Yours,
Rupert Ayres, Ninth Viscount Kendall
Violet’s cheeks were wet with tears.
Now she knew the truth. Her mother had not – as she’d been led to believe – died giving birth to Graham. She had died because a doctor – the same doctor who had slid his cold fingers inside Violet – had mutilated her. Killed her.
She reread Lizzie’s letter, tracing the loops and curves of her mother’s handwriting. At first, she didn’t understand the section about the carriage, but then she remembered. Her grandparents and an uncle had died, not long before her parents’ marriage.
Coach accident, it was. Very sudden.
All that remained was the twisted shape of the carriage.
Had her mother somehow been responsible? The letter made no reference to anything that might be used to engineer an accident – Violet pictured a trap hidden in the gorse, something to make the horses spook. But Lizzie had written only of Morg.
In any case, it was Father who was to blame. Who had – her stomach turned at the thought – wished for his own family members to die. She thought of the broken pocket watch she’d found in Father’s desk. She wondered if it had belonged to Edward – that was the name of the uncle who had been killed, she remembered. The eldest of the three Ayres sons. That must have been why Father wanted him out of the way. With his parents and older brother deceased, he would have been free to inherit the title of viscount, and Orton Hall.
His greatest conquest of all.
Her mother must have been the only person who knew of his guilt. And so he had locked her away – pretended she was mad – to cover up what he had done.
She hadn’t even been allowed to see her own mother, Violet’s grandmother. What had become of Elinor? Violet supposed she must have died, which would explain why Father owned the cottage. But where were their things – Elinor’s, and Lizzie’s? If not for the contents of the bureau, one might think they had never existed in the first place.
The last sentence of her mother’s letter came back to her.
Keep our legacy safe.
What had she meant by ‘legacy’？
Blinking away her tears, she rifled through the remaining sheafs of paper in the second drawer, sending dust sparkling into the air. At the bottom of the drawer was a thick book, clumsily bound in calfskin and mottled with age. Her heart skipped a beat. The parchment was worn, barely readable. She had to squint to make out the writing: the hand was tight and cramped, the ink faded. She held it up to her candle to get a better look. There was a name … Altha: the ancestor her mother had spoken of in her letter.
Her fingers traced the first line.
Ten days they’d held me there. Ten days, with only the stink of my own flesh for company …
36
KATE
Kate is sitting on the floor in the bedroom when her phone rings.
She has been making a mobile for the baby, using treasures she’s collected on her walks around the area. An oak leaf of translucent amber; the shiny whorl of a snail’s abandoned shell. The white-speckled crow’s feather she found in the mug on the kitchen windowsill when she first arrived. All of these things she threads onto fishing wire attached to a frame made of twigs, tied together with green ribbon.
Her phone is in the kitchen, and she’s been sitting for so long that her foot has fallen asleep. She stumbles down the corridor. By the time she reaches the other room, she’s missed the call, but the ringing starts up again, the vibrations harsh against the wooden table.
‘Hi, Mum,’ she answers.
‘Darling. How are you?’
‘Good – I’m just finishing up the mobile, the one I was telling you about the other day.’
‘It sounds beautiful. How are you getting on with it all? Have you got everything you need?’
The cottage is crammed with baby paraphernalia: the kitchen table hidden under piles of tiny vests and muslin squares, soft as gossamer. Emily has given her a Moses crib and a car seat; donated by a niece.
‘I think so. Everything but a buggy.’
She sighs. She’s looked everywhere for one online, but even the most basic model costs hundreds of pounds. And she can’t find a second-hand one advertised nearby: not even Emily’s niece has been able to help, having sold hers years ago.
Perhaps she should buy one of those slings, strap the baby to her front. Maybe she could even make one. At least that way she’ll be able to take her out for walks. Show her the beck, now frozen under a sheen of ice. The trees with their white coats of snow.
‘You know, I’ve been thinking,’ her mother is saying. ‘Perhaps I could buy you one. As a sort of early Christmas present.’
‘Mum. You don’t have to do that. You’re already spending so much money on flights …’
Her mother is coming in two weeks, so that she can be with Kate for the birth. It will be the first time they have seen each other in years.
‘But I want to. Please, let me.’
‘I don’t want you going to any hassle.’
‘Well, how about I just transfer you some money? And then you can pick one yourself.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘I love you, Kate.’
She blinks away the sting of tears. When did they last say this to each other? Not since Kate was a teenager. It was her fault: she never said it back. She couldn’t bear the weight of it, this love she didn’t deserve. But now the words are there, familiar shapes in her mouth.
‘I love you too, Mum.’
The buggy she picks is green, with a segmented hood that reminds her of a caterpillar. She smiles at the thought of her daughter nestled inside. Though part of her wishes she could stay for longer, warm and safe in her womb. Sharing everything, even the blood that beats in their veins. And yet, she can’t wait to hold her in her arms, breathe her scent, stroke her tiny fingers.
She cradles her stomach with one hand as she orders the buggy. Taps in her address, the number of her new debit card. Her email address, for the receipt.
She smiles when the purchase is complete. The kettle is singing, and she is slow as she moves towards it, her body curving under the weight of her stomach.
As she sips her tea, she looks out of the window, watching the crows in the sycamore tree. Their dark, liquid movements against the white snow.
Her mug slips from her hands, smashes onto the floor.
The email.
She’d used her old email address. The one linked to her iPhone.
Simon has her iPhone. He’s going to see it.
She scrabbles for the Motorola, blood roaring. Her fingers shake as she opens a new browser, brings up Gmail.
Please God, no.
The page won’t load. She refreshes it, again and again.
Finally, it loads. There’s the confirmation email – it’s got her address, her new phone number, everything. Even a graphic of a smiling baby.
She deletes it. Stands for a moment, a chill spreading through her veins.
If he’s seen this … then he knows about the baby.
And he knows where to find her.
Leaning over the kitchen sink, she splashes water onto her face. The icy shock of it calms her.
How long did the email sit in her inbox – three minutes? It’s – what – Tuesday, 2 p.m. The middle of the workday. He won’t have seen it. She’s caught it in time.