Augustine, page 5
4
Moonlight spilled through the open curtains, washing the bedroom in a milky glow that didn’t quite reach the corners. Bramos stood in one such corner, watching as he had done the night before, and would do so for many more nights to come. Her face was turned toward him, dark hair spilled across the pillow, and features, now matured and more lovely than ever, so reminiscent of the woman he had once loved. Her lips curved up in a smile as he whispered her name, lips that he longed to kiss, and he smiled remembering her touch, the smell of her hair, the taste of her mouth. Was she dreaming of him? He hoped so.
He sat down, leaned against the wall and rested one arm on his raised knee as he watched the rise and fall of her chest. The swell of her breasts was just visible beneath the thin cover of the bed sheet and the temptation to take her was almost more than he could bear. But it was too soon. Too soon. Time was a fickle thing, everything to some, yet meaningless to others. It moved fast or it moved slow, came to a stop or seemed not to exist at all. But for him it was nothing more than a test of his patience and restraint. He neither trusted time nor feared it. Instead, he respected and embraced it, and in return it had given him more power than he had ever dreamed possible.
But not the power to heal. It would take more than time for that.
So, for now, all he could do was watch.
He watched for a long time, until the sun crested the horizon, and the crows greeted the new day. He rose from the floor then to look out above the tree tops where Carrion Hall stood proud atop the hill, dark and brooding as it ever was, and he marvelled at how the place had withstood the test of time.
If only flesh were as durable.
She stirred then, and he turned to see her rise from the bed, dark hair loose about her shoulders. Ah, but what a sight to behold she was, more lovely in this world than she had been in the other, and as she moved to join him by the window he stepped aside, not yet trusting himself, even in shadow. He watched as the dawning light changed the colour of her eyes from the softest chestnut brown to the colour of autumn leaves, and as she turned her face towards him he withdrew into the shadows and dissipated into the night.
5
‘Hey sis, where do you need me? I’m all yours for the morning.’
Emma looked up from the menu in front of her and sighed. ‘Really Chris? Now you want to help?’ She gave the menu back to Georgina with a brief nod. The culmination of a month’s work was finally coming together, and today’s opening was going to be perfect, no thanks to Christopher.
‘Use me or lose me,’ he said, flashing a grin at Georgina as he stole a pastry from a wicker basket on the table.
‘I suppose you could pick up my dry cleaning,’ Emma said, checking the drinks order for the umpteenth time that day. ‘Or perhaps assist Luke with the waiters. I hired local boys thinking it would be a good idea, but I’m beginning to re-think that decision with each passing minute. They’ve got about as much decorum as a band of thieves.’
Chris grabbed another pastry and shoved half into his mouth. ‘Not really my thing,’ he said. ‘What else do you have?’
Emma slapped his hand when he reached for his third pastry. ‘Why don’t you help Henry with the gazebo then?’ she said. ‘I’m sure he’d appreciate another pair of hands.’
‘He's already got Carlos helping him. You should see the two of them, it's like the blind leading the blind.’
‘Then all the more reason to help them, wouldn't you say?’
‘I think my talents would be better served elsewhere.’
‘Then what do you want to do?’ Emma said, losing patience.
‘I could help with the food,’ he said, sneaking another pastry before Emma could stop him. ‘You wouldn’t mind would you Georgie?’ He winked at Georgina sending her face a deep shade of pink.
‘The girls have that perfectly under control, thank you,’ Emma said, ushering Georgina through the door with the basket of pastries in hand. ‘And I’m not sure we’d have any food left if you were in charge. We could do with a few more silver platters though. I think I saw some in the attic. Maybe you could get those for me.’
‘And ruin my best suit? Em. Come on. You know me better than that.’
‘Then get out of my way while I do it. Honestly, I don’t know why you even bothered to show up.’ She pushed past Chris and opened the door into the main hallway.
‘Don’t be like that, sis,’ Chris called after her. ‘I’ll check on the drinks then, shall I? You’re doing a great job, Em.’
