‘It’s nothing to do with Frederick,’ said Violet, too quickly.
Graham looked at her for a moment, raising one pale red eyebrow.
‘If you say so. Glad to see the back of darling Freddie, myself. Reminded me of a chap in the year above at Harrow. Similar air of arrogance. Expelled last autumn for getting a girl pregnant. One of the professor’s daughters. She had the baby in a convent, poor thing.’
‘Really,’ Violet said, feigning disinterest. Spermatophore, she thought. ‘How awful for her.’
‘Indeed,’ said Graham. ‘Anyway, you’ve got to be careful of chaps like that. He didn’t try anything with you, did he? That day we played lawn bowls – Father and I fell asleep and when we woke up you were both gone. Father seemed quite pleased about it, actually.’
‘Nothing happened,’ said Violet. ‘We just went for a walk. I showed him the woods.’
‘Hmm. So long as that’s all you showed him. Look – anyway, it’s really late. I was waiting for Nanny Metcalfe to give up her post so that I could come and get my biology book back. You do have it, don’t you? I’m supposed to have wrapped my head around the subphyla of anthropods by the end of the summer. Running out of time.’
‘Arthropods, you mean. The ones with exoskeletons.’
‘Ugh. Yes, those. Well – anyway, can I have it back?’
Violet thought of the book, wedged under her mattress along with her bloodied undergarments.
‘Lost it. Sorry.’
‘Lost it? How the blooming hell do you lose a textbook?’
‘Dropped it in the beck.’
‘Can you imagine the look on the science master’s face when I tell him that? Sorry, sir, don’t have my textbook – my feckless sister dropped it in a stream. Well, that is just capital, thank you Violet. Now I’ll have to send off for another one. It’ll probably arrive after I’m back at bloody Harrow. Thanks a lot.’ He left, slamming the door behind him.
Once the sound of Graham’s footsteps had faded down the corridor, Violet tried to think what to do about the note. She couldn’t very well burn it. Nanny Metcalfe was bound to smell smoke – she had the nose of a bloodhound – and then there would be questions. And, anyway, she hadn’t completely decided whether or not she would still need it. But then she thought of the damselfly and her stomach ached with guilt over Graham. Could she really leave him all alone with Father?
She retrieved the Brothers Grimm book from next to her bed, opening it to stash the note inside. Before she fell asleep, she thought of her mother again. If Violet died, she would never learn the truth. She carefully placed Morg’s feather next to her face on the pillow, hoping she would dream of her mother. Instead, she dreamed of Frederick, of what had happened in the woods. In the dream, she looked down at her pale body and saw the flesh of her stomach darken, felt it give way under her fingers. Mayflies swarmed around her, wings glistening as they ducked and weaved in their endless, brutal dance.
She woke the next morning to the strong smell of kippers wafting from a tray borne by Nanny Metcalfe.
‘Get these down you,’ she said. ‘Nanny’s orders.’ The fish was yellow and puckered, like the carcass she had once seen of a slow-worm, mummified in the summer heat.
She struggled to sit up and took the tray. Her stomach churned and she shuddered at the memory of the dream.
‘Are you all right, Violet?’ Nanny asked.
‘Fine, thank you,’ she said, bringing a forkful of fish to her mouth. She chewed slowly, and even after she swallowed, the gelatinous sensation lingered on her tongue and on the roof of her mouth.
She managed one more mouthful. Then, the roiling in her stomach intensified, and the room shifted again. She felt a gathering inside her, something pushing up from her stomach and into her oesophagus, the acid sweet in her mouth.
She vomited. Again, and again.
Afterwards, when Nanny Metcalfe had sponged the flecks of vomit from her mouth and helped her change into a clean nightgown, they sat in silence for a while. A crow screamed outside. Violet could see it through the window, a black comma in the blue sky.
Eventually, Nanny Metcalfe spoke.
‘I think we’d better call the doctor,’ she said.
30
KATE
Time passes more quickly, now that Kate’s days are filled by her shifts at the bookshop.
She finds the work soothing – sorting through the boxes of donations, stamping them with the label gun. Mostly, the shop sells Mills & Boon novels （‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Emily says）; though occasionally Kate will unearth a first edition Austen or Alcott. These are displayed in the window, so that their gilt-embossed covers spark in the sun.
She and her boss settle into a comfortable routine, the older woman often bringing her cups of tea and plates of biscuits, chattering easily about her husband Mike, about growing up in Crows Beck. Emily is impressed by Kate’s affinity with her ginger tomcat, Toffee, who – she swears – despises all humans （Emily’s own hands are often patterned with scratches from his eager ministrations）。
She is due in December. Kate hopes for snow for the birth. Often, alone in the cottage, she tests names out loud, tasting them on her tongue. Holly, perhaps – a nod to the season. Or maybe Robyn. Though nothing feels quite right, yet.
It is early autumn when she feels the first kick. She is out in the garden, pulling up clumps of tansy from beneath the sycamore – quite a poisonous plant, she’s learned, despite its bright yellow flowers – and listening to the trees murmur in the wind. She gasps at a sudden fluttering movement inside her womb – a liquid feeling that makes her think of quicksilver, or the pale minnows darting in the beck.
Her daughter.
By November, her skin is stretched tight as a drum over her stomach. None of her old clothes fit – she raids Aunt Violet’s wardrobe for loose smocks and tunics; draping herself in pashmina shawls and a battered mackintosh. As it has grown, her hair has become unruly – she’d forgotten its tendency to curl, in all those years of expensive hair treatments. The back is a sort of mullet, now, but Kate doesn’t care. She doesn’t even brush it, these days – just lets it fall in dark waves to her ears.
Simon wouldn’t recognise her.
‘Are you in touch with him?’ asks Emily. ‘The baby’s father, I mean.’
Kate has invited her over for Bonfire Night; they have built a small pyre in the centre of the garden and sit in front of it on camp chairs, gripping mugs of hot chocolate. Kate breathes deeply, savouring the scent of woodsmoke. Above them, the sky is thick with stars.
‘No,’ she says. ‘I haven’t spoken to him for months. It’s … better that way. For the baby. He … isn’t a good person.’
Emily nods. She reaches over, squeezes Kate’s hand.
‘I’m here, you know,’ she says, taking her hand away. ‘If you ever want to talk about anything, you just say the word.’
‘Thank you.’
Kate’s throat narrows. She stares into the fire, watching sparks dance gold into the night. For a while, neither of the women speak. The only sounds are the hiss and crack of the flames and, somewhere, an owl.