Before I Let You Go, page 7
***
People stared as Elsbeth sauntered through the lobby with Ambrose on her arm, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floors. This time she welcomed the attention, wearing the same Gucci dress the night Jeff proposed. The gown was feminine and sexy, and for one night, she wanted to be desirable.
Ambrose escorted her through double doors into a room adorned with bright lights and round tables filled with people. A banner with the words “Give Our Seals A Chance” hung above the stage. A solo cellist played Bach in the corner.
“What type of benefit is this?” Elsbeth asked, accepting a flute of champagne Ambrose handed her. She never intended to accept his invitation, but she was too frightened to stay home in case Bishop turned up again.
Ambrose scanned the room with pride before answering. “Every year, WYLD throws a gala to raise awareness for local seabird and mammal populations. This year, we’re focusing on boats getting too close to gray seal breeding sites. Last month, we erected signs around Les Hanois, warning people to stay away. Already, there's been a decline in animal fatalities.” He waved at a beautifully dressed couple striding into the room. Elsbeth followed his gaze. “See that couple over there? That's Carl and Letty Woodburn, my biggest donors. They funded my cause last year when I erected signage in endangered seabird breeding sites around Jerbourg.”
"Do you raise much money with these fundraisers?"
"You'll be surprised how much people are willing to donate,” Ambrose replied. “Climate change has forced people to wake up and open their wallets. Guilt is an amazing motivator.”
“Does that mean you feel guilty for the trauma you inflicted on Lorraine? You hassled an old woman.”
“You must resent me for what I did to your great-aunt. But l'Île Céleste sits on a historic piece of land. Is it wrong of me to restore it to what nature intended?”
Elsbeth downed the last of her champagne. “It’s wrong to harass and manipulate someone out of their home. You’re no different from a scammer.”
Ambrose chuckled. “I like to think I’m more charming than a scammer.”
Elsbeth rolled her eyes and surveyed the room, when a familiar face made her breath hitch in her throat. Their eyes met, and Bishop smiled at her warmly, almost knowingly, as he moved through the crowd, dreamlike.
Ambrose's puzzled voice sounded distant as Elsbeth gravitated toward Bishop, moving through the crowd effortlessly. Bright, flashing lights on the stage distracted her briefly, and when she refocused on where she last saw him, he was gone.
“Elsbeth!”
Momentarily dazed, she jumped when Ambrose gripped her arm.
"Where did you go?" he demanded.
"Did you see him?"
"See who?"
She pointed to the empty space in front of them. "Bishop. The man who knocked on my door last night."
Ambrose clicked his tongue and led her back to their table. "I think you've had too much to drink."
“I've had one glass.”
He motioned to a server nearby. "A glass of water for the lady."
She twisted in her seat and searched the room for her mystery man. "He's here. I do not see ghosts, Ambrose."
“I never said you do. Now that I think of it, though, I do remember a Bishop. He was in our class at school,” he remarked, placing his half-drank martini on the table. “I haven’t seen him around in a while. Ask his mother where her son is. Maybe he moved to Britain for work.”
“Maybe he's back.” Elsbeth refused to believe the man at her door was nothing more than an illusion. He was flesh and blood. He was real.
“Would you like to dance?” Ambrose asked, extending his hand toward her, signaling he was done with that conversation.
She glanced at the dance floor, which was occupied by a few other couples, swaying to the soft music. A distraction was what she needed. “Okay, that would be nice.” Elsbeth passed her empty champagne glass to a server and followed Ambrose to the center of the room. He took her in his arms like a lover and her body met solid muscle.
“Have you adapted well so far?” he whispered. They swayed back and forth in an awkward dance, his hand firmly planted on her lower back.
“It will take time. I haven't been here for very long.”
“I must admit, I'm absolutely obsessed with your accent,” Ambrose purred. “What state do you herald from?”
“Texas.”
“You're a long way from home, aren't you?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I'm hoping Guernsey will be my new home.”
Ambrose drew a lazy circle on her back, his simple touch making her realize how much she missed a man's touch.
