The Eden Inheritance (53 page)

It
was
Lilli. He could see the vivid pink of her swimsuit contrasting with the blue of the sea. He called to her but there was no response and a mouthful of salt water made him cough. Closer, closer, and still she made no movement. For a gut-lurching moment he thought she was dead, just lying there on the swell with her face upturned to the full force of the sun and her hair floating out behind her like a lost mermaid.

‘Lilli!'

No reply. He grabbed her wrist, limp and fragile.

‘Lilli!'

Her head snapped over, her eyes wide and startled.

‘No!' she almost sobbed.

Unbalanced from her floating position, a wave broke over her face, filling her mouth and nose with water. She coughed, gasped, struggled to free her wrist from his grasp, pulling them both under. He let her go and she began to swim away from him, further out to sea, but the water in her lungs was making her choke and she floundered wildly.

In that moment Guy knew he had to act quickly. He did not know what she was playing at, but he did know that this was no time to ask questions. Were there sharks in these waters? Guy had no intention of hanging around to find out and in any case they were much too far from the shore for safety. If he didn't do something, and quickly, Lilli was going to drown, and so, perhaps, was he.

Long ago, in his youth, Guy had taken a bronze medallion in life-saving. Its validity had long since lapsed; he had never used it or practised it since. Now, with desperation the master, he found the rudiments coming back without him even having to think about them. Before he really knew what he was doing he had swum around Lilli, ducking through the water and grasping her in such a way that her flailing arms could not reach him and pull them both under. Then he began swimming strongly back towards the beach towing her behind him.

If it had seemed a long way out before he had reached her, the return swim seemed even longer. Glancing warily over his shoulder he felt he was making no impression on it at all. But at least Lilli was not straggling now. She lay in the water as motionless as she had been when he had first seen her, only now his hand supported her chin and her legs trailed limply behind her.

At last, just when he thought they would never make it, they were in shallow water. Guy stood up, wading through the breakers, dragging Lilli by the arms and collapsing, exhausted, on to the sand. She lay there, still making no attempt to move. He roused himself once more, wondering if she had swallowed too much water and needed resuscitation, but as he leaned over her she turned her head away from him so that her cheek rested on the sand, and he realised that the drops of water running down her face were no longer sea water but tears.

‘Are you all right?' he asked sharply.

‘Why didn't you leave me?' Her voice was low and he had to bend close to make out the words. ‘Why didn't you leave me there?'

‘What are you talking about?' he asked, angry suddenly. ‘You were miles out, just drifting out to sea. What the hell's the matter with you?'

‘I wanted to stay there,' she whispered in the same soft voice, dreamlike almost. ‘ It was so beautiful!'

‘It was downright dangerous!'

‘You should have left me,' she repeated, and the tears rolled faster.

Her hair, heavy with sea water, lay spread out around her like so much seaweed, her cheeks and nose glowed dull fiery red from exposure to the sun. The line of her neck and shoulder was endearingly vulnerable and suddenly he was not angry any more. Puzzled, yes, frustrated, almost, by the strange dreamy acquiescence, but not angry, and a fierce new emotion that was almost desire was pulsing new life into his tired body.

‘If I hadn't brought you in you would have died,' he said roughly. ‘Is that what you wanted?'

For a moment she did not reply. He could almost feel her thinking it over. Then she said: ‘Yes. Yes, I think that's what I wanted. I suppose that was very stupid of me.'

‘Very stupid,' he said firmly. ‘Christ, I knew you were upset, but nothing is that bad, Lilli.'

She lay unmoving, the tears running in silent rivers down her cheeks.

‘I think,' he said, ‘that I should get you home.'

She moved then, sitting up, turning to look directly at him.

‘I'm really sorry to have put you to so much trouble.' Her tone was oddly formal, like a child apologising for a misdemeanour.

‘No trouble. I'm just glad I was here. I hope you'll be glad, too, when you are feeling better.'

