Aphrodite's Tears

by Hannah Fielding

  Oriel nodded. ‘He told me I would need to wait here for Kyrios Lekkas, yes.’ Then she added casually: ‘He also mentioned that there was a woman who left last night. Who was she?’

  Irini shifted uneasily, her hand on the door handle. ‘It was a French lady, Chantal.’

  ‘Did she work for Kyrios Lekkas?’

  Irini nodded. ‘Né. She was a student helper, part of that group who are digging up the old temple. Sometimes she helped at the olive press, too, in the office.’

  Oriel remembered Stavros Petrakis explaining in his letter that there was another site being excavated inland. Some members of her dive team would be helping out there when the weather was too rough to be down on the wreck.

  ‘Why did the woman leave? Did she receive bad news from France?’

  Irini shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but it was very sudden.’ She stared at Oriel with large, dark eyes. ‘It is a sign of kaki tichy, bad luck.’

  Oriel bit her lip, as superstitious beliefs were not part of her own thinking, but she wondered how far the maid would go in elaborating on what she had been saying to Kyrillos. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘The old gods are still powerful on Helios. They control people’s fate here. It is so, Kyria, trust me.’ Seeing Oriel’s barely concealed sceptical expression, Irini lowered her voice. ‘I know that it is better to lose an eye than to get a bad name, and I don’t wish to speak out of turn, but you seem like a nice young lady and—’

  Irini broke off mid-speech as they heard Kyrillos calling her, and she scurried out of the dressing room with a sheepish expression on her face. The door closed behind her and Oriel pressed a hand to her throat, feeling the quickening of her pulse. What had Irini been about to say? Then her mind drifted back to what she had overheard earlier: the maid’s whispered mutterings about Hades. Surely Irini didn’t believe that the ancient mythological god of the underworld had been responsible for scaring people off the island? Ignorance and superstition. Was it possible that in this day and age people were still ruled by the gods of myth and legend?

  Oriel felt in a curiously divided mood. This place was riddled with dark secrets. Phrases had a dramatic quality – omens seemed to be hidden in every word; a sense of Greek tragedy fluttered in the air. She was glad to be here, on this savagely beautiful island that beckoned with its sense of mystery and antiquity, yet a strange feeling clutched at her heart, a sort of enchantment that made her feel uncomfortable.

  Shrugging off her gloomy thoughts, Oriel took out a jade-coloured sleeveless dress from her overnight case and shook it loose. It was understated and well cut but feminine, and just right for a meeting. The steam of the bath would help the few creases drop out. It was an old trick her mother had taught her and it had never let her down. Oriel then proceeded to take out miniature samples of shampoo, conditioner, soap and body cream from a make-up bag. Her hand luggage always contained everything she would need if she were stranded somewhere for forty-eight hours. With her job, Oriel was often sent to places off the beaten track and so had learnt to be prepared. There were certain creature comforts she found it hard to be without.

  Oriel went into the adjoining bathroom. It was smaller but just as luxurious as the main dressing room, with similar tilework on the floor and walls. It had a sunken bathtub in the middle, with a sink in blue stone. Her limbs ached. She had been travelling since the early hours of the morning and felt hot and sticky. The bath looked like heaven. Oriel had always preferred baths to showers, even in the heat – there was something so much more relaxing about having a long soak.

  She hung up her dress and let the hot water run, filling the small room with steam for a few minutes, and then added the cold with the bubblebath she’d found on the side. Then she lay in the blue tub in a deliciously scented warm veil of bubbles, soaking away the fatigue of the day, lulled by the soft, persistent chorus of the cicadas outside the window as evening began to fall, singing their farewell to the setting sun. She’d better get dressed – it would be mortifying if Damian Lekkas came back and she was not ready for their meeting. According to Yorgos Christodoulou, she was already on shaky ground and, having learnt that one woman had just fled the island in unceremonious haste, Oriel did not want to give her prospective employer any reason to annul her contract. True, the kamariera, Irini, seemed even more dramatic in her pronouncements than Yorgos with his dark insinuations. Still, why had this woman, Chantal, left the island so hastily?

