Unnerved, I move away from Terence, closer to the edge of the boat. I cling tightly to the side as we approach the island and peer at our destination, as if I’m seeking a better perspective. As the mere speck amid the vast azure bay materializes, the island delivers on its reputation. Pink beaches encircle a single mountain carpeted by green velvet, ringed by water so vibrantly blue, its color defies description.
The dinghy’s motor stops, yet we are still a far distance from the beach. The cocaptain glances at us. “Sir, ma’am, this is as far as she’ll go in this shallow water.”
As our pilot loads up a portable float to bring our picnic and gear ashore, Terence rolls up his pant legs and hops out of the dinghy. He is knee-high in crystal clear seawater, and I can see the hair on his legs as plainly as if I held a magnifying glass. Stretching out his hand to me, he says, “Join me, Clementine. It’s warmer than a bath!”
Peeling off my shoes and cramming them in my bag, I tie up my skirt and take his hand. Leaping into the turquoise water, its balminess prompts me to guffaw loudly. How is this temperature possible? It’s as if Winston’s valet had boiled the water and poured it into the Pacific himself.
We wade through the shallow water until we reach shore. By the time our feet touch the soft sand, the picnic has already been assembled on a blanket under an umbrella and the deck chairs arranged under the shade of the second umbrella.
Any residual tendrils of anxiety and worry that followed me here from London slip away. I inhale deeply, thinking how this ethereal sanctuary seems like reality, while Chartwell, Winston, the children, and politics feel like the dream. If only I could reside in this nether space forever.
I whisper, “It’s what heaven must be like.”
I must have spoken louder than I intended, because the cocaptain, sweaty from his efforts assembling our picnic, replies, “Aye, ma’am. That it is. I’ll be back for you in three hours.”
Three hours is not near enough time in this paradise. I drop my bag on the chair and sit before the food. Suddenly, I am voraciously hungry, and I begin to eat the sliced papaya. Terence plops down next to me and reaches for the tropical fruit. “It looks delicious.”
“‘It is,” I answer, juice dripping down the sides of my mouth. I don’t bother to wipe it away. The seawater will take care of it soon enough.
Without waiting for Terence to finish, I slip off my dress, place it onto the chair alongside my bag, and wade back into the water in my swimsuit. Within minutes, he paddles beside me, and we engage in a merry game of diving for shells. The water is practically invisible up close, and we easily retrieve the plentiful cockles, snails, limpets, circular slipper shells, nerites, fan scallops, and blue mussels. Our hands grow full, and we decide to take a break and organize our treasures.
The blazing sun dries us in minutes as we build a large mound of shells to bring back on board with us. We stroll along the pastel sand, picking up delicate branches of white dried coral, while albatrosses fly overhead. “How do you think this island compares with others we’ve seen on our voyage?” Terence asks me.
“This is the most glorious by far.” I pause for a moment, wondering whether I should say aloud the notion that’s taken hold of me. “I never want to leave.”
The ever-affable Terence laughs. “I think we’d run out of food without the Rosaura to send over provisions. And the Rosaura won’t stay here forever.”
For once, I don’t laugh along with him. I know my wish is impossible, and yet I long to freeze this moment. To live within its exquisite parameters forever, with Terence by my side. He makes me feel loved and respected for myself—not for what I can do for him and not for who he wants me to be. It is a different sort of love and admiration than Winston has for me. And I feel a new person under his gaze.
I walk back toward the chairs, don my wide-brimmed hat, and lie back. How can I return to my prior existence after this bliss, unreal though it may be? But how could I ever leave Winston?
A few minutes later, Terence sits on the edge of my chair and stares at me. “If you were a sculpture, I could sell you for a fortune,” he murmurs to me, sending a shiver down my spine.
A witty retort begins to form on my lips, but instead, I lean toward him. I have never, ever thought of another man in this way. Only Winston. Closing my eyes, I incline my face toward his for a kiss.
