Louisa was half asleep when she heard the murmur of voices. Wondering what was going on, she fumbled for the light switch and then glanced at her clock. Half past one in the morning, and Elliot still hadn’t come to bed. She got up and unhooked her robe from the back of the door, then slipping it on, padded out of the room, and stood on the landing at the top of the stairs to listen. The voices from downstairs trickled up to her. Strange that Elliot hadn’t said anything about having friends around tonight.
The very next evening Elliot went, he said, to see Jeremy Pike—but was still not home by midnight. He’d promised to be away only for an hour or so, and that had been at eight. He also hadn’t kept his promise that they’d start making plans for the Print House, but instead had been out sailing all day, also with Jeremy, dashing in just to grab something to eat in the early evening.
Louisa decided to wait up, and at about half past twelve heard an almighty crash in the hall. She rose to her feet and went to look. She was horrified to see the hat stand lying on the floor and Elliot leaning against the wall looking disheveled: his hair a mess, his tie undone.
“You’re late,” she said, though she could smell the whisky and realized she’d get little sense out of him.
“So? Why didn’t you just go to bed?” He wasn’t exactly slurring his words, but she could see something in his eyes that disturbed her. Their green irises had darkened, and there was a dangerous edge to his voice.
“I was waiting for you,” she said.
“Stating the bleeding obvious!”
She walked across to pick up the hat stand but left the fallen hats on the floor. “You did say you wouldn’t be long. I wanted to spend some time with you, that’s all.”
He closed his eyes and didn’t reply.
“You were out all day, too.”
He shrugged.
“So,” she said, losing patience. “Where the hell have you been all this time?”
“Ah, the wifely concern…”
“Elliot, don’t be like that. I have a right to know.”
“A right?”
“Yes. So, tell me?”
He sighed deeply. “If you must know, I had a little game of poker with the boys.”
She took a sharp breath in. “How little?”
He laughed. “Well, not so little, actually.”
“For Christ’s sake!”
He pushed past her and stumbled into the living room and, as she followed, she watched him pour himself a whisky, then throw himself onto the sofa.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
He pulled off his tie, letting it drop to the floor and then, after awkwardly balancing the glass on the edge of the sofa, threw open his arms. “Well, aren’t you going to give your adoring husband a kiss?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Not while you’re stinking of booze.”
“Have one yourself. Then you won’t notice it.” He waved his arm about and knocked the whisky glass to the floor, where it shattered.
“For heaven’s sake, Elliot, this is too much!” She went to the kitchen and came back with a cloth, dustpan and brush.
“Always the good little wifey,” he said.
She’d had more than enough—putting the things down, she took a deep breath and stood tall. “You come home late, stinking of booze, and tell me you’ve been gambling. You said that was all behind us.”
He shrugged as he let out his breath in a loud puff.
“You promised me. I believed you. And I can’t keep on saving you.”
“I don’t need you to rescue me.”
“So how much have you lost this time?”
“Enough. But you’ve got the means, so what does it matter, and Daddy will always come to the rescue.”
“You just said you didn’t need rescuing. Tell me it was a one-off, that you won’t do this again.”
He staggered to his feet and came right up to her, waving a finger in her face. “Proper little schoolmarm. You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t do.”
She took a step back. “Was it a one-off?”
He inclined his head and grinned. “Not exactly. And now I am going to bed.” He turned away but then twisted back. “Don’t worry, I’ll sleep in the spare room.”
She watched him walk to the door and enter the hall, listened to his footsteps on the stairs, and then she sat on the sofa with her head in her hands. Not again. Please, not again. They’d had enough trouble—Elliot had caused so much pain a few years back, and she couldn’t bear to think of it starting all over again.
* * *
—
She hardly slept and woke early to hear the Fort cockerels crowing and the waves crashing on the rocks. She slipped on a dressing gown and went to see if Elliot was still asleep, but found he was already up. He seemed to need so little sleep and yet could still function, whereas lack of sleep made her heavy and slow, at least until she’d had some coffee. She felt hung over, even though she’d had nothing to drink, but forced herself to wash, and dress in trousers and a loose white shirt. After that she went in search of coffee and Elliot.
Camille was just bringing a fresh pot to the living room where Louisa found Elliot with a large pad of paper and several pencils.
He looked up and grinned at her.
“I thought we’d start planning,” he said. “Once you’ve had your coffee, of course. What do you say?”
She didn’t smile back. “You can’t just brush what happened under the carpet.”
“What if I say I’m truly sorry?”
She glanced at his face. “You more or less admitted it wasn’t a one-off. Was that true?”
