Chapter 2 #2
“I promise. The only problem is that my publisher wanted to change the name of one of the characters in my new book, and I refused. And, yes, I slipped over on the pavement and lay there as several people stepped over me, but that was only because my mind was so full of ideas for new stories.” I had little hope that she would believe this feeble explanation.
“Very well…” I thought it strange that she didn’t challenge me, but she had another topic to broach. “Has there been any news about your father since he disappeared?”
I hadn’t realised how many things there were that I had no desire to discuss.
The war, financial hardship, the last night before I left Britain, my missing father…
When daydreaming of such a chance meeting, I hadn’t given nearly enough thought to the topics of conversation that should be avoided at all costs.
“There’s no news, I’m afraid. He just vanished into thin air. Of course, if I was half the mystery novelist that my publishers like to claim I am, I would have solved the case myself.”
She took a few steps away from me then and pulled the belt on her purple woollen coat so that it hugged her a little more tightly. “I have something else for which I must apologise.”
I wanted to tell her that the very idea of such a thing was quite ridiculous. I wanted to say that people like her were beyond fault, but instead I stared blankly and waited for her to continue.
“I should have written to you on the front line. I should have—”
“You had a perfectly good reason not to,” was all I could say in response, but it had none of the warmth I had meant to impart. I sounded bitter for some reason, and I wished that I could have taken back each syllable just as I erase words in my books.
I couldn’t think what to say to reassure her but prayed she would not return us to the previous topic.
My time in France had been a perfect, tragic distraction from that night before I left for war.
I was only eighteen at the time, but the conversation we had shared had scarred me as much as anything I saw on the continent.
She glanced at the silver watch on her delicate wrist, and I knew what this would mean. “I’m afraid I must go. I still have to buy some presents and drive back to Hurtwood before dinner.”
I clamped my mouth shut for a few seconds to make sure that I didn’t mumble anything inappropriate.
What I wanted to say was, I’ve spent the last decade trying to forget you and can see now what a mistake that was.
I should have come straight home to you after the war and tried again, but if there’s anything I can do to make it right, I will.
Instead, I reached out to touch her shoulder and said, “Merry Christmas, Bella. Send my love to your family.”
“My dear old friend, I can’t say how much I’ve missed you.” She put her hand on mine, and it felt as though she’d just warmed it by an open fire. “There is no one quite like Marius Quin.”
Have you ever had one of those moments when you realise that you’ve been living your life in entirely the wrong way? Well, this was mine.
She turned to leave without another word and, as I am a total buffoon, I stood there and let her go. Her jade skirt swayed about her ankles, and I willed her to look back, but it wasn’t to be.
In place of soft white flakes to mark the season, icy rain spat down from the skies.
I pulled my collar up to keep warm, though the weather was the least of my worries.
I’d just said goodbye to that precious human being for the second time, and I finally understood what was wrong with me.
Everything I’d done for the last few years was for Lady Isabella Montague.
I’d never wanted to live in a fancy part of London, but I’d bought an expensive flat there in the hope she’d hear about it and think me worthy of her at last. I couldn’t give a fig for high society or fancy cars, but I’d become fixated on the idea of bettering myself without really knowing why.
Instead of catching a bus or spending my last few coins on a taxi, I walked in the freezing cold through Bloomsbury and around the British Museum.
I passed the bright glowing theatre signs on Shaftesbury Avenue and wished that my own play had remained at such lofty heights for a little longer than it had – and that I hadn’t invested my remaining savings in it.
Piccadilly was packed with cheery shoppers piled high with parcels and bags as they made their way home for Christmas, and by the time I reached my ground-floor flat in St James’s Square, I was close to swearing off the holiday altogether.
I should never have bought that albatross of a property.
I should never have thought that my address would be enough to charm a woman who had everything.
By mid-January, I would be homeless, and I only had myself to blame.
The whole situation was unbearable… until I saw a camel-brown, 1914 Sunbeam motorcar parked in front of the building with a fashionable young woman standing beside it.
“Marius!” Bella’s voice was a beam of light guiding me home. “It wasn’t until we were halfway across London that something occurred to me.”
I ran to her, not thinking for one moment that she would confess her undying love. I was simply ecstatic to see her again.
“What is it?” I sounded more cheerful than at any other time that day.
As her furious chauffeur glared through his foggy windscreen, she held out a card. The very sight of it was alien to me. It was printed on gold paper that was as stiff as an iron sheet, and at the top were the words “Everham Hall”.
“A friend of mine is hosting a party on the thirty-first. You will come for the weekend, won’t you?”
I’d never had much fondness for New Year’s Eve, but she kissed me on the cheek, and there was no way I was about to turn down the invitation.
“Of course I will, Bella. How could I possibly refuse?”
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