Chapter Fifteen
In the short time that we stay with Lydia, I learn that her aunt, the widowed Countess of Faversham, lives in the big house while Lydia lives with her widowed mother in a cottage on the estate.
I also learn that she has had help in making the stage set from the estate workers, especially the gamekeeper and his son who are both good carpenters.
She invites us to join her for lunch, but Cavill politely declines.
He makes no excuse. We return to the car just as the rain stops and the clouds break momentarily to release a brilliant beam of sunshine.
Lydia waves us off and we motor down the drive and towards the rest of the day that stretches out before us, full of promise. ‘She was concerned you might not like the set, being so modern,’ he says, as the wheels splash through puddles and we both bounce about like jack in the boxes.
‘I do like it, very much,’ I reply. It certainly doesn’t look modern to me. ‘It’s important to try different things,’ I tell him. ‘And she’s made this set her own, hasn’t she? She’s very talented. Do you still paint, Cavill?’ The words come out before I can censor them.
He glances at me and frowns. ‘How the devil do you know I paint?’
I’m stung. ‘You told me,’ I reply, realising that I’m going to have to double down. ‘You painted birds once upon a time.’ I almost hold my breath and stare unblinking at the road ahead. An uncomfortable heat causes the skin on my neck to prickle.
‘Did I? I didn’t think I had told anyone that. How funny.’ He shrugs, accepting my lie. ‘I lost the will to paint many years ago, but once, it was a hobby of mine, that is true. I was quite good, on reflection.’
‘I think you should take it up again. It’s good for the soul.’
He smiles wryly. ‘Maybe you’re right. I should take it up again. I used to keep a sketchbook. I painted ducks, mostly. There’s something very appealing about a duck.’
I remember the conversation we had in 1895 by the estuary, when, as Hermione, he told me about his love of teals. ‘I like them too,’ I tell him, then add, a little manipulatively. ‘I especially love the teal. There’s something about the curve of the head that’s particularly charming.’
‘They’re my favourite as well,’ he says, and his face beams with pleasant surprise. ‘You’re right, Eddie my darling, I should paint again. The first bird I’m going to paint will be a teal. I’ll paint it for you.’
I smile back. ‘I’d love that.’ But I know I’ll never see it.
He reaches over and once again takes my hand. I hold on to his. I never want to let it go.
We drive along the coast for what feels like tens of miles before Cavill turns in to a picturesque yet run down white pub called The Smuggler’s Tavern that sits on the top of cliffs, looking out to sea.
There’s something world-weary about it, as if it’s sat there for centuries and is now tired of the monotony of its existence and the harsh winds that whip off the water.
‘I think we’re far enough away from Seacombe not to be caught,’ Cavill says, pulling up and turning off the engine.
‘And what if we are caught?’ I ask.
He grins. ‘I’ll think of something.’ But I can’t imagine what excuse he could give. We have adultery written all over our faces.
The pub is quiet. Only a few locals are sitting around tables beneath a ceiling of old wooden beams and peeling plaster, drinking beer and smoking.
When we enter, they look up at us over their pint glasses, appraise us with mild curiosity, then return to their stout and their chat and ignore us.
I notice a sheep dog sleeping on the carpet in front of the fireplace, where logs crackle and glow with dancing flames.
I’m grateful for the warmth, for the rainclouds have turned the air damp and cold.
We choose a small table in the corner by a small, latticed window and order wine and something to eat.
There isn’t much choice, so I copy Cavill and go for the roast beef with Yorkshire pudding.
It’s the kind of meal one would expect in a modern pub on a Sunday. Some things never change!
It’s cosy in there and intimate. There’s something very pleasant about the sweet smell of pipe tobacco and cigarette smoke.
And the fug serves as a screen. I feel less conspicuous in it.
Soon we’re deep in conversation with eyes only for each other.
The rest of the pub recedes, and it feels as if we’re alone on an island where time doesn’t exist.
Having made the mistake of alluding to his sketching, I take care not to put my foot in it again.
I encourage him to talk about New York, Josephine, his growing up at St Sidwell, anything so that he doesn’t ask about me.
It’s a minefield, admittedly, because I have no idea how much of his life Eddie knows, and I’m totally ignorant of hers.
But he doesn’t find my questions strange.
In fact, he seems happy to talk and to be listened to.
