Last Voyage of the Valentina

by Santa Montefiore

  Finally, as Alba poured herself a cup of coffee, Margo voiced her fury. “My dear girl,” she said in a tone that suggested to Fitz that she might have once been in the army, or police force at the very least. “You are not thinking of going to church dressed like that.”

  “Oh, I am,” Alba replied, unflustered. Fitz’s eggs and bacon suddenly lost their appeal. He took a sip of coffee instead and waited for the row that was about to ensue.

  “No, you are not,” retorted Margo, articulating each word slowly to be as frightening as possible. But Alba was no longer a child and that sort of manner only encouraged her to behave worse.

  “Why?” she said, turning around with her cup of coffee and taking the place next to Fitz. “Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s irrelevant whether or not I like it. It’s unsuitable for church.”

  “I think God will love me as I am,” she said, buttering a piece of toast.

  “Reverend Weatherbone won’t.”

  “What’s he going to do? Throw me out?” she challenged. Fitz tried to mediate. A big mistake.

  “Darling,” he began valiantly. “Perhaps if you wear a coat you’ll please yourself as well as Margo.” To him that seemed a satisfactory solution. Margo did not agree.

  “I’m sorry, Fitz, but it’s not dignified. We’re the first family of this village and it’s up to us to set an example to the rest of the community.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” exclaimed Alba. “No one’s interested in what I wear. I haven’t been to church for years. They should just be grateful that I’m there.”

  “While you’re in my house, my girl, you’ll abide by my rules. If you want to flounce about in next to nothing you may do so in London, in that boat of yours, but not here where we are respected.”

  Fitz hunched his shoulders. He knew that the reference to her boat would have infuriated Alba. He held his breath. Alba pursed her lips and chewed on her toast a moment. There was silence. Caroline and Miranda tried to intervene on behalf of their mother.

  “Do you have to come to church?” Caroline asked.

  “You could take Summer out for a ride,” Miranda suggested.

  “I’m coming to church and I’ll wear whatever I want to wear. It’s none of anyone else’s business.”

  Now Margo resorted to her husband, dragging him out from behind the paper like a reluctant tortoise from his shell.

  “Do support me, Thomas!”

  Thomas straightened up. “What’s the problem?”

  “Well, have you seen what your daughter is wearing?” Alba hated it when Margo referred to her as Thomas’s daughter, in spite of the battle she fought to distance herself from her stepmother.

  “I think she looks charming,” said Thomas. Alba couldn’t contain her delight. Her father’s reaction was entirely unexpected. Rarely had he sided with her.

  “Are you all right, Thomas?” said Margo. “You’ve gone a jolly strange color.”

  “Perhaps a coat over the top would be appropriate for Reverend Weatherbone,” he said, without answering his wife, for he didn’t feel at all well. He thought of the portrait locked up in the safe. Valentina still reached him from that dark place, in the face of his daughter.

  “Oh, all right, I’ll wear a coat,” Alba conceded happily. “Perhaps you could lend me one, Margo. I’m afraid the one I brought with me will be as inappropriate as my skirt.” She placed the last piece of toast in her mouth. “Delicious!” she exclaimed.

  They congregated in the hall, Miranda and Caroline in plain brown coats and hats, and Margo in a tweed suit with a large brooch of flowers on her breast. Thomas wore a suit and Fitz, who had been brought up in the country, was highly appropriate in a jacket of muted greens, a sober tie, and fedora hat. Alba bounced down the stairs in the shapeless camel-hair coat that Margo had lent her. She had buttoned it up to placate the Buffalo, but once in church she intended to undo it. She strode up to Fitz and took his hand. Then she whispered into his ear, “When you see me praying I’ll be thinking of making love to you!” Fitz chuckled. Margo sniffed her disapproval; if there was one thing she abhorred it was whispering.

  Thomas drove his car with his wife and their two daughters while Fitz drove Alba in his Volvo with Sprout hanging out of the rear window panting into the air.

  “I hope Reverend Weatherbone is ready for Alba,” said Margo, trying to make light of the situation.

  “She still manages to look indecent in your coat, Mummy,” Caroline chirped from the back seat.

  “Fitz is so handsome,” Miranda gushed. “He looks lovely in that hat.”

