The House By the Sea

Santa Montefiore

• Publisher: Simon & Schuster
• Year: 2011
• eBook ISBN: 9781847379320
• Edition: 0
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

FROM THE NUMBER ONE BESTSELLING AUTHOR The irresistible new novel set between 1960s Tuscany and present-day Devon... Ten-year-old Floriana is captivated by the beauty of the magnificent Tuscan villa just outside her small village, and dreams of living there someday. When Dante, the son of the villa's owner, invites her inside, she knows that her destiny is there, with him. But as they grow up they cross an unseen line, jeopardizing the very thing they hold most dear…
Decades later and hundreds of miles away, a beautiful old country house hotel on England's Devon coast has fallen on hard times. Its owner, Marina, hires an artist-in-residence to stay the summer and teach the guests how to paint. The man she finds is charismatic and wise and begins to pacify the discord in her family and transform the fortunes of the hotel. However, it soon becomes clear that he is not who he seems…
From the Italian countryside to the English coast, The House by the Sea is a moving and mysterious tale of love, forgiveness and the past revealed. This book has been published in the US under the title The Mermaid Garden. ***PRAISE FOR SANTA MONTEFIORE*** 'Nobody does epic romance like Santa Montefiore' JOJO MOYES 'An enchanting read overflowing with deliciously poignant moments' DINAH JEFFERIES on Songs of Love and War 'Santa Montefiore hits the spot for my like few other writers' SARRA MANNING 'One of our personal favourites' THE TIMES on The Last Secret of the Deverills 'Accomplished and poetic' Daily Mail 'Santa Montefiore is a marvel' Sunday Express

Chapter 1

Devon 2009

ARTIST WANTED

TO SPEND THE SUMMER

TEACHING RESIDENTS TO PAINT

AT THE HOTEL POLZANZE, DEVON

FREE BOARD & LODGING

TELEPHONE: [phone]

The Morris Minor rattled down the narrow lane towards the village of Shelton. The hedgerows were high and luxuriant, laced with pretty white cow parsley and forget-me-nots. A spray of sparrows took to the sky where feathery clouds floated inland on a salty wind. The car moved cautiously, swerving into a lay-by to avoid an oncoming lorry, then continued through the quaint hamlet of whitewashed cottages whose grey-tiled roofs shone like gold in the enthusiastic glare of dawn.

In the heart of Shelton a grey stone church huddled among a cluster of magnificent plane trees, and below, a sleek black cat trotted lithely along the wall, returning home from a successful night’s hunting. At the end of the village, as the lane turned sharply to the left before descending to the sea, a pair of imposing iron gates opened onto a narrow drive that swept in a graceful curve through banks of rhododendron bushes, already in bloom. The car turned in and made its way past fat pink flowers to the grey stone mansion at the end, positioned in splendid seclusion overlooking the sea.

The Polzanze was a harmoniously proportioned mansion built in 1814 by the Duke of Somerland for his whimsical wife, Alice, whose asthma benefited from the sea air. He demolished the old building, an unsightly pile of bricks dating back to the sixteenth century, and designed the present house with the help of his talented wife who had strong ideas of what she wanted. The result was a mansion that felt like a large cottage on the inside, with wood panelled walls, floral wallpapers, log fires and big latticed windows that looked onto the lawn and the ocean beyond.

The duchess adored her garden and spent her summers cultivating roses, planting exotic trees and designing an intricate maze of walkways through the lush woodland. She constructed a small garden for her children outside her study, where they could grow vegetables and flowers, and edged it with a miniature aqueduct so that they could float their boats in the water while she wrote her letters. Enamoured of Italy, she decorated her terrace with heavy terracotta pots of rosemary and lavender, and planted vines in the conservatory, training them to climb the trellises so that the grapes hung from the ceiling in dusty clusters.

