Chapter Twenty

‘It’s been almost two weeks since his bypass operation. Shouldn’t he be awake by now?’

Still holding Geoff’s hand, Rosalie turned to the nurse.

‘His body is in shock, you must give him time,’ the nurse replied, whilst checking the wires connecting Geoff to several machines that beeped and flashed by the bedside.

What if time didn’t make any difference? What if Geoff never got any better? What if he was going to die, just like her mother? Rosalie swallowed hard and looked at the man she had loved like a father for as long as she could remember. His face was sallow and thin, with deep grooves at the sides of his mouth. A drip kept him fed and hydrated, but the operation had taken its toll. He looked like the ghost of the vibrant man he had once been.

‘Keep on talking to him. Even when they’re asleep, hearing the voice of a loved one can do patients a world of good.’ The nurse gave her an encouraging smile before leaving the room, the rubber soles of her white shoes squeaking on the lino flooring.

Rosalie squeezed Geoff’s hand again and bent down to kiss it.

‘You’ll get through this,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘You have to. You may be the most annoying man I’ve ever known, but I miss you.’

She didn’t know how much he heard or understood, but once she started talking the words kept tumbling out. ‘The police still haven’t found any clue regarding the Porsche. I still can’t believe anyone tampered with the brakes and caused you to crash, but then again many things have happened since that I didn’t think possible. You selling Raventhorn, for a start.’ And me falling in love with the most unsuitable man alive.

The room was silent except for the medical equipment whirring and beeping softly. It was warm too. Her body weary and her head fuzzy from exhaustion, she slumped back in the chair and closed her eyes.

She had been far too restless to sleep the night before. After reading the article about Marc and his father once again, she had retrieved a bunch of keys from the study and climbed the stairs to the second floor gallery where Geoff kept the artefacts generations of McBrides had collected over the centuries. It was one of the few rooms that were always locked.

It had been a while since she’d ventured into the turret she used to call the treasure room when she was a child. The wooden door squealed as she pushed it open. Switching on the light, she’d breathed in the dusty smell that permeated the place. Tall glass cabinets lined the walls, filled with a collection of random objects – combs and hairbrushes, claymores and dirks, belt buckles, diaries and old recipe books, amulets and a few items of jewellery that hadn’t been sold off to pay for fuel or tax bills.

Geoff’s prized possession glinted dully from behind the glass –Harald’s shield, which had been found on the shore of Loch Armathiel after the Dane swam to Isobel’s rescue. The raven engraved at the centre stared straight at her. It was the same design as on the runestone on the Petersen’s Danish farm.

Rosalie opened her eyes and leaned closer to Geoff. ‘Julia Murray gave me a copy of the magazine with the article about Petersen,’ she said. ‘I saw the photo of the runestone on their family farm. The raven looks exactly like Harald’s shield, doesn’t it? Is that why you sold Petersen the estate – because you thought there was a connection between his family and Harald?’

She waited a few moments but there was no reaction.

‘Talking about Petersen,’ she added, ‘something very strange happened a couple of nights ago.’

She told Geoff about Marc swimming into the loch in some kind of trance and how she’d helped him get out. ‘He denied it but I’m sure it had something to do with Isobel.’ She sighed, and pushed away the memories of what had happened after they had returned to the manor house. ‘I never really believed in your ghost stories, but Marc said he’s seen her before, even if he thinks it’s only somebody playing tricks. Now I’m not so sure, and I can’t help thinking that he was lucky … very lucky.’

She paused, and stroked Geoff’s cold hand. ‘By the way, Rupert came to Raventhorn the other night, supposedly to retrieve some documents he said he left behind, together with a diary too … I think he’s up to something.’

This time Geoff’s fingers trembled under hers. Rosalie leapt to her feet and leaned over the bed. Geoff’s eyelids twitched a few times, as if he wanted to open his eyes but was too weak.

‘Geoff? What is it?’

His hand slid sideways on the covers – a small, jerky movement only, but a movement nonetheless. Frantic, she looked at the window and the nurses’ station outside the intensive care room and gestured to one of the nurses.

‘What’s the matter, love?’ The woman glanced at her, then at Geoff, as she hurried inside.

Rosalie pointed to the bed. ‘He moved!’

The nurse proceeded to check the readings on the machines. She then pulled a pen out of her pocket, slipped Geoff’s file out of the folder at the foot of his bed and scribbled some notes on a chart.

‘His readings are normal, but his heart rate is slightly raised.’

‘Maybe he’s in pain, or he wants something.’

The woman replaced the chart in the folder.

‘I don’t think there’s anything to worry about – it’s probably good news, in fact. I’ll call the consultant so he can assess him straight away. You should go down to the cafeteria and get yourself something to eat.’

