Ancient Illusions

by Joanne Pence

  To her surprise, he put his arms around her. “I can’t argue with any of the negative stuff you said. But I wish you’d stay. For some reason, I do trust you. Journalist or not.”

  Her eyes met his. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

  He smiled, and it was enough to weaken her. Unsure what to so, she pulled herself from his hold and then shifted so that she faced the ocean. They sat silently watching the waves roll in.

  After a while, he spoke. “Years ago, just out of college, I wanted to marry a woman and my father objected to her. She left me because of that.”

  She gawked at him. “She left you because your father objected? Why did she care what the old codger thought?”

  “For it to make sense, I’d need to start at the beginning. I don’t think you want to hear all that.”

  “Ah, Michael,” she sighed. He still didn't understand how she felt about him. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  He nodded, but dropped his gaze. A long moment passed before he spoke again. “Her mother, Magda Petrescu, had been our housekeeper. After my mother’s death, she pretty much raised me. Irina is—was—five years younger than me. We played together growing up. Then one summer, I came home from college to find that our housekeeper’s scrappy little daughter had grown into a beautiful woman. We spent our summers together and planned to marry when I finished at the university. Finally when I was twenty-six-years old, with a Ph.D. in Archeology, I returned home. She was gone.”

  “Gone? Without a word for you?”

  His voice was low, hushed. “My father had seen to it that she walked out of my life.”

  Ceinwen could scarcely believe what she was hearing. “But, if she loved you?”

  He shrugged. “Apparently, she loved money more.”

  The coldness of his statement took her aback. “Money? Your father paid her off?”

  “God, this is actually embarrassing,” he admitted, looking away.

  She clutched his shoulders and made him face her again. “You should never be embarrassed around me, Michael Rempart. I would have hoped we were past that.”

  He kept his gaze fixed on her, even as his eyes turned bleak. “My father showed me a check he’d written to her for two million dollars. Her signature, endorsing it, was on the back. Seeing that, I left Wintersgate and didn’t return until this summer.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Two million?”

  Her astonishment made him smile. “Having a family full of alchemists has to be worth something. And in my family’s case, it’s hundreds of millions.”

  Ceinwen drew in her breath. “Bloody hell! Well, all I can say is, your father did you a favor! I can’t imagine a woman leaving you for any reason!”

  He touched her cheek lightly, his thumb brushing over her lips before he dropped his hand. “That’s not what you said a few minutes ago, but I’ll take it. And, who knows what really happened? I never saw her again, and I’ve only ever heard my father’s version of the story. But no matter how much I searched, and believe me, with my income I was able to do a lot of searching, I never found her.”

  “This has been a question since you graduated from Oxford?” Ceinwen asked. “That’s a long time not to know what happened.”

  “I decided what my father told me was true and moved on. My youthful heart had been broken, but that seems to be a pretty common occurrence. Besides, if she had loved me, the way I did her, she would have thrown the check back in his face. At some point, she would have tried to find me, to give me some explanation.”

  “I agree. Are you saying something changed?”

  “Last year, I tracked down Irina’s mother, Magda. I learned there was much more to the reason Irina left than I thought, and it had something to do with my father. Magda wouldn’t say, so after much thought, I came here to find out from him. Instead … instead I learned that Irina is dead.”

  She gasped, not only from the harshness and despair in his voice as he explained what had happened, but the immense sorrow it caused him. She drew back as she realized that one of the many walls around him, perhaps the highest and thickest, had a name: Irina. “I’m so sorry. Do you know what happened to her?”

  “A car accident, apparently.”

  She took a deep breath. “How awful. What a terrible shock.”

  “It was, but it’s a story from long ago. I don't want to talk about it.” Michael put an arm around her and drew her to his side. “I'd much rather hear about that family of yours in Cardiff.”

  She could tell he was trying to get past his tale of Irina and was failing miserably. But she was willing to play along. “My da owns a pub, my mum sometimes helps out in the kitchen, and my two older brothers run a textile mill that they love. They make fine Welsh woolens, and when the economy is good, they do okay. When it’s bad, they struggle—a lot. From the time I was a young girl, I wanted to get away from that life and become a foreign correspondent to see the world. At times I wonder what possessed me. Maybe it was one of the demons you’re so familiar with.”

  Michael smiled sadly, his fingers playing with a lock of her thick auburn hair. “Do you ever wish you had stayed at home?”

  “What, so I could have married Gwydion Evans who’s been panting after me since I was in the eighth grade? No thank you. I’ll take demons over the boredom of Cardiff.”

  “Poor Gwydion. But how do you feel about this life you’re living?”

  “Sometimes, I feel in control, but other times, I simply have no idea what’s happening, not even who I am anymore.”

  “That’s how I felt when I learned about my family of crazy alchemists. Does hearing about us make you want to get on the next plane back to England?”

  Enough talk. She decided it was time to show him how she felt. “Not on your life.” She kissed him, and his arms tightened around her as he returned her kisses.

  An “Ahem” sounded in the distance.

  Stedman hovered by the edge of the patio. “Dinner is ready, Master Michael, if you and Miss Ceinwen would like to come inside.”

