Victoria Holt

  Copyright © 1969, 2013 by Victoria Holt

  Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Danielle Fiorella

  Cover model: Megan Lehr/Agency Galatea

  Cover image © Fears/Shutterstock

  Cover image © Jaroslaw Grudzinski/Shutterstock

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  www.sourcebooks.com

  Originally published in 1969 by Doubleday and Company, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the publisher.

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  1

  I am wondering where I should begin my story. Should it be on the day when I saw Napier and Edith being married in the little church at Lovat Mill? Or when I was sitting in the train starting out on my journey to discover the truth behind the disappearance of my sister Roma? So much of importance happened before either of these significant events; yet perhaps I should choose the second alternative because it was then that I became inescapably involved.

  Roma—my practical, reliable sister—had disappeared. There had been enquiries; there had been theories; but no indication of where she had gone had been revealed. I believed the solution to the mystery was to be found where she had last been seen; and I was determined to discover what had happened to her. My concern for Roma was helping me over a difficult period of my life, for sitting in that train was a lonely and bereaved woman—brokenhearted, I should have said had I been a sentimentalist, which I was not. Indeed, I was a cynic—so I assured myself. Life with Pietro had made me so. Now here I was without Pietro, like a piece of driftwood—lost and aimless—and with only the smallest of incomes which it was imperative to augment by some means, when this opportunity was offered to me by what appeared to be the benign hand of fate.

  When it had been clear to me that I must do something if I wanted to eat adequately and keep a watertight roof over my head, I had tried taking pupils and I had a few but the money this brought in was not enough. I had believed that in time I should build up a clientele and perhaps discover a young genius which would have made my life worthwhile; but so far my ears had been in constant rebellion against halting rendering of The Blue Bells of Scotland and no budding Beethoven ever sat on my piano stool.

  I was a woman who had tasted life and found it bitter—no, bittersweet, as all life is; but the sweetness was gone and the bitterness remained. Poised, yes, and experienced; the thick gold band on the third finger of my left hand bore evidence of that. Young to be so bitter? I was all of twenty-eight, but that would generally be agreed to be young to have become a widow.

  The train had traveled through the Kent countryside, that “Garden of England” which would shortly be pink and white with blossoming cherry, plum and apple, past hopfields and cowled oast houses, and was plunging into a tunnel to emerge a few moments later into the uncertain sunshine of a March afternoon. The coastline from Folkestone to Dover was startlingly white against the gray green sea and a few gray clouds were being scurried across the sky by a tetchy east wind. It was sending the water hurtling against the cliffs so that the spray shone like silver.

  Perhaps, like the train, I was emerging from my dark tunnel and coming into sunshine.

  It was the sort of remark which would have made Pietro laugh. He would have pointed out what a romantic I was under that entirely false facade of worldliness.

  Such uncertain sunshine, I noticed at once, with a hint of cruelty in the wind—and the ever unpredictable sea.

  Then I suffered the familiar grief, the longing, the frustration, and Pietro’s face rose up from the past as though to say: A new life? You mean a life without me. Do you think you will ever escape from me?

  No, was the answer to that. Never. You will always be there, Pietro. There is no escape…not even the grave.

  Tomb, I told myself flippantly, would sound so much better. Much more Grand Opera. That was what Pietro would have said—Pietro my lover and rival, the one who charmed and soothed, the one who taunted, who inspired and destroyed. There was no escape. He would always be there in the shadows—the man with and without whom it was impossible to be happy.

  But I had not come on this journey to think of Pietro. The object was to forget him. I must think of Roma.

  ***

  Now I should say something about the events which led up to this moment, how Roma came to be at Lovat Mill and how I met Pietro.

  Roma was two years my senior and we were the only children. Both our mother and father had been dedicated archaeologists to whom the discovery of ancient relics was of far greater importance than being parents. They constantly disappeared on “digs” and their attitude toward us was one of vague benevolence which was at least unobtrusive and therefore not unwelcome. Mother had been something of a phenomenon for it was unusual in those days for a woman to take a part in archaeological exploration and it was through her interest in the subject that she met Father. They married, no doubt expecting a life of exploration and discovery; this they started to enjoy until it was interrupted first by the arrival of Roma and then by myself. Our appearances could not exactly have been welcomed but they were determined to do their duty by us and at early ages we were shown pictures of flint and bronze weapons discovered in Britain and were expected to show the interest most young children would have felt for a jigsaw puzzle. It soon became apparent that Roma did feel this interest. My father made excuses for my youth, “It’ll come,” he said. “After all, Roma’s two years older. Look, Caroline, an entire Roman bath. Almost intact. What do you think of that, eh?”

