The Girl on the Cliff

by Lucinda Riley

  “Hello, Grania.”

  Aurora’s voice sounded behind her. Grania turned and saw her, thinking how Aurora was like a sprite, appearing soundlessly on the territory she inhabited.

  “Hello, Aurora. How are you?”

  “I am very well, thank you. Shall we go?”

  “Yes. I’ve brought the things we need.”

  “I know. I’ve already seen them in your carrier bag.”

  Obediently, Grania rose, and the two of them headed up toward the house.

  “Perhaps you can meet Daddy,” Aurora offered. “He’s in his study. He might have a headache though, he gets a lot of headaches.”

  “Does he?”

  “Yes. It is simply because he doesn’t wear his glasses and he strains his eyes reading all his business papers.”

  “That’s very silly, isn’t it?”

  “Well, now Mummy’s dead, he doesn’t have anyone to take care of him, does he? Except me.”

  “And I’m sure you do a very good job,” Grania reassured Aurora as they walked to the gate that led into the garden of the house.

  “I do my best,” she said as she pushed it open. “This is my home, Dunworley House. It’s been in the Lisle family for two centuries. Have you ever been here before?”

  “No,” answered Grania as she followed Aurora through the gate, and the wind that had been whistling around them as they’d climbed higher up the cliff suddenly calmed. This was due to a thick hedge of brambles and the wild fuchsia West Cork was famous for, which stood sentinel around the house, protecting it and its occupants as best it could.

  Grania stared in surprise at the beautifully tended formal garden that provided an immaculate, soft apron to the austere gray building that stood in the center of it. Low hedges, formed of bay, lined each side of the path that led up to the house. And, as Grania followed Aurora toward it, she noticed the rosebush-filled flower beds—dead and colorless now, but in the height of summer, providing a necessary softness to its bleak surroundings.

  “We never use the front door,” said Aurora, veering off to the right and following the path along the front of the house and around the corner toward the back. “Daddy says it was locked in the Troubles and somebody lost the key. This is the entrance we use.”

  Grania was standing in a large courtyard, which provided vehicular access from the road. There was a brand-new Range Rover parked in it.

  “Come on,” said Aurora as she opened the door.

  Grania followed her through a lobby and into a large kitchen. A vast pine Welsh dresser took up the entirety of one wall, creaking under its load of blue-and-white plates and a variety of other crockery. A range took up another wall, and an ancient butler’s sink sitting between two old melamine worktops was on the last. In the center of the room stood a long oak table, covered with piles of newspapers.

  This was not a room to feel cozy or comfortable in—not a place where a family would gather as the mother stood by the AGA, cooking something delicious for supper. It was spartan, functional and forbidding.

  “I needn’t have brought any newspaper,” Grania commented, pointing at the piles on the table.

  “Oh, Daddy uses them to light all the fires in the house. He feels the cold so badly. Now, shall we make some space on the table so we can do our project?” Aurora looked at Grania expectantly.

  “Yes . . . but do you think we should tell somebody that I’m here?”

  “Oh, no”—Aurora shook her head—“Daddy doesn’t want to be disturbed and I told Mrs. Myther earlier that you were coming.” She was dumping piles of newspaper on the floor around the table and indicated to Grania the space she had created. “What else do we need?”

  “We’ll need water to mix with the paste.” Grania emptied the contents of her carrier bag, feeling uncomfortable about her unannounced presence.

  “I’ll get some.” Aurora procured a jug from one of the overflowing cupboards in the dresser and filled it.

  “And a large container for mixing the paste.”

  Aurora found this too, and placed it on the table in front of Grania. As she mixed the paste, Aurora watched her, her eyes alive and excited. “Isn’t this fun? I love doing things like this. My last nanny didn’t let me do anything, because she was too worried about me getting messy.”

  “I spend my life getting messy.” Grania smiled. “I make sculptures from materials very similar to this. Now, come and sit next to me and we’ll make a bowl.”

  Aurora proved to be enthusiastic and, an hour later, a soggy newspaper bowl was placed proudly on the hotplate of the range.

