The Butterfly Box (59 page)

As the train cut through the Cornish countryside Federica watched the cows grazing in the fields, the charming white houses and small farms and thought how incredibly beautiful it was in spite of the grey skies and rain. She fantasized about living in a small cottage with Sam, perhaps a dog or two, overlooking the sea and she smiled inside. She didn’t care for wealth or Bond Street. She didn’t care if she never went shopping again. She had certainly had enough handbags and shoes to know just how empty they could be. She yearned to be wrapped in Sam’s arms and nothing else mattered.

When the train finally drew up at the station she dragged her suitcase onto the platform and stood in the drizzle. She debated whether to go home to

Toby’s house, but her impatience drove her to climb into a taxi and head straight for Pickthistle Manor. As the car turned into the driveway her heart pounded in her chest anticipating the disappointment of finding him not there. She looked about for his car but it wasn’t parked in its usual place in front of the house. She gulped back her edginess and jumped out of the taxi, instructing him not to wait. If Sam wasn’t there she’d call Toby to come and collect her. Besides, it would be nice to see Ingrid. ‘Goddamnit,’ she murmured, ‘I’m fooling myself! If he’s not there I just want to be in the house where he’s been, sit in Nuno’s study where he’s sat, feel the echo of his presence in the air and wait.’

She strode into the hall and placed her bag on the marble floor. Then she glanced at herself in the gilt mirror that hung on the wall. She cringed and tried to tidy up her soaking hair and pinch some life into her pale cheeks.

‘Sam, is that you?’ Ingrid shouted from the landing.

‘Ingrid,’ said Federica hoarsely. ‘It’s me, Federica.’

‘Fede, darling!’ she cried happily, floating down the stairs in a long turquoise dress that reached to the ground. ‘We didn’t expect you back so soon.’

‘Well, I arrived this morning,’ she replied, casting her eyes about for Sam.

‘You must be exhausted. Poor old you. Do you want a cup of tea or something to warm you up?’ she suggested. Then she looked at Federica through her monocle, which enlarged her pale green eye so that it looked like the eye of a monstrous iguana. ‘Darling, you’re shivering. Really, you don’t look very well at all.’

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she insisted weakly. ‘Is Sam about?’ she asked, trying to sound casual.

‘He’s out with the dogs. He’s been out all morning.’

Federica was unable to hide the smile that suddenly opened onto her face like a spring rose. ‘Would you mind very much if I went to look for him?’

‘You must borrow a coat or you’ll die of cold. You won’t be any good to Sam if you’ve died of cold, will you?’ she declared, her red lips quivering with delight.

Federica felt the blood rise to her cheeks turning them pink with embarrassment. She followed Ingrid into the cloakroom and took the boots and sheepskin coat she offered her.

‘This was Pa’s. It’s also one of Sam’s favourites. If it doesn’t keep you warm, Sam will. Try the fox path on the cliff. I imagine he’s up there,’ she said and

watched Federica run outside. In her excitement she forgot to close the door. Ingrid hoped that in her excitement she’d forget to mention Scotland.

Federica ran through the rain not caring how wet she got. The coat made it difficult to run for it was heavy and cumbersome. She searched the cliff top with anxious eyes, scanning the trees and cliffs for any sign of the dogs or their master. ‘Sam!’ she shouted, but her voice was lost on the wind. ‘Saaaam!’ She stood helplessly, watching the sea crash against the rocks below and wondered whether he’d be mad enough to venture down to the beach. She recalled her dream and shuddered. Then a movement in the trees made her turn around. She squinted her eyes against the rain and put her hand up to shield her face. First she saw two dogs then the grey figure of Sam in a long coat and hat. He stopped and stared at her. Unsure whether to trust his sight he too squinted and put his hand up to shield his face. ‘Sam!’ she shouted again.

‘Federica?’ he replied, and his voice was carried on the wind.

‘Sam!’ she shouted, walking towards him briskly.

The dogs leapt on her with their tails wagging their entire bodies with enthusiasm and their tongues flopping outside their salivating mouths, breathless and exhausted. She patted their sodden coats, happy that the rain on her face

disguised her nervousness.

‘Federica!’ he called, approaching her. She looked up and blinked at him to clear the rain from her vision. ‘When did you get back?’ he asked in surprise.

‘I—’ she began, but the ardour caught in her throat and prevented her from speaking. She looked down at the dogs and patted them again because suddenly she didn’t know what to do with herself.

Sam noticed that her hand was shaking. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, stepping closer.

