Moon Rising (2 page)

I knew the voice, its quality and intonation, even though the pitch was deeper than I remembered. At first I thought he was speaking to someone else, and was terrified to turn, but when I did, I saw only the man I'd run into outside the hotel, the one I'd felt gazing at me earlier. My mouth twitched into a polite half-smile as my eyes skimmed over him and away, and then flashed back with shock.

The broad-brimmed hat shadowed his face; removing it, he bowed briefly and gave a wry smile, quite at variance with the intensity of his gaze. ‘Well,' he said. ‘It is Damaris Sterne – just as I thought.'

It was years since anyone had called me by my given name. I knew him then. Under the lights his eyes were unchanged, and in the moment of recognition my smile froze. For several seconds I stood in rigid disbelief; then, hard on the heels of shock came a surge of guilt so hot it seemed to scorch my face and throat. The pain made nonsense of the years between: our last meeting might have been a matter of days ago instead of half a lifetime.

Totally unprepared, I took a step backwards and almost fell; would have done so had it not been for the steadying hand at my elbow. Even so, a stranger's help would have been more welcome. Angrily, I shook him off, not wanting to be reminded of the first time, all those years ago, when he'd pulled me back from the edge of a cliff.

Struggling to regain my composure, I looked round for Alice, then remembered where she was. I longed for safety and somewhere to hide.

‘So,' he said quietly, ‘you do remember, after all.' It was a statement, uttered with more regret than satisfaction.

Of course I remembered – how could I forget? – but he had changed so much, and for several seconds my mind refused to accept the truth. I peered up at him more closely, trying to reconcile the man before me with the younger image in my mind. I noticed puffiness around the eyes, a thickening of the neck, and the fact that his coat, with a suggestion of his old theatrical flamboyance about the astrakhan collar, was good but by no means new. Beneath the broad-brimmed hat his grey hair was neat, and his beard, less pepper than salt, was styled like the King's. He was much heavier than I remembered, and it seemed to me his girth spoke of too many years of soft living, in which a powerful physique had been allowed to turn to fat. I found the change disconcerting, but it was the greyness which upset me most. In his prime he had been strikingly attractive, with strong, regular features and thick brown hair. By contrast, his beard in those days was a bright, coppery red, almost the same colour as my own wild curls. When we met, his beard had been the first thing I noticed.

But if the change in him was unsettling, his presence was a shock. And most unwelcome. I turned away to hide my emotions. ‘I'm sorry,' I said, trying to sound dismissive and in control of the situation, ‘I don't know you at all – and if you persist in bothering me, sir, I shall be forced to summon the police.'

He had the nerve to chuckle. ‘Come now, you don't mean that.'

‘Oh, but I do.' The words were ground out as I fought to control my trembling. I wanted to march away but was afraid my legs would not carry me far enough. ‘Please leave me alone.'

‘But I mean you no harm,' he protested mildly, and with a typically expansive gesture indicated the walking stick and his apparent infirmity. ‘Unless you were to measure your step to mine, I couldn't even keep up with you.'

He made my urge to run seem ridiculous. Nevertheless, I forced my reluctant limbs into motion – one or two people around us were beginning to find our conversation more interesting than that cascade of snow. ‘What do you want?'

‘Should I want anything?' he asked reproachfully as we turned together and walked slowly down the platform. ‘Isn't it enough that I should see you and recognise you, and be overjoyed that you've changed so little in the years between?'

‘You think I haven't
changed
?
'
I demanded, more affronted than otherwise, but unable to restrain a mocking burst of laughter.

‘Oh, Damaris,' he said, annoying me further by his use of that old name, ‘we've both changed – how could we not? – and even more, no doubt, than appears to the eye. I was young and fit in those days, and you – you were just a girl, scrambling up and down cliffs and striking a pose for every photographer in sight. Even so,' he added slyly, with a nod at my headgear, ‘I thought I recognised you on the train, in spite of your fine feathers. I wasn't sure at first, until I saw you striding forth along the platform, your whole body bent against the wind . . .'

