She didn’t know, the woman made out of flowers; she didn’t know, as she sprang into eager life, how it would all end. No one knew, at the beginning of things, how anything would end.
‘So now we can tell them.’
Carys turned back to where David was watching her, love and pride glowing in his eyes. ‘Tell them?’
‘About us. Officially, I mean. About us getting married.’
‘But I thought we were going to wait?’ A rush of fear went through her. ‘After all, I’m going to be away for three years.’
‘But that doesn’t stop us getting married now. You can still go to Manchester. It’s only a few hours’ drive away. I can come and visit you at weekends, and you can come back for holidays. I could teach you to drive. I could get you a car as a wedding present. Then you could come up and down as much as you wanted.’
It was supposed to be the happiest day of her life – wedding day itself excepted, of course. It was the happiest day. It was all she had dreamed of: passing her exams and then spending the rest of her life with David.
So where had the unease come from? The panic that was now shooting up and down inside her? Carys discovered her fingers closing once more around the paper in her pocket. Until she had seen it written there, officially, in black and white, impossible to deny or to be taken away from her, she had never imagined how powerful the effect of seeing those three As on her A level results would be.
It had been like a world opening up. A new world. One she had never quite believed existed, or at least that could never, ever exist for her.
‘Maybe we should wait.’
‘Wait?’ He was frowning at her. ‘What on earth for?’
‘There’s no hurry.’
‘No, but there’s no reason to wait, either.’ He grasped her hands. ‘Don’t you see, Cari? It’s exactly the time. Aunt Rhiannon’s right: the estate is getting too much for Nainie to manage, especially with this stupid Edmund business. I’m twenty-one next year and, fingers crossed, I’ll be finishing my degree at Aberystwyth. So it’s time I took over properly. It’s going to be really good, you know. There’s so much we can do. I’ve been talking with the outward-bound people in Talarn about setting up courses. Canoeing and rock-climbing. That sort of thing. The west wing isn’t bad, it wouldn’t take much to get that up and running for guests, and that would leave the rest of the house for you and me and Nainie. And Rhiannon, of course. Plas Eden is Rhiannon’s home, too. But she’ll be teaching her art classes and she says she wants to start doing exhibitions of her paintings again, so she won’t be around much.’
‘So I’ll just be there to look after the house and Nainie?’ She hadn’t meant to say it, not baldly, like that. She was sorry the moment the words spilled out, but it was too late.
‘Of course not.’ Bewilderment spread across his face. ‘Cari, I’d never think of you like that.’
No, he wouldn’t. Not intentionally. Just as he would never mean to hurt her. She had to try to make him understand. Once inside the confines of Plas Eden, absorbed into being a Meredith, it might be too late.
‘I don’t know what I want to do,’ she said, slowly. ‘As a career, I mean. What I want to be. I suppose Dad’s right; I should take the business and accountancy degree so that that way I can always earn money, and then decide what I really want to do.’
‘I’d never stop you, Cari. And I’ll always support you, you know that.’
‘Yes, I know. But supposing I want to travel for a bit? Like you did, in your gap year? You’ve seen loads of places and I’ve never even owned a passport.’
‘That’s simple: we can go together.’
‘I suppose so.’
He must have heard the lack of enthusiasm in her voice. ‘That’s an excuse,’ he said, frowning.
‘No, of course not! That’s not what I meant.’ If only she could marshal her thoughts and put them into words, so that he could understand. Only the thoughts were so new and this sense of yearning to be on her own, and for once in her life to rely solely her own wits and test herself, so unexpected, she didn’t even know where to start.
‘If you don’t want to marry me, you should just say.’
‘That’s not it!’ She was close to tears, happiness slipping like sand between her fingers. All she had to do was stop. To smile at David and say ‘yes’, and it would all be all right again. Yet somehow, she couldn’t.
‘It has to be something.’ She couldn’t bear the hurt on his face. ‘What you mean is, you’re not sure. Not sure that you love me.’
