Sebastian - Dark Bonds (17 page)

“Tell me you love me,” I implore.

“You know I do,”
he pants, not saying the three words that I need to hear.  “You.  Are.  My.  Soul.  You.  Will.  Never.  Leave.  Me.”  He thrusts with each word and then faster still until I feel him climaxing, his body tensed, his jaw set and a deep growl reverberating from his throat.  He holds me then, so tightly to him as though he knows that with his next breath I will be gone.  I stroke his damp, dark locks of hair as his body lies heavily upon me and I know in my heart that I can’t leave him even if my head screams caution.

Bella is cooking a full English breakfast for us all.  The kitchen is in total disarray, eggshells litter the granite worktops and bacon rind snakes around the tea canister.  She’s wearing grey sweat pants and white vest, which is stained with egg yolk, and is dancing to a tune on the radio as she works.  I admire the freedom my daughter has, free from the complexities of relationships and adult problems.  She’s coped so maturely with the loss of her father and brother that, at this moment, I’m filled with love and admiration for her.  She spins on her bare heels and meets my presence with a beaming grin.

“Mum!  I didn’t see you there.  I’m cooking us all the most amazing breakfast – it’ll be scrumptialicious!” she exclaims excitedly.

“It smells divine, sweetheart.”  I flick off the bacon rind and place tea from the canister in the teapot.  “I hope you’re going to clear this mess up,” I scold, good- humouredly.

“Nah, Scarlett can do it,” she quips.

“What can I do?”  Scarlett enters the kitchen behind me, dressed in her uniform black dress looking svelte and in good spirits.

“Clean up after me,” Bella winks at her and Scarlett shakes her head disapprovingly.

“Good morning Mrs. Dove,” she says boldly, as if our conversation last night didn’t happen.

“Scarlett,” I say curtly.

“Will his Lordship and Mrs. Evershaw be joining you for breakfast?” she asks.

“No, he’s gone for a ride.  Mrs. Evershaw is still asleep,” I reply frostily.  “It will just be Bella and I.”  Meaning you’re not welcome to join us.

As Bella and I tuck in heartily to bacon, scrambled eggs, fried bread and mushrooms, my daughter talks animatedly about her upcoming eighteenth birthday, just a week after my fortieth.  Her best friend, Chloe is organising a night out for Bella, who categorically refuses to let me organise a party for her.  I agree to drive Bella home to our house in Dorset three days after my own party.  We will stay together at the house and I will use the
time to catch up on work, realising how much I’m missing my staff at Evershaw Dove Recruitment.  Ruth and I have worked tirelessly to build our personnel agency and it’s hard for me to be away from it all.  Since Sebastian invested money in our growth plans, we are financially secure but I still like to oversee things.

“It’ll be a sick birthday, Mum.”  Bella snaps me out of my daydream.

“If you mean it will be a wonderful birthday, then yes, I’m sure it will be fantastic sweetheart,” I smile.  “Talking of birthdays, I need to find the guest list that Sebastian has drawn up for my own party.”

I leave Bella to clear away the breakfast dishes, and go to Sebastian’s study in search of my guest list.  His twin pedestal antique desk is cluttered with paperwork and I decide to make myself useful by tidying his papers, inwardly criticizing Scarlett for not doing the task herself.  I begin by taking punches of papers and shuffling them in to neat piles.  I notice the top drawer is part way open and the temptation to snoop is just too strong.  I slide the drawer toward me and scan the contents.  An old brown leather address book grabs my attention and I retrieve it, thumbing through the first few pages.

Christina Travis

The Old Bakery

4 Portland Crescent

Padstow

01613 4489099

Christina Travis – Sebastian’s mother in law.   I recall my encounter with Christina when she followed me to work and warned me about Sebastian.  She claimed that he bought about the death of her daughter, Sebastian’s wife Libby.  I remember the way she implored me to be careful lest ‘what he did to Scarlett and Libby’ would happen to me also.  Initially I had put her ranting down to the grief of a bereaved mother but now, I see how Scarlett has changed since I first met her.  The thought occurs to me that I need to see Christina again.  I have to know what really happened to Libby.  I pick up the telephone receiver on Sebastian’s desk and dial her number.

