She opened a bottle of red wine and we drunk a few toasts.
To Beatrice. To Daniel. To Francis Layton. By the time we started the second bottle, we even toasted Miles, and Simon Crosland, and Aunt Rosemary and Steven Maitland. Then we stood up and faced each other in the flickering candlelight.
I reached out to take Petra’s hands in mine. “I, Alexandria Holt, the great-great-granddaughter of Francis Layton, acknowledge the wrong done to Daniel Wheatley, and offer my apology as amends.”
Petra returned the pressure of my fingers. “I, Petra Osterhuis, the great-granddaughter of Beatrice Osterhuis and Daniel Wheatley, accept your apology. You have made amends.”
Then we hugged each other, and both of us shed a few tears for Beatrice and Daniel and their doomed love.
“Damn Miles,” Petra said as we settled down to finish the wine. “He’s the expert in these things. He could have told us how to do it right, how to best neutralize the curse, but he hasn’t even bothered to call.”
I raised my glass and took a fortifying sip. I suspected that Miles was avoiding calling us on purpose. In addition to being consumed with worry over Cleo, he’d be too conflicted in what he wanted to say to each of us.
“Don’t judge him,” I said softly to Petra. “He loves his niece, and she’s in critical condition. You can’t expect him to be considerate at a time like this.”
“Yes. Of course,” Petra said, a little stiffly. “I didn’t think.”
But even as her words faded into the night, a sense of dissatisfaction lingered in the air. Awareness hardened inside me that although Petra had impressed me with her charitable instincts, and her loyalty to female friends, she possessed a selfish streak. I guessed she had always had so much male adoration that she took it for granted, and acted a little spoiled if she wasn’t getting her due.
Petra broke the silence. “Let’s say a prayer for Cleopatra.”
I agreed, and we knelt side by side on the hard cobblestones. As we prayed for my cousin’s safety, a dog began to bark in the darkness. Another one joined in. Their duet echoed around the courtyard. The gloomy sounds stirred my already brittle mood. I closed my eyes and let memories of Miles wash over me, drawing me back into the passion-filled hours we’d spent in his Skylark hotel room in Constantia.
He’d promised me nothing, but I thrived on the knowledge that whatever happened between us, Miles had opened up to me that night. He’d given me the gift of sharing with me what many men would think of as nothing but foolish fantasies of an introverted teenager—dreams that a grown man should have discarded long ago, and would be too embarrassed to even mention.
But he had told me about those dreams.
And he’d made me feel special in a way no other man ever had.
****
Because I’d already found the information we’d been seeking, there was no need for me to travel on to Lichtenburg, and I stayed at Happy Valley until the end of the week, when it was time for me to fly home to England.
Petra stole time from her hectic schedule to take me sightseeing around the vine country. In the mornings, I helped in the shop. Two more emails arrived from Miles to report on Cleo’s improving condition, but he didn’t telephone.
“Remember, air travel is statistically the safest form of transport,” Petra said as she gave me one final hug at Cape Town airport. I’d offered to take a taxi, but she’d insisted on driving me through the evening rush hour for the direct overnight flight. “Everything’s automatic,” she continued. “And there’re double and triple systems for everything. Backup for backup. The plane can fly itself, in case the pilot has a heart attack and the rest of the crew gets food poisoning from what they ate before takeoff.”
I laughed, eager to get home, and pulled away from Petra’s embrace. “We’ve fulfilled the demands of the Layton Prophecy,” I told her with confidence. “The whole thing’s been knocked on the head. There’s no need to preach about the safety or air travel, since I’m no longer in danger.”
Like a fool, I believed those words to be true.
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Chapter Twenty-one
I arrived at Heathrow early in the morning and took the train to Salisbury. My spine nearly got a permanent kink from the length of time Aunt Rosemary hugged me when I stepped down from the taxi I took from the railway station. The cold, damp, early December air in England seemed quite enchanting after the sunshine in South Africa, although I was grateful to get inside Mill Cottage when the hug-a-thon ended.
