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For Tad and Skyla
PROLOGUE
IN THE DARKNESS something scuttled. The girl shivered in the chilling damp of the small room. The dead grey stone of the walls seemed to drain the warmth from her body. Even in her heavy velvet gown she felt naked, exposed, vulnerable. She ran her hands over the dress, as if she might gain some heat from the rich, fox-red fabric. She looked down at the unfamiliar garment, puzzled, in her distress, to see such fine clothes on her body. The feeble, flickering light from the entrance to the room caught the amethyst on the ring finger of her left hand. Its brilliance jarred in the frightening gloom. The girl worked at the ring, struggling to free it. Her hands were cold, but made clammy by fear, so the ring clung to her flesh as she pulled. Panic began to rob her of air. Fear tightened its grip around her throat. She took a steadying breath, but it left her in broken gasps which clouded in the bitter air of the room. Her nostrils filled with the musty smell of the wet walls, of a space unused and unlived in. A space that rejected human presence. A space that spurned life.
The workman in front of her labored at his task without once looking up. With every scrape of his trowel the girl flinched as if he were administering blows. She watched him work on, at once both fascinated and appalled at his detachment, his lack of compassion. But then, she knew he was no more free than she. That his life was ransom in the same way as hers, should there be any person living whom he cared about. Whom he loved.
He will find me, she told herself, he will come. He must come.
The sound of approaching footsteps shocked the girl from her thoughts. The dim light was momentarily brightened by the lantern in the hand of the man who now stood in the doorway. He held up the light, its rays falling on his face, casting heavy shadows beneath his eyes.
The coldness of this fearful place, the girl thought, is as nothing when compared to those eyes. And though the sight of the man worsened her state of fear, it also brought hatred. And anger. And in these she found a small, powerful kernel of strength. She straightened her back. She would not show her suffering.
“I see that even in this wretched gloom,” said the man, his voice low, “your radiance remains undimmed. Such a waste.”
He took a step toward her, his gaze sliding the length of her body. The girl stepped back, feeling herself trapped against the rough wall. Nowhere left to run. The man sighed.
“Just remember, my dear, in the long hours to come, remember who is responsible for the … lamentable position in which you now find yourself.” He turned to leave, then added, “I know you are certain he will risk all to come heroically to your rescue. I suggest sightings of him riding west from here an hour ago indicate otherwise. How will love fare when a lonely death comes close, I wonder? Will you cry out for your precious lover then, d’you think? Or will you curse him for abandoning you with such ease?”
The girl held her breath as the figure stepped out of the opening and disappeared without a backward glance.
The mason quickened his pace, as if eager to be done. The girl felt fear growing to unmanageable terror. The horror of the fate that had been chosen for her was too much to bear. Her knees weakened as if they could no longer support the weight of her dread. As the last stone was put in place the mason’s eyes met hers for a brief, painful instant, then he was gone, and with him the last of the light. A scraping sealed the gaps around the rock and the deathly, suffocating blackness swamped her. In the unnatural silence and stillness she was left, shaking, alone.
1
“AND THROUGH HERE, we have the fourth bedroom, again with the exposed beams and rather charming, sloping ceiling.” The estate agent pointed as he spoke.
Laura wondered if he thought all viewers needed hand signals as well as endless commentary to fully appreciate a house, or if he were making a special effort because they were from London. She still hadn’t forgiven Dan for letting slip the fact they were selling their house in Hackney. She had seen the way the agent rubbed his hands together at the thought of getting commission on the full asking price.
“A small room, but plenty big enough for a nursery.” The man was unstoppable.
She could feel Dan looking at her but refused to meet his eyes. Did he think she was going to fall apart every time someone mentioned babies? It was ridiculous.
The agent tried another tack.
“And, yet again, gorgeous views, I think you’ll agree.”
Laura and Dan stepped toward the little window, both having to stoop to avoid the low beams. Even if Laura had not been tall, she would have had to duck. Dan took her hand and gave it a firm squeeze. She smiled back at him, a practiced, stop-fussing-I’m-fine smile. She gazed out at the seductive vista. The countryside was dressed in its prettiest May garb—everything budding or blooming or bursting out in the exuberance of late spring. For Laura, the landscape at thirteen hundred feet up a Welsh mountain was the perfect mix of reassuringly tamed and excitingly wild. In front of the house were lush, high meadows filled with sheep, the lambs plump from their mother’s grass-rich milk. Their creamy little shapes bright and clean against the background of pea green. A stream tumbled down the hillside, disappearing into the dense oak woods at the far end of the fields, the ocher trunks fuzzy with moss. On either side of the narrow valley, the land rose steeply to meet the open mountain on the other side of the fence. Here young bracken was springing up sharp and tough to claim the hills for another season. Beyond, in the distance, more mountains rose and fell as far as the eye could see. Laura undid the latch and pushed open the window. She closed her eyes. A warm sigh of a wind carried the scent of hawthorn blossom from the hedgerow. She breathed in deeply. The breeze moved the wisps of dark hair at the nape of her neck that had escaped being tied back. As they tickled her skin she felt a sharp quiver travel over her scalp. She stood for a moment, eyes still closed, listening to small birds toiling to feed their young, and the far-off mewing of a soaring buzzard.
