One thing had been proved to her conclusively: he had been then, was now, and would be to the end of her life, her only real love. Her first and her last. No matter how bitter she felt towards him, there was no escaping that simple fact, no sense in denying the sheer magic of the short time they had spent together.
It had been her last term at Oxford when they had first met, though neither of them could explain how they had missed each other for so long. It could have been her fault, though it was a painful confession. Scraping along on a scholarship, she had been under such pressure to get a decent degree that her social life had been restricted until the finals were out of the way. But when they had met at Deborah Fleetham's twenty-first birthday party, a loud and slightly drunken affair, the attraction between them had been immediate and consuming.
'Tell me about yourself.' Always she had been responsive to voices, and the mellow mid-Atlantic accent was in itself a powerful sexual instrument, especially when used in that imperative style. Add to that the looks of the man, the easy, powerful physique, and any resistance, any sense of discretion simply went.
'Not a lot to tell.' Her last few shreds of caution slipped from her fingers. 'Leigh Gregory, twenty, reading English and history.' She guyed a TV quiz programme popular at the time.
'And where do you come from, Leigh Gregory? And-----' reaching out to a passing tray of drinks, he expertly captured two glasses, one of which he handed to her '-more important-----' as the red wine touched his tongue he grimaced a little '-where are you going?'
'Going?' She shrugged, pursed her lips. 'Who can say? But I come from a little village in Gloucester. My father's the vicar.' She sipped cautiously, for the first time regretting her lack of experience with alcohol and the confidence it appeared to confer. Even the appearance of sophistication would have been a great advantage in dealing with a man like this, older and so obviously experienced. 'But tell me about you. Apart from your name, I'm completely in the dark.'
'I'm from County Wicklow. After Trinity I went to Harvard Law, then I was with a firm of attorneys in Washington for a few years. I've been here for the past few months doing research, and also to please my father, who was here thirty years ago. You know how fathers are.'
At that she smiled, knowing that this man, with his air of confident affluence, would have an experience at odds with her own. Her scholarly father was so immersed in the study of obscure crumbling manuscripts that he seemed barely aware of his daughter's existence, while her mother.. .well, she, perhaps forced by boredom or neglect, had taken to enjoying poor health and making unjustified demands on her daughter.
'And explain to me--' Patrick Cavour put a hand on her elbow, guiding her in the direction of a more secluded corner '-just where you've been hiding yourself for the past few months.' He smiled down at her, unaware that simultaneously her insides turned to water, his glance narrowing as it took in the tumble of fine dark hair, the wide mouth, the vividly expressive eyes; then he bent his head and kissed her. 'While I've been searching for you.' His action and words caused a positive ferment of emotions.
The impact was devastating, overwhelming them both with that first contact, so that from then on being apart was exquisite torture; being together was the sole purpose of then* lives. When he asked her to move in with him there was nothing to consider. Blithely she embarked on a course which just days earlier she would have considered both risky and quite irrational.
On the day they held their own private ceremony, just the two of them, dedicating then* lives to each other-at least that was how she saw it at the time. They exchanged gifts which she thought of as pledges, his a slender Victorian chain, beautifully wrought in silver filigree, supporting a gleaming crystal in the shape of a tear. Long afterwards she wondered if that had been an omen, a warning of all the tears the relationship would bring her, but she had never been superstitious. Even with something as notoriously unlucky as an opal she would have had no sense of foreboding.
As if it were yesterday she could recall each detail of the day. She was checking on her appearance, pleased with the hyacinth-blue dress, with the elegant fitted line and low neck, when he came up behind her, so tall and distinguished, dressed formally for the occasion in a dark suit, his white shirt emphasising his tanned good looks and the pink rose suggesting that there was something quite special in the planned celebration.
As their eyes met in the glass her heart was all at once beating fiercely, then one of his hands was circling her neck, touching her cheek, turning her to face him. He looked at her with great intensity before bending to put his mouth on hers. A moment later she felt the cool metal touch her skin, looked back at the glass then raised the crystal to her lips.
'Thank you.' She was unexpectedly shy. 'Thank you, Patrick. It's beautiful.'
'With this silver chain I thee worship.' There was a thread of amusement beneath the main impression of firm purpose and integrity. 'I wonder if you know how much I love you? It's so hard for me to tell you.'
'I think...' She shook her head, mystified by the sheer power and depth of her emotions. 'I think I know exactly how much.' And the kiss they shared was passionate and impatient and tender, a clear demonstration of mutual need and dependence.
They had dinner in a country hotel, where after they had eaten they could dance, but that plan was defeated by their impatience. After drifting round once or twice while the band played smoochy music they found they could wait no longer. They went back to his flat, and he swept her up in his arms and carried her inside.
Nothing in her life had prepared her for that idyllic time spent with him, so short in spite of her conviction that it would last forever. Magical delight, intoxication and passion, which on the one hand had her soaring up to the stars and on the other brought so much warm laughter, so many shared interests-perfect friendship.
Her gift to him, a slim volume of love poems, a first edition picked up in one of Oxford's second-hand book-dealers, was something he received with awe, passing his fingers over the faded limp leather, over the worn gilt lettering, as if it were the rarest treasure.
And both gifts brought laughter as well as pleasure. She lost count in the days ahead of the times he teased her, laughing at her blushes when he told her that their gifts were the only things they wore in bed.
Now, with the tears aching at the back of her eyes, it was so easy to remember how she had giggled. And blushed. How they had made love. And read the sonnets aloud to each other. How they had done all the silly little things which lovers had always done, and all the while she had been dreaming of, if not actually planning, the day when it would end with all the protocol of a wedding in the church where she had been baptised, surrounded by friends and relatives from both families. And that was one of the things which had made it so difficult to believe when it had ended so abruptly in bitter recrimination.
Recollection of that day was burned into her soul, deeply etched with acid. Having met one of her professors in college, she had come into the flat, bursting with the good news she had been so anxious to share with Patrick. She had opened the door just as he put down the telephone and he had turned, and his face had lit up as it always did with the pleasure of seeing her. She could recall each detail with perfect clarity. He had been doing some work at home, and was dressed in pale chinos and a checked shirt, but somehow he had always maintained an immaculate appearance, unlike so many of the men she knew- professors and tutors just as much as students. 'Good news, darling...' And he had held wide his arms.
'Oh, Patrick. And I have too.' She had run forward, her mouth to his, revelling in the pressure of his body against hers. 'But mine will keep... You first...'
'They want me to go to Ashala for three years-help set up a large relief project.'
'What?' She frowned, her mind still unfocused, but clearly she was misunderstanding. 'What on earth do you mean, Patrick?'
'You're surprised, of course you are.' His arms were about her slender waist, pulling her still closer into the curve of his body, and he was rubbing his chin on the crown of her head. 'I've been hoping it might be a possibility but I didn't want to say until I heard something definite, and-----'
'Ashala, did you say?' She pulled back, staring up into his face for elucidation. 'Where on earth is that?'
'It's in Bangladesh, with some of-----'
'Bangladesh?' Now panic and indignation were threatening to run out of control. 'But...haven't you always said...? I thought you meant to practise in London. Or Dublin, you said.'