  “Will my father be joining us?” Michael asked as they stood.

  “I’m afraid not. He’ll be eating something light in his room tonight. He’s sure he’ll feel much stronger in the morning.”

  Chapter 53

  The next morning, Ceinwen awoke to an empty bed. Michael had joined her in her room, saying the bed in his was far too small for two.

  She showered and dressed, then went down to the breakfast room. Stedman heard her enter and approached.

  “Have you seen Michael?” she asked.

  “Yes. He and Mr. Rempart had a light breakfast, then Mr. Rempart went up to his laboratory, and I believe Master Michael went out for a walk. I’ll bring you some breakfast if you’d like.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Before long, he brought out a carafe of coffee with an omelette and toast. She had finished and was thinking about going out to see if she could find Michael when a tall man with pure white hair worn long and combed straight back off a high forehead stood at the table. His eyes were almost black, as were his eyebrows, and the contrast with his hair was startling. Remembering her manners, she quickly stood, nearly knocking the chair over as she did, but catching it just in time. “Good morning. I … I didn’t hear you approach.”

  “You must be Michael’s friend.” He smiled and then faced the valet who was now also in the room. “Stedman, some coffee for me.”

  Ceinwen wasn’t sure what to do, so she held out her hand. “Yes, Ceinwen Davies. I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Rempart.”

  He shook it with a fast, loose grip, saying nothing as he took a seat across from her.

  She quickly sat again. “Michael has told me much about you.”

  “Oh?” He placed a napkin on his lap as Stedman brought him a cup of black coffee. “But he’s told me almost nothing about you—although I can hear a trace of an accent. Welsh, although I can guess that from your name. Ceinwen, a traditional Welsh name I believe, meaning beautiful, fair, a
nd blessed.” He flashed her a smile with surprisingly white teeth for a man his age—whatever that age was.

  “’Tis so,” she said in the thickest Welsh accent she could muster. “I’m surprised you know so much about a name that, frankly, is a burden everywhere outside of Wales. Few have any idea how to pronounce it, let alone spell it.”

  To that admission, William Claude gave a hearty laugh. “I can see why Michael has kept you to himself. Of course, Michael and I don’t talk much. Where did you two meet?”

  “Only a short while ago in Japan.”

  He quizzed her a bit about the experience and then talked to her about Wales which he had visited a couple of times over the years.

  His coffee finished, he stood. “Why don’t we take a walk down to the beach? It’s a beautiful day. A bit breezy, but when isn’t it by the ocean?”

  “I’d love to.”

  He took her arm. The gesture felt both gallant and part of the old-style charm that went along with a house like this.

  Michael had warned her time and again about his father, and everything she had read about him in Jane Addams Rempart’s diary was fresh in her mind, but still, she was finding him gracious. She wondered if the years had mellowed him.

  The wind was up, causing her hair to fly about. She tried to get hold of it, and twist it into submission. “No, no. Let it go,” he said. He lightly ran his hand along the side of her hair, then lifted some of it, and watched it slip through his fingers. “It’s been a long time since anyone with such beautiful hair has been out on this terrace.”

  She had always thought of her thick, hard-to-manage hair as the epitome of boring.

  He smiled. “There’s nothing boring about you, Ceinwen.”

  The comment astounded her. He couldn’t have read her mind, could he? And his pronunciation of her name was perfect—as if he were from the old country.

  “What’s wrong with my son that he doesn’t tell you what a beautiful woman you are?” He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm as he led her to a narrow, sandy footpath.

  She was telling herself she had either misheard or misunderstood the man … although he was right, Michael rarely let a compliment pass his lips. “I should make it clear to you, Mr. Rempart, that Michael and I haven’t known each other very long. Although, on my part, I would like to get to know him better.”

  “Call me, Claude, please.”

  “Claude,” she repeated.

  “So, you say you and Michael don’t know each other well, yet you’ve traveled half way around the world to meet his father, and he’s slept in your room. It sounds as if you know him quite well,” he said with a sparkle in his eye.

  She realized the housekeeper or Stedman must keep him informed about everything that happened in the house. “I’m not saying I’m immune to your son’s charms,” she admitted. “But we won’t tell him that, will we, Claude?”

  He grinned and patted her hand. “Definitely not. And I’m glad you aren’t one of those rough young starlets Michael used to date, much to my displeasure.”

  Rough young starlets? She didn’t know about them.

  Soon, they reached the sandy beach.

  “Ah. Here we are. I hope you like it.” He waved his arms as if presenting the ocean to her.

  “This side of the ‘pond’ as we call it, is lovely,” she said.

  A wooden bench was nearby. “I’ll sit here. Feel free to remove your shoes and walk barefoot in the sand. It’s not easy to walk on with heels. Not that I’ve ever tried it, mind you!”

  His laughter was strangely infectious, and she joined him as she took off her shoes and knee-length hose. She rolled up the bottoms of her linen slacks and headed toward the water. When she reached wet sand, she dug in her toes, enjoying the sensation. The wind was brisk, and she used both hands to capture her hair, and pull it forward over one shoulder. As she did, her body twisted slightly, enough that she caught a glimpse of William Claude watching her. The look on his face was one of pure, masculine pleasure.

