Last Voyage of the Valentina(120)
“Yes,” he replied. “Viv persuaded me to go and find you.”
“Good old Viv.”
“She’s a good friend, Alba.”
“And so are you. Thank you, Fitz, for sticking by me.”
“You ran off with my heart; I had to chase after it.”
“It’s mine now,” she said with a smile. “I’m going to keep it, and this time, I’m going to treat it with care.”
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down onto the bed. This time making love to Alba was slow, intimate and tender. He wasn’t left feeling empty and dissatisfied. He gave her his soul and received hers in return. She was like a rare and beautiful butterfly that he could hold in his hands. She didn’t fly away.
After they had lazed together in a warm bath, Fitz lay on the bed while Alba went through her cupboards deciding what to wear for her father and stepmother. He noticed that she didn’t throw the discarded items onto the floor as before but folded them up and put them back. She laughed at the blue suede clog boots and patterned tights, the tiny skirts and brightly colored coats. “I forgot how much stuff I had,” she muttered, passing her eye over the rows of handbags and shoes. “God, I was extravagant. And Cosima thought five dresses was the end of the world.” She caught her breath as she remembered the little girl waving on the quay. She turned to Fitz. “I don’t know what to wear. Nothing feels right. I don’t want to look like a tart anymore. I want to look like a young woman on the brink of becoming Mrs. Fitzroy Davenport. These clothes aren’t suitable for her.”
Fitz laughed. “Oh, darling. You’ll get used to them again. In the meantime, why don’t you put on a pair of jeans and a sweater?”
“I don’t want any of these clothes anymore!” A frown drew her eyebrows together. “I’ve moved on.”
Fitz came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. “You look gorgeous in whatever you wear.”
She shrugged him off and began to search frantically through her drawers. Finally, in exasperation, she pulled out a faded pair of denim jeans and a white shirt.
“How’s this?”
“Perfect for the future Mrs. Fitzroy Davenport.” She smiled, and Fitz was filled with relief. “What will Margo think when David and Penelope Davenport aren’t on the guest list?” he said with a chuckle.
“With any luck she’s forgotten.”
“Do you think I should come clean?”
“Not a good plan.”
“I should probably write out a fake address for them.”
“That’s a better idea. You can always say they sent their regrets.” Alba tried to be jolly but something was making her uncomfortable. She looked about the room that held within it so many memories. Memories that now belonged to a life she had grown out of. “Let’s go,” she suggested. “We can take a cab to your house, pick up your things, and take your car to Beechfield. I’d sooner get going.”
“Don’t you want to telephone them first?”
“No,” Alba replied. “I’ve always much preferred the element of surprise.”
Fitz packed while Alba lay on the sofa reading the newspapers. Sprout was still at Fitz’s mother’s in the country, being fed a diet of chopped liver and steak, no doubt. Fitz’s mother had never quite got over her children’s leaving the nest. “He won’t want to come back,” Fitz shouted to Alba from the bedroom. “I couldn’t bear that. Life without Sprout would be miserable.” But Alba wasn’t listening. She wasn’t reading the papers either. Her thoughts were with Cosima and Falco.
The drive down the country lanes was just what Alba needed to lift her spirits. The sight of the falling leaves, turned golden in the autumn sunlight, warmed her heart. The wind carried them on its tail, so that they danced pretty twirls before landing on the ground as light as snowflakes, and the odd pheasant flew out from the hedgerows, his feathers spraying into the air. The plowed fields lay bare beneath the sky, and large black birds pecked at the corn left there by the combines at harvest time. Autumn was, along with spring, her favorite season, for she relished the change, before summer lost its bloom, while winter lay sleeping. She hoped that maybe they could buy a small house in the countryside somewhere. Live a quieter life. She no longer felt at home in her houseboat and London had lost its appeal. She looked across at Fitz. She would make him happy.
Her heart swelled as the car swept up the drive. The gravel was strewn with orange and brown leaves which Peter, the gardener, was doing his best to sweep away for burning. He tipped his cap at her and she waved back. She didn’t feel strange coming home as she had so often felt in the past. She felt she belonged there, for memories of her childhood were attached to every corner of the estate. Memories forgotten and now remembered.