I receive the caress of his fingers on my cheeks rather than his lips on mine. My eyes fly open. Is he rejecting my overture? I’d believed the connection between us to be strong and mutual, but now I feel sick, and not only because he hasn’t reciprocated. How could I have even thought of initiating something with Terence? I’ve become the people I’ve scorned.
“Oh, my dear Clementine.” He holds my cheek tenderly, as if I was a child. “I’m not the marrying kind.”
Not the marrying kind. What does he mean? I already know that he’s a lifelong bachelor. All at once, I think I understand his euphemism. Could he mean that he prefers men to women as partners? He never felt for me what I felt for him. How could I have been so blind? I am a fool.
My face must betray my confusion and shock and mortification, because, with apology heavy in his tone, he says, “I thought you knew.”
“I didn’t.” My cheeks burn as if I were standing directly in the Australian sun rather than under the shade of the umbrella. “I’ve grown to like you, Terence.”
“And I’ve grown to like you.” His smile is warm and open, as if nothing embarrassing had just passed between us. “Not that it’s hard, Clementine. You are beautiful and wise and funny and brave. And I love you, in my way. If I were the marrying kind, you would be the woman I’d marry.”
His words are small solace for his inability to fully reciprocate my feelings. And yet, as he beams at me, the warmth of his admiration spreads through me, and I realize that perhaps what I actually adore most about Terence is the courageous, exuberant woman I become in his company, not weighed down by others’ cares and not rushing to judgment of others. And that is something I can bring home with me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
April 30, 1935
Westerham, England
Through the rain-smeared window of the car, I see the mechanical digger. What on earth is it doing here? Its incongruent presence among the familiar verdant landscape of Chartwell astonishes me until something niggles at my memory. Had Winston mentioned it in one of the “Chartwell Bulletins” he sent to me on my journey? I had studied the first bulletin with some interest, but by the time the second one arrived, I barely skimmed it. The combined magic of the Rosaura and Terence had already transported me to another realm by then, and I did not want the tethers of home to restrain me.
How unbelievable the voyage now seems against the drizzling backdrop of gray London, I think. Nearly as unreal as Chartwell had seemed while cruising through the Pacific and Indian Oceans. How will I navigate the return home while staying true to the person I’ve become?
The sound of tires on gravel increases as we near the front door of Chartwell. I’d prepared myself to feel the anxiety mount as I neared it, but I fought off the old demon with calming breaths and memories of blazing sunlight. By the time the driver opens my car door and Winston and a much-taller Mary rush out of Chartwell to greet me, my nerves and will are strong enough to survive the onslaught and all that might follow.
As my beautiful twelve-year-old daughter races toward me, I have a horrible flash of the moment I returned home from Egypt and Marigold didn’t recognize me, and I feel sick. What have I done by leaving my sweet daughter for four months for purely selfish reasons? How will she feel about her often-absent mother? Will she even hug me?
“Mummy, Mummy, you came home!” Mary cries out, tears of relief in her eyes.
“Of course, my love! Of course I returned to you.” Tears pour down my cheeks, and I am immensely grateful for her ongoing affection in the face of my des
ertion. I reassure my poor daughter that I’m home to stay, encircling her in my arms. I feel her body flinch within my foreign embrace, and sadness courses through me over her unfamiliarity with her mother’s affection. At what price did I buy my peace of mind?
As I unwrap my arms from her narrow body, Mary returns to Moppet, with whom I exchange a thankful nod, although I can’t deny a twinge of jealousy. Even though I made the decision to place Mary in Moppet’s care, I can’t help but feel a little covetous of their easy bond. Will I ever have that sort of connection with my children? Why couldn’t I be the sort of mother who was content in her child-rearing? At what point will I rise up over my own unmothered childhood and give what I did not receive?
Winston rushes in, encompassing me in his embrace. “Oh, Cat, you cannot imagine how I’ve missed you. I worried that our domestic life might pale in comparison with your exotic travels, and, and—” He stammers out the final words. “I feared you might not come back.”