This is what I’m going to paint, she thought, not just this place, but the essence of this place.
She felt Dan’s breath on her ear.
“Go on, admit it, you’re in love.”
She opened her eyes slowly. His boyish, familiar face wore a knowing grin. She smiled back at him, a genuine, connecting smile this time. The first in a long while.
“This is the place,” she said.
“You really want to live here?” he asked, raising a doubting eyebrow at the idea.
“I really want to live here,” she said. Then, seeing his reluctance, she took his hand. “Please?” she said quietly. “I need to try this.”
Dan hesitated, then sighed and shrugged. He nodded toward the fidgeting estate agent, “Come on, then,” he whispered. “Let’s make his day.”
Laura was about to step away from the window when a movement outside caught her eye. She squinted against the light, down into the far corner of the meadows. A figure—a man�
��was striding toward the woods. He was tall, dressed in dark clothing, and carried a heavy stick which he pushed hard to the ground with each step. He walked purposefully, head down, intent on his destination, and beside him loped a shaggy grey dog.
“Laura?” Dan touched her arm. “Are we going to do this thing?”
She turned to look at him, nodding decisively, “Yes,” she said. “Let’s.”
As she moved from the window she glanced back, but the walker had vanished into the dense woodland.
* * *
THREE MONTHS LATER, sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor of her London home, the chaos of last-minute packing around her, Laura was doing her best to stay calm as she swaddled yet another wineglass in bubble wrap. Despite a ruthless purge of all cupboards and several trips, laden, to the local Red Cross shop, she remained overwhelmed by the endlessness of the packing. She sighed. Sorting and organizing and efficient planning were not her strong points. She had always known the major part of the move would fall to her, and it niggled her that Dan would have done a better job of it. But he couldn’t possibly take time off. She frowned as she thought of him now, happily ensconced in the Blue Boar with his work cronies, enjoying his habitual Friday-night wind down. It was just typical of him to have worked up until the last minute, and yet not be here now to lend a hand. The moving van was due early the next morning and there was still a daunting amount to do. Her shoulders sagged as she gazed at the mess that had been their living room. To make matters worse, she could already hear Daniel berating her for not labeling things properly. Unpacking was going to be equally stressful. Well then, he shouldn’t have left it all for her to do. He was the one with the organized mind, the one who liked order and logic and everything in the right place. And he’d have a hangover on moving day. How sensible was that, for heaven’s sake? It was as if by carrying on as normal until the actual moment of leaving, he was putting off accepting that they really were going. This was her dream, her idea, her choice. Dan had paid lip service to the plan for weeks before having to declare his true feelings when Laura had started to push property details under his nose at mealtimes. He had admitted, then, that he couldn’t imagine living out of London, moving to somewhere remote and rural, starting a new type of life. But Laura had been as persuasive as she knew how. She could work anywhere, and he could take his time finding the right job near their new home, staying in a rented studio flat on weekdays in the meantime. He would get used to the idea; he would surely come to see how much better, more relaxed and less stressful their lives could be. And how that might, just might, give Laura a chance to conceive. And hadn’t they tried everything else? Could they really give up without trying this one last thing?
She swore under her breath and picked up another glass. As she leaned forward her hair swung down, wet and heavy. She had found a moment to wash it, and now it hung about her shoulders in glossy black ringlets. It would take hours to dry naturally, but she hadn’t the time to deal with it, and in any case, the hair dryer was already nestled in the bottom of a box somewhere.
The telephone rang. Cursing the interruption she searched for the handset, eventually spotting its flashing light peeping out from under a pile of newspapers.
“Hello, Laura, darling. Just thought I’d ring to see how you are.” The tension in her mother’s voice was unmissable.
“I’m fine, Mum. Just sorting out a few last-minute details.” She wedged the phone under her ear and continued to wrap as she spoke. “How was your lunch with Miriam?”
“What? Oh, noisy and fattening. I can’t think why she insists we try out a new restaurant every time we meet. Will someone tell me the point of enormous plates when you are given a silly little table? We had to put the cruet on the floor…”
Laura let her mother chatter on, relieved she had so easily deflected her from talking about the move. She knew Annabel hated the thought of her only daughter leaving London, and she was having to learn to live with niggling guilt at moving so far away from her lone parent. It would have been easier if her mother had been more open in her objections, but she confined herself to the well-placed sharp observation. To this she added a near-constant expression of hurt and quiet insistence that she would get used to the idea. In time. Laura closed the box of glasses and walked over to the mantelpiece. The room was clear of breakables now, save for a heavy vase and a photo in a silver frame. She picked up the picture and gazed at it. Younger, happier versions of herself and Dan beamed back at her. She remembered it had been taken just before they had started trying for a baby. Before they had realized there was a problem. Before her heart had been broken.