  “Once it’s dried out, we can paint it. Do you have any paints?” asked Grania as she washed her hands in the sink.

  “No. I did in London, but I left them behind.”

  “Perhaps I can find some at my home.”

  “Could I come and see your house? I think it would be fun to live on a farm.”

  “I don’t live there all the time, Aurora,” explained Grania. “I live in New York. I’m just staying with my parents for now.”

  “Oh.” Aurora’s face fell. “You mean you’ll be leaving soon?”

  “Yes, but I don’t really know when.” As Grania dried her hands on the towel by the sink she felt Aurora’s eyes boring into her.

  “Why are you sad?” Aurora asked.

  “I’m not sad, Aurora.”

  “Yes, you are, I can see it in your eyes. Has someone upset you?”

  “No, Aurora, I’m fine.” Grania could feel herself blushing under the child’s continuing gaze.

  “I know you’re sad.” Aurora crossed her small arms over her chest. “I know how it feels to be sad. And when I am, I take myself off to my magical place.”

  “Where is that?”

  “I can’t tell you, or it wouldn’t be magical. Or mine. You should have one too.”

  “I think that sounds like a grand idea.” Grania glanced at her watch. “I’d better be going. It’s lunchtime. You must be hungry. Is someone coming to make it for you?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Myther would have left something in there.” Aurora pointed airily in the direction of the pantry. “It’s probably soup again. Before you go, would you like to see the rest of my house?”

  “Aurora . . . I . . .”

  “Come on!” Aurora grabbed Grania’s arm and pulled her toward the door. “I want you to see it. It’s beautiful.”

  Grania was pulled out of the kitchen and into a large hall, the floor covered in black and white tiles and an elegant oak staircase in one corner leading to the floor above. She was dragged across the hall and into a large drawing room with long French windows that overlooked the garden. The room was unbearably hot, with a big log fire throwing out heat from inside its elegant marble surround.

  Grania glanced above the fireplace, and the face in the painting caught her sculptor’s eye. It was of a young woman, her heart-shaped face crowned by a mass of Titian curls. Her facial features were delicate and, Grania noticed, symmetrical, which was the mark of a true beauty. Her striking blue eyes, set in her white skin, were innocent yet knowing. From a professional point of view, Grania knew that this had been painted by a talented artist. She turned to look at Aurora and immediately saw the resemblance.

  “It’s my mother. Everyone says I’m the image of her.”

  “You are,” Grania answered softly. “What was her name?”

  Aurora took a deep breath. “Lily. Her name was Lily.”

  “I’m very sorry she died, Aurora,” said Grania gently as the child stared intently at the painting.

  Aurora did not answer, just continued to stare at her mother.

  “And who might this be, Aurora?”

  A male voice from behind them made Grania jump. She turned around, wondering how much of the conversation the interloper had overheard, and caught her breath.

  Standing by the door was—Grania berated herself for falling into cliché, but this was fact— the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Tall—at least si
x foot—with thick, ebony hair, tidily combed but just a centimeter too long, so that tendrils of it curled at the nape of his neck. Lips that were full, but not too plump as to be feminine, and a pair of deep, navy blue eyes, fringed with thick, dark eyelashes.

  As she was trained to do, Grania took in and admired his immaculate bone structure; the razor-sharp cheekbones, strong jaw and perfect nose. It was a face Grania wanted to remember in detail, so she could sculpt it for herself at a later date.

  And all of this sat atop a lean, perfectly proportioned physique. Her eyes were drawn to the slim, sensitive fingers that were clenching and then relaxing, indicating some form of inner tension. The overall picture was one of singular elegance, a quality she wouldn’t normally associate with the male sex. But one which guaranteed that this man would turn every head in the room—be it male or female—the moment he entered it.

  Grania sighed involuntarily, her professional response to a man that verged, in her opinion, on physical perfection, conspiring with a natural feminine reaction to it that rendered her temporarily silent.

  “Who are you?” he asked again.

