The Layton Prophecy

by Tatiana March

  “I think so. I’ve got a cardigan.” I lifted my hand, clutching the same cotton cardigan I’d worn on the plane. When we got out of the car, Miles glanced at my legs. I was wearing a jersey dress that ended at the knee, and with a shiver of awareness I realized that since I’d worn jeans while were together in England, he’d only seen my legs when I’d been in bed with him.

  The thought made me blush. I covered it up by raising my face toward the evening sun and making a comment about the warmth. I closed my eyes for a second. When I opened them, I found Miles staring at me with a hungry expression. My insides tightened. I wondered how much longer we would manage to avoid talking about what had happened between us.

  “Do you want to sit anywhere in particular?” Miles asked as he led the way from the car to a wide promenade by the seafront. There was no beach, only a concrete plateau that ended in an iron railing and a sheer drop to the water. All the buildings along the promenade were restaurants, and each had an outside seating area with tables and chairs clustered beneath big parasols.

  I chose a place, and we sat at a green metal table with rickety green chairs. “I’ve eaten here a couple of times,” Miles said, scanning the crowd. “It’s casual, but it’s quick, and the food is good. And I thought you’d enjoy the view.”

  “This is fine.”

  A young man in a striped green apron brought us plastic-coated menus and a carafe of water. He laid out two glasses and poured. Around us, people in summer clothing were talking and laughing.

  “Tell me about Stellenbosch,” I said once the waiter had gone. “What did you find out?”

  Miles slanted me a guarded look. “Is that what you want to talk about?”

  I met his eyes, and had a strange falling sensation. Despite the hurt caused by his unexplained withdrawal, I realized that I didn’t want to ruin the memory of my weekend with him in Rose Cottage by raking over the reasons for his coolness.

  “Yes,” I said. “Do you think we should talk about something else?”

  His lips pursed. “Perhaps another time.”

  I gestured with my hand. “So, Stellenbosch?”

  Miles picked up a paper napkin and began to fold and unfold it. “I went to this place called the Happy Valley. It’s a vineyard.” He glanced at me. “It’s been owned by the same family for a hundred years. Since the Boer Wars.”

  I took a deep breath. “Did they have any information about Francis Layton?”

  He laid the napkin back on the table. “They have a suitcase that he left behind when he set off on his final trip into the Kalahari Desert.”

  My nerves jolted at the news. “Is there another diary?”

  His dark brows came together. “You’ve read them?”

  “I’ve read them, and like you suggested, I paid attention to the dates. The period from December 1928 to June 1929 is missing.”

  He nodded. “I’m counting on there being one more volume in the suitcase.”

  “You don’t know?” Frustration seized me. “What do you mean?”

  The waiter returned to take our orders. Miles told him we needed a few more minutes. “No, we’ll order now,” I cut in. I studied the menu and picked the first suitable thing I came across. “I’ll have the tuna sandwich.”

  “And to drink?” the waiter asked.

  “A glass of red wine, please.”

  The young man in the striped apron flipped over the menu to the back page that had a long list to choose from. I noticed the prices. I’d never before been to a country before where wine cost less than mineral water. I chose a Syrah. Miles ordered a hamburger and a different glass of red wine.

  “Haven’t you seen the suitcase?” I pressed when we were alone again.

  He looked uncomfortable. “It’s out of the country.”

  “Why? Who has it?”

  “The daughter of the family who owns the Happy Valley works in New York. She has it.”

  “Have you spoken to her? When will we be able to see it? Do we need to go to New York?”

  “No,” Miles said reluctantly. “She’s coming back tomorrow.”

  “So, you’ve contacted her?”

  “I met her last week.” He shifted uncomfortably in his rickety chair. “She came home last week. When I went to stay at the Happy Valley, she was there. That’s how I found out about the suitcase.”

  “You’d better tell me everything.” I leaned back to allow the waiter more room to set the plate with the tuna sandwich in front of me.

