautiful, Dita,” he murmured. “If anyone can make me forget…”

It had been so long since I’d felt a man’s arms around me. I needed that comfort more than I had known. I lifted my face to meet Eddie’s kiss. His lips were gentle at first, and I shuddered with pleasure. My own lips parted with a little moan. Suddenly, shockingly, Eddie was tearing at the neckline of my thin cotton gown. His tongue was hard and intrusive, forcing my mouth wider as his hand grabbed my breast, his fingers digging painfully into the tender flesh. Then, just as quickly as the onslaught had begun, he stopped. His breathing was fast and hard. Resting his cheek against the top of my head, he murmured softly, “Forgive me, Dita. I’m a brute. Your friendship is the best thing I have, and I don’t deserve you.” Gently, he gathered the torn bodice of my nightdress around my shoulders and dropped a light kiss on my cheek.

“Can I stay here with you? I just want to be close to you, nothing more,” he asked.

I nodded. He slept in my arms that night, but his dreams were not easy. I watched his face as the dawn light touched it and wondered what horrors tortured him.

Chapter Two

We accomplished most of our remaining journey by rail and in silence. Eddie was not inclined to indulge me by enacting the role of tour guide, so I was left to view the contrasts between the dour industrial landscape and the majestic beauty of the countryside. Glimpses of London when we changed trains did nothing to inspire me. The miserable weather seemed to affect the national psyche, and everyone I encountered appeared hurried or forlorn. The bleak look on Eddie’s face was perfectly in tune with the weather, and both deepened in intensity with every mile we covered. We were met at the station in Wadebridge by a carriage bearing a crest of gold stars and a flowing Latin inscription. As this vehicle left the main post road and trundled onto rutted tracks, the Eddie Jago I knew was gone. The man, who sat across from me now, his eyes fixed on the brooding landscape, was a stranger. Cornwall, ancient land of my maternal heritage—a place I had dreamed of for so long—passed by unseen. My heavy heart fixed my gaze inside the carriage, on the remote, beautiful countenance of my friend.

“Tell me about your home,” I asked quietly, and his eyes flickered over me as if he was surprised to see me there. “Its name, for instance, is most unusual. Did you call it ‘Tenebris’?”

He was silent for long minutes before, with a slight exhalation of breath, he said, “Tenebris is not really its name. It is Athal House, but it has always been known as Tenebris by the family and the locals after the Jago motto.
Lucent in Tenebris.
” Those were the words I had just read on the carriage door. “It means ‘shine in darkness.’ And that’s exactly what the castle that originally stood on the site did, a year before my birth. It was burned—almost to the ground—on my parents’ wedding night. My father’s uncle, aunt and his valet all perished in the blaze.”

“What a dreadful start to their married life!”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t seem to have had any lasting adverse effects. You’ll never meet a couple more suited to each other than my parents.”

“You said it was a castle originally. Is that not so now?” I said, and Eddie shook his head, his eyes sweeping from the hilly scenery to my face and back again.

“My father began a restoration project about twenty years ago. It was never his intention to completely rebuild the castle as it once was. There were too many bad memories. But he did incorporate some of the original walls into the new house. It really is a beautiful, remarkable building, making the best of the old and the new.”

“Your family is an ancient one, then?” I thought how little we knew of each other. We had shared a home for six months, but we had kept our own secrets.

“There has been a house of Athal since the time of the Conqueror,” Eddie said. His voice was glum, with no trace of pride in his noble heritage. He indicated the view from the carriage window and I leaned forward to see more. I knew that Cornwall was cut off from the rest of England by the River Tamar and that this ancient, fey county welcomed its isolated, islandlike state. The Cornish revelled in their un-Englishness, their ability to be part of the world and yet apart from it. Even I, raised on stories of its glory, was not prepared for the unearthly beauty of this land. Even the quality of light was different here, silky and silvery as it bounced back from the sea in all directions.

The coach swung toward the coast, and I caught a glimpse of seabirds wheeling and turning low against a sky made gold by stingy sunlight. The cliffs and sea jewelled the landscape with opal, emerald and sapphire so bright that even the dismal late autumn chill could not dim their glory. My mother had told me once that she would like to be buried in Cornwall because, wherever your final resting place was, you would always be able to hear the sea. I was saddened by the thought that I had not been able to fulfil that wish, and also by the fact that I was here at last in the land she loved. Without her.

Ahead of us the coast road led to a wild, jutting peninsula. Craggy, calloused cliffs were joined to the mainland by a strip of land not much wider than the road itself. The wide expanse of the Atlantic stretched beyond the cliff tops, and, where it met the land, it screeched and lashed itself into a white-tipped frenzy. The endless, lonely expanse plunged and sundered and tugged at something primeval inside me that left a sad, sour taste on my tongue.