‘I tried,’ my mother said. ‘She was too weak. If Grace had come to us sooner …’
We did not speak for the rest of the journey home. Once we arrived, my mother started the fire. Then we sat looking into the flames for hours, my mother with her crow at her shoulder, until the rain eased and we could hear the birds singing outside.
In the days that followed, I longed for Grace; longed to hold her close and comfort her for her loss. But my mother kept me inside, away from the square, the fields. Where I might hear the rumours that tore like flames through the village. It did not matter: I could guess at them, from the pale set of my mother’s face, the dark rings under her eyes. Later, I learned William Metcalfe had forbade his daughter from seeing me.
We did not speak again for seven years.
11
VIOLET
Violet woke the next day exhausted from lack of sleep. But she got straight out of bed, even though it was a Saturday, and she had no lessons.
She couldn’t get her discovery out of her head. That strange word, scratched into the wainscoting behind her bedside cabinet. Weyward.
She touched the gold pendant that hung from her neck, tracing her fingers over the W. What if the initial didn’t stand for her mother’s first name, as she’d thought for all these years? What if it stood for her last name, before she married Father and became Lady Ayres?
Longing swelled in Violet’s ribcage. She was struck with a sudden desire to push the cabinet aside again and run her fingers over the etchings, to feel something her mother might have touched. But why would her mother have put her own name there? Had she meant for Violet to discover it one day?
She threw back the covers, but quickly drew them up again when Mrs Kirkby knocked on her door with a tray of tea and porridge.
The housekeeper had a distracted look clouding her broad features, and a faint, meaty aroma. Her knuckles were dusted white with flour, and there was a dark smear of what looked to be gravy across her apron.
Violet supposed she was busy preparing for the impending arrival of this mysterious cousin Frederick. Violet imagined Mrs Kirkby rather had her work cut out for her, given that they never had guests at Orton Hall. Perhaps she could catch her off guard.
‘Mrs Kirkby,’ she said in between sips of tea, taking care to keep her tone indifferent. ‘What was my mother’s last name?’
‘Big questions for so early in the morning, pet,’ said Mrs Kirkby, stooping to inspect a stain on the coverlet. ‘Is this chocolate? I’ll have to get Penny to put it in to soak.’
Violet frowned. She had the distinct impression that Mrs Kirkby was reluctant to look her in the eye.
‘Was it Weyward?’
Mrs Kirkby stiffened. She was still for a moment, then hurriedly removed the tray from Violet’s lap, even though she’d yet to finish her porridge.
‘Can’t recall,’ she huffed. ‘But it doesn’t do to go ferreting around in the past, Violet. Plenty of children don’t have mothers. Still more don’t have mothers or fathers. You should count yourself lucky and leave it at that.’
‘Of course, Mrs Kirkby,’ Violet said, quickly formulating a plan. ‘I say – speaking of fathers, do you know what mine has planned for the day?’
‘He left early this morning’， she said, ‘to meet your young cousin off his train at Lancaster.’
This was excellent news. But she had to hurry, or she would miss her chance.
Violet dressed quickly. She was quite sure that Mrs Kirkby had been lying when she said she couldn’t recall if Weyward had been her mother’s last name. What was less certain was how it had come to be scratched onto the wainscoting of Violet’s bedroom.
She crept down the main staircase to the second floor. It was a brilliant day outside, and the multicoloured light flooding in through the stained-glass window made the Hall look ethereal.
As she turned down the corridor, she passed Graham, carrying an algebra textbook with a look of despair. She remembered the gift he had left for her.
‘Um – thank you for the present,’ she said quietly. It occurred to her that it must have been quite an ordeal for him to coax the damselfly into a jar, given his fear of insects. The bees shimmered in her mind.
‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘Do you feel better now? You look a bit more – normal. Well – normal for you, anyway.’
He pulled a face and she laughed.
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Well, ah – better get on with this.’ He motioned to the textbook and sighed.
‘Graham, wait,’ she said. ‘Um – you wouldn’t be a brick and do me a favour, would you?’
She saw him hesitate. It had been a long time since she’d asked him for a favour.
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘Father’s gone to get cousin whatshisname from Lancaster,’ she said.
‘Ah,’ said Graham, rolling his eyes. ‘The feted Frederick.’
‘Anyway, I’ve got to look for something in Father’s study,’ she said, hoping she could trust him. ‘Could you tell me if he comes back?’
Graham’s ginger eyebrows shot up.
‘Father’s study? Why on earth would you go in there? He’ll skin you alive if he finds out,’ he said.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘Which is why I need you to be my lookout. You can have my share of pudding for a week if you say yes.’
Violet watched Graham mull it over, hoping that the lure of extra custard would be too great for him to resist.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll knock on the door three times, as a signal. But if you renege on the pudding promise, I’ll tell Father.’
‘Deal,’ she said.
She turned towards the study.
‘Are you going to tell me what it is you’re looking for?’
‘The fewer people know,’ said Violet, adopting a low voice, ‘the better.’
Graham rolled his eyes again and kept walking.
Violet felt a rush of nerves as she came upon the study. Normally, Cecil could be found growling at the threshold, as if he were Cerberus guarding the entrance to the underworld. Thank heavens he had gone with Father to Lancaster.
She pushed open the heavy door. Violet tended to avoid the study – and not just because of Cecil. This was where Father had caned her after the incident with the bees.
The room was no less unsettling now that she was older. It looked as if it belonged to a different era. A different season, even – Father had the curtains pulled, and the air felt chilly and stale. She turned on the light, flinching as she made eye contact with the painting that hung behind the desk. It was yet another portrait of Father, and so realistically done – even down to the gleam of his bald pate – that for a moment she thought that he had been there all along, waiting to catch her out.
Pulse thudding, she crept inside, inhaling the scent of pipe tobacco. There had to be some record of her mother in here. How could a person have lived and died in a house yet leave only a necklace and a scratch of letters behind? It was as if Father had scrubbed her from the face of the earth.
She scanned the shelves, with their ancient spines labelled in faded blue ink. Ledgers. Dozens of them. She pulled out one marked 1925 and flipped through it. Could there be something in here about the May Day Festival where her parents had met? But no – it was just pages and pages of numbers, transcribed in Father’s cramped, terse hand （it took skill, Violet thought, to make even your handwriting look angry）。 She slammed the ledger shut in frustration.