Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘Good night, Darcy. Don’t stay too late.’
‘Night, Viggo,’ Darcy mumbled, hearing him climb the stairs. It was poker night. The man had a better social life than she did.
She checked her phone for the umpteenth time: double ticks. Grey.
He was ghosting her again. She had triple texted and left a short voice note saying she was sorry, could they please talk? But there had been no reply.
Freja had checked in hourly for updates all day, remote monitoring Darcy’s responses. She was allowed no more than three ‘aired’ messages. ‘You can show him you’re prepared to swallow your pride, you can show contrition – but there’s also a hard limit,’ she had said sternly at the bathroom mirror as they applied their make-up that morning, Darcy trying to conceal the under-eye bags that revealed another night of no sleep (this time for the wrong reasons). ‘You might lose that man, but you will at least keep your dignity.’
She stared at her screen. She had started writing her copy on Lilja’s biography, but it was a sparsely feathered nest. Strictly speaking, she could have done it at the apartment, or in the university library, or at the Academy, or at Paludan, but she was here because there was comfort to be found in the muted confines of the archive. The background murmur and hum of visitors upstairs, Viggo’s footsteps in the background, coffee on tap...the possibility that Max might come here unannounced, as he had before, against his better instincts.
He hated her for probing into his great-grandmother’s death, but she had been skating on the surface of Lilja’s life and there were glaringly obvious suppositions she couldn’t ignore. Max had been right that Emme’s birth could have triggered a profound postnatal depression in an already fragile young woman, and that might explain why she had walked into the sea. But it also might not. No matter what he said, Darcy couldn’t ignore the fact that in the photographs she had seen of Lilja in those final months, she had looked stronger and decidedly content – so different to the reports of her physical and mental condition when she’d arrived in Hornbaek in 1920.
Which posed the question: why? What had happened to make her so happy? Was it falling pregnant with her daughter, or something else? Some one else.
Had she had an affair with Johan Trier? It was the obvious question and Darcy couldn’t discount it without consideration, not if she was to do her job. She had to look at the circumstances of Lilja’s life leading up to that last summer if she was to convey the background to a portrait of a woman in love.
Because she had been. It was the quality Darcy hadn’t been able to pinpoint before: Lilja’s direct eye contact was not so much provocative as intimate, the parting of her mouth sensual...She had been looking at her lover.
And if she was to take this hypothesis to its logical conclusion, then she couldn’t disregard the next question it posed, either: was Casper the father of Lilja’s baby, or was it Trier? The artist, being twenty-seven that summer, had been significantly closer in age to Lilja. With her husband so often absent, building the family’s fortune abroad, might an affair not have been almost inevitable between them, living in that house together? If theirs had been a marriage of convenience, she and Casper might both have found passion elsewhere. Darcy had seen the Sallys’ silent disapproval in the photograph – the family forced into being reluctant keepers of secrets as their employer’s son returned for the summer, an unwitting cuckold.
It all made sense. On arrival this morning, Darcy had gone straight to the artist’s files and looked for Trier’s 1922 diary, but there wasn’t one to be found in any of the boxes. She had checked against the red ledger too, and gone into the family files in case it had been inadvertently left there, but that was just more medical invoices for bromide and household accounts.
The diary’s absence was glaring. Trier had been a committed and disciplined diarist. He had kept a journal for every single year that she had looked at so far – it made no sense that there wasn’t one for arguably the most important year of his life, when he had created his masterpiece – and become a father?
Had he destroyed it? Or had he known better than to leave a written record – evidence – of his affair with the daughter-in-law of his patron?
She had read through his 1921 diary; that, at least, had been where it was supposed to be. She’d scanned through the summer months for mentions of Hornbaek, Lilja, Solvtraeer...even if he had just visited fleetingly, it might have helped to officially cast doubt on Casper’s paternity. But she had found no entries detailing life beyond his return from Italy to Copenhagen. She was at a dead end. She had only suspicions without proof, and she couldn’t – she wouldn’t – include anything speculative.
She checked her phone again.
Nothing. She groaned, dropping her face into her hands, knowing for a fact that Max wasn’t going to call. She was no longer the exception, but the rule. What to her was professional rigour he saw as betrayal – even though she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to do the same in his own job, or if he was in her situation.