“No. Of course not. I was drunk and being an idiot. Darling, I am sorry, you know how I get when I’ve had too much to drink. Believe me, as God is my witness, it was just the once and really won’t happen again.”
She exhaled slowly—perhaps it really was just an aberration.
“Louisa, it was just one night. Don’t turn it into something it’s not.”
“You really were unpleasant. It hurt, Elliot—I don’t want to go back to that awful time.”
He rose to his feet. “I’m so, so sorry. Come here.”
She took a few steps toward him and he wrapped her in his arms. Then he whispered in her ear, “On my life, I promise it will never happen again. I am really sorry. Truly. Let’s look to the future. Don’t we have this wonderful new project to focus on?”
He was right about that. They did have an exciting new project. It wasn’t that she minded the drinking so very much, it was the gambling, especially as he’d taken on the old Print House and it was her who’d be stumping up the cash to complete the purchase.
She drank two cups of strong black coffee with two sugars and despite feeling upset, decided to see what Elliot had done so far. She would have to trust him and let the past be the past.
“Look,” he said. “My idea is to have a central arena with a gallery all around at first-floor level. Can you see? I know my drawing is hopeless but do you get the gist?”
She nodded.
“And there will be open archways through to all the rooms on the ground floor. If we can persuade enough jewelers to trade there, it will get us off to a good start while we set up our own jewelry-making business.”
“Do you have anyone in mind?”
“Yes. I’ll be going over there later today to have a chat. So, what do you think?”
She still felt unsure of him but if they were to go ahead with this, what was the point of continuing to dwell on what had already happened? She would just have to hope that he was sincere in his apologies. She’d also have to keep her eyes firmly open.
“Well,” she said. “I think we should do it in an art deco style, something really chic and streamlined. And maybe we could have a section selling
paintings. There are so many terrific artists in Colombo.”
“You could display and sell some of your own line drawings too.”
“And it could be just the place for the rubber planters to bring their wives when they come to town. We could even serve tea.”
“Yes, instead of just parties and socializing at the New Oriental, give them a taste of real culture here.”
She nodded. “I’m sure the wives would be tempted to buy, but I don’t think we should only sell jewelry and art, I think ceramics too, and maybe other handmade items.”
“So where do we start with the drawings?”
“Leave them to me. I’m sure I can come up with something.”
Elliot got to his feet. “So, do you feel happier now?”
She nodded again, though a shiver ran through her and a small part of her still couldn’t quite believe, despite his protestations, that it would not happen again. She recalled how it had been last time—the rows and recriminations—and felt a little sick.
“I wanted to ask you something,” she said, and he sat down again abruptly. “The night before last, I heard noises from the living room sometime after I’d gone to bed. That wasn’t a game of poker, was it?”
He frowned. “Must you always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Treat me as if I were a child.”
“Elliot, I’m not. Surely you can see I’m just worried.”
He stared at the floor for a moment, his jaw working, then stood up and came across to her, looking repentant. “Of course. You have every right to ask. And no, it wasn’t poker, I promise.” He squatted down beside her and held out a hand for hers. She gave him her hand and he squeezed it.
* * *
—
After he had gone out, Louisa spent the day in the garden, having changed into an old shirt and a pair of frayed shorts. Working in the garden always soothed her, so first, she painted one of the two benches a deep shade of green. It was an old cast-iron one her mother had loved, and she hoped the paint would preserve its life a little longer. Then she planted nasturtium seeds in terracotta pots on either side of the bench and thought of her mother again as she patted down the red earth. She trimmed back a clump of feathery bamboo, grown too tall, and pruned the roses, raising her head at the sound of barking but quickly ascertaining it was not one of her spaniels. Probably a hungry pariah dog, she thought, and glanced across at a large russet-winged hedge crow searching for snails. Afterward she sat on the other bench, stretching out her legs and enjoying the feel of the sun on her skin while doing her best to steer her mind away from the horrible row they’d had.
* * *
—
The next day they walked the short distance to the Print House. The old building on the corner of Pedlar Street had been a warehouse before it was a printer’s premises and did look relatively worn from the outside, though it had lovely fanlight windows. Nothing that a lick of paint and some patching up won’t rectify, she thought. Inside it was dark, so Elliot threw open the old plantation shutters.
“Some of these need repairing but they’re all essentially intact,” he said.
“We could paint them cream like ours. I don’t like the dark brown. The whole place should be brighter.”
“Maybe we’ll have chandeliers.”