22

The Old Bakery is a charming cob cottage, which would not look out of place on a biscuit tin or chocolate box.  Set on the outskirts of the fishing harbour of Padstow, it has a wonderfully tranquil, seaside setting. 

As I walk up the path toward the front door, I admire the thatched roof, eyebrow windows and skewed architecture.  The fragrance from the jasmine, which frames the porch overhang, is heavenly.  Christina Travis welcomes me in to her home with sincere warmth and invites me to sit in a floral armchair in her cosy living room.  When I last saw Christina, she resembled a destitute old lady but today she is smartly attired in cream blouse and pale green skirt, a string of pearls at her throat.  Her mood seems temperate as she fusses in the kitchen preparing a tray of tea and biscuits.

“I’m so glad you telephoned me,” she calls from the kitchen. 

“Thank you for agreeing to see me today,” I call back, admiring the comfort and tranquillity of her home.  On the side table next to me, a small photograph in simple gold frame catches my attention.  I pick it up and study the snapshot of a carefree and beautiful young lady with long golden hair, sapphire blue eyes and a dimpled smile.

“That’s my Libby.”  Christina places the tray of tea down on to a footstool before seating herself on the armchair beside mine.

“She’s lovely,” I smile.  “How old was she when this was taken?”

“Twenty Five years old.  She hadn’t met Sebastian then, that’s why she looks so happy,” she sighs forlornly.

“Do you mind talking about her?” I ask hesitantly.  “I understand it must be painful …”

“Not at all, dear.  On the contrary, it’s refreshing to be able to talk about her.  She didn’t have many friends at the end, so there really aren’t many people I can remember her with.”  Christina pours the tea into delicate pink china cups.  “Sugar and milk, dear?”

“Just milk please.”  Christina hands the cup and saucer to me and offers the plate of biscuits and I take a custard cream, placing it on my saucer.  A large ginger and white striped cat saunters in to the room and sniffs at my shoes before eying the milk jug hopefully.

“Mummy will fetch you a saucer of milk my darling Tigs.” She scurries to the kitchen and returns with the promised treat, which the cat laps greedily.

“You have a lovely home,” I say, Christina looks delighted and justifiably proud of her cottage.

“It’s very small but it suits Tigs and I well enough.  Tigs, or Tiger as he’s is actually called, was Libby’s cat.  He was quite the mouser at Penmorrow, heaven only knows how many mice infest that big old house, now that Tigs has left.”  She puts a custard cream in her mouth in once piece and chews noisily.  I nibble mine and sip the tea.

“Could you tell me about Libby?  I’d like to understand a little more about her illness, if it’s not too painful for you to talk about.” 

“Let me start at the beginning, dear.  It’s important that you understand how Libby was before she married that man.  Then you will believe me when I say that he caused her death.”  She rises from her chair and crosses the room to a pine dresser, from which she retrieves a leather bound photograph album, placing it on my lap.

“Open it, dear.  It’s full of photographs of Libby from childhood through to adolescence.  Then it has wedding photographs and, at the end, photographs of their last Christmas together.  You look closely, dear.  Tell me what you see.  Take your time.”

I place my teacup down on the side table and lift the heavy bound cover of the album.  The photographs on the first three pages are black and white images of an adorable baby girl.  She is happy and plump and clearly adored by her parents who tickle and cuddle her for the camera.  The following pages hold colour photographs of a young girl with page-boy haircut and dated clothes.  The snaps show holidays and birthdays and a young Libby as ballerina at a school production. 

“She’s adorable,” I murmur.

“Isn’t she,” Christina removes the tea tray and retreats to the kitchen and I swear I hear her sniffing back tears.  Libby’s graduation photograph shows a now elegant young woman, beaming as she clutches her scroll with proud parents either side of her.  Turning the page, a grouping of family and friends clap as Libby blows out twenty-one candles on her birthday cake.  I flick through the subsequent pages, noting how Libby is indeed blossoming in to a vibrant and beautiful woman. 

“She’s beautiful,” I call out.