‘Of course I love you! More than anything.’
‘But you can’t be certain.’ He was watching her, a deep frown between his brows. ‘It’s that singer guy, isn’t it? The one who’s just got that big record deal.’
‘Merlin?’ Carys stared in disbelief. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘He’s on his way to New York. That’s what the papers are saying. You said you wanted to travel. And I saw the way he was looking at you in the Taliesin that time.’
‘I didn’t ask him to,’ she snapped, furious at the injustice.
‘But you didn’t tell him where to go.’
‘Only because I didn’t want to cause trouble. That’s what people like me do. It’s okay for you. People listen to you. Everyone knows your family owns Plas Eden. Mine were just servants. Your servants, in fact. That’s what the village was made for in the first place, wasn’t it? For us all to be servants at Plas Eden.’
‘Don’t be silly, Cari. No one thinks about that any more. What does it matter? I’m right; it’s just an excuse. Either you want to marry me, or you don’t. It’s up to you.’
Before she could say another word, he was striding off up the path, wounded pride in every step, until he vanished from view.
It wasn’t too late. She could run after him. Apologise. Do something, say something. Anything to keep him.
Instead, she stood there with the leaves rustling about her like whispers, stunned at having anything like that burst out of her. This was a new Carys. One she hadn’t known before. A Carys who couldn’t go back inside her box. A Carys who couldn’t unsee the look in Rhiannon’s eyes that declared Carys would marry David because catching yourself the local lord of the manor was all village girls like her aspired to. That David could have done so much, much better for himself.
Carys fought back the tears. Her mind was a whirl, but still she did not move. A new world had opened up in front of her. A world without David. A world that was vast and empty, and where she didn’t know how to start to make her way.
And now there was no way back.
Part One
1898
Where did it begin? Really begin?
The moment, I suppose, when I decided I would not end there, in the dark, foul waters of the Thames. Until that moment, I had never known the will to live could be so strong.
My purse had gone, as soon as I stepped out of the railway station, stunned by the rattle of trams, the call of hawkers and newspaper sellers and the rush of the city around me. I’d seen them since, as I wandered the streets, hour after hour: small boys, their hands diving like quicksilver into pockets and baskets. The smart-looking woman with feathers in her hat and a lace collar, her muff brushing against the girl just in front of me, bracelet vanishing into nowhere as the thief walked on casually, hands deep within the fur.
I had a few coins that had been thrust thoughtfully into my pockets, along with a slip of paper beneath the notice of any pickpocket but, for me, a new life. A life I did not care to preserve, a life I did not want.
‘Thinking about it?’ a woman said, as I paused on Westminster Bridge, the black flow of the river far beneath. Around us, midnight bells began to toll.
I did not reply. I pulled my scarf tight around my face, shutting out the throat-catching mist creeping up along the waters, and the woman with her attempt at kindness beside me.
‘I’ve thought of it myself,’ she added, ‘after my eldest died.’
That had me turning, despite myself. ‘Your eldest?’ I could just make her out in the flickering lights. She was bare-headed, hair whipping around her in the river wind, its fish-laden hint of the sea almost drowned by the stench of city filth.
‘My Maud,’ she said. ‘Ten, she was. Such a pretty little thing, and never a cross word. You wait for it, don’t you, with the babies. But not when they grow. Not when you begin to see the woman in the childish face.’
‘I’m sorry.’
My companion shrugged. ‘But then what good would it have done? My man, he’s not a bad man, when he can keep the drink out of him. And I could not leave my boys to the care of another woman.’
‘No,’ I murmured. I could see the move of shadows as she pulled her coat more closely around her.
‘Do you have a place to go?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, a little too hastily.
I felt her hesitate. But then she stepped away. ‘It’s safest to keep moving,’ she called over her shoulder.
