He’d started with the good news. “Helen and I have decided to get married.”
“Well,” exclaimed Daphne, “my goodness. What a surprise!” Then after a pause, “My goodness…,” she repeated, fiddling with the strand of pearls around her neck. She seemed to run out of words and looked across at her husband for help. Alfred began to clear his throat, but Richard interjected before he could speak.
“Helen is expecting.”
Alfred seemed to check himself at the news of the baby. He looked back at his wife helplessly.
“We know it’s all happening rather fast,” admitted Richard, looking from his mother to his father, and then back to his mother, “and it’s going to take a little time for you both to get used to the idea, but all you really need to know is that we love each other, we want to have this baby, and we’ve decided to get married this summer.”
The silence stretched on and on until, at last, Daphne found her voice. “Well, my darling, you’re right; this is all happening very fast. Goodness. Perhaps we should all have a little drink. What do you say, Alfie dear?”
Grateful for something to do, Alfred leapt into action. “Yes, yes, of course, Daffy. Jolly good idea. Whiskey? Sherry? Or perhaps we should open a bottle of bubbly? I think we’ve got some in the cellar…”
“I’d like a sherry,” Daphne replied quickly, clearly not quite ready to celebrate. “And I should think a little sherry would do Helen the world of good too,” she added, with a meaningful nod. “You look a little peaked, my dear.”
It seemed rude to say she didn’t drink sherry, so Helen consented with a small nod.
Alfred left the room at a near-sprint, and then seemed to take an age bringing the decanter and glasses through from the dining room. As Daphne sat smoothing the pleats on her skirt, Helen glanced about, drinking in the casual elegance of the drawing room. The furnishings were pretty and worn, faded floral fabrics and threadbare Persian rugs lending the room a cozy, lived-in feel. Next to an old carriage clock stood a vase of early-spring flowers trailing petals across the mantelpiece. A pale cashmere shawl lay strewn across an ornate ottoman. Here and there were oddities and antiques: an old barometer hung upon one wall; tarnished silver picture frames scattered across a table; eclectic lamps and paintings drawing the eye, while nearest the door stood a sunken leather Chesterfield chair, a hint of stuffing bursting forth from one tatty arm. It was all very chic—perhaps a little busy for Helen’s personal taste, a little overdone, yet there was no denying that the overall effect was one of timeless good taste and style.
“Do sit down, dear,” Daphne urged Richard, who was pacing nervously by the French doors. He obeyed, sitting next to Helen and taking her hand in his. She could feel a slick of sweat on his palm and they both startled as a log fell in the grate, sending sparks spiraling up the chimney.
Eventually Alfred returned, to everyone’s palpable relief. He passed around the glasses before offering up a halfhearted toast.
“To the happy couple.”
They drank in silence.
“So,” Daphne tried brightly. “Tell us a bit about yourself, Helen.”
The afternoon had limped slowly toward evening and the four adults had shared an uncomfortable meal in the rather grand wood-paneled dining room, seated at a large mahogany dining table set with linen, silverware, and two enormous candlesticks, which cast an intimate, flickering golden glow all around them. As Daphne served the meat and passed vegetables around the table and Richard began to talk through their plans, Helen watched a stream of molten wax trickle down one of the candlesticks and form a gluey pool on the starched white tablecloth.
“It makes sense for us to move to London as soon as possible. We’ll look for a flat before I start work at the firm.” He reached across and gave Helen’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “It’s all very exciting.”
“Yes, and of course Helen can settle you in to your new home. It will be good for her to have a little project while she waits for the baby to arrive,” agreed Daphne.
Helen raised one sardonic eyebrow at Richard, but he missed the gesture, turning instead to reach for the wine.
“Of course you must talk to Edmund,” suggested Daphne. “He has places dotted all over London. I’m sure he would love to help you out. Why don’t you give him a ring, Richard?” Seeing Helen’s curious glance, she turned to her and explained, “Edmund’s my brother…Richard’s uncle. He’s a lovely man, very kind, and he dotes on Richard.”