I was uncertain just how much of a compliment that was, the implication being that fine ladies strolled, never
strode forth.
I saw an edge, too, in the mention of photographers, which made my jaw tighten. Struggling for a suitably sarcastic response, I said: ‘You flatter me,' while wondering what to do. It struck me that I was being teased out of further denials, and that he was determined to keep my company for the duration. I could have denied him that by walking away or making a fuss, or as a last resort by reporting him as a nuisance to the station-master; but that was never a serious consideration. The logical side of my mind – which was rapidly recovering from its shock – was aware that this journey of mine was in part an attempt to settle old scores. On that level, my present companion was certainly worthy of adding to the list. Unlooked for and unexpected, but if I had ever longed for a chance to make him suffer – and I had –then this was my opportunity to do so.

With that thought, I felt better. Stronger, more able to handle the situation. I set the shock aside and donned the mildly flirtatious, woman-of-the-world mask that had served me so well in business. As we reached the barrier I gave him a sidelong glance and, as I caught his eye, a conspiratorial smile to go with it. ‘Well, now, since you've penetrated my disguise, won't you join me for dinner? Be my guest and allow me – for old times' sake – to repay your hospitality?'

As he appeared to hesitate, I said: ‘But just let's be clear about something. My name's no longer Damaris, it's Marie – Marie Lindsey.
Mrs
Lindsey, as a matter of fact.'

He smiled and gave a mocking little bow. ‘Thank you, Mrs Lindsey – although there's no need, I – '