  “This is my friend Grania, Daddy.” Aurora broke the silence, to Grania’s relief. “Remember? I told you I’d met her on the cliffs yesterday. We’ve had such fun in the kitchen this morning, making a bowl out of glue and newspaper. When it’s painted I’m going to give it to you as a present.” Aurora walked to her father and put her arms around him.

  “I’m glad you’ve had fun, darling.” He stroked her hair affectionately and gave Grania a half-smile, which contained an air of suspicion. “So, Grania, are you a visitor to Dunworley?”

  His dark-blue eyes appraised her. Grania did her best to compose herself, found her mouth was dry and swallowed before she said, “I’m from the village originally, I was born there, but I’ve been living abroad the past ten years. I’ve come home to visit my family.”

  “I see.” His eyes traveled toward the long French windows and the magnificent view of the sea beyond the garden. “This is a rare and magical place. And you love it, don’t you, Aurora?”

  “You know I do, Daddy. It’s our real home.”

  “Yes, it is.” He brought his attention back to Grania. “Forgive me, I haven’t introduced myself.” With Aurora still clinging to his hips, he walked toward her and extended a hand. “Alexander Devonshire.” His long, slim fingers clasped hers.

  Grania did her best to drag herself back from the sense of the surreal she was experiencing. “ ‘Devonshire?’ I thought this was the Lisle family?”

  A pair of dark eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly. “You are right in the sense that this is the Lisle family house, but I married into it. My wife”—Alexander’s eyes darted to the painting—“Was the heiress to Dunworley House and one day it will pass to our daughter.”

  “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t realize.”

  “Really, Grania, I’m used to being called ‘Mr. Lisle’ around here.” Alexander pulled his daughter closer to him, lost in his own thoughts.

  “I’d better be getting home,” said Grania uncomfortably.

  “Oh, Daddy, does she have to go? Can’t she stay for lunch?” Aurora looked up at her father, imploring him with her eyes.

  “Thank you for the offer, but really, I must go.”

  “Of course,” said Alexander. “It’s very kind of you to spend time with my daughter.”

  “She’s far more fun than the old nanny, Daddy. Why can’t she look after me?”

  “Darling, I’m sure Grania has lots of other things she needs to do.” Alexander smiled apologetically at her over Aurora’s head. “And we mustn’t take up any more of her time.”

  “Really, it was no bother. I enjoyed it.”

  “Will you come back tomorrow with the paints when the bowl is dry?” pleaded Aurora.

  Grania looked to Alexander for approval and got it. “Of course, I’ll see what I can find.” Grania started to move toward the door, and Alexander moved aside and held out his hand again.

  “Thank you, Grania. It’s very kind of you to take the time to amuse my daughter. Please, feel welcome to drop in any time. If I’m not here, Mrs. Myther lives in with Aurora to take care of her.” He guided Grania out of the drawing room across the hall and back toward the kitchen, Aurora holding his hand. “Aurora, will you go and find Mrs. Myther and tell her that we’re both ready for lunch now?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she said obediently. “Good-bye, Grania, see you tomorrow.” Aurora turned and disappeared up the stairs.

  Alexander led the way across the kitchen to the back door. As he opened it, he turned to her. “Please, Aurora can be very persuasive. Don’t let her talk you into spending more time with her than you wish to.”

  “As I said, I enjoyed it.” The proximity of Alexander’s presence only a few inches from her as he held the door open was turning Grania’s brain to putty.

  “Well, just be careful. I know how she can be.”

  “I will.”

  “Good. I’m sure we’ll be seeing you here again soon. Good-bye, Grania.”

  “Good-bye.”

  As Grania walked across the courtyard, and then along the path that led back down to the gate that opened on to the cliff, she was desperate to look behind her to see whether he still stood by the door. After the gate, she set off at a brisk pace along the cliff path until she reached her favorite rock. She slumped on to it, feeling breathless and disoriented.

  She put her head in her hands to try to gather her senses. An image of Alexander’s face appeared in her mind’s eye. She felt overwhelmed and almost fearful that a man with whom she’d had no more than five minutes contact could have such an effect on her.

