Echoes in the Darkness (3 page)

“Athal,” Eddie stated simply, as the coach followed the road to the tip of the promontory.

Athal House was approached by means of a private driveway, at the start of which an elegant, crenelated gatehouse had been built. This formed an arch that spanned the width of the sweeping drive. Huge, wrought-iron gates embellished with the Jago crest of gold stars on a black background swung wide to admit our carriage. I glimpsed those legendary words again.
Lucent in Tenebris
was engraved in flowing script across the top of the portal. Eddie, rousing himself from gloomy lethargy a little, explained how the new house had risen like a phoenix from the flames of Castle Athal.

Autumn-blushed trees leaned protectively over the drive, creating a magical tunnel in shades of green and gold. Leaves in tints of copper and ruby pirouetted onto the glistening gravel. Birch leaves shimmied like silver bugle beads on a dancer’s dress. Diamond raindrops clung to the low-lying shrubs. Nature’s clock was chiming the twilight of the year.

Athal House, when it came into view as we rounded a bend in the sweeping drive, took my breath away. It was unlike any feeling I had ever experienced before. Not déjà vu. No, that would be too tired, too clichéd, to describe this reaction. It was an overwhelming sense of a future memory, as if a thousand tomorrows were crammed into that fraction of a second in which I first saw the house. I turned wide eyes on Eddie and he laughed, his mood lifting as he delighted in my astonished gaze. But he was not aware of the reason behind it. How could he possibly know what I was experiencing? Because, in that instant, I knew, beyond any shadow of uncertainty, that I had just arrived in the very place I was always meant to be.

Pale grey granite had been used in the rebuilding project, and the result was snow-bright with pure, clear lines that were softened by the loverlike touch of fading late afternoon sunlight. The large, pleasantly symmetrical building was laid out around three sides of what had once been the courtyard of the original castle. I thought that, as awful as the story of the fire was, the beauty of this phoenixlike house must provide the family with some measure of consolation. Eddie, with reluctant affection, explained that there were forty-nine rooms. The number made me open my eyes very wide, but he laughed and said its size was considerably reduced in comparison to the vast area that had once been occupied by the castle. The artistic hand that dictated the aesthetic delights of the house belonged to Tynan Jago, Eddie’s father. His wife, Lucia—who, I thought, sounded most formidable—had been responsible for ensuring that every modern convenience was included. The plumbing, kitchens and furnishings were a shrine, Eddie informed me with another laugh lighting his eyes, to modern efficiency and comfort.

“You must be sure to tell her so,” he told me, with mock primness. “And if you also admire the gardens, my mother will love you forever.”

“But I don’t want her to love me, do I?” I reminded him, as the carriage trundled to a halt. “And this is not forever. Remember?” For the first time, I felt a pang of guilt at our deception. Eddie’s family did not deserve to have an impostor foisted upon them. I consoled myself with the thought that it would not be for long, and they need never know the full extent of my duplicity. As far as they were concerned, I would be his moment of Parisian madness. The unsuitable girl they would heave a sigh of relief to see the back of and agree never to mention again.

* * *

Lucia Jago was waiting on the steps of the house as we descended from the carriage. She was not what I expected from Eddie’s description. Tiny and ethereally slender, with an abundance of light brown hair and the sort of fair complexion that never ages, she did not look old enough to have adult children. It was from her that Eddie had inherited his intense, blue eyes. She exuded quiet dignity and, despite her delicate appearance, a ramrod determination stiffened her spine. When she smiled—which was not often—she was stunning. I decided that, had I been a man, I would want to spend my life trying to make her happy so that I could always see that expression light her face.

“It is good to have you home again at last, my son,” she murmured, and her face as she reached up a hand to touch Eddie’s face was softened with a curious mix of affection and worry.

“Is it really, Mama?” Eddie asked. A smile tried to lift his mouth but failed, and his lips twisted instead into a wry grimace. It seemed an odd thing to say when they had not seen each other for so long. A pang crossed Lucia’s features as though a sharp pain stung her, and she took a half step back. Eddie relented at that and held his arms wide, drawing her into the embrace that should have been his first action. When they drew apart at last, Lucia’s expression indicated that she had gained some comfort from the contact. In contrast, her countenance, when she raised questioning brows in my direction, was decidedly frosty.

