The Book of Eve

by Julia Blake

  Beside me, Annaliese watched and we both shivered as a large cloud obliterated the face of the sun, plunging the garden temporarily into darkness. She said something, something which I plainly heard, but when I asked her what she’d meant, she’d laughed and dismissed it as nothing, something silly which had popped into her head for no apparent reason.

  Later, I would remember her words and wonder.

  ‘What a strange group we are,’ she’d quite clearly murmured. ‘Everyone’s in love with the wrong person...’

  Chapter Seven

  Ruth

  ‘What are you doing today, Eve?’ At Scott’s question I looked up, blinking in the strong sunlight pouring through the windows of the morning room. Breakfast had long since finished and we were alone. Ferdie and Miles, who’d both stayed the night, had already left for work; Annaliese had not been feeling well and was still in bed; and Robert was closeted in his study, apparently working, but I knew he’d probably be worrying too much about Annaliese to actually get anything done.

  Never normally ill, Annaliese had been plagued lately with mysteriously blinding headaches which seemed to descend for no discernable reason, leaving her weak and nauseous. We were all concerned, despite her protesting she was fine, that it was probably old age creeping up on her.

  Scott patiently repeated his question and I realised my attention had wandered away from him, gazing in blind intensity through the large windows at the blue skies and large billowy clouds which were massing high up in the heavens.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Daydreaming, erm, what am I doing today? Well, not a lot, I’m sort of between jobs at the moment, Annaliese has no work for me and I can’t decide between these two latest offers which have come in the post?’

  ‘Who are they from?’ he asked in interest, sitting down beside me and pouring himself a cup of coffee, wincing at its coldness.

  ‘Well, one’s from Lady Constance, she’s writing another of her bodice rippers and wants me to check out a few things, that’s literally only a day or two’s work, and there’s Sebert Foxton...’

  ‘Oh?’ Scott’s eyebrows rose. ‘And what does he want?’

  ‘Apparently,’ I paused and surveyed the letter in my hand. ‘He’s re-writing the Jack the Ripper story, wants me to go back to all the primary sources and see if anything fresh and exciting leaps out at me.’

  I pulled a face at Scott. Sebert Foxton was a much loved and popular historical author, even if his writing was a little over blown and florid for my taste. I’d worked for him several times, but, after the fiasco of our last encounter, was reluctant to place myself within his grasp again.

  ‘What happened?’ Scott asked, and I realised I’d voiced my concerns aloud.

  ‘Oh, nothing too drastic,’ I replied casually. ‘He somehow got the idea I was a rampant little filly, desperate to be taught a thing or two by a sensitive man of more mature years and ended up chasing me around the library.’

  ‘Randy old Billy goat!’ exclaimed Scott in horror. ‘How did you manage to convince him no really did mean no?’

  ‘Hit him in his more mature years with the Oxford English Dictionary.’

  ‘Ouch,’ winced Scott. “I guess that would do the trick.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I agreed. ‘So you can see why I’m not keen to repeat the experience.’

  ‘I’m amazed he actually had the cheek to ask you back.’

  ‘Yes well, he says, and I quote... I am hoping, my dearest Eve, we can put the regrettable incident in the past and continue on the bright path of friendship our feet had so jauntily begun.’

  I dropped the letter on the table, raised my brows at Scott, who smiled and shook his head.

  ‘Well, as you’re not doing anything, would you’d like to come out with me for the day.’

  ‘Ooh, yes please,’ I cried. ‘Where are we going?’ I couldn’t help but think how not long ago, I would have been rendered speechless at the thought of spending a whole day alone with Scott. Back in the days when I’d been passionately, madly and completely head over heels in love with him, I’d plotted and schemed to find ways to be on my own with him. Thank heavens I was over that crush. Not once had Scott ever given any indication I was anything other than a much loved friend. Gradually, over the years, I’d successfully managed to bury my feelings so deeply only the occasional pang would surface, when I would look at his handsome face and sigh a little at what might have been.

  ‘I’m going to visit my godmother and see a client who runs a country hotel quite close to her; then I thought I might take you out to lunch somewhere,’ he said.

