She gave him an apologetic smile as she joined him on the grass, leaning her back against the bench. ‘Thank you.’
He quirked his brow but said nothing, pulling the hamper they had brought with them out from beneath the shade of the tree before spreading a blanket out. There was fresh-baked bread, butter and cheese, a flask of coffee and some peaches. ‘Picked fresh this morning, and though they are ripe,’ he said, sniffing the soft fruit, ‘I don’t expect they’ll be anything like what you’re used to. Our English sun is just not strong enough.’
Celeste stretched her face up to the sky, closing her eyes and relishing the heat on her skin. ‘It is a good deal warmer than I expected. I don’t think I have seen a drop of English rain yet.’
‘You will. One merely has to wait a few days.’
Jack handed her a cup of coffee. Celeste tore off a piece of bread, burying her nose in the delicious, yeasty smell of it. ‘Another myth. I was told that the English cannot bake good bread, but this is most acceptable.’
‘A high compliment indeed from a Frenchwoman.’ He handed her a slice of cheese and laughed when she sniffed that too, wrinkling her nose. ‘Try it, you might be surprised.’
She did, and was forced to admit that, like the bread, it was excellent. ‘Though it breaks my French heart to do so,’ she added, smiling over her coffee cup.
‘But you’re half-English, are you not?’
‘I suppose I am, though I don’t feel it. I think one has to be part of a country before one feels any sense of belonging. All this,’ Celeste said, spreading her arms wide at the sweeping view, ‘it feels so alien to me.’
‘Maybe that’s because you’re a Parisian.’
Celeste laughed. ‘When I first arrived in Paris, I felt such an outsider. It was as if everyone but me knew a secret and they were all whispering about it behind my back. Even after fifteen years, I’m still not considered a genuine Parisian. I don’t have that je ne sais quoi, that air about me. To the true Parisians, I will always be an incomer.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Jack said. ‘Paris, it’s always seemed to me, is a city that only reveals itself at night, and even then, you have to know where to look. I always sense the best elements are just round the next corner, or along the next boulevard. In Paris, I always feel as if I’m on the outside looking in. It’s not like London at all.’
‘I have never visited London. I hope to go there before I return to France.’ Celeste broke off another piece of bread and accepted a second piece of cheese which Jack cut for her. ‘You have been away from England a long time,’ she said. ‘Does it still feel like home?’
He paused in the act of quartering a peach. ‘Charlie wants me to buy an estate and settle down. I never did share his love for country life, though he seems to have conveniently forgotten that.’
‘Perhaps it would be different if you had been the eldest son, if Trestain Manor belonged to you and not to your brother?’
Jack laughed. ‘Lord, no, I’d be bored senseless. It was always the army for me, so it’s as well I’m the second son and not the first.’ He handed her the peach. ‘What about you? Have you never thought of going back to live in your fishing village?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t you miss it? I used to miss all this,’ Jack said. ‘Even though I wouldn’t want to live here, it’s my childhood home.’
Celeste stared at the quarter of peach in her hand. ‘The house in Cassis was where I lived. It was never a home.’ Her voice sounded odd, even to her own ears. She was, yet again, on the brink of tears for no reason. It was Jack’s fault. All she wanted him to do was help her unravel the mystery of her mother’s past, but for some reason, he persisted in linking that past with her own. He seemed to have the knack of inflaming her emotions as well as her body. She set the peach down. ‘Paris is my home,’ she said, as if repeating it would make it more true. Not that it needed to be more true. It was true.
She thought of the house where she had grown up. The distinctive creak of the front door. The very different creak of the fifth stair which had a broken tread. The way the floors always seemed to echo when she walked, signalling her presence too loudly. She tried to close her mind to the memories, but they would not stop flowing. It was Jack’s fault. This was all Jack’s fault.
On her last visit, after receiving the letter, she had packed up every one of her mother’s paintings. They lay in crates now, stacked in a corner of her Paris studio. She couldn’t bear to look at them but nor could she bear to dispose of them. The rest of the house she had left as it was.
