The Lost Ones

The Lost Ones Anita Frank Some houses are never at peace. England, 1917 Reeling from the death of her fianc?, Stella Marcham welcomes the opportunity to stay with her pregnant sister, Madeleine, at her imposing country mansion, Greyswick – but she arrives to discover a house of unease and her sister gripped by fear and suspicion. Before long, strange incidents begin to trouble Stella – sobbing in the night, little footsteps on the stairs – and as events escalate, she finds herself drawn to the tragic history of the house. Aided by a wounded war veteran, Stella sets about uncovering Greyswick’s dark and terrible secrets – secrets the dead whisper from the other side… In the classic tradition of The Woman in Black, Anita Frank weaves a spell-binding debut of family tragedy, loss and redemption. Praise for The Lost Ones ‘Haunting, emotional and exquisitely written’  Amanda Jennings ‘For fans of Henry James and Susan Hill, this chilling supernatural mystery is written in the classic mould.   Intriguing, moving and assured’  Essie Fox ‘I loved it SO MUCH – so creepy and compelling, full of atmosphere and gave me goosebumps…’   Lisa Hall ‘If you liked A Woman in Black, you’ll love this utterly gripping and atmospheric book’ WOMAN&HOME ‘My coffee is stone cold. My palms are sweaty. I’ve raced to the shocking final twist of this lush, beautifully written historical novel. A gripping ghost story with an achingly poignant family mystery at its heart’ Samantha King ‘An assured debut novel combining two well-loved literary genres set in country houses: the haunted house and the Agatha Christie-style whodunnit. Anita Frank’s fiendishly devised plot springs a succession of shocks and revelations that keep you gripped until the final page’ Noel O’Reilly ANITA FRANK was born in Shropshire and studied English and American History at the University of East Anglia. She lives in Berkshire with her husband and three children and is now a full-time carer for her disabled son. This is her first novel. The Lost Ones Anita Frank ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES Copyright (#ulink_50717fcf-da81-53b0-94bf-7b04432755cc) An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019 Copyright © Anita Frank 2019 Anita Frank asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008341206 Note to Readers (#ulink_2483bd43-3422-5a29-9571-f3c2a62918fd) This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings: Change of font size and line height Change of background and font colours Change of font Change justification Text to speech Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008341220 For Rebecca Contents Cover (#u198214d4-c54b-586a-a80c-2a6615103a6c) About the Author (#u3c14f348-8853-591c-991a-a0c3e51d5db0) Title Page (#ue19c5e59-2008-5208-b479-4861f3504971) Copyright (#ulink_77b556d1-2c28-5bb2-9dcd-e491d0f97786) Note to Readers (#ulink_6a4483b8-bd5c-557a-8d26-1f824bf88f53) Dedication (#ue5ead5e3-56df-5353-ad26-2af1f809f4bc) Chapter One (#ulink_1ecb8d84-f427-52be-814d-5d703f9212de) Chapter Two (#ulink_742ae772-2af6-52e8-82b4-5c1c39e1ab90) Chapter Three (#ulink_cfe160f4-1554-5d6c-a7cb-cffb173703c5) Chapter Four (#ulink_ab4d83e9-2754-59ad-a303-1fa84e283ddf) Chapter Five (#ulink_f17ef7a1-4ed7-550a-bcdb-5cce39fedcee) Chapter Six (#ulink_41aeadf9-b031-5083-878e-4c38089958ad) Chapter Seven (#ulink_6e6e2fc1-6ae5-5046-afad-6766f3ee5f97) Chapter Eight (#ulink_55bc14bf-5f27-5848-a914-12c5d8a46269) Chapter Nine (#ulink_e48c8f49-5c93-5e70-989f-cd27ddf222f0) Chapter Ten (#ulink_51734e66-e829-57ac-9730-7f0ad0cdda39) Chapter Eleven (#ulink_bdfb4e58-fe0c-5a3a-a5c5-a1fa094e4b4a) Chapter Twelve (#ulink_b44e6810-3bbc-51b3-9923-06a41d579aa7) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One (#ulink_ffade310-8ad9-5113-9ca0-90d04ffdf610) Sunday, 6th May 1917 The brass plaque, polished so it shone like burnished gold, was mounted pride of place on the chantry wall – a new, if unwelcome, addition to the village church. Our boxed family pew was situated directly opposite, and rather than crick my neck to observe the vicar intoning from his elevated position in the pulpit, I found myself captivated by the ornate inscription. IN MEMORY ROBERT RICHARDSON 2ND LIEUT, 3RD MILITIA BN, BERKSHIRE REGT BELOVED ONLY SON OF MR AND MRS HENRY RICHARDSON KILLED IN ACTUAL FIGHTING IN FRANCE, 2ND JULY 1916 AGED 18 YEARS DUTY NOBLY DONE I closed my eyes for a moment as I recalled the blissful summer of 1914: all baking heat and leisurely pleasures; a cricket match on the village green. I remembered a willowy school boy: a muss of ruffled blond hair, cheeks dimpled by an irrepressible grin, a streak of red down the thigh of his white flannels, a powerful run up, a perfect windmill arm, the satisfying clatter of stumps, a smatter of applause. They never found his body. His parents had been forced to settle for the plaque rather than a grave. He was just eighteen years old, a school-boy officer fresh from the fields of Eton. As I read and re-read the words, my fingers strayed to the gold locket that hung against my black coat. It no longer gleamed, dulled as it was by too much caressing. I finally managed to tear my eyes away, but my gaze only strayed as far as the front pew, settling on the poor boy’s parents. They sat shoulder to shoulder, rigid with grief. Mrs Richardson, once a charismatic, vibrant woman, had been greatly reduced by her son’s death. Her plump and rosy cheeks were now sunk into hollows, giving her a cadaverous appearance, while her finely appointed mourning clothes sagged over her diminishing frame. I had no doubt she was aware of another mother, sitting just a few rows back. Mrs Whittaker’s broad shoulders shook with misery, for her anguish was still fresh and raw. We three cast sombre shadows, stagnant pools of grief amidst the amassed congregation. I returned my focus to the vicar’s monotonous monologue purporting to the value of sacrifice, but it wasn’t long before I found myself shifting irritably on the unforgiving pew. My experiences nursing in France with the Voluntary Aid Detachment had exposed faith as a fallacy. I had seen too much barbaric waste to still believe we were being guided by a higher purpose. The vicar’s words now did little to change my opinion. Not for the first time that morning, I wished I hadn’t come, but my parents had made it very clear that my weekly attendance at the Sunday service was an issue of duty, if not belief. My presence, it seemed, was not a matter for discussion. I let out a soft sigh as I fidgeted again, my impatience and discomfort rising. The respectful attention the congregation afforded the vicar’s words annoyed me. Apart from Old Man Withers, who at ninety-one was forgiven for nodding off during services, my fellow parishioners were focused on the pulpit. I was the only one in this aged church who had seen first-hand the unmitigated destruction of life. Perhaps it was a kindness to allow them their naivety, their conviction in the righteousness of this conflict. Let them be dedicated to their Holy War, to their God’s will, but I could no longer share that dedication. It appeared I was not the only member of the congregation struggling to endure the service. I spotted our young housemaid, Annie Burrows, crushed into the end of a pew occupied by our few remaining servants. Whilst the housekeeper, Mrs Scrivens, and our butler, Brown, along with a couple of maids, gave the vicar their rapt attention, Annie had become distracted by Mrs Whittaker’s muted sobs. She wore a strange expression on her face as she watched the broken-hearted mother, one I was unable to decipher. She must have felt the weight of my scrutiny, for she twisted in her seat and locked gazes with me. Caught spying, I felt my cheeks blaze as I looked away. It was, of course, a widely accepted opinion that there was something very odd about Annie Burrows. When I had returned from France, broken and debilitated by Gerald’s death, her surprising presence at Haverton Hall had been one of very few things to elicit my interest. I learned that Mrs Burrows had approached my mother just a few months after I had left, in the autumn of 1914. Emaciated by the cancer that was devouring her, she had come seeking employment for her thirteen-year-old daughter. My mother had agreed at once – given the extent of our debt to their family it was, she told me later, the very least we could do. It had not been a popular appointment amongst the rest of the staff, that I did know. Even Mrs Scrivens had asked my mother in no uncertain terms to reconsider. Annie had quirks of character that others found perturbing – peculiar distraction, incessant whispering, suspicious furtiveness. My mother, determined to honour her obligation, was unmoved by the housekeeper’s appeal. As the war progressed and the household staff steadily depleted, Mrs Scrivens had little choice but to promote Annie to upstairs work, to which she applied herself with quiet diligence. Over time, the housekeeper’s opinion improved, and Annie learnt to subdue some of her more unusual behaviours. Yet I still found there was something strangely unnerving about the young maid, an otherworldliness to her that I could never quite put my finger on. Behind me someone attempted to stifle a coughing fit. The vicar finally drew his dreary sermon to a close, casting a stern look over his flock. Upstairs the ancient organ wheezed into life, and we rose as a single body, apparently rallied by words of faith. I opened the leather-bound hymn book, my gloved fingers fumbling through the flimsy pages until I had found the one required: ‘God Is Working His Purpose Out’. I snorted. Around me, voices blended – my own did not join them. I sensed rather than saw my mother’s disapproving frown. I sneaked a glance down the aisle. Annie Burrows was staring into the open pages of her hymnal. She too was silent. We remained standing to accept the vicar’s parting blessing, before shuffling from our pews, filtering out into the aisle, queueing for the arched doorway to the rear. There was a murmur of polite conversation as neighbour greeted neighbour, but I chose to fix my eyes on the uneven flags beneath my feet. When at last we reached the vicar, I hung back while Mother stepped forward to proffer her thanks and my father made some intelligent observations on the sermon. I skirted round them and ducked out into the porch, pressing through the mingling crowd, until I managed to free myself from the throng. I sidled down the path, averting my eyes from the freshly domed grave of Private Tom Whittaker, who had clung onto life long enough to make it home. A wreath of white roses had been laid upon the heaped earth and the tips of their petals were now beginning to brown and curl. I fought to quash a sense of envy that at least his family would be able to set fresh flowers down whenever they wished. A strip of ocean kept me from Gerald’s graveside. It grieved me to think of his resting place languishing unadorned. I hurried on, eager to leave the post-service conviviality behind me. Chippings crunched beneath my feet as I moved through the silent congregation of lichen-covered headstones, their platitudes faded, their inhabitants forgotten. I was not the only one to have disengaged from the churchgoers: Annie was crouched before a modest headstone lying in the shadow of the cemetery wall. I knew whose it was, for I had stood beside it myself a decade ago, paying my respects to her father. Jim Burrows had died saving my little sister Lydia from the devastating fire that had engulfed Haverton Hall all those years ago. It had been deemed miraculous that he had succeeded in finding her when all other attempts had failed, lowering her to safety from an upstairs window before succumbing to the flames. In the end though, his sacrifice proved to be in vain: her smoke-charred lungs were so badly damaged she died a few weeks later, but we were always grateful for the precious extra time that his bravery had granted us. However devastating those days had been, as we watched her suffer each painful breath, they had afforded us the opportunity to hold her, kiss her, cherish her – to say our final goodbyes. Annie’s father had been there one minute and gone the next, with barely a body left to bury. How much more difficult it must have been for Annie and her mother to come to terms with such abrupt loss. I often wondered about their regrets, the things they might have said, if they had had but a chance. Instead, all they had was a gravestone. I looked away as I passed by, affording Annie her privacy. It seemed we both sought comfort from the dead. I broke off from the path and headed to the far side of the church. Our Marcham family mausoleum was Grecian in design, a mini-pantheon. Truth be told, it was far too grand for the size of the graveyard, towering disproportionately over the humble headstones that surrounded it. Its stone walls were weathered, blackened by rain and frost, and the paint was beginning to flake from the wrought iron gates that barred the door. I had seen those gates opened twice in my life: once when I was eight to witness my grandfather being laid to rest, and two years later, when poor Lydia had been entombed. It had been built for my grandmother. I had never known her, but a magnificent portrait hung pride of place on the staircase and as a child I had been quite captivated by her magical radiance. Thinking of her now, it struck me how tragedy had stalked my family. She too had died well before her time, when my father was still a boy. My grandfather would never speak of her accident, but I remember the yearning sadness that dulled his eyes on those rare occasions her name was mentioned and how his grip would slacken on his ever-present Dublin pipe as she entered his thoughts. I never quizzed him, but I did summon the courage to ask my father about her, late one evening when he had come up to the nursery to bid me goodnight. A keen horsewoman, she had been thrilled when my grandfather had presented her with a new hunter, but tragedy had struck on their very first outing. Skittish in unfamiliar countryside, the horse bolted and in a moment of madness, before my grandmother could regain its head, it took on an impossible fence. They tumbled to the ground together in a horrifying m?l?e of flailing limbs and terrifying screams as my grandfather looked helplessly on. He carried her back to the hall as grooms tried to catch the traumatised horse, still stumbling about the field. In her last agony-laden hours, my grandmother made him promise not to punish the animal, a promise that was forgotten as the final breath slipped from her parted lips. My father vividly recalled the harrowing cry that had sounded through the house, a feral keen of mourning. He remembered too the rage and the fury; my grandfather rampaging through the Hall, retrieving his shotgun from the gun room and his ominous journey to the stable block. My father had raced after him, fearful of the impending catastrophe, as the grooms cowered from my grandfather’s path. Only Jim Burrows, then little more than a boy himself, had stood his ground, blockading the horse’s stall. No one knows what passed between them that day, but when at last my grandfather emerged, the gun broken over his arm, the cartridges in his hand, he was ashen. The hunter wasn’t destroyed, but he was swiftly sold. From that moment on, my grandfather demonstrated an almost deferential respect for the young groom, and they could often be found in quiet conversation, despite their disparity in both age and position. I always thought it strangely fitting it was Jim Burrows that plunged into the flames that night to save Lydia, though tragedy would result for both our families. It was as if the fates of the Marchams and the Burrows were inextricably entwined. And now some would say I owed Annie Burrows my life, but I chose not to dwell on that. A large yew tree grew to the front of the mausoleum, below which stood a simple bench. The seat planks were split with age and still greasy from the overnight shower, but I drew my coat around me and sat down anyway, impervious to the damp. Perhaps it was macabre of me, but I always found great solace here, sitting in quiet contemplation of those who had passed: my grandmother, my grandfather, Lydia, and now Gerald. My fingers were drawn once more to my locket. I fumbled with the intricate clasp, until it fell open into its two hinged ovals. I had no interest in the image captured in the right-hand side, a representation of myself I no longer recognised – youthful, optimistic … happy. Instead, I focused my attention on the pale photograph contained in the left. It was a studio portrait, at first glance stiff and formal, but if you looked closely, as I always did, you could see in the eyes a glint of humour, bright enough to shine through the shadow cast by the peaked officer’s cap, and the neat moustache failed to conceal an upward curl of the mouth that hinted at suppressed laughter. I felt the familiar ache in my chest and snapped the locket shut, wiping at the warm trickle in my nose. ‘I saw her come this way. She has taken to sitting under the yew tree when she’s here.’ ‘And how has she been?’ I jumped to my feet. The pompous tones of Dr Mayhew had every inch of my body preparing for flight. I had the advantage – whilst I could hear their approach, neither he nor my mother could yet see me. My pulse quickened as I darted out of sight down the far side of the mausoleum, pressing my body against the cold stone, the long, wet grass licking at my stockinged ankles. Closing my eyes, I held my breath. The rim of my hat butted against the stone. ‘Oh!’ Close now, my mother sounded perplexed. ‘I’m sure I saw her come this way.’ ‘Perhaps she’s made her way round the church to the front. No matter. I think I should come and see her again though.’ ‘Oh yes, I do wish you would, Doctor. She’s still not at all herself, you know. I am so afraid she might do something silly again, indeed’ – her tone lowered – ‘I have good reason to suspect it.’ ‘Now that would be a very worrying development.’ His voice was grave, and I could just picture him rocking on his heels, his fingers interlocked behind his back, his chest puffed out with characteristic self-importance. ‘I had hoped after all this time we were beginning to see some signs of improvement. Look,’ he let out a long, exasperated sigh, ‘I’ll pop by and see her. Perhaps we can talk more then.’ I waited in my hiding place, suspicious they might be faking silence as a lure – I’d been caught out by that trick before, but I was more cautious now. Minutes passed. My toes began to ache from the penetrating cold. At last I opened my eyes. Annie Burrows stood not more than a few feet in front of me. Her eyes were the most extraordinary shade of blue – violet almost, a peculiar, unnatural shade – set too close to the narrow bridge of her nose, giving the impression she was cross-eyed, though closer inspection revealed this was not the case. Unsettling, all the same. ‘They’ve gone.’ She paused, waiting to see her words register, before turning and walking away across the grass. Bewildered, I withdrew from the shadow of the mausoleum to watch the young maid disappear through the lychgate. A single magpie flew out from the branches of the yew and landed on the path before me, its sleek black plumage glinting in the weak morning light that was only now beginning to penetrate the cloud. He strutted on his spindly legs, his head tilted as he fixed me with his calculating eye. ‘One for sorrow,’ I murmured as I dropped down upon the bench succumbing to a wave of desperate misery that quite threatened to overwhelm me. ‘Oh, Gerald.’ His name escaped me as a mournful whisper. I sought comfort from a happy memory: a warm July day before the war, a picnic. I could recall the moment in clear detail: the burbling brook, a tartan blanket, bitter ginger ale – tangy relief to our parched throats – and the brush of Gerald’s arm against mine as we bathed in the sunshine. It had been a perfect afternoon. I could even hear our laughter, hear his voice. Every tiny facet of the day was crystalline, everything, that is, but Gerald’s face. That precious part of the picture proved frustratingly elusive. When I tried to focus on it, I found it clouded – blurred and vague. My heart ached. What I had always feared was coming to pass: I was beginning to forget him. Chapter Two (#ulink_c3166c44-3003-52a1-be0a-d2588e1098e3) For a long while after Gerald’s death, I feared I had surrendered my sanity to grief – in the early days, I had certainly surrendered my will to live. For the first day or so after it happened, Matron, a stern Welsh woman with a reputation for brooking no nonsense, had been surprisingly indulgent and understanding. I lay immobile in my bed, unable to eat, unable to sleep, unable, even, to weep. My fellow VAD nurses spoke in hushed almost reverential whispers as they moved around our tent, eager not to disturb me. Their sympathy was as tangible as their relief that the tragedy had not been theirs. When I showed no signs of improvement, Matron had suggested a trip home might sort me out, but as my stupor spread from a few days into a week, her tone became more strident, her patience wearing thin, until a sojourn at home was not a suggestion but an order. The girls packed my things for me. I think we all understood I would not be coming back. I can’t remember much of the journey from the continent, I had lost all interest in life by then. I do remember standing at the ship’s rail as she rolled across the churning grey Channel. I remember holding onto the rain-soaked railing and thinking how slippery it was beneath my freezing fingers. I rested my booted foot on the bottom rung, staring at the heaving waves as they crashed against the hull. My head dropped towards my chest as I strained to hear the siren’s call enticing me from beneath the surging waves, the spray spitting in my face with contemptuous disregard for my suffering. The ship listed and I stumbled sideways. An officer caught my arm and steadied me, his face half concealed by a bandage. He shouted over the roar of the waves that it might be best if we go back in, and I offered no resistance as he took my elbow and guided me through the iron door. He said something to a nurse inside, something I couldn’t hear, and she came to me as he disappeared down the stairs, his heavy boots clanking against the steel grated steps to the lower deck. Her face softened when she saw my blank expression. She led me back to my quarters and put me to bed, tucking the blankets about me so tightly I could barely breathe. Perhaps she thought they might hinder any further attempts at wandering. My mother met me off the boat when it docked. Our elderly chauffeur had driven her down, all the way to Portsmouth – goodness knows where they got the petrol. I remember being startled by the juxtaposition of our shining motorcar next to the unloading detritus of war: the gravely wounded on stretchers, the shattered bodies and blood-soaked bandages. The same nurse escorted me off, her arm firm around my back as she helped me down the gangplank, one faltering step after another. She said something to my mother as she handed me over, but her words escaped me – lost amongst the shouts and the moans, the slamming of ambulance doors and the whine of engines. I was becoming accustomed by that time to people discussing me as if I wasn’t there. It was to continue for weeks after I returned – Dr Mayhew shut away with my parents. I was too numb to feel any resentment. I would get better eventually, everyone assured me in cheery voices dripping with insincerity and trimmed with doubt. I was not to be left alone, Dr Mayhew had advised. Close supervision was required for someone plunging to such perilous depths. Home, he warned, might not be a suitable environment. Options had been discussed. And then my dear sister Madeleine had arrived, bringing quiet compassion, sympathy and understanding. Gradually, the edges of the yawning cavity left by Gerald’s death began to contract. The emptiness receded, little by little, though it never vanished. I was at least able to rise from my bed, eat, think and occasionally I even managed a wan smile, just for a moment, until I remembered again. It was, Madeleine assured me, the beginning of my recovery and I was to force myself towards it, like an exhausted mountaineer with the pinnacle in sight, because the alternative was too awful to consider. It was proving to be a long and arduous climb. There were still some who anticipated my fall. I was late to rise, following yet another disturbed night, but I found I could get away with being a lie-abed these days. I had few pressures on my time, and Mother went to great lengths to ensure I wasn’t taxed in any way. Having availed myself of the pitcher and basin on the washstand, I dressed without fuss, drifting towards the draped windows as I fastened my locket about my neck. Once done, I reached up and thrust apart the heavy curtains, blinking against the sunlight that flooded the room. Annie Burrows appeared below me, carrying a pail of ash towards the flowerbeds, her ginger hair vibrant in the morning sun. The cinders would be scattered to enrich the soil, but it was not the performance of this daily chore that drew my attention – it was Annie’s extraordinary behaviour. She was talking to herself in a most animated manner, gesticulating with her free hand before breaking into smiles – in an odd way she looked almost radiant. With anyone else, it might have been amusing – charming even – to see them so caught up in their own little world, but with Annie, the whole display was rather eerie. She stopped. Her head shot round to fire at me a scowl so targeted I recoiled into the curtain folds, taken aback by the animus it appeared to contain. My heart beat faster and it felt like an age before I had the courage to peek out from behind the jacquard screen. She was gone; the garden was quite empty. Only my discomfort remained. I had by this time missed breakfast, but I knew Mother would be taking tea in the morning room, and I resolved to join her there – a cup of tea would be just the ticket to restore my equanimity and set me up for the day. As I started to make my way across the hall I caught sight of my reflection in the foxed glass of the mirror hanging above the fireplace and I drew up short. I backtracked to stand before it, my fingers straying to the pale blue cardigan I had donned – it looked incongruous against the heavy black of my dress. The reintroduction of colour to my clothing was a very recent concession to my parents. They had, in truth, become embarrassed by my funereal attire. In their eyes my bereavement lacked legitimacy – Gerald and I had not been officially engaged, there had merely been an understanding between us. It seemed a sparkling ring and an announcement in The Times were needed to validate my grief – as it was, they considered eight months shrouded in deep mourning quite long enough. I had been a melancholic shadow in the house for so long that I found it curious to catch sight of myself now sporting this dash of the unfamiliar. I was a dull duckling learning to embrace its decorative adult feathers – soon I would be transformed beyond all recognition. I moved away from the mirror and walked on. Gerald was gone. A piece of clothing changed only how I looked, not how I felt – I would learn to skirt the gloom in colourful attire, just as I was learning to indulge my suffering in private. The morning-room door opened as I approached, and Annie emerged with a large wooden tray hanging from her hand, which knocked against her calf as she closed the door behind her. She started when she saw me, belatedly curtsying before stepping to the side to allow me to pass. She revealed no hint of our earlier episode. I paid her little heed as I reached for the door handle. ‘Dr Mayhew.’ I jerked my fingers back from the ribbed brass as if it had burnt me. Her gaze climbed to my face. ‘He’s in there, with your mother, miss.’ I was grateful for, if surprised by, the warning. Dr Mayhew had grown impatient of my grief – in his eyes it had morphed into something else, something that did not deserve sympathy or delicacy. In his opinion, I was showing signs of hysteria – that peculiarly female affliction he found so intolerable and which required a firm hand, cold baths and country retreats – a euphemism, I soon learnt, for asylums catering to the more genteel lady. He would have had me suitably incarcerated on my return from France, but Madeleine intervened on my behalf, persuading my parents that time was all I really needed. In the end, my parents relented, but Dr Mayhew continued to prowl in the wings, unconvinced by my paper-thin performance of improvement, constantly critiquing, whittling away my parents’ confidence, ever hopeful of vindication. I contemplated the best course of action. If I returned to my room I would be doing little more than delaying the inevitable: I would either receive a summons, or – even worse – they would come and find me. I looked at Annie. ‘Come and get me in five minutes,’ I instructed, ‘say there’s a telephone call for me. You can say it’s my sister.’ I couldn’t tell whether she was regarding me with compassion or contempt and to my irritation I felt myself flush. She dipped her head in assent, and with a strategy in place, I reached again for the door handle. Dr Mayhew stood up the moment I entered, the dainty cup and saucer with its pattern of entwined pink roses looking faintly absurd in his meaty grasp. He had been the village doctor for as long as I could remember, but I had never taken to the man. He had the habit of walking into a room and demanding its deference – such pomposity did not sit well with me and never had. He had not aged well, it had to be said. Flabby jowls folded over the starched collar of his shirt, and the red thread veins in his cheeks and a bulbous, purple-mottled nose confirmed popular suspicions he was rather too fond of his drink. His hair, once thick and black, was now thin and grey, a few lank strands draped over his sharply domed head, though his thick mutton chops still flourished and seemed to offer some balance to his generous girth. ‘Here she is, the young lady herself. How is our patient this morning?’ I smiled, but only because it was expected of me. It grated that he still saw fit to refer to me in this way, as if I was ill and always would be. I was not ill. I was grieving. ‘I am quite well, thank you, Doctor,’ I said, greeting my mother before attending to the tea things laid out upon the sideboard. ‘No more nightmares?’ I put down the teapot, pushing away the images that had plagued my sleep. ‘None at all.’ ‘So, the medication is working then?’ I thought of the untouched bottle of pills tucked away in my dressing table drawer. I turned back to face him, my teacup in hand. ‘It appears so.’ I smiled over the rim and took a deep gulp of the lukewarm liquid. His studied me, inscrutable. I knew I mustn’t flinch – an inadvertent tremor of my hand, a quiver in my voice, any nervous darting of the eyes and he would have me locked up before the day was out. I took another sip of tea, and with a steady hand, rested my cup back into the saucer. Mother hadn’t moved from her chair. She was staring into the fire, her lips pursed. She was finally roused by the quiet tap at the door and Annie bobbing into the room. ‘Mrs Brightwell is on the telephone for you, miss.’ She held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, leaving me to suspect she resented her part in the duplicity, but I was unconcerned. I had achieved my aim: my escape was secured. ‘Oh! Madeleine? I’d better come straight away.’ I contrived a look of polite – if not sincere – disappointment and took a final, hasty gulp of tea. ‘Goodbye, Dr Mayhew.’ I didn’t shut the door fully behind me. I indicated my gratitude to Annie with a curt nod which she acknowledged before returning to her legitimate chores. I, however, loitered. ‘How is she really?’ Dr Mayhew asked. ‘She was caught at the lake again, the other evening.’ I hadn’t realised my mother knew. ‘With intent?’ ‘Annie saw her going and followed her down. She brought her back before she had the chance to …’ She didn’t need to finish – we all knew what happened last time. ‘Well, I must say, that is most disappointing to hear. I thought she was making better progress – she’s seemed a little more collected of late.’ He let the dread sink into my poor mother before making a half-hearted attempt to reassure her. ‘Well now, we shouldn’t leap to the worst of conclusions every time. Perhaps it was nothing more than an innocent walk that took her that way – it is a beautiful spot after all, and nothing did happen – but we must also …’ He left a meaningful pause. ‘As you well know, my dear Mrs Marcham, there are a lot of women mourning in this country today. The majority will no doubt overcome their grief in time, but the added trauma of what Stella went through – it might be she never recovers from it.’ ‘Then what should we do, Doctor? God knows I can’t lose another daughter.’ ‘The medication should help – if she takes it.’ ‘She says she is, but if she’s not?’ ‘Then maybe we should revisit the idea of a short break away.’ I recoiled from the doorway, a bile of fury rising up inside me. I would never agree to it. I would not be incarcerated simply for feeling a natural human emotion. The concept was insane – but I most certainly was not. Chapter Three (#ulink_eb7abd14-9046-535c-b325-02a326c6d243) I slammed my bedroom door and retrieved my secret stash of cigarettes from underneath the wardrobe. Kneeling on the grate of my fireplace, I tapped one from the packet, dangling it from my bottom lip as I rasped a match across the rough strip on the matchbox. I held the flame to its tip and drew in, a deep shuddering breath, before blowing the smoke up the chimney. Mother didn’t know I smoked and would certainly not approve. It was a habit I had picked up early on in my VAD career, while serving at the 1st General in London. Another nurse had advised it after a horrendous shift. She promised me it calmed the nerves. I leant against the blue Delft tiling of the fire’s surround, with their quaint images of windmills and fishermen, and felt my tension begin to ease. I closed my eyes, fatigue dampening my fury. I was alarmed to hear a gentle knock at the door, but I reasoned it would not be my mother or Dr Mayhew. Annie cracked it open, a linen basket balanced on her narrow hip. ‘I have a few things to put away, miss.’ I took another drag on my cigarette before gesturing her in. I held the smoke in my mouth then let it slip like silk into my lungs. Stubbing the butt out on the charred stone of the grate, I scrabbled to my feet, batting the air with my hand to dissipate the lingering taint. Annie began filling the drawers of the tallboy. I drifted towards the window intending to lift the sash for some fresh air, but I saw Dr Mayhew below, engaged in parting pleasantries with my mother, so I left the window shut. I had no desire to draw attention to myself. ‘I take it you’re not an admirer of Dr Mayhew either,’ I said with idle curiosity. ‘Not really, miss.’ ‘Any particular reason?’ I turned my back on the window, resting my bottom on the sill. ‘He’s always pegged me as a troublemaker.’ ‘Oh?’ I was only mildly interested and made no effort to press her when she didn’t respond. She carried on placing the folded clothing within the drawers as if I’d never spoken. The carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour. ‘Mother knows about you finding me the other evening.’ I left the unspoken accusation suspended in the air, a gossamer thread connecting us. I had not requested her confidence, but I had rather taken it for granted she would remain mum. She made no attempt to face me. ‘Mrs Scrivens caught me going back to my room. She thought I had been engaged in some … assignation. I had no choice but to tell her.’ ‘I wasn’t going to do anything silly.’ I recalled curling my toes over the rough edge of the jetty and the inviting oblivion awaiting me below the dark surface. ‘I just …’ I turned to rest my forehead against the cool glass, flimsy under the pressure. I watched Dr Mayhew’s car pull away. What was the point? How could I make anyone understand that somehow on the jetty I still felt close to Gerald? It was the one place where I didn’t feel the terror of him slipping away. Standing there, if I closed my eyes and focused, I could almost feel the warmth of that late August sunshine on my cheeks and sense his solid presence beside me. I could almost hear those magical words ‘marry me’ and feel that explosion of joy again. Who could blame me for searching out a crumb of happiness amongst this feast of misery? Annie shunted the drawer to. ‘Dr Mayhew … There are things he doesn’t understand.’ ‘He seems to understand very little about grief.’ I made no attempt to conceal my bitterness. ‘Which is something we both know all too well, miss.’ I looked at her. I could only speculate as to what damage might lie beneath her carefully crafted fa?ade. She had lost everyone dear to her. Jim Burrows had died to save his master’s daughter, condemning his own child to a life without the love and security of a father. How had that made her feel? Less valued? And then her poor mother, left to bear the burden alone – it was a tribute to her they had remained free of the workhouse. I could only imagine what deprivations they had been forced to endure. Perhaps, then, it was not so surprising Annie was odd and aloof – her world had been ripped apart at such a tender age and for what? Lydia had died anyway. Sometimes I wondered how she could bear to be around us. Perhaps she couldn’t. She dipped a curtsy and made to leave, but before she could close the door behind her my mother appeared, sweeping in as Annie slipped out. Feeling petulant, I turned away. ‘Have you been smoking in here?’ ‘I don’t smoke, Mother.’ ‘Don’t treat me like a fool, Stella!’ She bustled over to my nightstand and pulled open the shallow top drawer, its brass handle rattling with the violence of her action. She began rifling through the contents. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘Where are they? The pills Dr Mayhew gave you?’ ‘Why do you want them?’ She held out her hand. ‘Give them to me, Stella.’ With rising ire, I yanked open a drawer in my dressing table. I snatched out the small brown bottle and slammed it into her palm. ‘There!’ She held it between her forefinger and thumb and raised it to eye level. ‘Untouched,’ she observed. ‘I don’t want his pills, Mother. I don’t need them.’ ‘These pills are to help you.’ ‘These pills, Mother, are to sedate me. I can’t be any trouble if I’m not capable of functioning.’ ‘They are to help you cope.’ ‘I won’t take them. I simply won’t. I don’t want to be numb. I want to feel – I need to feel.’ ‘Sometimes we feel too much.’ ‘That is better than feeling nothing at all! You can’t just wave a magic wand and make me forget everything – make me better. You heard Mayhew. I might never recover.’ ‘Oh!’ Mother threw up her hands in disgust. ‘Listening at doors now are we, Stella? Is that what you have been reduced to?’ ‘With the two of you conspiring to put me away, I will indeed listen at doors. At least then I know what you’re planning.’ ‘Oh, Stella.’ She collapsed on the end of my bed, her shoulders sagging as the fight deserted her. She tapped the bottle, the pills rattling against the glass like a maraca. ‘I don’t want you to be “put away”, Stella, but neither do I want to lose you. I’ve already buried Lydia, I cannot bear to give up another child.’ Her face creased with pain, and she suddenly looked so aged and worn that I was rather shocked. It was like coming across an old doll, fondly remembered as young and beautiful, but finding it had become ragged and chipped from too much play. Pain numbed her eyes as she looked at me. ‘I do understand what you are going through. I know you think I don’t. But I do know loss, Stella, I know the pain it brings.’ Of course, she knew loss, I could never deny that, though I resented her belief that Lydia’s death affected her most of all. She would tearfully declare that she had lost a part of herself, whereas, in her view at least, Madeleine and I had only lost a companion. But Lydia was so much more than that. She was our constant shadow, our extra limb, she was our clown when we were in the doldrums and our willing scapegoat whenever were in trouble, always confident her angelic sweetness would deffuse our parents’ anger. She was our sister and if not a physical part of ourselves, she was a precious, irreplaceable feature of our very existence and even now we carried her in our hearts, always. I had never quite forgiven my mother for withdrawing from us the way she did, wallowing in her own grief whilst almost ignoring ours. But with the loss of Gerald, I had perhaps come to understand her more, her apparent selfishness, for I was convinced no one else could possibly be suffering as I was. My grief for Gerald was not indulgent, it was all-consuming, and its intensity seemed to validate the love I had always felt for him. He was my future, but when he died, that very future was taken from me. I now had to consider that Lydia’s death might have left my mother feeling the same way. ‘I’m not going to do anything silly again,’ I said at last. ‘Promise me?’ I forced a smile and sat down beside her, our shoulders brushing. I took the bottle from her hand and tossed it into the grate. It clattered onto the tiles of the hearth. ‘I refuse to take the pills, but I promise, I won’t do anything to hurt myself. I couldn’t do that to you.’ She nodded, her innate dignity struggling with overwhelming emotion. She took my hand. ‘Good,’ she said, issuing a gentle squeeze before relinquishing her hold as she stood up. She patted my shoulder and took her leave, but she paused in the doorway. ‘It will ease, Stella – your sadness. You will learn to live with it. We all learn to carry on in the end.’ I sat quietly once she had gone. It was my fault, of course, that she lived on her nerves, so readily entertaining her worst fears, her greatest nightmare. I had to acknowledge my culpability. I had not been home a week when Annie Burrows dragged me from the lake. I’d managed to escape my mother’s watchful eye and I knew exactly what I wanted to do with the precious moments her distraction had afforded me. I walked out, setting a steady but unhurried pace, straight to the lake, striding with intent down the wooden jetty, my footsteps echoing on the boards, the water gently lapping below. I paused for a moment when I reached the end, briefly allowing myself the succour of my most cherished memory, before I stepped out into thin air. The freezing cold of the dark waters as they closed over my head was shocking. Yet as I sank lower, threads of pondweed tickling my legs as my skirts billowed about my waist, I made a conscious decision not to struggle, not to kick towards the silvery light diffused across the surface now far above my head. In that moment, I experienced peace the like of which I hadn’t felt for weeks. I relaxed into the lake’s watery embrace, which was no longer frigid and frightening, but warm and consoling. I was not afraid. I think I was relieved. Swallowed by my watery tomb, I did not hear the splash of Annie Burrows leaping into the lake beside me. It wasn’t until I felt urgent fingers clutch at my waterlogged clothing that I realised I was no longer alone. As I was hauled round her face appeared before me, glowing like a moon in the midnight sky. I fought against her, trying to prise myself loose from her iron grip, lashing out with my feet, bubbles rippling from my mouth, but she was surprisingly strong and stubborn. She wrapped her arm around my chest, ignoring my clawing fingers, and powered herself upwards with such force we both exploded through the glassy surface, instinctively gasping for air. I cried in fury as she dragged me towards the edge, our boots slipping in the silty bottom. She grunted with effort as she wrenched me up onto the bank. I sobbed with frustration as we lay on our backs, exhausted and soaked to the skin, our hair streaked across our faces, breathless, staring at the leaden sky above us. She spat out sour water and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, her chest still heaving. People came running towards us, shouting in alarm: my mother, my father, Mrs Scrivens, Brown, a gardener. Mother was wailing. We were both hoisted to our feet. Someone began pulling at my wet things; a jacket was draped around my shoulders. Amidst the flurry and fuss, Annie stumbled towards me, thrusting her dripping face into mine the second before she was tugged away. The young maid’s words became lost in the jumble of voices as we were bundled towards the house. Later, when I was finally left alone and had time to ponder the evening’s events, I separated them from the cacophony. They sent a shiver down my spine. ‘He says it’s not your time.’ Chapter Four (#ulink_9b6fccd7-dcea-5927-a6a6-10dd9c06bbdb) I couldn’t fail to notice that even the gardens were suffering from the detrimental effects of the war. The box hedges would have been scissor-cut to precision just a few years ago, but now, neglected, unkempt shoots were spurting out in all directions, and dandelions were thrusting up through the gravel pathways. A stone in my shoe caused me to pause by the fountain. Though once it had shot plumes of water high into the air in a magnificent display, it now sat dormant, with only a murky pool in its wide basin. I steadied myself against its crumbling edge while I unbuttoned my shoe and shook loose the chipping. I looked up at my home and felt, as always, a familiar tinge of sadness. Once it had been a perfect example of Palladian architecture, the main house being three storeys high, with two-storey additions stretching out on either side in perfect symmetry, all elegantly dressed in golden Bath stone. But now it stood uneven, oddly unbalanced, with no vestiges remaining of the destroyed east wing. The charred shell left from the inferno had been like a leper’s appendage, blackened and dead, its windows empty sockets, its walls stripped of grandeur like flayed bone. I could still recall the acrid taint of smoke lingering in the air the morning after, as firemen continued to damp down persistent embers, their hoses running like veins across the lawn, drawing from the lake. My father and I had visited the bereft Burrows family, to express our sympathies and gratitude, and on our return we had stopped to observe the firemen’s efforts, soberly aware that within those blistered walls, amongst the rubble and detritus, were Jim Burrows’ remains. The ruins were soon demolished for no one wanted an enduring reminder of the tragedy, but the red bricks used to seal the gaping wound stood stark against the buttery stone of the remaining house, like a scar that fails to fade. I slipped my shoe back on and continued to the house, wishing I had not allowed my mind to stray onto such unhappy recollections. I did not like to dwell on the night of the fire; doing so evoked upsetting memories and raised disturbing questions that I had spent the last ten years doing my best to ignore. I entered by the door that led into the rear hallway and began stripping the gloves from my hands. I could hear muffled voices as I approached the drawing room and realised Mother must be entertaining. I had no wish to be embroiled in one of her tedious meetings, so I kept my head down and picked up my pace as I passed the open doorway, but all to no avail. ‘Oh, there she is. Stella!’ I made no attempt to stifle my exasperated sigh. I spun on my heel and headed towards the door. I stopped in the opening. A tall man in uniform stood with his back to me, his brown hair neatly clipped to his nape, while Mother stood facing me. ‘Look who has come to see us!’ For a split foolish second, I felt a burst of unimagined joy: Gerald – it had all been a terrible mistake! A rapturous smile pulled my lips and my heart leapt, but as the officer turned to face me, the smile dissipated, and my effervescent joy stilled, as reality reasserted itself. ‘Hector. How lovely to see you.’ My brother-in-law, Hector Brightwell, smiled broadly and manoeuvred himself from behind the sofa to greet me. He held the tops of my arms as he kissed my cheeks. ‘Hello, Stella.’ ‘I was beginning to worry that you wouldn’t be back in time to say hello,’ Mother said. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were expected.’ My absurd disappointment began to fade. ‘Oh, I called by on the off-chance. Work brought me this way and I thought I should pop in and see you all.’ Hector had by some good fortune – I suspect linked to his family’s considerable fortune and influence – secured a safe uniformed position in Whitehall for the duration. I tried not to resent him for this, something I found especially difficult after Gerald was killed. I did not dislike him – he was intelligent and affable, though a little stiff at times – and I could not fault his devotion to my sister. ‘Well, it’s very nice to see you, Hector. How is Madeleine?’ My sister had telephoned a few weeks previously to give us the most welcome news: she was expecting a baby. It had been the first time since Gerald’s death that I felt actual happiness. Madeleine was cautiously buoyant, tempering her excitement with the acknowledgement it was still early days, but ever the pragmatist, at three months along she knew she would soon be showing so felt we ought to know. ‘She is well, thank you, very well.’ Hector retook his seat whilst I settled myself down and Mother poured out some more tea. ‘She may have told you, she’s gone to stay with my mother at our country estate, Greyswick.’ ‘Oh yes, she mentioned that in her last letter. The Zeppelin attacks on London must be terrifying.’ ‘I know they can be a bit hit and miss, but quite frankly I would rather Madeleine wasn’t anywhere near them, especially given the circumstances. And in all honesty, I’m unable to spend much time with her, what with things the way they are.’ ‘Of course. Well, I’m glad to know that she will be safe. It is all such a worry.’ My mother paused. ‘And she is well, Hector?’ ‘Quite, quite well,’ he assured her with a gentle smile. ‘She’s doing wonderfully.’ He and my mother talked on, but for me Hector’s presence had brought back memories that were bittersweet. The last time we had been at Haverton Hall together was the wedding. By some miracle Gerald and I had both managed to wangle leave, enabling us to attend together. In a way I wish it had been the last time I had seen him. Perhaps it would all be easier if I could remember him like that – handsome in his dress uniform, laughing, a glass of champagne in his hand, carefree in the sunshine. But we were to meet once more, in tragically different circumstances. Hector’s apologies as he rose to depart brought me back to the present. ‘I’ll have your driver bring the car round,’ Mother said, tugging the thick bell-pull that hung by the fireplace. Hector crossed to her and bade her a fond farewell, but as he came towards me, running his cap through his fingers, he stopped. ‘Would you walk me out, Stella?’ ‘Of course.’ I set down my teacup, taken aback by the unexpected request. We walked through the hallway together, Hector opening the large front door to allow me out onto the steps first. The sky had clouded over to an impenetrable white layer. Looking up, I could see the gauzy glow of the sun trapped behind it. A stiff wind cut through my clothing, and I hoped he wasn’t going to keep me outside for long. ‘I didn’t just happen by today. I very much wanted to speak to you,’ he admitted. ‘Oh?’ He pulled the peak of his cap down low over his brow. ‘It’ll take my driver a while – shall we walk?’ We crossed the gravel driveway and ambled over the lawn at the front. In the distance the lake stretched across the horizon, the wind rippling its surface. I noticed that Hector drew to a stop before we got too near, perhaps fearing its appeal might prove irresistible to me. ‘I’ve actually come to ask you a favour.’ ‘A favour?’ I failed to mask my surprise. He might be my brother-in-law, but Hector was almost a stranger to me. I was already stationed in France when he met Madeleine at a fund-raising event in town. He was someone I read about in letters – a one-dimensional creation, a list of descriptive words. I met him for the first time at the wedding, when, selfishly perhaps, I was more intent on spending precious time with Gerald than with my new brother-in-law and the pompous entourage he brought with him. Since my return I had only seen him a handful of times, all brief encounters, where pleasantries were exchanged but little familiarity gained. But now he had come for the sole purpose of exacting a favour from me. ‘I was wondering whether you might consider visiting with Madeleine for a while – at Greyswick.’ It was hardly an onerous request. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to visit my sister, and no doubt we would have come to the arrangement ourselves in a few weeks. I hadn’t seen her now for a couple of months and I missed her company and support, but I was alerted by the undercurrent I detected in the question. ‘Hector, of course I will. Is everything all right?’ His eyes pinched as he focused on the skyline. I realised I was holding my breath, waiting for him to break the silence. ‘I’m worried about her.’ ‘Why?’ He seemed loath to answer. He pulled his cap from his head and raked his fingers through his neatly combed hair. I could tell he was biding his time, contemplating his response. I felt a spike of unease. ‘She doesn’t seem to be at all herself.’ The words spilled from him. He stopped. I was impatient to hear more, my concern acute now; my fingers flexed as I resisted the urge to shake him. Sensing my rising agitation, he stumbled on. ‘She’s so quiet and withdrawn. Mother’s constantly complaining about how jittery she seems, scared of her own reflection.’ He let out a sharp breath. ‘I think she’s terrified something’s going to happen – to the baby.’ I relaxed at once on hearing this, rather relieved. It was perfectly natural of course that Madeleine should be unsettled. She had always been the more sensitive of us two, the one more prone to worry, to fear the worst – ironic really, given the way things had turned out. ‘Well, I’m sure that’s to be expected. It’s an anxious time for her – for any new mother – but I’m sure it’ll all be fine.’ ‘Well, that’s just it, it might not be.’ The reassuring smile I had mustered wilted under his grim countenance. ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ ‘We’ve been here before, you see.’ But it was clear to him that I didn’t see at all. He sighed. ‘Madeleine lost a baby, Stella.’ My stomach plummeted. ‘When?’ ‘Just before you came back.’ We stood silent, the air heavy with the solemnity of this awful revelation. ‘Why didn’t she tell me?’ I asked at last. ‘You were – you were so unwell. It was early on … She didn’t want to burden you – after all, nothing could be done.’ I brought my hand to my mouth. Dear, darling Madeleine! When I had arrived back, eviscerated by Gerald’s loss, Madeleine had flown to my side like the golden angel she was – compassionate, non-judgemental. She became my rock, my constant, unflinching companion. She had stoically weathered my rages and vicious words, stroked my head as I broke down and sobbed, and read quietly beside my bed as I lay motionless with grief. At a time when I had little inclination to carry on, she never gave up on me; even as others began to lose their patience, she alone defended me. And yet through it all she must have been nursing a terrible anguish. She had prioritised my recovery over her own devastating loss. ‘Oh, Hector, I’m so sorry.’ ‘These things happen.’ He couldn’t prevent the tell-tale break in his voice. He took a moment. ‘It’s just, now – she’s not herself at all. I think she’s terrified of it happening again. She dealt with it so bravely last time, but she was devastated, Stella, absolutely devastated. To be honest, I think looking after you is what got her through. It was a welcome distraction from her own pain.’ His words stung me. He flushed, realising how they could be misconstrued. To cover his embarrassment he fussed about, setting his cap straight on his head, before thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets and rocking on his heels, waiting for the clouded moment to pass. ‘Madeleine never wanted to go to Greyswick.’ He broke the silence, an apologetic glint in his dark eyes. ‘I had to plead with her to go. Now she’s there, I think she has little else to do but obsess on the worst. She keeps asking to come back to town, but I would never forgive myself if she got caught up in a raid. She’s safe at Greyswick, but I think she would benefit enormously from some company.’ ‘She has your mother.’ The words slipped out before I could stop them. Hector picked up on my sardonic tone and winced. ‘As you are well aware, my mother is not the easiest woman to get on with.’ I had only met Lady Brightwell once, at the wedding, and once was quite enough. She was a dour, self-important woman who revelled in the glory of her husband’s honorary knighthood. I could see that she would not make an empathetic companion. ‘Look, I would just be ever so grateful if you could go and keep her company for a while, take her mind off things. What do you think?’ ‘Hector, nothing would give me greater pleasure than spending time with Madeleine, especially after what you’ve just told me.’ His motorcar drew along the drive behind us. ‘Please don’t say anything about me asking you to go and stay. I don’t think she’d appreciate my interference.’ ‘It’ll be our secret. I’ll telephone her this afternoon and chide her for not inviting me to visit. After all, I’ve never seen your country seat.’ He smiled. ‘I think you’ll like it, it’s a wonderful spot.’ We reached the car. His driver leapt from the front and opened the rear door. ‘Oh, one more thing – Mother is a stickler for protocol and she doesn’t see why a little thing like a war should lead to a fall in standards, so she still runs the house as if nothing has changed. Like you, we’ve lost most of the servants. She has conceded to allowing a maid to serve at dinner, but she still insists on full evening dress and so on. If you were able to bring someone with you, to lighten the load of your visit a bit, that would be tremendous.’ I laughed. ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to be responsible for upsetting the smooth running of the household.’ He swept off his cap to kiss my cheek. ‘Thank you, Stella. You will look after her for me, won’t you?’ ‘After all she’s done for me? It’s the least I can do.’ I watched the car pull away, sensing this unexpected t?te-?