Courier of Love

by Della Kensington

  In the bath, reaching to turn on the water, Christina felt a sense of light headedness at the view from the window which extended from ceiling to the edge of the sunken tub, giving a bather an exhilarating view down the hillside and its union to its unending dance with the sea. Sliding her legs from her slacks, Christina kneeled and reached across the tub to a crystal container of bath salts which were silhouetted against the window. Uncorking the bottle she poured a small amount of the container’s jasmine scented contents into the water before stepping from her lace underwear and entering the luxury of the exotically scented vessel.

  The sensuality and warmth of the bath lulled Christina into a dreamlike state of relaxation and when she finally rose from the bath’s depths she felt quite sleepy.

  Christina only partially toweled herself on her way from the bath to the invitingly soft bed. Setting the brass alarm clock for six, Christina threw back a coverlet and slipped tiredly under a single satin sheet. Images of the day began to run together forming a collage of airports, oceans, tropical flowers, the crispness of Agatha’s welcome, Arthur’s absence and the bronzed image of the arrogant man at Kingston Point.

  …

  The intrusive sound of the alarm, an hour and a half later, brought Christina abruptly back to awareness. Rising to the gentle but sensuous atmosphere of the room she smoothed her hair back with both hands and sat momentarily on the edge of the bed. The shortness of the nap, in contrast to the length of her day, led Christiana to unpack, dress and refresh her makeup with a sense of reluctant anticipation. Standing before the mirror, she slowly traced the corner of her mouth with her little finger and then pressed her lips together, smoothing the pale lipstick. In the late afternoon glow, her skin and hair had a lustrous iridescence. Her white chiffon dress clung precariously to her shoulders as it exposed much of her gracefully tapered back. She found herself wondering, for a moment, if Arthur would approve. She had purchased the dress in a spirit of romance that had not considered the presence of Agatha.

  The sound of a seabird just outside the window distracted Christina from her hesitant musing and turning, she crossed the room and parted the curtains. Below on the wide sea, birds looking for food were skimming the bubbling paths of sailboats off the reef. Odd, she considered in the moment, that a mention of a sailing ship in a 360 year old English ship’s log, should bring her these many miles from her father’s side. How excited her father had been, when in London he had discovered a reference in a Captain’s log to the rescue of a Spanish courier from the sea off this very coast. Christina, in her thoughts of her father, breathed in deeply, her lungs lifting to the fragrance of sea air and lime blossoms as they wafted through the window and into her growing anticipation of discovery.

  The ship’s log had said that the man, the single survivor of one of three Spanish galleons, the Santa Del Rey, that sank during a violent hurricane, had died the day after his rescue. The Captain had noted, “On service to a Spanish noblewoman, the courier died this date. The poor soul, delirious, reported he had hidden his lady’s ring in a cannon guarded by dolphins. His mission unknown to us we knew not of what he spoke. May his soul rest in peace. September 12, 1624.”

  Christina’s delicately hued skin flushed with warm reminiscence as she recalled how her father had rushed in the door of their West London flat.

  “It’s there Christina, it’s there,” he had exclaimed, picking up his young daughter in his strong arms and turning her in delightful circles. “There is a canon with a wonderful mystery in it that no one has looked for.” He had laughed, announcing his discovery in tones of enthusiasm she had not heard since those happy years before her mother’s death.

  Her eyes moistened with emotion and she turned from the window, her hands brushing the corners of her eyes simultaneously.

  Before leaving to go to dinner, she picked up her mother’s locket that she had placed on the dresser and holding it with loving fingers, she stared at the young Spanish girl’s face painted on its ivory surface. How beautiful, serene and wistful. How sad, Christina thought, as she often had, that the young Spanish woman had married a man that she did not love, being forever separated from her heart’s real passion. An uncomfortable feeling swept through Christina that she did not understand. Quickly adorning the locket she hurried from the cottage and away from the solitude of her thoughts.