  She found it unnerving, but it didn’t displease her.

  After a few minutes, she headed back to him.

  She sat on the bench to put her shoes back on, but he took hold of each foot and used his handkerchief to brush away the sand before she put on the stockings. “You won’t be comfortable with sand in your shoes,” he said.

  “Thank you, Claude.” The way he had held each foot and brushed it with his handkerchief felt strangely erotic. What, she wondered, was wrong with her? Even stranger, he no longer seemed as old as he had earlier. The hair was still white, but he looked far from frail. She tried to laugh off her uneasiness, but couldn’t.

  Instead of taking her arm, he put his hand on her waist, his grip firm, as they walked along the narrow path back to the house. She found herself leaning against him as if enjoying his touch … as if she had no control over such feelings. Too soon, it seemed, they were back indoors.

  At the staircase that led up to her room, he faced her, standing close. “Thank you for a pleasant walk. I’ll see you at dinner time. Oh, and if you’d like to explore the house, please feel free. It’s a lovely old place and hasn’t had such a delectable young woman in it for far too many years. It’s a complete delight to have you here. Make use of anything you’d like in the house, and particularly in your room.” He then made a slight bow and walked down the hall.

  As she watched him go, the bizarre magnetism she had felt when he was near slowly faded. She felt as if she had been standing in the midst of some kind of fog, and when she thought back on her reaction to Claude’s “charms,” it all felt weirdly off-kilter.

  Back in the guest room, Ceinwen went to the window and searched to see if she could spot Michael. She couldn’t. She wondered where he could have gone for so long.

  She wandered around the room, but thoughts of Claude’s invitation to look over the house beckoned.

  She bypassed Michael’s room, but checked the other rooms on the floor. Two were unused guest rooms, and the third was filled with old paintings and sculptures. Next to it was what appeared to be Claude’s bedroom—she quickly shut the door—and, at the very end of the hall, the opposite end from Michael’s room, was his father’s laboratory.

  Beside the laboratory was a narrow, stone staircase leading up to the third floor. Curious, she went up the stairs and found herself in an enchanting room.

  The room was round, the walls stone, and the side of the room that faced the ocean had large windows on both sides of French doors that lead out to a deck. She was in the turret.

  Where most rooms in the house were spacious, with few objects anywhere, and nothing out of place, this one was filled with a hodge-podge of belongings that gave it a used, lived in, and even a much-loved feeling. A feeling of warmth.

  This must have been Michael’s mother’s room, she thought. Her private retreat, perhaps.

  She slowly toured the space. There were several bookcases, with books that looked as if they’d actually been read. Tucked here and there among them were knickknacks and display items that were frilly and far more feminine than anything else in the house.

  Near the bookcases was an open cupboard filled with multiple skeins of yarn in deep, rich colors, mostly reds and blues and creamy shades. She touched the yarn. Its exceptional softness told her its quality.

  A corner of the room had a large sewing cabinet, with an older sewing machine and, beside it, piles of fabrics in plaids and floral, and threads in a rainbow of shades and sizes. A stack of cloth had been cut to form quilts, and a quilt top that looked about half-finished, hand-sewn with a fine stitch into an intricate star pattern, lay carefully folded to one side. Near it, was a garden scene done in needlepoint, again little more than half finished. The handwork was beautiful.

  She was surprised that, not only were the furnishings not covered with sheets, but the room was free of dust. Someone was taking care of it as if the owner might come back at any moment.

  No, she thought, not “the ow
ner,” but Jane Rempart. Ceinwen felt as if she had gotten to know Jane through the words of her diary, and she had ached for her as she read of Jane’s unhappiness in her marriage and her life. And now, she was here among Jane’s possessions.

  Near the French doors were two comfortable arm chairs, one with an ottoman. On a side table lay a book. She picked it up. It was a well-worn, illustrated edition of Longfellow’s “Evangeline.” She remembered Michael saying his mother had loved the poem.

  She opened the French doors and went out to the deck. A stone railing ran along its edge. The view from up here was breathtaking.

  She was enjoying the sun and the ocean view when she heard a voice calling from below. She leaned forward and saw Claude on the patio waving up at her. She waved back.

  He said something, but she couldn’t hear over the ocean’s roar, and stretched, leaning forward as far as she could.

  Suddenly, arms circled her waist and dragged her backward, away from the rail.

  “What are you trying to do?” Michael roared. He spun her around to face him. He was breathing hard, his face flushed.

  “What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”

  He grabbed her upper arms hard. “What are you doing out here?”

  “You’re hurting me! Your father said it was okay for me to look around the house. This room is—”

  “Is nothing! It should be locked.” He let her go, his eyes filled with a black anger.

  “It’s a lovely room.” She lowered her voice, hoping to calm him. “I know it was your mother’s, and that these were her things. But someone has cared for it all these years.” She reentered the turret and picked up a needlepoint she admired. “Look at the work she did here—the fine, tiny stitches. And over there, those beautiful quilts. It shouldn’t be locked up at all.”