The Butterfly Box

by Santa Montefiore

  Then Ramon drove up to the cemetery to talk to Estella. Ramoncito didn’t want to go because he was in the middle of a highly competitive chess game with Hal. Tell her I’m with my brother,’ he said proudly and Ramon smiled at him and nodded. Chess was a language they both understood.

  Ramon parked the car in the shade and walked across the long shadows towards Estella’s grave. It was early evening and the rich smells of grass and flowers rose up on the air to mingle with the intangible sense of death that haunted the tranquil cliff top. He paused as he often did at the graves to read the inscriptions chiselled into the stone. One day I’ll come up here, he thought, and never go back. The certainty of death didn’t frighten him, on the contrary, it gave him a feeling of peace. After all, in an uncertain world it was the only thing one could be sure about.

  As he approached the tall green pine tree he saw Pablo Rega sleeping against the headstone with his chin tucked into his chest and his black hat pulled low over his eyes. He greeted him cheerfully with the intention of waking him. But Pablo didn’t stir. He remained as still and lifeless as a scarecrow. Then Ramon knew that he had made his final journey and crossed himself. He crouched down and felt the old man’s pulse just to be sure. There was no movement in his veins, for his spirit had left his decrepit body and joined those of the people who had gone before him, like Osvaldo Garcia Segundo and, of course, Estella. At that thought Ramon felt an acute twinge of envy. He was aged and alone. His sons would no doubt fall in love just like he had, but Ramon was too old to love again. Estella had tamed his fugitive heart and it would always belong to her.

  He would spend the rest of his life living on the memory of love.

  Federica watched the Andes mountains simmer below her window as the plane soared into the sky with a rumble that shook her to the bones. She yearned to stay. Like Hal she felt she belonged in Chile, it was in her blood. But she longed for Sam and her longing nearly choked her. She compared the childish

  infatuation of long ago with the mature love she now felt for him and deduced that her marriage to Torquil had been vital. Without it she would have continued to search for her father in the arms of other men, like Torquil, and she would never have realized that she was a victim of her own making and always had been. Sam had liberated her and she hadn’t even thanked him.

  When the air hostess came up the aisle with the newspaper Federica took one just to have something to look at, even though she didn’t understand the Spanish. She flicked it open and glanced at the first page, relieved to be able to concentrate on something other than her tormented thoughts of Sam. When she saw a photograph of the frozen body of a young Inca girl discovered in the Peruvian Andes she caught her breath and sat up in astonishment.

  She turned to the man sitting beside her and asked him if he spoke English. When he replied that he did, she asked him if he would be very kind and translate for her. He was only too happy to engage in conversation with his pretty neighbour and began to read it out loud.

  Federica bit her thumbnail as she listened. The mummy was that of a young woman, preserved by the cold conditions of the mountains for five hundred years. She wore a fantastically elaborate cloak made out of the most intricate

  weave, her hair was still studded with crystals and on her head she still had the remnants of a headdress made of white feathers. It was believed that she had been sacrificed to the Gods. When the man handed her back the paper Federica studied the face of the young girl. She relived the horror of her last moments in the words of her father’s story.

  ‘Clasping the box to her breast she was dressed in exquisitely woven wools, her hair plaited and beaded with one hundred shining crystals. Upon her head was placed a large fan of white feathers to carry her into the next world and frighten the demons along the way. Wanchuko was unable to save her.’

  After a few attempts to make conversation the man realized that she wasn’t going to respond and returned to his book, disappointed. Federica sat staring into the face of Topahuay as if she had seen the Resurrection itself. All these years she had believed the legend in spite of her reasoning that had told her it was a myth. She smiled to herself. Perhaps the butterfly box was magic after all.