“Oh, my poor Mr. Pug, I’ve longed to be folded in your arms.” As I say this, I realize that it’s true. This feeling is a relief. I wasn’t sure it would come.
He releases a great sigh, saying, “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”
“How are Randolph and the girls?”
He points to a window on the second floor, where I see a lanky silhouette. “Randolph is still recovering from his tuberculosis. The cough lingers and his energy is low, but he’ll be fine.” His voice drops. “At least when he’s ill, he’s not creating mischief.”
“Small mercies,” I chuckle. “I’ll stop up to see him in a moment. What of Sarah and Diana?” The girls are notable in their absence. Winston had written that Diana’s divorce came through during my trip, and I know better than to think my presence would have helped her through the difficult time. Her passive personality has always been at odds with my own, and I am certain that Moppet, whose presence has always served as a comforting blanket for my children, provided better support for Diana in the courthouse and in the days that followed.
“Sarah should be back from dance class any minute. She wanted to skip it and wait for your return, but we didn’t know exactly when you’d arrive, so I sent her off. Diana is in the city with a friend.” Winston’s volume drops when he mentions Diana’s friend, but I ignore the matter for now. Is this friend a young man? Did I underestimate my daughter in the reason behind her divorce when I attributed it solely to her ex-husband’s mercurial ways? There will be time enough for Winston and me to discuss this later.
Wide-eyed Mary watches us intently. Dropping Winston’s hand, I stroll over to her side, unlacing her fingers from Moppet and relacing them with mine. I must reclaim her, for this moment at least. “I am so happy to be home with you. I cannot wait to hear all that you’ve been up to.” Perhaps now is the time to begin forging a closer tie with my child. What am I waiting for?
As Winston leads us into the house, I think about the telegram I sent them during the Rosaura’s last stop, Bali. I didn’t want to waste more than a minute of my remaining time writing a long letter, so I jotted a hasty telegram about being lost in the Pacific. How could I have been so flippant in my communication, so insensitive to the needs of these waiting souls, Mary and Winston? And yet, I think to myself as Winston tours me around the house and property to exhibit his projects, it is Winston’s incessant needs that drove me to take the journey. I remind myself to tread cautiously as I reenter my old life.
The thought of Bali pulls me away from my surroundings. After the excitement of capturing five Komodo dragons—the ostensible reason for Moyne’s trip—we made a final stop at the legendary East Indian island. Its terraced emerald interior was dotted with pagoda-like temples, or pura, and ringed by turquoise waters and golden sand; it lived up to its enchanted reputation. The only disappointment was that, although it was still relatively unspoiled, tourists had recently “discovered” the island, and the English language could be heard in even the most remote villages.
On our final evening, Terence and I sat alongside Moyne and Vera, watching a traditional Balinese dance. Against the backdrop of chiseled, half-dressed men playing the Balinese gamelan, beautiful young native women engaged in intricate, traditional dances, their exotic movements at once lulling and jarring. But the ceremonial hut was far from the breezy shore, and the bodies and fire made the room stifling. Terence noticed me fanning myself and asked if I’d like to get some air.
We stepped out of the hut and followed the torches down a narrow cliff stairway to the beach. The breeze was refreshing, and I removed my hat, allowing the wind to tousle my hair and cool my brow. Huge ocean waves crashed on the beach, and a nearly full moon illuminated the scene. It was an unimaginably romantic setting for a walk with a man with whom romance wasn’t possible. I almost laughed aloud at the incongruity but stopped myself. Terence and I had moved past our awkward moment to an even more authentic friendship, but I didn’t know how he’d feel about such a frank reference to what I assumed to be his sexual preferences.
“Care to walk?” he asked.
