Rowan smoked and scribbled. ‘Another difference from Hester. That’s what interests me, you see—how your lives have somehow diverged, despite the book—or perhaps because of it. I mean, Hester was very poor for much of her adult life and worked extremely hard for all of it, first as a servant, then as a housekeeper cum farmer. Your life, Jennifer, appears—if you’ll forgive me—fairly cushy in comparison. You have a small and compact house, no money worries, no real need to work, no ties …’
Jennifer stared down at the tablecloth. She couldn’t deny the charges. She had always felt a fraud presenting herself as another, younger Hester, when she had suffered none of the older woman’s grief and toil, and was living within twenty miles of London in a house with all mod cons.
‘There’s something else I’d like to ask. You encourage woman to return to their natural nurturing role, to exchange the office and the briefcase for the kitchen and the cradle, to become biological creatures giving birth to babies and home-made bread. That’s wonderful—delightful! But I understand you have no family yourself? I’m right about that, aren’t I, Jennifer? You haven’t any children?’
‘Er … no. Not yet.’ Jennifer shifted on her chair. One of the Japanese tycoons had mashed his strawberries to a scarlet pulp. Scarlet foetus flushed down the lavatory; three days in Epsom District Hospital, scraping out the last lost traces of it; hobbling down the ward and seeing other, luckier women with babies in their arms. The smoke from Rowan’s cigarette made her feel suddenly nauseous.
Rowan flicked ash into her saucer. ‘I know you told the Mail last month that you intend to carry on the Winterton line, so presumably you plan a child?’
‘Oh yes. Of … course.’ Jennifer bit hard into her toast. The crust was so thin and crisp, it cut her gums. What right had any stranger to ask these intimate personal questions, to gouge out every secret from private lives? How could she plan a child when Lyn refused to sleep with her? Thank God the papers couldn’t pounce on that. No one knew in the world how frustratingly long it had been since she and Lyn had last made love. He still kissed her, touched her, still seemed to scorch and smoulder, but as soon as they were near it, he would suddenly leap away, or turn his back, or mumble vague excuses. She glanced at the next table where a young and tousled girl was feeding an older man with morsels of her croissant. They had probably shared a room last night as well as sharing breakfast. Could Lyn have a mistress? Would that explain why he no longer desired his wife?
Mustn’t think about it. Must try and concentrate, block out the rest of the restaurant—the glide and hover of waiters, chink of cups on saucers, stab of knives and forks—listen only to Rowan’s questions, the rapid purr of her pencil across the page.
She tried to keep her answers short and simple, remember Matthew’s pointers. Yes, she identified with Hester, felt her presence still, did intend to model her life on hers. Yes, she was studying herbal medicine, had tried quilting, tatting, lace-making and many of the ancient crafts and skills. Only give her time and she’d make Hernhope live again. Yes, she did believe that Hester had special powers.…
Rowan seemed impressed, yet there was still a trace of vitriol in all the honeyed phrases, catches in the casual smiling questions.
‘It’s fascinating, isn’t it, how Hester has grown so large? I mean, the thing’s more than just a book, now. In fact, it has been suggested that some of the publicity was deliberately presented as a thinly disguised attack on Women’s Lib. How d’you feel about that, Jennifer?’
‘Well, I …’ A waiter drowned her reply in coffee—just as well. This was tricky ground and it was dangerous to answer too spontaneously when every word could be twisted or distorted. She had learnt from previous interviews that what you said was rarely what they said you said. Tomorrow, she could be sitting stripped and plucked in twenty column inches, served up like a titbit to those mocking millions who would pounce on the words she hadn’t used or didn’t mean, until they flung her in the waste-bin or used her to wrap their weekend fish and chips.
Rowan was still probing. ‘I believe the Guardian commented that your book could be seen as part of a general conspiracy to coax women out of scarce and valuable jobs and back into the kitchen, so leaving the market free for males. Do you think women want that, Jennifer—or can even afford it? I know they made the point that you don’t need a job, now that you’re making so much money from the book, but that not all your hard-pressed sisters had country seats or ancient families to turn into a goldmine. I’m sure the report exaggerated, but—tell me—how much money do you stand to make, in fact?’
