A Poisonous Journey (2 page)
All my love,
Briony
Aunt Agnes is still working away at a maddeningly detailed depiction of a hummingbird, her slender fingers as quick and efficient as ever. I close my eyes sinking deeper into the cushion. Greece—clear skies, olive trees, blue waters, Briony, how could I possibly resist?
Still March, 1925. Still raining. Escape afoot.
It is rather early this Saturday morning. Harris stands waiting at the foot of the stairs, waving at me and opening the front door. A taxi has just pulled up in front of our Belgravia townhouse. It is still dark outside, and for a fleeting moment I wonder whether this is such a good idea after all. I could still go back to my room, slip into bed, and pretend none of this ever happened. Harris wouldn’t tell, that much I know.
No, now or never
, I tell myself, fortifying my resolve. I reach the bottom step. Harris gives me an encouraging nod.
No, now or never
, I tell myself, fortifying my resolve. I reach the bottom step. Harris gives me an encouraging nod.
"Ready?"
I nod back at him. "Ready. Thank you Harris. I shall write as soon as I arrive."
"Safe journey, Lady Evelyn." He gives a short bow and turns away, hefting my luggage and carrying it to the cab. As he turns, I catch a shimmering trail on the side of his face and realize it is a tear. I will miss Harris. He, my maid, Milly and our cook, Mrs. Barnaby, are very dear to me and have been bright spots in my life ever since I came to live at Number 12, Eaton Square.
Clutching onto my hat whilst maneuvering an unwieldy hatbox containing the widebrimmed sunhat I bought for Briony at Selfridges, I slip outside. The cabbie is already back in the driver’s seat. I press a kiss onto Harris’ cheek, and before I can change my mind, slide into the backseat of the idling motor. Shrouded by the swirling fog of the city, the car drives off, disrupting the peaceful chirping of early birds with its low rumbling engine.
Leaning back against the cool leather seat, I feel a weight falling from my shoulders as I glance back and see the eerie, foggy outlines of my aunt’s darkened home disappearing from view. I left her a letter. Cowardly, I know, but at least she will be informed and can make up whatever stories she feels she must to protect my reputation and hers. It is not my proudest moment, sneaking off like this, but it had to be done. I have to get away. Life, whatever it has to offer, is out there, outside the shielding walls of that house, and out of sight of the intrusive and restricting reach of English society.
What harm can it do for me to see more, to do something unexpected? I will return some day. London is home, after all, or at least it carries with it all the familiar attributes that should make it home, but for now … I let out the breath I did not realized I was holding, for now it is time for something new. As the streets of London pass me by in a gray-misted blur, a prickle of fear and excitement surges through me. When we finally pull up in front of Victoria Station I am slightly giddy and have only one thought coursing through my mind:
It is time to make my great escape!
It is time to make my great escape!
CHAPTER 2
Crete: Warm winds and sunshine … mingling with
mal-de-mer
.
mal-de-mer
.
Miklos, the village, is located on the island of Crete off mainland Greece, requiring a short journey from the crowded port. Built around the crumbling ruins of a temple to Dionysus, it maintains an atmosphere of mythological wonder and old-world charm. Or so I am led to believe, if the brief descripton in my guidebook can be trusted.
I will be very frank, the act of arriving here in one piece has been quite an ordeal. The sea voyage from Piraeus on the "tempestuous" Mediterranean was an arduous undertaking, and when I finally glimpsed the craggy gray cliffs, the first sign of land, I breathed a thankful sigh of relief. The thought crosses my mind that I could not now go back England even if I wanted to. Not even Aunt Agnes could drag me back onto that creaking, leaking, quaking contraption of a ship in the near future.
Briony promised to send a driver to pick me up, and I hope my dear but oft-forgetful cousin is true to her word. My knowledge of the Greek language is not impressive, despite my keen interest in the country’s rich history and mythology, and I am uncertain whether I could make myself understood, especially as my brain is more than usually shaken from the journey, and I am having trouble stammering in English. Under normal circumstances, I consider myself quite capable when forced to rely upon my own agency, a lifetime of sneaking in and out of Aunt Agnes’ house allowed for the cultivation and development of a certain set of skills. Still, I question whether they will come in handy on an island other than good old Britannia.
