The Dark Shore

by Susan Howatch

  The fears ebbed from her mind; when he stooped his head to kiss her on the mouth at last she was conscious first and foremost of the peace in her heart before her world quickened and whirled into the fire.

  4

  When they arrived back in London ten days later, Jon spent two hours making involved transatlantic telephone calls and dealing with various urgent business commitments; his right-hand man, whom Sarah had met in Canada, had flown to Europe for some reason connected with the business, and the first night in town was spent in dining with him at a well-known restaurant. On the following day they had lunch with Camilla in Knightsbridge. When they were travelling back to their hotel afterwards, Sarah turned to Jon with a puzzled expression in her eyes.

  “Where was Justin? He was never mentioned, so I didn’t like to ask.”

  “There was a slight awkwardness when he decided he was going to Canada to work for me. After he had given in his notice and finished his work in the City I gave him some money and told him to go on holiday until I was ready to go back to Canada, and in fact he’s gone down to Cornwall to stay with a cousin of mine.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  The taxi cruised gently out of the Hyde Park underpass and accelerated into Piccadilly. On the right lay the green trees of the park and the warmth of the summer sun on the short grass. It was hot.

  “As a matter of fact,” said Jon idly, glancing out of the window, “I’d rather like you to meet this cousin of mine. I thought maybe we might hire a car and drive down to Cornwall this weekend and spend a few days in the country before flying straight back to Canada.”

  Sarah glanced up at the cloudless sky and thought longingly of golden sands and waves breaking and curling towards the shore. “That sounds lovely, Jonny. I’d like to stay just a little longer in England, especially as the weather’s so good now.”

  “You’d like to go?”

  “Very much. Whereabouts does your cousin live?”

  “Well...” He paused. The taxi approached the Ritz and had to wait at the traffic lights. “As it happens,” he said at last, “she’s now living at Clougy.”

  The lights flashed red and amber; a dozen engines throbbed in anticipation.

  “When I left ten years ago,” Jon said, “I never wanted to see the place again. I nearly sold it so that I could wash my hands of it once and for all, but at the last minute I changed my mind and gave it to my cousin instead. It was such a beautiful place, and so unique. I loved it better than any other place in the world at one time, and I suppose even after everything that had happened I was still too fond of the house to sell it to a stranger. My cousin goes back there once or twice a year and lets it for periods during the summer. I saw her briefly in London before you arrived, and when she talked of Clougy and how peaceful it was I found I had a sudden longing to go back just to see if I could ever find it peaceful again. I think perhaps I could now after ten years. I know I could never live there permanently again, but when my cousin suggested we go down to stay with her for a few days I felt so tempted to go back for a visit ... Can you understand? Or perhaps you would rather not go.”

  “No,” she said automatically, “I don’t mind at all. It won’t have any memories for me. If you’re willing to go back, Jon, then that’s all that matters.” But simultaneously she thought: How could he even think of going back? And her mind was confused and bewildered as she struggled to understand.

  “It’s mainly because of my cousin,” he said, as if sensing her difficulties. “I’d love to have the chance to see her again and I know she’s anxious to meet you.”

  “You’ve never mentioned her to me before,” was all she could say. “Or is she one of the cousins on your mother’s side of the family, the ones you said you wouldn’t trouble to invite to the wedding?”

  “No, Marijohn is my only relation on my father’s side of the family. We spent a lot of time together until I was seven, and then after my parents’ divorce my father took her away from the house where I lived with my mother and sent her to a convent. He was her guardian. I didn’t see much of her after that until I was about fifteen, and my father returned to England for good to live in London and remove Marijohn from the convent. I saw a great deal of her then until I married and went down to Cornwall to live. I was very fond of her.”

  “Why didn’t you invite her to the wedding?”

  "I did mention it to her, but she couldn’t come.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t mention her to you before,” he said vaguely as the taxi drew up outside the hotel. “I lost touch with her when I went to Canada and I didn’t honestly expect to see her again when I returned. However, she heard I was in London and we had a brief meeting ... So much happened in those two days before you arrived, and then, of course, when you did arrive I forgot everything except the plans for the wedding and the honeymoon. But when I woke this morning and saw the sunshine and the blue sky I remembered her invitation to Clougy and started wondering about a visit to Cornwall ... You’re sure you’d like to come? If you’d rather stay in London don’t be afraid to say so.”

  “No, Jon,” she said. “I’d like to spend a few days by the sea.” And as she spoke she thought: There’s still so much about Jon that I don’t understand and yet he understands me through and through. Or does he? Perhaps if he really understood me he’d know I don’t want to go to the house where he lived with his first wife ... But maybe I’m being unnecessarily sensitive. If he had an ancestral home I would go back there to live with him no matter how many times he’d been previously married, and wouldn’t think it in the least strange. And Jon has no intention of living at Clougy again anyway; he’s merely suggesting a short visit to see his cousin. I’m being absurd, working up a Sophia complex again. I must pull myself together.

  “Tell me more about your cousin, Jon,” she said as they got out of the taxi. “What did you say her name was?”