  Chapter 3

  Outside the cottage small lanterns lined the path to the main house. Their pale lights heralded the rapidly setting sun.

  Christina’s senses widened to the scent of the garden’s blossoms and the melodic sounds of awakening night birds. As she approached the richly lit dignity of the main house the warm sea air that was caressing the bareness of her shoulders created within Christina an uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability. Her feelings of self-doubt were reawakening in the face of this long anticipated meeting with Arthur.

  Pausing, Christina ran her long, slender fingers over the rough textured wood of a garden bench and she gazed back away from the house and toward the ocean. A thin line of day held steady along the horizon as the deepening blue of the evening sky pressed against its sunlit, clouded border. Toward the shore, Christina could see dozens of sailboats, their running lights twinkling, their passengers heading toward the safe harbor.

  The lights of town were beginning to transform the small stucco buildings into a glittering, nocturnal blanket of stars and up the mountain car headlights seemed to play hide and seek in the trees along the steep roads. A sense of magic and calmness momentarily bolstered Christina’s resolve and she hurried across the growing shadows of the garden.

  …

  The elegance of the living room glowed warmly through the French doors and the sound of glass wind chimes echoed along the veranda. Christina, self-consciously putting one hand to her chest and the other on the casing, leaned partially into an open door.

  Her brows raised, Christina said softly to the empty room, “Hello…Arthur….

  Agatha…”

  There was no reply and she felt in the moment like a child reporting to an empty principal’s office. Gathering her courage Christina stepped into the emptiness of the enormous room. Enveloping and dwarfing her, roughly textured stucco walls soared to a heavily beamed ceiling which supported thick wooden planking. The scale of the room, its gracefully curved stairway descending from the balcony, had gone unnoticed by Christina as she was guided through it by Agatha hours earlier.

  Having taken only a cursory look before, she had missed the details of the decorations and furnishings of the vast room. They seemed to take on an importance to her eyes which had been earlier occupied by the spectacular view from the room to the ocean.

  Taking another small step into the room, Christina’s silver sandals left the red quarry tile and touched an obviously old Persian rug, its patina silkened by the soft lights from the large porcelain lamps on the tables.

  She ventured another, “Hello….,” and found a rising sense of frustration and self consciousness.

  To her right, the striking of a Grandfather clock broke the silence and in a far off room she thought that she could hear the tinkling of dishes, or was it the wind chimes? On another wall, a massive fireplace, its tiled borders alive with small patterns, was crowned with a mantle that stretched across the entire wall. Too late in the year to be used as a heat source, the fireplace opening was filled with dozens of flickering candles of various heights, their tiny flames reflecting in the cut crystal and brass objects around the room.

  Above the mantle various sized niches filled the wall with places for the display of beautiful pieces of pottery and art work much like those in her cottage. Some of the niches were simply framed spaces surrounding stained glass windows which Christina imagined must be wondrous looking in the morning light.

  Christina’s study of the room ended with the sound of the opening of a door at the top of the balcony. Her eyes sweeping up the stairway she felt uncomfortably like an intruder about to be discovered. The
figure of a man putting on a light grey dinner jacket appeared in the shadow of the balcony and Christina, in her anxiousness, felt momentarily unable to breathe. The man was obviously unaware of her presence and Christina’s mind raced to find some casual remark that would lessen the tension she felt. Her ability to speak had been seized by the awkwardness and the anticipation of the moment. The man, adjusting his sleeve and uttering something to himself, halted at the top step and instead of noticing her figure in the room turned back in the direction from which he had come. In an effort to prevent his leaving Christina moved toward the stairway and managed to speak his name.

  “Arthur…,” she said weakly.

  Startled, the man turned to the voice. His expressionless grey eyes looked down from the balcony and at Christina with a momentary sense of disbelief before softening with recognition.

  “Christina,” he acknowledged in surprise and he quickly descended the stairs. “I would have come and gotten you if I had known that you were up, but Mother told me you didn’t want to be disturbed and that you were so exhausted that you would probably sleep straight through dinner.”

