by Kate Morton
‘I’m sorry, Merry,’ he said, covering her fingers, still clutching at his shirt, with his. ‘It’s for the best. Go and fetch your things. We’re going home.’
And that’s when Meredith did the very wicked thing, the betrayal for which her mother would never forgive her. Her only excuse that she was robbed entirely of choice; that she was a child and would be for years to come, and nobody cared what she wanted. She was tired of being treated like a parcel or a suitcase, shunted off here or there depending on what the adults thought was best. All she wanted was to belong somewhere.
She took her dad’s hand and said, ‘I’m sorry, too, Dad.’ And as bewilderment was still settling on his lovely face, she smiled apologetically, avoided her mum’s furious glare, and ran as fast as she could down the grassy lawn. Leaped across the verge and into the cool, dark safety of Cardarker Wood.
Percy found out about Saffy’s plans for London quite by chance. If she hadn’t absented herself from tea with Meredith’s parents, she might never have known. Not until it was too late. It was fortunate, she supposed, that the public airing of dirty laundry was something she found both embarrassing and drear, and that she’d made her excuses and gone inside, intending only to allow the requisite time to pass before returning to stilled waters. She’d expected to find Saffy crouched by the window, spying on proceedings from afar and demanding a report – What were the parents like? How did Meredith seem? Had they enjoyed the cakes? – so it had been somewhat surprising to find the kitchen empty.
Percy remembered she was still carrying the teapot and, following her rather feeble ruse, returned the kettle to the stove. Time passed slowly and her attention drifted away from the flames, and she started wondering instead what dreadful thing she’d done to deserve both a wedding and a tea engagement on the same day. And that’s when it came, a shrill clattering from the butler’s pantry. Telephone calls had become rare after the Post Office warned that social chatter over the networks could delay important war talks, so it took a moment for Percy to realize the cause of the indignant racket.
As a consequence, when she did finally lift the receiver, she succeeded in sounding both fearful and suspicious: ‘Milderhurst Castle. Hello?’
The caller identified himself at once as Archibald Wicks of Chelsea, and asked to speak to Miss Seraphina Blythe. Taken aback, Percy offered to jot down a message, and that’s when the gentleman told her he was Saffy’s employer, calling with revised advice regarding her accommodation in London as of the following week.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Wicks,’ said Percy, blood vessels dilating beneath her skin, ‘I’m afraid there must have been a misunderstanding.’
An airy hesitation. ‘A misunderstanding, did you say? The line – it’s rather difficult to hear.’
‘Seraphina – my sister – will be unable to take up a position in London.’
‘Oh.’ There was another pause, during which the line crackled across the distance and Percy couldn’t help picturing the telephone wires, strung from post to post, swaying in the wuthering breeze. ‘Oh, I see,’ he continued. ‘But that is odd, only I have her letter accepting the position right here in my hand. We’d corresponded quite reliably on the topic.’
That explained the frequency of post Percy had been carrying to and from the castle of late; Saffy’s determination to stay within reach of the telephone ‘in case an important call should come through regarding the war’. Percy cursed herself for having been distracted by her WVS duties, for not having paid closer attention. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘And I’m certain that Seraphina had every intention of honouring her agreement. But the war, you see, and now our father has been taken ill. I’m afraid she’ll be needed at home for the duration.’
Though disappointed and understandably confused, Mr Wicks was mollified somewhat by Percy’s promise to send him a signed first edition of the Mud Man for his collection of rare books, and rang off in relatively good spirits. There would be no question, at least, of his suing them for breach of contract.
Saffy’s disappointment, Percy suspected, would not be so easily managed. A toilet flushed somewhere in the distance, then the pipes gurgled in the kitchen wall. Percy sat on the stool and waited. Within minutes, Saffy hurried in from upstairs.
‘Percy!’ She stopped still, glanced towards the open back door. ‘What are you doing here? Where’s Meredith? Her parents haven’t left already, surely? Is everything all right?’
‘I came to fetch more tea.’
‘Oh.’ Saffy’s face relaxed into a faltering smile. ‘Then let me help. You don’t want to be away from your guests too long.’ She fetched the jar of tea leaves and lifted the pot’s lid.