  Miles downed a gulp of his wine and called after the departing waiter to order another glass. Then he twisted back to me and continued to talk. “When I got to the Happy Valley, I found out that the vineyard is still owned by the same family. I asked at the shop who I could talk to. It’s not a hotel, just a couple of holiday cottages, but there’s a retail outlet, and they do tours of the winery.”

  “Un-huh,” I said, taking a sip of my wine.

  He toyed with his glass. “I was told that the only family member still alive is this girl, Petra Osterhuis.” He put his glass down and leveled his eyes at me. “She told me her grandfather was the illegitimate son of Lord Francis Layton.”

  I gasped, almost choking on my wine. “The Francis Layton that died in the Kalahari?” I asked, coughing between the words.

  Miles nodded. “It seems he had an affair with the daughter of the house before he went off into the desert.”

  “She loves without reserve, without conditions, without expectation of being loved in return, without promises of a future,” I quoted from Francis Layton’s diary.

  “That’s it,” Miles said. “And it seems that she bore him a son.”

  I stared at him, trying to capture the thought that was forming in my mind. “Does that make Petra Osterhuis another heir to the Layton Trust?” I asked as the facts fell into place.

  “I don’t know.” Miles rolling the base of his glass against the iron table, making a scraping sound. “I want you to call Crosland and Baxter in Oxford and find out.”

  “Why don’t you call yourself?” I picked up my tuna sandwich and took a bite. It tasted delicious, crammed with fresh salad and mayonnaise.

  “I’ve tried. They won’t talk to me. I have a power of attorney to represent my niece for anything that concerns Layton Manor, but they’ll only discuss this with another beneficiary of the trust. I’d rather not ask Cleo to call. She has enough worries on her plate at home.”

  I swallowed my mouth empty. “This girl Petra, what does she do in New York?”

  Miles looked away. “She’s a fashion model.”

  “What, like walking up and down the runway in fashion shows?”

  “It’s more like pictures in magazines. If you saw the copy of Vogue on the plane, she’s the girl on the cover.”

  The next bite of the sandwich tasted like sawdust. Finally, I had some idea of what Miles might have meant, when he’d told me in his email that he was sorry.

  ****

  Darkness had fallen by the time we drove back to the hotel. Miles concentrated on steering the small rental Peugeot through the winding roads. I leaned back in my seat and tried to sort out my turbulent emotions.

  Somehow, I’d managed to get through the dinner without falling apart. I learned two things about myself that night.

  Firstly, I was after all no different from the girl in Francis Layton’s diary. I continued to love, even when faced with no expectation of being loved in return.

  Secondly, I was much stronger than I’d expected.

  I used to think that my confidence ebbed and flowed as external events buffeted me around. Now, I realized that the shifts came from within, from how I felt about myself. My view of myself had altered since I discovered that I was a Layton. I’d gained a measure of serenity, and the courage to believe that I had plenty to offer to a man, particularly since Miles had taught me the difference between loving fully and loving with reservations.

  If Miles chose to reject me, I’d recover. One day there’d be someo
ne else. I wouldn’t let my love go to waste just because he wouldn’t love me back.

  “Are you warm enough?” he asked as we sped past the barbed wire barricades.

  “I’m fine,” I told him.

  That was the entire conversation during the drive that took nearly an hour.

  When we got to the hotel, Miles killed the engine but remained seated. “Do you have plans for tomorrow?” he asked.

  “No. I might go to the botanical gardens, or hike up the Table Mountain.”

  “It’s a strenuous walk. You’ll need proper shoes.”

  “I brought my hiking boots.”

  He turned sideways to look at me. The only light was from two naked bulbs high up on the edge of the roof, and they were behind him, leaving his face in shadows.

  “Would you like to take a drive along the coast?” he asked. “The scenery is impressive, and there’s a colony of penguins that swims ashore every afternoon. People go to watch them land.”

  “Have you been?”