  Christina’s eyes darkened with a slight scowl and she looked over to the elegant clock against the wall.

  “Oh…no, your mother said that dinner would be at seven.” Christina offered with an air of puzzlement.

  Arthur winced and flashed the corners of his smooth lips back apologetically, “I must have misunderstood her, I’m sorry.

  As he approached Christina, Arthur extended both of his hands and in the same moment tipped his head apologetically in her direction. With a broad smile, he offered, “I’m quite an undependable sort you know. How are you? God, it’s been months.”

  Christina having to grasp Arthur’s extended hands instead of being clutched into his arms as she had expected felt somewhat as if she was being held at a distance for inspection and her bare shoulders were flooded with the color of embarrassment She returned his smile and answered, “I’m fine, Arthur. It’s so exciting being together again.”

  Nodding acceptance and agreement with her remark, his eyes studied her face. “Well, we’re glad you’re finally here. How was your trip?”

  Christina returned Arthur’s gaze with the continued traces of excited anticipation in her expression, but he remained cordial as his friendly face beamed from beneath a thatch of light brown hair. His tortoise shell glasses had been carefully selected, she decided, to match the color of his hair. She thought Arthur not a particularly handsome man, but there was an air of education and breeding to his face that reminded her very much of her father’s academic colleagues. She had always found such men interesting and dependable, though somewhat restrained.

  She shrugged to his question about her trip, in a manner that bespoke accepted indifference, but she said without undo emphasis. “I was surprised when you weren’t at the airport.”

  Color rose involuntarily in Arthur’s cheeks and he answered with resolve, “I felt like a villain at not meeting you, but Mother had one of her awful migraines this morning and I simply had to go to our attorney’s office for her. Jonathan was there to meet you, wasn’t he?” His eyes traversed her face, speculatively.

  Christina clenched her teeth against her need to express the disappointment she had felt at not finding Arthur at the airport but not wanting to taint the moment she broke into a wide smile, squeezed both of his hands and said, “Jonathan was very prompt and helpful. And the drive from the airport was interesting,” she paused and decided not to mention the irritating encounter with the man on Kingston Point. “…really, really interesting.”

  Wanting to dispatch this trail of small talk, Christina looked longingly into Arthur’s eyes and whispered, “I’ve missed you so much…hold me.”

  In an almost obligatory and comforting gesture, Arthur moved towards Christina and taking her into his lean arms his somewhat cool hand patted nurturingly against the bareness of her upper back.

  Pulling slightly away, Christina raised her eyes to Arthur and in a single, mechanical series of gestures he kissed her lightly on the lips, released his arms and brushed away a wisp of her hair that had lingered against his face.

  As Arthur completed this movement and was smoothing the soft edge of Christina’s hair back into place, Christina thought she heard the sound of a door opening and footsteps in the upstairs hall. She looked up past Arthur, expecting to see Agatha, but no one appeared out of the shadows.

  Stepping back, Arthur’s level gaze resumed his quiet study of her presence. “I really have missed you too, Christina, very much. I’ve missed our dinners and talks and your father of course. I was looking forward to his coming with you. I’m so sorry about his health. How was he feeling when you left? Was he dreadfully disappointed?” Arthur’s questions seemed to dismiss her feelings and she quelled a rush of irritation. Turning quickly from Arthur’s casualness, she sought control of the disappointment that threatened her composure.

  “Oh, my father is feeling better Arthur. In fact he is going to call me about 8:30. I hope I can take his call at the cottage.” She turned again and looking not at Arthur but indifferently at objects in the room said, “I don’t mean to be a mope, but I think that I will turn in early tonight, just after dinner if you wouldn’t feel hurt.”

  Arthur stepped toward Christina and in his advance she moved away just to the side of a silk covered chair. Running her hand over its soft, nubby surface, she observed, “Your home is lovely Arthur. There are so many wonderful things.” Her body and thoughts were coming under rigid control. “The cottage down the path and separated from the house feels, Christina paused, “…well its elegant Arthur. I felt, when I went into it as though I were in someone’s very personal retreat.”