“How was Miles?” Aunt Rosemary asked as we sat down to a cup of tea.
“His usual self.” My tone was dry, but she must have noticed the dreamy look in my eyes. She shook her head, doubt etched on her face. I ignored the warning. Nothing could deter my optimism. We’d dealt with the curse. Miles could forget about Petra now, and he’d be in touch soon.
I emailed him that afternoon. Not a love note. A summary of the contents of the final diary, and a description of how Petra and I had ended the curse by making amends.
He didn’t reply.
He is busy, I told myself.
Three days went by. Nothing. No news. I lived in a constant state of tension. Perhaps he couldn’t come back to me yet. He needed to pretend to be interested in Petra a little longer. Otherwise, the curse might resurrect itself. He’d have to wait until Cleo was out of hospital, on her way to recovery.
After I’d been home a week, I finally got an email. Nothing personal. Just a few terse words, asking me to make a copy of the final diary and send it to him. I stared at the computer screen. Miles was terrible at keeping in touch, by now I’d learned that much about him, but the abrupt tone of the note carried the sting of rejection. I could tell from the way my stomach knotted and my hands started to tremble.
I’d fallen for the greatest con trick in the world.
I’d lied to myself, and believed every word.
How could I expect him to turn down Petra? A woman so beautiful that when she walked past, everyone stared, including women and children. A solid lump settled in my chest. Like tears that had frozen up inside me. I typed a reply. The diary is too fragile to copy. Sorry. Please don’t write again. We both need to move on with our lives. My finger hovered over the keyboard for a long time before I gathered the courage to click on ‘send’.
Up to then, I hadn’t told Aunt Rosemary about Miles and Petra, how she’d gone after him, and that he hadn’t had the strength to resist. Now I did. All I said was that our relationship had petered out, and I suspected he was more interested in the stunning Vogue model than me. I didn’t mention the old woman in Hermanus and the addition to the curse. I didn’t want Aunt Rosemary to know that I’d been stupid enough to believe in the excuses Miles had made.
And yet, inside me, a spark of hope refused to die. I was jumping to conclusions. His silence, his terse note, they didn’t mean anything. It could all be explained. But my past failures paraded through my mind, and I chose to assume the worst. Believing that it was over might not protect me from hurt, but I was desperate to salvage a few shreds of my pride.
I did my best to follow my own command: get on with life.
****
Two days later, Aunt Rosemary telephoned me in my High Wycombe apartment after work. “Miles is here,” she said. Her voice was so tense that I knew he was standing next to her. “Do you want me to let him stay in Rose Cottage?”
My mind went blank. Then I found my voice. “Yes.”
“Right,” Aunt Rosemary replied and promptly hung up. I knew she did it to stop him from asking to be put on. Her defiant gesture went to waste. I didn’t think Miles would want an audience when he spoke to me.
I sat in a daze for the rest of the evening. It was Wednesday. I had two more days to get through at work before I could drive down to Layton Village and see him. Several times, I picked up the phone to call Rose Cottage. Each time, I replaced the receiver, my fingers aching from how tight I’d clenched the plastic.
Why
hadn’t he kept in touch?
Why had he come back now?
Uncertainty churned inside me, making me feel sick. Somehow, I got through the next forty-eight hours. My concentration was in tatters. On Friday night, I almost collided with a lorry on the highway. I’d never liked driving in the dark. I forced myself to focus, to think of nothing but the stretch of road in front of me.
In Layton Village, I parked the car and headed to Mill Cottage first. The door flung open before I had a change to knock. Aunt Rosemary grabbed my arm and pulled me through, slamming the door behind me, as if bandits were about to attack.
“Is he being a jerk?” she asked through her teeth.
“I don’t know.” I dropped my bag on the hallway floor and tried to sound nonchalant. “Is Steven not here yet?”
“He decided not to come, in case you need to stay with me.”