It was almost lunchtime and the restaurant was full. Rosalie bought a pot of tea and an egg mayonnaise sandwich, and sat down at a small table near a window.

She poured the tea, added some milk and stirred in a spoonful of sugar, and unwrapped the sandwich and bit into it. She put it down with a grimace. It tasted as unappetising as it looked. She pulled her mobile out of her handbag and switched it on to check for messages. There were two texts from Fiona about bookings for the afternoon. That was all.

What did she expect? Marc must be too busy to get in touch today. She’d phoned his secretary in London to pass on Carl Fitzpatrick’s text, but Marc was at the funeral of his friend’s wife today. Then he would have meetings to attend and people to see – among them, no doubt, the clever and beautiful Kirsty.

Did she really want to talk to him anyway? Reading the article in Newsweek had been the painful confirmation of everything she had thought of him when they’d first met. He belonged to another world, he had opposite values and priorities. He didn’t care who he hurt.

And yet, the memory of his touch and kisses filled her with a yearning so strong it was almost unbearable, and she couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at her, the way he made love to her in the Crimson Room’s bed, as if she belonged to him and their hearts and souls were entwined forever.

She lifted her cup to her lips and winced. She’d waited too long and now the tea was lukewarm. She forced it down anyway, and stared out of the window at the low, grey, snow-laden clouds filling the sky and dimming the daylight. She put her tray away, and went back up to Geoff’s room.

The elevator pinged as it shook to a halt on the tenth floor and she walked down the long corridor, breathing in smells of medication and disinfectant. A different nurse was on duty at the desk. She asked her what the consultant had said about Geoff.

The woman smiled. ‘Everything is following its course, Miss Heart, but he’s going to run more tests, so don’t stay too long.’

Rosalie spent a few minutes at Geoff’s bedside, chatting about the weather, and Lorna’s visit to her sister, and hoping to trigger another reaction from him, but he did not move again.

‘I have to go,’ she said, before kissing his cheek. ‘Fiona booked a couple of rides for me this afternoon. I’ll come back tomorrow. And, Geoff, don’t worry, you’ll soon get better,’ she whispered, more to reassure herself than him.

As she left the hospital, she picked up a couple who wanted to go to Inverness town centre, and after that she was busy all afternoon. As night fell, and despite Happy Baby Radio playing her favourite tunes and Fergus’s cheerful banter over the cab radio, she felt increasingly dispirited.

‘Are you sure you want to work tonight, lass? It’s St Andrew’s night,’ Fergus asked after she dropped her last customer at Aviemore golf club.

It was St Andrew’s night, and she’d completely forgotten! In previous years, she had always spent the evening with Lorna, Geoff, Alice and Niall at the Four Winds’ ceilidh. There would be no celebration for her this year, and if Niall and Alice were going to the dance, they hadn’t invited her.

‘I’m not sure it’s such a good idea, lass,’ Fergus said. ‘Petersen wasn’t keen on you working at night and specifically instructed me not to take any bookings in the evenings.’

She hissed an annoyed breath. ‘Well, he’s not here, is he, and I need to keep busy. What do you have for me?’

It seemed most of Irlwick was out enjoying themselves at the Duke’s or the Stag’s Head or attending the ceilidh at the Four Winds Hotel that evening. Couples, groups of friends and families piled up in the back of the cab, laughing and chatting excitedly whilst she forced a smile and listened to their accounts of a great night out.

Finally it was time to pick up her last clients of the evening at the Four Winds. It was late and there were only a few cars left in the car park. She drove to the front and checked the time. She was ten minutes early, so she switched off the engine, and reclined against the headrest and watched the last of the partygoers leave.

A group of young men and women came out of the hotel and walked towards a large black four-wheel drive parked under a lamp post. She recognised Kian Armitage and Stacey, his girlfriend, and an older couple – Kian’s parents. Kian clicked the key fob, opened the door to the car, and got in, followed by Stacey and his parents.

Rosalie sat up and wound her window down to get a better view of the car. Her mouth went dry. Her heart beat faster. With its tinted windows and radiator grid, it looked disturbingly familiar. She shook her head. No, she was mistaken. It couldn’t be the car that had chased after her on the forest road. There were so many black four-wheel drives around, and most looked the same. What’s more she was so scared that night she hadn’t taken a good look and would be quite unable to identify it.

‘Sorry we’re late!’ A man’s jovial voice boomed outside the cab.

She forced a smile, looked at her next clients, and unlocked the back door. ‘Not at all. Hop in!’

It was well past one in the morning when she told Fergus to lock up and go home, and she finally drove back to Raventhorn, and parked in the snowy courtyard in front of the castle. She was so tired her fingers shook as she unlocked the kitchen door and keyed in the code for the alarm. She stepped into the empty kitchen, pulled her pink hat off and unzipped her anorak, but instead of switching the lights on, she stood still and forlorn in the dark.