“Ben Harper told me that your father will be tending to my gardens,” she said, keen to change the subject. “When should I be expecting him?”
Ambrose's eyebrows cinched together. “Harper lied to you, Elsbeth. My father's not coming. He believes l'Île Céleste is haunted. He'll never step foot on it again.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I'm assuming Ben told you the circumstances of Lorraine's passing. Her body was found the next morning. Superstitious people around here believe her spirit’s trapped on the island. My father is one of those fools. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but Dad won't be helping you.”
“What do you mean?” She stepped out of Ambrose's embrace; her stance grew combative. “Why do people make promises they can't keep? I left behind my entire life, my dying father to run away from demons. Now, I'm seeing ghosts and being let down by people again. I came here for a fresh start, but I can't do this alone.” She smeared hot tears across her cheeks, angry at herself for allowing them to fall.
He squeezed her hand, his dark eyes soft and compassionate. “I'm sorry for what you've been through. I didn't mean to tease you about Bishop. Not everyone can adapt to the sea change.”
She ripped her hand out from under his. “I knew you wouldn't understand. It was a mistake coming here with you.”
Elsbeth stormed through the tables toward the doors, ignoring stares from the other guests. Ambrose grabbed her wrist, snapping her hard against his body. The first thing she saw was white teeth pulled into a polite sneer.
“You're making a scene, Elsbeth.” He hissed, his hot breath tickling her face. “These donors invest big money into WYLD so I can erect signs to protect their multi-million-dollar yachts. Without them, my business would sink. Do not ruin this for me.”
"Let go of me or I’ll scream."
When Ambrose took a sharp intake of breath, Elsbeth yanked her wrist free and escaped into the night, running as fast as she could. Turning a corner, she pressed her forehead against the cool brick wall and shut her eyes, safely releasing her tears. She wanted to go home and crawl into bed. Screw Ambrose and his stupid charity gala.
“Excuse me, is this yours?” A male voice forced her upright. “You left it on the table inside.” A black purse was held out in a slender hand.
Elsbeth squinted at the figure concealed by shadows, recognizing the English lilt from the other night. “Bishop, is that you?”
He stepped into a column of light and enclosed the space between them. “I witnessed your argument with Ambrose.” His fingers gently curled around her arm. “It looked very intense. Are you all right?”
Elsbeth blew out a breath and shook her head ashamedly. “I didn't intend for everyone to hear. I came to support Ambrose, and my rant most likely destroyed his chance of getting donations.”
“You'll soon learn Ambrose is a master of damage control,” Bishop explained. “He'll find a way to twist the unpleasantness of the event and make him favourable again.”
The excitement of the evening, coupled with many flutes of champagne, clouded Elsbeth's head. “Oh.”
“Are you feeling okay?” Bishop squeezed her arm with fragility when she swayed.
“I need to sit down.”
He escorted her to a park bench overlooking a botanical garden and observed intently as she unwound the shawl from her shoulders. Unlike Ambrose, his gaze was fixed on her face, not her milky skin exposed in the pale light. They sat in comfortable silence, counting the golden headlights driving down the country lanes.
“I need you to tell me something, Bishop,” Elsbeth mused after a moment of silence. “Did someone collect you from my pier last night? You simply vanished. I thought you had fallen into the water.”
Bishop brushed a lock of jaw-length hair behind his ear, a gesture Elsbeth found incredibly alluring. “I called for a water taxi,” he remarked. “I owe the captain a pint because they don't venture from the harbour late at night.”
“You're a ghost,” Elsbeth said with a laugh.
“What?”
“On the two occasions I've seen you, you've disappeared into thin air. People think I'm crazy because nobody believes me. Who are you?"
“I'm not a ghost. I just chose to be invisible.” Bishop tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. "Nothing beats having fresh sea air in your lungs," he said through an exhale.
"Were you born in Guernsey?"
"Yep, born and bred. Been here all my life.” He opened one eye at her. "What's your story, Elsbeth? What made you end up so far from home?"