  Sam woke up early due to the restlessness in his soul and walked across the cliffs with the dogs. He could see the first stirring of spring in the emerging

  buds that endowed the forest with a vibrancy which seemed to waft through the branches like green smoke. But it did little to lift his heavy spirits. He pulled his coat around his body but the cold came from within and he shivered. He hadn’t heard from Federica since she had left the week before and he had the terrible premonition that she might never come back. After all, she had said so herself, there was nothing to keep her here. The potency of those words was in no way diminished by the frequency with which he thought of them and they still managed to debilitate him.

  He still hadn’t thought of anything to write. It had been years, literally, since he had quit his job in London to make use of his creativity, as Nuno had put it. But his creativity was barren. He had tried once or twice to begin a novel but his mind had drifted to Federica, which had only resulted in the most morose poems about unrequited love and death. So he had picked out books from Nuno’s library and instead of writing he had sat in the leather chair and read. Anything rather than surrender his thoughts to the rapacious appetite of his anguish.

  Alone on the cliffs in the fragile light of dawn he considered his options if Federica was never to come back. He had to face it. He couldn’t allow himself

  to wallow in self-pity indefinitely. After all, wasn’t that what he had taught her by way of the notes? Like a doctor he wasn’t too keen on his own medicine. He had to pull himself up, decide on something to write, buy a cottage of his own, perhaps a dog and a pig and crawl out of his self-imposed exile.

  Federica’s journey wouldn’t have been as long or arduous if it hadn’t been for her feverish impatience that caused her chest to compress with anxiety and her head to ache by the force of her will attempting to change things that it couldn’t. The plane was forced to circle Heathrow Airport for twenty minutes before finally landing with a bump. She felt sick from worry as much as from the relentless spiralling of the plane, then hiccuped all the way on the tube to the railway station. It was cold and drizzly, the usual grey skies of London - a cheerless spring. She just managed to catch a train where she sank into a seat by the window and watched the monotonous grey city outside. She closed her eyes for a moment only to open them a few hours later stiff and groggy to find herself passing through the familiar countryside of Cornwall.

  As her eyes traced those verdant fields she recalled her long walks with Sam and wondered what she was going to say to him when she saw him. She hoped

  he’d have returned from Scotland. She knew she’d go out of her mind with frustration if he wasn’t at home. Silently she began to rehearse the conversation. ‘Sam, there’s something I have to tell you ... no, that’s too crass . . . Sam, I love you ... no, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t. . . Sam, I realized the notes were from you and came back especially . . . no, no, horrible . . . Sam, I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to realize that I love you ... no, I can’t, I just can't be so blunt. Oh God!’ She sighed, ‘I don’t know what I’m going to say.’

  As the train cut through the Cornish countryside Federica watched the cows grazing in the fields, the charming white houses and small farms and thought how incredibly beautiful it was in spite of the grey skies and rain. She fantasized about living in a small cottage with Sam, perhaps a dog or two, overlooking the sea and she smiled inside. She didn’t care for wealth or Bond Street. She didn’t care if she never went shopping again. She had certainly had enough handbags and shoes to know just how empty they could be. She yearned to be wrapped in Sam’s arms and nothing else mattered.

  When the train finally drew up at the station she dragged her suitcase onto the platform and stood in the drizzle. She debated whether to g
o home to

  Toby’s house, but her impatience drove her to climb into a taxi and head straight for Pickthistle Manor. As the car turned into the driveway her heart pounded in her chest anticipating the disappointment of finding him not there. She looked about for his car but it wasn’t parked in its usual place in front of the house. She gulped back her edginess and jumped out of the taxi, instructing him not to wait. If Sam wasn’t there she’d call Toby to come and collect her. Besides, it would be nice to see Ingrid. ‘Goddamnit,’ she murmured, ‘I’m fooling myself! If he’s not there I just want to be in the house where he’s been, sit in Nuno’s study where he’s sat, feel the echo of his presence in the air and wait.’

  She strode into the hall and placed her bag on the marble floor. Then she glanced at herself in the gilt mirror that hung on the wall. She cringed and tried to tidy up her soaking hair and pinch some life into her pale cheeks.