The hypocrisy of it angered her, but she also knew he was reverting to type. His walls had come down and he had enveloped her with a depth of feeling that had taken her by surprise – and perhaps him, too. He had made himself vulnerable to her and, in his eyes, this was how she responded?
She couldn’t bear it, being cast out like this. If she could just talk to him, explain...But she didn’t even know where he was. In his office? On a plane to Munich? At home?
Home...
She remembered something. She got up, strode towards Viggo’s desk and opened his drawer. The key was still there. Viggo was supposed to have returned it by now, or Max should have collected it, but she pressed it into her palm, pleased either way, and grabbed her coat.
Outside, the roads were treacherous. The fallen snow hadn’t thawed but nor had it settled into thick banks, and as the evening temperatures dropped sharply it formed a thin, icy veil underfoot. Hardly anyone was cycling, which was always a sure sign.
She stayed on the park side of the road as she walked in the bitter cold, bright headlights shining straight at her, traffic heavy as people headed for home. It was nearly the last week before Christmas and everyone was busy tying up loose ends.
Across the street, lights were glowing from the generous windows of the townhouses, extravagant Christmas trees behind the glass decked with lights and ribbons, plush wreaths hanging on the doors. Christmas was nine days away and the city felt swollen with festive cheer. It was a time for happy endings and new beginnings: families coming together, lovers making memories...
But as she drew nearer, she saw Max’s house sitting in darkness. No merry-making here. No tree, no wreath. No sign of life.
She rang his doorbell three times anyway.
The key was warm now in her palm and she squeezed it, reminding herself of the intentions that had propelled her here. She had a key. She knew the code. She could let herself in and make him dinner. She could let herself in and climb, naked, into his bed.
Or...
Or she could turn around and leave again before he came back.
Fear gripped her as indecision kicked in outside the dark house. She could have her dignity or him.
But not both.
‘Darcy?’ Max asked, stopping on the pavement and looking up at her. Behind him, the car door closed and Christoff pulled away.
Darcy looked up from her crouched position on the top step. She could no longer feel her backside; she felt like a stone statue. How long had she been sitting here? Twenty minutes? Thirty? More?
‘Max.’ She was stiff and shivering but determined not to show either.
‘What are you doing here?’ His tone was flat, his face expressionless.
It was exactly the question she had dreaded: polite disbelief she should be here. Embarrassing herself. Embarrassing them both.
‘I wanted us to talk,’ she said, watching him slowly ascend the steps. His body language was closed, his mood hostile. ‘And to return this.’
He looked at the key, then back at her. ‘If you had that, why didn’t you let yourself in, instead of sitting in the cold? It’s sub-zero out here.’
‘As if I was going to do that.’ Didn’t he know he could trust her not to breach his privacy?
He took it from her, not meeting her gaze. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Not long.’
His expression showed he clearly didn’t believe her, but he looked away and down the street, staring sightlessly into the traffic. He sighed. ‘Look, I’m sorry you’ve been waiting in the cold for me out here, but I can’t invite you in. I don’t think us talking is a good idea.’
‘Why?’ She was calm. So far, so avoidant.
‘Because it isn’t going to change anything. My mind is set.’
‘Your mind is set, even though forty-eight hours ago you were telling me we couldn’t go on pretending we didn’t have feelings for one another?’
He took a breath. ‘Darcy...I don’t want to hurt you, but it was a mistake.’
His voice was even; she could only imagine how many times he had said those very words to countless other women over the years. But although his delivery was flawless, she saw a shadow pass through his eyes, as if his spirit was turning over. Restless and disturbed.
‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘It wasn’t a mistake. It was the best thing to happen to either of us in a really long time. And I’m sorry I ruined that by pushing too hard with questions about your family. I shouldn’t have let work come between us. The fact that Lilja was your great-grandmother is irrelevant. If I need to find information, it can’t be through you. I understand that now. What’s between us is strictly personal.’
He stared at her, a silence beginning to stretch out as she challenged him with the truth. She could see he was fighting her in his head. He looked tired.
‘Well? Aren’t you going to say something?’
His gaze fell to her mouth. ‘Your lips are blue.’
‘I didn’t mean...’ She sighed. ‘I don’t care about my lips right now, Max.’