She shook her head. She was aware of Jack, sipping his coffee, pretending not to study her, but the ghosts of the past had too strong a claim on her. Her mother on the cliff top painting, her hair covered by a horrible cap, her body draped in shapeless brown. Her mother’s face, starkly beautiful in the miniature inside her locket, strained and sad. Her mother’s paintings were all of the coast and the sea which took her. The sea which she had abandoned herself to, without giving Celeste a chance to save her. The beautiful, cruel sea, which her mother had chosen to embrace, rather than her own daughter.
The pain was unexpected. Nothing so clichéd as a stab to the heart; it was duller, weightier, like a heavy blow to the stomach. At least this time I have the opportunity to say goodbye, her mother had written, so certain that Celeste cared so little she would not wish to do the same. With good cause, for Celeste had made it very clear, after Henri died...
A tear rolled down her cheek. Her throat was clogged. She couldn’t speak. She was filled with the most unbearable sadness. What was wrong with her! She never cried. Had never cried. Now, hardly a day went by where she teetered on the verge of stupid, stupid tears.
In the distance, the chime of St Mary’s heralded noon. She dabbed frantically at her eyes with her napkin. She never carried a handkerchief.
‘Celeste?’
Jack! It was his fault for dredging all this up. His fault for making her so on edge. She jumped to her feet and snatched up her sketchbook. ‘I have the headache,’ she said. ‘I have no more paper. I need to rest. I need more charcoal.’
She was fleeing, just as Jack had, after that first kiss, and she did not care. All that mattered was that he did not stop her. She barely noticed in her anxiety to escape that he made absolutely no attempt to do so.
Chapter Five
‘So this is where you’re hiding.’
Celeste forced herself to turn around slowly. Jack stood hesitantly in the doorway, dressed in his customary breeches and boots. She willed the flush of embarrassment she could feel creeping up her neck not to show on her face. ‘It is safe to come in,’ she said. ‘I am not going to descend into a fit of hysterics or stamp my feet or even run away again.’
He strode over to her, his relief obvious. ‘I’m sorry, Celeste,’ he said. ‘It was not my intention to cause you upset yesterday.’
‘Cassis was not a happy place for me when I was growing up,’ she said carefully. ‘I don’t like to talk of it or even think of those days. En effet, I never do. It is in the past where it belongs.’
And she would make sure it remained there. It sounded contrary, considering the accusations she had flung at Jack yesterday, but their cases were not the same, she had decided after another sleepless night. She had come to terms with her past, he had not. What she needed to concentrate on now was dealing with her mother’s past. Which was a separate issue.
Slanting a look at Jack, she was not surprised to catch him studying her, but she was relieved when he nodded his acceptance, albeit reluctantly. ‘Charlie,’ he said, turning his attention to the portrait she had been examining. ‘Aged about five, I think. What brings you to the portrait gallery?’
‘I was interested to see how the estate had been depicted previously, to avoid the risk of replicating any existing works.’
‘Ah, so you’re here purely in the name of artistic research and not at all out of curiosity?’
Celeste smiled. ‘Naturally.’ She turned to the next work, a family portrait, which showed a youthful Jack and Charlie sitting at their parents’ feet. ‘You looked much more alike as children than you do as adults. You both take after your mother rather than your father, I fancy.’
‘So my mother was forever saying. It was a matter of pride to her that Charlie and I bore the McDonald countenance and not the Trestain visage,’ Jack said, reaching out to draw the outline of his mother’s face on the canvas with his finger. ‘She was a Scot, and verrrrry, verrrry proud of the fact,’ he said in a ham-fisted attempt at a Scottish burr.
‘You miss her?’
‘She died when I was in Spain, about six years ago. But, yes, I do miss her. She wanted me to join the Scots Greys, but my father put his foot down on that one. Nevertheless, she always claimed that my fighting spirit as well as my nose came from her side of the family. Here she is, a good deal younger, in her wedding portrait, with my maternal grandfather.’