  ‘Sam, is that you?’ Ingrid shouted from the landing.

  ‘Ingrid,’ said Federica hoarsely. ‘It’s me, Federica.’

  ‘Fede, darling!’ she cried happily, floating down the stairs in a long turquoise dress that reached to the ground. ‘We didn’t expect you back so soon.’

  ‘Well, I arrived this morning,’ she replied, casting her eyes about for Sam.

  ‘You must be exhausted. Poor old you. Do you want a cup of tea or something to warm you up?’ she suggested. Then she looked at Federica through her monocle, which enlarged her pale green eye so that it looked like the eye of a monstrous iguana. ‘Darling, you’re shivering. Really, you don’t look very well at all.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she insisted weakly. ‘Is Sam about?’ she asked, trying to sound casual.

  ‘He’s out with the dogs. He’s been out all morning.’

  Federica was unable to hide the smile that suddenly opened onto her face like a spring rose. ‘Would you mind very much if I went to look for him?’

  ‘You must borrow a coat or you’ll die of cold. You won’t be any good to Sam if you’ve died of cold, will you?’ she declared, her red lips quivering with delight.

  Federica felt the blood rise to her cheeks turning them pink with embarrassment. She followed Ingrid into the cloakroom and took the boots and sheepskin coat she offered her.

  ‘This was Pa’s. It’s also one of Sam’s favourites. If it doesn’t keep you warm, Sam will. Try the fox path on the cliff. I imagine he’s up there,’ she said and

  watched Federica run outside. In her excitement she forgot to close the door. Ingrid hoped that in her excitement she’d forget to mention Scotland.

  Federica ran through the rain not caring how wet she got. The coat made it difficult to run for it was heavy and cumbersome. She searched the cliff top with anxious eyes, scanning the trees and cliffs for any sign of the dogs or their master. ‘Sam!’ she shouted, but her voice was lost on the wind. ‘Saaaam!’ She stood helplessly, watching the sea crash against the rocks below and wondered whether he’d be mad enough to venture down to the beach. She recalled her dream and shuddered. Then a movement in the trees made her turn around. She squinted her eyes against the rain and put her hand up to shield her face. First she saw two dogs then the grey figure of Sam in a long coat and hat. He stopped and stared at her. Unsure whether to trust his sight he too squinted and put his hand up to shield his face. ‘Sam!’ she shouted again.

  ‘Federica?’ he replied, and his voice was carried on the wind.

  ‘Sam!’ she shouted, walking towards him briskly.

  The dogs leapt on her with their tails wagging their entire bodies with enthusiasm and their tongues flopping outside their salivating mouths, breathless and exhausted. She patted their sodden coats, happy that the rain on her face

  disguised her nervousness.

  ‘Federica!’ he called, approaching her. She looked up and blinked at him to clear the rain from her vision. ‘When did you get back?’ he asked in surprise.

  ‘I—’ she began, but the ardour caught in her throat and prevented her from speaking. She looked down at the dogs and patted them again because suddenly she didn’t know what to do with herself.

  Sam noticed that her hand was shaking. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, stepping closer.

  She nodded and raised her eyes. She placed her trembling fingers on her lips and swallowed. She wanted to tell him she loved him but all she could do was stare at him mutely while the emotion mounted in her chest.

  Sam placed his hand on her arm. ‘Did you come back for me?’ he asked.

  Federica recognized the hope in his voice and she nodded frantically. ‘I love you,’ she whispered but her voice was swallowed up by the wind. Sam cocked his head. ‘I love you,’ she repeated, grabbing the lapels of his coat and gazing into his grey eyes with longing. Sam needed no other confirmation of her devotion. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her dripping face. She felt the warmth of his mouth and the rough neglect of his face and closed her eyes so

  that nothing would distract her from his love.