  ‘That sounds great,’ I beamed at him in delight. ‘When do you want to leave?’

  ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he replied, leant back in his chair with patient amusement, as I squeaked with excitement and rushed from the room to change.

  It was a glorious summer day. Running lightly down the steps of the Hall, I saw with pleasure he’d put down the top of his sports car. He looked up, the sun glinting off his dark eyes and for a moment I fancied something stirred within them. My heart stumbled in my chest. Then it was gone, whatever it had been, and he was just Scott again, smiling in gentle approval at my outfit.

  ‘Very nice,’ he commented. ‘Is it new?’

  ‘It is,’ I agreed, climbing carefully into the low slung car, making sure my pale green, linen shift dress was arranged neatly over my suntanned thighs as he courteously closed the door for me, jumped into the driver’s seat and we were off. Scott’s a good driver. I always felt very relaxed when he was at the wheel and tipped my head back as sunlight flickered on my face. Stretching out on expensive leather seats, felt his gaze brush over the long silky brownness of my legs.

  I had to admit to being very curious, even apprehensive, about finally meeting Scott’s godmother. I knew nothing about her, due mainly to the fact Scott never talked about her. But then, Scott never really talked about anything, his complete lack of small talk being both at times a welcome relief and an annoyance. I did know he went to see her regularly, she seemed to be the only family he had, at least the only family he’d ever mentioned. Until now, he’d visited her strictly on his own, so my curiosity about her had remained unsatisfied.

  ‘Where does your godmother live?’ I asked, as Scott expertly joined the A road and put his foot down, feeling the car buck like an unbroken mustang beneath us.

  ‘Southwold,’ he replied, and I nodded. Southwold was a charming little town on the coast, only about an hours drive away, and my spirits rose at the thought of spending a day by the coast. I pulled on my sunglasses and leant back, enjoying the sensation of the wind rushing through my hair, the sun warm on my bare arms and legs. Scott glanced down at me and smiled.

  ‘You look like a cat stretched out in the sun.’

  ‘Hmm, I love the heat,’ I sighed blissfully, flexed my legs, aware my dress had ridden even further up my thighs. Scott’s gaze briefly flicked over their tanned, well toned length before his eyes swivelled firmly back to the road, hands tightening ever so slightly on the wheel. A smile pulled at my lips. Was it possible he wasn’t as indifferent to me as I thought? Hmm, I mused, definitely a very interesting notion, one which required a great deal of thinking about.

  The rest of the journey passed uneventfully and it wasn’t long before we reached the outskirts of Southwold. I looked about in interest, as Scott indicated right and turned off the main road onto a small lane which grew progressively narrower as we crept along it. Overgrown shrubs brushed the side of the car and I took my sunglasses off, flinching away as a particularly long snaggy branch brushed up and over the windscreen, flopping down onto my shoulder.

  ‘Sorry,’ remarked Scott. ‘I do keep telling Ruth she needs to employ someone to sort out the garden and this lane, but she keeps forgetting.’

  ‘Is that your godmother’s name?’ I asked
curiously, ‘Ruth?’

  ‘Yes, Ruth... Ruth Amberson-Smythe, you may have heard of her,’ he added casually. ‘She writes books.” My head snapped round, my mouth dropped open, incomprehensible squeaks and gasps emitted from me, which Scott listened to in evident amusement.

  ‘Ruth Amberson-Smythe is your godmother?’ I finally managed to gasp. He nodded, ‘The Ruth Amberson-Smythe?’ He nodded again, and I sank back into the seat in stunned silence. Ruth Amberson-Smythe was something of a British institution. Seventy years old and a dame, she was one of the most respected and best loved historical authors. Her many novels had been translated into practically every language on Earth and were constantly on the bestsellers list. Her attention to detail was legendary, in fact, so precise were her historical facts her novels had long been regarded by history teachers everywhere as essential tools for inspiring interest in their students.

  I loved her books, I think I’d read practically everything she’d ever written and knew Ferdie would probably have traded a kidney to be where I was right now. I chortled a little at how jealous he would be when I told him where I’d been.

