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Chapter Twenty-three
After Miles flew back to America, I didn’t hear anything from him again. No explanation to what had happened. No news about Cleo. Nothing. He seemed to have simply moved on, leaving me behind.
The days drifted by in a peculiar sense of the unreal.
Shortly before Christmas, I told Aunt Rosemary that I’d prefer to spend the holidays with her instead of visiting my mother in Southampton. Although Steven was coming to stay, Aunt Rosemary seemed genuinely pleased by the idea.
“I don’t see much of your mother, I never have,” Aunt Rosemary said as she passed the rolling pin over a square of dough. With her usual thoroughness, she’d embraced kitchen skills, and was learning to make short crust pastry because Steven liked meat pies for his lunch. “Sometimes I wonder if she might benefit from medical help,” Aunt Rosemary added. “I mentioned it to her once, but she told me to mind my own business.”
“What do you mean?” The sharp stab of fear inside me took me by surprise. “Is there something wrong with her?”
Aunt Rosemary paused, the rolling pin grinding to a halt. “I’m not an expert, but a few times over the years, I’ve suspected that she might suffer from depression. Nothing crippling, just a mild case that allows her to function. In my view, her unhappiness is too deep to be just a bout of sadness.”
“I...I never considered.” Countless childhood images reeled through my mind. Seeing a strip of light beneath her door when she couldn’t sleep. Finding her in tears and yet watching her force on a shaky smile for me. Evenings when her tired feet dragged when she got home from work.
“I could be wrong,” Aunt Rosemary said. “But I think not.”
“You’re right,” I said, anger blazing through me. Anger at my father and his long absences. Anger at myself. I’d been an adult for ten years, and all I’d even seen was a bitter, dissatisfied woman, not someone who’d pushed herself to the limit in order to care for her child.
“I think it started as post natal depression,” Aunt Rosemary said. “Unlike most women, she didn’t get better. Your father tried in the beginning. He really did. But she shut him out, dwelled in her own world of shadows and fears. It made him feel helpless. In the end, he just gave up. He started to find opportunities to go away. He went back on the ocean racing circuit, and they drifted apart.”
I leaned back in the kitchen chair. It didn’t seem to matter that I’d finally gained some insight to why my father had neglected us. All my thoughts were for my mother. “God, how could I not see it?” Tears spilled down my cheeks, tears of shame and sympathy. I thought of the will I’d made, leaving my possessions to Aunt Rosemary. I recalled telling Miles how little my mother had always had. Now, I’d taken steps to ensure that if I died, she’d have nothing from me, apart from the ultimate insult that her only child loved someone else more than her.
“Oh God,” I muttered. “What have I done?”
Somewhere deep inside of me, a door flung open. Memories flooded out, of childish hurts, of feelings of being neglected, of the lack of joy I’d felt, and the terse words from my mother that had made that childhood love die. But now, seen through the lens of understanding, those failings of a bitter and unhappy woman changed into the reactions of an overworked mother.
That love hadn’t died after all.
It had just lain dormant, and now it sprung back to life.
“Do you know why she has never spoken to a doctor?” I asked.
“Your father told me that she hates to fail,” Aunt Rosemary said. “She thinks she failed to become a portrait painter, and then she failed in her marriage. Seeking medical help would mean admitting to yet another failure.”
I thought of how I’d felt about being jilted, and about losing my job, and how hard I’d been putting off having to sell the car. I understood. “I’ll talk to her.” I got up, tore off a sheet from the kitchen roll, and mopped up my tears. “I just thought she was dissatisfied with life,” I confessed as I sat back down.
“How about you go to Southampton for Christmas, and come here for the New Year?” Aunt Rosemary suggested.
“Actually, I’ve been thinking...”
Aunt Rosemary put down the rolling pin, dusted the flour off her hands, and came over to sit beside me. “Go on,” she prompted.
I told her that the girl whose maternity leave I was covering at the Bodleian had decided not to return to work. The library had offered the job to me, but if I didn’t want it, they had someone else who could start immediately. It wouldn’t be a problem if I didn’t go back after Christmas.