“Laura? Laura, are you still there?”
“Yes, Mum, I’m here. Look, I’d better go. There’s still a bit to do. I’ll ring you before we leave, OK?”
Even after she had hung up, the sadness in her mother’s voice as she said good-bye lingered. Laura bit her lip and closed her eyes. Were they doing the right thing? Giving up everything they knew, everything comforting and familiar, to chase some flimsy notion that a more peaceful, rural environment might just convince her stubborn body that it was safe to make a baby? Non-Specific Infertility. With those few words the doctor had finally shrugged, sighed, apologized, and sent her away. It seemed a cruel trick of nature to condemn her to childlessness with something so vague. Of course, they had tried every possible remedy, from crackpot diets, through medication, meditation, homeopathy, and psychotherapy, to the emotional trauma of IVF. As wide and varied a course of treatments as it was possible to have, all with one thing in common: They hadn’t worked. Laura found a space in a box for the photo and was brushing away an infuriating tear when the doorbell rang. She had never been more pleased to see Steph. Steph, whom she had known since she was five years old. Steph, whom she had shared digs with at University. Steph, who had supported her so stoically over the past, long, barren eight years.
“Thought you might be in need of this by now.” Steph waved a bottle of champagne under Laura’s nose as she stepped into the hall.
“I always said you had a spooky talent for mind reading.” She led the way back into the sitting room and unpacked two of the wineglasses she had just wrapped. “Don’t ask me to find a champagne flute, unless you want to see a grown woman cry.”
“I can slum it, for a good cause.” Steph kicked off her sandals, ran a hand through her choppy magenta hair, and curled up on the leather sofa.
Laura popped the cork and poured the drinks, handing a glass to her friend.
“Most people would rush round and offer to help pack at a time like this, not come here and get me sozzled with the job half done.”
“As if you’d care about a bit of muddle, Laura Matthews. I’m surprised you’re here, actually. I felt certain you’d still be fiddling about in your studio—you never know what day it is.”
“I resent ‘fiddling about.’ Mmm, half decent bubbly. I’ll have you know the studio was packed up, done, and dusted ten days ago.”
“You mean to say you haven’t picked up a paintbrush in all that time? My God, this is the end of life as we know it. First you decide to take to the hills. Next you stop painting so that you can wrap up knickknacks. It’ll all end in Laura Ashley, you mark my words. Just as well I came to get one last look at the chic, city you before you go bush.”
Laura laughed, reassured to find that even now Steph could rid the room of tension in minutes. Many times her friend’s ability to get her to lighten up and not take herself too seriously had just about saved her sanity.
The two drank in companionable silence for a moment until Laura said with a small smile, “I’m going to miss you.”
“Now, before you go getting all slushy on me, I have to warn you this is not waterproof mascara. I don’t want to be frightening taxi drivers out of their socks on the way home.” She took another swig of champagne, then added, “Besides, you won’t get a chance to miss anybody. Me, Angus, and the Terrible Two will descend on you with alarming frequency.
In fact, you’ll probably see more of us than you do now. It’s a win-win situation—Angus will be leaping out of bed early to drag the kids up some craggy rock or other, so yours truly can fester under the duvet until noon. Then your Dan can cook us up a full English, or full Welsh, whatever the hell that is.… I can’t wait. Come on, don’t hog the booze.”
Laura passed her the bottle. Steph topped up both their glasses then looked at her, frowning a little.
“So, you’re sure this is the right thing for you both, yes?”
“No. How can I be sure? But it does feel … worth doing. We need to change something.”
“You’ve had a rough trot these last couple of years, Laura. I only hope this isn’t going to prove more difficult than you expect. And you’ve worked so hard to get the recognition you deserve as an artist. Are you sure you’re going to be able to work properly, stay in touch and, in fashion, keep networking and whatever it is you do in your arty circles?”
“Of course. In fact, I expect to be able to raise my prices once I’m a bona fide harum-scarum artist living in the wilds! And besides, Penny is not known as the bossiest artists’ agent in Chelsea for nothing. She’s invested too much time in me to stop nagging now. She won’t let things slide. She’s determined I’m going to have a show before Christmas.” Laura wished she felt as confident as she sounded. That the move might have an adverse effect on her career was a secret fear she was loath to admit even to herself. She was already missing the thrill of starting a new painting. That suspended moment before beginning, where the image lived in limbo, somewhere between the reality of the subject and the realms of imagination. It was a moment of perfection, which no artwork could ever hope to live up to. All that could be done was to strive to get as near to that early vision as possible, and feel blessed if the result came within a hundred miles of it. How long would it be before she could settle enough to produce worthwhile work again? And would being out of the loop of the London art scene cause problems? She refused to be cast down by the thought. She waved her glass at Steph. “And before you ask, I’m already resigned to the fact I won’t be able to get a decent latte or watch a good movie or find any clothes I’d want to buy.” She smiled. “I’m ready to give it all up for…”
Lamp Black, Wolf Grey Page 1