As I stand here, nervously chewing my lower lip, the ship slowly pulls into Heraklion’s harbor, still rocking with a force not befitting the tranquility of my romantic, though clearly uninformed, imagination. In the seaport, I observe a surprising number of other vessels, tied and anchored at the bustling pier. Some are quite small, painted different colors and with names written in angular Greek script upon their sides; others grand, probably yachts for tourists, I observe eagerly as my stomach slowly settles. Most ships are white and blue fishing boats that bob about with their masts tilted in the soft swell of the tide. To one side of the port lies the fortress of Rocca al Mare. It looms large and forboding, walled in a yellow stone that reflects the glow of the sun. The top of the wall is elaborately turreted, like a medieval castle, though the fortress, my trusty guidebook informs me, is Venetian. It is certainly an impressive sight to behold for the visiting traveler, as if to say, "Behave yourself, now!"
I will try.
I will try.
The process of disembarking takes rather a long time as everyone impatiently waits to be ferried off ship and reassigned their respective luggage. My knees still wobbly, I grow impatient, keen to come ashore.
When I finally disembark, I feel a faintly familiar, almost forgotten, tremor of anticipation and glee. I did it! I am here. I ran away from home like a naughty child, but it feels like a triumph! What an adventure alone the journey has been, and what else awaits me now that I have finally arrived?
Again on steady ground, the sea seems much more splendid and far less temperamental than onboard where I felt Poseidon’s might, tossed about, stumbling green-faced to the railing. I hold my face towards the sun and bathe in its warm, welcoming embrace. Heavy waves crash forcefully into the wall of the fort, spraying glistening droplets like a crystal shower into the air. The spectacle has something soothing, almost hypnotic, repeating itself over and over again. A calming monotony. I am so entranced by this sight, I barely notice the slim, young man approaching until he is standing right beside me, coughing loudly to catch my attention.
"Oh," I say as I swivel around, a curl of my auburn hair falling out of the pins below my straw cloche and into my face. "Hello."
"Lady Carlisle?" His voice is soft, and his deep-set, watery blue eyes give him the appearance of permanent melancholy. I don’t know how I missed catching sight of him earlier. Among the black curls and brown eyes all around me, he stands out like a sore thumb.
"Yes, I am she," smiling most winningly as I answer, I attempt to set the anxious young man at ease. By now I have recovered my composure after the rather miserable betrayal of my body on the ship and experience a burst of eager energy to move on.
"I was sent by Mrs. Farnham to fetch you." He blinks nervously and looks down. I immediately detect a slight Eastern European accent, Russian maybe I muse, though not having ever been there myself, I cannot be certain. Admittedly, I am mostly founding this judgement on the accent of an actor I saw perform a Chekov piece last winter … and badly at that! But I digress.
“Oh, she remembered, what a relief! And what, may I ask, is your name?”
“I am Yannick. I am the chauffeur for the Farnhams.” Yannick, could be Russian, no? A chauffeur. I smile. So Jeffery still has not learned how to drive. I happen to be ahead of him on that front. A cousin of mine, Hamish McNally, let me practice with his car, a rusty and rather temperamental old Humber when I was fourteen and in Scotland for a visit with my other aunt. Dear Agnes stayed in London, well away from “our savage sister". I suspected she was describing her own lovely sister, Iris, and not Scotland. Nevertheless, her absence afforded me the opportunity and freedom to expand my horizons in any way I saw fit, ladylike or not. Though, admittedly, there wasn’t much to do that would have compromised my virtue.
Alas, such is life
.
Alas, such is life
.
"Very well, perhaps you might help me with my luggage, I fear I rather overpacked." I somewhat indiscriminately took what I could in my great escape, not knowing what would await me here, or when I might return.
He nods, clearly relieved to turn away and push my trolley to the waiting car, a luxurious cream Delage. It is beyond me how Jeffrey resists the urge to drive such a beauty. Perhaps I could convince him or Yannick to let me take it for a spin once I know my way about the place and would not go round a corner and off a cliff.
Yannick opens the backdoor and motions for me to sit and cool off in the shaded automobile, while he busies himself with loading up the various cases I brought along. The inside of the motor is as elegant as I imagined, all toffee-colored leather and shining chrome. Barely conscious of doing so, I turn the slim sapphire ring that once graced my mother’s hand on my finger to the left, then to the right. It is precious to me, for so little of my parents remained after the fire. I treasure it and my father’s silver fob watch more than any other possessions.