She was right. All through the darkness I walked. In every shadow, every doorway, men and women slept. Children crouched close together as the air chilled towards the October dawn. I could feel their eyes watching me, as I passed. Once a shout came after me. Once footsteps. But, for the most part, I was left alone, with my quick, purposeful stride, the scarf close around me, so that I could be any woman, any age, or maybe even no woman at all.
As the dawn came, I knew I was weaker. That I could not face another night like that one. That I no longer had the strength to turn this way and that to escape a man’s voice or footsteps behind me.
I thought I was lost in the tangle of alleyways. I had been to London, of course. But that was a lifetime ago, for the Season. That was a London of brightly lit streets, of laughter and music. Only the barefoot children shooed back into the shadows by the coachman or the footman waiting at the door gave a hint of another world. A hint I did not care to take. As my Uncle Jolyon said, we gave money for the poor at church each Sunday, and was it our fault if they chose to drink it away? Now I was in a world I should never have known.
But then I turned a corner, and there it was: Kennal Place, Lambeth. Immediately in front of me the great iron gates that were my passage to life.
I could have walked away. Followed the streets back towards the river, this time without a friendly voice to dissuade me. This time with a sense of purpose carried through.
What made me hesitate for that moment?
‘Have you been waiting long? I’m afraid the gates don’t open for an hour or so yet.’ He was tall, well-dressed in a top hat and dark coat, one hand resting on a silver-topped walking cane.
‘Oh.’ I became aware that my hands were filthy, the hem of my dress heavy with dirt, and that I smelt of the city streets.
At his voice, a bent little man limped his way out of a building at one side of the gate. ‘Morning, sir,’ he said, pulling the bolts and turning the key so that the gates swung slowly open. ‘Not a bad morning, all things considering.’
‘No indeed.’
The gateman spotted me at once, with a sharp and obviously well-practised eye. ‘Shoo!’ he said. ‘Off you go, young woman. No admissions until nine o’clock. No pestering Mr Meredith. And no loitering, neither.’
The man with the silver-topped cane turned back towards me. He had a narrow, purposeful face, and restless blue eyes. His movements were rapid and decisive. A man of action, I would have guessed. Not the action of a soldier, but one who thrived in the fast-moving world of trade and commerce. I knew such men: my Uncle Jolyon had paraded me in front of them often enough. I was not parading now.
But they were sharp, those eyes of his. He was watching me as if he knew that in an hour or two – a minute – I would not be there. And he was not going to give me up – unpromising material that I clearly was – without a fight.
Something inside me stirred. ‘I have a letter,’ I said.
Mr Meredith’s eyebrows raised. ‘A letter?’
I was scrabbling in my pockets, as if my life depended on it. ‘A letter of recommendation.’ I found it, and held it out towards him. Grubby and crumpled, but still intact.
He took it without comment, his eyes resting on the handwriting of the envelope. ‘You had better come this way, Miss…?’
‘Mrs,’ I said. ‘Mrs Smith.’
He glanced up, eyes resting briefly on my ringless hands. ‘You had better come this way, Mrs Smith.’
I followed his rapid strides across a paved courtyard, towards the red brick of the building, stained and grubby with soot, even to my eyes. We did not go through the front door, but to a smaller entrance around one side. He let himself in with a key, and I followed.
‘Come in,’ said Mr Meredith, as I hesitated, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. He opened an inner door, pulling back shutters to allow light into a room with a large mahogany table at its centre, shelves of books and papers lined along each wall.
I took the seat he motioned to absently with one hand, and sat while he took the letter to the light of the window.
‘So you are seeking a position as a domestic,’ he said at last, turning his back towards me, and placing the letter in his pocket. His hands were already shuffling through the papers on his desk as if he could not wait a moment for the business of the day to begin.
‘Yes.’
‘Hm.’ His eyes were indeed sharp. He had seen more than the lack of any semblance of a ring on my hands. I shoved their smoothness out of sight beneath the folds of my skirt.