Ignoring him, Emma hurried across the hallway and through to the drawing room. She loved her baby brother dearly, but some days it was all she could do not to brain him.
Edward Frobisher was waiting in the drawing room and greeted Emma with a huge grin as he took a step back from the fireplace to admire his work. ‘Not a bad job eh, Miss Ashley.’
He was a small man, with a large ego and a pinched face that reminded Emma of a weasel. She disliked him very much, but he had come highly recommended. She smiled tightly and joined him at the fireplace, careful to keep a respectable distance lest he feel the need to rest his hand on the small of her back as he had done on numerous other occasions. ‘Must I remind you once again, Mr Frobisher, that I am a Stanford-Ashley, Stanford for my mother, Ashley for my father.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘My apologies, though perhaps you would permit me to call you Emma. Such formalities seem absurd in this day and age, don't you think?’
Emma bristled at the sound of his voice using her first name. ‘On the contrary, Mr Frobisher,’ she said. ‘I consider a lack of formality to be a lack of respect for one's peers, a mistake that has played its part in the downturn of the youth of today, wouldn't you agree?’ She felt him stiffen beside her and wondered what Chris would think of her pompous attitude. Call her out for being a stuck-up bitch no doubt, but Edward Frobisher was too cowardice for that.
‘As you wish,’ he conceded, bowing his head in acquiescence. ‘The painting then. I trust you are happy with my work?’
Emma looked up into the face of her father, a man she recognised only from the few photo's her mother had kept and felt the same twinge of sadness that she always did. He was a good looking man, not handsome in the way that George Clooney or Clark Gable were – his features were too sharp, nose just a little too large, the chin just a little too wide – though good looking in his own right, with a kind face and a warm smile. But the real charm came from his eyes. They were the colour of glacial lakes on a clear day, a blue so soft as to be almost turquoise, with flecks of amber when the light caught them just right. They were open, friendly and trusting and though it pained Emma to see, so very much like her own. The artist had captured them perfectly and Emma could only surmise that he, or she, had known her father very well. ‘I have to hand it to you, Mr Frobisher, you've done an amazing job.’
Edward Frobisher nodded in agreement beside her and folded his arms. ‘I’ll not lie, it was a tough one, but I'm not known to shy from a challenge. Have you had any luck discovering who the artist was?’
‘None at all,’ Emma said. ‘I've all but given up. I'm afraid our mystery painter is to remain just that.’
‘Such a shame, I would've liked to know. The workmanship is quite exceptional.’
‘Yes,’ Emma said, ‘I see that.’ She stepped closer to get a better look at where the painting had been repaired and knew by the shuffle of feet beside her that Edward Frobisher had joined her. She could feel his sour breath on her neck where he peered over her shoulder, and she gave an involuntary shudder. ‘Amazing,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would never believe there had been any damage at all. I have to hand it to you, Mr Frobisher, your work is nothing short of genius.’ His face was uncomfortably close to Emma's and she flinched as he leaned in closer and cleared his throat.
‘Perhaps, to the untrained eye, but if you look closer you can see there are tell-tale signs.’ He retrieved his glasses from the top pocket of his jacket, unfolded them and carefully balanced them on the end of his nose. ‘See here,’ he said, and pointed to where her father’s hand rested against the fireplace – the same fireplace they were now stood in front of. ‘There’s a slight discolouration just there, on the ring finger where a small part of the canvas had been torn away completely, and there, just above the neckline, whoever attempted to destroy this painting had all but severed your father's head. There was some damage due to mould, but nothing we couldn't handle at Frobisher & Rotherham. All in all, I think you'll agree that the result is excellent.’
Emma smiled politely. ‘Absolutely incredible,’ she said, stepping back and almost bumping into him. ‘It really is amazing.’ They'd thought the painting irreparable upon its discovery in the attic, slashed in several places and suffering from exposure to a damp, abandoned attic, but Emma was stubborn if nothing else, and had refused to accept defeat. ‘I trust your invoice will be in the mail?’