Little had changed and much had been enhanced by her descendants, who added to the beauty of the place with their own flair and extravagance until they fell on hard times and were forced to sell in the early 1990s. The Polzanze had been converted into a hotel, which would have broken Alice’s heart had she lived to see it. But her legacy remained, as did much of the original hand-painted wallpaper of birds and butterflies. The cedar tree that sheltered the east side was reputed to be over five hundred years old, and the grounds boasted an ancient walled vegetable garden, built long before the duchess arrived to cultivate rhubarb and raspberries – as well as an ancient gardener who had been there longer than anyone could remember.

Marina heard a car draw up on the gravel outside and hurried to the first-floor window. She peered through the glass to see a dirty old Morris Minor, stuffed with canvases and paint-stained dustsheets, stall in front of the hotel like an exhausted mule. Her heart accelerated with anticipation and she hastily checked herself in the mirror on the landing. A little over fifty, she was at the height of her beauty, as if time had danced lightly across her face, barely leaving a footprint. Her luscious honey-brown hair tumbled over her shoulders in waves and her eyes were deep set and engaging, the colour of smoky quartz. Petite, with small bones and a narrow waist, she was none the less curvaceous, with wide hips and a generous bosom. She smoothed down her dress and fluffed up her hair, and hoped that she’d make a good impression.

‘Marina darling, it looks like your first potential artist-in-residence has arrived,’ exclaimed her husband, Grey Turner, peering through the glass and chuckling as an elderly man stepped onto the gravel in a long brocaded coat and black breeches, his scuffed shoes decorated with large brass buckles that glinted weakly in the spring sunshine.

‘Good Lord, it’s Captain Hook!’ remarked Clementine, Grey’s twenty-three-year-old daughter, who joined him at the window. She screwed up her nose in disdain. ‘Why Submarine wants to invite a painter to sponge off us every summer is beyond me. It’s very pretentious to have an artist-in-residence.’

Grey ignored the disrespectful nickname his children had coined for their stepmother. ‘Marina has a good nose for business,’ he said mildly. ‘Paul Lockwood was a great success last year, our guests loved him. It’s only natural that she should want to repeat it.’

‘She might change her mind when she sees this old sea-dog!’

‘Do you think he has a parrot tucked away with all that luggage?’ Grey continued, watching the old man walk stiffly round to the boot and pull out a shabby portfolio.

‘I think most certainly, Dad – and a ship moored down at the quay. At least he doesn’t have a hook for a hand.’

‘Marina will think he’s delightful. She loves eccentrics.’

‘Do you think that’s why she married you?’

Grey straightened up and put his hands in his pockets. He was very tall with curly, greying hair and a long, sensitive face. He looked down at his daughter and shook his head. ‘Don’t forget you carry my genes, Clemmie. If I’m eccentric, there’s a good chance that you have inherited the same flaw.’

‘I wouldn’t consider it a flaw, Dad. There’s nothing more boring than regular people. Mind you,’ she added, as the artist closed the boot. ‘You can have too much of a good thing.’

‘He’s here! How exciting!’ Marina joined her husband and stepdaughter at the window. Clementine watched her joy deflate as she laid eyes on her first candidate, staggering towards the entrance with his artwork tucked under his moth-eaten sleeve, and felt a small swell of pleasure.

‘My God!’ Marina exclaimed, throwing up her hands. ‘What am I going to do?’

‘Too late now, darling. You’d better show him in or he might draw his sword.’ Marina implored her husband with a desperate look, but he shook his head and laughed at her affectionately, digging his hands deeper into the pockets of his corduroy trousers. ‘This is your project. I know how you hate me to interfere.’

‘Why don’t you interview him with me?’ She tried to seduce him with a grin.

‘Oh, no, darling, he’s all yours.’

‘You’re a wicked, wicked man, Grey Turner,’ she retorted, but her lips curled at the corners as she took her place in the middle of the hall by the round table and extravagant flower display, while Shane Black, the porter, helped the old man in with his portfolio.