  She lifted her head, and looked out to sea. It was calm today, tranquil—a sleeping monster that could rise up and create havoc within the space of a few minutes.

  As she stood up and set off for home, Grania pondered whether the analogy could also be true of the man she had just met.

  • • •

  “Hi there, it’s me. Can you let me in?”

  “Sure.” Matt pressed the entry button and walked back disconsolately to his perusal of a baseball game.

  Charley appeared at the door, and closed it behind her. “I’ve bought us take-out from the Chinese. It’s your favorite, hon, crispy duck,” she added as she headed for the kitchen. “You hungry?”

  “Nope,” stated Matt as Charley sourced a couple of plates from the kitchen and opened the bottle of wine she had brought with her.

  “You need to eat, sweetie, you’ll waste away.” She eyed him as she set the food and the plates on the coffee table in front of him. “Here.” Charley rolled strips of duck and hoisin sauce into a pancake and offered it to him.

  With a sigh, Matt sat forward, bit into and chewed the food without pleasure.

  Charley rolled him another pancake and took a sip of her wine. “Wanna talk about it?”

  “What is there to say?” Matt shrugged. “My girl has left me for reasons I don’t know or understand and refuses to speak to me to explain them.” He shook his head in despair. “At least if I knew what it was I’m meant to have done then I could do something about it.” He put another pancake in his mouth. “And by the way, your tactic of silence hasn’t worked. Grania hasn’t called me once. So much for playing it cool, hey?” he added morosely.

  “I’m sorry, Matty. I really thought that if you gave Grania some time and space she might respond. I thought she loved you.”

  “So did I.” Matt grimaced bitterly. “Maybe I was wrong. And, just maybe, this is more to do with her feelings for me. Maybe”—Matt ran a hand through his hair distractedly—“it’s as simple as her not wanting me anymore. Because I have racked my brains, and I can’t think of a single damned thing I have done to hurt her.”

  Charley put a comforting hand on Matt’s knee. “Perhaps it was losing the baby, maybe her feelings have changed . . .” Charley shrugged. “Sorry, I’m all out of platitudes.”


  “No, there is nothing to say, is there? She’s gone, and as each day passes I lose belief that she’ll be coming back.” He looked at Charley. “Do you think I should do as I originally planned and get on a plane to Ireland?”

  “I don’t know, Matty. I don’t mean to be negative, but it seems to me she’s making it pretty clear she doesn’t want anything to do with you just now.”

  “Yup, you’re right.” Matt drained his wineglass and poured himself another. “I’m just deluding myself, trying to believe it isn’t over, when she’s real certain it is.”

  “How about giving it till the end of the week and seeing if she calls? Then maybe if she does, you could suggest that you jump on a flight to Ireland?”

  “Maybe, but I’m sure getting tired of feeling that I’m the bad guy. Besides, I’ve got a heap of work and I’m away on and off lecturing for the next two weeks.”

  “Poor old Matty,” Charley crooned, “You really are going through it just now. Promise it’ll get better, one way or the other. You know, we all have bad times like this . . . when it seems like the world has come to an end.”

  “Yup, I admit it—I’m in Self-Indulgent City,” agreed Matt. “Sorry. I suggest you leave me be just now. I’m not great company, I know.”

  “That’s what friends are for, Matty, to be there when you need them. Changing the subject for a second, I came by to ask you a favor,” said Charley.

  “What’s that?” Matt, lost in his own misery, was hardly listening.

  “I have the decorators coming into my apartment in a couple of days’ time. They’re gonna be there for a month or so, and I was wondering if I could use your spare room while they’re working? I’d pay rent, of course,” Charley added. “And you know me, I’m out most evenings and weekends.”

  “Hey, no need to pay me. As I said, I’m slammed with work and have a big lecture tour cominng up soon, so feel free to move in whenever you want.” Matt stood up, rummaged through his desk and produced a key, which he handed to her.

  “Thanks, hon.”

  “No problem. And to be honest, despite what I just said, I could probably use the company. You’d be doing me a favor.”