“
Was
.  She
was
beautiful.  Carry on Elizabeth, please.”  Christina enters the room once more and sits quietly, Tigs jumps on to her lap and she strokes him languidly as he purrs contentedly.  The wedding photographs hit me firmly in my belly and twist at my gut.  The happy couple beam at the camera, family and friends showering them in confetti.  She wears a full white gown with tiny waist and full skirt, her veil tossed back exposing fair ringlets cascading over her left shoulder.  He is looking adoringly into her sparkling eyes and she returns his loving gaze.  It hurts me to see the evidence of their love, jealousy coursing through me unashamedly.

“Such a loving couple,” I run my index finger gently down the image of her dress, the burning envy causing a bitter taste on my tongue.  You’re jealous of a dead woman, Beth.  Get real.  He loves you now.

“Oh they were, granted.  They had a fancy wedding at the church in Trevissey, then a fabulous reception at Penmorrow.  Her father pulled out all the stops, nothing was too much for his baby girl,” she recalled, fondly.  “His parents were long gone, of course.  He had a cousin who flew over from Australia for the wedding, the only other guests on his side were his estate staff and a few friends.”

“I haven’t met any of his friends yet,” I mumble, more to myself than to Christina.  “He’s throwing me a fortieth birthday party in two weeks time, I guess I’ll meet them then.”

“Yes, he likes his parties.  Libby told me about a few of them.”

There were no photographs after the wedding pictures, until the last page where, glued in the centre of the page, is a snapshot taken at Christmas.  My hand instinctively covers my mouth as I stare, shocked at the image of an emaciated woman, seated next to a glum looking Sebastian.  Her head is bowed though her hollow eyes look up to the camera wretchedly.

“Oh my God,” I gasp in horror.

“You see dear? You see the change, now?”  Christina reaches forward and rests a hand on mine. Looking into my eyes she sees the tears
, which have misted my vision.

“Yes,” I whisper.  “I’m so sorry, Christina.  I see what you mean.  But … why?  Why did this happen?”

“All was fine for the first few months of their marriage, he was always very domineering but Father thought that was a good thing.  He was old fashioned, you see, said a man should be the boss of the household.  Libby used to tell me he was firm with her but then … then I started to notice bruises, such as on her wrists.  She couldn’t sit down one day.  She was right here in this room and tried to sit in the chair you’re sat in now.  I remember she winced, put a cushion under her bottom and when I asked her what was wrong, she said haemorrhoids were causing her pain.” 

“And you don’t think that was true?” I ask quietly.

“No, Elizabeth.  Scarlett once told me what he used to do to her.  We went round there, I even called the police but of course, Libby told them she was fine.  Said her husband liked to indulge in a bit of kinkiness that was all.  Police said there was nothing they could do, she consented and it wasn’t abuse.  I know it was abuse.  My daughter wouldn’t consent to being treated like that, she was bought up properly, knew right from wrong.”

“But, why didn’t she leave?” My question seems hypocritical as I know full well what the sting of a slap feels like and yet I haven’t left him.  I wonder then, if Libby was initially aroused by Sebastian’s dominance as I am.  Christina appears to read my mind.

“It’s all very well,” she says indignantly, “women today wanting to experiment in all this sex business.  But they don’t realize that if you give a man like Sebastian an inch, he’ll take a mile.  He takes advantage.  He’s a sexual predator, you see.  Libby’s always been a romantic girl.  She just wanted to please that man in any way she could.  In my opinion, he saw her weakness and vulnerability and he used it to turn her into the passive, compliant toy he wanted.”

I close the album, feeling a plethora of emotions – empathy toward Libby, poor weak woman that she clearly was and guilt for feeling that I am somehow stronger than she, and more worldly wise.  My mobile phone rings in my bag I retrieve it and decline the call from Sebastian.

“She felt she was failing him,” Christina continues.  “She told Scarlett that she couldn’t be what he wanted her to be and that sense of failure depressed poor Libby.  I took her to the doctor and he prescribed pills for her anxiety, Benzodiazepines.  They were no good for her, I tried to bring her here, make her well again, but she wouldn’t have it.  She said her place was with him.”  She spits his name with such venom that I truly believe she thinks he killed her with his bare hands.  You don’t know him at all, I reflect.