13|

Èze perched atop a summit of the Provencal foothills east of Nice, overlooking the sea. Up there the atmosphere, so close and oppressive down in the city when they had arrived, was more bearable; although Emily wondered how this place would have felt in winter when her mother had been there, with the strong winds from the Northwest, the mistral, blowing through its bare alleyways.

Mrs Faulkner's guesthouse, where they were lodging, was in the old town, halfway up on an elevation topped by a derelict château. The coach took them only as far as the church next to the gatehouse, where two porters awaited them to see to their luggage. It was the lowest part of the town walls. From there they had to proceed on foot, steadily climbing through narrow cobbled alleys. The winding streets were positively mediaeval and the buildings looked forbidding with their rough granite stonework, lack of windows, and sturdy wooden doors that denied any glimpse inside.

Their lodgings were equally graceless from the outside, but once they were inside and were welcomed by their hostess, Mrs Faulkner, the place was pleasant enough. In fact, it was quite a charming mixture of English and French styles, with its tiled terracotta floors and floral draperies.

From the small balcony of her room, Emily could see what looked like a former apothecary garden, still retaining the shapes of its flowerbeds. To her left the Mediterranean sparked in the setting sun. Everything was suffused by a warm glow.

After they had settled in and changed, Mrs Faulkner, a middle-aged lady whose English, from long exposure to her country of residence, had taken on a hint of French pronunciation, invited them into her drawing room for aperitifs. Although cordial enough she appeared to be a little wary; she obviously recollected John Thornton's previous visit—and the events that had first brought him here in April 1854.

"I remember your husband, Mrs Faulkner," Thornton broached as she handed him a glass of sherry.

"Oh, yes," their landlady said wistfully. "He sadly passed away from pneumonia eight years ago—his weak lungs finally claimed him."

She graciously acknowledged their commiserations. Then she turned towards Emily.

"You must understand, Miss Thornton," she said, "that my husband and I came to the Riviera more than twenty years ago, after his physician had told him that he wouldn't live through another London winter... We settled here and bought our own house, well away from the bustle of the large hotels at the Promenade des Anglais. In time, when my husband's health improved, we started to take in other convalescents—at the time there were not many places at the Riviera for people of gentle birth who were not equal to a busy social life, and we were happy to help—and we have kept at it ever since."

Emily completely understood that there were not many ways for an invalid permanently exiled to a foreign shore to make a living, however modest, and that the couple's decision to take in fellow sufferers was less driven by philanthropy than by necessity.

"I'm glad to have been able to accommodate you at such short notice," Mrs Faulkner continued. "Incidentally, I currently don't have any other guests... With convalescents in the house we tend to keep early hours, but I assume that you might prefer dinner a little later. Would eight o'clock be convenient?"

"Quite so," Thornton agreed.

After dinner—local cuisine for which Mrs Faulkner blushingly admitted to have developed quite a penchant, but could rarely indulge in because it would be too rich for the convalescents—Thornton soon excused himself, claiming urgent correspondence. Emily also pleaded fatigue and went to her room; both the train ride and the agitation of the previous few days were taking their toll.

She removed all her garments except for her chemise, quickly did her ablutions, and then slipped on her dressing gown in order to sit at the small writing table by the window. Her diary lay before her; she was trying to make sense of her muddled feelings by putting them in coherent words and sentences.

Emily realised that she hadn't written a word in three days. The last entry was from the day before that fateful clash with her father at her uncle's hotel—and it spoke of her delight with Paris and with her new relatives, and detailed the things she had learnt from them about her mother. So much had changed in the meantime!

Her father's decision to postpone revelations until the morrow still rankled with Emily—and she was contemplating to go to his room, knock at his door, and demand answers. But she needed to get her thoughts in order, if only to ask him the right questions when the time came and not just blame him, like she had done before...

... she woke much later with her head on the writing desk and her cheek stuck to the open pages of her diary. The candle, fortunately too far away for her to knock it over in her sleep, had almost burnt down. Emily blew out the flame and groggily traipsed to her bed. She was asleep again the moment her head touched the pillow. She slept dreamlessly until just before dawn when she was woken by a niggling thought.

Blame... That was what she had been thinking about the night before, just before she had fallen asleep... Blame... Somehow—she realised in retrospect—both Henry Lennox and her uncle Frederick had felt justified to lay blame on John Thornton for what had happened to her mother. But why?