  I saw him nod in the darkness. “I had a couple of days in Cape Town when I arrived, and again before I went off sailing.”

  “Did you hire a boat?”

  “No. Petra has friends who have a boat. I went with them.”

  I was grateful about the lack of light, since it covered up my hurt.

  “Did she come with you?”

  “No. She had to go to New York. She’s coming back tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” I said after a pause. “I’d like to go out and explore. What time do you want to leave?”

  “Not before nine. I want you to call Crosland and Baxter first thing in the morning. We’ll go as soon as you’ve spoken to them.”

  We firmed up the arrangements and said good night, a little awkwardly, and entered our separate rooms. I washed and undressed, moving like an automaton. When I settled down to sleep, I wondered if I was torturing myself by agreeing to spend the day with Miles. Perhaps the best course of action would have been to set off alone, following the route mapped out by Steven and Aunt Rosemary.

  But I knew that the girl on the cover of Vogue had Francis Layton’s suitcase, and I needed to conquer my broken heart, follow the best lead we had. So, instead of packing my bags and leaving Miles behind, I lay in the big double bed, thinking of him, only a wall away, and said a prayer for strength to face what the next few days would bring.

  Back to contents

  Chapter Sixteen

  I woke up at first morning light, showered, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, and packed a windproof jacket into the canvas tote bag I’d carried as hand luggage on the plane. I planned to ask Miles to stop on our way through the town to buy bottles of water for the drive. I assumed we’d find a restaurant for lunch, rather than try to shop for food to have a picnic.

  Before going to bed, I’d ordered a room service breakfast. A blond girl of no more than thirteen carried it out, carefully balancing the tray in front of her. I guessed she was the younger sister of the girl I’d seen at the reception.

  I spread butter and strawberry jam on a bread roll, and nibbled while I waited. South Africa and England were in the same time zone. As soon as the clock got to nine, I telephoned Crosland and Baxter using the big rotary handset on the bedside table. Miles had made sure I had the number. He’d even offered to pay for the call.

  There was a hiss on the line, but when the secretary answered, the static cleared, and her voice came through fine. She informed me that I was in luck, since Simon Crosland had just stepped out of a meeting.

  “This is Alexandra Holt,” I said when he came on. “I’m calling from South Africa. It’s very important. It’s about the Layton Trust.”

  “I’m free until nine-thirty,” he told me. “I’ll have to get out the Layton file. If you give me the number, I can call you back and charge the cost to the legal fees.”

  “Thank you. That would help.” I read the number on the telephone out to him, and we hung up. I’d almost given up the hope of hearing back from him, and was preparing to dial his number again, when the big black telephone burst into a loud ring that rattled it on the table.

  “Sorry,” Simon Crosland said. “I had some trouble getting the area code right when calling from overseas.”

  I gave him the information about Petra’s grandfather being Francis Layton’s son.

  “I’m not sure,” he said after a brief silence. “I’ll have to read the trust deed and the will again. I’ll call you back in ten minutes.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed and waited. I could hear a muffled voice next door. If Miles was on the telephone, it was likely to be England, or local, since America was still asleep.

  Almost twenty minutes passed before Simon Crosland called me back. “Sorry to keep you waiting. It was unclear. I wanted to find one of my partners and get a second opinion before I talked to you.”

  “Were you able to?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “And I’m confident that my interpretation is correct.”

  I jotted down the details on a notepad as he relayed them. We agreed he’d call again the following morning. After we hung up, I stared at my handwriting on the page. Then I tore off the sheet, folded it, and slipped it into my tote bag. Rather than dial the reception again, I went and knocked on the neighboring Skylark door. Miles opened it at once. He was dressed in his jeans and the Annapolis sweatshirt, and his black curls were all tangled up.

  “Did you speak to the lawyer?” he asked without even greeting me first.

  “Yes. I’ve written it down.”

