‘It’s only been two days, Thomas.’
‘Half an hour in Plantation Garden is enough to be a torture, maid.’
Ellie loops her hand around his neck and pulls his mouth to her lips, pressing her body into his.
Sighing happily, she looks up at him, cupping his face with her hands. ‘Where did you come from, Thomas Parsons?’
‘From your dreams, Ellie Mae Burgess.’
‘I never imagined anyone like you in my wildest dreams.’
Thomas traces the contours of her face with his fingertip. ‘You never drew a picture of your true love? With lots of hearts and cupids, like I’ve seen the girls back home do? You’re an artist, aren’t you?’
‘I wasn’t a silly girl like that. But, Ruthie, now she was always in love with the latest movie star. Tyrone Power was her favourite. Anyway, I can’t draw from my imagination. I need to see what I’m drawing.’ She shrugs, her naked shoulders a soft white in the dull night light. ‘Sister Mary Geraldine told me once that I’m just a copyist. You never forget the people who tell you things like that.’
Thomas rubs his chin, drawing his eyebrows together in a frown.
‘Thomas? What’s the matter?’
‘You’re Catholic, Ellie Mae. Most everyone up on my part of the coast is Protestant. The Irish are all down around the south coast of Newfoundland, and from places like Ship Harbour where Charlie’s from and up on Fogo. My mam—’ Smiling, he pulls her closer. ‘My mam always warned me about Catholic girls.’
‘Your mother needs to broaden her point of view. Anyway, I’m just an adequate artist. I’m nothing special.’
Thomas’s eyes narrow. ‘Don’t you be talkin’ yourself down, Ellie Mae. You’ve got a fine talent. That Sister Mary Geraldine was full of baloney. Why haven’t I seen you draw anythin’ since we were at Holkham?’
Ellie rests her head against the khaki wool of Thomas’s uniform. His heart beats steadily under her ear. ‘It just seemed … frivolous, I suppose. Art was everything to me once. Then after Ruthie …’ She sighs, her breath puffing into the cool air like a small cloud.
Thomas rubs her back and whispers into her ear. ‘Promise me you’ll keep drawin’, m’ love. It’s part of you. Don’t you forget it.’
A clatter of tin as a rubbish bin crashes onto the cobbled alley. ‘Ellie!’ A slurred voice. ‘Ellie! What’s going on?’
Ellie and Thomas jolt apart. ‘George?’
‘You remember me, don’t you?’ George thumps his chest, throwing himself off balance. ‘I’m your fiancé.’
Charlie takes hold of George’s arm. ‘Steady on, b’y. Jaysus, you only had two beers. You definitely don’t have any Newfoundland blood in you.’
Shoving Charlie away, George walks unsteadily up the hill towards the couple. ‘Let’s go, Ellie. Charlie warned me about Tom. I won’t blame you.’
Ellie crosses her arms, shivering as the winter chill settles into her body. ‘Blame me for what, George? For wanting to be with someone who makes me feel special? Who treats me like a woman, instead of like some … some schoolmate? I’ll be twenty in September. I’m a woman, George, not that you’ve noticed.’
‘That’s not true, Ellie. I’ve noticed.’
‘You’ve a funny way of showing it.’
George flicks his gaze between Ellie and Thomas. ‘I gave you chocolates for Valentine’s. They were a week’s wages.’
‘Only after Dottie reminded you. And what about last year? You gave me a heart-shaped pencil rubber. What was I supposed to do with that?’
Charlie chuckles. ‘Oh, Georgie, b’y.’
George reaches out and tugs Ellie’s hand. ‘Come on, Ellie. I’ll bring you home. I’ve had enough of tonight.’
‘I’d let her go, if I were you, b’y.’ A nerve ticks in Thomas’s cheek.
George releases Ellie’s hand. ‘I’m sorry, Ellie,’ he says, pressing his fingertips against his forehead. ‘I love you. I’ve always loved you.’
‘You never said it, George. I waited for it. I waited for it for years. Now, it’s too late. Love is a hungry thing. If you don’t feed it, it withers and dies. Ours died.’
Chapter 27
Tippy’s Tickle – 15 September 2001
Sophie raises the collar of Florie’s yellow raincoat and pulls it close around her neck. The rain pelts steadily onto the umbrella she’s pulled out of Ellie’s umbrella stand, the printed scene of Montmartre and the Moulin Rouge a feeble barrier against the downpour. She strains to listen for voices, or footsteps, anything, from her vigil on Ellie’s porch.
Then, a dog’s bark, and Rupert’s dark bulk emerges from the black night. Then Sam, and, in his arms, Becca.
Sam climbs the steps with the sleeping girl, the dog pounding up the steps behind him. He stops before Sophie. ‘You waited.’
‘Yes, of course. Is she okay?’
‘She’s fine. I found her hiding under a rock outcrop at the bottom of the cliff. Rupert brought me to her. She was about a half mile away from the clearing.’
Sophie opens the screen door and follows Sam and the dog into the kitchen. ‘A half mile away? How did she get there?’
‘Fairies.’
‘What?’
‘She said she followed a beautiful fairy on a red pony.’
‘She has a lively imagination.’
Sam grunts. ‘Emmett’s been feeding her nonsense. I’m going to put a stop to it tomorrow.’
‘She’s okay otherwise?’
‘Yes, she’s fine. But all she could tell me about were fairies.’
‘Sam, it might be my fault.’
Sam stops in the doorway to the hall, Becca curled against his leather jacket. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I read her a fairy story from an old Enid Blyton book I found in the living room the other day. She … she seemed to love it. The Fairy Queen especially.’
Sam shakes his head and smiles. ‘Thanks for reading her the story, Princess Grace. You’re obviously a good storyteller. She said the fairy looked like you.’
Sophie grunts. ‘You said she followed a beautiful fairy.’
Sam grins, his dark eyes warm. ‘Like I said, Princess Grace. She said the fairy looked just like you.’
***
Sam brushes the hair from Becca’s forehead and leans over the bed to give the sleeping girl a kiss. So much like her mother. So much like Winny.
You gave me a real fright tonight,