I sighed. “I’m sorry. I’ve ruined your weekend.”
“Not you. Him.” She glared at the dividing wall.
“There’s no need to be angry with Miles.” I fought to keep my voice even. “He didn’t promise me anything. I made my own choices.”
Aunt Rosemary frowned. “What is it with you? You seem so together all of a sudden. So strong and positive.”
“I am.” My expression softened. “Did I ever tell you how much spending the holidays with you meant to me as a child?”
She reached up and smoothed a strand of hair behind my ear, something she hadn’t done since my teens. “I knew. It broke my heart, the way life seemed to drain out of you a few days before it was time to go home. When you called me from Southampton, each time you sounded a little more miserable, until I could hardly recognize you.”
“Well, no more.” I grabbed my bag from the floor and threw it over my shoulder. “I’m Alexandria Holt, and I’m all grown-up. If someone isn’t treating me right, I’ll simply walk away from them.”
Her eyes flashed in comprehension. Although she made no comment, I knew that from that moment on, she’d call me Alexandria.
I loved her so much it was a lump in my throat.
“Are you going to tell Miles?” Aunt Rosemary said. “That if he doesn’t treat you right, you’ll walk away.”
I strode through the hall and headed toward the stairs. “It depends.”
“On what?” Aunt Rosemary called out after me.
“On if he knocks on your door and asks. I have no intention of trotting next door and paying homage.”
Her laughter put an extra spring in my step. I bounced up the stairs and settled in the guest bedroom. My hands shook as I hung my clothes in the wardrobe. Much of my bravado was an act, but the surprising part was that the more I put on a confident front, the stronger I felt inside.
My resolve not to rush over to Rose Cottage and throw myself at Miles had hardened during the long drive. If he wanted me, he would have to come and find me. It was high time he put his feelings out in the open, instead of hiding behind his taciturn manner.
“What do you want to eat?” Aunt Rosemary asked when I went to find her in the kitchen.
“Do you want to go to the Royal Goat?”
She stared at me and nodded, a smile spreading on her face. “Clever girl.”
I rolled my eyes. “You don’t have the monopoly on brains in this family.”
How I loved to hear Aunt Rosemary laugh.
****
I was halfway through my jacket potato when Miles charged in through the front door of the Royal Goat. This time the jeans were black, and he wore no coat, just the gray jumper that matched the color of his eyes. The weather was mild for December, and he may have decided a coat was unnecessary for the short walk, but I flattered myself by assuming he was so furious about being ignored that he’d rushed out without thinking.
His eyes scanned the tables and stopped when they landed on me.
I don’t know what I had expected. An embrace? A guilty frown? An apology for not having kept in touch?”
What I hadn’t expected was a lazy wave, and then a view of his broad shoulders as he strolled out to the bar to get himself a drink.
Aunt Rosemary grimaced. “Whoops.”
I gritted my teeth and turned to her. “The advantage is on my side.”
Her brows creased in question.
“I live here,” I explained. “Miles spent a day traveling to get here, so there must be something he wants.”
Aunt Rosemary beamed at me. “You know, you’re getting more and more like me every day.”
I laughed, a little louder than normal, so Miles would hear what a good time we were having. “It’s not only me,” I told her. “It’s you too. We’re gravitating toward each other. Steven has made you relax. One day soon you’ll buy a pair of jeans and stop coloring your hair.”
Aunt Rosemary spluttered. “I don’t color my hair. I use a conditioning shampoo that blends in the odd gray strand.”
I smiled. After a while, she smiled back, and we carried on with our meal.
We had to linger around longer than we’d intended before Miles joined us. He walked up to our table with his pint of beer, pulled out a chair and settled down. His expression was perfectly amiable, but there was a tight set to his jaw.
“Why didn’t you call me?” he asked, leaning back. “You’ve had two full days since I arrived.”
“Why didn’t you call me? You’ve had a full week since I came back from South Africa.”
“I didn’t have your number. I tried international directory assistance, but they said your number is unlisted.”
