The Swallow and the Hummingbird
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Authors: Santa Montefiore
Born in England in 1970, Santa Montefiore grew up in Hampshire. She is married to historian Simon Sebag-Montefiore. They live with their two children, Lily and Sasha, in London. Visit her at
www.santamontefiore.co.uk
and sign up for her newsletter.
Praise for
The Swallow and the Hummingbird:
‘A story told across continents, with grand themes and strong emotions’
Yorkshire Evening Post
‘Ambitious . . . contains all the basic ingredients of a satisfying saga’
Sunday Telegraph
Praise for Santa Montefiore:
‘Santa Montefiore is the new Rosamunde Pilcher’
Daily Mail
‘A superb storyteller of love and death in romantic places in fascinating times – her passionate novels are already bestsellers across Europe and I can see why. Her plots are sensual, sensitive and complex, her characters are unforgettable life forces, her love stories are desperate yet uplifting – and one laughs as much as one cries’ Plum Sykes,
Vogue
‘A gripping romance . . . it is as believable as the writing is beautiful’
Daily Telegraph
‘Anyone who likes Joanne Harris or Mary Wesley will love Montefiore’
Mail on Sunday
‘One of our personal favourites and bestselling authors, sweeping stories of love and families spanning continents and decades’
The Times
‘The novel displays all Montefiore’s hallmarks: glamorous scene-setting, memorable characters, and as always deliciously large helpings of yearning love and surging passion’ Wendy Holden,
Sunday Express
‘Engaging and charming’ Penny Vincenzi
Also by Santa Montefiore
The Secrets of the Lighthouse
The Summer House
The House By The Sea
The Affair
The Italian Matchmaker
The French Gardener
Sea of Lost Love
The Gypsy Madonna
Last Voyage of the Valentina
The Forget-Me-Not Sonata
The Butterfly Box
Meet Me Under the Ombu Tree
First published in Great Britain in 2004 by Hodder & Stoughton An Hachette Livre Company
This paperback edition first published in 2014 by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Santa Montefiore, 2004
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Santa Montefiore to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Paperback ISBN 978-1-47113-206-3
Ebook ISBN 978-1-47113-207-0
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY
To my son, Sasha Woolf
Contents
FIND OUT MORE ABOUT SANTA MONTEFIORE
We hope you enjoyed reading this Simon & Schuster eBook
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Spring 1945
Mrs Megalith stared down at the body and sighed heavily. What an unsavoury sight first thing in the morning. It was rigid and cold and looked like something one of her grandchildren might have made at school out of papier-mâché, except this wasn’t a silly prank. She clicked her tongue at the inconvenience and struggled into her dressing gown. Grabbing her stick, she proceeded to prod the corpse. It was little more than a decaying carcass of flesh and bones and fur, rather mangy fur at that. She looked at death and thought how unattractive the body was, even the body of a cat, once the spirit had departed. She felt little, just annoyance. She had so many cats she had lost count. They kept on appearing, though, in spite of the fact that she gave them little attention and certainly knew none of them by name. From where they came and why she hadn’t a clue, but they were drawn to her by a mysterious force. As Mrs Megalith was a gifted clairvoyant, this was commendable indeed.
She picked up the cat, wondering why it had chosen to die in her bedroom of all places, and limped down the corridor towards the staircase. It was an omen, a bad omen, of that she had no doubt. She found Max in the kitchen making himself a cup of Ovaltine.
‘Dear boy, what on earth are you doing up at this hour?’ It was six in the morning and Max rarely emerged before eight-thirty.
‘There was a dead cat in my bedroom,’ he replied casually. He still spoke with a Viennese accent and if it hadn’t been for the Jewish blood that careered through his veins Hitler would have considered him the epitome of Aryan man: thick blond hair, sodalite blue eyes, a noble though sensitive expression on a wide, intelligent face. In spite of his nonchalant air, he was a pensive young man whose heart was far more complex than anyone would have imagined, with dark corners and deep crevices where shadows lingered. He showed little of the emotions that simmered there, for his father wouldn’t have wanted him to bare his fear or pain; he would have wanted him to be strong for his sister, Ruth. Max owed him that.