Ignoring the amused faces congregated at the window – for by now Jennifer, one of the receptionists, and Heather, a waitress, had found an excuse to come into the hall – Marina smiled at her first candidate warmly, extending her hand. His was rough and calloused, his fingernails ingrained with old paint. He seized hers with a firm grip. His eyes devoured her with the relish of a man who has been at sea for many months, and he seemed lost for words. ‘It’s so good of you to come, Mr Bascobalena. Let’s go into my office where we can have some coffee and a little chat. Perhaps you would prefer tea?’

‘Or a barrel of rum,’ Clementine hissed to her father.

Mr Bascobalena cleared his throat and swallowed. ‘Black coffee, no sugar – and please call me Balthazar.’

His deep baritone startled Marina and she flinched, withdrawing her hand. She could see her stepdaughter sniggering out of the corner of her eye and she lifted her chin defiantly.

‘Shane, see to it that Heather brings Mr Bascobalena a pot of black coffee right away and a cappuccino for me.’

‘Will do, Mrs Turner,’ said Shane, suppressing his mirth.

Picking up the portfolio, Shane followed them across the hall, through the drawing room, where a few clusters of guests sat reading the newspapers, and into the pretty green sitting room beyond which Marina’s office overlooked the Children’s Garden, redundant aqueduct, and the sea. She gestured that he place the portfolio on the coffee table, then watched him leave the room, closing the door behind him.

Marina invited Balthazar to sit on the sofa and winced as his dirty clothes made contact with the pale green chenille. She sank into the armchair and turned her face to the open window, where the sea breeze carried on its breath the sweet scent of cut grass and ozone. She could hear the distant roar of the ocean and the plaintive cry of gulls wheeling on the wind, and felt her heart ache with yearning to be down on the beach, her feet in the water, her hair tossed about by the breeze. Reluctantly, she wrenched her thoughts back. She already knew that Balthazar Bascobalena would not be spending the summer at the Polzanze, but she had to do him the courtesy of going through the motions.

‘You have a wonderful name – Bascobalena. Sounds Spanish.’ She was aware that he was staring at her, his jaw a little slack, as if he had never seen a woman before. In spite of the open window, his unwashed smell was beginning to fill the room. She wished Heather would hurry with the coffees, but guessed Shane was hanging around in the hall discussing their visitor with the rest of her staff. She hoped none of her guests had seen him come in.

‘Perhaps, somewhere in my family history, there’s a Spaniard. But we’re Devon folk through and through, and proud of it.’

Marina raised her eyebrows doubtfully. He had the dark skin and eyes of a Spaniard. When he bared his teeth, they were brown and rotten like those of a sailor with scurvy. ‘And Balthazar. You have the name of a hero in a book.’

‘My mother was fanciful.’

‘Was she an artist, too?’

‘No, but she was a dreamer, God rest her soul.’

‘So, tell me, Balthazar, what do you paint?’

‘Boats,’ he replied, leaning forward to open his portfolio.

‘Boats,’ Marina repeated, trying to inject some enthusiasm into her voice. ‘How interesting. But not surprising,’ she added humorously.

Mr Bascobalena missed her reference to his pirate outfit. ‘Oh, I’ve been fascinated by boats since I was a nipper.’

‘Raised on the sea?’

‘Oh, yes, as was my father and grandfather before him.’ He was distracted by a couple of paintings hanging on the wall. ‘Those are good landscapes. Are you a collector, Mrs Turner?’

‘Sadly not. I don’t paint, either. I just admire people like you who do. So, let’s see some of your work.’

He pulled out a sketch of a fishing boat in a tempestuous sea. For a moment Marina forgot his smell and his extra-ordinary clothes and stared incredulously at the picture before her.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she gasped, shuffling to the edge of her chair. ‘You have a gift.’

‘Look at this one, then.’ He pulled out another, his enthusiasm rising. Marina was stunned by the wistful charm of his work. He had sketched boats of all kinds: from fleets of Elizabethan ships to modern yachts and barges. Some drawn in calm waters at dawn, others on the high seas by moonlight, all with the same stirring sense of melancholy. ‘I paint in oils, too, but they’re too big to bring. You can come and see them if you like? I live near Salcombe.’