Helen nodded politely as she chewed carefully on a green bean; privately she wondered what sort of family just happened to have places dotted all over London. Sitting here in his family home next to his parents, Richard suddenly seemed even more self-assured and grown up. She couldn’t help but compare to the way he acted with Alfred and Daphne to how she felt when she returned to visit her own parents; no matter how hard she tried, she always felt more like a petulant teenager than a grown woman.
As the conversation moved along without her, Helen stole covert glances around the grand old room. Along one wall hung an array of paintings, still lifes, and landscapes shimmering seductively in the candlelight. There was a mahogany sideboard, its surface cluttered with an array of items, including an elegant silver champagne bucket that looked like it could use a good polish, a dusty old crystal decanter, a hand-carved wooden bowl overflowing with lemons, and a rather beautiful porcelain vase depicting two young women standing beneath the swaying fronds of a weeping willow. The artful chaos of the room contrasted wildly with her parents’ own sterile dining room, with its hostess trolley and electric plate warmer and their best sherry glasses polished and permanently on display. She knew she was a world away from her own mother’s careful domesticity.
The meal progressed slowly, but Helen forced herself to swallow everything Daphne put on her plate, even though her stomach churned with nausea, until, unable to take any more, she had excused herself, saying she was tired from the drive.
“Of course,” agreed Daphne. “You must be exhausted. I’ve made up the blue room for you, my dear. I hope you’ll be comfortable.” Richard had already told her they’d be in separate rooms.
“I’m sure I will,” she said. “Thank you, Mrs. Tide.”
“Oh, please, call me Daphne. We’re going to be family, after all.” The false note of cheer fell flat in the room.
“Yes, thank you, Daphne…Well, good night, everyone.”
“Good night,” they cried valiantly at her retreating back.
Helen felt immense relief as she carried herself up the creaking stairs to the guest bedroom. She lay down fully dressed on the generous brass bed and breathed deeply. Upstairs, the faded grandeur continued. The bedroom was beautiful, its walls lined with flocked wallpaper in the softest duck-egg blue; a pretty dressing table stood in one corner, a velvet-covered stool pulled up in front of its speckled mirror. Dusty, leather-bound books lined a solid mahogany bookcase; a smattering of white lace cushions lay strewn across the window seat, perfectly positioned to look out across the gardens below. A tiny jug of snowdrops had been placed on the bedside table, and at the foot of the bed lay a cozy hand-embroidered quilt, its colors bleached with age and sunshine. Away from the candlelight and conversation downstairs, Helen suddenly felt the night chill close in around her. She shivered and pulled the quilt up over her legs, drinking in the heady smells of fresh laundry, beeswax, and money.
It occurred to her then that entering Clifftops was like entering a whole new world, a world whose ground Helen wasn’t quite sure of; it certainly felt as though it were shifting beneath her, as though she could trip or stumble at any given moment. She rested her hands on her belly, wondering for the millionth time if she’d made a mistake deciding to keep the baby, if she was truly ready to give up her dreams and ambitions for the tiny curled being nestled inside of her, if she was crazy to tie her life to a man she sometimes felt as though she barely knew, and to a family whose assured sense of place in the world appeared to be so far removed f
rom her own cautious upbringing. And all the while she tried, in vain, to ignore the sounds of angry raised voices drifting up the staircase.
Things had seemed better in the morning. Everyone was more relaxed after a night’s sleep and there was no further mention of weddings or babies as they took breakfast in the conservatory, but Helen was still grateful when Richard suggested the two of them take a walk.
“Why is it called Golden Cap?” she’d asked as they strolled up the coastal path running beside the house, clumsy in boots and billowing raincoats borrowed from Alfred and Daphne.
“Well, that cliff you can see ahead of us is the highest point on the south coast of England. It gets its name from the exposed yellow sandstone you can see at the summit. I’ve always thought of it like its golden crown.”