‘No, but I do.’ He leaned forward, kissing her lightly, a gentle press of their lips. Momentary comfort. Fleeting tenderness. But his hands remained by his sides, their bodies apart. Resistance lingering.
He drew back, refusing eye contact as he recovered himself. Headlights washed over them both as the rush-hour traffic skulked past. ‘You should go.’
‘I’m cold.’
His eyes flashed up to hers, recognizing her defiance; her refusal to give up. He wanted to keep her at arm’s length but she wouldn’t let him. Clearly they couldn’t stay out here. Without a word he reached for the lock, slid the key in. He opened the door and walked through into the dark hall, switching on the lights as the alarm pips beeped. He entered the code. ‘Come in.’
She stepped into the familiar, beautiful space as he closed the door behind her – shutting out the sound of the traffic, cutting off the rest of the world so that it was just the two of them again. Instantly she felt the tension ratchet between them, as it always did. He looked at her and she knew that what was coming was inevitable. The genie was out of the bottle and it couldn’t be put back in again. She saw the defeat come into his eyes and he reached for her, pushing her against the wall and kissing her hard this time. He was angry and desperate all at once. His hand reached for her thigh, pulling it higher as she wrapped her leg around him. He groaned as she unbuttoned his fly.
Resistance was futile.
They slept in the spare bedroom. Not his, with the massive emperor bed that had been the scene of a thousand seductions, but the smaller room across the hall where the Sorolla hung. It was even more beautiful than she had imagined and she lay wrapped in his limbs, looking up at it in wonder – until he made her look at him again, and she was lost.
‘Don’t get up,’ he whispered the next morning, laughing quietly as he came back from the shower to find her sitting up in bed, her hair mussed, head nodding sleepily. It was still dark. Middle-of-the-night dark. ‘I’ve got an early meeting. Go back to sleep.’
‘Are you sure?’ she mumbled, offering no resistance to the idea.
‘You’re not a morning person, are you?’ he grinned, kissing her forehead and lowering her gently back into the pillows. ‘I’ll call you later.’
‘Wait...’ Her hand reached for him blindly. ‘...I need a clean shirt.’
‘Right-side closet in my room.’ He kissed her temple.
‘And...charger...my phone,’ she sighed. It was so hard to have to think .
‘Next to my bed. I’ll put it on for you now so it’s ready when you get up.’
She smiled into the pillows as he picked up her phone, kissed her temple again and walked out. She was asleep before he reached the front door.
When she awoke, it was almost light. She could hear from the low drone of traffic that the day had started in earnest now and she blinked, wondering what the time was. She stared at the Sorolla – how could it be that she was able to gaze upon such mastery without even getting out of bed?
Max’s bedroom was off-white, with chocolate-brown linen sheets that hung loosely to the floor and fitted wardrobes upholstered in tobacco leather. A Barcelona chair and stool sat in one corner and there was a huge Slim Aarons print above the bed. The room was chic but assuredly masculine. Presumably any feminine accents would be provided only by visitors: lacy knickers on the floor, a lipliner in the bathroom drawer...She tried not to think about it.
She showered, choosing a blue shirt from his wardrobe and putting it on like she’d won Capture the Flag. She had just enough make-up in her bag to make herself look presentable and she walked over to the bed to get her phone. It was charged to 92 per cent.
She sat on the edge of the bed as she checked her messages: her brother – ‘go halves on this White Company shirt for Mum’s Christmas prez??’ Numerous texts from Freja – ‘Where are you? What’s happening?? You need to callll me.’
She pressed dial. ‘You are so dramatic,’ she said before Freja could shriek at her.
‘Oh my God, where are you?’ The words fell out in one jumbled breath. Freja sounded like she was jogging. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you since last night!’
‘I know, I’ve just seen your thirty-nine missed messages! Honestly, Freja, I was with Max. Surely you could guess, if I wasn’t returning your calls?’ She went downstairs. Her coat was draped over the newel post and she smiled at the memory of them in the hall last night, shedding clothes, desperate for skin upon skin.
‘But how was I to know for sure? Where are you now?’
She shrugged on her coat. ‘I’m at his place right now. I’m just leaving, in fact.’ She entered the alarm code and pulled the door closed behind her.
‘Is he there too?’
