Walking in Darkness (36 page)

After a long moment she walked away, and tears of ice formed behind his closed lids. They didn’t fall, they merely blinded him, reminding him of snow on his lashes and in his eyes when he walked through one of the blizzards which blew, most winters, across the snowy landscapes of the Ramsey family estate at Easton, making the familiar suddenly strange, unrecognizable, taking away all the landmarks you knew, so that you lost your bearings and had no idea where you were any more, or which way to go to get home.

That was how he felt now: lost, helpless, terrified. He didn’t know where he was, who he was, he didn’t know anything any more; where to go, what to do, what to think.

There was a fiery image in his head, one he had first seen many years ago and never forgotten.

When he first came to London, he had visited the Tate Gallery, a grey, ornate, formal building which reminded him of Paris, and stood like one of the great buildings of Paris, on the riverside – except that this was the Thames, not the Seine. Wandering through the high-ceilinged rooms within the gallery, he had gone to look at French paintings, Impressionists, Pointillistes with their bright, coloured dots of paint giving a hazy, summery look to what they painted, because they gave him a warming injection of Frenchness, made him feel at home for a while. Those first months in England he had felt lost and lonely, and although he had good English before he came it wasn’t always easy to understand what people said. Londoners had a cheerful laziness of tongue that baffled him, his first glimpse of how many varieties of English there were – from the twang of Liverpudlians to the slow brogue of country people.

Reaching a distant gallery, he came to a room full of Pre-Raphaelite paintings and sat down on a leather bench to rest before he made his way back to the door. By sheer chance he had sat down in front of one vast canvas in which a towering archangel with glowing, spread wings dwarfed the guilty, shrinking human beings crouched in front of him. He knew at once what he was looking at – Adam and Eve being turned out of the Garden of Eden by an angel with a flaming sword. The colours were magnificent, the image unforgettable.

For ten minutes he had sat and stared. When he left he took the image with him, and he had gone back many times to stare at the painting, although if you had asked him what fascinated him so much about it he would have been hard put to find an answer.

He had thought, at the time, that maybe the painting represented for him his feelings about his past, his inability to go back to places and people he loved deeply, the feelings of loss that swamped him if he ever thought about his early life. You couldn’t go back; time went on, it didn’t stop or reverse. Paul Brougham had come into being as the product of hard-headed common sense, the ability to face facts, a drive to survive at any odds.

What had never occurred to him until now was the possibility that you might be able to foresee your future, recognize what was to come, know your own death. Second sight? Garbage, he would have said, until now. Time flows forward – you cannot see what lies ahead.

Now that he stood on quicksands and felt the ground shifting under him, knew how perilously weak his grasp on his whole life had always been, he was no longer so sure about anything. All he knew for certain was that the archangel with his fiery sword stood between him and Cathy now and would do forevermore, and, like Adam in the Garden of Eden, he had been made aware of his nakedness and weakness, and was hiding from the Voice of God.

He had always prided himself on being able to think on his feet, fast and confidently, come rapidly to the right decisions. But now, with disaster staring him in the face, he was paralysed, unable to think at all. He had run away, locked himself in this room, alone with his pain, a pain so bad it was crippling him; he couldn’t make a move in any direction, a checked king on the chessboard he had once thought he ruled.

The breakfast-room was at the side of the house with high, wide windows looking over a private walled garden which was bare of flowers at this time of year but in spring was full of purple crocus, golden daffodil, the white bells of lily of the valley. In a month or so the first green spears of the snowdrops would be pushing through the soil under the lilac trees, the buddleia, the azalea, which was already thick with tight buds.

Cathy picked up the telephone on the sideboard, rang the kitchen. ‘Could I have some coffee and fresh toast, please, Nora? A gentleman is joining us for breakfast, so could you also give us some scrambled eggs, bacon, tomatoes, and mushrooms?’