  But when they went into the hall Jon’s Canadian business associate crossed the lobby to meet them, and Marijohn wasn’t mentioned again till later in the afternoon when Jon went up to their room to make two telephone calls, one to his cousin in Cornwall and the other to inquire about hiring a car to take them to St. Just. When he came back he was smiling and her uneasiness faded as she saw he was happy.

  “We can have a car tomorrow,” he said. “If we leave early we can easily do the journey in a day. We’ll be a long way ahead of the weekend holiday traffic, and the roads shouldn’t be too bad.”

  “And your cousin? Is she pleased?”

  “Yes,” said Jon, pushing back his hair in a luxurious, joyous gesture of comfort. “Very pleased indeed.”

  5

  The sun was a burst of red above the sea by the time they reached the airport at St. Just, and as Jon swung the car off on to the road that led to Clougy, his frame seemed to vibrate with some fierce excitement which Sarah sensed but could not share. She glanced back over her shoulder at the soothing security of the little airport with its small plane waiting motionless on the runway, and then stared at the arid, sterile beauty of the Cornish moors.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” said Jon to her, his hands gripping the wheel, his eyes blazing with joy. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  And suddenly she was infected by his excitement so that the landscape no longer seemed repellant in its bleakness but fascinating in its austerity.

  The car began to purr downhill; after a moment Sarah could no longer see the small huddle of the airport buildings with their hint of contact with the civilized world far away, and soon the car was travelling into a green valley dotted with isolated farms and squares of pasture bordered by gray stone walls. The road was single-track only now; the gradient was becoming steeper, and the sea was temporarily hidden from them by sloping hills. Soon they were passing the gates of a farm, and the next moment the car was grating from the smooth tarmac on to the rough uneven stones of a cart-track. As they passed the wall by the farm gate, Sarah was just able to ca
tch a glimpse of a notice with an arrow pointing down the track, and above the arrow someone had painted the words “To Clougy.”

  The car crawled on, trickling downhill stealthily over the rough track. On either side the long grass waved gracefully in the soft breeze from the sea, and above them the sky was blue and cloudless.

  “There’s the water wheel,” said Jon, and his voice was scarcely louder than an unspoken thought, his hands tightening again on the wheel in his excitement. “And there’s Clougy.”

  The car drifted on to smoother ground and then turned into a small driveway. As the engine died Sarah heard for the first time the rushing water of the stream as it passed the disused water wheel on the other side of the track and tumbled down towards the sea.

  “How quiet it is,” she said automatically. “How peaceful after London.”

  Jon was already out of the car and walking toward the house. Opening her own door she stepped on to the gravel of the drive and stood still for a moment, glancing around her. There was a green lawn, not very big, with a white swing-seat at one end. The small garden was surrounded by clumps of rhododendron and other shrubs and there were trees, bent backwards into strange contorted shapes by the prevailing wind from the sea. She was standing at one side of the house but slightly in front of it so that from her angle she could glimpse the yellow walls and white shutters as they basked in the summer sun. A bird sang, a cricket chirped and then there was silence, except for the rushing stream and, far away, the distant murmur of the tide on the pebbled beach.

  “Sarah!” called Jon.

  “Coming!” She stepped forward, still feeling mesmerized by the sense of peace, and as she moved she saw that he was in the shade of the porch waiting for her.

  She drew closer, feeling absurdly vulnerable as she crossed the sunlit drive while he watched her from the shadows, and then she saw that he was not alone and the odd feeling of defenselessness increased. It must be a form of self-consciousness, she thought. She felt exactly as if she were some show exhibit being scrutinized and examined by a row of very critical judges. Ridiculous.

  And then she saw the woman. There was a dull gleam of golden hair, the wide slant of remote eyes, the slight curve of a beautiful mouth, and as Sarah paused uncertainly, waiting for Jon to make the introductions, she became aware of an extreme stillness as if the landscape around them was tensed and waiting for something beyond her understanding.

  Jon smiled at the woman. He made no effort to speak, but for some odd reason his silence didn’t matter, and it suddenly occurred to Sarah that she had not heard one word exchanged between the two of them even though she had been well within earshot when they had met. She was just wondering if Jon had kissed his cousin, and was on the point of thinking that it was most unlikely that they would have embraced without some form of greeting, when the woman stepped from the shadows into the sunlight.

  “Hullo, Sarah,” she said. “I’m so glad you could come. Welcome to Clougy, my dear, and I hope you’ll be very happy here.”

  Two

  1

  Their bedroom was filled with the afternoon sun, and as Sarah crossed to the window she saw the sea shimmering before her in the cove, framed by the twin hillsides on either side of the house. She caught her breath, just as she always did when she saw something very beautiful, and suddenly she was glad they had come and ashamed of all her misgivings.

  “Have you got everything you want here?” said Marijohn, glancing round the room with the eye of a careful hostess. “Let me know if I’ve forgotten anything. Dinner will be in about half an hour, and the water’s hot if you should want a bath.”

  “Thank you,” said Sarah, turning to face her with a smile. “Thank you very much.”

  Jon was walking along the corridor just as Marijohn left the room. Sarah heard his footsteps pause.

  “When’s dinner? In about half an hour?”