  “What does he see in Alba?” Caroline asked. “They’re so different.”

  “Let’s just be thankful he’s willing to take her on,” Margo said, glancing at her husband, then adding tactfully, “She might be unconventional but she’s lively. I bet life is never dull with her.”

  “She might be lively, but no one has a temper like Alba,” said Caroline. “I hope Fitz knows what he’s got himself into.”

  “I bet he hasn’t seen her temper yet!” said Miranda.

  “God help the poor man,” said Margo under her breath. She glanced again at her husband. But he was miles away.

  Beechfield church was as one would expect: quaint, picturesque, and very old. It was built of brick and flint, with a wooden bell tower where Fred Timble, Hannah Galloway, and Verity Forthright had held the much-coveted positions of bell ringers for over thirty years. Margo took her duty as lady of the village with the utmost seriousness. She was on the list for doing the church flowers once a month and made sure that her creations were the most elaborate. That was quite a challenge, for Mabel Hancock cultivated a stunning garden and her arrangements were always adventurous. When it was Mabel’s turn, Margo’s stomach would churn all the way to church until she had satisfied herself that she hadn’t been outdone by a woman of the village.

  As they arrived the bells rang out, drawing the villagers, dressed in their finest, to worship. Socializing was left for afterward when prayers had been said and consciences cleared. Alba took Fitz’s hand and followed her father and stepmother. When they weren’t looking she unbuttoned her coat. “What are you doing?” Fitz asked, concerned. He didn’t want to have to listen to another row.

  “Giving the vicar a lesson in fashion,” she replied.

  “Don’t you think you should…”

  “No,” she answered brusquely. “I don’t care what the Buffalo thinks. I’m twenty-six for God’s sake.” He couldn’t argue with her. “This way you can look at my legs,” she added with a smirk. “I want to feel you looking at them.”

  She flashed him the most alluring smile and he couldn’t help but smile back. She was irresistible. His heart buckled and he tried to forget that earlier feeling of emptiness. Perhaps if they made love again it would be different. Maybe she had been nervous and all that moaning and thrashing about was simply covering up.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be thinking of nothing but your legs,” he replied as they walked through the large wooden door and up the aisle.

  The church was full. Only the front pew was empty, reserved for the Arbuckles as it was every Sunday. Thomas stood aside for his wife and two younger daughters, who filed past him and sat down. He nodded at Fitz, the kind of nod a man only gives to another man, a nod of silent complicity, and sat down, leaving the last two places free for him and Alba.

  Alba sat with the coat falling apart at the thighs. She admired the patterns on her sugar-almond tights, bought for forty pence at the Army and Navy Store. She felt Fitz’s eyes on them and relived their lovemaking. What she remembered most, though, was his kiss. It was somehow more tender than any kiss she had ever had before. She had felt embarrassed. It had been too intimate. It had frightened her. But she had liked it. Maybe he would kiss her like that again. If he did, perhaps she’d manage to control the unbearable sensation of losing her stomach, like she did every time she drove too fast over that bridge outside Kings Worthy.


  Suddenly Reverend Weatherbone swept into the nave. He definitely swept, robes flying behind him as if a great wind blew up the aisle. His hair was a shock of gray, wild and long, dancing on an imaginary wind like his robes. His face was illuminated with enthusiasm, his eyes blazing, his mouth wide and smiling. Alba had grown up with the dour, self-important Reverend Bolt. She had not expected his replacement to resemble a mad scientist. His voice was mesmerizing, bouncing off the walls in vibrant echoes. Not a single person moved. It was as if he had enchanted them all with his awesome presence. Alba hastily threw the coat over her knees. He turned his eyes to her and she gasped beneath the weight of his gaze. “Oh God!” she exclaimed.

  “Thank you, Miss Arbuckle, for the promotion,” he said and a light, nervous titter rippled through the congregation. Alba blushed a deep scarlet and lowered her eyes. She gulped and glanced across at her stepmother.

  Margo’s expression was one of deep, unfailing admiration. Here he stands before these good villagers, she thought to herself smugly, and he’s lunching with us! She must let Mabel know that the reverend was a guest at her table. Totally harmless, of course, she reassured herself, aware of where she was. Childish rivalry is not a sin.

