The Lake House (46 page)

They followed the path beyond the hedge until the noise of the crowd seemed very far away. His heart was galloping. It was more than his usual heartburn or anxiety; he could hear his pulse coursing behind his ears. It was guilt, of course; memories of that terrible dawn so long ago; his failure to save the little lad. To think that Constance should be the one to make amends. Daffyd felt an overwhelming urge to weep.

His head was spinning. Voices, so many of them, cacophonous, distant, but one cut high above them all, close to his ear, in his ear. “Just wait here. Rest a moment, I'll fetch you some water.”

He was ice cold suddenly. He glanced around him. The owner of the voice was gone. He was alone. Where was she? Where was who? Someone had been with him. Or had he imagined it? He was tired, so tired.

His head swirled with the sounds around him. Fish flicking their tails in the dark pools, mysterious dripping noises in the depths of the woods.

He glimpsed the boathouse. There were too many people there, laughing and squealing as they skylarked in the lamp-lit boats. He needed to be alone, to breathe, to regain his composure.

He would walk just a little further in the other direction. Along the stream. It had always been one of his favourite places. Such good days they'd had, such good, long, sunny days, he and Henri, and, later, little Eleanor skipping along, delighting them with her perspicacity. Daffyd would never forget the look on Henri's face when he watched his daughter, the cast of absolute adoration. Daffyd had tried to sketch that expression many times but never managed to capture it on paper.

He stumbled and corrected himself. His legs felt very odd. Loose, as if all the ligaments had turned to rubber. He decided to sit down for a time. Just a short time. He fumbled in his pocket for one of his heartburn pills, popped it in his mouth and swallowed hard.

The earth was cool and damp beneath him, and he leaned his back against the strong, solid trunk of a tree. He closed his eyes. His pulse was like a river, flowing fast after rain, rhythmical. He felt himself, a boat caught by the current, swishing and turning and throbbing.

Daffyd could see Henri's face now. Such a gentlemanly face, a
good
face. Eleanor was right. Sometimes to love from afar was the most one could hope for. And it was better, surely, than never to have loved at all.

Oh, but it was hard.

The stream lapped at the banks and Daffyd Llewellyn's breathing slowed to match it. He had to see Alice; he'd promised Eleanor. He would go soon. Just a few more minutes here, the earth solid and cool beneath him, the tree faithful, the breeze light against his cheeks. And Henri's face in his memory, his old friend, calling him, motioning with his hand that Daffyd should follow soon . . .

* * *

Alice was glancing at her wristwatch when she almost ran into her grandmother. The old woman was walking very quickly, and seemed to be in a state of uncharacteristic excitement. “Water,” she said when she saw Alice; her cheeks were red and her eyes bright. “I need some water.”

Ordinarily, Alice would have found her grandmother's unusual energy enough to spark her curiosity, but not that evening. Her own world had collapsed and she was far too busy soaking in her own shame and distress to wonder at the peculiarities of others. It was only out of a deep sense of duty that she'd come to meet Mr Llewellyn tonight. Alice could hardly bear to think back to their conversation that morning; she'd been so keen to get rid of him, so excited to go and show her manuscript to Ben, so proud. What a mistake that had turned out to be.

Lord, but she could just about die of embarrassment! Alice sat on the chair beneath the arbour and pulled her knees to her chest, utterly miserable. She hadn't wanted to come to the party at all, preferring to lick her wounds in private, but Mother had insisted. “You're not going to sit inside all night sulking,” she'd said. “You're to put on your best dress and join the rest of your family outside. I don't know what's got into you, and why you have to choose tonight of all nights, but I won't stand for it, Alice. Too much planning has gone into the evening for you to spoil it with your mood.”

And so, here she was, under sufferance. She'd wanted to spend the whole night in her bedroom, hiding beneath the covers, trying to forget what a fool she'd been, what a stupid little fool. It was all Mr Llewellyn's fault. By the time she'd got rid of the old man that morning, she'd figured it would be cutting things too fine to show Ben the manuscript; Mr Harris and his son would be back any minute. And so, instead, she'd decided to take her pages straight to the boathouse later that afternoon. That way, Alice had reasoned, they could be together in private at last.

Her skin flamed as she remembered. The way she'd skipped up the stairs to knock on the door, brimming with excitement, with confidence. The special care she'd taken with her clothing and hair. The spritz of Mother's cologne she'd sneaked beneath the buttons of her blouse and onto the insides of her wrists, just as she'd seen Deborah do.

“Alice,” he'd said when he saw her, smiling (confusedly, she could see that now; at the time she'd thought only that he was as nervous as she was. The mortification burned!). “I wasn't expecting anyone.”

He opened the boathouse door and she stepped across the threshold, pleased at the waft of perfume that trailed her. It was cosy inside, with only room for a bed and a basic kitchen. Alice had never been inside a man's bedroom and had to work hard to stop herself from gawping like a silly child at the patchwork eiderdown draped casually at the end of the mattress.

There was a little rectangular-shaped gift on top, wrapped plainly but neatly, with a piece of twine tied around it, a card made from one of Ben's paper animals. “Is that for me?” Alice said, remembering his promise that he had something to give her.

He followed her glance. “It is. Nothing grand, mind you, just a small token of encouragement for your writing.”

Alice could have burst with pleasure. “Speaking of which,” she said, before beginning an excited account of having finished the manuscript. “Hot off the press.” She forced the copy she'd made specially into his hands. “I wanted you to be the first to read it.”

He was thrilled for her, a broad smile bringing a dimple to his left cheek. “Alice! That's tremendous. What an achievement! The first copy of many, you mark my words.” She felt so adult, basking in his praise.

He promised to read it and for a moment she held her breath, waiting for him to turn the cover and see the dedication, but instead he set it down on the table. There was an open bottle of lemonade nearby, and Alice was suddenly parched. “I'd kill for a drink,” she said in a kittenish voice.

“No need to do that.” He poured her a glass. “I'm more than happy to share.”

While his attention was elsewhere, she released the top button of her blouse. He handed her the glass and their fingers touched. An electric shiver shot right down her spine.

Without breaking his gaze, Alice took a sip. The lemonade was cold and sweet. She licked her lips delicately. This was it. Now or never. In one swift motion, she set down the glass, stepped towards him and took his face between her palms, leaning in to kiss him just the way she'd dreamed of doing.

For a second it had been so perfect! She breathed in his scent, leather and musk and just the faintest tang of perspiration, and his lips were warm and soft, and she swooned, because she'd
known
it would be just like this, all along she'd known . . .

And then, suddenly, the growing flame was snuffed. He pulled away, his eyes searching hers.

“What is it?” she said. “Did I do it wrong?”

“Oh, Alice.” Realisation and concern competed on his face. “Alice, I'm sorry. I've been so stupid. I had no idea.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I thought—I didn't think.” He smiled then, kindly, sadly, and she saw that he felt pity for her and that's when she knew. It hit her in an instant. He didn't feel as she did. He never had.

He was still speaking, his expression earnest, his brow furrowed and his eyes kind, but the ringing of mortification in her ears was shrill and unrelenting. Occasionally the frequency slipped and she caught a fragment of platitude: “You're a terrific girl . . . so very smart . . . a wonderful writer . . . a great future ahead of you . . . you'll meet someone else . . .”

She was parched and dizzy, she needed not to be here anymore, in this place where she had so disgraced herself, where the man she loved, the only man she'd
ever
love, was looking at her with pity and apology in his eyes, and talking to her in the tone of voice all adults used to placate confused children.

With all the dignity she could muster, Alice picked up her glass and finished the lemonade. She collected her manuscript with its nauseating dedication and started towards the door.

And that's when she noticed his suitcase. Later, she would reflect on the fact, and wonder whether there was something wrong with her that, even when her heart was breaking, a small part of her stood outside the emotional truth of the moment, taking notes. Later still, when she'd become better acquainted with Graham Greene, she would realise it was merely the splinter of ice that all writers held in their hearts.