Jennifer flushed. The Guardian line had been not only harsh, but highly ironical. The so-called gold mine seemed very low on ingots, and those produced were Matthew’s property. As for the ancient family, it was barred from its country seat, and now living out of packing-cases. She glanced across at Matthew, relieved to see him taking up the cudgels.
‘Rowan, please—if the book has aroused strong feelings, then …’
Jennifer slumped back in her chair, listened to them spar, watching their smiles disguising unsheathed claws. They had moved from Women’s Lib to last night’s tears on television, which Rowan saw as deliberately planned and skilfully exploited. Matthew steered the conversation back to Hester, then on to books in general, and soon he and Rowan were scorching through the Literary World, flinging names about. Jennifer tried to squint at her watch without either of them noticing. Surely they could leave soon?
‘Rowan, darling!
Jennifer swung round. A small thin-faced man had come up to their table and was standing just behind her. He was dressed in a three-piece suit of standard grey and an unobtrusive tie. His eyes were also grey, behind the spectacles, his complexion pale and smoothly shaven.
‘Jasper!’ Rowan leapt to her feet and hugged him. ‘Wonderful to see you! I thought you were in Tashkent.’
‘No, that’s next week—and don’t remind me! I loathe Russian cuisine. We had cold pickled eggs and sugar buns for breakfast last time—served together!’
‘Sounds superb! Jennifer—let me introduce you. This is Jasper Prince. Or perhaps you’ve already met?’
‘Er … no.’ Jennifer half got up, then subsided again as Matthew caught her eye and frowned. Everyone knew Jasper Prince—at least by name—London’s most feared and feted gossip columnist who attracted dirt and scandal like a magnet. She was astonished he should look so … so ordinary. A man of his power and influence should surely be tall, impressive—at least imperious. Jasper was five-foot eight, with mousy hair already thinning at the sides and forehead.
‘Thrilled to meet you, Jennifer. I adored the book! So utterly refreshing to put a toe into the simple life.’
‘Th … thank you.’
‘And this is Matthew Winterton, the publisher. Matthew—Jasper Prince.’
Jasper flashed more tooth, expensively capped by a Wimpole Street dentist he had since ruined in his column. ‘I think we’ve met before, Matthew. Ah yes—I remember—that river boat rave-up last July to celebrate Beacon Books’ centenary. What an evening! There was more Bollinger on board than water underneath us.’
‘How do you do.’ Matthew’s voice was cool.
Jasper pumped Matthew’s hand, then turned again to Jennifer. ‘I understand we’re neighbours. I’ve got a little hideaway in Northumberland myself—not quite as remote as Hernhope, though. It’s nearer Wansbeck, actually.’
Matthew’s frown cut deeper between his brows. ‘Wansbeck? That’s very close to Fernfield, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Superb shooting country. Rowan’s kind enough to call my place a shooting lodge. Barn’s the word I ‘d use. Mind you, she’s a marvellous guest. Always supplies the cabaret. There was no real shooting in May, of course, but we let her have the odd pot at a rabbit and you should have seen her with a gun! Even the dogs were scared.’
Matthew didn’t laugh. ‘You mean you’ve been staying up near Fern-field, Rowan?’
‘Oh—just for th
e odd day or two.’ Rowan had eased back into her chair.
‘You didn’t say’
‘Why should I? One gets about so much, one can’t fill in every last weekend.’
Jasper was nodding at an obese Jewish gentleman seated in the corner. He appeared to be on nodding acquaintance with half the Ritz, continually darting glances over his shoulder as if he were worried he were missing Bigger Game while wasting words on them.
‘Must leave you, I’m afraid. I’m breakfasting with …’ He lowered his voice as he laid the Name on their table like a jewel. ‘She loathes unpunctuality and I’m expected in her suite in exactly two seconds. Such a pleasure to meet you, though, and best of luck with the book.
He backed away, still bowing and smiling. Jennifer swivelled round to stare. The star he had mentioned was one of the brightest in London’s galaxy.