  All this time Scott’s godmother had been a woman whom I respected and admired perhaps more than any other author, all this time and he’d never even so much as hinted at the fact. I glared at him hostilely. ‘Why,’ I began through gritted teeth. ‘Did you never tell me Ruth Amberson-Smythe was your godmother?’

  ‘You never asked,’ he shrugged. I clenched my fists, struggling valiantly not to hit him.

  ‘There are times,’ I ground out, ‘when I really, really hate you Scott.’

  ‘I’ve recommended you to carry out some research work for her into sugar plantations in the West Indies, she’s going there quite soon and would want you to go with her,’ he continued, as if I’d never spoken.

  ‘And there are times,’ I squealed, ‘when I really, really love you! Me, she wants to take me to the West Indies?’

  ‘Well, that depends,’ he answered, bringing the car to a halt outside a huge gorgeous, but completely run down, Edwardian villa, set in the middle of rambling, equally run down gardens.

  ‘On what?’ I asked curiously, clambering out of the car, following him up the steps and through the ornate front door.

  ‘On whether she likes you,’ he replied bluntly. ‘I’m afraid if she doesn’t, she will probably tell you so to your face. Ruth’s not big on tact, sees it as hypocrisy, and as she doesn’t actually like many people, tends to be rude to almost everyone on a fairly regular basis.’

  I smiled, but fingers of nervous anticipation rattled up and down my spine and my feet dragged a little as I followed Scott into a large and dusty hallway, which felt suddenly cool after the brilliant sunshine of outside. I shivered, and Scott glanced at me in concern. ‘You ok?’

  ‘I’m fine, it’s chilly in here,’ He nodded, pushed open a door on the right and I followed him into a large shady room, marginally warmer than the hallway due to the sun streaming through a pair of tall, extremely dirty French doors out of which could be spied lush green foliage and old terracotta pots filled with an overgrown and leggy collection of perennials.

  I looked around curiously, eyes widening as I realised apart from the large fireplace and the massive oil painting above it, every other square inch of wall was taken up by books, masses of them. They marched in uneven ranks from floor to ceiling, at quick glance showed no particular order to their arrangement. I saw a tatty and obviously much read copy of War & Peace rubbing shoulders with a Harry Potter, piled on top of which were about half a dozen Mills & Boons.

  My head swivelled, noticing the large portrait above a fireplace still heaped high with ash from its last fire. I recognised it as one of the author herself painted in the mid 1960’s showing her reclining on a sofa. Pale pouting lips and kohl lined eyes stared at me from the face of the woman who’d been as much an It girl of the swinging sixties as Twiggy and Mary Quant.

  ‘I was considered quite a looker back then,’ drawled a voice behind me. ‘But of course,’ it continued, as I turned to see Ruth Amberson-Smythe herself, resplendent in a large winged armchair, ‘I was only 20, and any woman who can’t fool the world into thinking she’s a looker when she’s young is either a ninny or so monumentally ugly there’s no hope for her.’

  ‘This is my godmother, Ruth,’ began Scott, crossing to her and planting an affectionate kiss on her lined cheek. ‘And this,’ he continued, stepping back and waving a hand in my direction. ‘Is my very good friend Eve.’

  ‘So you’ve finally brought her to see me, have you?’ demanded Ruth waspishly. ‘Well, come here then, let me have a look at you, let’s see why you’re all I ever hear about when my godson comes to visit me.’ I stepped forward into the sunlight, noting with satisfaction Scott seemed faintly flustered by her words. So, he talked about me a lot did he? Good, that too was worthy of later consideration.

  There was a loaded pause as the elderly author studied me, her light blue eyes keen with intelligence. She looked me over, rather as one might a horse one was thinking of buying, then waved her hand dismissively at Scott. ‘Alright, you’ve brought her to me, make yourself scarce now, while your Eve and I get acquainted and I decide whether she’ll suit.’

  ‘But, Ruth, I...’ began Scott in surprise, and she quelled him with a single glance.