All the emotions she had managed to keep at bay rose in a tidal wave of sorrow and despair, and once she started crying, she couldn’t stop. She cried over Geoff, over the loss of her home, over Marc and the wretched love she felt for him despite everything, and the mother she missed so much.

Every time she thought there were no more tears to cry and the edge of her despair had dulled, fresh grief welled inside her. She cried until her chest and throat hurt, until she was hollow inside and her whole being had melted into nothingness, until all she could see before her was misery and hopelessness.

At long last she dragged her feet out of the kitchen and up the stairs, and climbed to the first floor. She walked along the corridor and pushed the door to her mother’s bedroom open.

Breathing the familiar scent, which the passing of time hadn’t totally erased, she switched on a side lamp and sat at her mother’s dressing table. Her fingers lingered over the perfume bottles, over the small make-up set that she knew consisted of powder, mascara and a tube of pale pink lipstick, and her mother’s jewellery box. Everything was exactly as her mother had left it that last summer evening, before she went out for her fateful walk. If she regularly dusted the room and put fresh flowers in a vase, Rosalie hadn’t moved anything, not even the book her mother had been reading the day she died. It was still on the bedside table, with her mother’s reading glasses neatly folded on top.

Perhaps Lorna was right and it was time she sorted her mother’s things. Perhaps clearing the room wouldn’t be an act of betrayal after all. For the first time in four years, she realised that it didn’t matter if her mother’s wardrobe stood empty at last, or if the top of her dressing table was bare. She would never forget the sound of her voice or the feel of her loving embrace.

She would make a start right now. Seized by a sudden burst of energy, she went back to the kitchen to get a roll of black bin liners, and started emptying the wardrobe, methodically sorting out the clothing in different piles – some for her to keep, others to send to the charity shop, and those that were too worn to be given away and could only be recycled. She paused every so often to bury her face in a jumper or a scarf to breathe in the sweet, floral scent her mother favoured.

Soon piles of clothing towered on the bed and bulging bags lined the floor. Rosalie looked at the dark-coloured cardigans, baggy jumpers and long skirts that her mother had worn day in, day out. How strange such a beautiful woman had cared so little about her appearance, and had sought all her life to hide her gorgeous figure and blend into the background.

When the wardrobe was empty, Rosalie turned her attention to the dressing table. The jewellery she would keep, the perfume too, but the make-up was out of date. She threw away the brushes and hair accessories as well. When the tabletop was bare, she pulled open the small drawers at the top of the dressing table.

Immediately her heart tightened as she recognised the cards, paintings or ornaments she had made at school over the years for successive mother’s days, Christmas or Easter celebrations. It looked like her mother had kept every single thing she’d ever made. She was always sad that her mother had no photos or mementos of her own parents – both long dead in a house fire, she had said. She didn’t even have any photos of Rosalie as a baby, and had nothing to remind her of her life before Raventhorn.

At the bottom of one drawer, she found a heart-shaped box painted in garish pink and red she had made for Valentine’s Day. She remembered exactly the day she’d given it to her mother. She must have been ten, and felt sad that unlike most of her friends at school, her mother had no husband or sweetheart to give her flowers or a card on Valentine’s Day. Lorna had taken her to Irlwick’s only craft shop to buy pink paint, sequins and feathers to decorate the box. Her mother had cried when she’d given it to her. She had hugged Rosalie tightly, kissed her forehead and promised she’d always keep it. The paint was chipped now, most of the sequins had fallen off and the feathers were ragged and stuck together.

Rosalie lifted the lid carefully. Inside were more things she’d made, colourful beads and necklaces, a tiny paper doll with yellow wool for hair. A piece of paper was folded at the bottom. Pushing aside the other trinkets, Rosalie pulled it out, unfolded it. It was a photo of a young woman in a graduation gown, with her long brown hair loose on her shoulders and a little cap perched on her head. It was her mother, but as she’d never seen her before. She looked young, happy, and carefree. Next to her was a couple – the man in a dark grey suit and the woman in a smart summer dress. The family resemblance was so striking it had to be her mother’s parents. Rosalie’s grandparents.

Rosalie turned the photo over. At the back was a handwritten inscription. ‘Graduation day, East London Poly, July 1987.’

Rosalie glared at it.

Her mother had lied. Why?

She had claimed she had no memento of her parents and had always been vague about the place where she grew up. She hadn’t even mentioned ever going to university!

Lorna might know. Rosalie would phone her at her sister’s in Norwich in the morning. For now she closed her fingers around the photo and got up. She would finish clearing out her mother’s things later.