  Alba had only attended church to irritate the Buffalo in her short skirt and to show off her “boyfriend.” She had not intended to listen. Not for a moment. God was not someone she welcomed into her life. If she thought about Him at all, it was out of guilt. She had grown up with Him, as they all had in that small, rural community of Beechfield. But then she had outgrown Him. Of course, she knew there was some sort of higher power. Her mother was up there somewhere. She certainly wasn’t dead in a coffin buried in the ground for the worms to eat. There was some sort of spirit life but she never let herself wonder about it for too long, mainly because if her mother could see her she would no doubt disapprove of the promiscuous and decadent life she led, which left Alba, momentarily, very unhappy and riddled with self-loathing. No, better to live in the present. However, Reverend Weatherbone captured her attention. She didn’t take her eyes off him for a second. He strode the nave, arms flapping, robes flying, hair waving about as if it had a life of its own, with such charisma that even she, the most skeptical of the congregation, believed that God must be speaking through him directly to her.

  She didn’t think about sex. She didn’t dwell on Fitz’s kiss. For once in her life, Alba Arbuckle thought about God.

  12

  W hen the service was over Reverend Weatherbone stood in the porch shaking the congregants’ hands as they filed out. Margo found herself behind Mabel Hancock. She tensed competitively as the reverend congratulated Mabel on the flowers she had arranged the week before and felt compelled to interrupt, desperate for Mabel to know that the reverend was lunching at Beechfield Park. “Oh yes, couldn’t do without her.”

  “Nor you, Mrs. Arbuckle,” said the reverend diplomatically.

  “An invigorating service.” Margo returned the compliment.

  “I’m glad to see Alba attending today.”

  “Yes, she’s down for the weekend with her new boyfriend. We’re all rather hoping this one’s for keeps. I’m glad you will meet her properly over lunch. Come whenever you are ready.” She smiled at Mabel in triumph.

  “My mind boggles at the things young people wear these days,” said Mabel, as she walked away, shaking her head.

  Margo turned to see Alba greeting the vicar, her coat open and flapping in the wind, revealing her small skirt and patterned tights. She stalked over to intervene. She would have to make a joke of it. Why hadn’t the silly girl buttoned up her coat? To Margo’s astonishment, as she approached, she realized that their entire conversation now revolved around that dreaded slip of material and that the vicar was voicing, very loudly and with great enthusiasm, his approval.

  Alba’s little skirt had also aroused the interest of the invisible bell ringers: Fred Timble, Hannah Galloway, and Verity Forthright. Once they had finished their highly skilled job, which, they lamented, went unnoticed by the majority of the community, they sat down on the wooden benches, high above the now dwindling congregants, to catch their breath and discuss the service. They didn’t waste time dissecting the sermon or admiring the flowers, or indeed the village characters whose familiarity now bred a kind of affectionate contempt, but zoomed straight in on Alba Arbuckle.

  “You could see the look of disapproval on Mrs. Arbuckle’s face,” commented Verity, who never had a good word to say. “Even with that long coat you couldn’t miss that skirt and those boots. In church of all places!”

  Fred had been infatuated with Margo for many years. He thought her a real lady. Gracious, capable, dignified, and very upper-class. He liked the way she spoke, that old-fashioned articulation of words that set her so far apart from everyone else in Beechfield. Once or twice she had deigned to speak to him. She had praised his bell ringing, told him he did a terrific job. “It sets everyone’s mind in the right frame for worship,” she had said. He had remembered that, word for word. But she thought less of him ever since she had discovered him having an illegal drink and cigarette with fourteen-year-old Alba, in the Hen’s Legs pub. She had marched in, face pinched and angry, and hauled the teenager away. “Mr. Timble, you disappoint me!” she had exclaimed. It still hurt to remember it. “I would have thought you more honorable than this. She’s a child and you are leading her astray.” She had dragged Alba out by the ear. A month or so later, when Alba had sneaked back in again, she had told him she had had every privilege withdrawn: no sweets, no outings, and a ride every day of the holidays on Miranda’s skittish pony. She had added with a wicked grin that her legs had grown so sore she could barely close them. “Serve the old Buffalo right if she raises me to be a tart!” she had said with a raucous laugh. They had taken care after that to hide around the corner.