Percy considered obfuscation but the conversation with Mr Wicks had so surprised her that she drew a blank. In the end, she said simply, ‘There was a telephone call. While I was waiting for the kettle.’
Only the faintest tremor, a fine drift of tea leaves from the sides of the spoon. ‘A telephone call? When?’
‘Just now.’
‘Oh.’ Saffy brushed the loose leaves into the palm of one hand; they lay together like a pile of dead ants. ‘Something to do with the war, was it?’
‘No.’
Saffy leaned against the bench top and clenched a nearby tea towel in her hand as if trying to avoid being pulled out to sea.
The kettle chose that moment to spit, hissing through its spout before winding itself up to a menacing whistle. Saffy took it off the heat, remained at the stove with her back to Percy, her breath stilled.
‘It was a fellow by the name of Mr Archibald Wicks,’ Percy said then. ‘Calling from London. A collector, he said.’
‘I see.’ Saffy didn’t turn. ‘And what did you tell him?’
A shout from outside and Percy moved swiftly to the open door.
‘What did you tell him, Percy?’
A breeze, and on it the yellowing scent of cut grass.
‘Percy?’ Barely a whisper.
‘I told him that we needed you here.’
Saffy gave a sound that might have been a sob.
Percy spoke carefully then, slowly. ‘You know you can’t go, Saffy. That you mustn’t mislead people like that. He was expecting you in London next week.’
‘Expecting me in London because that’s where I’m going to be. I applied for a position, Percy, and he chose me.’ She did turn then. Lifted her clenched hand, elbow bent, a strangely theatrical gesture made more so by the scrunched tea towel still in her grasp. ‘He chose me,’ she said, shaking her fist for emphasis. ‘He collects all sorts of things, beautiful things, and he’s hired me – me – to assist him with his work.’
Percy dug a cigarette from her case, had to fight the match, but eventually she struck it.
‘I’m going, Percy, and you can’t stop me.’
Damn Saffy; she wasn’t going to make things easy. Percy’s head was already throbbing; the wedding had left her spent, then playing hostess to Meredith’s parents. This was the last thing she needed; Saffy was being purposely obtuse, goading her into spelling things out. Well, if that was how she wanted to play it, Percy wasn’t afraid to lay down the law. ‘No,’ she exhaled smokily, ‘you’re not. You’re not going anywhere, Saff. You know it, I know it, and now Mr Wicks knows it, too.’
Saffy’s arms slackened beside her, the tea towel fell to the flagstones. ‘You told him I wasn’t coming. Just like that.’
‘Someone had to. He was about to wire you the fare.’
Saffy’s eyes were brimming now, and although Percy was angry with her she was pleased too, to see that her sister was fighting the rush of tears. Perhaps a scene would be avoided this time, after all.
‘Come along now,’ she said, ‘I’m sure you’ll see eventually that it’s for the best—’
‘You’re really not going to let me go.’
‘No,’ said Percy, firmly but kindly, ‘I’m not.’
Saffy’s bottom lip trembled and her voice when finally she managed to speak wa
s little more than a whisper. ‘You can’t control us forever, Percy.’ Her fingers were scrabbling together against her skirt, gathering invisible sticky threads into a tiny ball.
The gesture was one from childhood and Percy was overwhelmed by déjà vu and a fierce urge to hold her twin close and never let her go, to tell her she was loved, that Percy didn’t mean to be cruel, that she was doing it for Saffy’s own good. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. And it wouldn’t have made any difference if she had, because nobody wants to be told that sort of thing, even when they know, in their heart of hearts, that it’s true.
She settled instead for softening her own voice and saying, ‘I’m not trying to control you, Saffy. Maybe some other day, in the future, you’ll be able to leave.’ Percy gestured at the castle walls. ‘But not now. We need you here now, what with the war and Daddy as he is. Not to mention the severe shortage of staff: have you considered what would happen to the rest of us if you left? Can you see Juniper or Daddy or – Lord help us – me, staying on top of the laundry?’