Eddie held out a hand and drew me forward. “This is Dita, Mama. We are going to be married.” His words confirmed my fear that he had not, as he faithfully promised he would, sent a message ahead to warn his parents of my impending arrival at their home. I cast him a look of burning reproach, which he feigned not to notice. I tried to view myself through the eyes of a prospective mother-in-law. I had inherited my love of clothes from my own mother, who had an innate sense of elegance, and I always chose hues that enhanced my vivid colouring. There was, therefore, no reason to blush for my military-styled mauve velvet coat with its double row of buttons. This was worn over a full-skirted gown in a deeper shade with neat matching boots. My bonnet had a wide, shallow brim, providing a perfect frame for my face and revealing the full glory of my hair. No one could fault my appearance. But how much had the Jagos already heard of me? Had rumours of Eddie’s stunning European mistress reached this isolated corner of England? And had they, as most people usually did, substituted “prostitute” for “artist’s model” in their mental summation of me?

In the wake of such a dramatic introduction, our first meeting was understandably somewhat strained. Lucia—she would later insist I call her Lucy—was clearly shocked to learn that her eldest son, heir to his father’s noble title, now had a fiancée, a woman about whom his family knew nothing. A woman who would, moreover, if our marriage went ahead, one day replace her as Countess of Athal. Was there anything, I wondered, that I could possibly tell her about myself that would win her approval? Nothing sprang to mind.

We drank tea in an elegant parlour, which had been designed to give the most stunning view across the majestic Atlantic. An artist’s unerring hand had selected the palette for the decor, which was perfectly matched to bring the colours of the wild seascape into the room. Warm blue tints lightened the turbulent grey of the ocean, and touches of gold reflected the sun’s dying rays. It was a gloriously elegant room. I was beginning to appreciate the enormity of my duplicity. This was a family that was not only titled; it was also steeped in history. Eddie was heir to all this ancient wealth and splendour, yet I did not even know the correct form of address for his mother. I felt a weight descending on my shoulders, pinning down my usually free spirits.

While Lucy talked to Eddie of his father’s health and of various other family matters, I sat in silence. If she was attempting to convince me that I knew nothing about the family I was, to all intents and purposes, about to join, she was doing a very good job. Eventually, Lucy went away to supervise the carriage of my trunk up to the bedchamber she needed to speedily prepare for me. Eddie prowled restlessly around the parlour, examining objects on the sideboard, twitching the curtains and generally setting my nerves on edge. It was abundantly clear that—like a child with a bad school report—he was putting off going to see his father.

“Who else lives here? Besides your parents, I mean?” I asked.

He stopped wandering, and his usually expressive face was oddly neutral when he answered. “I am the oldest of three children. Cad, my brother, is nearly two years my junior and my sister, Eleanor, is the youngest.”

“Cad?” I asked, wrinkling my brow. It seemed an odd name for anyone to bequeath to their child, and particularly so for someone as precise as Lucy.

“Short for Cador, although his real name is Charles. As children, we used to play games in which we were characters from Cornish legend. I would vacillate, changing characters daily, according to my mood. Eleanor was usually Guinevere, although she would occasionally decide to be the sorceress Morgan le Fay. She was never very good at being evil.” A fond, reminiscent smile touched his lips. “My brother always insisted upon being Cador, powerful, legendary knight of Cornwall, fearless warrior and loyal cousin to King Arthur. The name stuck to the point where even my mother, who has a passionate dislike of Cornish names, lapses and often calls him ‘Cad.’”

“And is he happy to be known by that name?” I asked wonderingly. “The word ‘cad,’ after all, is generally applied to those who are dishonourable and without principle.”

“When you meet Cad,” he told me with a grim smile, “you will understand.” From the look on Eddie’s face when he spoke of his brother, I wasn’t sure I
did
want to meet Cad Jago.

I decided it was time to take the bull by the horns. “I think you should introduce me to your father,” I said, linking my arm through his. Eddie glanced down at me and began to say something. Instead he stopped and, with a return of something approaching his usual smile, patted my hand gratefully before steering me up to the suite of rooms that comprised the earl’s quarters.