Elsbeth played with a loose thread on her dress. She didn't want to keep mentioning the past, but she felt Bishop would understand. "My boyfriend proposed to me. We were together for three years. I thought we would have a future until I found out he was cheating. He'd booked a fancy restaurant and forced me to wear this dress.”
“I quite like the dress,” Bishop said with a smirk.
“So did Jeff before I publicly humiliated him. He got us a table in the middle of the room. He loves attention, whether it’s good or bad. When he got down on one knee, it was like a light was flipped inside my head. I needed to get out.”
“How did he take it?”
“As good as anyone who's been publicly humiliated. I've tried to apologize, but he doesn't want to hear it.”
"I think you made the right decision,” Bishop said. "No one deserves to be cheated on."
"I had to make the choice that best suited me. All I wanted from our relationship was stability and transparency. Jeff couldn’t give me what I wanted. Rejecting his proposal was the scariest and most liberating thing I've ever done.”
Bishop leaned back against the seat and offered her a grin that shone brightly in the dark. “You chose the best town in the United Kingdom to heal. Take a moment to inhale the sea air in your lungs now and again.” He checked his wristwatch and scanned the streets. “It’s getting late. The last water taxi will be leaving soon. Are you going back to l'Île Céleste tonight?”
Elsbeth wasn't ready to leave yet. There was a connection with Bishop she couldn't explain, something cosmic. It felt like she'd known him all her life, a shared camaraderie. Though, she was lonely and would imprint on anyone who showed interest. She swallowed her feelings and brushed her hands across her thighs.
“I booked a hotel room in St. Peter Port. I wasn't sure how the night would end.”
“Meaning if you were going to sleep with Ambrose. It's kind of his MO. He's known around these parts to take a pretty girl out, woo her, and get her into bed by the end of the night.”
She whacked him on the arm playfully. “As if I would! The man's got enough ego to fill a room. I imagine he doesn't like doing things without an audience.”
“I'm sure it crossed his mind, especially with you in that dress.” Bishop's smirk made her quickly forget about the mess she had left behind in the hall. He extended his hand toward her. “Come, I'll walk you back.”
Elsbeth entwined her fingers within his and strolled hip to hip as they walked back toward the harbor, conversing like old friends. Boats bobbed on the waves and bats soared across the ink black sky. A cool breeze scuttled off the water, penetrating the sheer material of Elsbeth's shawl. She shivered, not expecting Bishop to drape his jacket over her shoulders. She muttered a thank you, and he continued talking as if his chivalrous gesture meant nothing.
They rounded a corner, and as her hotel came into view, Elsbeth slowed her pace, a single lamp illuminating the entrance.
"Do you live around here?" she asked. "Can I walk you to a taxi rank?" She offered his jacket, which he declined with a smile.
"Keep it. You may need it." He pointed to a darkened part of the street, opposite a park. "I live over the hill, near the cemetery."
"I owe you a lot more than this jacket," Elsbeth said. "I had more fun with you than I would've had at the gala."
"I had a good time too." Bishop leaned in and left a gentle kiss on the corner of her mouth. “It was lovely getting to know you, Elsbeth. I'll see you around." He walked down the street, waving at her before disappearing into the dark.
Once he was out of sight, she wrapped herself in his jacket, inhaling his scent of earth and rose, wondering how a man like Bishop York had found his way into her life.
The next morning, Elsbeth was in a good mood. She practically skipped to the local cafe outside her hotel. Sleep came quickly last night, and so did dreams of Bishop. He infiltrated her fantasies, an ethereal vision that offered protection and safety.
After she ordered a coffee, Elsbeth waited outside the establishment, filling her time by reading a newspaper. At first, she didn't recognize her own face splashed across the front page.
WYLD MEETS HIS MATCH WITH AMERICAN SPITFIRE!
She sucked in a breath and cast her gaze around the room. It was too late. People had already recognized her, whispering to each other, pointing.