‘Extraordinary coincidence.’ Rowan was exclaiming. ‘Jasper and I actually work in the same office—would you believe—yet the only time we ever seem to see each other is in public bars and restaurants. Last time I bumped into him, we …’
‘And how did you both enjoy Northumberland?’ Matthew cut in.
‘Jasper had a ball—he always does. But to be honest with you, I’m not a country girl myself. All that mud and empty space is very lowering. After forty-eight hours or so, I began to develop withdrawal symptoms and had to dash back to London for an injection of Real Life.’
‘You surprise me.’ Matthew gave an icy smile. ‘With Fernfield so close, I’d have thought there was a lot to interest you. I mean, Hester lived in Fernfield as a girl—you can’t have forgotten that. Didn’t you visit the house? It’s a ruin now, of course, but the grounds are still magnificent—very overgrown, but …’
‘Yes, I did pop over, actually, Jasper dropped me off there on his way to some sheep show or beagle sale or something. Sad to see a house like that demolished.’
‘There’s one staff cottage left—almost hidden in all that jungled garden. Did you notice it?’
‘Yes, delightful little place. Genuine eighteenth-century and enough roses for a chocolate box.’
Matthew folded his napkin into a perfect square, ‘A Mrs Croft lives there. I expect she tried to collar you. Old Annie loves a gossip.’
‘Oh, you know her, do you, Matthew?’
‘I have made her acquaintance—yes. She used to work for Hester’s mother.’
‘How fascinating.’
‘Surely she mentioned it? She tells everyone she meets. She’s very proud of herself now that her mistress’s daughter has become something of a celebrity. I’d have thought you might have chatted with her.’
Rowan flipped a saccharin into her second cup of coffee. ‘We did exchange a few words. She was in her garden when I passed. I assumed she was slightly dotty, actually.’
‘Doddery, rather than dotty. She’s nearly ninety, after all. Her memory’s still quite good, though.’
‘Really? You’ve talked to her a lot, then?’
Matthew brushed a non-existent crumb from his lapel. ‘Oh, no.’
‘When were you last up there?’
‘Quite some time ago now. I’ve been far too busy recently for any time away.’
Jennifer was listening in apprehensive silence. Matthew was up to something—obviously—though she wasn’t sure whether he was on the attack or the defensive. Both he and Rowan seemed to be circling round each other, as if testing out how much the other knew.
Rowan took a sip of coffee, then dabbed her mouth with her napkin, leaving a purple smile behind. ‘I met her a second time, in fact—quite by chance. I was in the village store when she came in for some eggs. The old dear who runs the shop is almost as old as she is, and the two of them started tattling about the old days. I hadn’t much choice but to listen, since no one was being served until they’d finished. Actually, I was quite surprised to hear that the Ainsley house was still a solid prosperous home right up to the forties. I presumed it had been demolished years before. I mean, in your book, you suggest that Hester only moved away because her family were dispersed and ruined in the war. Yet Annie was saying that Hester’s mother and sister and most of the servants stayed on there long after Hester herself had left.’
Matthew tensed. ‘The … er … book was quite tricky to put together. I mean, some parts of the material were obviously more detailed than the rest. Other times, we simply had to … guess. Editing is a highly sensitive job, of course—deciding what to leave out and what to …’
‘Well, I certainly should have welcomed a little more explanation as to why Hester left her family home at all. I mean, it’s a little odd, isn’t it? Why should she have moved to one of the noisiest and busiest parts of London when she was basically a country girl born and bred in the wilds?’
Matthew was fiddling with the salt-cellar, spilling salt on the cloth. Whatever advantage he’d had, he now had lost. ‘We … er … hadn’t room for everything. The book’s long enough as it is. We wanted to start it with the period of the diaries, not go right back to Hester’s childhood.’
