CHAPTER 63
Nicholas
Cornwall
Nothing had changed at Godrevy. Nicholas wandered from room to room, cleared up a few clothes he’d tossed on the bed in his hurry to be gone, washed up a solitary coffee cup, got some meat out of the freezer for later.
Giuseppe had been surprisingly compliant about him taking some time out. ‘I can do the travelling around for a while, Nico,’ he said. ‘You deserve a break.’ The words after all you’ve been through hovered unsaid in the air.
‘Cheers.’ Nicholas almost said at this point, What if I choose not to come back? But he didn’t say it – why cause unnecessary anxiety? Why not take each day at a time? And he knew he would come back to Godrevy – the landscape he loved.
In the garden, he performed the usual ritual.
Walked to the end and looked out over the dunes.
Checked on the flowers and shrubs, mostly dormant at this time of year.
He picked a few bits and pieces of yellow winter jasmine, fern and white Christmas rose and formed them into a rough bunch. He’d neglected her of late.
He went back through the cottage and out into the front.
Would his aunt approve of his new plan? He thought so.
They’d always been close and he’d spent so much of his time here when he was young .
. . He was the one who had sorted out her things after she died; he still had a trunk of papers, letters, photographs, that sort of thing.
And one of her paintings, of course. Nicholas valued all her memories.
He crossed the road to the church. There was a jaunty-looking sports car parked outside, which was unusual. Nicholas looked around; someone visiting the church, he supposed. It meant a lot to him to live so close to his aunt’s grave – he’d miss that while he was gone.
She’d had a sad life, Aunt Emily. She’d never married.
She’d told him once that there was a man – her heart’s love, she called him, but he was married and therefore unavailable.
‘He killed himself, Nicholas, my dear,’ she’d told him one day when Nicholas had asked about him.
She said it, quite starkly, almost matter-of-factly, as if over the years she’d managed to anaesthetise herself against the pain.
But Nicholas knew that this wasn’t the case – he could see it still lingering in her eyes.
‘He jumped into the River Thames. From Waterloo Bridge. He couldn’t imagine a life where the two of us weren’t together, you see.’
Nicholas thought of his aunt’s last painting.
She’d painted the Charles Bridge in Prague and it was one of the reasons why Prague had long been on his bucket list. The statue in the foreground was St John of Nepomuk with his sad, bewildered eyes, the dog sitting at his feet, golden stars clustered around the saint’s cocked head, shooting up towards the darkening sky.
The painting hung in his bedroom here at Godrevy on the white wall. A stark reminder, he thought, of what could happen when you fell in love. But it didn’t always have to be like that, did it? Sometimes there could be a happy ending.
It was a strange coincidence that Joanna Shepherd should have written about the Charles Bridge, even stranger that he should see a vision of his aunt with her paints and easel sitting by the bridge that day, painting the exact picture that now hung on his wall.
But why not? Aunt Emily had been on his mind.
He wasn’t sure even now if her creativity had burnt itself out so young, or if the death of this man that she loved had made it impossible for her to go on, impossible for her to pick up a paintbrush ever again.
Whatever, it was a bloody waste. Love affair? It must have been something special.
As he walked through the church gates, he saw a woman leaving the graveyard, walking down the path towards him. Tall, slim, well dressed, a stranger; he glanced at her briefly and nodded hello, only half seeing her, concentrating on his aunt and the job in hand.
At the grave, he laid down the flowers. But beside the headstone was another offering – a sprig from a tree, in leaf.
He wasn’t sure what kind of tree. He picked it up.
Touched the glossy leaves. Remembered Lisbon.
Of course. A mulberry tree. Some kind of knowledge hung, almost tangible, in the air.
There was a small metal box tucked beside the gravestone too. Nicholas frowned. He opened it. Inside, were some letters tied with black ribbon. He took one and read the first few lines. The letter had been written from Venice.
Nicholas glanced back towards the road. The woman was leaning on the car. She looked deep in thought. She looked . . . Bloody hell.
‘Hey!’ he shouted.
She glanced up, questioning.
Nicholas couldn’t believe it. But suddenly, everything was slotting into place. ‘Hang on there a minute.’
He ran towards her, quickly, before she could open the car door, before she could drive away. He was still holding the small bundle of letters in his hand. ‘Joanna?’
She was going nowhere. She seemed to be waiting. ‘Yes?’ she said.
She looked down at the letters he held. She frowned and then he saw the understanding appear on her face. Her eyes were the colour of horse chestnuts in the autumn. Her smile was the best thing he’d ever seen.
‘Nicholas?’ she said. ‘Nicholas Tresillion?’
‘Yes,’ he said. He took a step closer. ‘The very same.’