-t?te had bridged a gap in our relationship and I was surprisingly touched that Hector had taken me into his confidence. Madeleine would not lose this baby, I was determined of that, and I would do everything in my power to help her through the pregnancy. I would be her rock, as she had been mine. The prospect of new life invigorated my soul and my heart lifted at the thought of seeing Madeleine again. As I walked back towards the house I looked up to see Annie watching me from a first-floor window. For an uncomfortable moment I remained trapped in her steady gaze, until she slowly turned away, vanishing from view. My blossoming happiness was marred by a disconcerting thought. Try as I might, I could see no alternative. There was only one expendable servant at Haverton Hall. Annie Burrows would be coming with me. Chapter Five (#ulink_9b216c8f-897d-596b-bdd8-3c9e0ef32d0f) A few days later, I stood on the platform of a small country station, waiting with ill-masked impatience for Annie Burrows to emerge from the swirling steam with a porter and our luggage in tow. As the train heaved away, a uniformed chauffeur appeared, and having ascertained my identity, he guided our caravan out to the cobbled front, where a gleaming Rolls Royce awaited us. It was, the chauffeur informed us, but a short drive to Greyswick. The car purred down narrow country lanes, the high hedges banked with a thick lace ruff of cow parsley, until soon we reached the village of Wick – a sweet little place, boasting an assortment of stone cottages, bronzed with age and weighed down with thatched roofs. There was a blacksmith by the village pond, and beyond stood a square turreted church encircled by a low stone wall, a neat Queen Anne rectory beside it. We soon glided from the village, the road plunging through a wood before breaking out into open farmland, the cultivated fields either side of us sprouting with green barley shoots, while a ridge of hills shouldered the horizon. Finally, two grey-brick lodges appeared set either side of a great archway, its wrought iron gates already opened for our arrival. A thrill of anticipation stirred in my belly as we skimmed up a long driveway lined with beech trees, last year’s prickly cases still scattered about the bases of their slender trunks. The parkland about us was pleasant enough, with a few clusters of ancient oaks and a magnificent cedar whose low-slung branches hovered just above the ground. Unlike our park, it was devoid of livestock, but then Brightwell had made his fortune from mining not farming. As the avenue of trees gave way to iron railings, I caught my first glimpse of a large grey edifice in the distance. Gradually its intriguing outline began to take shape until, at last, the driveway billowed out into a gravelled carriage sweep and Greyswick loomed above us. My first impressions were not favourable. It had been set square on to the drive, designed to impress and perhaps even overawe those who approached, though it was blatantly apparent the house would have enjoyed a far better aspect had it been positioned more with aesthetics, rather than vanity, in mind. The chauffeur opened my door and I shuffled out, taking a good look at the monstrosity before me. The house was an incoherent fusion of architectural styles. The gabling appeared faux-Jacobean, but the enclosed porch would have suited a Victorian church, while the mullioned windows, Gothic by design, clashed horribly with the ill-advised clock tower, which was itself reminiscent of a Venetian palazzo. The extensive roof line had been trimmed with an open balustrade, underneath which, I was rather startled to observe, leered a menagerie of gruesome gargoyles. The whole extraordinary effect was, I thought, appalling. I had just concluded my rather devastating assessment when the front door was yanked open, and my name came squealing through the air. Madeleine charged down the steps in a most undignified manner and threw herself into my awaiting arms, knocking my hat quite askew. We clung to each other, giggling like school girls. I relished being with my younger sister again – she was my superior in every way. Whereas I was argumentative, quick-tempered and cutting, she was charm and grace and kindness personified. She was also beautiful in that classic Grecian goddess way. Her golden tresses could be effortlessly curled and arranged, while my coarse brown muss had to be teased and heated and twisted to destruction – only to resemble an ill-formed bird’s nest when done. And yet, despite her obvious advantages, I had never been jealous of her – I simply adored her. Undoubtedly, the fire had drawn us closer together. We came to depend on one another as never before, comforting each other as we mourned our sister. The tragedy made us appreciate from an early age that the sibling bond was a precious one, to be nurtured and cherished at every opportunity. We had never taken each other for granted from that moment on. As I broke away, a cold vein of concern tempered my happiness. Studying her properly I was shocked to see the transformation in her. Always the personification of an English rose, the face before me now was deathly pale. Madeleine’s skin was drawn tight over her high cheekbones; her eyes were sunken and shrouded with grey. She hardly resembled a young woman in the bloom of pregnancy, though the swelling about her girth reassured me all was still well. ‘My dear,’ I collected myself at last, ‘you look so pale.’ A hint of colour crept across her hollowed cheeks. ‘I have not been sleeping so well of late,’ she admitted, ‘but I am quite well.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘Oh, Stella, I am so glad you have come.’ She made no attempt to hide the relief in her voice, but neither did she attempt to explain it. ‘Now come in, you must be exhausted!’ Arm in arm we mounted the steps to the front door. ‘I am so pleased to have you here,’ she said again, drawing me still tighter to her side. ‘I thought you might be finding life in the country strange after London.’ Her steps faltered. ‘Yes … yes … it is a little strange here.’ We crossed an unlit vestibule, before passing through stately double doors into a grand hall. It was an impressive room, with dark wood panelling and a chequerboard floor of marble tiles, its ceiling intricately decorated with plaster mouldings. To my left and right broad archways supported by alabaster pillars acted as gateways to dark corridors beyond, while before me, spilling out across the floor, were the sweeping steps of a heavy oak staircase, its massive timbers carved with fruits and flowers. It wrapped itself around the back wall, gently ascending to the floor above, crossing below a magnificent stained-glass window that stretched upwards out of sight. This patchwork of glass was the only avenue for natural light to enter the hall, and the sun’s penetrating rays cast a myriad of coloured shards upon the polished flight of stairs but failed to dispel the gloom that pooled at the edges of the room. ‘Goodness,’ I murmured, gazing about me. Before Madeleine could comment we were startled by rustling from within the umbra. A woman materialised from the shadows, the full skirts of her stark black dress swishing as she drew near. I was struck by her unusual stature and sturdy build – and by the set of keys strung upon a gaoler’s ring which hung from the belt about her thick waist. Madeleine stepped closer to me. ‘Mrs Henge.’ There was an uncharacteristic tremor in her voice. ‘This is my sister, Miss Marcham. Mrs Henge is the housekeeper here, Stella.’ ‘Welcome to Greyswick, Miss Marcham. I hope you will enjoy your stay.’ It was a low-pitched voice, staid and unobtrusive. Yet there was a perfunctory iciness to her demeanour that I found rather unnerving. ‘Thank you, Mrs Henge. I’m sure I shall.’ ‘If there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to ask.’ She marshalled her features into a contrived look of apology. ‘We are, of course, short staffed, but I will endeavour to make sure that you have everything you need in as timely a fashion as possible.’ There was something in her tone that conveyed the impression I was a personal inconvenience. I found myself prickling with indignation. ‘I have brought my own maid with me, Mrs Henge. I trust, therefore, that my presence here will not prove too burdensome.’ She must have detected the underlying resentment in my clipped voice, for she responded with a subtle hike in one of her steely grey brows. ‘Not at all, Miss Marcham.’ Her eyes flickered over my shoulder and narrowed. ‘Do I take it that this is your maid, miss?’ My heart sank with misgiving as I turned to follow her supercilious gaze. Annie Burrows stood silhouetted in the doorway behind us, staring at the imposing staircase rising majestically before her. Chapter Six (#ulink_c06a9840-0e1c-5f2a-bb22-696ad9bce972) ‘Maids don’t usually enter by the front door, Annie,’ I said, exasperated by her faux pas. I was struck by how pale she looked, and hoped she wasn’t ailing. She would become a burden if she fell ill, but I knew how easy it was to succumb to a chill in these cavernous houses. There was indeed a rather nippy draught blowing down the staircase. It had filtered through the fine weave of my blouse and my skin was bristling against it. For all its splendour, I suspected the intricate framework of the stained-glass window did little to keep invasive breezes at bay. Stifling my irritation, I turned to the housekeeper. ‘Please understand, Mrs Henge, Annie has never been away before. It seems she’s rather overwhelmed.’ ‘Good staff these days are proving difficult to find, Miss Marcham,’ Mrs Henge observed, before issuing Annie brusque instructions to go below stairs via the green baize door located in the far corner of the hall. The maid dipped a curtsy. I saw her sneak a further glance at the staircase as she scuttled away. ‘I’ll make sure the girl settles in, miss – without delay,’ the housekeeper assured me in a rather forbidding manner. ‘Mrs Henge, might we have some tea brought to the drawing room?’ Madeleine asked, bringing a welcome conclusion to the awkward episode. ‘Of course, Mrs Brightwell. I shall have Maisie bring it directly.’ With a curt dip of her head, the housekeeper melded back into the shadows. We heard the baize door close behind her. ‘Did you have to bring that girl here?’ Madeleine’s quiet question took me by surprise. ‘Annie is one of the few servants we have left,’ I laughed. To my consternation, she looked away, biting her lip. ‘There was no one else, Madeleine. God knows she would not be my first choice, but all the others have gone.’ She mustered a smile. ‘No matter … it’s just …’ She shook her head, mocking her own foolishness. ‘It really doesn’t matter, I’m being silly. She’s such a bit peculiar, that’s all.’ ‘Your Mrs Henge seems like an old stalwart – I’m sure she’ll brook no nonsense. You watch, she’ll keep Annie in line.’ She forced a laugh. ‘Mrs Henge has been with the family for so long she’s practically part of the furniture.’ ‘I didn’t even see her standing in the shadows there when we came in. She gave me quite a fright.’ ‘There are lots of shadows in Greyswick. Mrs Henge seems to occupy most of them.’ To my relief, she shrugged off her odd humour and returned to sorts, taking my hand to lead me under the left arch into the panelled corridor beyond. Doors were set opposite each other along its length, and at the end was a single sash window. There was something bleak and institutional about the design of the house and its failure to incorporate much natural light. I found the enclosed corridor dismal and claustrophobic, and I felt I was navigating the bowels of the building, not the communication passage to its principal rooms. But it was the tasteless opulence of the salon Madeleine ushered me into that shocked me the most. My jaw gaped in horrified wonder at the gaudy wallpaper and the vast, overstated swags of material draped around the French windows lining the outside wall. Gilt-legged sofas flanked the monstrous marble fireplace, while Chinoiserie cabinets stood like exotic guards either side of the doorway, with even more oriental pieces gamely distributed about the room. It was a far cry from the tired but gentle splendour that reigned at home. At least, I found myself ruefully appreciating, it was light. ‘Goodness,’ I muttered. ‘Oh, I know, it’s hideously crass, isn’t it? It’s all right, Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott are out visiting. We are free to say what we want.’ Madeleine dropped down onto one of the uninviting sofas, indicating for me to join her. ‘Hector’s parents were rather nouveaux – the house was just another attempt to assert their acquired wealth and position.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Does that make me sound horribly stuck-up?’ ‘Not at all.’ I stared up at the varnished oil painting that hung above the fireplace. ‘Is this Sir Arthur Brightwell himself?’ Hector’s father had died in a motor accident just before the war, so I had never met him. I studied the portrait with open curiosity. ‘It is indeed. It’s the only one of him left on display – Lady Brightwell ordered all the others to be taken down when he died. She said she couldn’t stand him staring down at her, watching her every move. Hector insisted this one remain. It is only fitting, after all.’ The image portrayed was that of a self-assured middle-aged man, dressed in a red hunting coat, buckskin breeches and gleaming riding boots, his knighthood medal proudly displayed on his chest. In his heavy features I could detect traces of Hector, but his eyes, in the portrait at least, lacked the warmth that was always evident in his son’s. His fingers gripped the handle of a pickaxe, the scooped metal head resting on the ground by his feet along with a few lumps of gleaming coal, the black gold from which he had derived his fortune. I took another step forward and peered into the background. Brightwell stood on the crest of a hill, and in the valley below him I could see Greyswick, or that is, I could see part of it. In the detail, the house beyond the clock tower was overlaid by a crisscross of scaffolding, and an army of workers the size of tiny ants could be seen labouring around it. I expressed my surprise. ‘Greyswick wasn’t actually finished when the portrait was done,’ Madeleine explained. ‘Obviously the artist has taken some licence with the landscape, but I believe the representation of the house at that time to be accurate. It was his wedding present to Lady Brightwell, but it wasn’t completed until a year or so after Hector was born. No expense spared, and little taste engaged. But don’t you dare tell her I said that,’ Madeleine concluded. I laughed and settled myself down opposite her, just as she was responding to a gentle tap on the door. A young maid sporting a mischievous twinkle in her eye and bearing a laden tray slipped into the room. ‘Thank you, Maisie, we’ll take it here.’ The girl’s inquisitive gaze stole my way several times as she set the tea things out upon an occasional table beside Madeleine. She stood back as she finished and dropped a curtsy, before scooting from the room. ‘How many servants do you have?’ I asked. ‘Not many. It’s like at home, they’ve all left since the war. Hector has the butler in town with him, so there’s just Cook, Maisie and Mrs Henge here now.’ She handed me a cup of tea. ‘There’s Miss Scott as well, of course, but I can hardly call her a servant. Do you remember her? She came to the wedding. Lady Brightwell always refers to her as her “companion” now.’ I did remember Miss Scott, a neat, birdlike woman, fine featured and rather jittery. Hector had introduced her as his nanny, and his affection for the old woman had been clear to see, as had her adoration of him. She had not been a conspicuous guest at the modest gathering, Lady Brightwell had very much played the dominant role, but she had struck me as kind and tolerant, characteristics which I suspected were essential for anyone fashioned as Lady Brightwell’s aide. ‘So how are you finding it here? It must be so different from London.’ I set my tea down on the hearth while I used the poker to stoke some life back into the dwindling fire. The sun that had lent a pleasant air to the day was receding as evening advanced, and a distinct chill bit into the room. Madeleine gazed off into the mid-distance, her brow creased. She rallied as I sat back in my seat. ‘Oh, you know …’ she said, but the insipid smile that flickered on her lips didn’t last long. She sipped her tea, I suspected, to cover a sudden pallor of unhappiness. I felt a twinge of disquiet. ‘I wish I were back in London. With Hector. Being here is so – it’s just not as I imagined.’ ‘Oh, Madeleine. Well, I am here now, and I intend to stay for as long as you will let me.’ I was cheered to see her spirits restored by this promise. ‘How have you been, anyway?’ ‘Well, the horrid morning sickness has passed,’ she said, an attractive glow finally brightening her cheeks. ‘I’ve been tired, but then I haven’t been sleeping well, I suppose.’ That nagging furrow reappeared between her brows, but she banished it with a shy smile. ‘I think I felt it move, you know, the other day. It was a funny squiggly feeling. Mother said it was a good sign.’ ‘I should think it’s a wonderful sign!’ ‘And how have you been, Stella?’ She didn’t need to elaborate. We both knew she was prodding at the fresh scab on my tender wound, conscious that over-investigation would split the delicate surface and expose the vulnerable flesh beneath. I didn’t want to disappoint her as she looked for signs of healing. ‘Better. I cry a little less, I manage a little more.’ There was a sober pause. ‘I couldn’t have done without you, Madeleine. I do hope you will let me return the favour now.’ Her eyes glistened. ‘Oh, darling, I will take your help now. I am so glad you have come.’ Both of us laughed at our mawkish sentimentality. I poured some more tea and as we moved onto less emotive topics, our good humour was soon recovered. I was very keen to see more of my surroundings, but Madeleine seemed strangely averse to leading me on an exploration of the property. After much wheedling and cajoling, however, she finally acquiesced and agreed to give me a complete tour of what she referred to as ‘the dratted house’. As we moved from one excessive room to the next, I realised that her earlier summation had been most apt. It was impossible to deny Greyswick’s luxurious finish and yet it lacked a quality to its splendour found in more established houses like our own. The calculated effort put into its grandeur had reduced it to a caricature of the very thing it aspired to be. Many of the rooms now lay dormant, particularly those in the ‘new wing’ – a garishly gilded ballroom, the smoking room, the study – none of which had been utilised since Sir Arthur’s death – and a lady’s parlour, neglected by Lady Brightwell in favour of the morning room, which lay at the other end of the house. Once our tour of the ground floor had been completed, Madeleine led me upstairs. The bedrooms occupied by Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott were located in the new wing, whilst our rooms were to be found in the original part of the house. The upper corridor was only half-panelled, with claret-flocked wallpaper stretching up to the stuccoed ceiling, while a blood-red runner was centred over the treacle-coloured floorboards. Once again, the only natural light came from the arched window in the end wall, and it failed to pierce the blighted dimness of the landing. ‘Our rooms are here. I had Mrs Henge put you in the one next to mine,’ Madeleine announced. ‘I did so want you close by.’ I expressed my pleasure at the arrangement and Madeleine was about to open the bedroom door when I stopped her, my curiosity having been aroused by the straight flight of stairs beside the arched window. As I carried on towards them, I saw they connected to a short galleried landing above. ‘What rooms are up there?’ I asked, turning back to her. Madeleine clutched the door handle. ‘Just disused rooms,’ she said at last. ‘I have no need to go up there.’ The words tripped over themselves in their haste to be out. She pushed open the door, entreating me to come. ‘It’s getting late, you should dress for dinner. The bell-pull is by the bed, you can ring for Annie. I hope you like the room – it has its own adjoining bathroom, you know. Do try to hurry, Stella – it’s best not to be late down.’ I had to fish behind the swag of frilled curtain that hung from the canopy of my bed to find the bell cord. When Annie appeared a few minutes later I thought her rather subdued, but I dismissed her reserve as nerves. She remained silent as she helped me into my black evening dress. I hung my locket from the hinge of the dressing table’s triptych mirror for safe keeping while she fastened strings of pearls about my neck. I decided to make an effort and engage her in conversation. We were, after all, to be thrust into each other’s company and I wanted the situation to be as tolerable as possible. ‘Are you settling in all right?’ I winced as she grazed my scalp with one of the pearl-headed pins she was using to dress my hair. She made no apology and I couldn’t tell whether she was unaware of her carelessness or simply choosing ignore it. Her cool gaze met mine in the mirror as she finished and it crossed my mind that it might not have been carelessness at all. I pushed aside my misgivings and decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. She stepped back as I got to my feet. ‘All of this must seem rather daunting,’ I said. ‘Everyone is being very kind to me, miss.’ ‘Good.’ I began to squeeze my fingers into a tight-fitting evening glove, smoothing the satin up the length of my arm. ‘Do lend a hand when you can. I don’t want our visit to be a burden on anyone.’ ‘Yes, miss.’ ‘Is your room comfortable? I presume you’re up in the attic? I hope it’s not too ghastly up there.’ Annie hesitated for a minute, busying herself with hanging up my discarded day clothes for longer than I felt necessary. ‘It’s comfortable enough up there, miss.’ There was something in her tone that piqued my curiosity and I was about to question her further when there was a knock on the door. Madeleine stuck her head around its edge. ‘Are you ready to face them?’ I laughed, pulling my glove up the final inch so that it lay just below the crook of my elbow. ‘You make it sound like we’re going up against a hostile crowd!’ ‘Yes, well … dinner here can sometimes feel like that – don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ I found her lack of humour to be rather disconcerting. Chapter Seven (#ulink_6265216c-48e4-55ed-be26-13e444f9d5ce) Lady Brightwell and her companion, Miss Scott, were awaiting us in the drawing room, both sipping sherry from cut crystal glasses, as they warmed themselves by the roaring fire. ‘Visiting is so exhausting!’ I was unsure whether Lady Brightwell’s exclamation as she rose to greet me was in reference to her busy day, a declaration of sympathy, or a complaint aimed at my very presence. I bent to kiss her creped cheek. She was small in stature, though she gained an extra inch or two from the artistic arrangement of her abundant grey hair, but what she lacked in height she more than made up for with her forceful persona. Large blue eyes ringed with gold inspected me thoroughly from under their broad arches as we exchanged the usual pleasantries, her thin lips barely breaking into a smile. It was left to her companion, Miss Scott, to make me feel welcome. ‘So nice to see you again, Miss Marcham!’ She was a few years older than her employer, finer-boned and far sprightlier. Her eyes glowed with kindness from behind her round, wire-framed glasses as she warmly clasped my hand. I found I breathed a little easier in her company. Mrs Henge’s appearance cast a dark shadow into the room, as she informed us that dinner was served. Lady Brightwell led us out into the draughty corridor to the dining room, leaning heavily on her silver-capped cane, a necessity since the stroke that had afflicted her twelve months previously. Our steps echoed off the wooden floorboards as we took our places at the enormous rosewood table. I thought we looked rather absurd, the four of us clustered at the one end while its gleaming top stretched into the distance. Every cough, chink of cutlery and ting of wineglass seemed to reverberate off the barrel ceiling above us, which was itself an extraordinary sight – a dazzling collection of hand-painted panels, all executed in the Italianate style and excessively trimmed with gilt. The room was lit by four huge chandeliers boasting tier upon tier of crystal drops the size of my fist, their brilliance rendering the flickering flames of the candelabras before us obsolete. Yet none of this opulence served to make the room more comfortable, and though the fire was lit, it was not enough to take the edge off the cold that had my skin stippling in protest. As Maisie placed soup bowls before us, Lady Brightwell launched into complaint after complaint about her day spent with friends, which had been soured by dull conversation, chipped china and over-cooked asparagus. I tried to offer sympathy where appropriate, but she would not permit any interruption, so in the end I kept quiet, relying on the contents of my wineglass to see me through the ordeal. There was a brief respite as the table was cleared, with Lady Brightwell making a few curt enquiries into my parents’ health and my own present occupation, the latter of which I deftly side-stepped. Unfortunately, the arrival of the main course brought to mind yet another unsatisfactory element of her day, and her disgruntled diatribe was reignited, quite spoiling my enjoyment of the sweet Dover sole and later the wonderful gateau the cook had prepared. There were several times during this extraordinary monologue of misery that I attempted to catch Madeleine’s eye, desperate to share with her the absurdity of it all, but she fixed her gaze firmly on the table. She appeared completely withdrawn as she played with the stem of her wineglass, from which she sipped sparingly. It was whilst Lady Brightwell was midway through a comprehensive character assassination of the ‘dear friend’ she had visited, that the heavy dining-room door suddenly slammed shut. The sound thundered through the air, surprising everyone. Madeleine jumped so violently she toppled her glass, spilling her wine over the table. She pushed her chair back, aghast, and I feared she was about to burst into tears. ‘Oh Madeleine! How careless of you,’ Lady Brightwell cried as I sprang to mop up the spillage with my napkin. Miss Scott got up to help me. She righted the glass and assured Madeleine no harm had resulted. I was shocked to see my sister visibly trembling as she stared at the closed door. ‘There really has been no damage done,’ I said, echoing Miss Scott’s reassurance. I spotted one of the curtains lift and immediately deduced the cause of the door’s sudden movement. ‘It was probably just a through draught.’ I excused myself from the table and pulled back the offending curtain, the rings raking sharply against the brass pole. ‘Yes, look! The window has been left open – no wonder it was so cold in here.’ The sash clattered against the frame as I pushed it down. Madeleine remained pale and shaken. Rather foolishly we leapt again as the door swung open, but it was only Maisie. Lady Brightwell was quick to reprimand her for not having closed the window. The young maid apologised as she gathered our dishes and meekly withdrew. I breathed a sigh of relief when our little party retired to the drawing room. Madeleine joined Lady Brightwell on the sofa by the now sedate fire while Miss Scott and I took two chairs a short distance away. It was not long before Lady Brightwell succumbed to the somniferous effects of the flickering flames as they comfortingly crackled around the pine logs. Madeleine opened her book, but I noticed she spent more time staring into space than losing herself within its pages. Miss Scott pulled out her knitting from the bamboo-handled bag resting alongside her seat. She smiled serenely at me as her dancing needles clicked a tattoo with practised dexterity. ‘Do I see a matinee coat?’ I asked. Her face lit up and she held the skilled weave of wool up for my perusal. ‘It is indeed.’ ‘What a charming pattern.’ I glanced at Madeleine, now drowsily absorbed in the pages of her novel. ‘It’s an exciting prospect, isn’t it? A new life coming into the world.’ The older woman looked wistful and sighed. ‘The most wonderful thing.’ The needles began to clack softly once again, but then came to a stop. She appeared to wrestle with some inner dilemma, but her mind was soon made up. ‘Miss Marcham, may I say how sorry I was to hear about your fianc?? Such a terrible loss for you. I know I only met him briefly at the wedding, but he struck me as being a most lovely young man.’ Startled, I felt a lump block my throat. ‘He was.’ ‘Had you known each other long?’ ‘We met as children,’ I said, picturing the solemn little boy who had gifted me a jam jar of water boatmen one summer. ‘We shared a godmother,’ I explained. ‘She would take us out on theatre trips and to tea at The Ritz.’ I thought back to a Christmas party where a bout of tonsillitis prevented me from partaking in the festivities, and how an eleven-year-old Gerald had sat at my bedside, entertaining me with card games, insistent he would rather spend time with me than join in with the fun downstairs. In time, I came to learn such loyalty was as characteristic of the man as it had been of the boy. ‘We lost touch, for a while – his family moved abroad – but our godmother brought us together again some years later. She always thought we were meant to be.’ ‘You certainly looked very happy together.’ I nodded to dispel unwelcome tears. ‘Well, at least Hector is safe,’ I said, keen to change the subject. ‘Thank God, yes!’ She regarded me intently as she rested her knitting on her lap. ‘A most fortunate posting!’ With the quick movements of a sparrow, she tilted her head towards her sleeping employer, before tilting it again to check Madeleine was not eavesdropping. She lowered her voice, drawing me into her confidence. ‘I have to admit I did stress to Lady Brightwell that if she could bring any pressure to bear to find him something safe, then she should.’ She released her knitting needles and laid her dry hand on mine. ‘Oh, I know some people would say it was wrong to do so – to use one’s connections in such a way. Lady Brightwell struggled with the idea for some time, but I told her firmly, she would never forgive herself if something happened and she had not done everything in her power to protect him.’ She appealed for my understanding, if not my sympathy – perhaps even my approval. I itched to withdraw my hand – there was something sullying about this confession, and I wanted no part of it. After an awkward pause she leant back in her chair and resumed her knitting before continuing. ‘Lady Brightwell saw sense in the end of course and was able to make some suitably discreet arrangements. I’m not even sure Hector is aware, but I for one sleep easier knowing he has been kept from that dreadful slaughter over there. Such a waste of young lives!’ She remembered herself and quickly added: ‘As you, more than anyone, must know.’ I looked across to the dancing flames. I was right – Hector’s family had indeed intervened to keep him from harm’s way. Gerald’s family could perhaps have done something similar, but they had not. I took little comfort from the knowledge that Gerald would never have accepted anything but a frontline command. I wondered how Hector would react if he knew the truth. Madeleine’s head nodded tellingly. Closing her book, she covered a yawn. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb her mother-in-law. ‘I am falling asleep! I think I’ll retire.’ But as she rose, Lady Brightwell awoke with a start. She straightened in her chair. ‘Where are you going?’ she demanded, her voice thick with sleep. ‘I’m sorry, Lady Brightwell, I’m very tired. I should quite like to go to bed.’ ‘We usually retire together. Oh well, I suppose in your condition you need your rest. Off you go then.’ She waved dismissively, blue veins bulging down the back of her hand. Madeleine stopped as she reached my chair. ‘Will you come up with me?’ It struck me as more of a plea than a question, so whilst I did not feel particularly ready to turn in, I got to my feet and bade my companions goodnight. Madeleine left the drawing-room door ajar, permitting a splinter of light to penetrate the dark corridor. She slipped her arm through mine, gripping onto me as we made our way towards the hall. I had expected the electric bulbs to be ablaze, but instead only a little moonlight alleviated the darkness. Madeleine informed me that Lady Brightwell insisted they exercise economy during these tumultuous war years. Whilst I applauded her patriotic sense of duty, I felt unnerved by the shifting shadows that cloaked the vast house. We made our way upstairs, past the stained-glass window, the moon casting faint and fragmentary light upon the steps. As we reached the landing, I was surprised but relieved to find economy had been relaxed on the first floor – glowing wall lights lit the way to our bedroom doors. ‘It’s such a comfort, having you here in this house with me,’ Madeleine said at last as we stopped beside her room. ‘I can see what a trial these last few weeks must have been for you. I’m sure Lady Brightwell has her merits, but ease of company is surely not one of them.’ ‘One gets used to her.’ She hesitated. ‘The nights here are the hardest.’ ‘I can see that,’ I said. ‘At least during the day you can find reasons to avoid her company, but you’ll always have to suffer her at dinner.’ By the funny look she gave me I realised we had been speaking at cross-purposes – she had not been alluding to Lady Brightwell at all. ‘I hope you manage to sleep well, Stella. Goodnight.’ Before I could respond, she closed the door against me. I was a little taken aback by her abrupt behaviour, but I dismissed it as acute tiredness and let myself into my room. I kicked off my shoes and padded to my dressing table to begin unwinding my hair. It didn’t take long to disrobe and pull on the nightdress that Annie had left neatly folded on the bed. I turned off the main light, leaving only the bedside lamp glowing from under its fringed shade. Weary now, I threw back the covers. Lying on my sheet was a toy soldier. It was surprisingly heavy given its diminutive size. Puzzled, I turned it over in my hand, studying its perfectly painted red tunic, white belt and black trousers, a red stripe down their sides. The facial features were worn but the detail of its domed bearskin was still discernible, perfect in miniature, while the rifle that rested proudly against its shoulder was slightly bent at the end. Its black boots were soldered onto a small square of lead, painted a vivid green. My breath lodged in my throat as Gerald’s face sprang into my mind’s eye. I stood perfectly still, my skin prickling as a flare of hope quickened my pulse. Was this a message for me? A poignant sign from beyond the grave? ‘Gerald?’ I whispered. The only response was silence. Unable to surrender the blissful fantasy, I turned around to peer into the inky corners of my room. There was nothing there. I was completely alone. Cold reality reasserted itself once again. The soldier was nothing more than a child’s toy after all. Mocking my own absurdity, I turned it over in my hand, noting as I did so the letters L and B crudely scratched into the base. I set it down on the bedside table, wondering how it could have found its way into my bed, but then I recalled Maisie’s mischievous glint and I wondered whether she had left the soldier, as some sort of jest. Still bristling with self-contempt, I decided to pay no further thought to the toy’s puzzling presence. Instead, I settled myself amongst the damply cold sheets and turned off the light, gratefully succumbing to the gradual creep of slumber. Chapter Eight (#ulink_9d6adf25-a59c-5702-89a3-ffd8e3711394) The sound of a match being struck woke me. A thin cord of light edged the curtains, hailing the arrival of a new day. I propped myself up to observe Annie, on her knees leaning into the grate, attempting to bellow the flames with her own gentle puffs. She settled back on her heels and watched the newspaper curl, char and crackle, before hungry flames began licking at the lumps of coal and kindling. ‘Morning, Annie.’ My voice was croaky. ‘What time is it?’ ‘Seven o’clock, miss.’ ‘Draw me a bath, would you?’ Having a bathroom attached to my bedroom was a luxury I didn’t have at home, and I intended to make the most of it. Sir Arthur had been insistent his guests should stay in comfort and his servants be better employed than in the transportation of water. Some saw such expenditure on indoor plumbing as extravagant but having spent years scurrying up and down freezing corridors to avail myself of the lavatory in the middle of the night or to take a bath on a bitter winter’s morning, I thought it a most worthwhile investment. Hearing the squeak of taps and gushing water, I pushed back the thick covers and swung my legs from the bed. I yawned and stretched with feline indulgence. ‘All ready, miss. What clothing would you like me to set out?’ ‘Oh, my black dress …’ I realised all the dresses I had brought were black. ‘The one with the scooped collar,’ I clarified. ‘And the lavender cardigan too.’ When I emerged from the bathroom Annie was standing beside my bed, closely examining the toy soldier clasped in her hand. ‘Annie?’ My sharp tone jolted her from her reverie. The figure flew into the air and landed with a soft thud on the carpet. Unabashed, she bent to retrieve it. ‘I don’t suppose you know how that came to be left in my bed, do you?’ She carefully set it down upon the table. ‘No, miss.’ There was something in her bland expression that led me to suspect she was being less than forthcoming. ‘I don’t appreciate being the butt of anyone’s joke.’ Her eyes flickered up to meet mine. ‘I’m sure you’re not, miss.’ ‘Well, I’d appreciate it if you could have a quiet word with Maisie and make sure she understands that too.’ I picked up my undergarments and began to dress, taking her assistance where required. ‘Is Mrs Brightwell up?’ ‘I believe so, miss.’ I dismissed her, reminding her she was at Mrs Henge’s disposal and so should strive to make herself useful. Once she had gone, I fastened my locket and went to turn off the bedside light. I don’t know what compelled me to pick up the lead soldier, but I did, slipping it into my cardigan pocket before I left the room. Receiving no reply when I tapped lightly on Madeleine’s door, I surmised she must already be taking breakfast so I hurried to join her. I descended into the gloom of the hall, quickly crossing the chilly cavern into the bleak corridor beyond, the echo of my footsteps softening as marble gave way to polished wood. I had only proceeded a short way when a rapid swishing of skirts revealed I was being pursued. My heart leapt into my mouth as Mrs Henge called my name. ‘Goodness! Mrs Henge, you quite startled me!’ Her face remained impassive. ‘Miss Marcham, I did not mean to alarm you.’ I laughed at my own skittishness, but she met my self-deprecatory humour with a flicker of disdain. I flushed. ‘Was there something you wanted?’ ‘I merely wished to check that you had settled in and have everything you need.’ ‘I do indeed, thank you.’ She expressed her satisfaction with a slight nod. She folded her hands before her. ‘If I may be so bold, Miss Marcham, may I say how pleased I am to have Mrs Brightwell with us. I very much hope she will, in time, come to see Greyswick as her home and feel some fondness for it.’ ‘You make it sound as if Mrs Brightwell doesn’t like it here.’ ‘Sometimes, it seems, Mrs Brightwell is not – comfortable – here.’ I could see how Madeleine might struggle to feel ‘comfortable’ in the house her mother-in-law continued to reign over like a grand matriarch, but I found it interesting that Mrs Henge had also detected Madeleine’s disquiet. For the first time, I had a proper opportunity to study Greyswick’s housekeeper, now she was finally out in the open and no longer draped in shade. She was not as ancient as I had first perceived, though I suspected her late middle years were calling. The heavy set of her features, her Roman nose and broad chin suggested she had never enjoyed great beauty. Her hair was a uniform grey and her skin had long lost the suppleness of youth. It sagged now, weary lines fanning from her eyes, while deep channels carved down the sides of her mouth. The one extraordinary feature she did possess, however, were her eyes. They were the clearest grey I had ever seen, like thick sheets of pond ice, with only the merest hint of colour in their transparency. I wondered what treacherous depths they concealed. ‘My sister tells me you have been with the family for a long time, Mrs Henge.’ Her lips quirked in a way that felt strangely measured, practised somehow. ‘I have indeed, miss. I was with Sir Arthur from the time he was a young man just starting to make his way in the world. It has been an honour and a privilege to serve in such an esteemed family for all these years. I hope I may continue to serve long after the next generation arrives.’ ‘An old retainer is a highly valued asset.’ I thought of how I cherished dear Brown and Mrs Scrivens. I so often took their service for granted, and yet I knew they were completely irreplaceable, and much loved. Swelled with tenderness, I laid my hand on Mrs Henge’s arm, but she flinched at the unanticipated touch, and I quickly withdrew it, somewhat embarrassed. ‘They are very lucky to have you, Mrs Henge,’ I said, hoping to mitigate for any discomfort I may have caused. ‘Annie is being most helpful, miss.’ I think both of us welcomed the change of subject. ‘She’s a queer sort, if you don’t mind me saying, but she’s a good worker, I’ll give her that.’ ‘Well, it’s a strange house to her, Mrs Henge, and she is not the most experienced of girls, but I’m sure she’ll do her best.’ I thought of Mrs Scrivens’ concerns. ‘She has a few foibles, but we all have our idiosyncrasies after all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m hoping to catch my sister at breakfast.’ ‘Mrs Brightwell is indeed still in the dining room, Miss Marcham. Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott have already left for the day.’ ‘What busy lives they lead,’ I observed dryly. It was impossible to read the housekeeper’s leaden expression. She offered a courteous dip of her head and turned back to the hall. I remembered the toy soldier and was about to call after her but then decided not to. It was probably nothing more than a foolish prank by the housemaid, and I had no desire to get the girl into trouble. Perhaps I would have a quiet word with her myself, if Annie was disinclined to do so, or indeed if I found myself in receipt of another such bedtime gift. I pressed on to the dining room. Madeleine shuffled round in her chair to beam at me as I entered. ‘There you are at last! Did you sleep well? I slept wonderfully – I knew I would rest better with you here.’ She caught my hand as I leant down to kiss her and brought it to her lips. I was heartened to see her restored to her usual humour. She chattered merrily as I helped myself to bacon, eggs and kidney. Deciding to indulge, I slipped a muffin onto my plate. Madeleine was very keen to visit the local town as there were a number of purchases she needed to make and required my advice. I was quite happy to fall in with whatever plans she had and we decided to take the omnibus, as Lady Brightwell had already commandeered the car. I was full to bursting by the time I popped the last morsel of jam-slathered muffin into my mouth. Madeleine had been fidgeting to be gone for the last five minutes, and the moment my lips closed she pushed back her chair. ‘Come along, Stella, we simply can’t miss the ’bus.’ Still chewing, I got to my feet, and as I did so, I felt the weight of the toy soldier pull at my pocket. ‘Oh! I almost forgot, I had the most peculiar bedfellow last night.’ Madeleine burst out laughing. ‘I beg your pardon?’ Grinning, I ceremoniously stood the figure on the table. The smile froze on Madeleine’s face as the spark faded from her eyes. The edges of her mouth relaxed until her lips were pressed into a thin line. ‘Where did you find him?’ I fought a sense of foreboding as I offered my response. She nodded distractedly, before flinging her napkin onto him. ‘I can’t stand the things.’ She turned on her heel, her movements taut as she strode for the door. ‘Anyway, we’d best hurry. That omnibus won’t wait for us.’ I made several attempts to broach the subject of the soldier throughout the course of the morning, but Madeleine was always quick to change the subject. Her demeanour remained cheery and light, but I couldn’t help noticing a strain about her eyes and a tension to her smile, that hadn’t been evident before the figure’s appearance. I found the whole situation most curious. It was late afternoon before we clambered down from the ’bus and began the long walk up the drive to the house. Madeleine grew quieter as we approached the grey mansion. Mrs Henge must have been watching for us – she hauled open the front door before we reached the top step. She stood in patient attendance as we unburdened ourselves of hats, coats and parcels. ‘I am quite worn out from all that,’ Madeleine confessed. Her subdued manner was reflected in her pale cheeks and dull eyes. ‘I think I might take a lie down for a while. Will you come up with me?’ We used the last of our reserves to climb the vast staircase, too drained even for conversation. As we entered the corridor leading to our rooms our steps faltered to a standstill. Annie Burrows was crouched outside my bedroom door. There was a furtiveness about her which immediately aroused my suspicion. It appeared I was not alone: Madeleine tensed beside me. Noticing our arrival, the young maid shot up. She dipped a brief curtsy, before scuttling past us, her right hand clenched by her side. We watched her disappear through the servants’ door concealed in the panelling of the landing. ‘I wish you hadn’t brought that girl here. This house is unsettling enough without her gracing its corridors.’ Madeleine shuddered and turned, her pace quickening as she continued to her room. I had to hurry to catch up. As we reached her bedroom door, she swung round and gave me a fierce embrace that quite knocked the wind from me. ‘Oh, ignore me! I’m sorry if I’ve been a little off. I’ll feel much better after a nap.’ ‘It’s been a tiring trip. Get some rest. I might even catch a wink or two myself,’ I confessed. The prospect of sleep was quite alluring now that my bed was within easy reach, but I found myself hovering in her doorway. ‘Madeleine, the toy soldier – I dismissed it as a prank by the housemaid. I failed to mention it to Mrs Henge when I had the opportunity – was I wrong to do so?’ ‘Telling Mrs Henge wouldn’t have helped.’ ‘But …’ I struggled to believe the housekeeper would tolerate such behaviour if she were made privy to it. ‘I know it’s a harmless jest, but it’s not appropriate. Someone needs to say something to the girl. I take it Maisie has left them for you too?’ ‘It’s not Maisie, Stella – Maisie’s a good girl. Please, don’t let’s say any more about it, there’s no need to trouble yourself.’ She began inching the door to. ‘We both need some rest. Come and get me when you’re ready, we’ll go down to dinner together when it’s time.’ Try as I might, I could not understand Madeleine’s reluctance to resolve the matter. It appeared there was an underlying nuance to the whole situation that I was missing completely. I closed my bedroom door behind me. It was a relief to cast my shoes from my aching feet. I removed my dress, not wanting to crease it, and draped it over the bedroom chair. I held my breath as I yanked back the bedcovers, half-expecting to find another toy figure. I was relieved to see nothing but a crisp expanse of white sheet. I lay down, hoisting the covers over my shoulders, wondering whether I should set my alarm clock. I soon regretted not drawing my curtains against the bright sky, but I couldn’t be bothered to heave myself out of bed now that I was settled. So I closed my eyes and ignoring the vibrant glow beyond my eyelids, I concentrated on slowing my breaths. Just as my consciousness was ebbing, the image of Annie’s furled fist came back into view. It was then I realised what I had failed to see. A slash of scarlet wrapped in the cream skin of her palm. I awoke with a start, my hand flying to the side of my head, my hair roots tingling. I almost expected to knock someone’s hand aside, so vivid was the impression of my hair being stroked – but my fingers merely dug into thick hanks. My heart raced as I scrambled upright. The room was unchanged: my dress still lay folded over the back of the chair and the curtains were still drawn from the window, though the sky outside was smothered with cloud now and the room felt heavy without the lift of yellow sunlight. Only the steady ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and my own ragged breaths punctured the dense stillness. I pressed my palm to the side of my head, confused. The sensation of the gentle touch had seemed so real, yet I must have imagined it. My breath caught. The door was wide open. I scrabbled from the bed and stood shivering in my slip, staring at the opening. The door had been shut when I had taken my nap, I was sure of it. I snatched up my wrapper and pulled it on. Had someone been in while I slept? My breath shuddered from me as I crossed the room, the carpet soft under my stockinged feet, until I stood on the threshold. My attention was immediately caught by creaking wood. I looked up the corridor. Annie Burrows was halfway up the staircase at the end. ‘Annie! Where do you think you are going? Are you supposed to be up there?’ A jerk of her head revealed a fleeting look of irritation, before her expression quickly closed. She began to backtrack, the stair treads grumbling underfoot as she descended. She stood at the bottom as I bore down on her, her head hung low, but I noticed her eyes swivel up towards the landing above us. ‘Were you just in my room?’ ‘I wasn’t, miss.’ ‘Was anyone else?’ Her eyes skidded again towards the empty staircase before meeting mine. ‘No, miss.’ Her curious behaviour aroused my suspicion, but I could see nothing amiss. The mahogany steps rose steeply, siding onto a wall lined with paintings, before opening out onto a short galleried landing, which hosted two doors set in the wall facing me, while the landing itself ended rather abruptly with a further half-glazed door. My damp palm cupped the newel post. I was surprised at how cold it felt. I mounted the first step, focused on the landing above. I had an irresistible urge to explore. I took another step, the wood creaking as it took my weight. An icy draught brushed my cheek sending a shiver down my spine. I took another step and then another until I reached the collection of small oil paintings that hung above me. Most of them were whimsical rural scenes – sheep being driven down muddy country lanes; a milkmaid sitting with her ruddy cheek pressed to a cow’s side, her fingers closed on its teats. But as I drifted on, I came upon a much larger painting in an exquisitely carved, gold leaf frame. I stopped. I was acutely aware of Annie’s inquisitive gaze as I tilted my head back to appreciate the striking work of art. It was a portrait of an angelic young boy, his cheeks rosy, blond curls looping round his petite ears, his blue eyes soft and loving, his rosebud mouth prettily pursed. Dressed in a blue sailor suit, his right hand rested on a metal hoop, whilst the fingers of his left brushed the head of the King Charles spaniel that was looking up adoringly up its master with bulging brown eyes. There was something about the portrait that was both touching and totally entrancing. ‘Stella!’ The urgency in Madeleine’s voice sliced through the air, startling me from my strange captivation. She stood stock-still outside her bedroom door. ‘Come down, Stella. There’s nothing to see up there.’ I was unwilling to tear myself away from the portrait. ‘Who is this painting of, Madeleine? Is it someone in the family?’ ‘Come down, Stella, will you?’ I felt a devil of resentment inside me as I began my descent. ‘Is he one of the family?’ I persisted. Annie was standing meekly with her hands clasped before her, but her eyes strayed to Madeleine, as if she too were curious to hear the answer. Madeleine fidgeted, folding her arms across her body, hugging them to her. ‘Yes,’ she answered as I reached the last step. She visibly relaxed as my feet finally settled on the carpeted landing. ‘Who is it? It’s a charming portrait.’ ‘It’s Lucien.’ ‘Lucien?’ ‘Hector’s half-brother, Lucien Brightwell.’ ‘I didn’t know Hector had a brother.’ ‘Half-brother,’ she corrected me. She was clearly reticent about providing more information, but I pressed her for it. ‘His mother was Sir Arthur’s first wife, she died in childbirth. Lucien died of influenza just after Hector was born.’ I always remember my grandfather advising me to pay attention to the silences in a conversation, rather than the words. When I asked him why, he had removed his ever-present pipe and bestowed his wisdom upon me. The things that are most important are often left unsaid – they fill the pauses, he explained, the rest is often inconsequential. As I stood now observing my sister’s uncomfortable silence, I knew there was a lot more to be gleaned – a story she did not want to share – and I couldn’t help wondering what and why. I had never known her to exclude me from a secret, yet since my arrival at Greyswick I couldn’t dispel the feeling that Madeleine was hiding many things from me, and I feared no good would come from it. ‘Mrs Henge will be ringing the gong soon,’ she said. ‘We really ought to get on.’ ‘What rooms are up there, Madeleine?’ She had been most determined to steer me away from what lay beyond the staircase and I wanted to understand her reason. ‘Nothing of importance.’ ‘Just an entrance to the servants’ quarters.’ Annie’s interjection startled us both. ‘And, of course, the old school room – and nursery.’ Her lowered lashes fluttered up as she spoke. ‘Or so I believe, miss.’ Madeleine glared at her. ‘That’s right,’ she said, her voice discordant, like an overstrung instrument. ‘But I do not like them. I have chosen a room on this floor for a nursery. And that’s that.’ ‘Well, that’s your prerogative I would have thought,’ I replied. ‘Yes, yes, it is. Now really, we should get ready for dinner. Lady Brightwell does hate to be kept waiting. I must ring for Maisie.’ And before I could say anything more, she disappeared into her room, closing the door firmly behind her, leaving me to examine the pregnant pauses left in her wake. Chapter Nine (#ulink_71e6dffe-8116-5b39-8d5b-1aea7f39217d) The next morning the heavens opened, and the winds whipped up a fury, dashing rain against the windows and rattling the sashes, as if furious to be denied entry. Madeleine and I settled ourselves in the library to write letters, as there was no chance of us escaping the confines of the house in the face of such onslaught. Like the rest of Greyswick, the library was a room designed to impress. Its enormous windows were draped in excessive quantities of gaudy material, quite inappropriate given the nature of the room, and the bookcases which lined every square inch of wall had been specially commissioned, as had the large oak reading tables at which Madeleine and I now sat. After finishing my first letter – one to Mother – I drifted around the room, my fingers running across the ornate bindings of books that ranged in subject from theological texts to fashionable scientific theories. Having drawn out a few to investigate further, however, I noticed that none of the pages had been slit: the books were unread. Like so much else in Greyswick, it appeared they were merely for show. I was next attracted to a large glass case containing a display of stuffed birds, arranged against a backdrop of dried grasses, gorse and fern. I was not generally a great admirer of taxidermy, but the exhibit was striking, and demanded my scrutiny. A large coot took centre stage, overshadowing a white-throated dipper, whilst behind it, a small falcon had swooped down upon a chaffinch, whose beak was open in distress, its wings raised in fruitless defence. The magpie and mistle-thrush positioned on an angled branch at the back of the case showed no interest in the poor creature’s predicament – instead their black eyes appeared focused on me. But it was the beautiful bird clinging to the furthest fork of the branch that evoked my sharp intake of breath. A kingfisher gazed out through the glass side of the cabinet, his dagger-like bill elevated, his golden chest puffed with pride as he turned his stunning blue back on the display’s other subjects. I pressed my fingertips to the glass. ‘Halcyon days …’ My brow creased as a bittersweet memory flooded my mind. I closed my eyes, fighting against the pain, to savour it. It was the summer of 1913 and a letter had arrived from my godmother, asking whether I remembered Gerald Fitzwilliam at all. I did, of course, though I hadn’t seen him for years. His family had moved to Australia not long after Lydia died, and though Aunt Irene referred to him in passing every now and then, he had rather slipped from my mind. I still had his letter, though, the one he sent me just after Lydia’s death. It was the sweetest thing. He wrote to say how sorry he was, and how he hoped I was bearing up, though he realised I must be hurting terribly. He had gone on to say how Lydia had been one of only two girls in his acquaintance whose company he had always enjoyed (in brackets he had assured me that I was the other one. He had made no mention of Madeleine). It was such a rarity for me, as a child of ten, to receive a proper letter in the post. The only correspondence I tended to get came on my birthday and at Christmas, when aunts and uncles might send a brief note with a small cheque enclosed, in lieu of a more exciting present. That he had taken the time to do such a grown-up thing had made me feel very special indeed, and the simple kindness expressed in those few lines stayed with me for years. Aunt Irene went on to inform me that the Fitzwilliam family had returned to England the previous autumn, and that Gerald was just finishing his first year at Cambridge. She intended to visit him that weekend and, recalling how famously we had got on as children, she asked whether I might like to accompany her on the trip – ‘for old time’s sake’. Having little else to occupy me, I happily agreed. She called for me early that Saturday morning, and we had motored off to the Fens. I had never been to Cambridge before, and it was exciting to be somewhere so steeped in history, and see the students walking through the town’s hallowed streets, striking in their black gowns. We had arranged to meet Gerald at his college, and for some strange reason I felt a flutter of nerves as the car drew to a stop. He appeared as soon as the car door opened and before I was even out, he was being heartily embraced by our godmother. Any view of him was blocked by the huge flowered hat she had donned for the occasion. Finally, after much kissing and hugging, Aunt Irene released him and stepped away, enabling me to see my childhood friend for the first time in seven years. It would perhaps be trite to say he had grown, but goodness – how he had grown! He was tall, broad-shouldered, and quite breathtakingly handsome. There was still evidence of the boy I had known, though: his thick hair the colour of rich brandy, those eyes that twinkled with mischief, and the lightning-flash grin. He escorted us first on a tour of his college and later the town. He was attentive, intelligent, his manners were impeccable, his charm was undeniable, and his humour most refreshing. It was a glorious summer’s day, and Aunt Irene had packed a picnic for us to enjoy. Rescuing the large hamper from its strapping on the rear of the car, Gerald suggested he take us punting down the river, so that we could feast in a quiet spot on the meadow. The punt dipped and wobbled as Gerald helped Aunt Irene and myself in, and I was most relieved when I was at last safely planted on the bench seat and no longer in danger of toppling us all overboard. It was idyllic, gliding up the wide river, shadows falling on our faces as we passed under the arches of historic stone bridges. Gerald proved a most able punter, manoeuvring us around other boats and easing us on our way. When we reached the meadows, he found a spot on the bank suitable for us to disembark. He leapt off first to secure the punt with a rope, then handed Aunt Irene and me back up onto terra firma, before retrieving the picnic basket. We found a lovely spot where willow trees wept into the river, their tendril branches tentatively dipping beneath the murky surface. The tartan rug billowed on the breeze as Gerald shook it out before laying it down amongst the buttercups, daisies and purple fritillaries. Aunt Irene and I knelt in our light summer dresses and began to unpack, setting out the plates, wine glasses and cutlery before arranging a veritable feast of delights, all lovingly prepared by Aunt Irene’s cook. There was jellied chicken, cold salmon, potted shrimp, boiled eggs, tiny tomatoes, pickles, bread, melting butter and wedges of hard cheese that were beginning to soften in the heat. Gerald threw himself down and pulled off his boater, a red line across his forehead where the rim had cut in. Laughing, he ruffled some life back into his flattened hair and proceeded to uncork the wine. Reminiscing about the past, and filling in the missing years, the three of us ate and drank and talked until we could manage no more. Fully sated, Aunt Irene declared herself quite exhausted, and using Gerald’s folded blazer as a cushion, she lay back on the blanket and closed her eyes. We smothered our laughter as she began to snore peacefully. I decided to stretch my cramped legs, so I stood up, brushing the crumbs from my skirt. ‘Shall we wander over to the river?’ Gerald suggested, scrabbling to his feet. ‘Yes, all right,’ I smiled, a little giddy from the combination of heat and wine. We ambled quite companionably through the long grass that was alive with the buzzing of bees and chirping of crickets, until the river flowed before us. ‘It is so good to see you again, Stella,’ Gerald said, glancing down at me. ‘In a strange way, it seems like only yesterday.’ I smiled, plucking a stem of grass for want of something to do with my trembling hands. I knew exactly what he meant. In just a few hours, the years had fallen away, until only that easy familiarity we enjoyed as children remained. It set my heart beating a little faster. ‘Did you see that?’ he exclaimed. Seeing my puzzlement, he grabbed my hand and led me closer to the river edge. ‘Look! There!’ I followed his finger just in time to see a bolt of blue shoot into the brown depths, only to appear again seconds later. ‘A kingfisher!’ I declared with delight. ‘Why, I don’t think I’ve ever seen one before!’ The plump bird rested on a low hanging branch, preening. We sank down to a crouch to observe it. I was somewhat distracted by how natural it was, for my hand to be in his, and by how comfortable it felt to be beside him once again. ‘It’s reputed to be the first bird to have flown from Noah’s Ark.’ He kept his voice low, eager not to disturb the exquisite creature. ‘Myth has it, it got its colouring that day, from the blue sky on its back, and the orange setting sun on its breast. Its Greek name is halcyon. They see it as a symbol of peace and prosperity … and love.’ He looked at me and smiled. ‘It’s beautiful.’ We both gasped as in a flash of colour, the little bird was gone, darting off down the river. We rose from our haunches. Gerald’s hand continued to clasp mine. ‘I’m glad we saw it together,’ he said. ‘Oh, here you are. Fancy abandoning me in this heat!’ We swiftly dropped hands and turned to see Aunt Irene standing a little way behind us, cooling herself with a lace fan. ‘Sadly, my dears, I think it is time to draw this blissful day to an end, if I am to get Stella back to her parents as promised. Do come and help me pack the picnic basket. I think there’s a drop of wine left in one of the bottles – it would be such a shame to waste it.’ With faces flushed from more than just the heat of the day, Gerald and I led the way back to the picnic blanket. My heart felt heavy at the prospect of our imminent separation. Aunt Irene, in contrast, seemed more gay than ever, as she directed our clearing up, a sly smile creeping across her lips and her sharp eyes observing our every interaction. It wasn’t long before we were back at the car, with the basket stowed and us saying our farewells. Aunt Irene kissed her godson fondly and promised to visit again soon, before ducking into the back seat, leaving me on the pavement, waiting to say goodbye. I was rather thrilled when Gerald bent to kiss my cheek, catching my fingers in his hand as he did so. ‘May I be terribly forward and ask whether I might write to you?’ he said. My heart seemed to explode as I tried to control the unladylike grin that burst across my face. ‘Oh! I would like that very much.’ His return smile was instant. He squeezed my fingers. ‘Good. I think we have a lot of lost time to make up for.’ I felt six inches taller as I climbed into the back seat next to my godmother. We both turned to wave out of the rear window as the car pulled away and as Aunt Irene settled back for the journey home, she made no attempt to hide her approving smile, nor her brief nod of satisfaction, as her eyes twinkled with glee. ‘Halcyon days indeed.’ I withdrew my fingers from the glass, my heart aching. Halcyon days the like of which I would never enjoy again. My throat burnt with contained tears as I bit my lip and turned away from the kingfisher, silently cursing him for his betrayal. I was shaking by the time I slid back into my chair, battling to control the unruly sway of my emotions. I snatched up my pen, determined to divert myself with industry, and quickly dashed off a greeting to a Sister I had worked with in France. I paused, my nib resting on the paper, as I remembered how kind she had been on that awful final day. My grip tightened on the pen. I was barely aware of the force I was exerting, when the fine tip broke under the pressure. ‘Oh Stella! How careless of you!’ Madeleine chided, having heard the snap of the metal, but her tone changed in an instant as she looked up to see my mounting distress. ‘Stella? What is it?’ I shook my head, breathing deeply to suppress a deluge of tears. ‘I’m sorry … I’m being silly … lost in unhelpful thoughts.’ ‘Oh Stella …’ Madeleine rested her hand on my arm. I patted it reassuringly before clearing my throat. ‘Well, that was rather silly of me. Where might I find a new nib?’ Clearly sensing my desire to move on, Madeleine got up in pursuit of a replacement. She rifled through a set of desk drawers, and the writing box on the window sill, but without reward. ‘I do know that mother-in-law has spare nibs in her bureau in the morning room – shall I go and look for you?’ she asked. Keen to have a moment to myself, I assured her I was happy to go. She told me where they were to be found and with a concerned smile, sent me on my way. I closed the door behind me and paused while I afforded myself time to come to terms with the past. Only when my doldrums were banished, and I felt sufficiently restored, did I set off towards the morning room, ready to face the world once again. I knocked lightly when I reached the door. On receiving no answer, I gingerly turned the brass handle. I was most relieved to find the room unoccupied. I had seen it only once before, little more than a cursory glance on Madeleine’s whistle-stop tour that first day. In stark contrast to the rest of Greyswick, it was a pretty room, painted a vibrant buttercup yellow, and was perfectly positioned to enjoy the sun which streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows now the storm had abated. Great cut-glass bowls of pot pourri embellished the other window sills, leaving the hint of a faded summer in the air. The armchairs cosily arranged around the fireplace were covered in chintz, and the shelf of the mantelpiece was draped in velvet as if from a bygone era, and it crossed my mind that the d?cor may have been unchanged since Lady Brightwell first took occupancy of the house. I took a moment to examine the abundance of silver picture frames placed about the room. They contained sepia images of largely unfamiliar faces, though some bore sufficient resemblance to Lady Brightwell to suggest a familial connection. There were some pleasantly candid photographs of Hector and Madeleine, as well as the lady herself – there was even a rather charming one of Miss Scott – but I noted with some curiosity there were none of Sir Arthur. He didn’t even figure in the ensemble shots taken at house parties and Christmases past. It smacked of a purposeful omission, as if a concerted attempt had been made to erase his presence, but before I could ponder further on this apparent slight, I found myself drawn to the commanding painting that hung above the mantelpiece. It was a stunning portrait, skilfully done, and though the years may have aged her, it was instantly recognisable as a young Lady Brightwell. She was standing in profile at a large fireplace, the fingertips of her right hand just visible as they rested on the broad marble mantel. There was a gilt-framed mirror hanging above it, and though the suggestion was a desire to see her reflection had brought her to that spot, her face was angled away from the glass – Lady Brightwell herself was looking directly at the artist. She was dressed in an exquisite red evening gown, the sharp lines of her shoulder blades just visible above the buttoned back that clung to her torso, pulling into a minuscule waist before rucking up in elaborate folds over a bustle and tumbling in waves to pool on the floor. Her chestnut brown hair, threaded with strands of gold, had been gathered up with diamond-headed pins until it overflowed, covering her neck with a cascade of curls. But it was the expression on the stunning young face that struck me the most. This was no whimsical pose. There was no coquettish regard for the painter, as he painstakingly preserved her for posterity. The expression on her face was arrogantly self-assured. This was a young woman confident of her looks, from the fine line of her nose, to her arched brows and sculpted cheekbones, a young woman who knew her mouth was the perfect shape even if her lips were a little too thin. She was aware her beauty was arresting, and her eyes shone with an unveiled challenge to the artist, daring him to record her otherwise. ‘She is a very beautiful woman, is she not, Miss Marcham?’ I whirled around at the intrusion. Miss Scott was standing at the open door. I hadn’t heard her enter and fumbled my apologies. She smiled as she drew near. ‘Please don’t apologise. She is very distracting.’ ‘It’s a wonderful portrait.’ ‘She was just eighteen when that was done. Oh! She made me do her hair four times before she was satisfied with it. She was quite determined to look perfect.’ She drank in the picture, her face rapt, as if relishing it for the first time. ‘And she did look perfect,’ she finished, her voice soft. ‘You’ve been with her for a very long time then, Miss Scott?’ ‘Since she was seventeen, and I was not much older myself. She was headstrong and determined even then, and a much-toasted debutante. I’ve witnessed rooms fall silent by the mere act of her walking into them.’ I looked again at the portrait and had no doubt that the companion’s recollections were accurate. ‘She is quite a forceful character,’ I said without thinking. I saw a flicker of discomfort on the older woman’s face. ‘You mustn’t judge her too harshly, Miss Marcham. What you see above you is a carefully choreographed image. What lies beneath the surface is often too profound to be caught in oils and brush strokes. The events of a lifetime have moulded her into the woman she is today.’ The admonishment was gentle but left me feeling gauche. The affection Miss Scott felt for her employer was clearly deep-seated and genuine, however difficult that might be for me to understand – and she clearly had the patience of a saint to suffer the woman’s foibles. We both turned when we heard a slight cough behind us. Mrs Henge stood framed by the doorway. ‘Forgive me for interrupting. I just wanted to check this morning’s tea things had been cleared.’ I was surprised to detect an uncharacteristically soft timbre to the housekeeper’s voice as she addressed us, Miss Scott her primary focus. One glance revealed the china was still very much in evidence – abandoned on a squat table. Mrs Henge’s lips pursed in displeasure and I pitied poor Maisie, who I suspected had overlooked the task amongst a multitude of other chores. ‘Oh dear, it’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’ Miss Scott declared without recrimination, as Mrs Henge advanced on the china. I explained then that I had come looking for a pen nib. ‘Oh, you’ll find one in the bureau, Lady Brightwell always keeps several spares, let me find one for you.’ ‘This is such a pretty room,’ I declared, as she bustled over to the desk and pulled open an inner drawer. ‘It has such a different feel to the rest of the house.’ ‘Well, it was the only room she was given free rein in … Ah!’ She triumphantly brandished a new nib. ‘Will this do?’ ‘Perfectly, thank you.’ Handing me the nib, she delved into a large bag resting in the corner and withdrew a ball of wool, which was clearly what had brought her to the morning room. I cast a final appreciative glance at the painting. ‘Was it for a special occasion?’ Miss Scott smiled. ‘Her eighteenth birthday – it was the last portrait done before her engagement.’ ‘And you came with her here to Greyswick on her marriage?’ I asked. ‘I did indeed, and I have been by her side ever since. Only once have I been away from her in all that time – and only then because there was no other way around it.’ Her voice had grown wistful. From the corner of my eye I noticed Mrs Henge glance up, just before she lifted the laden tray. Miss Scott and I fell in step to leave. Mrs Henge stood aside to let us pass. ‘Well, I can see you have quite a bond,’ I observed, slowing my pace to allow Miss Scott first access to the doorway. ‘Oh yes,’ the companion assured me, clutching her wool to her stomach as she left the room. ‘I could never leave her.’ As I reached the doorway I glanced back to acknowledge the housekeeper. Mrs Henge made no attempt to return my smile, indeed she appeared distracted and unaware of my existence. It was only much later that I succeeded in defining her expression. I realised the look she had borne was one strangely akin to pain. Chapter Ten (#ulink_f6120513-d7db-593a-890d-be6d7a41f960) Over the next few days my sister and I were constant companions. Madeleine grew increasingly at ease, and at times, as we walked arm in arm through the gardens observing the blossoming spring, she appeared completely carefree, her hand resting contentedly on her growing belly. As a household we all began to muddle along quite nicely: I became inured to Lady Brightwell’s grizzling; Miss Scott started another matinee coat; Mrs Henge continued to efficiently haunt the corridors; and Maisie lent a breath of fresh air to each day. I came to look forward to her impish smile and revised my earlier judgement of her, recognising her now to be a sweet, spirited girl. The only fly in the ointment was the continuing odd behaviour of my own maid. For some unfathomable reason, Annie Burrows had become fascinated with the nursery staircase, indeed, it seemed to exert some irresistible draw upon her. On numerous occasions I found her loitering at its foot, peering at the landing above, and once I even caught her halfway up, whispering into thin air, evoking uncomfortable memories of her father on the night of the fire. As a child, I had made the conscious decision never to share what I had witnessed with anyone – not even Madeleine. I had been terrified of inadvertently causing further pain and my suspicions were only supposition after all, suppositions which in time – with maturity and logic – I came to dismiss completely. The re-emergence of such recollections now was as unsettling as it was unwanted. I did my best not to dwell on them. One afternoon Madeleine and I had happily ensconced ourselves in the orangery. The light outside was that heavy gold hue that often presages a storm. We were quite comfortable on our wicker chairs amongst the aspidistras, looking forward to the cloudburst that was sure to come, anticipating the satisfying thunder of rain on the glass panels above us. We were both engaged in embroidery, though the pastime was Madeleine’s forte not mine. I fumbled hopelessly with the needle and thread as I tried to create the image of a swan, but I failed to count the squares correctly and ended up having to unpick it all. I counted to ten under my breath in a bid to calm myself and rethreaded my needle. ‘Bother!’ Madeleine had been digging around in her embroidery case. ‘I must have left that lovely skein of blue we bought in town the other day in my room. I want it for the sky.’ Seeing an opportunity to escape my torturous needlework, I set down my things and insisted on retrieving it for her. I waved away her protests and promised I would be back directly. Madeleine laughed at my enthusiasm for the errand before merrily stitching on, humming an Irish air as I made my getaway. As I proceeded to her room I was struck by how different the house felt when the ominous weight of night was not upon it: the corridors innocuous, the shadows cast by daylight somehow shallower and less daunting. It was much pleasanter altogether, and I made the journey to her room far more valiantly than I would have done on my own at night. She had assured me the thread was on top of her dresser, but when I arrived, there was no sign of it. I looked to see if she had left it elsewhere, and immediately saw the music box sitting on her tallboy. My fingers lingered over the black lacquered wood, beautifully inlaid with mother of pearl. I lifted the lid, and tinny strains of ‘F?r Elise’ filled the room. There was a tiny metal pin that turned slowly round as the music played, but the dainty ballerina who had once spun so elegantly upon it now lay motionless against the plush lining of the box, the gauze of her pink tutu crumpled beneath her. I remembered the day Lydia’s clumsy fingers had snapped the ballerina from her stand and how her tears of regret had failed to earn the forgiveness of her incensed elder sister. And I remembered too how on the day Lydia died, I had found Madeleine cradling the box, the broken ballerina in her hand. ‘Why did I shout at her so, Stella?’ she had sobbed. ‘It’s just a silly trinket. It didn’t really matter! It didn’t matter at all …’ I closed the lid of the box, and returned to the present, and that troublesome missing thread. Thinking she may have slipped it into her bedside cabinet, I crossed the room and pulled open the drawer. There, tumbled together in a m?l?e of limbs and rifles, were at least a dozen lead soldiers. Coming so soon after my mournful memory, the discovery upset me more than I could say. Children’s treasured possessions: things not be shared lightly. I curled my fingers around a rifleman. He was down on one knee, his rifle thrust before him, the bayonet sharp. I turned it over and smoothed my thumb across the scratched lines I knew I would find on the painted base – LB. My fingers flared open and he clattered down onto the bodies of his comrades. Why did Madeleine have a drawer full of soldiers next to her bed? Had she indeed found them, as I had found mine? Or had she gathered them for some purpose known only to herself? As theories careered through my mind, I abandoned my search for the thread. I rested my forehead on the door as I pulled it shut. The cool wood against my warm skin was as comforting as a damp cloth to a fevered brow. I took a steadying breath. I would have to discuss the soldiers with Madeleine, whether she wanted to or not. As I turned away from her door I caught sight of Lucien’s portrait and for some reason I stopped. It drew me like a moth to a flame – I longed to study it one more time. My feet seemed to possess a life of their own as I took step after step until Lucien loomed above me. I drew close to the canvas. I could see the cracking in the oil paint on his rosy cheeks, the white fleck in his blue eyes, the curl of the spaniel’s fur, the metallic sheen of the hoop and the silver buckle on the side of his shoe. My eyes searched every inch of the painting until I found what I was looking for, tucked into the bottom corner, almost concealed by the overlying shadow of paint: the army of lead soldiers. I recoiled, bumping against the handrail. I couldn’t explain my strange reaction to the sight of the toy figures. It was only natural that a little boy would want to be painted with his prized posessions, but what was Madeleine doing with them? Before I could begin to draw any conclusions, a girl’s whisper stilled me. My head snapped towards the landing that stretched above me. I noticed the first door was ajar. Gripping the banister, my gaze unwavering, I took a step up. The polished tread betrayed me with a creak but the whispers, little more than persistent breezes, continued. My chest grew tight as I mounted another step and then another, until at last I reached the landing. I stood before the first door and listened to the whispers, so soft I couldn’t catch the words – but I knew the voice. I pushed the door wide. ‘What are you doing in here, Annie? Who are you talking to?’ ‘I … no one, miss.’ ‘I clearly heard you, Annie.’ ‘Just myself then, miss,’ she replied, her expression shuttered. Unable to contradict her, I turned my attention instead to my unfamiliar surroundings. I was in an eaves room of reasonable size, though it felt smaller due to the intruding angle of the ceiling, from which a single dormer window projected. Judging from its furnishings it had once been the school room – two hinged desks with attached plank seats stood side by side facing the teacher’s table, the wall behind which was adorned with a large, coloured map of the world. Above the small fireplace hung a framed, embroidered sampler stitched with a religious quote from the parable of the talents – it induced the reader not to squander their God-given gifts. I surveyed my surroundings avidly, as if I had stumbled upon a secret treasure trove. I disturbed a lamina of dust as I ran my fingers over the cloth-covered story books lined up on the shelf and I couldn’t resist peeking beneath the desk lids, curious to discover any hidden artefacts. ‘The school room …’ I murmured to myself. ‘The nursery is next door, miss,’ Annie said, her tone beguiling. ‘Would you like to see it?’ ‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘Yes, I would.’ She led me back to the landing. I fancied she threw me a sly glance as she pushed open the second door and stepped aside. I detected a faint yet discernible odour, an unpleasant fusion of mothballs and damp, but it was otherwise a plain, inoffensive room, similar in size to the school room, with the same sloping roofs. Dust motes floated in the shaft of sunlight streaming through the dormer window, but the sun’s rays brought no warmth. Pushed up against the wall behind the door was a full-sized metal bedstead, a green ribbed coverlet tucked in around the hump of a pillow and fastened tight under the mattress. At the foot of the bed the chimney breast jutted out into the room, with a simple fireplace as before, though above this one hung a faded sampler declaring ‘We Are All God’s Children’. On the opposite wall was a child’s iron bedframe made up as the adult one, and next to that was an empty wooden cradle. It may have been my imagination, but I couldn’t help feeling an oppressive aura about the room that went beyond the fustiness of the air and the pervading chill that sent goose-pimples down my arms. It felt somehow inhospitable, and I understood now Madeleine’s reluctance to use the room for her own baby. Indeed, I felt greatly relieved her child would be housed elsewhere. The light streaming through the window vanished as scudding clouds covered the sun, casting a grey pallor over the room. There was a soft clatter. A small marble rolled across the floorboards towards us, skipping over the edges of each adjoining board. Its blue centre, the shape of a cat’s eye, spun hypnotically within the green glass ball. I was transfixed by its progress until it finally came to a stop by the tip of Annie’s shoe. ‘I must have knocked it down,’ she said. ‘Have you seen enough, miss?’ I nodded and allowed her to usher me from the room. She pulled the door shut behind her. I hesitated at the top of the stairs. I was filled with an irrational yet overwhelming sense of fear. ‘They’re so terribly steep,’ I muttered. ‘It’s a long way down, isn’t it, miss?’ Annie was so close behind me I could feel her breath on my cheek. Discomfort shunted me forward. My fingers tightly gripped the cold curve of the banister. Steadily I made my way, the air growing warmer with each descending step. I experienced a peculiar sense of relief when I set both feet on the carpet at the bottom. Later, when I had finally managed to dispense with my lingering unease, I thought back on the marble. Curiously, it had not appeared to be rolling away from Annie. I could have sworn it was rolling straight for her. Chapter Eleven (#ulink_21f3a0c3-28a1-5e2b-817c-a9bac333de8f) I made no mention to Madeleine of my exploration of the nursery floor, nor did I broach the accidental discovery of the toy soldiers in her drawer. This last bit of intelligence festered within me for the rest of the day and long into the evening. I found my nerves brittle, my manner off-hand, and my thoughts conflicted. By dinner time, a tight knot had developed in my stomach and I barely touched a thing. Instead, I snatched glances at Madeleine, wondering what secrets lay concealed behind her innocent expression. I was relieved when she finally declared she was ready for bed. She looked to me, as ever, to escort her through the treacherous darkness to the safety of her room. She had of course noticed that I was not myself, but I allayed her concerns by attributing my low-spirits to a nagging headache. I could not sleep. I was deeply troubled by the tangle of soldiers and what could be inferred from their mysterious presence in Madeleine’s drawer. The peculiar atmosphere of the landing rooms also played on my mind, and though the house was at peace under the cover of night, I found myself straining to catch every whisper of draught, every tell-tale creak. Each time I closed my eyes I saw images of Annie Burrows and spinning marbles, Lydia and Lucien, Madeleine and her miniature lead army, all set against a terrifying backdrop of searing flames and choking smoke. Sleep was an impossibility. I longed with every particle of my being for Gerald’s steadying presence. I must have eventually succumbed to exhaustion for I woke in a befuddled daze, daylight straining at the curtains. The fire’s gentle crackle revealed Annie had already been in, but I had clearly slept right through her visit, dead to the world. I turned over and groggily looked at my watch – I was thoroughly aghast to see that it had already turned eight. Madeleine had warned me the evening before that I would be expected to join the house party for church. Lady Brightwell, it seemed, was as stringent as my parents in that regard: guests and servants alike were expected to attend the Sunday morning service. I was already running late as I reached for the bell-pull. I found myself keeping a close eye on Annie as she laid out my clothes, tidied away my things and gathered items for the wash. I don’t know whether she was aware of my constant surveillance, but sometimes I thought I saw her use the mirror to spy on me. We moved cautiously about the room, like two circling pugilists, each waiting for the other to make the first move. I was last down, of course. Madeleine looked up in obvious relief as I began my descent to the hall, where Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott were already waiting, ready to depart, armed with umbrellas. ‘You join us at last.’ Lady Brightwell made no attempt to hide her disapproval at my tardy arrival. ‘We had almost given up on you.’ ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night, the unfortunate consequence being I overslept this morning.’ Annie appeared with my coat, hat and a furled umbrella. ‘Was it the headache?’ Madeleine enquired as I fumbled with my buttons. ‘You poor thing.’ ‘Well, we must be off. I have never been late for a service in thirty years, I have no intention of starting now,’ Lady Brightwell declared, leading us out to the car. ‘She has never been late because the vicar has never dared start without her,’ Madeleine muttered as we fell in behind. As the Rolls rumbled over the cattle grid we passed Annie, running to catch the rest of the servants, who were taking a shortcut across the park to the village. I settled back in my seat and felt for my locket, hidden below my clothing. I fished it out, so it lay against the black weave of my coat. Miss Scott leant forward. ‘Your locket is very pretty, Miss Marcham, it has caught my eye now on several occasions.’ ‘Thank you.’ I smiled. ‘Gerald gave it to me.’ The detail was instinctive, but my smile wavered as I delivered it. ‘It must be very precious to you then.’ ‘Yes, yes, it is. Most precious.’ I touched the gold oval, relishing its solidity, as my memory took me back to a perfect late summer’s day, August 1914. It had been a small gathering, just a few friends and neighbours, tables set out on the lawns. We women had declared there was to be no talk of war, but the subject proved irresistible to the men. They had huddled together, voices muted, their faces grave. Gerald had broken off from them as the afternoon grew languid. I was sitting on a blanket, gossiping with Madeleine, when his shadow fell across my face. ‘Walk with me?’ He held out his hand in invitation. I laughed as he hauled me to my feet. He drew my arm through his and we ambled towards the lake. My dress was white and light, floating about my ankles with every step. Gerald was dressed in cream trousers and a cream blazer trimmed with navy, his shirt collar open at the throat. It was, everyone had agreed, far too hot for neckties. It was fresher by the lake, a slight breeze rippling the sparkling surface. Our steps sounded hollow as we walked the length of the wooden jetty. When we reached the end it felt as if we were standing in the middle of the lake itself – the shore, the others, far behind us. A moorhen glided out from the bank, periodically dipping his red beak into the water. I leant on Gerald, light-headed under the oppressive sun. My scalp itched with the heat, and I could feel a trickle of sweat running down my nape. ‘I’ve signed up.’ I knew the announcement was coming, of course. They all were – the eager young men, keen for adventure. There had been a desperate rush, all fearful they might miss it – their one opportunity for a jolly good fight, a rather marvellous war. I didn’t react. I just stared out over the lake. I didn’t even have any words in my head – I had to think what to say. In the end, all I came up with was a paltry ‘Oh’. We stood in silence, watching the moorhen change direction. ‘I wanted to speak to you, before I went.’ I hardly dared to breathe. ‘Stella – I was wondering whether, when I get back, if – well – oh dash it! Marry me, Stella.’ There was a desperate urgency to his final words. My heart exploded, my smile so instantly broad I thought it would tear my cheeks apart. ‘Of course, I will!’ It was a whisper, a laugh, a joyous exclamation and the radiance that broke out on his face mirrored my own. ‘I’m sorry, I had intended to go down on one knee and everything!’ ‘You would have ruined your cream trousers!’ I teased as he clutched my hands. He adopted a look of mock seriousness. ‘I do have something for you.’ I couldn’t stop smiling, my giggles rising like bubbles in a champagne glass. ‘Close your eyes and hold out your hand.’ Biting my lip, I did as he ordered, proffering an open palm. I instantly realised that the velvet box placed on it was considerably larger than anticipated and my eyes flew open. My eyebrows twitched with confusion. Gerald watched me steadily as I lifted back the lid. Nestled against the satin lining was a beautifully scrolled gold locket. I felt the smile falter on my lips. ‘I think a ring is more traditional in these circumstances,’ I concluded lightly. ‘Yes, yes, it is, but …’ He turned away from me, taking a couple of steps closer to the edge of the jetty. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. I fought to subdue the ominous feeling that was threatening to dampen my happiness. When eventually he turned back to me the youthful joy had dissipated from his handsome features to be replaced by grave contemplation. The afternoon grew chilly. ‘I’m going to war, Stella.’ ‘I know …’ The weight of the announcement came to bear. I swallowed back a rising sense of panic. ‘But it won’t be for long. Everyone says it’ll be over by Christmas.’ ‘Yes well, that’s the thing about war. It has a way of being rather … unpredictable.’ ‘Well, it doesn’t matter how long it lasts …’ I took a tentative step towards him, the jewellery box in my hand. ‘I will always love you, Gerald – you being away won’t change that.’ ‘But it might change me.’ He saw my look of shock and corrected himself quickly. ‘Not my feelings for you, Stella, nothing will ever change the way I feel about you, but I don’t know what’s going to happen. I might be horribly injured, I might not even make it back at all—’ ‘Don’t say that!’ He bridged the distance between us in one easy stride, gripping my arms to prevent me turning away. ‘Darling Stella …’ I refused to look at him. I couldn’t understand why he was being so cruel, ruining this wonderful moment with talk of devastation and death. ‘Stella.’ I relented and sullenly met his gaze. ‘I cannot tie you to me, not like this. Not knowing what I might be inflicting upon you at the end of this war. But there is nothing I want more in the world than to marry you, to have you as my wife and spend the rest of my days with you. I love you, Stella.’ I swallowed back the sob that threatened to undo me. I forced myself to be brave. ‘So, what is this, then?’ I asked, holding out the locket box. He smiled, reassured by my attempted return to form. His finger tapped the end of my nose. ‘You’re being slightly petulant.’ He lifted out the locket and stepped behind me, dangling it before my chest. His fingers rested against the back of my neck as he struggled with the clasp. ‘This is a symbol of my intent, Stella Marcham.’ I gasped as his lips pressed against the sensitive skin just below my hairline. Firm hands on my shoulders turned me round. He pulled me close until our bodies touched, his face just inches from mine. ‘I intend to come back to you, I intend to marry you, I intend to spend the rest of my life with you.’ He came even closer. ‘I intend to make you a very happy woman.’ He kissed me then. I melted into his touch. My fingers threaded into the hair at the back of his head, drawing him ever closer to me. When we broke apart, I smiled with deliciously swollen lips. ‘I like your intent,’ I whispered. ‘I accept your intent – and I’ll match your intent, every step of the way.’ Chapter Twelve (#ulink_1fd365e1-293f-5cf9-bf3c-f72af458c2fe) The car pulled up before the church just as the troop of servants appeared from a pathway down the side of the graveyard. There were a few spots of rain in the wind as we got out, and I took the umbrella for good measure. The memory of Gerald’s proposal had left me feeling melancholic and for once, I welcomed the opportunity for quiet reflection that the church service offered. Annie Burrows appeared last from the pathway, following a plump woman who was carefully tucking two posies of wild flowers into a bag looped over her forearm. Her eyes narrowed as she caught me watching her. Following Lady Brightwell to the front door of the church was rather like following Moses across the Red Sea. The crowd of villagers who had congregated outside parted, their heads dipped deferentially as we passed through their midst. I think Madeleine found the whole experience rather embarrassing, shyly meeting people’s eyes and murmuring ‘Good morning’ as she followed in her mother-in-law’s wake. Lady Brightwell, though, displayed little short of divine authority. She glided through the aisle and up the nave, Miss Scott darting forward to hold open the swing door of the Brightwell boxed pew, positioned at the front. Miss Scott herself only sat when she was quite satisfied she had met her employer’s every need and comfort. I followed Madeleine into the pew behind. I sighed as I sat down, tucking my umbrella into the corner out of the way. Madeleine unhooked the embroidered hassock and set it on the cold flags, dropping down to offer a prayer. I had no interest in engaging with the God who had abandoned me, so I remained in my seat, worshipping my memories of Gerald rather than a deity I could not see. It was an unexceptional service. The vicar was ancient and stumbled over his words, his eyes straining to read the sermon, the glasses balanced on his stubby nose clearly unfit for purpose. The organist too was either decrepit or inept, labouring every note until even ‘What A Friend We Have In Jesus’ was reduced to a dirge. I leapt to my feet for the parting blessing, eager to escape. Lady Brightwell stopped outside the porch to engage the vicar in a long discussion about the state of the hassocks. Miss Scott, clutching her handbag, leant in to me as the departing congregation shuffled around us. ‘I miss the bells,’ she said as Madeleine joined us. ‘I was just saying, it’s not the same without the bells, is it, my dear?’ Pealing church bells were a distant memory. Sundays had been silent for three long years, and would be, I feared, for longer yet. I left Madeleine to console her mother-in-law’s companion and drifted away to scan the faded inscriptions on the headstones haphazardly placed about the graveyard. I hadn’t gone far when I noticed a soldier. He had his back to me, standing stiff and straight before a humble-looking grave, his head bowed. My heart ached; there was something very poignant about the simple sight – a fighting man grieving the lost. Sensing my presence, he began to look my way. I put my head down and walked on, shivering in the cool breeze that whipped up a clutch of dead leaves, buffeting them along the path before me. A large chest tomb caught my eye and I wandered over to it. The flat tablet of stone that sealed the top rested on ornate pillars, one at each corner. An exquisitely carved stone angel, her head bowed in prayer, her wings closed behind her, knelt at one end, the folds of her robe pooling around her, her arms crossed over her chest. I stopped to read the inscription cut deep into the stone side, and learnt I was standing at the final resting place of none other than Sir Arthur Brightwell himself. The grass about the sarcophagus was unkempt, the edges of the stone lid were beginning to flake, and there was no indication that anyone had been near it for some time. Moving on, I noticed a few feet away a more traditional headstone, its arced top ornately carved with cherubs and flowers. My pulse stuttered as I read the simple inscription: IN LOVING MEMORY LUCIEN ARTHUR BRIGHTWELL AGED 5 YEARS AND 10 MONTHS A wilting posy of simple wild flowers lay at the foot of the headstone. I crouched down to touch the faded offering. How curious the boy should be remembered and yet the father should not. I became aware of someone hovering behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder to see the woman Annie had followed, waiting patiently for me to move on. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, rising. ‘Oh no, miss, that’s quite all right. I’m just not used to seeing anyone else here, that’s all.’ I noticed that she was clutching one of the bunches of flowers I had seen her with earlier, the top of the other just visible over the rim of her bag. ‘You left the flowers?’ Her round cheeks diffused with pink. ‘Oh, they’re nothing much, miss, just a few pretty wild flowers I pick on the way here each week.’ ‘Oh no, I think they’re lovely.’ I stepped away from the grave. ‘What a very sweet thing to do.’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». 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