‘No, he had an early start,’ she said, beginning to walk at a brisk pace along the road.
‘Okay, so tell me everything then, and leave out nothing.’ Freja’s feet pounded rhythmically in the background. She was definitely running.
‘He was doing what I should have realized he’d do: freaking out. This is new territory for him. He doesn’t do relationships.’
‘And what if he freaks out again?’ Freja panted lightly.
‘Then I keep showing up. But he won’t. We talked it out—’
A police car suddenly shot past, lights flashing, siren blaring, and Darcy realized a moment later that she could hear the siren coming down the line too. ‘Hey, where are you right now?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes – where are you running?’
She could hear Freja’s grin in her voice. ‘Actually, I’m about two hundred metres behind you.’
‘ What ?’ Darcy spun round to see a familiar spry figure jogging towards her. She laughed as she stopped walking and waited. ‘What are you doing all the way over here?’ she asked into the phone. Freja worked at the university on Tuesdays.
‘I thought I’d come and catch you on your way in to work, seeing as you weren’t picking up last night.’
‘Oh my God, Freja!’ Darcy laughed. ‘That’s ridiculous! I’m completely fine! Did you really think I’d come to harm?’
‘No,’ Freja panted. She was only twenty metres away now, and Darcy hung up.
‘So then what are you doing over here?’ Darcy asked as Freja ran up to her, looking fresh.
Freja just grinned. ‘I had something to tell you that can only be said in person.’
‘What?’ Darcy asked, before she suddenly gasped, her hand flying over her mouth, as she saw the delight in her friend’s eyes and immediately understood. ‘...Oh my God, he didn’t !’
‘He did!’
‘You’re not !’ Darcy shrieked, her body already coiled to leap.
‘We are!’ Freja cried back, holding out her hand to show a marquise diamond on her engagement finger. They began hugging and jumping excitedly, so that people in passing cars looked at them in alarm. ‘He asked me last night!’
‘Oh my God, Freja! And I wasn’t picking up!’ Darcy shrieked. ‘ No! ’
‘I know! I’d murder you if it wasn’t for the fact that I need you as my bridesmaid!’
Darcy gasped again, falling still. ‘...You want me as your bridesmaid?’
‘Well, who else, dummy? You’re the closest thing to a sister that I’ve got.’
‘Oh, Frey.’ Darcy’s fingers pressed against her mouth.
‘So that’s a yes?’
‘Of course it’s a yes!’ They hugged again in the middle of the street, oblivious to the dog walkers and kindergarteners waddling past bundled up in boots and winter coats. ‘Oh Freja, I can’t believe this has happened, especially after the non-event last weekend.’
‘I know. When I tell you I was so shocked...I’d put all thoughts of it out of my mind!’
‘How did he do it?’
‘We were in bed, just cuddling, and he asked. No showy proclamation.’
‘You mean no flash mob?’ Darcy asked with mock horror.
Freja grinned. ‘No.’
‘No petals on the bed?’
‘No petals.’
‘Please tell me there was a balloon.’
‘Not even. It was just quietly us being us, and it was perfect. Get this – he said he had intended to ask me in Amsterdam, but he saw another other couple getting engaged in the spot where he’d intended to do it, and he thought it was too cliched.’
‘So you hadn’t got ahead of yourself after all, then?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Show me the ring again,’ Darcy demanded. ‘I need to study it.’
Freja held her hand out as Darcy cooed over the glittering stone. ‘It’s stunning. That is a big diamond!’
‘I know.’
Darcy heard the note of worry in Freja’s voice and looked up to see her biting her lip. ‘You don’t think it’s a bit too fancy for me, do you?’
‘Too fancy?’
‘Yeah. You don’t think the diamond’s too big?’
‘Freja, there is no such thing as a diamond being too big! That concept does not exist. Why would you even say such a thing?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just quite a...humble girly. I guess I always anticipated having something more modest?’
Darcy opened her mouth, ready to argue again, but Freja’s words prompted a sudden shift in her brain, like a gear being levered into place. Suddenly everything made sense. The truth had unlocked and one newly revealed fact led on to another, exposing a past she had stared in the face.
She couldn’t believe it.
She had looked straight at it! Everything had been right there, in front of her – but she’d added two and two together and come to five.