A Poisonous Journey Read online

  "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.

  "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—

  “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.

  There is little greenery save for an occasional random tree planted here and there, or the colorful boxes of flowers hanging from many windows. We pass a small square adorned by a large limestone fountain in the center, children splashing around and being, in turn, scolded by their mothers.

  The buildings, as far as I am able to judge, appear largely influenced by the Venetian style with elaborate archways, columns, and wrought-iron balconies so small one would have been hard-pressed to install a chair.

  After some time, Yannick takes a turn leading up a hill, taking us away from the vibrant port and city scene of Heraklion and away from the tossing waters of the sparkling blue sea. Once the metropolitan area is behind us, we venture into a more barren landscape, dotted here and there with small dark trees I am unable to identify, as well as clusters of thorny bushes and brambles. Then, as if entering another climate entirely, we turn the bend and find a lush and blooming valley before us. Thus the scenery alternates between aridly dry and nearly tropical.

  I stare mesmerized out of the window, watching it all drift by, single trees blurred together, a flock of crows screeching, launching themselves into the cloudless blue sky. It is so unlike any place I have ever seen, yet I feel somewhere inside myself a sense of deep familiarity as though I have been here before. This is the land of the stories I gleefully inhaled at school; this the wild sea Odysseus voyaged; the crumbling ruins
of ancient temples and theatres for the festivals and plays; the jagged cliffs met by crashing waves, so easily imagined as lairs of the mysterious and terrifying Sirens. Tales of glory, tragedy, and madness permeate this very soil, and I feel a shiver of delight running down my spine, imagining the phantoms of the past swirling in our midst.

  The drive might have lasted mere minutes or more than an hour. The hypnotic curves of the road, accompanied by Yannick’s pervading silence and the soothing landscape have made me drowsy and distorted the true lapse of time. My head grows light and my eyelids heavy, and I lean back into the soft leather upholstery. It still seems almost a dream, one moment I was sitting on the hard brocade sofa in Aunt Agnes’ drawing room, loathingly glaring at the gloomy oil paintings of my ancestors, who just as loathingly glared back at me; and now, now I am hundreds of miles away in a foreign land, chauffered by a strange man, and heading to a place I have never been before. How a situation can change in a matter of days, or mere hours! What a strangely frightening and splendid thing time can be.

  Just as this thought crosses my mind the car slows, dry gravel crunching beneath the weight of the tires. I sit up, curious to find us pulling up in front of a cream colored two-story villa. Columns in the Corinthian style I remember from grainy photgraphs in a library book, with elaborately carved plaster capitals line the front, lending the elegant home an air of ancient mystique. It looks just as I had hoped it would! The gardens are relatively bare, save for a few rows of small, bushy olive trees swaying gently in the breeze. A vivid patch of glowing pink bougainvillea has draped itself from one of the second floor balconies down the left side of the house like a blooming shawl.

  Energized by pent up excitement, I open the car door before Yannick is able to help me. I always feel ill at ease with stiff formalities anyway, and here in particular, in this to me still wild and exotic land, they have no place. It is good to stretch out my legs, to feel the hard earth below me, the heat rising through the thin soles of my soft kidskin shoes.

  The elevation affords an impressive view of the sparkling blue sea in the distance, the dark color of the water meeting the pale blue of the sky in one delicate horizontal line; the division between the realm of Poseidon and that of his brother, Zeus. Zeus took control of earth and sky, while his brothers, Poseidon and Hades, became rulers of the sea and underworld. For a moment, my mind flickers to an image of the mighty bearded king of the gods I have seen illustrated in one of the books I borrowed from the library. He was depicted reclining on a pillowy cloud, casting his cool, blue-eyed gaze across his dominion, long muscled limbs outstretched. Almost unconsciously I look up. The sky is cloudless and mesmerizingly blue. Where might he be now, I wonder, humoring myself and my illusions, and yet hoping that not all myths are make-believe. It appears to me that Zeus is having a benevolent day, for the sun beams splendidly, and I take off my hat to feel its rays warming the crown of my head.

  Suddenly, the door to the villa swings open, and a small, fair-haired woman, wearing a pale blue dress that flutters just below her knees, rushes out, followed very closely by a slightly taller fair-haired man. Seeing my cousin after so many months warms my heart, and an image of her as a child, pigtailed and freckled, running down the drive to meet me at my uncle’s house, flickers through my mind.

  “Evie, darling! You made it!” Briony takes me by the hands and I obediently lower my head to have my cheeks kissed. “And you look so well! Jeffrey, my dear, doesn’t she look well,” she asks, Jeffrey, who having followed his wife outside, nods, smiling obligingly.

  “Yes, very well." Briony grins approvingly.

  "You should have seen me after my first journey here, green as a cucumber!” She laughs. Open and sincere as she is, I cannot help but join in with her cheerfulness. The familiar sound of her laughter makes me feel as though a bond of guilt or anxiety for having run away has been severed, a tension in the back of my neck eased and melted away under the Mediterranean sun.

  “It is wonderful to see you in such good spirits, Briony,” I smile and turn to Jeffrey, “and you too, of course. What a beautiful spot you have chosen here. Why you may never be rid of me again!” As I say this, I realize I am only half joking. The journey was daunting, but upon setting foot on solid ground I felt immediately lighter than I had in years. It is as though every mile separating me from my old life lifts a weight bearing down on me. Here is no overbearing aunt, no rigid and maddeningly dull social calendar, and most importantly, no crippling memories to burden my mind. The sun shines down on us, and my tired London skin eagerly drinks it up, the sweet warmth spreading through me like honeyed tea, welcome and liberating.