‘I’m a good worker.’ Which was, for all I knew – or anyone else, for that matter – true. ‘And honest.’ Which was possibly not quite so true, but seemed the right thing to say.
I could feel the fight getting back into me. ‘Stubborn’, my uncle used to call me. ‘Wilful, foolish, unwomanly’ was what he meant. At the time it mattered; I thought it would be my undoing. I never guessed then that one day it would be what kept me alive.
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Mr Meredith glanced up at me once more. ‘This is a charity hospital, Mrs Smith. The work is hard, you need a strong stomach, and the pay is more than usually poor.’
‘Oh.’ I’d lost my sense of hunger a lifetime ago – and for the rest –
‘Do you have lodgings?’
‘Lodgings?’ I stared at him.
‘No matter.’ His tone was without comment, thank Heaven. ‘Many of our women live in. I’m sure a place can be found for you. Matron will be down shortly. She’ll see to it.’ He bent over his desk again, rapidly slitting open letters with a small knife the handle of which gleamed with mother of pearl.
‘Thank you,’ I murmured. There was a fire in the grate. A small one, but enough to send warmth through me. What with that and resting on the chair, my head was beginning to spin.
He had already forgotten me. He drew a fresh sheet of paper towards him, dipped his pen in the inkstand next to him and began to write with a swift, confident hand.
I blinked hard, trying to focus. Just behind the desk hung a small watercolour in a wooden frame. There was no great skill in the brushstrokes. A woman practising her accomplishment, no doubt. I wondered if it had been painted for him by his wife. Except the frame was lacking in suitable gilt and the odd cherubim or so to glorify its clumsiness of execution. And there was no wedding ring on his hands, any more than on mine.
I kept my eyes on the picture more to keep myself awake than from any curiosity. But all the same it caught me, drawing me in. The skill might not be there, but after a while I could see there was love in every brush stroke, in every leaf, stone and window of the pale building rising up between trees.
A name was carved into a small wooden plaque on the bottom of the frame.
‘Eden.’ I had not realised I had spoken aloud.
‘Eden?’ Those blue eyes were on me once more. He followed my gaze. ‘Ah, the house.’ He smiled. A gentle, tender smile. A smile he would give to a lover or a child. I pushed the thought a
way, as fast as it came. ‘Appropriate, don’t you think, having your childhood home named after the first paradise?’
‘Mm.’
‘Paradise lost,’ he added, a little wryly. He had forgotten I was there. ‘Or it will be when my brother Caradoc has finished with it. At least my mother still has strength to battle against the ruin of her precious gardens.’ He caught my eye, and remembered me again. ‘Plas Eden was once a beautiful place. I thought I was glad I was not the eldest son. I thought that left me free to do as I wished. But that last time I went back there…’ He shook his head.
‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured, unsure what to say. Personally, I’d scream if I was dragged back through the door of a grand house again. Scream the place down, kicking and spitting and scratching and tearing eyes out first. Not that I was going to mention this. Not now the will to survive was beating within me once more.
‘But you don’t want to hear about Plas Eden,’ he said. ‘Odd: I’m not known as a man who gives confidences.’ He smiled. ‘You have an understanding face, Mrs Smith.’
Understanding. Well, I’d been called other things, many other things, but not ‘understanding’.
I liked the sound.
Even though I knew that if the letter in his pocket had told him half the truth about me, the word would never have passed his lips.
Chapter One
2011
It had been a cold spring that year. Snow still lurked in gullies high up on Snowdon’s flanks, even though the tourist season was making its long, slow stir out of winter torpor.
Cyclists had appeared on the roads and forest tracks in the last few weeks, followed by walkers with new boots and smart new rucksacks, sending the tinny jingles of mobile phones echoing round the hillsides. This was much to the scorn of the serious climbers who had remained all winter armed with pick axes and crampons and enough serious fleeces, breathable jackets, snow goggles and leg guards to equip a small expedition to Everest.
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