The question alone was chilling her... But hadn't Cousin Edith said that he had arrived at the Riviera too late to see his wife one last time? So, how could he possibly be responsible?

She must have drifted off into sleep once again because the next thing she heard was the noise of a dropped earthenware pot in the alley running next to the house. That, and the ensuing argument on the street, quickly roused her. A look at her pocket watch confirmed that it was still very early. It would be more than an hour until breakfast, and so she decided to work up an appetite by going for a stroll. Surely her father wouldn't mind her taking a walk on her own in such a small, rural place.

She slipped out of the front door which was only on latch and aimlessly wandered the winding alleys. She came by more of the forbidding façades and crossed small courtyards, greeting the locals with a hearty "Bonjour!". There rarely was an equally enthusiastic reply, but at least people weren't staring. Obviously they had some experience with resident strangers.

After a while Emily was weary of the lack of a view within town and headed uphill towards the castle. She was slightly out of breath when she finally reached a plateau surrounded by the low, tumble-down walls of the ancient mountain fortress. A few of her tresses had come undone and clung to her neck. She raised her hands to fasten them and then stretched out her arms to catch a breeze. The sun had not yet regained its strength and she felt the slight chill on her heated skin, giving her goosebumps. It was strangely elating—standing on top of the world—bathed in sunlight and with her arms flung wide.

The view was truly magnificent.

At the southern half of the panorama the azure sea stretched all the way to the horizon—in fact, it seemed to start right behind the low enclosure—and to the west, where the sea met the coast, the outskirts of Nice were visible, whereas to the north the rugged foothills ascended to the far distant peaks of the Alps.

But it was the dazzling of the sea in the light of the rising sun that held her attention, and she went closer to the low wall, wondering if there was really a sheer drop all the way down to sea level. She stooped and leant over.

There was a ravine at the foot of the rock on which the castle stood, but the slope was quite a way down... and as she looked down assessing the height of the cliff, something strange happened to her vision. The ravine below became blurry, then started to throb softly... It was as if the abyss drew her in.

With a gasp she drew back from the precipice, and it was at that moment that a voice called out from behind, "Emily!"

The voice wasn't close, yet it startled her. Spinning round on her heel Emily slipped on the gravelly ground and lost her footing. She tumbled against the enclosure and—trying to break her fall—she grazed her wrist at the jagged stones.

The next moment her father was upon her, yanking her up and away from the edge of the plateau. In a daze she stood, with her hair coming down from the rough handling, sucking her wrist. When at last she looked up into his face, she saw that he was livid.

He took her by the shoulders and shook her roughly. "What in hell's name are you doing?" he bellowed. "Setting out on your own?—when you haven't got the sense you were born with!" He shook her again. "Stupid little fool!" His voice was low now, hoarse. His hand clenched convulsively round her arm, and suddenly she understood that—for a moment—he had been close to slapping her. Her father, who had never raised a hand against her in her entire life!

"I... I'm s-sorry, papa," she stammered. Her teeth chattered as delayed shock set in. Then she burst into tears and pressed her face against his shirtfront, sobbing.

Gradually his stance soften and, drawing a shuddering breath, he embraced her fiercely. He held her until her shaking abated. At long last she raised her head and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing a trace of blood from her grazed wrist onto her face.

"Let's take you back and have a look at that wound," he said, once again the calm, competent parent she was used to. "Can you walk?" When she reluctantly nodded he offered his arm, and slowly they made their way back to the guesthouse.

Breakfast was quiet and subdued and, as soon as they were finished, John Thornton asked her if she was equal to going on another short walk with him.

Emily reassured him that she was well. She had changed into another dress and had washed her face and, although still shaken and downcast, she was at least presentable.

"Down in the hall in fifteen minutes?" he said. "Mind the heat and take a hat. There won't be much shade."

She was so used to her father perpetually wearing black that she almost didn't recognise the man in the light linen frockcoat and tan trousers who waited at the foot of the stairs when she came down to meet him.

They followed the serpentines down to Èze-Village and crossed to the far side where they found the beginning of a trail. They took the path in a western direction along the wide slope. It was an easy walk without any strenuous climbs or descends. Eventually they reached a boulder by the wayside that formed a natural bench. It offered a wide view across the bay.

By this time it had become quite warm already, and the air was filled with the fragrance of wild herbs and the noise of crickets.