As I sit in the car, clutching a worn leather case, a veil of melancholy suddenly envelops me like an unexpected chill breeze. Twenty years have passed since it happened. I was only four, too young to truly understand, but old enough to sense the sadness, perhaps even to sense that nothing would ever be quite the same again. On that fateful day, I begged to ride my pony and only remember the violent flicker of orange flames as I saw them consuming my home from a great distance. Afterwards, I was whisked away to the houses of various relatives, their gray, miserable faces and red-rimmed eyes telling me that Mama and Papa were taking a long holiday, or some such fantasy one tells children to shield them from the truth, from reality and from pain. No one told me what exactly happened, what caused the inferno, until years later, and even then they used the gentle phrases, "passed on" or "went to a better place" as if saying such things made them any less dead and gone. As if it could make me feel any less alone.
My mother’s childless sister Agnes Tremaine and her husband took me in. Her other sister, Iris suffered a breakdown at the terrible news, and could not be granted guardianship of me, despite my mother and her being the closer of the three sisters. Iris lives in a draughty castle on the Scottish border, has been married twice, and given birth to four children, Hamish, my driving instructor, being the eldest of the lot. Poor, dear Hamish. He would be thirty now and might have married some lovely Scottish lass; Iris might have grandchildren to fill the near empty halls of Malmo Manor. Hamish was listed as missing in action four months after he enlisted. Eight years on Aunt Iris still carries the glimmer of hope that he will one day reappear standing on her doorstep, a crooked grin on his face.
Agnes tried, though she had a different idea of what parenting should be than my real parents. I am grateful to her and always will be, but at twenty-four I am quite old enough to venture into the world unencumbered by her rigid and old-fashioned rules to weigh me down. In less than a year’s time I willl come into my inheritance. The only child of Lord and Lady Carlisle, I have been left with hundreds of thousands to my name as well as a large burnt down manor in Somerset that I could bring myself to visit only once in two decades.
My parents were different. Even now people speak of them as rebels of a sort. Both young and wealthy, they traveled for months on end. Even when I was born they took me along for the ride. So often I wonder what my life might have been like with my parents still here to guide and influence. Nevertheless, after the fire I was fortunate to have Aunt Agnes assume responsibility for me, to raise me, send me off to the best schools in Switzerland and France.
You mustn’t pity yourself
, I tell myself, so many people are far less fortunate. Though able to recognize these blessings in my life, I am certain given the chance, I would gladly offer up anything for the company of my parents again. For only a day with them, I—
You mustn’t pity yourself
, I tell myself, so many people are far less fortunate. Though able to recognize these blessings in my life, I am certain given the chance, I would gladly offer up anything for the company of my parents again. For only a day with them, I—
“Lady Carlisle, we’ll go now?” Lost in my melacholy reverie, I barely notice Yannick climbing into the driver’s seat beside me and am startled by his low, accented voice, interrupting my thoughts. Still clutching the hat case, I nod at him, and the engine rumbles loudly as the heavy motor sets into motion.
"Yannick," I pause, not wanting to make the young man even more uncomfortable, "please do call me Evelyn." After a moments hesitation he nods once more.
"Yes, Lady Carlisle." I repress a sigh.
It quickly becomes clear that Yannick is a good driver. He elegantly maneuvers the angular, solid vehicle along the curving roads and, at times, shockingly narrow passageways running in a spidery web through the city. And it is a city, not the piddly little town I had, in my ignorance—or, more kindly, innocence—imagined. Alongside us run buildings of pale yellow occasionally interspersed with one rebelliosly painted orange or coral façade. Brightly colored shutters flank open windows, and though there is a certain sense of deterioration about parts of the city, it is not the squallid, suffocating kind that one encounters in parts of the East End or Clerkenwell. Children play outside their houses, jumping out of the way when the Delage rolls near. Some point and stare, others run after us as though this strange contraption were a creature of lore. Many people are out on the streets; women and men with tanned skin and dark hair, going about their lives. The women stand in lively huddles chatting and laughing, while a little boy or girl tugs at their hand or skirt. The men seem more inclined to a relaxed pace and move about their business in a manner that suggests they would not be hurried by a fuming bull at their heels.
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