‘There’s nothing you can’t do, Percy.’ Saffy’s voice was bitter. ‘There’s never been anything you couldn’t do.’
Percy knew then that she’d won; more importantly, that Saffy knew it too. But she felt no joy, only the familiar burden of responsibility. Her whole being ached for her sister, for the young girl she’d once been with the world at her feet.
‘Miss Blythe?’ Percy looked up to see Meredith’s father at the door, his thin little wife by his side, and an air of complete perturbation surrounding them both.
She’d forgotten them completely. ‘Mr Baker,’ she said, ruffling the back of her hair. ‘I apologize. I’ve taken an age with the tea—’
‘That’s all right, Miss Blythe. We’re about done with tea. It’s Meredith, you see.’ His shoulders seemed to sink a little. ‘My wife and I planned to take her home with us but she’s that set on staying – I’m afraid the little devil’s given us the slip.’
‘Oh.’ It was the last thing Percy needed. She glanced behind her, but Saffy had performed her own escape act. ‘Well. I expect we’d better take a look then, hadn’t we?’
‘That’s just it,’ Mr Baker said unhappily. ‘My wife and I have to be back on the three twenty-four to London. It’s the only service today.’
‘I see,’ said Percy. ‘Then of course you must go. The trains are terrible these days. If you miss today’s, you’re as likely still to be waiting this time Wednesday.’
‘But my girl . . .’ Mrs Baker looked as if she might be about to cry and the prospect didn’t sit comfortably on her tough, pointy face. Percy knew the feeling.
‘You’re not to worry,’ she said with a short nod. ‘I’ll find her. Is there a number in London where I can reach you? She won’t have gone far.’
From a branch in the oldest oak of Cardarker Wood, Meredith could just make out the castle. The pointed turret of the tower and its needle-like spire piercing the sky. The tiles glowed crimson with the afternoon light, and the silver tip shone. On the lawn at the top of the driveway Percy Blythe was waving her parents goodbye.
Meredith’s ears burned with the thrilling wickedness of what she’d done. There’d be repercussions, she knew, but she’d had no other option. She’d run and she’d run until she could run no further, and when her breath was finally caught, she’d scaled the tree, alive with the strange, humming energy of having acted impetuously for the very first time in her life.
At the top of the driveway, Mum’s shoulders sagged and Meredith thought for a moment she was crying; then her arms flew out to the side, hands like startled starfish. Dad flinched backwards and Meredith knew that Mum was shouting. She didn’t need to hear what Mum was saying to know that she was in big trouble.
Meanwhile, still standing in the castle yard, Percy Blythe was smoking, one hand on her hip as she watched the woods, and Meredith felt a whisper of doubt grow wings within her stomach. She had presumed she’d be welcome to stay on at the castle, but what if she weren’t? What if the twins were so shocked by her disobedience that they refused to look after her any longer? What if following her own desires had led her into terrible trouble? As Percy Blythe finished her cigarette and turned back towards the castle, Meredith felt suddenly very alone.
Movement drew her gaze to the castle roof and Meredith’s heart turned like a catherine wheel. Someone in a white summer dress was climbing there. Juniper. Finished at last! Back in the outside world. As Meredith watched, she reached the flattened edge and sat, long legs dangling over the side. She’d be lighting a cigarette now, Meredith knew, leaning back, looking up at the sky.
But she didn’t. She stopped abruptly instead, and looked towards the woods. Meredith held tightly to the branch; excitement had brought on a funny sort of laugh which caught in her throat. It was almost as if Juniper had heard her, as if the older girl had somehow sensed her presence. If anyone could do such a thing, Meredith knew, it was Juniper.
She couldn’t go back to London. She wouldn’t. Not now, not yet.
Meredith watched her mum and dad walk down the drive away from the castle, Mum’s arms folded over her middle, Dad’s limp by his sides. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered under her breath, ‘I didn’t have a choice.’
FIVE
The water was tepid and shallow, but Saffy didn’t mind. A long soak in a hot bath was a pleasure of the past, and it was enough just to be alone with Percy’s ghastly betrayal. She eased her bottom forward so she could lie flat on her back, knees bent towards the ceiling, head submerged, and ears underwater. Her hair floated like seaweed around the island of her face and she listened to the eddies and gurgles of the water, the clanking of the plug chain against the enamel, and other strange languages of the watery world.