Thornton pointed to a rocky headland on the western side of the bay, ending at a cliff edge above the sea. "Cap Roux," he said quietly. "You mother went there on her last day—"

"There?" Emily exclaimed, staring in wonder at the barren piece of land, covered by dry, low brushwood. "But why? What was she doing there?—How did she even get there?"

"She walked... They were on a picnic."

"And she was well enough to walk all the way?"

"It is only about two-and-a-half miles—and your mother was a great walker," he said. Then a realisation dawned on him. "Emily, what do you know about your mother's illness and the reason she came to the Riviera?"

"Well... I always thought that she suffered from a debilitating complaint, perhaps consumption, or something, although Cousin Edith has lately disabused me of this idea... But the truth is, I don't think anyone has ever told me the exact nature of mamma's illness."

"Your mother wasn't frail. Her body was perfectly healthy. Her illness was of the kind affecting the spirit... It was in her mind."

Emily stared at him, lost for words.

"In all the time I'd known your mother nothing indicated that anything like this might happen. She'd always been perfectly sensible, compassionate, and living in the present... It started five or six days after you were born. Her doctor was very pleased with her speedy recovery after the birth, and Margaret herself... well, your mother, she was euphoric. A little highly strung, perhaps, and she was not sleeping, but she seemed very well regardless, and the doctor said not to worry—that new mothers needed time to adjust." A shadow crossed his face and he looked away as he spoke, out across the sea.

"Then, all of a sudden, her behaviour became irrational, delusional even... She was talking to people that weren't there—her parents who had died years before, and others—she developed excessive and utterly unfounded fears. Sometimes she was just completely apathetic... not there in the present at all."

He swallowed hard. "It seemed to go from bad to worse. Dr Donaldson was at a loss... And then something happened that made us—me and your grandmother—fear that, in her delusion, your mother was becoming a danger to herself." His voice grew thick. "Edith was in the picture and it was her who gave us the address of a Harley Street doctor—an expert on female mental complaints."

"And... could he help?" Emily asked apprehensively.

"Your mother and I came to London, and he treated her for a couple of weeks—through the worst of it she was interned in a private clinic—and eventually the 'mania' abated... She was lucid again, but she was not well... She remained listless, she had no interest in the outside world, not in her family and friends—not even in her child." He took her hand and held on to it.

"Where was I at the time?" she asked in a low voice. Her father looked at her pityingly.

"You were still in Milton with your grandmother and a wetnurse... Your mother was in no condition to look after you."

"Did she ever come back for me?"

"It was your great-aunt Shaw who reminded us that Margaret's mother also used to suffer from long spells of 'low spirits' during the winter months and that fleeing the gloomy English winters for the south of France might be beneficial under such circumstances—and the Harley Street doctor agreed. Moreover, he recommended that she should recover without the strain of family obligations... and so I stayed behind in Milton with you while your mother travelled to Èze with Mrs Shaw and Dixon."

For a while none of them spoke. Eventually he let go of her hand and rose. He stood rigid, his eyes on Cap Roux, and his voice was low, almost a whisper, when he finally said, "I came here at the end of April, to stay for a week and then take her back home... She vanished from this headland the day before I arrived."

He turned around and looked straight into his daughter's eyes. "For all we know your mother must have fallen off that cliff and into the sea."

"Meret?" a rather breathless voice called out from behind her, startling her. Through the patter of the rain she hadn't heard any steps. The next moment Pinks caught up with her, nudging her hand with his cold doggy nose, and circling her and the bike excitedly. By the time she turned, Jareth was by her side, wheezing. He was in sweatpants and trainers, his t-shirt sticking to his body.

"What are... you doing... here?" he asked, his breath still ragged. He bent forwards, hands on his knees, catching his breath. He had obviously been running hard.

"Going from Millbrook Lane back home." Much as she liked seeing Jareth Paxton at other times, right now Meret felt a little too disgruntled with the world in general—not to mention looking like a drowned rat—to be charming or even just nice.

"What happened?" he asked, indicating her bike and the fact that she was pushing it, as they walked on.

"Flat front tyre," she said. "Just my luck... I was to stay with the guys from work tonight because my flatmate is having a bunch of friends over for the weekend. But when I arrived there, their flat was flooded from a broken pipe one floor up. So I only stayed to help with cleaning up the mess... and on my way back to my place I ran over a shard of glass or something—"

"I thought you couldn't stay at your own place tonight?"

