Another Life: Escape to Cornwall with this gripping, emotional, page-turning read

Mark laughed. ‘Of course you haven’t. You would have still been in nappies.’

Lucinda blushed. ‘Not quite. If you come this way, I’ll make a cup of tea.’

Gabby suddenly saw that Lucinda found Mark attractive. Then immediately thought, Well he is, so most women will.

For some reason this dampened her spirits.

As they had tea, Lucinda asked Gabby if Nell still worked. ‘We could do with her up here. One of our restorers has just gone on maternity leave early because of health problems.’

‘Nell still restores, but in her own time. She’s sort of semi-retired …’ Gabby smiled. ‘I’m not sure you could lure her out of retirement.’

‘I was only joking, really.’

‘Gabby is restoring the figurehead of Lady Isabella,’ Mark said.

Lucinda stared at her. ‘Oh, sorry, I am thick. I never listen to names. I didn’t realize you were the same person.’

‘No reason why you should,’ Gabby said easily.

As they left, Lucinda asked, ‘Are you going all the way back to Cornwall tonight?’

‘No,’ Gabby said. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Have you got ten minutes?’

Puzzled, Gabby glanced at Mark. ‘Yes, of course.’

Lucinda led the way into the gallery and along some long corridors to a small back room. She pointed to a portrait of a young boy sitting with riding whip and a spaniel, with a river and trees behind him.

‘Tell me what you think?’

Gabby went closer. She was appalled. The painting had been brutally cleaned with little concession to its age or original paint. The boy’s face had been over-cleaned, so that it seemed to lack expression. The trees behind him, which should have been cleared of yellow varnish, had been left. This really should never have happened. It was a complete mess.

Lucinda was watching her face. ‘Thank you, Gabrielle. You do not need to say a thing. Is it irredeemable?’

‘Did it come to you like this?’ Gabby asked. ‘I can’t believe anyone here could be responsible. Lucinda, its value has possibly been reduced by this restoration. Surely no one untrained had a go, did they?’

‘It came to us from a private collector. He had it cleaned by a restorer who came to him recommended. The collector brought it to us in tears.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Gabby said. ‘He should not be allowed anywhere near a painting. No, it isn’t irredeemable. A good restorer could undo some of the damage, but not all, I’m afraid.’

‘Thank you for confirming what we’ve already been told. Would you mind not mentioning this to anybody? And Gabrielle, may I have your phone number?’

‘It’s all very cloak and dagger. Perhaps your little councillor’s brother struck again!’ Mark was trying not to laugh as Gabby scribbled down her number.

The afternoon was dark as they left the gallery and people were pouring to the tube station. Mark managed to hail a taxi. He turned to Gabby inside the cab.

‘Would you like to go to your club to shower and freshen up? Or could you bear to come and see this house of my aunt’s that I’m going to be renting all next year for my sabbatical. I’m dying to show someone, it’s bang on the river and I’m very much in love with it.’

‘I’d like to see it.’

‘Then, if you don’t feel I’m monopolizing you, I could bring you back to the club and wait around in the bar for you? You needn’t hurry, I’ll be quite happy. I have hundreds of daughters, I’m used to waiting. Then I can take you to supper.’

‘There is a great little French place within walking distance of the club,’ Gabby said. ‘Nell and I go there sometimes.’

‘Perfect. We’ve got the day sewn up then.’

‘I didn’t realize you were going to take a sabbatical over here.’

‘I’ve only just stopped dithering and, encouraged by my English publisher, made a definite decision.’

They smiled at one another, and then turned to look at London sliding by.

Chapter 19 (#ulink_eae4f1d0-3a8d-58c3-aee9-64c65792552f)

The wind battered the long stalks of opening daffodils so that they lay on the banks and borders with their heads bowed like a defeated army. Apart from the relentless rain spattering and running down the panes, the house was deathly silent.

The heart, the very core of the household was gone. Vanished in the moment it took for a horse to rear. Isabella waited and waited for her father to call her to him, for them to comfort each other, but the door to his study remained firmly shut.

She was overcome by shock and sudden shaking fits. Her teeth rattled and her limbs jerked. She could not get warm, and Lisette, Helena’s maid, her own eyes red with weeping, put her to bed and lit the bedroom fire.

The doctor came up to her room and gave her a powder, told Lisette what she already knew, that Isabella was in deep shock. Isabella could hear the doctor and Lisette whispering at the door and she cried out, ‘Where is Papa? I want to see Papa.’

The doctor came back to her bedside. ‘Isabella, sleep now. Your father is grieving too. You will see him later. Now close your eyes and sleep.’

Isabella fell into a nightmarish half-sleep. The same scene played over and over in her head. Mama somersaulting over her horse’s neck and lying as Isabella first saw her, motionless on the ground. Her head … her head … Isabella squeezed her eyes tight against the recurring image.

Lisette lit a small lamp and brought a bowl of warm water and gently washed Isabella’s face and hands, weeping as copiously as Isabella until the two embraced so that they did not have to look upon each other’s reddened faces and swollen eyes.

‘Papa blames me for Mama’s death, does he not, Lisette?’

Lisette, busy with Isabella’s pillows, replied, ‘Your father is grieving, Isabella. He is in shock, as the doctor told you. He cannot face anyone.’

She could not meet Isabella’s eyes and Isabella knew then it was true, her father did blame her, and yet he had not even come to her and asked her what had happened.

Isabella went over and over the sequence of events in the days that followed Helena’s death. They left the boatyard. She was in front, Mama behind her. If she had ridden with or behind Helena? If she had dismounted when she reached the bottom of the cliff path? If she had waited? If she had turned sooner on the beach and ridden back towards her mother?

Over and over, back and forth she went, reliving that morning of their ride. Eventually, fearing she would go mad, she left her room to go and find her father. She found him in the library with his agent. It was early in the day but he was already drinking.

He stared at his daughter blankly when she burst in. Before he could speak, Isabella said, clasping her shaking hands in front of her, ‘Do you blame me for Mama’s death, Papa? Is this why you will not see me or let me tell you what happened?’

Her father poured more whisky into his glass. ‘I do blame you, Isabella, for the cause of the accident lies with you. Your mother never rode to the cove on her own. I understand you rode ahead of her, despite being the better rider. The fact is, had you been less impatient and waited for your mother, her horse would not have bolted and she would be alive now.’

Isabella was stung, flushed with misery. ‘It was because my horse was exciting Mama’s that I rode on ahead. Mama asked me to. I am sorry, Papa, that you think I am to blame …’

She bit her lip. She did not want to cry in front of her father.

‘You do not think you are to blame, then, child?’