Celeste eyed the picture of the fierce man in Highland dress. He looked very much like Jack did when he was angry. ‘Would you have had to wear one of those skirts if you joined the—the...’
‘Scots Greys. No, only the Highland regiments wear kilts.’
‘Tant pis. That is a pity. It would suit you uncommonly well, I think,’ Celeste said. ‘You have the most excellent legs for it.’
‘You speak merely as an observant artist, of course?’
She felt herself colour slightly. ‘Naturally. Is there a picture of you wearing your regimental uniform?’
Jack rolled his eyes. ‘In full ceremonial dress, no less, looking like I’ve a poker up my—looking as if I’ve swallowed a poker. Charlie commissioned it when I was promoted. Here, take a quick look if you must.’
He put his arm around her shoulders and steered her to the far end of the small gallery, where the portrait, in its expensive gilt frame, was hung to take best advantage of the light. ‘Your brother must have spent a small fortune on this,’ Celeste said, raising her brows at the artist’s signature. ‘A full-length study. He is obviously very proud of you, Lieutenant-Colonel.’ She waited for Jack’s customary glower at any mention of the army, but to her surprise it did not surface.
He looked very forbidding in the portrait. His hair was cropped much shorter, barely noticeable under the huge crested helmet he wore with its extravagant black horsehair tail. He stood very tall and straight, his hand resting on the hilt of his sabre, his face looking haughtily off into the distance. The scarlet coat was extremely tight-fitting, showing off his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the high, braided collar framing his jaw. White breeches and long, glossy black boots drew attention to his muscular legs. ‘Which regiment did you belong to?’
‘Dragoons,’ Jack said abstractedly. ‘Of course we didn’t wear those ridiculous helmets or the white breeches when going into battle. What do you think of it?’
‘As an artist? It is a technically flawless work. As a viewer, it speaks unmistakably of authority. It depicts you with a—a certain hauteur. I think I would be just a little bit intimidated by the man in the portrait. I would of a certainty obey his orders unquestioningly. If I was one of his men, that is,’ she added quickly.
Jack laughed. ‘I doubt you would follow even Napoleon’s orders.’
‘No, I would have made a very bad soldier. But you, you look—bien—exactly what you were, a high-ranking British officer, used to unwavering obedience and with the air of a Greek god, gazing down on us mere mortals.’
‘Good grief, you make me sound like a pompous ass.’
‘No, not pompous, supremely confident. Very sure of yourself.’
‘I suppose I was.’
Jack was staring at the portrait as if it were of a stranger, just as she had stared at the miniature of her mother only the other day. She was still struggling to equate the beautiful woman in the portrait with the Maman in her mind’s eye. Art could obscure reality as well as portray it. Which was the real Blythe Marmion? Which was the real Jack Trestain? Had the regal, commanding officer in the portrait ever existed? Jack was asking himself the same question, judging by the expression on his face.
‘This likeness was taken less than three years ago,’ he said. ‘I left the army less than three months ago, yet it seems as if a lifetime has passed. I struggle to recognise myself. I can barely remember being the man in the portrait. I thought, you know, that if I re-enlisted, I might— I was fine then. Seeing this—I can’t imagine it now.’
He turned away, heading across the room to the farthest point away from the portrait. I was fine then. For the first time, he had admitted that he was not fine now. What had happened to him? More than ever, she longed to know, but Celeste bit back the questions she was desperate to ask, the answers she would have demanded only a few short days ago. Memories were painful things. Memories were private things. Some memories, as she had learnt only yesterday, were too painful to be shared.
It was like Pandora’s box, her memory. Every time the lid creaked open a fraction, it became more and more difficult to close. Things she wanted to forget wriggled free. Things that reminded her she had not always been the person she was so proud of now. She did not want to be reminded of that person. She would never again be that person.
And Jack? With Jack it was very different. The soldier in the portrait had been a respected and admired officer, one mentioned in despatches, whatever that meant. The man he had become was fighting a different battle now. He had his demons, just as she had her ghosts. No doubt she was just a foolish artist, but she admired this man’s bravery a great deal more.
