by Kate Morton
Shashi had always teased Ada for being a greedy little snout, and it was true, she loved and looked forward to meal times. Happily, the picnic did not disappoint. She sat on a square of fabric near Miss Radcliffe, who ate a number of hearty cheese sandwiches whilst pointing out the copse of trees and telling Ada about the first time she had seen Birchwood Manor – when her brother, Edward, had made them walk from the railway station in Swindon – and they had traipsed all the way through the woods before emerging, finally, to discover the house, like a vision, before them.
Ada listened intently. She hungered for stories and Miss Radcliffe was not usually so expansive. Only once before had she spoken in such a way. They had been returning from one of their Natural History Society walks when Birchwood appeared suddenly like a great ship against the dusk-darkening sky. One of the top windows had caught the last of the day’s sun, glowing orange, and from nowhere a story had unravelled, of magical children and a Fairy Queen. Delighted, Ada had begged her to tell another, but Miss Radcliffe had refused. She’d said that it was the only story she knew.
A game of blind man’s buff was just starting up on the sun-warmed grass beyond the picnic. Indigo Harding was ‘It’ and had a white scarf tied over her eyes; a group of six or seven girls were spinning her around, counting each full turn. As they reached the number ten, they all scattered backwards to form a loose circle and Indigo, dizzy, teetering and laughing, started to reach for them, arms outstretched. Ada had not exactly meant to join in, but she had walked that way, and before she knew it was amongst the group, dodging Indigo’s arms and shouting out her own fun taunts.
Everyone had a turn at being ‘It,’ and eventually the scarf was held out to Ada. Her pleasure evaporated, to be replaced at once with apprehension. The game relied on trust and she hardly knew these girls; there was a river not far away and she was frightened of water. These fractured thoughts, and others, flitted through her mind in the space of an instant, and then she caught May Hawkins’s eyes and the other girl nodded in a way that made it seem that she understood. ‘Truce,’ they had agreed the night before; now, Ada realised, it was time to put that promise to the test.
She stood still while the scarf was tied around her eyes and then allowed the others to spin her, chanting slowly from one to ten. Ada’s head spun and she could not help laughing to herself as she tried to keep her balance whilst walking towards the others. She waved her hands, listening to their voices; the air felt warm and dense between her fingers; she could hear crickets burring defiantly in the dry grasses, and somewhere behind her a fish leapt from the water, landing with a satisfying plonk. Finally, her fingertips brushed someone’s face and laughter ensued. Ada pulled the blindfold from her eyes. There was a line of perspiration on her upper lip. Her neck was stiff with tension. Blinking into the sudden brightness, she felt a strange surge of relief-tinged triumph.
‘Come on,’ said May, suddenly beside her. ‘I’ve thought of something fun to do.’
Charlotte was already sitting in the boat when May and Ada reached the river. Her face lit up with a smile when she saw them and she gestured that they should join her. ‘I’ve been waiting for ages.’
‘Sorry,’ called back May, ‘we were playing blind man’s buff.’
‘Never mind that, let’s go!’
Ada stopped where she was and shook her head. ‘I can’t swim.’
‘Neither can I,’ said May, squinting into the sun. ‘Who said anything about swimming?’
‘It’s shallow here, anyway,’ said Charlotte. ‘We’re just going to take her upstream a little way and then drift back down. It’s such a lovely day.’
Ada could see that what Charlotte said was true: reeds were swaying not too far beneath the surface; the water didn’t run deep.
Charlotte held up a small paper bag. ‘I have boiled sweets.’
May grinned and skipped over to where the boat was moored against a simple wooden jetty, stepping down to sit on the bench in the middle of the boat.
Ada looked longingly at the bag of sweets, the two smiling girls, the glittery flecks of sunlight on the river’s surface; she heard Shashi telling her not to be frightened, that many people lived half-lives due to fear …
‘Come on!’ called May. ‘We’ll lose our turn.’
So Ada decided to go with them. She hurried to the end of the jetty and let May help her down onto the bench at the very back. ‘What do I do?’
‘You don’t need to do anything but sit,’ said Charlotte, untying the rope. ‘Let us do the rest.’
Ada was glad. Frankly, she was too busy holding on for dear life to do much of anything else. She was keenly aware of the boat’s subtle rocking motion as the older girl took the oar and pushed them away from the jetty’s end. She gripped the sides tightly, her knuckles white.
And then they were floating. And it was almost lovely. She didn’t feel seasick at all.
‘Of course not,’ said Charlotte, laughing, when Ada said so, ‘this is hardly the sea.’
The older girl rowed and they travelled slowly upstream; a mother duck trailed by nine ducklings floated towards them from the other direction. Birds sang in the willows that lined the water; a horse in a field whinnied. The other girls became smaller and smaller specks in the distance. At last the boat rounded a bend and they were alone.
The Gypsy camp was only a little further on. Ada wondered whether they were going to go that far upstream. Perhaps they would even go as far as St John’s Lock.
But as they were nearing the edge of the copse of trees, Charlotte stopped rowing. ‘That’s enough of that. My arms are tired.’ She held out the paper bag. ‘Sweet?’
May took a barley sugar and then passed the bag to Ada, who chose a black-and-white mint humbug.
The river’s current was not strong and rather than begin its drift back downstream, the boat sat happily where it was. Although they were no longer in view of the picnic site, across the fields Ada could see the twin gables at the back of the schoolhouse. She thought of Miss Radcliffe’s description of Birchwood Manor as ