The Secret Kiss of Darkness (7 page)

‘
To die, to sleep. No more, and by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream, ay, there’s the rub
 
…
’

The voice quoting Shakespeare seemed to echo round the room and once again Kayla turned to look at its owner. He looked very satisfied with himself and she frowned.

‘Communicating with someone is a wondrous thing, whether in a dream or in a wakeful state. I told you, it makes no difference. All you have to do is help me, whether you believe I can talk to you or not,’ he said.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, this is ridiculous! You can’t be talking to me. I mean, it’s just not possible.’ Kayla felt confused and disorientated. She was an intelligent, rational woman and she knew paintings were not able to speak. Yet he persisted in tormenting her. Although she had been sick many times before, nothing like this had ever happened to her in the past.

‘Well, this could be a dream, or it could be reality. It’s up to your brain to decide. I don’t care either way. But you must help me, for there’s no one else. I had quite lost hope until I smelled your fragrance and realised you must have been chosen for the task.’

‘My fragrance? You mean my perfume? What on earth has that got to do with anything?’ Kayla had recently been given a gift voucher for an old-fashioned perfume shop in Jermyn Street; one that had been there since the eighteenth century apparently, and had bought herself a lovely floral scent. It was very girly and sweet, but she loved it.

‘Mmm, honeysuckle and roses,’ he said, sighing as if the thought of that perfume meant something to him.

‘That doesn’t make sense. Seriously, you’ve got me really worried now.’ Kayla put her face in her hands and rubbed hard at her eyes. This hallucinating business was scaring the living daylights out of her. Was she becoming unhinged? Could breaking up with your fiancé really have such a dramatic effect or was it just the bad oysters?

‘I can see you’re not quite ready yet.’ He sighed again, although with apparent exasperation this time. ‘So I would suggest you sleep for a while longer and try to overcome your prejudices. Then we will speak again.’

‘Prejudices?’ Her head shot up. ‘You think I’m—’

‘Well, can you deny it? You don’t wish to believe that I’m speaking to you because you have never heard of such a thing, and therefore your brain refuses to accept what it is seeing. That is being prejudiced, surely?’

‘No. I mean, I’m asleep. I’m not really seeing anything. My brain is making this up, so I don’t have to accept it. When I wake in the morning you’ll be a painting again and … oh, really, this is too much. I feel so ill,’ Kayla wailed and lay back down on the sofa and turned her back on him again. She really couldn’t cope with this right now.

‘You’re sure you don’t want to hear what I have to say?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Not even a little bit intrigued?’ His voice sounded teasing and Kayla was almost tempted to turn around and smile at him. Then she remembered her mind was making it up, presumably to make her stay in this dream world a bit longer.

‘I just want oblivion,’ she told him. ‘You know, deep sleep, the kind where people like you can’t reach me. Then I’ll be better in the morning.’

‘Very well, as you wish. Sweet dreams,’ was the last thing she heard before the deep, dreamless sleep claimed her at last.

The weather wasn’t always co-operative and Jago was often left standing in the pouring rain for hours, waiting to no avail. He knew deep down that Eliza couldn’t pretend to go for a walk in such weather, but he didn’t want to leave just in case she found some other way of escaping the house. It never happened though and one evening, when frustration was gnawing at his insides particularly badly, he decided drastic measures were called for. He hadn’t seen Eliza for over a week, despite the fact that John was away, and he was sure he’d soon go mad with wanting.

It was not to be borne.

Although he normally preferred to stay as far away from Marcombe Hall as possible, that hadn’t always been the case. He had often ventured into the gardens and grounds as a boy, curious about his half-brother’s existence and because, despite paying to have Jago educated, Sir Philip never allowed his illegitimate son to visit his home. And it wasn’t until he was an adult that Sir Philip told his other son about Jago, or so Jago understood. The two boys had never been officially introduced.

On one such secret visit, Jago had been skulking in a shrubbery and eventually fell asleep, bored with spying on a boy who did nothing other than play with a hoop. When he woke, darkness had fallen and he knew he’d be in trouble with the curate in whose house he was lodged at the time. He was about to set off for home, but as he stood up to leave he noticed movement over by the house. A man emerged, seemingly from nowhere. Jago stood still and just stared.

It was his father, appearing as if he’d come through the very walls of the house. When he set off down a path, Jago waited a moment, then crept closer to peer at the stonework. Eventually he found a door, cleverly concealed so as to blend in with the stones around it, but if you knew where to look, it wasn’t hard to find. Jago was elated and determined to go inside at the earliest opportunity, and soon after entered his father’s house several times, roaming through the rooms on silent feet. Eventually though, he got bored with having to hide in the shadows. If the man didn’t want him there openly, Jago decided he’d prefer to stay away altogether. He hadn’t set foot inside the Hall since.

Now, however, he perceived that door might have another use.

He made his way into the gardens, making sure no one was around to notice his approach. Fortunately the rain kept everyone indoors and he reached the house unseen. He wondered if anyone else knew about the secret door. It seemed not, since the wall had recently been painted white and looked pristine and untouched. Perhaps Sir Philip had never had a chance to tell his other son about it? He had died rather suddenly. Jago quite liked the thought that he might be the only person in the world with this knowledge.

He felt his way along the stone façade until his fingers encountered a little hole that contained the catch he remembered. The door didn’t budge. Jago guessed the door had been locked for obvious reasons, but he wasn’t about to let that stop him.

He took out the dagger he carried in his boot and inserted it between the door and the frame until it rested on the locking mechanism. Then he picked up a rock from the ground and struck the top of the dagger repeatedly until he heard the lock give way. As he’d thought, the lock was old and rusty from the salty draughts of the nearby sea. And although he’d probably ruined his knife blade, he didn’t care.

Inside the door was a steep staircase, which he knew led to one of the bedrooms. The last time he’d been here, it had been empty, but as he put his ear to the wall that contained an inner hidden door, he heard movement.

Damnation.

But luck was with him. A voice he knew and loved spoke and Jago felt a grin tugging at his mouth.

‘You may go now, Harriet. I won’t need you again until morning.’

Eliza. Jago waited until he heard the sound of a door closing, then quietly opened the secret door.

Eliza was sitting on a stool in front of a dressing table, looking ethereally beautiful with her long hair, newly brushed, hanging down her back. It looked like a silvery waterfall, shining in the light from a nearby candle. Her face, reflected in the oval mirror, had a sad, faraway look, but as he stepped up behind her, this changed to one of incredulity, then utter joy.

‘Jago? Is it really you? Or am I dreaming already? How did you get in here?’

She turned and he pulled her up and into his arms, covering her mouth with his for an answer. She felt so right, so perfect in his embrace, as if she’d been made for him and him alone. How could he have stayed away?

‘You shouldn’t have come, my love. It’s too dangerous,’ she breathed, but at the same time she melted into him, her flimsy shift and wrap no barrier to his questing fingers.

‘For you, I’ll brave any danger,’ he whispered back, and he knew it was the truth.

She was all that mattered.

By Monday morning Kayla was well enough to go to work and she left her flat after a last glance at the man in the painting. He hadn’t spoken to her again and although she wished it could be otherwise, she knew it had just been a dream. After all, talking paintings were an impossibility and she almost laughed out loud at the conversation her fertile mind had invented between them.

‘Talk about vivid imagination,’ she muttered to herself. If she told Maddie about this she felt sure her friend would take her to see a doctor at the very least, not to mention a shrink. And she had to admit it was crazy to be so obsessed by a long-dead man in a portrait that she’d had imaginary conversations with him. Definitely not healthy. She decided to blame the food poisoning.

‘Bloody oysters.’ She shuddered at the thought. Never again would she so much as look at one, that was for sure.

She’d expected things to be awkward at the office, but she found to her relief that Mike had gone on an unexpected business trip.

‘Didn’t you know?’ the receptionist asked, obviously scenting an interesting piece of gossip.

‘Yes, of course I did. I’d just forgotten. Had such dreadful food poisoning over the weekend my brain’s not in gear.’ She tried to laugh it off, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before everyone in the office would find out about the broken engagement. Kayla’s heart sank. She’d better go and see the Human Resources manager straight away and hand in her notice. There was no way she could stay here now.

By the time Kayla reached her flat that evening, she was exhausted from having to pretend that all was well. The Human Resources manager had promised to keep the news to himself for the moment, but Kayla almost wished she’d had the courage to just tell everyone. It would have been easier than acting unnaturally cheerful all day. A mammoth headache was building behind her eyes as she came through the door. Needing to vent her anger and frustration on someone or something, she marched over to the painting.

‘This is all your fault!’ she hissed, knuckling away the tears that started to trickle down her cheeks. ‘I hope you’re pleased now. God, to think if I’d never set eyes on you, I would still be happily engaged. I’d be getting married in a few weeks’ time. I’d be having children, well at some point anyway.’ She slumped onto the floor and covered her face with her hands. ‘What a mess. What a God-awful mess.’

She didn’t know how long she sat there, but when the supply of tears had at last run dry, she stood up slowly and climbed up the ladder to lie down on her bed. There was no point in preparing any food, she couldn’t face eating at the moment, and watching television or reading held no appeal either. She just wanted to close her eyes and shut out the pain. To forget the entire day and pretend it had never happened.

She yawned and waited for oblivion.

Late in the evening Kayla’s stomach decided it wanted sustenance after all, so she climbed down to make herself a cheese sandwich. She’d only just sat down on the sofa and taken the first bite when she heard the now familiar voice.

‘You don’t really believe it was my fault, do you?’

Kayla raised her eyes to stare at a swarthy face that wasn’t smiling any more, but had compassion clearly written all over it. It was dark in the room, as she’d turned off the light in the kitchenette, but a streetlight outside her window illuminated everything and she could see him clearly. He seemed so real and Kayla felt that if she’d gone over to him and reached out a hand, she could have touched him and felt his warmth. She didn’t dare because she was sure it would shatter the hallucination and she desperately wanted to cling to it. In silence she waited for him to say something else.

‘He wasn’t the right man for you, my dear,’ he said gently. ‘You’ll do much better without him. He didn’t appreciate you as a man should appreciate the woman he marries. You were never soul mates. Believe me, I should know.’

‘You’re talking again.’ Kayla blinked several times, because he was moving again as well, almost fidgeting. This time she knew she was awake and had no temperature. She was stone cold sober and the sandwich in her hand surely proved that this was all real. She took a bite just to make sure and chewed slowly.

She couldn’t stop looking at him. He smiled and her breath caught in her throat. It was the kind of smile that could win over even the staunchest opponent, the smile of a man who knew he could charm anyone if he wanted to, and she felt herself begin to relax. If only he would continue smiling at her this way, she’d be quite happy to just sit there and look at him, she decided. Why hadn’t the artist painted him like that instead of trying for the
Mona Lisa
approach?

‘Yes, I’m speaking to you. You don’t appear to want for sense and I thought you might be ready to listen at last. Are you?’

‘I-I don’t know. This isn’t real, is it? If I’m dreaming I have all the time in the world.’

He sighed. ‘I told you, it doesn’t matter. Somehow we are communicating and you will remember my words either way. It is up to you to decide how it happened, if you must.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Trust me, please?’

‘Okay. I’m listening. What is it that’s so important?’ Kayla leaned forward so she could look him in the eyes. They were fringed with thick, black lashes and gleamed like dark sapphires in the faint glow from the streetlight. His gaze soothed her, made her feel protected and safe. She relaxed back against the sofa behind her.

‘I need your help,’ he said. ‘Fate seems to have chosen you to be my assistant in this matter and I have no idea why, so don’t ask. We have to accept it is so. Now I will tell you some facts about myself. You will memorise my words, and when you’re feeling better you can check the truth of what I say for yourself. Simple, isn’t it?’ He spread out his hands.

‘Sounds easy enough, but …’

‘But what?’

‘I, er, nothing.’ She still couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was magnificent in his dark red coat which shimmered in the dim light. He seemed awfully big, his six foot two or three frame powerful, but he didn’t scare her. On the contrary, she found it almost impossible to quash the impulse to go up to him and touch him. He smiled again, as if he could read her thoughts, and she felt her cheeks heat up. Looking down at her sandwich, she picked little bits of cheese off in order to keep her hands occupied. ‘Fire away.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I mean, continue, tell me about yourself.’ Kayla’s heart was beating painfully against her ribcage. The excitement was almost unbearable. Finally she would find out who he was.

‘Very well.’ He looked towards the window, his expression serious and pensive, and began. ‘My name is Jago Kerswell. I lived in the village of Marcombe on the coast of Devon. I was born in the year 1754, the bastard son of a Gypsy woman called Lenora.’ Kayla looked up swiftly. That would explain his looks, she thought. ‘My father was Sir Philip Marcombe, of Marcombe Hall, but you’ll not find any evidence of that anywhere so you’ll have to take my word for it. He was a good man and did his duty by me, but of course he couldn’t acknowledge me openly.’ He paused for a moment to let the words sink in. When she looked up once more he continued. ‘Sir Philip’s legitimate son, John, my half-brother, married twice, the second time to a Miss Elizabeth Wesley. They were not happy together.’ He paused again and gazed into the distance, as if his thoughts were far from the present.

‘And …?’ Kayla prompted.

‘I’ll not bore you with the details, but Eliza and I fell in love and we met whenever Sir John was away, which fortunately for us was quite frequently. In the summer of 1781 we often went for excursions along the coast. There are many secluded coves and inlets where one can be private.’ He winked at her mischievously and she felt a smile spread over her features. ‘However, one afternoon we found, to our dismay, that we were not alone. An artist and his assistant had set up their easels on the beach, and we fell into conversation with them. They were painting seascapes, but when the older man caught sight of Eliza, he was seized with the urge to paint her instead. She was very beautiful, you see, and she reminded him of a mermaid or some such creature, he said.’ He waited once more for Kayla to take it all in. ‘Are you with me?’

‘Yes, I think I can remember all that.’ In fact she was drinking his words in, every last one clear in her mind, but she hoped the story would soon come to an end so she could be sure she didn’t forget any part of it.