  “Alba’s always pushed the limits,” he said in response to Verity’s comment. “Mrs. Arbuckle’s long-suffering.”

  “Oh, Alba’s just young. She’s enjoying herself, poor lamb,” said Hannah, who had the gift of seeing only the good in everyone. “I thought she looked lovely. She’s a beautiful girl and she has a nice new boyfriend.” She patted her gray bun to make sure it was all in place. She was a neatly dressed, full-bodied woman who liked to look her best on a Sunday. She was getting too old for bell ringing, she had decided; one or two more years and she’d be too doddery to climb the narrow staircase. “She’ll probably marry that nice young man and settle down. They all seem to in the end. My granddaughter…”

  Verity wasn’t interested in Hannah’s granddaughter. She was bitter because she hadn’t had children, just a cantankerous old husband who was more work than any baby would have been.

  “Oh, he’ll be out on his ear,” she said acerbically. “I know Alba’s type. She’s had more lovers than I’ve had hot dinners!”

  “Verity!” Hannah exclaimed, appalled.

  “Verity!” Fred repeated. Sometimes they forgot they were in the company of a man.

  “It’s disrespectful to speak of her like that, in this place!” Hannah hissed in a whisper. “You know nothing about it!”

  “I do,” said Verity, standing up and straightening her pleated skirt. “Edith hears everything that goes on up at the Park. Give her a little sherry and out it all comes. Not that I’d dream of asking.” She pursed her lips, irritated that she had been forced into betraying Edith, who had cooked at Beechfield Park for the last fifty-two years. Now, of course, she was unable to stop herself. “They’ve had some terrible rows, you know. Edith says that Alba and Mrs. Arbuckle are at loggerheads all the time and that Captain Arbuckle just sticks his head in the sand like an ostrich. He feels guilty, she says, that she hasn’t a real mother. It’s not his fault, of course, but he carries it all on his shoulders. He looks much older than his years, don’t you think? Mrs. Arbuckle is far more interested in her own daughters. After all, blood is blood, isn’t it? And her daughters give her no trouble. Not like Alba.
”

  “Edith should keep her mouth shut if she knows what’s good for her!” said Hannah in an unusually brisk tone of voice.

  “She’s very discreet. She only tells me.”

  “And you tell everyone else!” said Hannah, putting her arms through her coat sleeves. “Right, I’m off for lunch.”

  “And I’m off to the Hen’s Legs,” said Fred, shrugging on his old sheepskin.

  “Rev Weatherbone is lunching at the Park today. I wonder what he’ll make of Alba. I don’t believe they’ve met before.”

  “Well,” huffed Hannah, making for the door. “If anyone will find out, Verity, it’s you!”

  Back at Beechfield Park Margo was seating everyone for lunch. Cook had spent all morning sweating over roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, which were always especially crispy, and an array of vegetables cooked al dente. The gravy was thick and brown, her own recipe, which she refused to share with anyone, even Verity Forthright, who had begged for it on a number of occasions.

  Cook was pretty unshockable. She had lived more than half her life with the Arbuckles and had seen everything, from Alba’s tantrums to the boys she had kissed behind the hedges in the garden when as a teenager she had profited from the tennis tournaments and pony club camps that her stepmother had held for Caroline and Miranda. However, the scrap of cloth Alba had worn to breakfast had managed to shock her. Beneath that excuse for a skirt, Alba’s legs were long and somehow awfully tarty in those boots. No wonder Mrs. Arbuckle refused to allow her to attend church without covering up. Therefore it came as a terrible shock when the good vicar arrived for lunch, making jokes about her wardrobe. Wasn’t he a man of God?

  Indeed, as Cook was serving, pretending to mind her own business, she couldn’t help but hear the odd snippet of conversation while they helped themselves to beans and potatoes. The vicar was seated between Mrs. Arbuckle and Alba, a dreadful mistake on the part of the hostess, Cook thought, for when she was sitting down, Alba’s little skirt disappeared completely. She might as well have been sitting in her knickers. It wasn’t right for a man of God to gaze at a girl’s thighs. Let alone talk about them.