‘But my dear sir, there's
every
need,' I assured him. ‘In fact, I insist.'

~~~

Quiet corners were difficult to find in a hotel which was full to overflowing, but the management had opened up all public rooms in an attempt to accommodate people in some degree of comfort. Waiters were doing brisk service to and from the bar, while some judicious tipping secured us a table for dinner an hour hence. In the meantime, leaving my companion with his whisky, I went to find Alice.

I told her to be sure to have a good meal below-stairs, and, since I would no doubt be late, to make use of the bed in my absence. She said she would lie down with the quilt over her, and I agreed to wake her when I came up. What she thought of my chance encounter I do not know – possibly not very much, since the world of shipping and finance had ensured me many male acquaintances – but it would have surprised her to know the details of my former relationship with the man I was going downstairs to meet.

Not that I had any intention of revealing those details – indeed, keeping them secret had cost me a great deal over the years. For my own benefit whilst married, of course; but I had often wondered how my companion, always a friend to the rich and famous, would have fared had the matter become public knowledge.

He was probably less concerned now than he would have been, but there was still his wife to think of, the precious and inimitable Florence. She'd had her own lovers – in the courtly, romantic sense, of course. She was worshipped for her delicate beauty and worked hard at preserving the illusion of purity. Not for her the sweaty conflict of human congress, nor even, as far as I was aware, the passionless contact of the marital bed. We never met but I always thought of her as being perfectly untouchable, rather like a Burne-Jones portrait in the flesh: regular, faultless, and
dull.

She was twenty when they married, but he had known her for almost two years. Oddly enough, I was also eighteen when he and I first met, and, except in the vital matter of colouring, some might say that Florence and I were not unalike. Both tall, both reed-thin, and although she had the exquisite profile – which I certainly could not boast – I had the kind of curly red hair that Burne-Jones might have died for. The kind that always attracted attention, the kind her husband admired so much.

When I thought of the intensity I had shared with him, I wondered how on earth he could have married her. But although dear Florence had no money, she did have beauty, and – they tell me – the kind of fey charm that seemed to captivate romantic young men. Amongst her suitors at home in Dublin she'd even had young Oscar Wilde begging for her hand.

Anyway, she turned Oscar down. Perhaps his wit threatened to eclipse her beauty, I don't know, but she chose instead an older, more robust-looking man with some intriguing social and professional prospects. He was captivated by her looks, and because he was over thirty and it was about time he married, and because he could suddenly afford to, he asked her to be his wife. At least, that's what he told me. Some years later, when the mistakes were destroying him and the fabric of his life was falling into shreds, he packed a bag, stepped on a train and escaped to Whitby.

More than two decades had passed since then. When I boarded the train in London, I would have said my perceptions were normal, yet in the last hour time had become distorted, making the distant past more real than the present. Until I rejoined my companion, that is, and found myself disconcerted afresh by his appearance.

As I took a seat beside him, he raised his glass and made some heavy-handed comment about the weather, to the effect that it had managed, extraordinarily, to bring us together once again. I felt that twice in twenty-one years hardly constituted a coincidence, and said so. He tried another tack. ‘I heard you mention Whitby – do you still live there?'

His enquiry prompted a taut smile. ‘Heavens, no – my husband and I lived mostly in London.' At his quick glance I shook my head. ‘No, we're not neighbours – that is, if you're still in Chelsea? My home's in Hampstead, overlooking the Heath.'

He chuckled then with surprise. At first I imagined it was at the distance I'd travelled in life – after all, I'd come a long way since last we met – but then he recovered himself and said ruefully: ‘Obviously, you know much more of me...'

‘Difficult not to – or rather it was, once upon a time. There was always something in the London papers.' That was perhaps an exaggeration, but there had been enough in theatre notices and society columns over the years to keep me abreast of his activities. In hopes of discovering more, I managed to force out the words convention demanded, even though they almost choked me. ‘I was sorry,' I lied, ‘to read about Irving, last year.'

His face became still; his voice heavy with sadness. ‘Yes, it was a great shock – although he hadn't been well for some time... Ironically, it was his farewell tour – we were in Bradford, at the Theatre Royal – he was playing
Becket.
' Looking into his glass, he said quietly: ‘I still miss him. We were friends, you know, for over thirty years.'

Exasperated by his loyalty, I had to turn my glance away. With a sigh that just might have passed for one of regret, I said: ‘Yes, great friends, I remember. But how he used you!'

He bridled a little at that. ‘Irving was a great man – the greatest actor of his generation. I was privileged to be close to him.'

‘He was certainly a great actor! And you served him well,' I agreed sardonically, ‘far beyond the call of duty. But what did he ever give you, for heaven's sake, other than the chance to watch him nightly from the wings?'

‘We were
friends
,' he declared, turning his shoulder. Clearly, the subject was still a painful one.

I found myself wondering if Irving's flamboyant style had landed them both in trouble; but when he faced me again he was wearing a determined smile. ‘Let us talk of other things. You, for instance. You seem to know all about my life, while I know nothing of yours. What is it that takes you back to Whitby?'

There was such irony present – in the fact of our meeting and its circumstance, even in his sudden curiosity – that I wanted, quite desperately, to laugh. Mad, hysterical laughter was bubbling away inside me, and I was almost afraid of what might happen next. I considered making some excuse and returning to my room. There, at least, I could pretend that nothing mattered. It was over, done with, all in the past; I was a middle-aged woman, a wealthy widow; no longer an impulsive and impressionable girl. And my adversary was no longer young, but approaching sixty. So why did I tremble when I looked at him? Why did those grey eyes continue to remind me of things best forgotten?

It was perhaps as well that our table became available. Over dinner we were obliged to discuss – I was about to say, less contentious subjects, but for me, in his company, most things were contentious. I don't recall what we ate, only that there were several courses, and by the end of it my stomach was too heavy to suffer from any kind of nervous rebellion. I drank more than usual too, which for once was more steadying than otherwise. I was able to talk about my life with equanimity, relating the story of how I'd met my husband, the decade of challenge and excitement I'd enjoyed while working with him in the City.

When I met him, Henry Lindsey had been a childless widower, and, much to his regret, we had not been blessed with children. But that, as I explained to my companion, did not grieve me overmuch; I preferred the challenge of charter parties to children's parties, and lucrative cargoes to lace-trimmed cradles.