‘You don't understand.' She wrapped her arms around herself as if she was cold suddenly in spite of the heat of the sun. ‘ It wasn't that I wanted to die – not really. I just didn't want to go on living.'

‘There's a difference?'

‘Of course there is! I just couldn't face it any more …'

‘You're right,' he said. ‘I don't understand. But then I haven't had to watch my father die. I never had that privilege.' For a brief moment anger was flaring again. I believe that your father, the man for whom you are now grieving, ordered my father's death, he wanted to say, but he knew this was neither the time nor the place. ‘Plenty of people do have to go through what you are going through, though – most people, in fact – and they don't try to drown themselves. It's hard, I know, but you will get over it.'

She threw back her head, eyes closed, and began to laugh.

‘Lilli!' he said sharply.

‘If only you knew! If only it was just that …' She stopped laughing abruptly, shook her head. ‘I promise you, Guy, there is a great deal more I want to escape from than simply the slow torture of watching my father die.'

He felt the skin at the back of his neck begin to prickle.

‘Like what?'

She shook her head again.

‘Oh no, you don't want to hear my troubles and I don't want to talk about them.'

As she spoke the last words her voice was harsh, staccato – because of emotion, he thought at first, then realised the reason was that her teeth had begun to chatter.

‘I really think I should get you home.' He walked up the beach to where they had left their clothes, pulled on his shorts over the swimming trunks which were already almost dry, and picked up her skirt and deck shoes, carrying them to where she still sat, unmoving, except for the tremors that were shivering through her body and the arms which were clasped tightly around her knees.

‘Come on,' he ordered.

She stood up obediently, taking the skirt from him and winding it around her waist. But her fingers were shaking too much to fasten the buttons and he had to do it for her, very aware, suddenly, of her beautiful body and his proximity to it, and trying not to show it. She pushed her feet into her shoes and he put his arm around her, willing himself to see it simply as an act of friendly protection, fighting against the emotions stirring his body at the fed of her firm cool flesh.

At the track she stopped, looking at him.

‘You don't have to come home with me. I'll be all right now.'

And suddenly there was another dimension to what he was doing, the reason for his being here driving like cold sharp steel into the soft underbelly of his concern and desire for her.

‘I'd rather make sure of that,' he said, tightening his arm around her waist and urging her on.

She did not protest again and they walked in silence, Guy wondering how he could actually get inside the villa. Once he had seen her to her door he would have no excuse for going further, but this was the best chance he had had – perhaps the best chance he would ever have – and he had no intention of failing to capitalise on it. But as they neared the villa Lilli made it easy for him.

‘You've been very kind. Can I offer you a drink or something before you go?'

She said it stiffly, formally, and he had no way of knowing the inner turmoil she was experiencing, her near-panic at the thought of having to go back and face up to all the things she had thought for a little while, out there in the ocean, she had left forever. With him beside her the shadows receded a little, became less immediate. When he had gone there would be no buffer left between her and the realities she had wanted to escape. She was also horribly certain that Jorge would come calling again. He wasn't one to be put off by the reception he had received last night; it would only make him all the more determined. And if her father was right, he had more reason than she had previously realised to continue to be around. Lilli shrank from the thought of seeing him again, feeling less able than ever to cope with the emotions he aroused in her and terribly afraid that even loathing him as she did she would be unable to summon up the will to resist him.

Guy looked at her and saw a depth of feeling within her luminous dark eyes which belied the coolness of her tone, without for one moment understanding what had engendered those feelings.

‘Thanks,' he said, matching her coolness, though for him the hidden emotion was elation. ‘I could use a drink, yes.'

The villa was drowsing in the heat of the afternoon. As Lilli led Guy along the path to the hibiscus-covered veranda nothing stirred.

He could feel her tension mounting now, an almost tangible thing, but at least she had stopped shaking.

‘Come in,' she said.