  Oriel stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in one of the huge towels. All the dust and grime of the journey was gone, and her skin felt smooth and silky as she stepped into white lace lingerie. After sitting down at the dressing table in the main room, she dried her long, pale-blonde hair with the dryer, then brushed it until it was shining, weaving it into a plait that she twisted and pinned at the nape of her neck, all the while pondering on the gossip she had heard since her arrival only a few hours ago.

  Oriel looked at herself critically in the mirror, wondering whether or not to put on make-up. Having good skin, she often didn’t bother with it, particularly as it was not practical for work. Perhaps because of that, she delighted in having the opportunity to indulge her feminine side and having lovely clothes was her specific weakness. If she were to spend her days knee-deep in dirt and covered in dust, Oriel reasoned, she could at least take pleasure in dressing nicely in her time off.

  Large green eyes with glittering brown flecks stared back at her from the glass, their long dark lashes in arresting contrast to her hair. Deciding less was more, she touched some pink gloss to her soft full lips and some highlighter to her high cheekbones, emphasizing the good bone structure of her heart-shaped face. Finally, she slipped on her dress. As expected, the steam had relaxed the few wrinkles and the rich material moulded her slim figure to perfection, hugging her slight curves in all the right places. The warm jade of the silk jersey was well suited to her colouring, reflecting her eyes and giving them a mysterious quality. Yes, she thought, she looked older than her age and subtly sophisticated enough to meet the island’s dragon. Confidence was what she needed; now she looked the part.

  Oriel walked out of the bathroom and back into the domed hall. The whole place looked deserted, unwelcoming and somewhat sinister. You’re being ridiculous, she told herself. It’s just a house. She was about to retreat to the guest room, remembering she’d been told to ring the bell, when a voice stopped her.

  ‘Ah, Despinis Anderson. I see that Kyrillos and Irini have looked after you well. I hope you found everything you needed.’

  Oriel looked up abruptly to find Yorgos coming down the stairs, back from whatever business he had left to attend to. His hands were in his pockets, his black eyes crinkled in a cordial smile.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘The Kyrios is on his way. He went to Athens by boat and is already back at the island. There’s a mooring at the foot of the cliff, behind the house, so he won’t be long now. I’ll take you to the salóni, where you will be comfortable waiting for him. Were you given a glass of water?’

  ‘Yes, thanks, I’m fine.’

  ‘Irini makes delicious lemonade, and what about some of our special melomakarona? They’re our traditional walnut biscuits made with currants grown on the island.’

  ‘I will gladly try Irini’s lemonade, thank you, but no biscuits. Perhaps later.’

  A rush of footsteps sounded on the flagstones and, as if by magic, Irini appeared. Yorgos gave her his orders, then, turning to Oriel, he smiled again. ‘I hope your meeting with the Kyrios goes as well as you hope. Remember, he can be difficult and moody so if you’re successful today, be assured you can always come to me directly with any problems as he is not always so approachable. I’m sure I’ll be able to sort things out for you.’

  Oriel almost winced at his quietly patronizing speech. Oh, how self-satisfied the man was! ‘How very magnanimous of you,’ she said softly.

  Yorgos either missed the edge of sarcasm in her voice or chose to i
gnore it. ‘We have a saying in Greece: help me, so that I can help you, so that we can climb the mountain. Cooperation is everything, Despinis Anderson.’

  Seeing as he was so eager to be helpful, Oriel decided to put it to the test. There was another thing she’d been wondering about. ‘I’ve not seen Kyria Lekkas as yet. Am I to meet her as well?’

  He gave a vacant smile and shook his head. ‘The Kyrios’s cousin usually rests at this time of the day.’

  ‘No, his wife, I mean.’

  The estate manager raised an eyebrow, his jet-black eyes reflecting a curious hint of mockery. ‘The Kyrios is a widower, Despinis Anderson. Has been for the past two years. Come, I’ll take you to the salóni now.’ With that, he set off across the hallway, leaving Oriel following in his wake, thoughtfully digesting this new piece of information. Damian Lekkas was becoming an increasingly complicated figure by the minute.