“I’d love to.” Actually, I longed to dive into the cooling Pacific waters, but stripping my dress off and swimming in my undergarments was hardly appropriate, even with Terence. Still, there was nothing wrong with strolling barefoot where ocean met sand, so I asked, “Should we walk along the water’s edge?”
“You always make the perfect suggestion,” he said as we removed our shoes.
We’d walked for a while in companionable silence when he said, “May I ask you something personal?”
I nearly guffawed at his question; we talked about nothing but personal topics. Over the past fifteen weeks, I’d shared stories from my youth as well as my concerns over my children, subjects I would normally only share with Goonie or Nellie. The only exception to our conversational range was Winston; I had never once mentioned my husband, except in passing, and Terence had never once asked.
I tamped my reaction down to a chortle and said, “I feel like there are very few lines of discussion we haven’t tackled.”
He smiled and said, “I’ll take that as a yes, then. Why did you take this trip?”
“To capture Komodo dragons, of course.” I delivered my answer with a straight face, but in seconds, we were both hysterically laughing at the memory of the long, grueling wait for a dragon to emerge from its cave toward the goat carcass in a trap as we lay in the tall, itchy grass in the hot sun. Afterward, we had confessed to one another that the infamous Komodo dragons had been the least of the lures of this trip, even before we learned how disgusting the process was.
“Really,” he prompted me in as serious a tone as I’ve ever heard from him.
I wondered how to answer. I didn’t mind discussing the topic of my marriage with Terence, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to delve into the notion of Winston and his demands with only a few weeks left of freedom from them. “In my real life, the pressures sometimes mount uncontrollably.”
“And who or what causes those pressures?”
“Oftentimes, I put those pressures on myself. I have unreachable standards, as I’m sure you’ve guessed by now.”
“Standards that I admire,” he answered, but he didn’t waver from his line of questioning. “I think you know what I’m asking, Clementine.”
“You are persistent, Terence.” I sighed. “Here, with you, I’ve found the peace to hear my own voice. It isn’t drowned out by the roaring demands of others.” Once I opened the door to talking about Winston, I found that I couldn’t close it. All my marital and parental struggles came pouring out.
When I was finished, Terence gently took me by the shoulders and said, “Clementine, you are a wise, beautiful woman with so much to offer the world. You can make your own path; you needn’t stay on your current one. It isn’t your punishment for your imagined sins of neglect. You can be happy.”
As he wrapped his arms aro
und me in a show of support, I whispered, “Oh, Terence, I don’t think I’ll have a happy ending unless I write the ending myself.”
We climbed up the steep, torchlit staircase to the ceremonial hut. At the top, a tawny, wrinkled woman stood with a gray bird perched on her hand. Several other similar birds in wicker cages surrounded her feet. I supposed they were for sale and that this was her makeshift store.
Terence approached the bird, stroking it with a gentle finger. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked.
The creature wasn’t as flashy as some of the tropical birds we’d encountered, and at first, I questioned why Terence seemed so drawn to it. But as I walked toward it, I noticed its bright coral feet, silvery gray feathers, its blush-colored belly, and the subtle patch of black-and-white-speckled feathers that encircled its throat like a necklace.
“Yes, it is,” I answered. “What sort of bird is it?”
“A dove. Did you know that, in the Near East and Mediterranean, doves were used in artwork as symbols of various goddesses, like the Roman goddesses Venus and Fortuna? But in Christian artwork, the dove represents either the Holy Spirit or peace,” he said, reminding me that Terence had a life outside this one and that, in it, he served as a trusted art adviser to the wealthy. I sometimes forgot about that life, just as sometimes I forgot about my own.
Before I could comment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out some money for the woman. She tried to hand him one of the doves in a cage, but he shook his head and pointed to the bird on her hand. She hesitated for a moment until he offered her more coins, at which time she relented. As she reluctantly placed the dove inside an empty cage, I wondered if it was her personal pet.
“I hadn’t pegged you for an animal lover, Terence,” I said as we walked away from the woman.
Lady Clementine Page 17