‘Thank you. I’m sure they’re as lovely as your sketches.’ She looked at him with sincerity. ‘You have an extraordinary talent.’

‘If I could paint people, I’d paint you.’ Marina ignored the lecherous look in his eyes.

‘You don’t paint people?’ She feigned disappointment.

‘Not a chance.’ He ran a hand through thinning grey hair that reached the gilded epaulettes on his shoulders. ‘Never have done. Can’t get them right. Whatever I do they always look like monkeys.’

‘What a shame. You see, Balthazar, I need my artist-in-residence to teach my guests how to paint everything. Not just boats and monkeys. I’m sorry.’

As Balthazar’s shoulders hunched in defeat, Heather appeared with the tray carrying a silver coffee pot and a cappuccino. Marina shot her a furious look for having taken so long and Heather flushed a little as she placed it on the desk. Marina hoped he’d leave right away, but his greedy eyes settled on the gingernut biscuits and his spirits lifted. Reluctantly she poured him a cup of coffee, handed him the biscuits and watched him sink back into her sofa.

Clementine climbed into her red Mini Cooper and drove down the winding narrow lanes towards the town of Dawcomb-Devlish. Woolly fields undulated in a patchwork of assorted greens beneath a clear cerulean sky. Swallows dived and seagulls wheeled, and every now and then she glimpsed the sparkling blue ocean gently rippling into the hazy mists on the horizon. And yet, in spite of the beauty, Clementine’s heart was a nugget of resentment.

She stared miserably at the grey tarmac and considered her lot. She wished she was travelling around India again, enjoying the freedom that three years and a respectable degree at university merited, instead of schlepping into Dawcomb-Devlish every morning to slog away as secretary to the desperately bland Mr Atwood and his sleepy estate agency on the high street.

It had come as something of a shock when her father had declared that he no longer had the money to fund her self-indulgence. She had hoped to defer work for another year at least. He had offered her a job at the hotel, like Jake, who had worked his way up to manager, but she’d rather die than call her stepmother boss. So he had found her a position for six months while Mr Atwood’s secretary, Polly, was on maternity leave. If she lasted six weeks it would be a miracle, not only was she barely able to type, but she was very disorganized, relying on Sylvia, Mr Atwood’s partner’s secretary, to do most of the work for her. She was aware that Mr Atwood’s patience was being sorely tested, but as he was indebted to her father for sending him clients there was little he could do.

It was a bore to be in Devon at all. If her mother hadn’t had to sell her house in London and move up to Scotland she’d have found a far more glamorous job in Chelsea and would be spending every night with her friends in Boujis. As it was, she found herself in Devon, which she loathed on account of the many summer holidays she had spent being dragged onto cold beaches and shivering on rocks while her brother and father went crabbing. Marina used to make lavish picnics and would take her up and down the beach looking for shells, but Clementine always refused to take her hand. It was a small act of defiance. But she had always felt inadequate beside this beautiful creature who had stolen her father’s heart. She was well aware of the light in his eyes when he looked at her, as if he were gazing on an angel, and the way the light dimmed when he looked at her, as if she were an interruption. She didn’t doubt his love; he just loved Marina mo...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Dedication
• Acknowledgments
• Prologue
• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3
• Chapter 4
• Chapter 5
• Chapter 6
• Chapter 7
• Chapter 8
• Chapter 9
• Chapter 10
• Chapter 11
• Chapter 12
• Chapter 13
• Chapter 14
• Chapter 15
• Chapter 16
• Chapter 17
• Chapter 18
• Chapter 19
• Chapter 20
• Chapter 21
• Chapter 22
• Chapter 23
• Chapter 24
• Chapter 25
• Chapter 26
• Chapter 27
• Chapter 28
• Chapter 29
• Chapter 30
• Chapter 31
• Chapter 32
• Chapter 33
• Chapter 34
• Chapter 35
• Chapter 36
• Chapter 37
• Epilogue
• THE DAWCOMB-DEVLISH GAZETTE
• ‘The Summer House’ Teaser
• ‘Songs of Love and War’ Teaser
• Copyright