  Oriel followed Yorgos down a spectacular passage paved in beige-coloured marble, past white statues and busts standing on plinths, the figures seeming to watch their progress like mute sentinels. Paintings of mythological characters hung on the walls, and Oriel’s eyes drank in the exquisite neoclassical renderings as they moved past each one. At one point they turned a corner and she concluded she must be in another wing of the imposing residence, somewhere at the back of the house. Eventually Yorgos stopped at a pair of tall walnut doors and opened them with a flourish. Oriel understood the ceremoniousness of this gesture once she was in the room, and she gave a small gasp.

  The drawing room was long and high and very large, its many windows facing the sea. It opened on to an enormous terrace with steps to the sprawling garden beyond. Like the hall, the ceiling was reminiscent of the vaulted roof of a church, and striking paintings, rare banners and fabrics covered the white walls. At the far right was a niche crowded with ancient Greek vases and terracotta urns. Priceless-looking antique jugs and figurines had place of honour on the white marble mantelpiece of an enormous fireplace. Sofas, cushions and chairs, upholstered in blue floral fabrics that reflected the ocean and the vivid azure sky, gave the room a serene elegance that to some might have appeared austere. In a corner by one of the tall windows stood a very large bronze telescope, presiding over a magnificent view of the island and sea. Not for the first time Oriel tried to imagine what the master of this vast domain must be like, owning everything he surveyed. One of the feudal agrótes, no doubt: landowners who ruled in these remote parts of the Ionian Sea. Yes, she was sure that Damian Lekkas was very much lord and master of this land – a daunting thought in the twentieth century.

  Yorgos had been standing silently beside her while she surveyed the room. ‘I see that you are impressed,’ he said finally.

  Oriel nodded slowly. ‘Yes, it is very grand. So many treasures …’ she said, almost pensively. What had she signed up for? Surrounded by such awesome antiquities, her previous hesitancy returned as she wondered if she would be up to the job.

  ‘I’d better leave you now,’ announced Yorgos. ‘By all means have a look at the garden. It is full of exotic trees and plants that the Kyrios, and his ancestors before him, imported from far-off lands. It’s a great source of pride to him and he often tends to the plants himself. At this time when the sun is setting it is even more impressive.’ With that, he retreated to the double doors and closed them behind him, leaving her alone.

  Oriel moved on to the terrace with its imposing columns and wrought-iron lanterns and stood by the stone balustrade. The sun had sunk below the horizon and given place to a rosy twilight. An iridescence glowed across the whole sky. Drenched in golden light, the view was stunning: beyond the garden and the sea, the outline of green hills and crags fell away to the dark blue waters, while in the distance the island’s houses seemed to rise straight from the living rock; the picture was so surreal that she wondered if she was dreaming. Dominating the view, the mountain Typhoeus seemed closer from here, shrouded in a cloud of haze, like a blot on the horizon. The Secret Mountain, she thought, remembering the Enid Blyton adventure book she had read again and again as a child, where for years a secret and strange tribe of people had made their home in the centre of a mountain.

  She descended the polished white marble steps and wandered into the shadowy garden, weaving her way between the dark green foliage of the lemon trees and bushy mastics. In the tangled undergrowth the birds were sleepily gossiping while the short dusk lasted. Oriel passed a small pond with the statue of a beautiful nymph standing among the water lilies and an old weeping willow spilling into the shiny water. A breeze brought in gusts of scent: of blue sage and thyme, wild jasmine, frangipani and magnolia, which lingered in the air, teasing her senses. It was a wild heart of a garden, the kind you would find in ancient Greek legends, where fauns and satyrs fluted to each other in the dusk. Oriel took a deep breath and the atmosphere of Helios seemed to flow into her veins like a heady wine. The almost deafening sound of the cicadas matched the excited beat of her heart, held by the magic of the island.

  It was getting dark. The last green tint of evening had disappeared, but Oriel still moved further into the garden among the dense green masses of exotic foreign trees and giant-fronded ferns. From the terrace she had noticed that there were steps beyond the lush grounds she was walking through, which she presumed led to the sea. She moved onwards as if seduced and unable to help herself. The whispering waves called to her and she could feel the salt on her lips.