“I thought, perhaps I could move to Rose Cottage full time. If I don’t have to pay rent, I could take a few months off and concentrate on looking for another designer job.” My thoughts flicked back to my mother. I realized that like her, I had a fear of failure. “Perhaps I could try to get some freelance work,” I added, my voice low with caution. “I might even do another design course. Interior design, or graphic design.”
“Sure,” Aunt Rosemary said. “Great idea. Talk to Dryfield Homes. Ask them to let you design their show home for the new development. Dangle the carrot of the possibility of access through Layton Manor in front of them.”
She jumped to her feet and went back to her baking.
As I watched her cutting neat little circles from the pastry dough, I struggled not to feel overwhelmed. In ten minutes, I’d gained a place to live and a measure of financial freedom. I had a mother-daughter relationship to repair, and a new professional ambition to pursue.
The only thing missing in my life was some word from the man I loved.
****
By the time the Christmas decorations at the Royal Goat came down, I was feeling so edgy that I feared my head would explode. The only communication I’d had from Miles had been a Christmas card through the post. The message scrawled inside it only contained a few lines.
We all have to make choices. Mine are becoming harder and harder. I should not have come back. It was selfish of me. I wanted to be with you, instead of doing what I have to do to protect you. What is going through your mind now about me may be a just punishment for me, for putting you through the same hurt twice.
It didn’t require much insight to guess what he meant by his message. I’d been dumped again, and he knew that I suspected him of trying to kill me. A weight settled over my chest when I realized that Miles had made no effort to dispel my fears.
On other fronts, I made great strides forward.
I’d given up my rented apartment in High Wycombe, and now lived in Rose Cottage all the time. Most days, I had dinner with Aunt Rosemary. I’d enrolled on a distance learning course for interior design. Over Christmas, I’d sat down for a candid talk with my mother. She’d agreed to see a doctor, and we had started repairing the bridges neither of us had crossed in years.
It felt as if Miles had acted like a big watershed. My life flowed to a different direction post-Miles than it had pre-Miles. I felt more confident. I offered my opinions more readily, and to my surprise people were willing to listen. The owner of one of the big houses around the village green knocked on my door one evening. A single man in his sixties, he said he was going to have his house redecorated, and wanted me to advise him on the colors.
Twice, a stranger stopped me on the street to ask for directions.
I was baffled. How did people notice the change that I felt inside?
****
Then, one Saturday evening at the end of January, Miles appeared in Layton Village without any advance warning—only this time he didn’t appear alone. Petra clung to his arm as he walked in through the doors of the Royal Goat, where I was sitting with Aunt Rosemary. Everyone turned to stare at Petra, the entire room hushing into a reverent silence.
“Alexandria,” she cried out, letting go of Miles. “Lovely to see you again.”
The long legs encased in tight jeans crossed the room with a few graceful strides. As she bent down to hug me,
I stared at Miles over her shoulder. His face seemed cast in stone, his eyes refusing to meet mine.
“And you must be Aunt Rosemary,” Petra said. “Will you let me call you that?” She leaned over to hug Aunt Rosemary, who for once in her life appeared bemused. Petra drew back and sent her a merry wink. “Although you don’t look like anyone’s aunt, if you know what I mean?”
Aunt Rosemary laughed, using the delicate titter she usually reserved for attractive men. “Please to meet you,” she said in her let-me-charm-you voice.
“Hello, Miles,” I said coolly. Jealousy and anger niggled in my gut, like two tiny animals fighting for the same piece of flesh. “What a surprise to see you here.”
Petra moved to stand beside him, as if declaring ownership. “Miles flew in yesterday and came to pick me up when my plane landed at Heathrow this morning.”
“Are you on holiday?” Aunt Rosemary asked. By now, she’d recovered from her initial enchantment. Her eyes were darting daggers at Miles. I huddled down in the seat, trying to become invisible. On top of everything else, I was facing another humiliation in front of the village gossips.