  ‘Go,’ she ordered. ‘Come back later. If I like her, I’ll let you take us both out to lunch.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Eve,’ Scott looked helplessly at me and I smiled at his consternation.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I reassured him. ‘We’ll be fine.’

  ‘Alright,’ he sighed in resignation. ‘I’ll go see my client and be back in a couple of hours.’

  There was a long silence after he’d left and the throb of his car’s engine had faded back into the stillness of her house, the only sounds being the ponderous ticking of an antique clock, cheerfully telling the wrong time on the mantelpiece and the busy chirping of birdsong floating in through the open window. ‘So,’ she finally said. ‘You’re Eve, I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, cheerfully. ‘I’m Eve, I’m afraid I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you.’ She nodded her head thoughtfully. Her hair, piled in a large messy bun at the base of her neck, made a sudden bid for freedom and she absentmindedly pushed it back into place, jabbing hairclips randomly into the greying strands.

  ‘It may have escaped your notice,’ she began, her tone dripping with irony. ‘But my godson is not one for idle chitchat.’

  ‘I’d say that’s a bit of an understatement,’ I replied lightly. ‘I think in the eight years I’ve known Scott, I’ve probably had longer conversations with my hairdresser than with him.’

  She snorted, eyeing me with interest. ‘I expect you’d like coffee,’ she suddenly snapped.

  ‘Only if it’s not too much trouble,’ I shrugged.

  ‘Well, it is too much trouble,’ she barked, and I felt my brows rise in reluctant admiration of such blatant rudeness. ‘I really cannot heave myself out of this chair and trudge down to the kitchen,’ she continued. ‘Besides, once I got there I’d have no idea where anything was. Mary, my woman who does, she’s not here today. So you have a choice, Eve with the long legs whose got my poor godson in such a tizzy, you can go down to the kitchen and forage for yourself.’

  ‘I can do that,’ I agreed mildly. ‘Can I bring you a cup back?’

  ‘No, filthy stuff,’ she shuddered dramatically. ‘Never could bear the taste. Or you can open that bottle of rather nice Merlot standing on the desk.’

  ‘Wine please,’ I answered immediately. Her face creased into unexpected lines of mirth.

  ‘Good girl,’ she replied, obviously highly delighted with me, watched as I crossed to the large writing desk standing at an angle to the window, removed the foil and deftly opened the wine. T
urning over two glasses from a tray of half a dozen beside the bottle, I poured two glasses and handed her one, before sitting in the chair opposite, sipping with pleasure at my wine. She was right, it was rather nice, and I pulled an appreciative face.

  ‘Now then,’ she commanded, after taking a very large and unladylike gulp of her own. ‘Tell me about yourself.’ So, I told her about the authors I’d worked for, the historical periods I’d already researched and, because by this point I’d had two glasses of wine and because I thought it would amuse her, I told her about Sebert Foxton. Her parchment face screwed up with merriment, as I confided how I’d dampened down his quite considerable ardour with a rather hefty wallop from the Oxford English Dictionary.

  ‘Sebert always was a complete idiot,’ she chortled. ‘Glad to know you can take care of yourself,’ she paused and looked at me in silent contemplation. ‘I like you,’ she suddenly stated. ‘You seem less of a ninny than most, you’re bright and funny, you plainly enjoy wine which is a big plus and my godson has personally recommended you.’ She paused, swigging at her wine as though it were water. ‘So, do you want to come to the West Indies with me?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes please,’ I said, and she visibly brightened, ‘When?’

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘Ok,’ I replied slowly, my mind zipping through my appointments for the week ahead, none of which couldn’t be changed, ‘It’s my goddaughter’s birthday a week next Friday though, I absolutely have to be back for that.’

  ‘We fly back the Wednesday before,’ she reassured, draining her glass and holding it out for more, ‘So that’s alright. Oh,’ she exclaimed in disappointment as I upended the bottle into her glass and a dribble came out. ‘Dead soldier, best you open another bottle.’

  By the time Scott came back, Ruth and I had almost finished the second bottle and he looked at us in amused exasperation. ‘Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea introducing you two complete lushes to each other,’ he commented mildly and I beamed at him with joy, stumbling to my feet.