‘Yes, but there’s a break in the diaries, isn’t there? In fact, now we’re on the subject, perhaps you could help me out. I must admit I’ve never quite grasped why Hester took that London job in the first place. It seems so out of character. I mean, her family were wealthy, weren’t they, and rooted in the rural north with a passionate love of the countryside and yet …’
Jennifer clutched at her chair arm as if it were a life-raft. What was Rowan implying? Had she guessed Hester’s secret, or been told some spicy gossip by Old Annie? Surely not. Matthew had grilled the old crone himself and got nothing out of her. He had talked to all the locals, followed up every other possible source of information, and had satisfied himself that nobody in Fernfield had heard even a hint or rumour of Hester’s pregnancy. He had also been to Somerset House and found no birth certificate, scoured the baptismal registers in a score of London churches. Nothing. He had thus assumed the baby dead. The infant mortality rate was exceptionally high in the war years, so he told her. Food was scarce, disease was rife, and many babies died from natural causes in the first few weeks of life. Yet Jennifer had always felt a tiny twinge of suspicion, a stirring of unease. She couldn’t forget the article she had once read about unmarried mothers destroying their own babies, leaving them to starve. Supposing Rowan had picked up a rumour of that kind? After all, the baby’s death was every bit as mysterious as his birth. There was no death certificate, no record of a funeral, no two secret lines in the diary: ‘Today my son was buried.’ The child had simply disappeared. Reporters thrived on mystery—it left them free to speculate, hatch their ugly rumours. A few random hints and guesses and Hester could become a suspect, even an infanticide—all the innocent charm of the diaries blighted and destroyed.
Rowan was on to something—that was obvious. Why else should she be prowling round the site of Hester’s girlhood home, interviewing servants? She hadn’t mentioned the visit until Jasper let it out. That was odd itself. And how many of her suspicions had she already shared with Jasper who had driven her there in the first place? They were not only colleagues, but obviously good friends—maybe even lovers. Murdered bastard babies were just in Jasper’s line. His favourite pastime was toppling the smug and shining from their pedestals. Even now, he was simpering upstairs with a star whose name had lit up Shaftesbury Avenue but whose latest role offstage in a smutty divorce case would soon fuse all those lights. He could do the same with Hester. Her story would have a strong personal appeal for him, since he owned a house in the area and had easy access to any local gossip.
Jennifer picked up her cup and put it down again. Even the coffee tasted tainted now. She had partly brought this crisis on herself. It was she who had persuaded Lyn into accepting Matthew’s deal, and so made Hester public. True, she had insisted that the birth of the bastard child should be totally suppressed out of love for Lyn and loyalty to Hester. But if she had been truly loving, truly loyal,
she should have joined her husband in his refusal to publish at all. Instead, she had swallowed Matthew’s high-sounding adjectives—historical, educational, memorial—his stirring talk of tributes and tradition, and used them for her own ends. She had never wanted a gold mine, never presumed to oppose the feminists or tell women how to live, but she had to admit she had allowed her pregnancy to influence her judgement. She had been blind to everything but the welfare of her baby, fixed only on the need for its security. Matthew had been offering them security—or so it seemed at the time. If she hadn’t been expecting, she might well have risked a poor and uncertain future, but how could she inflict it on a child? The irony was, that child had been coffined in an S-bend before the ink on the contract was dry.
A waiter removed her almost untouched toast. The restaurant was emptying now, people drifting off. She longed to escape herself, but Rowan was feeding a long new lead into her gold propelling pencil. She smiled across at them.
‘Actually, my Editor did suggest me doing a separate piece on Fernfield—a sort of general picture of the place with a bit of local tittle-tattle—you know—the odd murder or juicy scandal—the saintly postmistress who knocks her husband off and buries him in the cabbage-patch …’
Jennifer choked on the word murder. Was Rowan simply joking, or making an oblique and sinister reference to the fact that she did have certain suspicions and intended to follow them up? Matthew hadn’t blanched. Was she over-reacting or imagining crimes where there were none? Rowan was still speaking, discussing the format of her article.
‘I might do a potted history of the old house itself, and everyone who lived there. I thought I could trace what happened to them all and …’
‘The sons were killed—all three of them.’ Matthew was giving nothing away. That was in the book.
Rowan nodded. ‘What about the other daughter, though—Hester’s sister Ellen?’
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