  "Yannick, let me help you with those," Jeffrey says with raised eyebrows, indicating my numerous cases stacked beside the car, giving Briony and me the privacy we crave after our long separation.

  "So tell me, was dear Auntie Agnes positively murderous when you told her you were leaving?" Briony loops her slender arm through mine, and gently leads me onto a small path toward the garden at the back of the house and away from the driveway. "She was appalled, you know when Jeffrey and I told her of our plans to come here. Truly, I thought I would have to conjure up some smelling salts to pull her from the brink of apoplexy!" I cannot prevent a grin spreading across my lips. It is as though no time had passed, as though we traveled backwards to before she married, before she left. I harbored a niggling fear that our friendship would not be what it once was, that I left England only to feel isolated and alone in a foreign land. A sense of relief washes over me, in discovering these concerns troubled me in vain. In the garden, we sit down on a smooth carved bench of dark olive wood with a view of the strange landscape surrounding us.

  "I’m afraid I behaved rather appallingly," I say, looking down at my lap in false remorse, waiting for Briony to respond as I know she will.

  "Appallingly! Do tell." Briony’s dark blue eyes glitter, and for a moment I am transported back many years; to mischievous times of hiding in the library together in an attempt to avoid Aunt Agnes’ reproving gaze; to running away, but only reaching the corner of the park, seduced by the prospect of the freshly baked Victoria sponge we were missing at home. It seems so long ago, but now, sitting here, one dark and one light head leaning together, I cannot help but revel in the happy sense of nostalgia. With some mild embellishment I embark upon the tale of my clandestine get-away and am pleased to put a glow of excited admiration on Briony’s face.

  "Evie! What an adventure! Well, I shan’t let you go back. I have decided," she crosses her arms in determination. "I am simply in dire need of long-term, English company."

  "I shall be happy to oblige." This sentiment rings genuine. I believe I could happily stay indefinitely. Perhaps I might marry one of the handsome fishermen I caught sight of at the harbor and buy a little house with colorful shuttered windows overlooking the blue sea in front and the green mountains in the back. Yes, I sigh to myself, such a life would be quite bearable.

  Briony sits back, exhaling slowly, the gentle breeze blowing a strand of her curly blonde hair into her face. She brushes it away and turns back to me.

  "Mind you," she says impishly, "I haven’t told you about our other guests."

  "Other guests? Am I a mere one of many!" I shake my head in mock exasperation, curiosity awakening.

  "Never, my dear. They are merely invitees of my darling husband. You are solely mine." Saying this, she grasps my hand firmly in hers.

  "How glad I am to hear you take such a possessive stance. Now you have intrigued me. Who is this band of men I am to be rooming with?"

  Briony throws her head back in delight. "Can you imagine! The scandal, Auntie Agnes would disown you. No, I fear you will be all alone," she grins wickedly. "I suppose how long you remain so will be up to you, my dear. Though of course, I ought to be true to my duty as your watchful chaperone, to protect your sweet innocence and all that." She winks at me, and I roll my eyes. "I’ve put you in the loveliest room overlooking the garden, or wha
t we call a garden,” she gestures at the dry patches of grass and twisted olive trees. "Our other guests are old chums of Jeffrey’s. Daniel Harper and Caspar Ballantine. They are charming, handsome, wellspoken and so on and so forth. Caspar is … I don’t know what, really, and Daniel is a writer. Or so he claims. He is working on a book and won’t say much more yet. Daniel comes from a wealthy home, so I suppose it doesn’t matter if the book is any good. You’ll meet them tonight. They are out sailing now with some people they met at a picnic last weekend. They’ve been here a while, you see, so they’ve been busy making friends," she raises her pale eyebrows comically, by which I believed I am meant to infer that these "friends" are of the female variety.

  Briony continues, "We’re having a few neighbors over. I’m afraid your first evening here will require your social graces. I do hope you’re not too tired, but they really all are a friendly bunch, and none too obstinate to tolerate for a few hours."

  "Not at all. I look forward to it." I am interested in the company my cousin keeps in her adopted homeland. Briony has written about some of her new acquaintances, most of them expatriots like her, or collegues of Jeffrey’s from the museum. Having created my own images of them in my mind, I am eager to see how well they match up to the person in the flesh.

  “That’s settled then,” Briony smiles, her freckled face still pale with only the slight pink tinge of sunburn on her small upturned nose. Glancing at the house, she observes Yannick closing the empty boot of the car. “The men have done the heavy lifting, shall I give you the grand tour?” Nodding, I hook my arm through hers and follow my cheerfully chattering guide into the cool interior of the villa.

  CHAPTER 3

  I have truly arrived. It is still hard to believe. I am sitting in my lovely room after Briony’s tour of the villa. She proudly showed off her spacious home, narrating all the while with cheerful gestures and well-deserved gratification. It is tastefully furnished with an inviting blend of heavy English pieces of luxuriously polished oak and sumptuous brochade upolstery as well as the lighter, softer fittings of her new surroundings. Woven wicker chairs stand around a small circular table in the conservatory, and everywhere hang vivid watercolors of the sea that she has bought from street vendors in town. Altogether she has created a very pleasing environment for an Englishwoman abroad. Briony has somehow managed to reconcile her old and new home and has created an atmosphere both nostalgic and contemporary.