  When Sam made love to Federica in the small room in the attic of the house she realized that she was experiencing for the first time in her life the most intense physical expression of true love. He held her with confidence and gazed into her eyes as if unable to believe that she was really there, reciprocating feelings that he had hidden for so long. Every kiss was a demonstration of his affection, every caress delivered with loving hands. They laughed and talked and then when the weight of their feelings overcame them they cried. So many years of pining prevented Sam from falling asleep. All he could do was watch her soft face while she slept and mentally stroke her until the force of his thoughts penetrated her dreams and she smiled.

  Federica opened her eyes onto a different world. She heard the barking of the dogs in the driveway below as the postman threw a couple of Bonios out of his window for them to run after, then made a hasty dash for the porch before beating them back to his car and slamming the door behind him. She heard the tyres on the gravel and then a couple of grating gear-changes as he sped out of the driveway. She stretched luxuriously as her eyes adjusted to the bright

  sunlight that streamed in through the gap in the curtains, illuminating the unfamiliar walls of a room she had only seen once before, when Molly and Hester had first introduced her to Marmaduke the skunk. Then with a blush she brought her hand up to her face and touched the hot afterglow of love that radiated from her cheeks and she smiled with happiness. She recalled his caresses, his kisses and then the joyous feeling afterwards, as she lay in his arms, that she had finally found love.

  She turned to discover a small bunch of early bluebells on the pillow where he had slept, together with a worn brown book. She sat up and brought the flowers to her nose where the scent of spring and the taste of dew made her heart inflate with delight. Then she looked at the book. It was dog-eared and shabby. The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. She opened the cover to discover that it was Nuno’s own book with verses encircled in his own unsteady hand and comments written into the margins. She recognized the poetry as the source of the notes Sam had sent her. Then she noticed a bookmark and opened it where indicated. A few lines were highlighted in pencil. She read them carefully, then to fully understand their meaning she read them again.

  Beauty is life when life unveils her holy face.

  But you are life and you are the veil.

  Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.

  But you are eternity and you are the mirror.

  When Sam entered her room with a tray of breakfast Federica was clutching the bluebells to her nose and reading Nuno’s book. She looked up and smiled at him, a smile at once tender and flirtatious. He placed the tray on the dresser and climbed onto the bed beside her. They didn’t need to speak for their faces shone with feelings that they could never put into words. He drew her into his arms and knew that this time he would never let her go.

  It was a few years before Federica Appleby rediscovered the butterfly box in the back of
one of the cupboards in their cottage just outside Polperro.

  Sam had successfully published his first book, Nuno, Brought To Book, and Federica was pregnant with their second child.

  She pulled the box out and brushed the dust off the lid. With a sense of nostalgia grown sweet due to her own happiness and the passing of the years, she

  leant back against the wall and opened it. She was saddened to see the stones that had once lined the interior lying in a pile on the bottom of the box, exposing the raw wooden walls that once glittered with a magical splendour.

  Ponderously, she lifted her eyes to reflect upon the past and saw to her delight a red and orange butterfly alight upon the windowsill. It paused a moment, as if in silent communication, then gently opened its wings, fluttered into the air and disappeared out into the sunshine.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to extend my deepest gratitude to my cousin, Anderly Hardy, for her guidance on all Chilean matters and to my husband and family for their advice and support.

  Thank you to Suzanne Baboneau and her brilliant team at Simon & Schuster for republishing this book with a beautiful new cover, and to my agent, Sheila Crowley, for her wise counsel.

  I would like to thank Gibran National Committee for granting me permission to quote from Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet.

  Gibran National Committee

  PO Box 116-5375

  Beirut

  Lebanon

  Fax (-1-961 6 1 396921/16)

  Email:k.gibran@cyberia.net.lb

  FIND OUT MORE ABOUT SANTA MONTEFIORE

  Santa Montefiore is the author of eleven sweeping novels. To find out more about her and her writing, visit her website at

  www.santamontefiore.co.uk

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