you’ll grow old alone.”
“What a happy soliloquy first thing in the morning.”
“Sorry, lovely, but I’m just giving you a dose of realism.”
“I’ve had far too much realism recently. I’m going to go to Buenos
Aires, to while away my days dreaming.”
“Now Argentines, apparently they’re the worst.”
“How do you know?”
“Everyone knows. They’re notorious for being irresistibly charming
and compulsively unfaithful.”
“You’re thinking of polo players, but go on, repeat the old cliché.”
“They make good lovers but bad husbands.”
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“I’m not planning on marrying one. I don’t intend to marry at all,
ever.”
Sylvia looked bewildered. “Why not?”
“I come from a broken home. I never want to do that to a child.”
“That’s silly. You can break the cycle.”
“Don’t want to.”
“I’m divorced, and yet I’d give it another go. I’d marry Freddie, if he ever left his wife. They rarely do, though.”
“My father left my mother,” said Clementine bitterly. “I’d never want
to be the wedge that drives a family apart like Submarine.”
Sylvia shrugged. “Maybe their love was so strong—”
“Weren’t you just saying that kind of love is reserved for romantic
novels?”
“And the very lucky few.”
“Ah, so you do believe in love?”
“Yes, I do. But I don’t believe it happens to each and every one of us.
That’s all. You might grow to love Joe if you give him a chance.”
“Do you love Freddie?”
“I love the way he touches me, the way he kisses me, the way he
makes me laugh. I love who I am when I’m with him. But do I love
him? Like, would I die without him? I’d be sad, of course, but I wouldn’t be broken-hearted.”
“Don’t you want something more?”
“Of course. Every little girl wants to find her prince. But there’s no
point hankering after something you can’t have. I’m realistic enough to know that I’m not one of the lucky ones.” Sylvia grabbed her handbag.
“I think I’ll go out for a ciggie. Will you man the phone?”
Clementine watched her leave. She didn’t imagine she was one of
the lucky ones, either, but deep down inside, she hoped there was more
to love than Joe.
“I think we’ll put Rafa in the suite at the top,” said Marina, sitting at her desk, sipping her espresso thoughtfully. “No one’s booked it for
months, and it’s a shame to let such a beautiful set of rooms go unused.”
Harvey was up a ladder in his blue boiler suit and cap, screwdriver
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Santa Montefiore
in hand to mend the curtain pole that had come away from the wall at
one end. “That’s the nicest bedroom in the house,” he said, pausing a
moment. “Used to be young William’s room when he was a boy.”
Harvey remembered the Duke of Somerland’s children fondly:
three rambunctious boys with big blue eyes and smiles that held within
them the promise of a whole heap of mischief. He had been just a
lad himself, employed to help the estate manager, Mr. Phelps, chop-
ping logs and sweeping leaves. He still felt nostalgic when Mr. Potter
burned the leaves in autumn. It took him back to an innocent time in
his life when things had been less complicated.
Ted and Daniel did the heavy work these days as Mr. Potter was too
old—older than he was, and he was as old as the hills—so he delegated, and his sons dug and planted and cut back. Harvey suspected that Marina kept him on out of compassion, because she knew how much the
place meant to him and understood the need to deny the years for as
long as possible. After all, retirement for Mr. Potter would be as good as putting him in his coffin and placing it in the ground.
Now the gardens looked as good as they had when the duke had
owned the property—better, even, because Marina had such a clear
vision of what she wanted and the
“What a happy soliloquy first thing in the morning.”
“Sorry, lovely, but I’m just giving you a dose of realism.”
“I’ve had far too much realism recently. I’m going to go to Buenos
Aires, to while away my days dreaming.”
“Now Argentines, apparently they’re the worst.”
“How do you know?”
“Everyone knows. They’re notorious for being irresistibly charming
and compulsively unfaithful.”
“You’re thinking of polo players, but go on, repeat the old cliché.”
“They make good lovers but bad husbands.”
30067 The Mermaid Garden.indd 68
1/21/11 2:21 PM
The Mermaid Garden
69
“I’m not planning on marrying one. I don’t intend to marry at all,
ever.”
Sylvia looked bewildered. “Why not?”
“I come from a broken home. I never want to do that to a child.”
“That’s silly. You can break the cycle.”
“Don’t want to.”
“I’m divorced, and yet I’d give it another go. I’d marry Freddie, if he ever left his wife. They rarely do, though.”
“My father left my mother,” said Clementine bitterly. “I’d never want
to be the wedge that drives a family apart like Submarine.”
Sylvia shrugged. “Maybe their love was so strong—”
“Weren’t you just saying that kind of love is reserved for romantic
novels?”
“And the very lucky few.”
“Ah, so you do believe in love?”
“Yes, I do. But I don’t believe it happens to each and every one of us.
That’s all. You might grow to love Joe if you give him a chance.”
“Do you love Freddie?”
“I love the way he touches me, the way he kisses me, the way he
makes me laugh. I love who I am when I’m with him. But do I love
him? Like, would I die without him? I’d be sad, of course, but I wouldn’t be broken-hearted.”
“Don’t you want something more?”
“Of course. Every little girl wants to find her prince. But there’s no
point hankering after something you can’t have. I’m realistic enough to know that I’m not one of the lucky ones.” Sylvia grabbed her handbag.
“I think I’ll go out for a ciggie. Will you man the phone?”
Clementine watched her leave. She didn’t imagine she was one of
the lucky ones, either, but deep down inside, she hoped there was more
to love than Joe.
“I think we’ll put Rafa in the suite at the top,” said Marina, sitting at her desk, sipping her espresso thoughtfully. “No one’s booked it for
months, and it’s a shame to let such a beautiful set of rooms go unused.”
Harvey was up a ladder in his blue boiler suit and cap, screwdriver
30067 The Mermaid Garden.indd 69
1/21/11 2:21 PM
70
Santa Montefiore
in hand to mend the curtain pole that had come away from the wall at
one end. “That’s the nicest bedroom in the house,” he said, pausing a
moment. “Used to be young William’s room when he was a boy.”
Harvey remembered the Duke of Somerland’s children fondly:
three rambunctious boys with big blue eyes and smiles that held within
them the promise of a whole heap of mischief. He had been just a
lad himself, employed to help the estate manager, Mr. Phelps, chop-
ping logs and sweeping leaves. He still felt nostalgic when Mr. Potter
burned the leaves in autumn. It took him back to an innocent time in
his life when things had been less complicated.
Ted and Daniel did the heavy work these days as Mr. Potter was too
old—older than he was, and he was as old as the hills—so he delegated, and his sons dug and planted and cut back. Harvey suspected that Marina kept him on out of compassion, because she knew how much the
place meant to him and understood the need to deny the years for as
long as possible. After all, retirement for Mr. Potter would be as good as putting him in his coffin and placing it in the ground.
Now the gardens looked as good as they had when the duke had
owned the property—better, even, because Marina had such a clear
vision of what she wanted and the
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