She rejoined him in front of another full-length painting. ‘And who is this remarkable specimen?’ Celeste asked him brightly.
‘This is my father’s brother, also called Jack,’ he replied. ‘As you can see, aside from our name, we have precious little in common.’
The man was fat, fair and flamboyant in a claret-velvet suit, gazing winsomely out at the viewer, a silver jug in one hand, a book in the other. ‘Household Accounts,’ Celeste read in puzzlement. ‘How very strange. Usually when a man holds a book in a portrait it is to symbolise his learning.’
Jack smiled wryly. ‘In this particular case it symbolises his notorious thriftiness. This next lady now, my Aunt Christina, is my mother’s youngest sister, known as Auntie Kirsty. She is married to a real Highland laird and lives in a genuine Highland castle. Charlie and I used to love visiting them. It was a real adventure for us. My mother hated it up there, for it was freezing cold, winter and summer, and Auntie Kirsty is one of those women who hasn’t much of an opinion of soap and water. Frankly,’ Jack said, grinning, ‘Auntie Kirstie smells exactly like her deerhounds when they’ve been out in the rain. But she’s one of the best fishermen I’ve ever come across, and she can shoot better than almost any trooper I’ve ever trained. You can see the castle in the background there, and this dog here, that’s Calum, her favourite deerhound of the time, though most likely long gone.’ His smile faded. ‘I’ve not been there in many years.’
‘Now you are no longer tied to the army, you could visit her, if you wished.’
‘No. Auntie Kirstie is almost as bad as my mother was for basking in my exploits.’
‘You mean she was proud of you?’
‘They all were, and I was arrogant enough to think I deserved it.’ Jack reached out to touch his aunt’s face, the same gesture he’d used on the portrait of his mother. ‘I considered myself a good soldier.’
‘And the Duke of Wellington agreed,’ Celeste reminded him.
‘Yes, he did, but it all depends on your perspective.’
He spoke not bitterly, but resignedly. His expression was bleak, the despair not so marked as on that first, ungu
arded day at the lake, but it was manifestly still there in his eyes. She longed to comfort him, but how? The more he said about the army, the more she realised his relationship with it was complex, perhaps impossible for anyone who was not a soldier to understand. He loved the army, he clearly had loved being a soldier, but he spoke of those days as if it were a different person. As if it was not him. As if he would not allow it to have been him. And so perhaps they were kindred spirits after all.
The door to the portrait gallery burst open, and a small whirlwind of a boy came hurtling in, making a beeline for Jack. ‘Please will you take me fishing, Uncle Jack?’
‘Robert, make your bow to Mademoiselle Marmion,’ Jack said, detaching the grubby little hand which was clutching the pocket of his breeches. ‘This, Mademoiselle, is my nephew.’
‘How do you do?’ The child made a perfunctory bow before turning his beseeching countenance back to his uncle. ‘Will you take me fishing? Only Papa was supposed to take me but I think he has quite forgotten, and even though Papa says he always caught the biggest fish when you were little...’
Jack laughed. ‘Oh, he did, did he?’
Robert nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, and Papa would not lie, Uncle Jack.’
Jack dropped down on to his knees to be level with the child whose eyes were the exact same shade of dark brown, Celeste noted, as his own. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you are quite right. Papa would not lie.’
‘But you mustn’t feel bad, because he told me you were the much better shot.’ Robert patted Jack’s shoulder consolingly, making Celeste stifle a giggle. ‘Papa said that when you were only six, which is just a little bit bigger than me, you shot a pigeon this high up in the sky,’ he said, standing on his tiptoes and stretching his arm above his head. ‘Only Papa said that it was very naughty of you, because you weren’t supposed to have the gun, and Grandpapa was very angry, and he gave you a sound whipping, and Papa too, even though he did not shoot the gun, and I think that’s not fair. Do you think that’s fair, Uncle Jack, do you?’
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