She also asked her housekeeper to let the gatekeeper know that Steve was coming, then rang off and stood by the window. The shadow of the house lay against the stone wall; chimneys, roofs, windows. She loved this house, she had been happy living here, she had thought she would live here for the rest of her life. She looked away, wincing, and stared at the sky, which this morning, after last night’s rain, was a newly washed blue. The sun was bright, giving an almost springlike air to the garden. Beyond the wall the tops of trees waved and birds flew from the ivy on the wall darting up into the sky. On a day like this you could believe you’d live forever. But you’d be deceiving yourself. Nobody lived forever and nothing ever stayed the same.

She turned away angrily and went out into the hall again to look for Sophie just as the doorbell rang.

‘I’ll get it,’ Cathy told the housekeeper, who appeared at once from the baize-covered door leading into the servants’ hall, and Nora vanished again while Cathy was opening the front door.

Steve looked maddeningly normal; his hair was windblown, his skin a fresh, healthy colour, he had obviously shaved not long ago and seemed wide awake, but she knew he was used to late nights and could function at a lower level than most people: his metabolism had been trained to cope with sleeplessness and exhaustion.

He wasn’t even wearing a coat, probably because he had only had to drive such a short distance and he was used to the longer hauls of America, to New England winters, Washington winters, cruel as the grave. Under a leather flyer’s jacket he wore a thick blue sweater, a blue shirt under it, jeans with a broad belt, silver-buckled, and black leather boots. He looked very American, she felt the warmth of home just looking at him, and reached out to hug him, eagerly, instinctively.

‘Steve! Oh, I’m so glad you got here. Long time, no see. How are you?’

He held on to her slim waist, tilting his head back to look down at her in her warm gold and amber jersey dress, an amber necklace round her throat and gold studs in her ears.

‘I’m OK, how about you?’ His quizzical, searching eyes slid over her face, absorbing the pallor, the lines of anxiety and stress at eyes and mouth. She looked like a victim of shell-shock, which was probably just how she felt, thought Steve, pity jabbing in his chest. Sophie shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have told her. Hadn’t he warned her she was playing with fire coming after Don Gowrie, and that was even before Vladimir told him what was behind Sophie’s quest. Why in God’s name was she so pig-headed?

Cathy pulled away. ‘I’ll live.’ She forced a light laugh which made him wince at the brave pretence. ‘Come in, out of this cold wind.’

‘How’s Sophie?’ he asked, following her into the breakfast-room which by now smelt of the coffee which had arrived, along with a rack full of perfect toast and a little row of silver dishes kept warm electronically. The housekeeper had vanished again, the room was warm and quiet and homely, and he sighed with enjoyment at the smell of real American coffee after the stuff he had been drinking ever since he hit the UK. Why couldn’t the Brits make good coffee?

‘She’s getting dressed, she’ll be down in a minute,’ Cathy said, pouring him strong black coffee, remembering without needing to think about whether he took cream. She knew Steve backwards and forwards. She handed him the cup, looking at his face and suddenly thinking, Well she had thought she knew him, but what did you ever know about anyone?

She had thought she knew Paul so well; she had thought her life was based on the solid rock of his love. This morning she knew how wrong she had been. All her certainties had crumbled under her feet.

‘Is she OK, though?’ he insisted, staring at her stricken face and seeing far too much, things she did not want anyone to see. He had ruthless eyes; that was something she had never noticed until now.

‘I’ll let you decide that for yourself,’ she evaded, turning her face away from that steely probe. ‘Can I get you cooked breakfast? Eggs, bacon?’

She lifted the silver lids and he peered at the contents and was startled to feel his stomach clench in hunger at the smell of the beautifully cooked food. ‘A little of everything, please,’ he said, watching her spoon out scrambled egg, lift several rashers of bacon on to the plate.

‘Hungry?’ she asked, and he laughed wryly.

‘I’m starving. We only had sandwiches last night, and far too much to drink. God knows when Vladimir will wake up, and when he does he’ll have the hangover to end all hangovers. That man could drink the Pacific dry. Could I have two tomatoes, please? I love them. Plenty of mushrooms, yes, thanks.’

Cathy placed his generous plate of food in front of him. ‘Help yourself to toast.’ She moved the toast, the butter and a yellow glass bowl of thick home-made marmalade to his elbow, then went out into the hall, hearing footsteps.

Sophie was wandering about, looking into rooms like a lost child. Her face brightened as she saw Cathy.