I wonder whether Gilda, as charming as she appears to be, might be a little self-obsessed.
He seems grateful that I’m so interested in him.
‘I’ve booked a room upstairs, Eddie,’ he says quietly, when we finish lunch. He takes my hand across the table. I glance at the other people and realise that no one is looking at us. We’re just a couple, like any other. ‘Are you happy with that? You don’t have to. I don’t want to …’
I cut him off. ‘I want to, Cavill,’ I reply.
He looks deeply into my eyes. ‘If you’re sure.’
I nod. I can’t quite believe that this is happening and that it’s okay. At least, I hope it’s okay. I hope it’s what Eddie would want. How can I know?
And then, as if he senses I need reassurance, he adds. ‘I wouldn’t have been so presumptuous if you hadn’t confessed how you felt. How you had felt for some time.’
‘I know.’ I squeeze his hand. ‘I want this. I want you.’
I’m nervous suddenly. I can’t vouch for Eddie, but I’ve wanted this for so long.
I’ve dreamed of it. But now it’s about to happen, I’m riddled with anxiety.
Cavill collects the room key from the innkeeper, a ruddy-faced, impassive woman who has probably seen this kind of thing before, and we follow her to a blackened door.
She lifts the latch and tells us the bedroom is at the top of the narrow staircase on the right, number two.
Cavill stands aside to let me pass and I go on up.
I feel the blood pounding against my temples.
My heart seems to beat in my throat. It’s not because I’m committing adultery, or, to be precise, Eddie is.
That’s not a concern I allow myself to dwell upon.
It’s that this will be the one and only time I get to make love with him.
Then I’ll have to let him go. I’m afraid of it being over before it’s even begun.
It’s like crying over the last page of a novel without enjoying the story.
But how can I enjoy the beauty of the present moment when I know that for me, it’s an ending.
For Eddie and Cavill it’s only the beginning, and I envy Eddie that.
Cavill puts the key in the lock, and we enter.
The ceiling is low, so he almost has to stoop.
The bedroom is plain but quaint and unfussy.
There’s a double bed, pine bedside tables with brass lamps and a small, lead window that reveals, through the mist and rain, the grey sea and angry grey clouds above it.
But I don’t linger on the view. I drape my coat over the spindle-back chair placed in the corner beneath it and sit down to take off my shoes.
I glance at Cavill and smile. He’s standing, watching me, a sweet, pensive look on his face.
‘This feels comfortable, Eddie,’ he says softly. ‘It feels right.’
I remind myself that I’m Eddie Skipton. Eddie was married.
She’s no ingenue. But I feel like a virgin on her wedding night.
There’s a mirror on the wall above the chest of drawers and, as I stand and move towards Cavill, I catch myself in it.
Eddie’s face, pale and beautiful, looks back at me, the skin between her eyes puckered with apprehension.
I swiftly shift my gaze and focus on Cavill with determination, but a sharp pain stabs me in the chest. It’s Eddie’s face he sees, Eddie’s eyes he looks into, Eddie’s body he now holds.
I’m the silent longing in her heart, a whisper he can’t hear; a woman he doesn’t know who loves him.
I’m in his arms and he’s kissing me. I push those dark thoughts away and lose myself in the sensation of his lips on mine.
I close my eyes and sink into the familiar scent of him which envelops me in a kind of oblivion.
I forget that I’m Eddie. I forget what year it is, and where I am.
It’s just me and Cavill in the middle of a timeless, eternal space, alone together at last.
The cold bed quickly warms up with the heat of our bodies.
There’s no need to rush, but we explore each other greedily.
My dreams manifest more wonderfully than I could ever have imagined.
His touch is gentle, his kisses tender, and the sacred feeling of this moment is not lost on either of us.
It’s as if I have always been his and he mine.
As he enters me, reaching the closest thing to unity that two human beings can possibly achieve, our eyes lock and I’m convinced that he’s seeing me, Pixie, at last.
I feel the sting of tears, the welling of emotion in my throat.
I’m overwhelmed by the expansion in my chest, this love that is so much bigger than I am.
It seems to radiate out of me and fill the room, and I’m carried on it, like a bird on a sunbeam, my spirit soaring with joy.
I wrap my arms around him and hold him tightly.
I’m in the present moment, not wishing I were anywhere else, and it’s a profound bliss I have never known before.