The Secret of Provence House

by Aubrey Rhodes

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I should never have gone to New York.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  She rolled over and hugged a pillow and looked out at the rain. He thought she looked beautiful lying there like that. But he was afraid to touch her or utter another word.

  They both felt blue for the rest of the day. He felt trapped and weak and overly dependent on the contrasting affections of the two women in his life. If one threw in Camilla and his daughters, he saw himself surrounded by a sea of femininity, and what was that all about? Better in the end, he thought than being surrounded by a pack of men. He wondered if it might have been wiser, even taking Laura out of the equation, to have faced Carmensina head on, new baby and all, keeping her from Cornwall, being a hard ass, ‘looking out for number one’ as the Americans liked to say. But it just wasn’t him, and that was all there was to it. Laura had brought up a point he hadn’t considered until then. What was it going to be like for him to have both women there at the estate at the same time? Amazingly awkward.

  They returned to the big house together. She claimed she needed to work and declined his invitation to go for a ride with him in the rain. Feeling listless, she sat at her table near the library, pretending to translate, gathering together the last of her things to bring back to the cottage. She could not believe that Carmensina was going to have another baby. And it would be a boy of course, the longed-for son, the heir to the squandered Plantagenet line. James would never leave her. European men of his calibre rarely left their wives. They came to arrangements. Laura was, after all, part of his outer world. Could she settle for that? Should she? She could keep her independence that way at least. If someone else came along she fancied she could allow that to happen too with a minimum of fuss. But was this how she wanted to live her life? Did she want to have kids of her own?

  Just the other day Fiona, back in London from Amsterdam, told her a story over the phone. She and Giles had run into someone who knew him and his wife, at breakfast one morning at their chic little boutique hotel. The acquaintance sussed out the situation immediately and remained admirably hidden behind a newspaper. But Giles felt he had no alternative but to greet the man on their way out, after the fastest and most unpleasant breakfast in Fiona’s life, and he arranged to meet the fellow for a drink later in the day for a man-to-man, pleading for understanding and discretion. Fiona had put a humorous spin on the tale but the effect it had on Laura was anything but. Did she want to live like that? Not really, not for very long at least.

  Chapter 41

  She had, for some reason, on the following day expected that the appraiser from Sotheby’s would be a man, a well-turned-out gent in a pinstriped suit with multiple degrees in Art History from Oxford and Cambridge. But just before lunch two women arrived, one was the appraiser, who was Laura’s age, or less, the other a senior vice-president who, alerted to the possible star quality of the goods in question, wished to be present. After they reluctantly signed the NDAs James handed to them, Laura found them friendly and business-like, even as they grilled her, in what they hoped was an offhand manner, about her own credentials and qualifications. James, in no mood for Andalusian experiments when showing off his domain, had asked Finn and Bidelia to prepare and serve the meal, which they happily did while the Spaniards took their child for a picnic in the countryside.

  ‘I understand,’ said the senior vice president, a blond woman in her early fifties, well-dressed and accessorized and in whose presence the appraiser behaved in a suitably fawning fashion, ‘that what we’re about to see, apart from the value it might have due to its antiquity, has some possible historical importance as well?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ James replied, realizing that, once again, he was the only male in the room. Though Bidelia stood in a corner, Finn had disappeared.

  ‘Can I assume we have confidentiality here?’ Laura asked, taking the reins.

  ‘Oh yes,’ the older woman said. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be melodramatic,’ Laura added, ‘but I think you’ll agree the situation merits it.’

  ‘What are we talking about exactly?’

  ‘One scroll from the First Century AD,’ said James, looking to maintain seniority, ‘written in Aramaic, isn’t that right Laura?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘The scroll is in a very sorry state as you might imagine, but enough of it is there to show that the other two items, codices, one from the fourth century and the other from the thirteenth century, the former written in Ancient Greek, the latter in Old French, are translations of the scroll. All three items belonged to Eleanor of Castile, the first wife and Queen consort of King Edward I, a distant relative of James’.’

  ‘It’s been in our family for as long as anyone could remember. You’ve seen my documentation.’

  ‘Why is it,’ the older woman asked, ‘that all of this is only coming to light now? It’s very odd.’

  ‘That is hard to explain to people outside the family,’ said James, somewhat toning up his accent Laura thought, ‘but suffice it to say no one was ever that interested until my mother came along.’

  Laura got to the point, ‘The scroll was dictated to a scribe by Joseph of Arimathea, the uncle of Jesus Christ, and it is a convincing refutation of Christ’s divinity.’

  This caught the women’s attention, including Bidelia’s.

  After the meal, James and Laura and the two Sotheby women spent over an hour in the chamber behind the bookshelf. As the veracity of the documents sank in, the excitement felt by the two visitors became palpable. Afterwards they sat in the library and Bidelia served them coffee.

  ‘What you have in there,’ said the older woman, ‘is so astonishing it’s rather hard to believe frankly, hard to fathom.’