The marks of Tynan Jago’s recent illness were clear. His face was drawn and fine lines fanned the corners of his eyes. He was confined to a wheelchair, but despite his enfeebled state, the Earl of Athal was still a handsome, charismatic figure. Eddie’s blue eyes might be his mother’s, but in all other respects, he resembled his father. Tynan was the poet Eddie longed to emulate, effortlessly graceful, finding beauty where others could not. His amber gaze was warm when it rested on me. I sensed more sympathy from him than from his redoubtable wife.

He clasped Eddie’s hand and his eyes roamed over his son’s face. Eddie’s mood had shifted again and he was calmer now in his father’s presence. Tynan seemed satisfied with what he saw. “It is good to see you, my boy. It has been far too long.”

Eddie hunched an impatient shoulder. “But, sir, you, of all people, must know how this place stifles me,” he said. There was a lingering suggestion of the sulky schoolboy in his manner.

“Nevertheless, you have an obligation to the name,” Tynan reminded him. His voice was gentle and rather sad. “The Jagos don’t own Tenebris; we belong to it. There is so much you need to know, and my illness has reminded me that both of us have a duty in that respect. I’m afraid your wandering days must come to an end, my son.” Eddie’s muttered exclamation interrupted him. I glanced nervously from one to the other. I decided I should leave them to continue their discussion in peace. When I began to rise from my seat, however, Tynan gestured me back. A reassuring smile flickered over his features.

“I cannot compete when it comes to the running of the estate, sir!” Eddie exclaimed, running a hand through his hair. “After all, there is another who knows far more than I ever will.”

“If you are referring to your brother, it is true. Cad understands more about the Athal estate than you, me and my former man of business put together. We should count ourselves fortunate to have the benefit of his natural ability and expertise. But Cad is
not
my heir.”

“And you never tire of regretting that circumstance, do you, sir?”

“You know that isn’t true, Eddie.” Tynan’s tone was gentle, but he looked tired suddenly. “And it is most unfair of you to suggest that it is.”

Gold eyes met turbulent blue ones in a prolonged exchange. The outcome seemed in doubt at first, but Eddie finally muttered an apology and Tynan’s features relaxed.

“Where is Cad?” Eddie asked, taking a seat next to me. His hand reached out instinctively for mine, and I saw Tynan’s eyes drop to take in the gesture.

“He has been travelling around the country checking on our interests. At present, I believe he is in Liverpool.” He turned to me, explaining further. “Although our family home is here in Cornwall, Miss Varga, the Athal estate is a vast network of business concerns. Prior to my twenty-first birthday, the estate was run by my uncle, Uther Jago. He was also my guardian.” His voice was level, but I sensed a world of stories behind the words. “He built up the empire that exists today. I, in my own way, have added to it. My other son, Cad, acts as my man of business. We have factories in Lancashire and a port office in Liverpool that oversees exports and imports.” Throughout this speech, Eddie fiddled restlessly with the bracelet I wore. He appeared not to be listening. “This will all belong to Eddie, to both of you, one day.”

“It sounds quite daunting,” I said. I tried to draw Eddie into the conversation by looking his way, but his gaze was fixed on a point just beyond his father’s head.

Tynan nodded. “It would be, I believe, were it not for Cad’s almost superhuman efforts.” I couldn’t help feeling it was rather tactless of him to keep emphasising that point, when it clearly unsettled Eddie to hear of his brother’s expertise. “Now, of course, it is time for both my sons to work together. This illness of mine is a timely reminder of the need for Eddie to pick up the reins.” I was relieved when he changed the subject. “But my manners are sadly lacking today, my dear. These are conversations for the estate office, not the house. Tell me about your journey. The channel crossing can be most unpleasant at this time of year.” We passed another ten minutes in an exchange of idle pleasantries. I relaxed further when Eddie finally joined in the conversation, entertaining his father with an account of my reaction upon being introduced to an item called “black pudding” during my first—and, I vowed, last—English breakfast. I was still of the opinion that this supposed delicacy, a type of sausage made from dried pig’s blood, was a practical joke played by the entire English nation on the rest of the world. I was content, however, to let Tynan and Eddie’s laughter wash over me, since this signalled that the difficult conversations were at an end. For the time being, at least.