For their entire adult life, Saffy had known herself to be the weaker twin. Percy liked to pooh-pooh such talk, insisting there was no such thing, not with them: that there was only a sunlight and a shadow position, between which they alternated so that things were always in perfect balance. Which was kind of her, but no more accurate for being well intentioned. Quite simply, Saffy knew that the things for which she had a superior talent were those that did not matter. She wrote well, she was a fine dressmaker, she could cook (passably) and lately even clean; but what use were such skills when she remained enslaved? Worse, a willing slave. Because for the most part, it shamed her to admit, Saffy didn’t mind the role. There was an ease, after all, that came with being subordinate, a release of burden. And yet, there were times, like today, when she resented the expectation that she ought to fall into line without argument, no matter her own preference.
Saffy lifted her body and leaned against the tub’s smooth end, swiped the wet flannel against her anger-warmed face. The enamel was cool on her back and she arranged the flannel like a shrunken blanket across her breasts and stomach, watched it tighten and release with her breaths, a second skin; then she closed her eyes. How dare Percy presume to speak for her? To make decisions on Saffy’s behalf, to determine her future without consultation?
But Percy did, just as she always had, and today, as ever, there’d been no arguing with her.
Saffy exhaled, long and slow, in an attempt to control her anger. The sigh caught on a sob. She supposed she should be pleased, flattered even, that Percy needed her so fiercely. And she was. But she was tired, too, of being powerless; more than that, she was sick at heart. For as long as she could remember, Saffy had been stuck in a life that ran parallel to the one of which she’d dreamed, the one she’d had every reasonable expectation to believe would be hers.
This time, however, there was one little thing she could do – Saffy brushed each cheek, enlivened by the creep of determination – a small way in which she might exercise her own feeble power against Percy. It would be a strike of omission rather than commission; Percy would never even know the blow had been struck. The only spoil of war would be a slight return of Saffy’s self-respect. But that was enough.
Saf
fy was going to keep something to herself, something that Percy would prefer to know: all about the unexpected visitor who’d arrived at the castle that day. While Percy was at Lucy’s wedding, Juniper was in the attic and Meredith was stalking the estate, Daddy’s solicitor, Mr Banks, had arrived in his black motorcar, accompanied by two dour little women in plain suits. Saffy, who’d been making adjustments to the tea table outside, had first considered hiding, pretending there was no one at home – she didn’t particularly like Mr Banks, and she certainly didn’t like answering the door to unexpected callers – but the old man had been known to her since she was a small girl, he was a friend to Daddy, and therefore she’d been bound in some way she couldn’t easily explain.
She’d run through the kitchen entrance, straightened herself in the oval mirror by the larder, then hurried upstairs, just in time to greet him at the front door. He’d been surprised, almost displeased, when he saw her, wondering aloud what times were coming to when somewhere as grand as Milderhurst was without a proper housekeeper, then instructing her to take him to her father. For all that Saffy longed to embrace society’s changing mores, she harboured an old-fashioned reverence for the law and its officers, so she’d done precisely as he said. He was a man of few words (that is, he was a man not disposed to making idle chitchat with the daughters of his clients); their climb was silent, and for that she’d been glad; men like Mr Banks always made her tongue-tied. When they finally reached the top of the winding staircase, he’d given her a curt nod before showing himself and his two officious companions through the doorway and into Daddy’s tower room.
Saffy’s intention hadn’t been to snoop; indeed, she’d resented the intrusion on her time almost as much as she resented any task which took her up to the ghastly tower with its smell of impending death, the monstrous framed print on the wall. If the tortured struggle of a butterfly trapped in a web between the banisters hadn’t caught her eye, she’d no doubt have been halfway down the stairs and well out of earshot. But she had and she wasn’t and so, while she carefully unthreaded the insect, she heard Daddy say: ‘That’s why I called you, Banks. Damned nuisance, death. Have you made the amendments?’