He chuckled at the sight of Mrs Megalith dangling the dead cat from her fingertips. He was used to the cats and considered them part of the furniture. When he had first arrived at Elvestree House in 1938 as a ten-year-old refugee he had been quite afraid of the solitary creatures that inhabited the place and watched him suspiciously from every windowsill and tabletop, but Mrs Megalith had given him and Ruth a kitten as a present. Although he hadn’t known that he would never see his parents again, he missed the familiar smell of home. The kitten had given him comfort.
‘You too? Oh dear.’ Mrs Megalith shook her head. ‘One dead cat is bad enough but two is very worrying indeed. It does not bode well. But what are they trying to tell me? We’ve won the war for God’s sake.’ She narrowed her eyes, the same milky grey as the moonstone that always nestled on the ledge of her large bosom, and clicked her tongue. Max took the dead cat from her and placed it outside the back door with the other one. When he returned she was sitting in the armchair beside the Aga.
‘You are always reading meaning into everything, Primrose,’ he said. ‘Surely it is nothing but a coincidence that two cats die on the same night. Perhaps they ate rat poison.’
Mrs Megalith pursed her lips. ‘Absolutely not. The omen is as clear as quartz.’
‘The war is over,’ said Max. ‘Hitler isn’t coming back.’
‘Thank the Lord! And I’ve already had one near miss so it can’t be me!’ she said, recalling a night during the Blitz when she had stayed with her sister in London. A cat had died then too. But Mrs Megalith was irrepressible; a limp and a grudge but more alive than ever. ‘No, the omen has nothing to do with the war. It’s much closer to home,’ she continued, rubbing her chin thoughtfully.
‘George comes home today from France,’ said Max, thinking of Rita and hoping the bad omen didn’t have anything to do with her. George was another matter entirely.
‘By God, you’re right!’ Mrs Megalith exclaimed. ‘Old age is a humiliating thing. I once had a good memory. Now it’s no better than anyone else’s.’ She huffed. ‘Young George Bolton, it’s nothing short of a miracle that that boy survived in those flying tin cans. It’s because of young men like him that we’re not all having to learn German and that I’m not having to hide you in my attic. Not very comfortable my attic. Though, you would have had an advantage over the rest of us, speaking the language as you do.’ She turned her attention to her granddaughter. ‘Rita hasn’t seen George for three years.’
‘That is a long time, isn’t it?’ said Max hopefully. Ever since he had first set eyes on Rita Fairweather he had been hopelessly in love. The infatuation of a child had slowly matured into something more profound, for Rita was three years older than him and her heart was no longer hers to give away.
‘In the Great War I didn’t see Denzil for four. Thought nothing of it.’
‘But you’re not like other people,’ teased Max. ‘You’re a witch.’
Mrs Megalith’s face softened and she smiled at him. Few dared tease the ‘Elvestree Witch’ and it was well known that she found most people intolerable. But Max was beyond reproach. Mrs Megalith could see what no one else saw, those dark and shadowy corners of his heart where he hid a great deal of suffering. She would never forget the day those two frightened little strays were brought into her care. She loved Max and Ruth intensely, more intensely than she loved her own privileged children who had never known fear. She was the closest they had to family and she cherished them on behalf of the mother and father who were no longer alive to give them what is every child’s right.
‘I might be a witch, Max dear, but I’m as human as the next woman and I missed Denzil. Of course I took lovers.’ Max raised an eyebrow. ‘You might laugh,’ she said, pointing a long finger at him. ‘But I was something of a looker in my day.’
‘Why don’t you go back to bed? You look tired,’ she said, getting up stiffly, leaning on her stick.
‘No point now. The day has begun. I might as well bury the dead,’ he replied, making for the back door.