  A snap of a bracelet clasp at the top of the stairs riveted both of them to Agatha’s presence behind them. Gliding down the stairs in a lavender, full length but elegantly simple dress, Agatha’s long lashed gaze remained on the adjustment of her bracelet latch. Without faltering in her descent she offered thickly, “How delightful it is for me to see you two darlings together at last.” There was an edge to her attempt at pleasure. “I trust that you rested well Christina?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Agatha made one final adjustment to the bracelet and said with an air of finality, “There, that’s much better. I don’t like things that cannot be easily worked. Arthur, do be a dear and fix us a drink,” she added instructively.

  Approaching Christina, Agatha took her arm in the ushering fashion she had earlier. Once seated together on a lounge, Agatha said, “Your rest did well by you Christina, for you look even younger to me than you did this afternoon. You absolutely make me feel like an old woman.”

  Christina, a sense of resentment she did not understand, ignored the comment about her appearance and politely replied, “The cottage is wonderfully appointed, Agatha. I do appreciate your consideration of my need for privacy and rest after the trip.”

  Agatha stared quizzically into Christina’s eyes for a moment and then, patting the back of her hand in a dismissing gesture, said “Yes, yes, well, I’m pleased that you like it my dear.” She glanced over her shoulder, “Arthur…oh, good you’re here. This is lovely. Arthur makes the most delightful daiquiris. It’s a recipe that I taught him on his twenty -first birthday.”

  Arthur sat across from them and as they sipped their cocktails, Agatha asked about Christina’s father and talked in a rather more sincere manner than Christina had anticipated. She allowed that perhaps Agatha’s over dramatization was a result of her own anxiety about her stay and relationship with Arthur.

  Before they were finished with their drinks a young native woman appeared in a doorway from the direction Christina had suspected she had heard dishes. She announced dinner and rising, Agatha led the way into the dining room. Arthur put his hand on the small of Christina’s back as they followed his mother. As they passed Agatha, who had stopped at the head of the long table, she suggested in parental tones, �
�Christina, would you like a wrap for your shoulders? There seems to be a bit of a chill in here and your dress, though lovely, might cause you to feel uncomfortable as the breeze picks up.” Christina’s body felt heated with the embarrassment.

  She glanced into Agatha’s eyes to make certain she was not overreacting to the remark, but saw that Agatha’s expression bore no more than what she wanted a person to see. She decided she was being overly defensive and rejoined lightly, “After a winter in Seattle this air feels wonderful, thank you anyway.” She felt Arthur squeeze her arm slightly in what she sensed was a supportive gesture.

  Turning from Christina, Arthur seated his waiting mother and laughed self-consciously, “I can see that it is going to take time for me to get used to being a gentleman to two lovely ladies.”

  The girl reappeared with a soup tureen and placed it before Agatha, who proceeded to serve it into the porcelain bowls that had been lined up beside her.

  “Christina, have you eaten conch soup before?” Agatha queried as she spooned small portions into the awaiting bowls.

  Arthur added, “Mother prides herself on gathering native recipes from all over the world.”

  Christina, accepting a passing bowl commented, “My mother had an ongoing appreciation for international recipes, also.”

  …

  Following the soup course, a light salad preceded an interestingly prepared lobster dish and as the dinner progressed, Christina found herself more and more comfortable in the company of Arthur and his mother. At several points she found herself actually laughing in reminiscence at one of Arthur’s colorful descriptions of different restaurants, plays and people they had encountered together in Seattle. Christina was very aware of Agatha watching them intently as they exchanged stories. She smiled politely when Christina would glance in her direction, her index finger pensively supporting her chin. Perhaps becoming bored with their reveries, Agatha commented at the end of one description, “Charming…a charming story….Christina, your locket….I’m sitting here wondering after this charming little piece. Is it a souvenir from somewhere?”