Helen gazed at the bald patch crowning the top of the cliff. In the gloom of the overcast skies it didn’t look golden, more of a dirty mustard color.
Richard read her mind. “It’s probably more impressive on a sunny day, but the views are great. It will be worth it, I promise.”
“So how long has your family lived at Clifftops?”
“Oh, quite awhile now,” Richard mused, reaching for her hand and tucking it into his. “It’s rather romantic, actually. Mum and Dad stumbled upon the house on their honeymoon. It was incredibly run-down back then. The farmer who owned the estate had lost rather a lot of money and then been taken ill so it was little more than a ruin when my parents came upon it. Dad convinced the old chap to sell and then presented it to Mum as a wedding present. It’s been a labor of love for them both ever since, a complete money pit of course, but they adore it. I think it was seeing their passion for Clifftops that first got me interested in architecture and restoration.”
Helen nodded. “It’s certainly an unusual old place.”
“Isn’t it? You do like it, don’t you?”
Helen sensed her answer was important to him. “It’s like nowhere else I’ve been before,” she replied, and she wasn’t lying. Wandering around the house felt like being on a film set; it was like a box of delights to roam and explore on a rainy afternoon. But an afternoon—a weekend even—she knew would be enough for her. Secretly she couldn’t help thinking she’d go mad rattling around such an isolated and drafty old house, with nothing but the tiny hamlet of Summertown within walking distance. Thank goodness their future was in London.
“Come on,” urged Richard suddenly, “I’ll race you to the top!”
“Wait!” protested Helen. “That’s not fair. I’m carrying two of us here…”
But Richard was already flying up the hillside, the wind inflating his Barbour coat and blowing his thick fair hair in such a comical fashion that Helen couldn’t help but laugh at his retreating figure.
It was as she had packed her bag later that afternoon that she’d heard voices from the garden below. She’d peeked out of the open window and seen Daphne and Alfred, side by side in the flower bed running along the back of the house. They were clearing winter mulch from the plants.
“She seems so…quiet…aloof, perhaps. Do you think she really does love him?”
Alfred had muttered something she couldn’t hear.
“She’s lovely looking, beautiful I suppose,” Daphne had continued, “but I just can’t understand how he could have been so stupid. By all means, he’s a red-blooded young man; of course he’ll want to sow his wild oats. I just thought we’d taught him better than that.”
“What’s clear to me is that we’ve taught him a sense of responsibility. I’m proud of the way he’s handling it,” Alfred countered.
Daphne lowered her voice, but Helen could still make out the words that followed. “He’s a good catch. Do you think she did this intentionally to trap him into marriage? And how does he know that the baby is even his?”
Helen flushed an angry red but she couldn’t pull herself away.
“He’s no fool, love. And he says he loves her.”
“But Richard as much as admitted last night that they’ve only known each other for a matter of weeks. It’s sheer madness.”
“You’re forgetting though, buttercup, that I knew with you from day one,” Alfred replied, holding Daphne’s gaze.
“You old softie, come here.” As Alfred leaned in to the tender embrace of his wife, Helen withdrew from the window, an ugly churning feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.
How dare they presume she was nothing more than a grubby gold digger? How dare they think she had deliberately trapped their son? There she was, trying to do the right thing by the baby—by their grandchild—and they stood there accusing her of that? She was enraged. After all, things for Richard would carry on as planned. He would finish his architecture degree. He’d still be able to work at the family firm and carve out his illustrious career. No, it seemed obvious to Helen who was really trapped. It was she who would be giving up her dreams of travel and teaching, she who would be swapping smoky Parisian cafés and sultry Spanish sunshine for dirty diapers and sleepless nights. How dare they think her so pathetic and impoverished, so devious that she would stoop so low? Helen flung the rest of her belongings into her overnight bag. She couldn’t wait to get away from Clifftops and bloody Daphne Tide.