‘Oh, there you are! I didn’t know where to go – this house is so enormous!’

‘We’re in here.’ Cathy stood back to gesture her into the room, and followed, watching as Sophie stopped, her breath catching, as she saw Steve at the table.

He got up at once, scowling. ‘So there you are at last! I ought to slap you stupid for going off like that, without even telling me what you were planning! Didn’t I tell you not to take risks? You could be dead this morning – do you realize that, you silly bitch?’

‘I know,’ she said submissively. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Huh!’ he snorted. ‘You don’t fool me with that sweet, feminine stuff.’ But his face had softened, and he was looking her over with hunger, taking in every inch of her warm, feminine body in the almond green dress, her blonde hair gleaming in the morning sunlight. ‘You look good anyway. How do you feel?’

‘Good,’ she said, and they smiled at each other, the atmosphere suddenly dancing with sexual awareness.

Cathy knew what a gooseberry felt like; she was prickling with tiny hairs of irritation and felt distinctly green. For so long Steve had been
her
property; now he only had eyes for Sophie, he had forgotten
she
was in the room. Stop it! You’re being ridiculous! she told herself but the feeling didn’t go away, it lurked at the bottom of her heart, an ugly black sediment she couldn’t identify and was ashamed about.

She was deeply in love with her husband, she didn’t love Steve, or want him back – why was she reacting like this? Why?

The question was rhetorical because she knew the answer even as she asked the question. She was unhappy and frightened and needed reassurance; she wanted the stability and certainty of her childhood and Steve meant that. Steve meant a lot of other things too: he stood for her own country, for America, for home, Easton, New England, for comfort and kindness. He had been there for as long as she could remember: when hadn’t she known Steve? He was as solid and real as Thanksgiving and Christmas, summer camp, beach parties, all the memories of her childhood and adolescence, everything in her life that had once mattered so much. Steve was bound up with it all.

Oh, she wasn’t in love with him but she was fond of him, it had made her heart lift to see him standing at the front door.

When he hugged her she had almost burst into tears of gratitude because he was just the same, he hadn’t changed towards her. Steve knew about Sophie’s allegations – but it hadn’t changed him, he obviously didn’t care whether or not she was rich or came from a famous old family. He had smiled at her and hugged her with the old cheerful warmth, and that had made her heart lift.

Now, seeing him with Sophie, she was childishly jealous. She wanted to shout at Sophie, Get away from him, he belongs to me! Because he did, in the way that Papa had always belonged to her, and Grandee, and the dogs and ponies, everything at Easton, all the things that she loved. Love made them hers.

Cold reason sank through her mind then, told her that she had to face the truth – none of them belonged to her. Papa was not her father, Grandee was not her grandfather, and Easton would never now belong to her. She might still love them, but love gave you no hold on anything.

‘Your breakfast is getting cold,’ she told Steve sharply, but didn’t meet the surprised look he gave her, flushing because she knew she was behaving badly. She went over to the sideboard and gestured to the food. ‘Sophie, do you like eggs, bacon?’

Sophie joined her and looked at the scrambled eggs as Cathy lifted their silver lid. Steve sat down again and picked up his knife and fork, but was more interested in watching them together.

‘I can see the likeness now,’ he said as they turned to come back to the table, and they stood stock-still, startled, turning to look at each other. Standing so close, one to the other, in profile the resemblance was even more striking, and Steve breathed, ‘My God, yes! The shape of your faces . . . the angle of your cheeks, same nose, same jawline, same mouth.’

Cathy said angrily, ‘I don’t see any similarity at all! I’m dark, she’s blonde!’

He made an impatient gesture. ‘That’s just surface – your colouring is so different it deceives at first, but the bone-structure underneath the skin is identical, Cathy.’

Cathy looked at Sophie’s face, not wanting to see any likeness, but seeing it, all the same. She didn’t want to believe it, but the bewildering sense of recognition kept growing. My sister? she thought. My sister?

Sophie thought that too, in an echo of Cathy’s thoughts but without the question mark. My sister. My sister.

‘You see, Anya? I’m not crazy. Steve sees it, I see it,’ she said with a face like morning sunshine.