"My bed's taken, so I may end up with my sleeping bag on the kitchen floor... Anyway, I don't want to keep you," she said. "You look done in."

"Thanks for nothing, Frederiksen," he said, smirking. "But you are right. I've been a bit of a slacker lately... However, you can stay at my house for the night if you like. I've got a guestroom."

"Are you sure?" Meret asked, flustered. The thought of spending the night with him—Hold kæft, Frederiksen! Don't, just don't, get ahead of yourself—set her pulse racing.

"Of course. It's just down here—" He pointed at a side lane. "—towards the end, on the left."

From what Meret could see in the murky light, it was a residential street lined with trees and period buildings on both sides. Pinks trotted ahead and eventually vanished through a small gate. When they reached it after him, he was sitting under a white gabled porch at the far end of a gravel path. The two-storey building was indeed a Georgian house, just as Jareth had described it; red-brick, paned windows surrounded by white mouldings, but otherwise with very little classical detail.

Right in front of the porch a path veered off to the left, which they took. "We'll go inside via the annexe," he explained, leading her around the corner to a double-winged door of what must have been the coach shed at one time. "You can leave your bike in here for the night—I'll give you a hand with the repair kit in the morning."

Jareth grabbed a towel hanging next to the door. "Come here, Pinks," he ordered, giving the dog a quick all-over rub.

He straighten from his stoop and indicated a connecting door. "This way," he said. A moment later they stood in a small hallway.

"Have you eaten yet?" he asked. When Meret shook her head, he suggested, "I'll see you in the kitchen—that's through here and on the other side of the entrance hall—in a few minutes. Meanwhile each of us can get changed. Here's your room—" He opened a door to their right. "—make yourself at home. There's an en-suite bathroom."

One look in the mirror convinced Meret that a quick hot shower would be in order. The rain had seeped through her jacket and t-shirt, her mascara was smudged, and her hair had become plastered to her scalp.

Afterwards, still swathed in a bath towel, she rummaged in her overnight bag, sighing... Their plans for the evening at Phil and Sebastian's had consisted of ordering pizzas and watching a film on DVD, and she had chosen her change of clothes accordingly; an oversized washed-out grey sweater, leggings, and woolly socks.

Dressed to impress! she thought in exasperation as she regarded her mirror image once again. But even her jeans were too wet to put them back on again. At least her blond hair, washed and smoothed back into a plait to let it dry, looked shiny and decent again, and she had made up her face, unobtrusively highlighting her best features, her aquamarine blue eyes. She gave herself a nervous little smile.

Jareth was already in the kitchen when she entered. Pinks jumped up from his dog bed in the corner and greeted her enthusiastically. He ecstatically closed his eyes as Meret knelt down with a laugh to scratch his ears. Eventually she looked up at the man who stood at the island unit.

He was in jeans and t-shirt—but barefoot, she noted—with his hair still damp and rakishly unruly, and he was chopping up vegetables with a large cooking knife.

"What are you doing?" she asked curiously as she ambled towards him. And he can cook!... I think I'm in love!

She came to a halt next to him, touching his shoulder with her hand and slightly leaning into him. "This looks good," she said, her voice low and sensuous.

He lay aside the knife and took her hand—the one on his shoulder—arresting it, and then he moved it away from him. Not unfriendly or offended, but determined. He turned to face her with a lopsided smile.

"I believe, we need to talk," he said. "It's not that I'm not flattered by your interest, Meret—I am—but much as I enjoy the company of women... it is men I have relationships with."

I'm thrashing. Wildly. Desperately.

I'm under water, tangled in my skirts and petticoats. They are waterlogged, slowly pulling me under. Above me the surface of the sea is boiling, white foam and bubbles, on a backdrop of brilliant blue. My lungs burn. I'm holding my breath, fighting to reach the surface. But the weight pulling at me is too heavy... I go under... The urge to breathe becomes unbearable. The blue above me is getting darker. It is the last thing I see... My mouth opens... I scream.

I wake up, sitting in my bed, sweating and breathing hard. The room is hot. My legs are tangled in my bed sheets.

It was but a nightmare...

But is this how it feels to drown?—Is this what happened to HER?

(Excerpt from the diary of Emily Thornton)