Things had moved quickly after that; Helen had graduated in the summer and she and Richard were married soon after in a quiet registry office ceremony in London. Cassie was born just a few months later—a tiny bundle of wrinkled pink skin, blue eyes, and fuzzy golden hair. As soon as she clapped her eyes on her daughter, Helen knew she’d done the right thing. There would be plenty of time for her career later. Then, it was simply enough to just hold her baby close and breathe in the warm, sweet scent of her. Motherhood brought with it an intense love like no other, organic and pure, and Helen felt transformed by it.
Their daughter had an equally softening effect on Daphne. To Helen’s surprise, she appeared at Helen’s bedside in London the day after the birth, carrying with her a small arrangement of late-summer flowers.
“From the garden at Clifftops,” she’d explained to Helen as she handed them to a harried-looking nurse. “Put these in some water, would you?” She turned back to Helen. “May I?” she asked, holding out her arms for the baby, and Helen, swallowing back the urge to clasp her daughter even closer to her breast, handed her over.
“She’s beautiful,” Daphne cooed, offering the baby her little finger. “She looks just like her father.”
Helen allowed herself a thin smile of triumph and watched as Daphne pulled an extraordinary range of clownish faces at the baby.
“Tell me, why did you choose the name Cassandra?”
Helen shrugged. “I’ve always loved it. We’ll call her Cassie.”
Daphne gave a sniff. “I don’t know my classics as well as you, of course, but wasn’t Cassandra rather a tragic figure?”
“Yes, in the end. But she was a princess, one of King Priam’s daughters…and a prophet. Besides,” added Helen, seeing Daphne’s skepticism, “it’s only a name, after all.”
The two women fell into silence, both gazing admiringly at the snuffling bundle in Daphne’s arms.
“I’ve something else,” Daphne said suddenly. “Something you should keep for Cassandra until she’s a little older. It’s in my handbag, there.” Daphne indicated that Helen should open the bag, and Helen reached across and pulled out a tiny leather jewelry box. She carefully undid the clasp. There inside, nestled on black velvet, was an exquisite antique brooch in the shape of a butterfly. The body of the insect was made from the finest gold filigree and encrusted with tiny diamonds, while the wings were formed from delicate sheets of shimmering mother-of-pearl. Helen held it up, twisting and turning it so that the diamonds dazzled under the harsh hospital lights.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t it. It’s the first piece of jewelry Alfred ever gave me. It belonged to his grandmother. Now I’d like Cassandra to have it—my firstborn grandchild. Will you keep it for her?”
“Of course.” Helen looked up at Daphne and smiled. “Thank you, it’s very kind.”
“Yes, well…” Daphne looked around, suddenly embarrassed. “Where on earth can those chaps have gotten to? It can’t take that long to find a coffee machine in this place, can it?”
Helen had carefully secreted the tiny jewelry box into her own bag before reaching out to reclaim her baby.
Eighteen months later, Dora had been born, and with the second arrival of the new generation of Tides came a deeper confirmation of Helen’s place within the family. Daphne and Alfred doted on their granddaughters; Helen only had to look at their faces to know she was, in part, forgiven for the “entrapment” of their son. Yet even twelve years on, Helen still never felt completely comfortable visiting the elegant old house. She still wandered through the rooms and hallways, unsure of her place within its walls and, if she were being really honest with herself, never really feeling quite good enough for Daphne’s perfect, blue-eyed boy.
“There it is!” exclaimed Richard, breaking through her memories. He pointed to a sparkling wash of ocean in the distance. “There’s the sea, girls, and look, the sun’s coming out.”
Dora leaned forward, pushing against the back of Helen’s seat. “I see it!”
Helen saw it too, and even though she wasn’t particularly looking forward to the holiday, she couldn’t fail to feel her spirits lift at the sight of the spectacular emerald-green valley of fields and forest sprawling down the hillside to meet the sea. She rolled down her window and let the fresh spring air wash over her. London suddenly seemed a long, long way away.
The House of Tides Page 3