  ‘I know,’ said Laura.

  ‘But it all looks very kosher to me,’ the appraiser said.

  ‘I’d like to have it further insured,’ James said, ‘and moved somewhere safe, somewhere in London, so that when and if word seeps out, we won’t be swamped with gawkers and religious fanatics.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ the blond woman said.

  As the conversation made its way into the realm of legalities and financial estimates Laura excused herself and did not return until it was time to bid the two women farewell. Something the appraiser mentioned had struck her. The young woman, whose otherwise vapid personality had transformed into a laser-like observation machine when examining the artefacts, thought the central, tubular core the scroll was wrapped around unusual. She said it was thicker than most and that she had never seen anything quite like it, and that as an object, if separated from the scroll one day, might merit attention.

  After they left, James was in excellent spirits and Laura went back to the cottage with him where they made love, napped, and took a bath together. In light of the fact that Carmensina and the girls were due to arrive the next day they decided in homage to themselves to have dinner at The Wounded Hart. Once seated at the pub however Laura began to find James’s continued good cheer annoying. It took him a few minutes to notice her pique and decide he had no choice but to acknowledge it.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked her.

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘You seem a tad distracted.’

  The word tad increased her irritation, ‘I’m not looking forward to your wife’s arrival tomorrow. What can I say? I’ve had such a lovely time with you, and tomorrow it will feel bad and incredibly strange for me.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ he replied.

  ‘You seem fine. You seem very pleased, frankly.’

  ‘I’m pleased with how things went today,’ he said, trying not to sound too defensive, ‘pleased to be here this evening in your company. I’m pleased to have had you in bed today. I love being with you. And I am looking forward to seeing my daughters tomorrow. I am not looking forward to seeing my wife.’

  ‘I wonder,’ she said.

  ‘How can you say that?’
>
  ‘Because people, as you like to say, are complicated. There’s clearly something about this whole situation that works for you.’

  ‘Laura, we’ve been over this. You told me yourself you thought it was too soon to do anything, for the sake of Anna and Montse.’

  ‘I just wish you were feeling “a tad” more like I am right now.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Doesn’t look that way. You look like the cat who swallowed the canary.’

  ‘It’s an English thing, compounded by a Spanish thing, geniuses at denial, at acting like nothing is amiss.’

  ‘It’s not an attractive feature.’

  That pissed him off. His desire to comfort her was being challenged by her sudden fit of intransigence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, dryly.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I am mad about you,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘If you think I’m acting now, wait till you see me tomorrow.’

  But it was too soon for him to try and utter something cute.

  ‘You said you were acting, not me,’ she said, ‘and I have to say I’m going to do all I can not to see you tomorrow.’

  He took a deep breath, praying this was going to resolve itself rather than worsen, ‘I understand,’ he said, placing his hand on top of hers.

  ‘I mean objectively,’ she said, starting down a road part of her was cautioning against, ‘things are good for you. You’ve got a woman of independent means on the side, who you’re having great sex with, and an attractive albeit scary wife pregnant with your third child, two beautiful loving daughters, this amazing estate here in England, a cool house in Barcelona, and a media-hip job – like, what’s wrong with that picture?’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he asked, turning serious. ‘This isn’t like you. You know how I feel. You know how superficial this cartoon you’re drawing is. And I’m still reeling, by the way, from my mother’s death.’

  It was her turn for a deep breath, and then a deep gulp of the almost rancid Rioja he had ordered.

  ‘Who knows if it’s like me or not?’ she said. ‘I’m unhappy James. Anyone in my position this evening with a shred of sensitivity would be.’

  ‘And – like I’ve been telling you – I understand that.’

  ‘It’s just weird seeing you so bubbly.’

  ‘Well I’m not anymore.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘There we go again,’ he said, smiling at her with what he hoped looked like tenderness.

  ‘There we go,’ she said, trying for a smile back at him. ‘And I guess having those women from Sotheby’s here today has got me down too.’

  ‘How so? It went really well. You’re on the verge of acquiring some high-octane celebrity.’

  ‘Which maybe I don’t really want or I’m not ready for. I like my anonymity basically. One thing I keep on repressing and that I know will happen is that the furies will drag out my Palestinian heritage and accuse me with it. But it’s not that. More than anything it’s the feeling that things are ending here. The Sotheby women’s presence today marked a new phase. I’ve had such a wonderful time working here, when all of this endgame stuff was hanging out there, safely in the future. But now it’s pretty much here. And now there’s this Sicilian angle. It’s a bit neurotic, I admit. I should be energized by all of this, and by what’s going on between you and me, and hopefully, I will be again soon. Maybe I’m just getting my period or something.’

  ‘Laura,’ he said, touched by her honesty and relieved to see the storm passing, something that underlined a further contrast with how a similar confrontation with Carmensina would have evolved, ‘we’re both under a lot of pressure. We’ve both been going through a lot, some of it on our own and some of it together. But I’d like to think that in addition to having our health, we’re pretty lucky; though things might feel shaky and topsy-turvy right now, they will lead to changes that will be for the good, good for both of us.’

