‘It’s entitled Neptune’s Locket,’ Caroline said. ‘Everyone who sees it asks “What is she dreaming of?” Her smile has the same mesmeric, elusive quality of the Mona Lisa’s smile; and yet she looks more like one of Botticelli’s subjects. Many, many people have asked the price, but it is never for sale. It’s become famous. People come to the Île de Ré just to see it. “Why don’t you put it in a gallery in Paris?” they ask. But Christophe refuses. It is to stay here, where he can see it; and where I can look after it.
‘And now, dry your eyes,’ Caroline handed Ella a tissue. ‘You must be strong and cheerful for Christophe. Your being here will be the best medicine possible for him.’ She closed the metal shutters over the gallery’s windows and locked the door carefully behind her.
The bedroom was dark, the shutters pulled to, allowing just a sliver of light through to bisect the shadows. The muslin curtains stirred languidly in the evening breeze, but beneath the mineral breath of the sea Ella detected something else: the sickly-stale smell of illness overlain by the chemical tang of medications and disinfectant. Caroline held a finger to her lips and motioned Ella to come closer to the bed. Christophe lay, propped on pillows, his gaunt face peaceful, for the moment at least. At first his breathing seemed almost normal. But, as she listened, she noticed something in its quality – a catch here and there, a faint wheeziness on the in-breath – that spoke of troubled currents running just beneath the surface.
Caroline made as if to take his hand and waken him, but Ella stopped her. Every minute he spent asleep must surely be sparing him from the pain that wracked his emaciated body in his waking moments. She gestured to a chair at the bedside, eyebrows raised, asking a soundless question. Caroline nodded and left Ella sitting there, waiting for him to awaken of his own accord.
Eventually, his eyelids fluttered and his face creased as another wave of pain washed through him. She took his hand and his eyes opened, struggling to focus.
He licked his cracked lips and she leaned closer to hear what he said: ‘Either I am dreaming, or I have died and am now in heaven.’
She smiled and shook her head, gently squeezing his hand in hers. ‘Neither. I’m here. I won’t leave you.’
‘In that case,’ he was smiling too now, ‘I intend hanging on for as long as I possibly can.’
He fell silent again and she sat holding his hand, willing some of her strength to flow into his wasted body.
‘Do you remember that night at the inn, with the Mona Lisa illuminating that drab little room?’
She laughed. ‘Of course! How could I ever forget?’
‘When I was in the prison camp, I kept a drawing I’d done of you under my pillow. It was the same principle. You were my Mona Lisa, my reminder that truth and beauty existed even in that dismal place. And here you are again now, in my hour of need. In real life this time. How lucky I am to have known this.’
She leant over and kissed his forehead as he drifted off to sleep again, the faint smile still creasing his face.
‘Your being here is certainly doing him good.’ Caroline bustled into the kitchen carrying a breakfast tray. ‘He’s eaten a little this morning. Says he slept well. He seems to have a bit more strength today.’
The two women helped him out of bed and, with a robe draped over his shoulders, carefully escorted him downstairs and into the garden. They propped him on pillows on a chaise longue where the jasmine dropped its last flowers of the season like fallen stars. He lifted his face to the sun and sighed. ‘I can already feel it doing me good.’
The early autumn light set a cluster of golden coneflowers ablaze and warmed the last of the year’s roses so that they readily released their sweet, musky perfume. It seemed to Ella that she saw every petal, every scarlet leaf and every blade of emerald grass, her senses heightened by the feeling that she must hold on to each one of these precious moments before they slipped away forever. She sat beside him, reading to him from a book of French poetry, feeding him a verse at a time in order not to tire him out.
Caroline worked quietly in the background, using the opportunity to air his bedroom and change his crumpled sheets, occasionally bringing him his pain medication or another glass of water to sip. He reached up to catch her hand. ‘Merci, ma soeur. You have always been the most wonderful sister, Caroline. The other half of me: my twin.’
He drifted in and out of sleep as the day wore on, but one or other of the women was always at his side when he woke again. Time slowed and, as the light softened and the shadows lengthened in the garden, the three of them discovered a new-found sense of deep peace.
And it seemed to Ella that this was enough: to be here, the three of them together again at last, in their own small world, removed from everyday realities. Alive. It was everything. Her contentment could not be disturbed by thoughts of her family, thoughts of Angus, thoughts of the world beyond the island. The fortress that she and Caroline created to protect Christophe’s final days was impregnable.
‘What a perfect day.’ Christophe raised his face to receive Ella’s kiss. ‘You know, I do believe I feel a little stronger this morning. Let’s take Bijou out. The breeze is just right, if we set off from Saint Martin we can tack westwards and then it’ll be a smooth run for home when we turn.’
Ella glanced at Caroline, who shook her head almost imperceptibly. ‘Why don’t we wait and see how you feel tomorrow?’ she said, gently brushing a strand of hair back from his forehead.
‘Please? Surely this good weather can’t last much longer? It may be the final chance we have to take her out this season.’
His words hung in the air, deceptively light. Ella knew that there was a more sombre implication. His last summer. His last outing . . . his last sail.
She glanced again at Caroline, who shrugged, giving in.
‘Good idea.’ Ella matched her tone to his. ‘If you’re sure you’re strong enough? It really is a glorious day. A true Indian summer. Come, Caroline. I’ll help you pack the picnic basket.’
They drove him to the harbour and Caroline brought the boat round to a place where they could help him step, with relative ease, down on to the deck. Ella wrapped rugs around him and placed cushions behind his back so that he was well supported. ‘I feel like one of your precious sculptures being wrapped up for dispatch to a client.’ He smiled at his sister as she made the boat ready and cast off from the quayside.
He really did look a little better today, Ella thought. Perhaps the fresh air and sunshine he’d been enjoying in the garden were helping hold back the progress of his disease, giving his weakened body the strength to fight back again. Maybe he’d rally a little and there would be more opportunities to sail after all. Her spirits lifted as hope stirred in her heart.
The breeze was soft and languid, a gentle caress, which seemed to respect their wish to make the day last, savouring every moment as they tacked up the island’s coastline to the lagoon of the Fier d’Ars. They saw very few other boats: the holidaymakers had long since returned to their busy lives in the city, leaving the sea to the island’s year-round inhabitants; and the fishing fleet had set out earlier that morning, making the most of the spell of unseasonably benign weather to venture far out into the ocean where richer pickings were to be found.
‘It feels as though this day has been created for us alone,’ Ella remarked, smiling at Christophe as she squeezed his hand gently.
He smiled back at her and for a moment her breath caught as she glimpsed the boy she had first met on the dock all those years before, his dark eyes flashing with humour and passion, his high cheek bones casting shade across the contours of his handsome face.
‘Right here, right now, I am perfectly happy,’ he said. ‘How fortunate I am, to have had this day.’
Caroline judged the final tack perfectly and eased Bijou into the shallow lagoon flanked by dunes of pale gold sand. The water was mirror-calm in the bay as they lowered the sails and dropped anchor, allowing the boat to swing quietly on its mooring. The sunlight’s attenuated autumnal rays saturated the air with quiet warmth and Christophe lay watching the last swallows darting through the sky above him, preparing themselves for their long flight as they followed summer’s journey south.