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He moved restlessly to the fireplace and stood looking up at the portrait.
‘Apparently he fell in love with her at first sight,’ he said abruptly. ‘So it can’t have been easy for him to be married yet not have a wife in any meaningful sense. So maybe there was some excuse for him finding consolation elsewhere.’
He drew a harsh breath. ‘But he came back to Penvarnon, Rhianna, and had a blatant affair with a girl almost young enough to be his daughter, totally humiliating and distressing my mother in the cruellest way. Then, when Grace Trewint was dismissed, he followed her to London and lived with her in a Knightsbridge flat he bought for them both. He never came back to Cornwall. We lost him. I—lost him.’
She said, ‘But if they loved each other—’
‘What kind of love is that?’ he returned harshly. ‘When so many people get hurt by it? My mother ended up in a nursing home, for God’s sake. She was there for almost a year, but gradually she put her life back together. Her health improved, and she even learned to walk again.’
He shook his head. ‘But she wouldn’t return to Penvarnon—and, with its memories, who could blame her? At first she bought a house in Brittany, then she moved south. But not here. Still not to Penvarnon property.’ He paused. ‘And she remains—fragile.’
He turned slowly and looked at her, his eyes haunted, anguished. ‘Rhianna…’
She went to him, putting her forefinger gently on his lips to silence him. ‘You don’t have to say anything,’ she told him huskily. ‘Truly, you don’t. Because I—understand.’
We love each other, she thought. But we can never say so. Because he’s right. What kind of love deliberately causes more hurt to someone who’s suffered enough?
She moved away and sat down. ‘Did she never think of divorce?’ she asked tentatively.
‘That’s one of the few things I’ve felt able to ask her.’ Diaz walked to the windows and stood looking out at the rain. ‘All she said was, “It wouldn’t have been right.”’
She said with difficulty, ‘She must have loved him very much.’ She paused. ‘Did you ever see your father again?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When your mother eventually left him he went back to South America, and I spent a lot of time with him there. But he wasn’t the same. He looked old and tired, long before his final heart attack. And I blamed her for that too.’ He saw her flinch and took a step towards her. ‘Darling…’
‘It’s all right.’ She held up a hand, smiling resolutely. ‘It’s just that I still can’t equate the woman I knew with this—this heartless home-wrecker.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Which is perhaps the moment to change the subject. Did you manage to find me a flight back to Britain tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘At five p.m. from Oviedo. The ticket will be at the Transoria desk.’
‘Thank you.’ She looked down at her glass. ‘There’s one more thing. Tonight—may I—is it possible for me to sleep in another room?’
Diaz turned back to the window. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said quietly. ‘I should have suggested it myself.’ He paused. ‘I’ll tell Pilar to transfer your things.’
She said, too brightly, ‘Another victory for morality. She’ll be delighted—especially when she finds I’m leaving tomorrow.’
‘Then at least one cloud has a silver lining.’ He drained his glass. His smile skimmed her. ‘Shall we go into dinner?’
It was a wretched meal, eaten mainly in silence, although the food was superb. There was a delicate almond soup, followed by thin slices of tender beef cooked in wine and green olives, and to finish crème Catalan, flavoured with lemon.
She said, ‘I didn’t think anything could better the food on your boat, but now I’m not so sure.’
His smile was abstracted. ‘Hardly surprising. Pilar taught Enrique all he knows.’ He rose. ‘Would you excuse me for a little while? I have some correspondence I should attend to.’
She said swiftly, ‘And, once again, I have to pack.’ She paused. ‘So, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Her new room was just across the passage from the one she’d shared with Diaz the previous night. Everything had been prepared for her. The shutters had been closed and the lamp lit. The ceiling fan was whirring softly and her nightgown waited on the turned-down bed.
And on the night table was the photograph wallet, which Pilar must have found when she’d been unpacking for her.