  Roma was already their favorite. Not that she set out to be. This overwhelming passion had been born in her, she did not have to pretend. Perhaps rather cynically for one so young, I would try to assess my own value in my parents’ eyes. As much as a pieced-together necklace of the Bronze Age? Not quite. Not to be compared with a Roman mosaic floor. A flint from the Stone Age? Perhaps, for they were fairly common.

  “I wish,” I used to say to Roma, “we had more ordinary parents. I’d like them to be angry sometimes…perhaps they could beat us—for our own good of course which is how all parents excuse themselves. That would be rather fun.”

  Roma, in her matter-of-fact way, retorted: “Don’t be silly. You’d be furious if they beat you. You’d kick and scream. I know you. You only want what you haven’t got. When I’m a little older Papa will take me on a dig.”

 
Her eyes shone. She could scarcely wait for the day.

  “They’re always telling us we must grow up to do useful work.”

  “Well, so we should.”

  “But it only means one thing. We have to grow up to be archaeologists.”

  “We’re lucky,” stated Roma. She always made statements; she was so sure that what she said was right; in fact she wouldn’t have said it until she was sure. That was Roma.

  I was the odd one, the frivolous one, who liked to juggle with words, rather than relics of the past, who saw something amusing when she should have been serious. I didn’t really fit into my own family.

  Roma and I were often at the British Museum, with which my father was connected. We would be told we might amuse ourselves there with the implication that we had been given the entry into some holy place. I remember walking on the sacred stones and pausing, my nose pressed against cold glass, to examine weapons, pottery and jewelry. Roma would be entranced; and later she always wore odd beads, usually of rough hewn turquoise matrix or chunks of amber and badly drilled cornelian—her ornaments always looked prehistoric as though they had been dug up from some long-ago cave. I suppose that was why they appealed to her.

  Then I discovered an interest of my very own. From my earliest memories I was interested in sounds. I loved that of trickling water, the sound of fountains playing, the clop-clop of horses’ hoofs on the road, the call of the street traders; the wind in the pear tree in our tiny walled garden in the house near the Museum, the shouts of children, the birds in springtime, the sudden bark of a dog. I could even hear music in the dripping of a tap which exasperated others. When I was five years old I could pick out a tune on the piano, and would spend hours perched on the stool, my hands, scarcely emerged from their bracelets of baby fat, exploiting the miracle of sound. “If it keeps her quiet…” shrugged the nannies.

  When my parents noticed my passion they were mildly pleased. It was not archaeology of course but it was a worthy substitute; and in view of what happened I am ashamed to say that I was given every opportunity.

  Roma had pleased them; even her school holidays were spent with my parents on “digs.” I had my music lessons, and stayed at home in charge of our housekeeper to practice the piano. I improved steadily and the best teachers were found for me although we were not well off. Father’s salary was just about adequate, for he spent a great deal of his personal income on his excavations. Roma was studying archaeology and our parents used to say that she would go much farther than they had been able to, for discovery added to the knowledge not only of the past but of working methods.

  I used to hear them all talking sometimes. It sounded like gibberish to me, and I was no longer an outsider because everyone said that I was going to succeed with my music. My lessons were a joy to me and my teachers. Whenever I see stumbling fingers on the piano I remember those days of discovery—the first gratification, the sheer abandonment to pleasure. I became tolerant toward my family. I understood how they felt about their flints and bronzes. Life had something to offer me. It gave me Beethoven, Mozart, and Chopin.

  When I was eighteen I went to Paris to study. Roma was at the university and as her vacations were spent on the “digs” I saw little of her. We had always been good, though never close, friends, our interests being so wide apart.

  It was in Paris that I met Pietro, fiery Latin, half French half Italian. Our music master owned a big house not far from the Rue de Rivoli and there we students lived. Madame, his wife, ran the place as a pension which meant that we were all gathered together under one roof.

  What happy days when we wandered in the Bois and sat outside the cafes all talking about the future. Every one of us believed that we were the chosen and that our fame would one day resound round the world. Pietro and I were two of the most promising pupils, both ambitious and determined. Our emotions were first stirred by rivalry but we were soon completely fascinated by each other. We were young. Paris in the spring is the perfect background for lovers and I felt that I had never really lived until this time. The ecstasy and the despair I experienced were the true stuff of life, I told myself. I was sorry for everyone who was not studying music in Paris and in love with a fellow student.