A chair that looked as if it might have been made up for an invalid stood just at the point where room became veranda, but no one was sitting in it and the salon beyond appeared equally empty.

‘I don't know where they all are,' Lilli said uncertainly. ‘ Resting, perhaps. What would you like to drink?'

‘What are you offering?'

‘Pretty well anything. There's freshly made lemonade but I expect you'd like something stronger.'

‘Actually, yes. I know it's not
de rigueur
out here, but would you have any cognac?'

‘Yes, I'm sure we have …' She disappeared into the dim salon and he hesitated on the veranda, oddly reluctant, now that the, moment had come, to abuse her hospitality as he had planned to do.

She reappeared a moment later with bottle and glass.

‘What about this? I don't know much about brandy. Daddy usually decants it but …' She banded him the bottle for his inspection and suddenly the tiny hairs on the back of his neck were prickling again; not just prickling, standing on end.

The bottle
she had presented him with was a distinctive green glass against which the label stood out, utterly familiar to his eyes.

Château de Savigny.

He took the bottle from her, turning it between his hands, feeling the filmy covering of dust around the neck.
Old
Château de Savigny. Very old. Twenty – thirty – forty years old. He knew it in his bones.

‘Where did he get this?' he asked, barely able to contain the rising excitement.

‘I don't know. He's had it in his cellar for years, I think. He had it brought up just the other day. Isn't it … don't you like it?'

‘Yes, it's fine.' He tried to sound noncommittal. She obviously hadn't made the connection between his name and the name on the bottle – hadn't even noticed, probably, and he didn't want to draw her attention to it.

‘Will you pour your own?' Lilli said. ‘ I'm still a bit shaky. I'm going to get myself some lemonade. I'll be back in a minute.'

‘I think you could do with something stronger than lemonade yourself,' he suggested.

‘I'll probably put a vodka in it. Help yourself to ice – it's in a bucket on the bar.'

He smiled briefly, imagining his grandfather's outrage at the suggestion that someone might even consider ice in his precious cognac. Was it the habit out here, or didn't Lilli know any better? But the invitation to help himself to ice had given him the excuse he needed to enter the salon. With the bottle bearing his name still in his hand, Guy went in.

At first, after the bright sunlight outside, he could not see anything beyond vague shapes and shadows. He blinked hard, willing his eyes to become used to the dim light. He had a few minutes, no more, to try to discover if the treasures Bill had told him about resembled those stolen from the Château de Savigny. He was now virtually certain that they would, but virtually certain was not good enough.

He saw the candlesticks first, gleaming dully on the dresser. He picked one up, weighing it speculatively in his hand. Solid, heavy, very, very like the candlesticks his grandfather had described. The small bronze statuette sat between them. Excitement formed a tight knot in his stomach. These things were his family heirlooms, he was sure of it. But proving it would be a different matter. He looked around hastily. His eyes were adjusting now and he realised that, as Bill had said, the salon was indeed full of treasures. A Louis XIV clock, a candlesnuffer, a small rosewood box inlaid with ivory, all beautiful, all valuable, none so totally unique as to be indisputably de Savigny property, unless of course the very fact that they were here collectively could be taken as proof.

And then he saw it, hanging on the wall in a position where what light there was made the colours glow like fire. The triptych. He crossed the room with long hurried strides and knew beyond doubt that this was the triptych which had once graced the walls of his family home. From the photographs his grand-father had shown him it was clearly recognisable – the scenes from the life of the Maid of Orleans had never, to his knowledge, been repeated. He gazed at it, mesmerised both by its beauty and by the sense of history it generated. His history – his family's history – a continuity of heritage passed from generation to generation. It was, for Guy, perhaps the most moving moment he had ever lived through, and also the most unexpected. He had been brought up with antiques through his mother's shop and none of them had ever affected him in this way. But then never before had he been brought face to face with something which had been owned, not just by his grandfather, but by his grandfather's grandfather.