The suitcase was open against the wall and it was full of neat piles of clothing. Ben's clothing. He was packing.

Without turning back to face him, she said, “You're leaving.”

“I am.”

“Why?” Oh, horrid vanity, but she felt a resurgence of hope that he
did
love her after all and it was his love that was forcing him to leave. His respect for her youth and his duty to the family who employed him.

But no. Instead he said, “It's time. Past time, in fact. My contract ended a fortnight ago. I only stayed on to help in the lead up to Midsummer.”

“Where will you go?”

“I'm not sure yet.”

He was a gypsy, of course, a traveller. He'd never described himself in any other terms. And now he was leaving. Walking out of her life as casually as he'd walked into it. A sudden thought struck her. She turned. “There's someone else, isn't there?”

Ben didn't answer, but he didn't need to. She could tell at once by the pitying look on his face that there was.

With a small dizzy nod, and without another glance at him, she left the boathouse. Head held high, gaze steady, one calm step after another. “Alice, your gift,” he called after her, but she didn't turn around and she didn't go back.

Only when she'd rounded the bend in the path did she hug her manuscript to her chest and run as fast as her tear-blinded eyes allowed her, back towards the house.

How had she got it so wrong? Sitting on the garden bench beneath the arbour, as Midsummer celebrations swirled around her, Alice still couldn't understand. Her mind spooled back across a year of interactions. He'd always been so pleased to see her, listening intently when she spoke about her writing, her family, even offering suggestions when she complained about Mother, the misunderstandings they'd been having, trying to mend the rift between them. Alice had never met anyone who cared so much, understood her like he did.

It was true, he'd never, not once, touched her, not properly, not the way she wanted him to, and she'd wondered at the things she'd heard Deborah saying about young men and their lecherous, leering attentions; but she'd simply supposed him too much of a gentleman. And that was the problem. She'd supposed too much. All along, she'd seen only what she wanted to see: her own desires reflected back at her.

With a heartsick sigh, Alice glanced about for Mr Llewellyn. She'd been waiting over fifteen minutes now and there was still no sign of him. She ought to leave. After dragging herself out to meet him, he hadn't even bothered to keep their appointment. He'd probably forgotten all about it, or had got caught up with more enjoyable company and was running late. It would serve him right to turn up and find that she wasn't here.

But where would she go? To the gondolas? No, they were far too close to the boathouse. She never wanted to set foot down there again. To the house? No, there were servants everywhere, all of them Mother's spies, only too happy to report that Alice had disobeyed instructions. The dance floor? Hardly! She couldn't think of anything she felt like less than kicking up her heels and whooping in the fashion of those other fools—and who, pray tell, would she dance with?

And there it was. The awful truth. She had nothing better to do and no one to do it with. Little wonder Ben didn't love her. She was utterly unlovable. It was ten minutes to midnight, the fireworks would begin soon and Alice was all alone. She was hopeless and friendless, and there didn't seem to be much point at all in going on.

She saw herself then, as if from above. A lone, tragic figure, dressed in her prettiest frock, hugging her knees; a girl whose entire family misunderstood her.

She looked, in fact, a bit like an immigrant girl, sitting on the wharf after a long sea journey. It was something about the curve of her shoulders, the bow of her head, her fine, straight neck. She was a steadfast sort of girl, dealing with great loss. Her family had all been killed (how? Horribly, tragically, the details didn't matter, not now), but with fierce determination she'd charged herself with avenging their deaths. Alice sat taller, as the kernel of an idea began to grow. She reached slowly into her pocket to stroke her notebook. Thinking, thinking . . .

The girl was alone in the world, utterly bereft, abandoned and forgotten by all those she might have presumed to trust, but she was going to prevail. Alice would make sure of it. She stood quickly as a spark of animation fired her from within. Her breaths had quickened and her head was swimming with shimmery threads of ideas that needed braiding together. She needed to think, to plot.