  Pietro was the complete and dedicated musician. I knew in my heart that he surpassed me and this made him all the more important to me. He was different from me. I feigned a detachment which I did not feel and although he knew that in the beginning I was as involved, as determined as he, it exasperated while it fascinated him that I could disguise this. He was absolutely serious in his dedication; I could pretend to be flippant about mine. I was rarely ruffled; he was rarely anything else and my serenity was a constant challenge to him, for his moods changed with every hour. He could be inspired to great joy which had its roots in his belief in his own genius; and in no time he could be plunged into despair because he doubted his complete and unassailable gifts. Like so many artists he was completely ruthless and unable to conquer his envy. When I was praised he was, deep down in himself, angry and would seek to say something wounding; but when I did badly and was in need of comfort, he was the most sympathetic of companions. Nobody could have been kinder at such times and it was this absolute understanding, this complete sympathy which made me love him. If only I could have seen him then as clearly as I saw this ghost who was constantly appearing beside me.

  We began to bicker. “Excellent, Franz Liszt,” I would cry when he played one of the Hungarian Rhapsodies pounding the piano, flinging back his leonine head in a good imitation of the master.

  “Envy is the bane of all artists, Caro.”

  “And one with which you are on familiar terms.”

  He admitted it. “After all,” he pointed out, “excuses must be made for the greatest artist of us all. You will discover that in time.”

  He was right. I did.

  He said I was an excellent interpreter. I could perform gymnastics on the piano, but an artist was a creator.

  I would retort, “Was it you, then, who composed the piece you have just played?”

  “If the composer could have heard my rendering he would know he had not lived in vain.”

  “Conceit,” I mocked.

  “Rather the assurance of the artist, dear Caro.”

  It was only half in jest. Pietro believed in himself. He lived for music. I was continually teasing; I clung to our rivalry but this may have been because subconsciously I knew that it was that rivalry which had attracted him in the first place. It was not that, loving him, I did not wish him all the success in the world. I was, in fact, ready to give up my ambition for his sake—as I was to prove. But our bickering was a form of love-making; and it sometimes seemed that his desire to show me that he was my superior was an essential part of his love for me.

  It is no use making excuses. All Pietro said of me was true. I was an interpreter, a performer of gymnastics on the piano. I was not an artist, for artists do not allow other desires and impulses to divert them. I did not work; at a vital stage of my career I faltered, I failed, and my promise was one of those which were never redeemed; and while I dreamed of Pietro, Pietro was dreaming of success.

  My life was suddenly disorganized. Later I blamed what I called ill luck for what happened. My parents had gone to Greece on a dig. Roma was to have gone with them for she was a fully fledged archaeologist by this time, but she wrote to me that she had a commission to go up to the Wall—Hadrian’s of course—and that she would be unable to go with our parents. Had she gone I might not have been traveling up to Lovat Mill; for I should never have thought there was anything significant about the place. My parents were both killed in a railway accident on their way to Greece. I went home to the memorial service, and Roma and I were together for a few days in the old house near the British Museum. I was shocked, but poor Roma had been close to our parents and was going to miss them bitterly. She was as ever philosophical. T
hey had died together, she said, and it would have been more tragic if one of them had been left; they had had a happy life. In spite of her sorrow she would make what arrangements had to be made and then go back to work at the Wall. She was practical, precise, she would never become emotionally involved as I was fast becoming. She said we would sell the house and furniture and the proceeds would be divided between us. There was not much but my share would enable me to complete my musical education, and I should be grateful for that.

  Death is always disturbing and I went back to Paris feeling dazed and uneasy. I thought a great deal of my parents and was grateful for so much that I had casually accepted. Afterwards I said it was due to my loss that I behaved as I did. Pietro was waiting for me; he was in control now; he was surpassing all the rest of us; he was beginning to put that great gap between us and himself that always divides the real artist from those who are merely talented.

  He asked me to marry him. He loved me, he said; he had realized how much while I had been away, and when he had seen me so deeply shocked by my parents’ death his great desire was to protect me, to make me happy again. To marry Pietro! To spend my whole life with him! It filled me with elation even while I sadly mourned my parents.

  Our music master was aware of what was happening for he watched us all carefully. He had made up his mind at this stage that while I could doubtless go a long way in my musical career, Pietro was going to be one of the blazing stars in the musical sky; and I realize now that he had asked himself whether this marriage was going to help or hinder Pietro in his career. And mine? Naturally a talented player must take second place to a genius.

  Madame, his wife, was more romantic. She took an opportunity of talking to me alone.

  “So you love him?” she said. “You love him enough to marry him?”

  I said fervently that I loved him completely.

  “Wait a while. You have suffered a great shock. You should have time to think. Do you understand what this could mean to your career?”