Eighteen
Jack arrived home late at night. He crept in but he wasn’t surprised to be very quickly waited upon by Sidney Kelland. His house steward was conscious of every creak and scuffle of the house. He had heard his master, jumped out of bed on the second-floor servants’ quarters, pulled on his dressing gown and slippers and presented himself at the foot of the stairs.
‘Can I get you anything, sir?’ Kelland asked in a voice steeped in genuine respect and helpfulness. ‘It’s good to see you again, sir.’
‘Thank you, Kelland,’ Jack replied simply. ‘You go back to bed. I’ll just get myself a nightcap. Tell Mrs Kelland I’ll be taking a late breakfast.’
‘Yes sir. Goodnight, sir.’
‘Just one thing before you go up, Kelland. How is Miss Barnicoat getting on?’
‘I watched her carefully, Mr Newton. She’s kept to your rules and asked questions only in relation to her work, and kindly asked every day about the health of the staff. Mrs Kelland and I and Cathy have all enjoyed her presence. She likes to take her morning tea with us round the kitchen table.’
‘Good, good.’ Jack nodded his head. ‘Back up to your slumbers, Kelland, and I’ll see you in the morning.’
Going off to the capacious drawing room, Jack poured himself vodka and tonic water. He was aware of the lingering lightness of Verity’s summery perfume and nodded in satisfaction. As he always did when in this room he went to the piano and picked up the photograph of Lucinda and himself. ‘Hello, my love,’ he whispered, his voice hoarse and husky, his heart immediately choked with pain, sorrow and regret.
He downed his drink and went outside into the moonlit night. Leaving the formal gardens he followed an unmarked and meandering path known only to him and the Kellands. He passed through bushes and trees, something he could do even on a pitch-black night, turning off to other paths until at last he came to the small natural clearing, once his childhood retreat. On the spot where he had built a camp, with blankets, books, a lantern and teddy bear to escape the reality of his father’s harshness, Lucinda and her beloved Polly were now buried. He had made it a beautiful grave for a beautiful girl, his child-bride.
Dipping down and sitting with his back against a beech tree, Jack gazed damp-eyed at the grey-stone grave, closed in by green-painted picket fencing. The only words on the headstone were ‘Lucinda and Polly’. It was all Jack had felt was needed. He never brought flowers. Flowers withered and died and Lucinda had hated dead things. ‘How are you, dear girl? Have you been happily playing with Polly? The angels are looking after you. They must love you so much. You’re so like an angel yourself. They must understand why you did all you did. You know I do. I only wish . . . but that doesn’t matter now.’
His mind slipped back to when he had first come across Lucinda, on an early morning in a quiet piazza in Florence. She had stood out for many reasons, the most compelling her rare and innocent young beauty. Dressed in old-fashioned ankle-length white lace with a pink sash, a bonnet and dainty slippers, she had been clutching a tiny white poodle and had looked lost and frightened. Jack had been gripped by an immense desire to help and protect this ethereal stranger.
He had lifted off his hat and addressed her carefully. ‘Good morning, miss, may I be of assistance to you?’
‘You are English,’ she had chimed in relief. ‘I am also, from Hertfordshire. I was brought here years ago by my guardian, after my parents were killed in a train crash. I’m looking for a respectable hotel to stay in. Do you know of one?’
‘Well, I’m staying at the Hotel Alessandra. I can recommend it. The rooms and service are excellent. My name is Jack Newton, by the way. I’m pleased to meet you.’
She had given him a sweet curtsy and Jack’s fascination with her had grown. ‘I’m Miss Lucinda Aster, and this Polly. Is the hotel far from here, Mr Newton? I feel apprehensive out here in the streets. I’ve walked a long way and I’m rather tired. I would so love a nap.’
A nap? It was obvious Miss Lucinda Aster had been kept as a little girl, and just as evident now Jack had taken a closer look at her were the holes in her slippers and the dust on the hem of her dress. She truly did look overcome with weariness and discomfort. ‘It’s just a couple of streets away, actually. I’m here sightseeing.’ Street sweepers and early risers were staring curiously at Lucinda and Jack felt she was vulnerable and therefore at risk of meeting misfortune, even danger. She needed a protector. ‘Would you like to take my arm, Miss Aster?’
Her careworn frown disappeared and she nodded. Jack had realized how shy she was and what an effort it had been for her to reply to him. She trusted him, and he felt his heart wrapping around her. He could be a charlatan, a terrible threat to her, yet in her limited experience, because there was no doubt she was totally unworldly, she trusted him. Many emotions had hit Jack, and he wanted to be this girl’s shield and minder at all costs. His father had habitually jeered that he would never amount to much, yet something in his character had told this innocent he could be thoroughly trusted and counted upon.
‘I’m so glad I got you away from your misery, Lucinda,’ Jack whispered through the damp night. ‘And that you found peace and a delight in life for so many months, until things overwhelmed you and you took the only way out you felt you could. You’re always on my mind. I just wish I could have done more to save you. Rest in peace, my angel.’