  Marijohn must have made some gesture of assent which she didn’t say aloud. “I’ll be in the kitchen for a while.”

  “We’ll come down when we’re ready, and have a drink.” He walked into the room, closed the door behind him and yawned luxuriously, stretching every muscle with slow precision. “Well?” he inquired presently.

  “Well?” She smiled at him.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s very beautiful, Jon.”

  He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his shirt and waded out of his trousers. Before she turned back uneasily towards the window to watch the sun sparkling on the sea she saw him pull back the covers from the bed and then fling himself down on the smooth white linen.

  “What shall I wear for dinner?” she said hesitantly. “Will Marijohn change?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Jon?”

  “Yes?”

  She repeated the question.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Does it matter?” His fingers were smoothing the linen restlessly, and his eyes were watching his fingers.

  She said nothing, every nerve in her body slowly tightening as the silence became prolonged. She had almost forgotten how frightened she was of his Distant Mood.

  “Come here a moment, ” he said abruptly, and then, as she gave a nervous start of surprise: “Good God, you nearly jumped out of your skin! What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing, Jon,” she said, moving towards him. “Nothing at all.”

  He pulled her down on to the sheets beside him and kissed her several times on the mouth, throat and breasts. His hands started to hurt her. She was just wondering how she could escape from making love while he was in his present mood, when he rolled away from her and stood up lazily in one long fluent movement of his body. He still didn’t speak. She watched him open a suitcase, empty the entire contents on to the floor and then survey the muddle without interest.

  “What are you looking for, darling?”

  He shrugged. Presently he found a shirt and there was a silence while he put it on. Then: “You must be tired after the journey,” he said at last.

  “A little.” She felt ashamed, inadequate, tongue-tied.

  For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to say anything else but she was mistaken.

  “Sex still doesn’t interest you much, does it?”

  “Yes, it does,” she said in a low voice, the unwanted tears pricking at the back of her eyes. “It’s just that it’s still rather new to me and I’m not much good when you’re rough and start to hurt.”

  He didn’t answer. She saw him step into another pair of trousers and then, as he moved over to the basin to wash, everything became blurred and she could no longer see. Presently she found a dress amongst the luggage and started to change from her blouse and skirt, her movements automatic, her fingers stiff and clumsy as she fumbled with zip fasteners and buttonholes.

  “Are you ready?” he said at last.

  “Yes, almost.” She didn’t dare stop to re-apply her lipstick. There was just time to brush her hair lightly into position and then they were going out into the corridor and moving downstairs to the drawing-room, the silence a thick invisible wall between them.

  Marijohn was already there but Justin had apparently disappeared to his room. Sarah sat down, her limbs aching with tension, the lump of misery still hurting her throat.

  “What would you like to drink, Sarah?” said Marijohn.

  “I—I don’t mind ... Sherry or—or a martini—”

  “I’ve some dry sherry. Would that do? What about you, Jon?”

  Jon shrugged his shoulders again, not bothering to reply. Oh God, thought Sarah, how will she cope? Should I try to cover up for him? Oh Jon, Jon...

  But Marijohn was pouring out a whisky and soda without waiting for him to answer. “I’ve enjoyed having Justin here,” she said tranquilly, handing him his glass. “It’s been fascinating getting to know him again. You remember how we used to puzzle over him, trying to decide who he resembled? It seems so strange now that there could ever have been an
y doubt.”

  Jon turned suddenly to face her. “Why?”

  “He’s like you, Jon. There’s such a strong resemblance. It’s quite uncanny sometimes.”

  “He doesn’t look like me.”

  “What on Earth have looks got to do with it? Sarah, have a cocktail biscuit. Justin went specially to Penzance to buy some, so I suppose we’d better try and eat a few of them ... Jon darling, do sit down and stop being so restless—you make me feel quite exhausted, just sitting watching you ... That’s better. Isn’t the light unusual this evening? I have a feeling Justin has sneaked off somewhere to paint one of his secret water colors ... You must persuade him to show you some of them, Jon, because they’re very good—or at least, they seem good to me, but then I know nothing about painting ... You paint, don’t you, Sarah?”

  “Yes,” said Jon, before Sarah could reply, and suddenly his hand was on hers again and she knew in a hot rush of relief that the mood had passed. “She also happens to be an authority on the Impressionists and the Renaissance painters and the—”

  “Jon, don’t exaggerate!”

  And the golden light of the evening seemed to deepen as they laughed and relaxed.

  After dinner Jon took Sarah down to the cove to watch the sunset. The cove was small and rocky, its beach strewn with huge boulders and smooth pebbles, and as Jon found a suitable vantage point Sarah saw the fins of the Atlantic sharks coasting off-shore and moving slowly towards Cape Cornwall.

  “I’m sorry,” said Jon suddenly from beside her.

  She nodded, trying to tell him without words that she understood, and then they sat down together and he put his arm round her shoulders, drawing her closer to him.

  “What do you think of Marijohn?”

  She thought for a moment, her eyes watching the light change on the sea, her ears full of the roar of the surf and the cry of the gulls. “She’s very—” the words eluded her. Then: “—unusual,” she said lamely at last, for lack of anything better to say.