“Yes.” She glanced up. “Look, there’s a wonderful glass cupola. It’s covered in leaves and goodness knows what else, but if we get it cleaned up, light will just flood in, and you can put the chandeliers in the side rooms.”
They looked around at the mess. When the Print House had closed, the owners had left sheets of paper littering the floor and had also abandoned one or two of the older machines.
Elliot scratched his head. “We could polish up one of the presses and use it as a centerpiece. But the first thing to do is to see what lies behind these doors.”
He went over and threw open four large doors, one after another, and they walked into the spacious airy rooms. Only the central area had a second floor, where the gallery would be. These other rooms were single-story and would be perfect for displaying goods. In one of them there was another door. Louisa tried the handle but it didn’t budge.
“Let me,” Elliot said. “It’s probably just stiff.” He turned the handle and put his shoulder to the door. Nothing. “Well, it doesn’t matter. There’s probably a key knocking around somewhere.”
“But don’t you think it’s odd? None of the other doors are locked, so why that one?”
“Probably got a dead body stuffed in there,” he said and laughed.
They walked back into the central area and he lit a cigarette. “So,” he said. “What do you think? Painted white with gorgeous ebony counters, as you suggested, wouldn’t this make a terrific emporium? There are also several smaller rooms at the back which we could let out as workshops until we need them ourselves.”
Feeling happier, she smiled at him.
“You like it? Shall we go ahead?”
“I think it’s perfect. I’ll instruct the bank to sell my shares, so the money will be in your account soon. Thank goodness things have improved since the financial crash.”
They left the building and walked the long way around to the jeweler’s, past the lighthouse, where they were splashed by sea spray.
“I love to think the lighthouse flashes its light as far as the Antarctic,” she said. “It’s such a wonderful thing.”
“I doubt they’d see it that far—it’s a huge expanse of water.” He shivered.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes so much water seems like too much water.”
She nodded. “And we are so small.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s blowy,” she said. “Listen, Elliot, couldn’t we walk out on Lighthouse Beach? Remember how we used to?”
“The tide’s in. Maybe another time.”
“I love to feel the sand between my toes. Let’s just see how much beach there is.”
They went back past the lighthouse and onto the tiny strip of sand covered in shells. She removed her shoes and whooped as she felt the water come up to her ankles.
“Come on, Elliot. You too. Bet you can’t catch me.” And she began to run.
She felt the wind in her hair and the wet sand between her toes. This is what she needed, what she loved. Yes, they’d had a row, and yes, he’d spent one night gambling, but they were good together, weren’t they? She glanced back to see he was now carrying his shoes and coming after her.
He caught up with her and threw his shoes out of reach of the water, then he picked her up and made as if to throw her in.
“Put me down this instant!” she shrieked, but ended up laughing. He joined in, and she knew laughter would be the thing to make everything right.
When they had wiped the damp sand from their feet and put their shoes back on, they walked on while gazing out at the waves and the surf.
“Actually,” she said when they were back on Hospital Street, “while you’re at the jeweler’s, I’ll go to the Court Square market. I have an idea about something we might sell in the emporium. I’ll see you back at home.”
“Very well. See you in a while.”
Louisa loved the dusty market and its fantastic variety of brightly colored goods—a clashing kaleidoscope of smells and sounds, with beautifully embroidered goods on sale, jewelry and ornaments made by the town’s silversmiths, and intricately carved ebony elephants too. Today it was bustling, with random goats gnawing on red palm plants, sleeping mongrel dogs, women hoping to buy, and street sellers shouting their wares. A group of people stood nearby, absorbed by the lilting sound of a flute, and she tossed the musician some coins as she listened for a moment. Then she examined a stall selling tablecloths and lace, in case any of it would be fine enough for their emporium.
She questioned the stallholder about the quantities his family might be able to produce and then, much to his pleasure, bought a box. She’d give it to Elliot as a present. Perhaps when he found the key to the locked room he could keep it in the box. It would be a nice memento of their first visit to the Print House together.
Two days later Margo arrived by bus from Colombo, a long and rickety journey taking all day with all the inevitable stops and delays. The following day, in Elliot’s absence, the two women went for a cycle ride around the Fort.
Margo was a down-to-earth, sporty woman, who had the same dark curling hair as Elliot, the same green eyes and a warm, encompassing smile. You could picture her married with a brood of children who she would manage expertly and calmly. In fact, she was neither married nor a mother. It’s strange the way people so often don’t match one’s expectations, Louisa thought. When the opportunity to be a nurse in London had arisen, Margo had jumped at it; now she was back, but wasn’t giving much away about her plans and, of course, that made everyone curious.
The Sapphire Widow Page 5
