The Turtle Run (44 page)

‘Matthew insisted you take the black dress. It's been dry-cleaned and is all yours, ready to wear.'

‘OK,' said Becky, a little wearily. Was it all right to take a dress she would probably never wear again?

‘But what are these?' She looked at the other gowns: there were a couple in burgundy, a couple in midnight blue.

‘Matthew was absolutely insistent. He said you looked so good in the black dress it was only right that you should choose another colour as well. But apparently you'd cut the label out so he didn't know your size.'

That was true – she had been worried about the label showing so had cut it out before wearing the dress at Matthew's party.

‘There are two sizes of each. Can you choose one that fits?'

Becky looked quickly at the labels. The measurements weren't recognisable UK sizes.

‘Alex, it's a lovely idea but I'll have to leave these. I can't remember what size the black dress was and I can't tell from looking at the labels.'

Alex looked at his watch. ‘I think you have time to try on a couple. I need to make some phone calls anyway. And whatever's in the little box is a present for you.'

He shut the door behind him, leaving Becky little choice but to gingerly remove one of the new dresses from its wrapper. The first midnight blue one she tried on was too loose but the second fitted perfectly. The black shoes were sitting next to the bed, having also made the journey across the Atlantic. She put them on, remembering how confident she had felt in this outfit and wanting to savour the moment.

She sat down on the bed to open the little velvet box. Inside was a necklace – a simple chain with a little silver turtle pendant. Becky could have cried. Underneath the necklace was a tiny piece of paper. She unfolded it and read in Matthew's handwriting:
It was real to me
.

Now she did cry. She couldn't even begin to separate the strands of her grief: loss of Matthew, loss of her father and loss of something else, something even more amorphous; maybe it was the loss of a version of herself who had felt alive, albeit just for a few weeks.

It was quite a while before she stopped crying. She put on the necklace and checked herself in the mirror. Unsurprisingly she looked like a young woman in a gorgeous dress and necklace who had been crying her eyes out. Becky went into the en-suite bathroom and washed her face then checked her reflection again: a little more normal.

Maybe one day she would have a reason – be it professional or social – to look like she looked now.

Or maybe the silver turtle would be forever marooned in the metaphorical sand of a drawer and the black and blue dresses would hang in her cupboard for years, dreaming of a night out that never came.

Ridiculous. She would tell Alex she couldn't accept Matthew's kind offer of the dresses and necklace. Becky put her hands up to unclasp the chain then heard a gentle knocking on the door, followed by a more insistent one. She opened it to see Alex with his customary worry lines etched on his face.

‘Sorry to rush you.' He did a double take. ‘You look, um, wow. But we're cutting it very fine now. Mrs Collie has just reminded me that one of the other companies has got a lunch scheduled. She's expecting guests – well, now.'

‘Have I got time to change back into my things?'

‘Sorry. Not really.'

Becky stuffed her discarded jeans, hoodie and trainers into her rucksack and Alex grabbed the black dress. The bathroom bag and book would have to be left to surprise the next guest who was lucky enough to stay in that room. She followed Alex down the stairs, moving slower in her party shoes. As soon as she joined him at the front door he opened it. The sun, previously whitely veiled, was now smothered in black cloud and it had started to rain.

Alex looked at Becky in her bandage dress. ‘God, you'll freeze. Look, just get to the portico and stay there. I'll bring the car round.' He gave Becky the black dress to carry and ran ahead.

Becky headed for the shelter of the portico as quickly as she could and arrived just as Alex brought the car as close to the bottom step as possible. He ran up, grabbed the dress from Becky and put it on the back seat, then opened the passenger door to let her in: the midnight blue Léger was not a dress to be washed in the rain. He slammed her door shut, got in the driver's seat and looked at his watch.

‘We should be fine. I think we have a few minutes before the next lot arrive.'

He accelerated up the drive. Becky shivered – the dress was not designed for the British autumn – but she was more concerned about what she would tell her mother who would be home from work by now and ready to drop dishes at the sight of her daughter dolled-up like a socialite.