“No,” Petra said. “I’m here for the London Fashion Week. I have a few photo shoots lined up, and I meetings with wine merchants.” She pulled a face at me. “We lost a contract with a Dutch supermarket, and I’m desperately trying to make up for the lost volume.”
“I’m sorry,” I said mechanically. “Good luck with the meetings.”
“Thanks.” Her expression grew serious. “Miles doesn’t think we managed to break the curse after all. He told me about your accident. Are you okay?”
I raised my arm, still in a cast, due to the slow healing. “A little pain, but no permanent damage.”
Petra leaned closer to inspect my injury. Straightening, she flicked away the fall of platinum hair that had tumbled across her face. “I can’t wait to see Layton Manor,” she said, my pain forgotten. “Will you take me up there one day soon?”
“Miles can take you.” My voice was clipped. I felt Aunt Rosemary’s eyes on me, full of sympathy.
“Would anyone like a drink?” Miles gestured at our empty glasses.
Petra asked for a mineral water. I shook my head, as did Aunt Rosemary.
Miles left us clustered around the table and strode up to the bar.
“Are you driving back to London tonight?” I asked Petra.
“No.” She glanced toward the bar, where Miles had struck up a conversation with an old man dressed in army fatigues. “We’ll be staying overnight in Salisbury. I want to see the cathedral, and Miles wants to see Stonehenge.”
As we carried on talking, the tension ratcheted up inside me, until I could barely tolerate the pressure. Miles seemed to be getting the slowest service ever at the Royal Goat. Ten minutes had passed, and he still hadn’t returned from the bar.
“Do you know a good lawyer?” Petra asked. “If I get lucky with one of the wine merchants, I’ll need someone to check out the contracts.”
“The only lawyer I know is the firm that deals with the Layton Trust.” I lifted my handbag from the floor into my lap, dug inside, and wrote down the name and number for Simon Crosland. While I was completing the task, I absently listened to Petra and Aunt Rosemary talking.
“This curse thing,” Petra said. “Miles really believes in it, you know.”
“Uh-huh,” said Aunt Rosemary.
“He thinks that Cleo won’t get better unless he breaks the Layton Prophecy. He spends half his time buried in old books, trying to find clues for how to do it.” Petra shook her head, a mix of empathy and frustration on her face.
“Uh-huh,” Aunt Rosemary said again.
Petra turned to me. “I’ve been thinking about what that old black woman in Hermanus said to me.”
“What woman?” Aunt Rosemary cut in.
I flinched. In an instinctive gesture of horror at being caught out, I tried to clap my hand over my mouth. Aunt Rosemary hated to be kept in the dark. She’d be furious at me for not having told her about the extra aspect to the prophecy. The weight the cast made my motion clumsy, and I ended up bashing my bottom lip with the hard edge.
Pain throbbed at my mouth, and I swore out loud.
Miles had finally made his way back from the bar. He shoved the drinks on the table, carelessly enough to spill a puddle over the shiny top. “Are you all right?” he asked, bending down to inspect my face. He touched his fingertips to my lip where I could taste a drop of blood.
Across the table, Petra looked from Miles to me, her face in a furrow. Then she turned to Aunt Rosemary. “Did Alexandria not tell you?”
“I...no...I guess I forgot.” My voice was dreamy. I couldn’t tear my attention from Miles who stood frozen on the spot, gazing down at me. I told myself that he was no good, he didn’t love me, that I needed to keep away from him, but every cell in my body screamed otherwise.
“What is it?” Aunt Rosemary said tartly. “Will someone please tell me?”
“It’s nothing,” I said, staring up at Miles.
“I’m afraid we need to leave now,” Petra said in a tight voice. “We have some more driving to do tonight...a lot more driving.”
Miles finally broke eye contact with me and shot a sharp glance at her. “I only just got you a drink.”
“You seem to have managed to get through most of yours.” She pointed at the half-empty pint on the table.
“Sorry.” Miles shifted on his feet. “I met some friends at the bar.”