  “We can talk in the car.” He withdrew into the room and reappeared carrying a cardboard box. “I ordered a picnic lunch last night. Just sandwiches and a salad. I hope that’s all right with you.”

  I saw the long neck of a wine bottle sticking out from between the parcels wrapped in brown paper. “That sounds nice,” I told him.

  We got in the car and drove off. The sky blazed blue overhead, and the sun shone brightly, but the air felt cooler than the day before. I’d mistakenly assumed that the climate would be tropical. In fact, the temperature appeared to be about the same as June in England.

  The Peugeot from AVIS purred as we sped down the road.

  At least Miles was faithful when it came to the brand of car rental.

  “So,” he said, slowing down to steer around a horse and a rider. “What did you find out from Crosland and Baxter?

  “If Petra’s grandfather was Francis Layton’s son, she qualifies as an heir to the Layton Trust, and she’ll come before me. I’m no longer the next in line.”

  He cast a quick glance at me and went back to observing the traffic. “It doesn’t matter that her grandfather’s name wasn’t put down at birth?”

  I shook my head, watching a trail of dust on the roadside where a young boy wearing nothing but skimpy shorts was roaring along on a motor-cross bike. “That’s no longer relevant with the advent of DNA testing. Petra needs to give a sample. Simon Crosland will call me tomorrow with instructions.”

  “We’ll see Petra tonight.”

  My breath caught in my chest. “You’re asking me to join you?”

  “Of course.” Miles glanced at me. “Why shouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t know.” Either he was an insensitive jerk, or I was wrong about what was between him and the Vogue model.

  “I called your aunt before we left,” Miles told me. “She says hello.”

  “Did you explain to her about Francis Layton’s suitcase?”

  “Yes. She asked us to make a copy of the last diary if we find it. It seems that Steven Maitland has immersed himself in the puzzle.”

  “She talked to you about him?”

  The corners of his mouth curled up. “At least once in every sentence.” Miles turned to me, and I got the smile in full. “He’s one hell of a lucky man.”

  I tried to stop my frown, but he noticed it anyway, and must have read my thoughts. That he was an equally lucky man, but apparently he wanted to thr
ow it all away.

  “We’ll talk one day soon,” he said gently.

  “Talk about what?” I replied, and stared out through the windscreen.

  He said nothing, just kept on driving. Eventually, we got to a windswept moor, much like parts of Northern England, but with a foaming sea to our right.

  I surveyed the barren scenery. “I thought the penguins are in a residential area.”

  “They are, but they don’t come ashore until the afternoon. I thought we’d come here first. This is the Cape of Good Hope.”

  Out of nowhere, a crowd had built up. The narrow strip of road led into a parking lot with tour buses, and rows and rows of smaller vehicles. From the parking area, a track wound its way to a vantage point up the hill.

  “Let’s get some fresh air,” Miles said, steering the Peugeot to a stop.

  A brisk wind buffeted me as soon as I got out. I took my jacket from the canvas bag and pulled it on. Miles waited impatiently while I spent a few moments smearing sun cream all over my face.

  “You hair has faded,” he said. “It looks nice now. Coppery.”

  I sighed. “It’s almost back to normal. I’ll never do it again.”

  “Not even when you start going gray?”

  “Nope.” I clipped the top on the tube of sun cream.

  “I bet you will. I’ll remind you of this conversation when the time comes.”

  I tried to ignore the warmth that flooded me at the suggestion that we’d still know each other when my hair went gray. “I’m ready.” I turned to him. “Lead the way.”

  He reached for my hand, and we strolled up the hill, Miles ahead, me trailing half a step behind, holding hands like lovers, the warmth of his fingers curling around mine, making my heart ache with what could have been. I tried to distract myself by watching the rugged coastline of swirling bays and jutting headlands that rose steeply out of the restless sea.

  “Have you ever sailed past here?” I asked him.

  “Earlier this week, but we were too far from the shore. I looked through a telescope and saw people standing about. I wanted to come and see this place.”