They had almost reached the road when Alex stopped abruptly and patted the pockets of his jacket. ‘Idiot. I put my phone down somewhere. Maybe it was in the washroom. I daren't leave it. Sorry.'

He did a three-point turn and drove back down the drive at breakneck speed, screeching to a halt right in front of the portico. He leapt out and ran up the steps.

Becky could hear her own phone vibrating. She extracted it from her rucksack and was surprised to see it was Joe.

She pressed receive call. ‘Becky, where are you?'

‘Um. Just picking up some clothes. Why?'

‘Mum rang me here – at the garage. She says someone has dumped a load of paint cans in the house and you've disappeared.'

Becky almost laughed. ‘I brought home a total of two pots of paint to do the front room and I'm now with a friend.'

‘Not exactly a crisis then? I've asked her not to ring work unless it's an emergency. And I told her firmly just now I am not my sister's keeper.'

They swapped exasperated goodbyes and Becky ended the call. If nothing else the Barbados trip had firmly cemented her relationship with her brother. It wasn't just about getting closure on their father. Joe had strayed way out of his comfort zone, getting involved in research to try and help her or simply keeping up her spirits by spinning his ridiculous tale about how Thomas Gehalgod had survived.

She couldn't help smiling at the thought of him pompously misquoting the Bible to their mother: ‘I am not my sister's keeper.'

Something about the phrase sounded familiar. Becky thought back to the graveyard in Westonzoyland when she and Joe were crouching over Thomas Gehalgod's grave. They had assumed the epitaph on the headstone read ‘My father was my keeper'. What if it said ‘My
ƒ
i
ƒ
ter was my keeper' using the old-fashioned
f
for s?

There was still no sign of Alex. Nor of cars appearing down the drive. Becky closed her eyes. Why would Thomas Gehalgod have paid tribute to a sister?

The answer came like a thunderbolt. Maybe the captain of the
Betty
had pretended Thomas Gehalgod had died at sea rather than admit the officials had made a fairly fundamental mistake. No wonder she couldn't find any reference to Sarah Thomas boarding the ship. Thomas Gehalgod hadn't been thrown overboard; in fact he had never boarded the
Betty
. And Sarah Thomas, as such, had not existed before she set foot on Barbados. As Joe had told her:
The gaols had been chaotic … the authorities barely knew who was who
.

At what point had Sarah Gehalgod swapped places with her brother? In jail? Or had she put on his clothes before the militia came looking for him? Had she realised the sacrifice she was making – that she would never come back home? At some point during this drama – it could even have been on the ship – Randolph Randerwick had made her acquaintance and helped her change into Sarah Thomas. Becky found herself hoping that their relationship had been solid and real and fulfilling.

She opened her eyes. She had told Clara that given time, she would trace Matthew's ancestors in England, and she had. Of course, she couldn't be sure she was right. Who could glean the truth after so much time had passed? All she could say with certainty was that whatever had really happened three hundred and thirty years ago had been more remarkable and emotional than anyone now could imagine.

She wished she could share her discovery with someone. There was Joe, of course, but she had a longing to talk to someone else. She fantasised about turning her head and seeing Matthew Darnley running down the steps towards her. He would be dressed to kill and carrying an umbrella to hold over her. Mrs Collie's sumptuous lunch would not be for corporate guests but a private banquet for her and Matthew and the whole debacle would have been a carefully planned ruse to bring her to Noak Hall, dress her up to the nines and create a perfect setting. The fire would have been lit in the huge hearth to throw out a smoky welcome through the chimneys – just for her. Alex's phone would have been safe in his pocket all along and Matthew would have flown over days ago to warn Mrs Collie that the ‘waif and stray' would be visiting once more, this time as a guest, and he would conceal himself in the grand house until it was time to reveal his presence.

Becky sighed. It had been a nice fantasy.

She turned her head towards the house wondering what was keeping Alex. There was Matthew Darnley, dressed as if on Her Majesty's Secret Service, coming swiftly down the steps, unfurling an umbrella as he ran towards her.

THE END

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Published by Accent Press Ltd 2016

ISBN 9781682991459

Copyright © Marie Evelyn 2016

The right of Marie Evelyn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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