Edward Frobisher's thin lips smiled wetly at Emma as he reached into his jacket. ‘I have it with me,’ he said, handing over a long white envelope.
‘Of course you do,’ she said, recoiling when his fingers lightly brushed hers as she took the envelope from him. ‘I'll arrange for it to be paid immediately. I'll show you to the door, shall I?’
‘I see you're having a party,’ he said. ‘Is it a special occasion?’
Emma bit the inside of her mouth and forced a smile. ‘I suppose you could say it is, yes. The renovations on the Hall are finally complete, today is a way of saying thank you to the locals for putting up with us for the last two years. Many of them put a lot of work into restoring the Hall to its former glory, so I think a few drinks on the lawn is the least we could do.’
‘Oh, it looks like much more than that,’ he said, with a glint in his eye. ‘Was that a bandstand I saw earlier?’
Emma accepted defeat with a sigh. ‘Would you care to stay, Mr Frobisher?’
‘How wonderful of you to ask, Miss Stanford-Ashley. I would be delighted.’
‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘I'll have Georgina show you to the terrace. It will be a while before the other guests arrive but I'm sure she can fix you a bite to eat.’
She left Edward Frobisher in the hands of Georgina, a young woman with a short fuse who was not known to suffer fools, while Emma, feeling like she suddenly needed a very hot shower, left them to it.
She made her way across the newly fitted wooden floors, back through the drawing room and into the west wing where the narrow staircase that would take her to the first floor was housed. The tang of freshly painted walls still clung to the air, but this part of the house would be closed to guests once the party started. It was here that Carrion Hall had suffered most of the damage. It was also where Emma's Aunt Evelyn had locked herself in the attic after killing her husband and setting fire to the Hall. Emma had no great fondness for this part of the house and found the atmosphere to be particularly disagreeable, but it was the only way to reach the attic and the only place where she could watch John without being seen.
The attic stairwell was set back on the first-floor landing, hidden in an alcove at the far end of the house. There were two doors, one that opened up the stairs and the other that opened into the attic itself. Both were locked at all times and Emma was the only one to carry a key.
The familiar staleness hit Emma as she stepped into the dark attic and she was reminded as always that this was far more than just an attic. During the fire it had become her aunt's tomb, sealing her in while the rest of the house perished, and miraculously protecting her from the worst of the fire. But however it came to be that the attic was mostly untouched by flame, the same could not be said for smoke. Evelyn had died from smoke inhalation, a seemingly merciful death considering her crimes, and her face had looked remarkably peaceful, as though she had died in her sleep – quite fortunate given what came afterwards. There had been many rumours surrounding Evelyn's death and more still regarding Carrion Hall, all of which Emma chose to dismiss. To give credence to any one of them would be to fan the flames of superstition that blanketed Carrion hall, and she was not one to indulge in such lunacy.
However, the great fire of Carrion Hall had been twenty-five years ago, and although the stench of death no longer permeated the air, the musty smell of abandonment could not be stifled. Emma locked the door behind her – a habit she had become accustomed to – and began the ritual of walking the expanse of the attic, flinging open the too few windows and letting in some much-needed fresh air. The flames of the great fire may not have penetrated the stone walls of the attic, but the fireman's hose knew no such boundary. Water damage had been the biggest problem when she had taken over the restoration of Carrion Hall and although the rest of the house was all but shiny new, she had insisted that the attic remain untouched.
The sound of raised voices caught her attention as she opened the last of the windows. She recognised them both as belonging to Henry and Carlos. Henry was the assistant gardener and Carlos, his younger brother. Emma had taken pains to use local tradesmen wherever possible on the restoration of Carrion Hall, and the same could be said of the hired help today. However, judging from past experience she should have known better than to put Henry working alongside his brother. They were both grown men, and each had their own particular talents, but when put together they became nothing more than squabbling children. She sighed, once more exasperated by her brother's lack of interest in anything that didn't have large breasts and a firm arse. Carrion Hall may well have been left solely to Emma, but she had never considered it as anything but a family venture. Even Alex had been included wherever possible, and she was far from Emma's favourite cousin. If only Chris would do his part, she would happily have signed over half of the estate to him long ago. But as it was, he was irresponsible and unpredictable, choosing to spend most of his time doing God only knew what with the red-haired vixen from the village. Emma may have her differences with Alex, but even she had to admit that their cousin was far better suited to running Carrion Hall than Chris would ever be.