She nodded and raised her eyes. She placed her trembling fingers on her lips and swallowed. She wanted to tell him she loved him but all she could do was stare at him mutely while the emotion mounted in her chest.

Sam placed his hand on her arm. ‘Did you come back for me?’ he asked.

Federica recognized the hope in his voice and she nodded frantically. ‘I love you,’ she whispered but her voice was swallowed up by the wind. Sam cocked his head. ‘I love you,’ she repeated, grabbing the lapels of his coat and gazing into his grey eyes with longing. Sam needed no other confirmation of her devotion. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her dripping face. She felt the warmth of his mouth and the rough neglect of his face and closed her eyes so

that nothing would distract her from his love.

When Sam made love to Federica in the small room in the attic of the house she realized that she was experiencing for the first time in her life the most intense physical expression of true love. H
e
held her with confidence and gazed into her eyes as if unable to believe that she was really there, reciprocating feelings that he had hidden for so long. Every kiss was a demonstration of his affection, every caress delivered with loving hands. They laughed and talked and then when the weight of their feelings overcame them they cried. So many years of pining prevented Sam from falling asleep. All he could do was watch her soft face while she slept and mentally stroke her until the force of his thoughts penetrated her dreams and she smiled.

Federica opened her eyes onto a different world. She heard the barking of the dogs in the driveway below as the postman threw a couple of Bonios out of his window for them to run after, then made a hasty dash for the porch before beating them back to his car and slamming the door behind him. She heard the tyres on the gravel and then a couple of grating gear-changes as he sped out of the driveway. She stretched luxuriously as her eyes adjusted to the bright

sunlight that streamed in through the gap in the curtains, illuminating the unfamiliar walls of a room she had only seen once before, when Molly and Hester had first introduced her to Marmaduke the skunk. Then with a blush she brought her hand up to her face and touched the hot afterglow of love that radiated from her cheeks and she smiled with happiness. She recalled his caresses, his kisses and then the joyous feeling afterwards, as she lay in his arms, that she had finally found love.

She turned to discover a small bunch of early bluebells on the pillow where he had slept, together with a worn brown book. She sat up and brought the flowers to her nose where the scent of spring and the taste of dew made her heart inflate with delight. Then she looked at the book. It was dog-eared and shabby.
The Prophet
by Kahlil Gibran. She opened the cover to discover that it was Nuno’s own book with verses encircled in his own unsteady hand and comments written into the margins. She recognized the poetry as the source of the notes Sam had sent her. Then she noticed a bookmark and opened it where indicated. A few lines were highlighted in pencil. She read them carefully, then to fully understand their meaning she read them again.

Beauty is life when life unveils her holy face.

But you are life and you are the veil.

Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.

But you are eternity and you are the mirror.

When Sam entered her room with a tray of breakfast Federica was clutching the bluebells to her nose and reading Nuno’s book. She looked up and smiled at him, a smile at once tender and flirtatious. He placed the tray on the dresser and climbed onto the bed beside her. They didn’t need to speak for their faces shone with feelings that they could never put into words. He drew her into his arms and knew that this time he would never let her go.

It was a few years before Federica Appleby rediscovered the butterfly box in the back of one of the cupboards in their cottage just outside Polperro.

Sam had successfully published his first book,
Nuno, Brought To Book,
and Federica was pregnant with their second child.

She pulled the box out and brushed the dust off the lid. With a sense of nostalgia grown sweet due to her own happiness and the passing of the years, she

leant back against the wall and opened it. She was saddened to see the stones that had once lined the interior lying in a pile on the bottom of the box, exposing the raw wooden walls that once glittered with a magical splendour.

Ponderously, she lifted her eyes to reflect upon the past and saw to her delight a red and orange butterfly alight upon the windowsill. It paused a moment, as if in silent communication, then gently opened its wings, fluttered into the air and disappeared out into the sunshine.

Acknowledgements

I would like to extend my deepest gratitude to my cousin, Anderly Hardy, for her guidance on all Chilean matters and to my husband and family for their advice and support.

Thank you to Suzanne Baboneau and her brilliant team at Simon & Schuster for republishing this book with a beautiful new cover, and to my agent, Sheila Crowley, for her wise counsel.

I would like to thank Gibran National Committee for granting me permission to quote from Kahlil Gibran’s
The Prophet.

Gibran National Committee

PO Box 116-5375

Beirut

Lebanon

Fax (-1-961 6 1 396921/16)

Email:[email protected]

FIND OUT MORE ABOUT SANTA MONTEFIORE

 

Santa Montefiore is the author of eleven sweeping novels. To find out more about her and her writing, visit her website at

 

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