  She had almost emerged from the dense part of the garden into a moonlit clearing when suddenly her heart was in her throat …

  CHAPTER 2

  A shadow moved among the green leaves. A rush of heat prickled all over Oriel as, in that moment, she recalled the dark rumours she had heard about this place: the women who had decided suddenly to leave the island, superstitious fears … murders. The shadow moved again and she stared up at the tall, dark figure that stood a few feet away from her, framed by the splayed branches of two lemon trees. Though his features were shrouded in darkness, she could just make out his square broad shoulders. He took a step forward and, as he did so, moonlight fell on one half of his face.

  Oriel felt as if she had been struck by invisible lightning, the blood draining from her body, and her legs seemed made from cotton wool. It couldn’t be! Those bright and glowing slate-grey eyes were quite unmistakable … once seen, never forgotten, she told herself with stunned bewilderment, at least not by her.

  ‘It is you,’ he murmured, his eyes glinting with something unfathomable. He spoke impeccable English in that deep foreign voice imprinted on her memory. ‘But then how could it be any other, with that flaxen hair that looks as if it’s been woven with the silver rays of the moon?’ He smiled languidly. ‘It’s good to see you again, Calypso. Or should I say Despinis Anderson? We never were properly introduced, were we?’ He didn’t bother to come forward but remained where he was, his shoulder propped against one of the trees, arms folded across his chest.

  His eyes narrowed like those of a jungle animal as he watched Oriel standing there, holding her breath as if suspended in time. He spoke again quietly, coolly now, a sardonic veil covering whatever expression had kindled at the first stunned impact of their meeting. ‘Remember me?’ Struck dumb, Oriel’s eyes were wide with disbelief. Surely this wasn’t the man she’d agreed to work with for the next few months? It couldn’t be! Her mind had to be playing tricks on her.

  ‘Let me refresh your memory, dear Calypso.’ He spoke again, this time in an even tone, and there was a touch of flint in his gaze that belied his smile. ‘A brief, but hopefully pleasant, interlude in your carefree student days. We hardly spoke, of course, on that enjoyable night in question but, if I remember correctly, you were on a dig.’

  Oriel fumbled for something to say. Of course she remembered. The way her heart raced just from his proximity was testament to that. The sheer size of him, with those broad shoulders and massive chest … his mere silhouette had a thrilling familiarity.

  How m
any times in the past had she wished that he would walk into her life again? How many nights had he haunted her dreams as she searched hungrily in the dark for his lips, his arms, craving his touch? And now he was here, standing in front of her after all these years, opening the floodgates to all those memories and dreams, and she felt nothing but cold shock and panic. She stepped away instinctively, her heart thudding beneath the silk of her dress.

  ‘Why are you hiding from me, Calypso? Haven’t you missed me?’ There was a glint of mockery in his smile.

  At this, Oriel found her voice. ‘Of course I remember you,’ she answered, ignoring his second question. She made a valiant attempt to pull herself together, stepping forward and trying her best to give a professional smile of greeting. ‘Although it would be easier, in the circumstances, if we could start off on a new footing, don’t you think?’

  He paused, his gaze assessing. ‘New beginnings, mmm? In that case, welcome to my island, Despinis Anderson,’ he said in his rich, whisky voice, suddenly pushing away from the tree.

  Oriel caught her breath. Her attempt at a calm professionalism was cut straight through, and the smile was torn from her face. The dark stranger had moved sideways out of the shadows and, almost as though he’d planned it, in that second the moonbeams shone upon him, revealing a long, thin, jagged scar that stretched across the left side of his face, from the base of his temple down to his jawbone and the side of his neck, giving him an almost sinister look. He was watching her closely, she knew, to see if the sight of the disfigurement repelled her. She realized with some surprise that it didn’t at all; it merely accentuated the strength and arrogance of his features.

  What had happened to him?

  Oriel didn’t give his face more than the briefest glance, not trusting herself to surrender to the sudden longing to do so but, in that second, she took in the high-planed contours of it, the well defined lips – now set in a sardonic twist as he watched for her reaction – and the head of thick, raven-black hair. He was dressed in a close-fitting, crisp white shirt, which was expensive-looking but rolled up casually at the sleeves, revealing those strong muscular forearms that had once held her all night. The line of his lean torso tapered to long legs clad in tan trousers. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, remembering how much she had known of the powerful frame beneath those clothes. He was as magnificent as ever. Even fully clothed, he still looked as if he had walked out of a pagan legend.