Elsbeth turned her back and evaluated the photograph under the headline. It captured the moment Ambrose had snatched her wrist, his sneer hiding behind a polite smile.
When her order was called, she grabbed her coffee and dashed out of the cafe. Guernsey was a small island and gossip traveled fast.
She scooted into a laneway and found refuge in a supermarket, where she strolled the aisles, filling her basket with cleaning supplies. Steph and Joe couldn't make it this weekend and cleaning would take her mind off the headlines.
“I wasn't expecting to see you on the front page.” Ben Harper appeared at the end of the aisle, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans.
Elsbeth was relieved to see a familiar face. “It wasn't my intention, I swear,” she said ashamedly.
“Thanks to the papers, you're the talk of the town.”
“All I wanted to do was keep a low profile.”
“You lost that privilege when you accepted Ambrose's invitation," Ben said.
“What are they saying about me?"
"People are going to talk regardless of who you are. I don't engage in gossip myself, but I would like to know what you were arguing about with Ambrose."
"You, actually."
"What did I do?"
“Do you remember telling me ... no, confirming, that Ambrose's father was going to tend to my estate? Well, Ambrose told me a different narrative. His dad is refusing to help because he's a superstitious old fool." When Ben shot her a puzzled look, she continued. "He believes the island is haunted and doesn't want to return."
"I'm sorry, Elsbeth. I never intended to give you false information. Trevor promised me that after Lorraine died, he would help the next owner. If you think you won't be able to manage the land by yourself, I can organise someone else."
She gestured toward her full basket of cleaning supplies. "It's my property, and I want to do this on my own. Joe and Steph help when they can, but I'm willing to give it a go."
"I'm proud of you, Elsbeth. Is there much left to do?"
"The inside is pretty much cleaned out. Every day, I tidy and sort a portion of a room. I haven't touched Lorraine's bedroom since moving in. I'm preparing to do that when I get home."
Ben gazed at her with new admiration. "I'm impressed. But where do you sleep?”
“The guest bedroom overlooking the ocean.”
“Good choice.” Ben checked his wristwatch. “Look, I have an appointment. It was great seeing you again, Elsbeth.” He retreated down the aisle, waving. “We'll have a coffee one day.”
“I'll hold you to it. See you around, Ben.”
Elsbeth finished her shopping and checked out, making a stop to the wine and beer merchant a few doors down. She planned for a quiet night in with a microwaveable meal and trash television—anything to forget the newspaper article.
She caught the midday water taxi back to the island and spent the rest of the day cleaning the cottage. The main bedroom was left untouched purposely, as Elsbeth wasn't prepared to deal with it. Opening the bottle of Chardonnay before sunset, Elsbeth leaned against the kitchen island, sipping her wine, and her gaze crossed to the darkened hallway. It always looked foreboding in the evening, consuming the space around it.
She wandered down the hall and hesitated outside Lorraine's bedroom. The iron key felt heavy in her hand as she ran her fingers along the rich wood grain. Inhaling a steadying breath, Elsbeth unlocked the door and stepped inside the chilled room. Her eyes watered at the stench of mothballs and stale air as she fumbled for the light switch. The room was surprisingly clean with nothing left on the floor, or the bed, which was neatly made. A thick layer of dust covered old photo frames and jewelry boxes on the dresser.
She tip-toed into the room and opened the curtains, creating a plume of dust. She coughed and pried open the window. Cool, fresh air entered the room, filling the space quickly.
She took a moment to observe her great-aunt's belongings. Photographs of Lorraine's loved ones, including Elsbeth’s mom as a baby, lined the dresser. Books spilled out from underneath the bed. A jewelry box full of twinkling diamond rings and pearl necklaces lay open on a tall boy.
Elsbeth pulled an emerald necklace from the box and inspected her reflection in the dusty mirror. The splash of green complemented her fair skin, accentuating the gold specks in her eyes. She returned the necklace to its place and continued searching the room, curiosity getting the best of her. She spent a good time rummaging through vintage suitcases and a wardrobe housing expensive fur coats.
