The Silver Castle by Nancy Buckingham Page A

they?”
    “But reason should be one’s guide,” he insisted. “Emotions are not to be trusted, I’ve found that out.”
    Absurdly, my heart twisted in pity for him ... a response, I thought angrily, that only proved the truth of his last remark. Emotions were treacherous things.
    He seemed aloof now, withdrawn from me, and despite my anger pity got the upper hand. I decided to make it easy for him.
    “You don’t need to feel badly about my departure. It’s time I went home, anyway. I’ve discovered what I came here to find out, and there’s no point in hanging on and prolonging the agony.”
    “A few more days would make little difference.”
    Why couldn’t he understand? With a despairing feeling, I said, “There’s a vast black shadow lying between us. We can’t pretend it isn’t there. Both of us desperately want to forget what happened, and we won’t come anywhere near to succeeding as long as we’re under the same roof.”
    His eyes held mine. “And if we were a thousand kilometres apart—I here, and you in London—would it be any better then? Perhaps we should make ourselves talk about things, to throw some light on that black shadow.”
    “My father killed your wife,” I said bleakly. “That’s the simple fact ... simple and stark and horrible. Does putting it into words make it any easier to bear?”
    He made a small protesting gesture with his hands. “Better than leaving it unsaid. Your father was not the first man my wife ... turned to.”
    “And that makes a difference?”
    “Does it not?”
    Perhaps she was seeking love, I whispered, but only in my mind. Yet Anton responded as if he had heard those unspoken words.
    “Valencienne and I were not close. For some time things between us had been difficult.”
    Because you devoted yourself to your work, I wondered, rather than to her? Because you thought emotions were dangerous and not to be trusted?
    “I don’t know where we went wrong,” he added with a sigh.
    I said abruptly, “Please tell me about my father.”
    “What can I tell you that you do not know already.”
    “A great deal, I imagine. Your stepmother and Raimund have been less than frank, in an effort to spare me pain. Frau Kreuder is very much prejudiced in his favour, because she believed he was a genius.”
    “And you? You’ve looked at his paintings, I gather. Do you not agree with her judgement?”
    I shook my head. “He had great talent, that’s indisputable. He had a real mastery of traditional forms and techniques. But he lacked the personal vision ... the uniqueness, that leaves technique behind. I believe someone once said that talent does what it can, while genius does what it must.”
    Anton considered this. “So Benedict Sherbrooke was no second Gauguin? I’ll admit that I am not altogether surprised. I often thought Sigrid was allowing her enthusiasm to run away with her.”
    “I think my father knew he was a failure,” I said. “He aspired to heights he could never hope to reach, and in his heart he must have realised it.”
    “You can judge all that merely from looking at his paintings?”
    “Are you suggesting that I’m just being fanciful?”
    “Not at all. I think you must be unusually perceptive. What you say makes a lot of sense to me. Benedict was certainly unsure of himself, always needing to have his confidence reinforced.”
    “Which your stepmother did.”
    I found it difficult to meet Anton’s steady gaze and I glanced away. Through the window I glimpsed the roofs of the Schloss with the bell tower and the various turrets, all shining silver against the lake’s blue water.
    “I can’t help wondering,” I went on slowly, “if my father’s sense of failure had something to do with his suicide. Otherwise ... I mean, if you love somebody, suicide isn’t a solution.”
    I thought that Anton was going to leave my question unanswered. As if he was unwilling to reveal his thoughts to me. At length he said, “I think you’re right