Another voice caught Emma's attention and her pulse quickened at the sound of it. The attic windows, though useful for letting in air, were too high up to be any good for looking out of, unless of course you happened to have a handy box nearby to stand on. But where the attic and the west wing both gave Emma the creeps, the tower gave her only a sense of calm and wellbeing. She headed up the small flight of stairs that would take her into the brightly lit space where she had found herself wiling away many an afternoon when John was working in the gardens. The room was small and round and reminded Emma of a lighthouse with its 360-degree view. It was an odd addition to the attic but one that had its uses if solitude was what you wanted. From here you could see the entire estate, including the woods, and on a good day, most of the village. It was her favourite place to be when a time-out from the chaos of renovating an old abandoned Hall was needed, and if it meant traversing the west wing and the attic for her place of serenity, then she was happy to do it.
In the centre of the room there was a wicker chair with a plush cushion, and a small table with an LED lantern on top. She had carried the chair and the table herself from the terrace, not wanting to share her secret place with anyone. The lamp she had purchased on a whim the last time she visited Harleybrock. It had been used only a handful of times but of late she had found herself in need of a midnight visit more and more often. She put it down to the stress of organising the party – she had insisted on overseeing every minute detail herself – and the unexpected feeling of emptiness at having finally finished the renovations to the Hall. Rebuilding Carrion Hall had taken the best part of two years, two years that had not only given her a sense of purpose but had also brought her the only man she had ever deemed worthy of her heart.
She ignored the comfort of the wicker chair in favour of leaning on the stone sill to look out of the window. Only one of the windows opened here, and it was this one that Emma now peered out of to watch the proceedings below. John – strong, agile and deliciously handsome – had joined the fracas and was, with some measure of success, diffusing the situation between Henry and Carlos by assisting them with the gazebo, the same way her brother could have done had he but half of John's zeal.
She watched as he directed the brothers with the grace and authority of someone with far more responsibility than tending the gardens, though that in itself was no small task. Since John had taken over as chief gardener, the Carrion estate had blossomed into something that had become quite the talking point, reaching far beyond the boundaries of Cranston Myre. So far so, that a representative of Gardens of Interest, a highly reputable magazine, had asked if they could send one of their reporters to take pictures during today’s party. John being John, had of course refused an interview, preferring his own company to that of “nosey bloody reporters” but Henry had had no such qualms and was more than happy to oblige. Emma sighed as she watched his tanned arms erect the gazebo with ease, arms that had, until twelve months ago, wrapped themselves around her when the two of them had been lovers. If only John felt as she still did, she would willingly give up the Hall just to be with him, indeed she would give up everything if it meant they could be together once more. But he had made himself very clear more than once. He and Emma were over, their brief affair and been nothing more than just that. But what they'd had was so much more than just a fling, the passion they had shared was so much more than just sex, and she wasn't going to let that go without a fight.
Promoting John to chief gardener, despite her brother's arguments to the contrary, had been a smart move on her part. As chief gardener he was entitled to one of the two cottages that had been converted from the old stables and bordered the courtyard on the west side of the Hall. The new stables, something that Chris had insisted on, were now situated closer to the grazing fields on the far side of the formal gardens, with its own private access road. It was Chris's plan to include horse treks into Dolen Forest once the hotel side of Carrion Hall was up and running, his only offering to the running of the Hall so far. But that was some time off yet, and Chris's commitment to the project still debatable. Given John's close living quarters and dedication to his job, it meant that Emma got to see him for at least some part of every day. He was still an integral part of her life whether he knew it or not, and Emma had decided long ago that one way or another she would prove to him that she was an important part of his too.