“It has been lovely to see you again,” Petra said to me, a little stiffly. “Nice to have met you,” she said to Aunt Rosemary. Then she took Miles by the elbow and hauled him out. When the door slammed behind them, the noise level in the room rose back to normal, as people stopped gaping at Petra and carried on with their paused conversations.
“What was that all about?” Aunt Rosemary asked.
“I’m sorry. I guess I forgot to tell you.” My brows drew together as I tried to recall the details. “A fortune teller in South Africa added something to the Layton Prophecy.”
“What?” She fired the question at me in a rare display of temper.
“She said two things. One, she told Petra to remind us that it’s all twice now. Not just what we think, but every single verse. Two, she said that we took love from Petra’s ancestor by murdering her beloved. The curse is not going to be over until we make up for it by bringing love to Petra.”
Aunt Rosemary stared at me through narrowed eyes. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered. “So that’s why Miles is devouring you with his eyes, and then walking off into the night with Petra on his arm. Why didn’t you tell me before?”
I shrugged, my chest choked with hurt. “I didn’t want to talk about it. He’s made his choice, and I doubt it has anything to do with the Layton Prophecy.” I hesitated, but said nothing more. I’d never told Aunt Rosemary about my suspicions that Mile was trying to harm me, and now the idea seemed foolish. I did my best to forget about the falling rocks at Layton Manor, and the gas leak at Rose Cottage, but hidden deep inside me, a small kernel of fear festered, refusing to go away.
Aunt Rosemary’s rosebud mouth flattened into a thin line, but she left the topic of the addition to the prophecy and my failure to share the information with her alone. I could tell that her internal computer was whirring away.
We waited ten minutes, to make sure we wouldn’t bump into Miles and Petra outside, and then we left the pub and went home. My heart ached as I tried to get to sleep that night. Despite how my pulse had raced when Miles gave me the sultry look in the Royal Goat, his fingertip touching my lip as he dabbed away the blood, I accepted that if he pursued Petra, it must be by choice, not out of necessity.
I couldn’t bring myself to believe that Miles had tried to harm me.
But neither could I believe in the curse.
There was no supernatural evil, just a boring old love triangle.
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Chapter Twenty-four
When I got up in the morning, I found a note from Aunt Rosemary on the kitchen table. “Gone out. Back before lunch. Borrowed your jeans.”
I frowned. Why would Aunt Rosemary have borrowed my jeans? I’d never seen her in trousers, not once in my thirty years.
She reappeared around midday, tired and muddy.
“You’ve been to Layton Manor,” I said as I watched her pulling off her Wellington boots in the hall.
“So I have,” she said. “It’s a mess. I’m surprised that the council doesn’t take legal action to get it torn down.”
“It’s on private land.”
“It’s still a safety hazard,” she insisted.
“What did you go out there for?”
“I’m doing research for Steven and he can’t go himself.”
My brows lifted in amused disbelief. Aunt Rosemary, wearing jeans and hiking up muddy tracks. It had to be true love.
She was acting all casual, but her manner revealed tension. “Steven and I are working on a new theory,” she said. When I pressed her for details, she refused to elaborate.
“Can I help?” I raised my arm, still in a cast. “This will come off next week.”
“Maybe later.” She looked awkward in the dirty jeans as she slammed the door to the under stairs cupboard, after having tossed her rubber boots inside. “We’re just exploring ideas at this point,” she added. “Nothing definite yet.”
From that day on, life at Mill Cottage settled into a pattern. Aunt Rosemary trundled up to Layton Manor in the mornings, while I worked on my interior design course and explored job opportunities on the internet. The cast came off, but my wrist remained sore. Instead of living in Rose Cottage, where memories of Miles would haunt me, I used my bad arm as an excuse for staying with my aunt, unless Steven was visiting.
I spent a lot of time thinking about Miles. Not knowing what between us had been true, and what had been lies, tore me up inside. But as much as I tried, I couldn’t work up hatred for him—only sadness and longing.
The Layton Prophecy Page 24