  He got out of his chair, came over to her, and kissed her.

  ‘Careful,’ she said quietly. ‘Everyone knows who you are around here.’

  He was going to drive them back to the cottage after dinner to spend some time with her before returning to the mansion for the night, but she asked him to stop at the big house first. She wanted to look at something. It was near ten when they came into the library together and turned on some lights. The new Spanish ‘Finn’ came in from the kitchen to see who was there and James put him at ease and sent him on his way. Laura opened the library shelf into the scroll chamber and turned on the lights and shut off the alarm.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ he asked, coming up behind her and kissing the back of her neck.

  ‘I want to check on something and I may need your help. Put these on,’ she said, handing him a set of the latex gloves as she did the same.

  ‘Is this going to get kinky?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I doubt it.’

  She removed the top from the glass case and lifted out the scroll. As always, the scraggly papyrus looked as if it might disintegrate into dust at the slightest provocation. But the central, tubular core had handles as it were, at either end, resembling an ancient, metallic, ornate, rolling pin.

  ‘That woman said something that intrigued me. She said this metal thing was unusual, unusually thick, and so I’m wondering whether it might have something inside of it.’

  ‘Cool,’ he said, trying to sound American.

  ‘I thought it was worth a try to have a look, but super carefully, just to try and see whether either of the ends might be acting as a lid or a stopper.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Screw fittings are a recent invention so it’s either jammed in there, or it isn’t.’

  ‘The trick,’ he said, ‘is going to be how to get a good grip on it without touching the scroll.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Let me get the toolbox. I’ll be right back.’

  She smiled and nodded, and as she waited in the chamber, she recalled the first time she had visited it with Camilla, this hidden room where aristocratic Catholics long buried and forgotten had celebrated mass. She realized this might be one of the last occasions she would be alone there with her treasures. It also occurred to her that Nathan had probably never touched a toolbox in his life. James was regaining a number of recently lost points. He brought it back with him, metal and oblong and black, scratched and heavy, and set it upon the worktable, delving into it with boy-like relish.

  ‘I never would have pegged you as the handyman type,’ she said, placing a conciliatory hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You can add frustrated plumber to the list,’ he said.

  ‘Frustrated Bohemian, frustrated plumber – a very frustrated man it seems.’

  ‘Not as long as you’re around.’

  ‘See if you can hold that thought over the next few days.’

  A flurry of images of Carmensina, drunk with triumph over the fruit of her womb, doing all she could to disarm and pleasure her handsome and all-too-pliable husband shot into her mind without warning, tempering Laura’s regained affability.

  Employing an adjustable spanner on one end that Laura held onto, and a mole wrench at the top that James controlled, they gingerly engaged in a fruitless struggle until Laura, too nervous, was about to give up. But James insisted they continue.

  ‘It can probably be x-rayed,’ she said, ‘without doing any damage. This is just too dicey.’

  ‘Laura, that will take weeks if not months to set up. Do you really want to wait that long?’

  She had no idea where he was getting those time periods and correctly assumed he was simply making them up in order to continue. He was stubborn that way and she liked it. She gave him a look of scepticism.

  ‘Let me try one more thing,’ he said.

  ‘Please be careful.’

  ‘I will.’

  But he took out a hammer, wrapping its head in
the silk handkerchief that had been expertly stuffed into the breast pocket of his jacket.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ she said.

  ‘Just a few taps. Hold on tight to your end and look the other way if you must.’

  Two things happened. With the fourth and hardest tap applied to the top handle, he knocked it clear off. Laura almost screamed. James uttered a loud ‘Damn!’ But the second thing that occurred was that the hollow core of the tube was revealed and in it could be seen another, much smaller scroll, and a furled sheet of vellum.

  ‘Holy shit,’ said Laura, peering in while still gripping the spanner.

  ‘You were right,’ was all he said.

  He leaned back and with one hand exchanged the hammer for a long-necked pair of pliers. The small scroll was wrapped about a crumbly wooden dowel. Gripping it with the pliers he drew it out, slowly, as if disarming a portable nuclear device. Once free of the core he set it down as gently as he could upon the towel laid out on the worktable next to the toolbox. Then, with the fingers of her free hand, Laura nudged out the sheet of vellum.

  ‘The scroll looks hopeless,’ she said, ‘but I’m hoping the vellum might be a translation.’

  It was in good enough condition so that it could be flattened sufficiently upon the towel.

  ‘It’s in Greek,’ she said, pointing.

  ‘It’s all Greek to me,’ he said.

  ‘I recognize the scribe’s handwriting. This is so exciting.’

  James got a bottle of Pol Roger from the kitchen. After they clinked their glasses together and took a sip, she took up the vellum sheet and translated it aloud to him.

  Chapter 42

  After my true father died, we buried him as he wished, naked and covered with vineyard soil.