“I gave it to you when you left Cape Town.”
His shoulders rose and fell in an angry shrug. “I mislaid it.” He twisted to face me, his eyes stormy. “I had a lot on my mind. You should accept that.”
“You could have emailed me.”
“I was at the hospital most of the time. They have restrictions on the use of electronic appliances.”
I bit my lip. “Sorry. How is Cleo?”
“She’s agreed to file for divorce. That should help in the long term. She’s still in a critical condition.”
My head snapped up. “What? I thought she was improving.”
Miles slumped in the seat. “She was doing well for a while. Then she picked up an infection. With her immune system impaired, she’s struggling to shake it off.”
“I’m sorry.” Of its own volition, my hand reached up to touch his unruly curls.
Miles captured my wrist and pressed his lips to the back of my fingers. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured.
I felt the warmth of his mouth on my skin, and forgot all my good resolutions.
“I think this is the point where I should leave.” Aunt Rosemary stood up and studied me with a look of concern. “Will you be all right?”
Miles scowled at her. “Rosemary, I’m not going to molest your niece.”
She sent him an angelic smile. “Just checking.” Then she clipped across the floor and disappeared out of the front door.
“Would you like another drink?” Miles asked.
I shook my head. The heat from the fireplace and the two glasses of wine I’d already drunk were making me drowsy. “We were just about to leave.”
“Fine.” Miles rose and pushed back his chair. He held his hand out to me. I sat still for a full minute, while my mind raced through what had happened between us—the magical weekend at Rose Cottage when he’d given in to the attraction between us, his sweet words in South Africa, the lack of contact in the past two weeks.
I haven’t even kissed her yet, he’d said when I asked about Petra the night before he rushed home to be with his injured niece. I’d rather be with you, he’d told me when he gave his guarded explanation of how the Layton Prophecy demanded that he offer himself to Petra. The love I feel for you is like dousing myself in lighter fuel and striking a match, he’d said before he pulled me close and made love to me that on last night in South Africa.
“Why?” I asked. “Why didn’t you keep in t
ouch?”
He sat down again, hesitated before speaking. “I felt it was fairer that way. I had no right to hold on to you while I was making plans to get together with Petra. I needed to find the strength to let you go.”
Confusion soared inside me. “But...the curse is over.”
“It’s not,” Miles said. “Cleo is getting worse.” His eyes raked over me. “Has anything happened to you, anything at all that could have meant danger?”
I told him about my near miss with the lorry on the way down.
“Damn,” he said. “It’s my fault. God knows, I’ve tried to forget you, pretend it’s over between us, but I’ve failed.” Miles rocked back the seat and dug in the pocket of his jeans. “I bought you a Christmas present.” He pulled out a tiny black leather box and a crumpled envelope.
The kind of box jewelry comes in.
“It’s two weeks to Christmas,” I said, not even trying to make sense of the mix of elation and fear and doubt that crowded my mind.
“Open it.” His voice fell. “Unless, of course, you’d rather not accept anything from me.”
With shaking hands, I reached for the box and flipped the lid. Inside was a small brooch. A polar bear, made of gold, studded with tiny diamonds to make it look like a white furry creature. The black onyx eyes seemed to smile at me.
I opened the envelope. Inside was a plain card, with just one line of text.
“A friend for Sugarcube.”
That’s how I’d named the polar bear Miles had chosen for my tenth birthday twenty years ago. The fact that he knew the name, and remembered it after all this time, wrapped around my heart, more potent than any sweet words.
I slid the card back inside the envelope. “Why did you come back?”
“Because I couldn’t keep away.”
I raised my gaze. He was watching me. The intensity in his eyes burned on my skin. As if in a trance, I closed the jewelry box and slipped it into my pocket. Then I stood up and laced my fingers into his. Miles rose, turned without a word, and led me to the exit. As soon as we were outside, he wrapped his arms around my shoulders and held me close.
The Layton Prophecy Page 21
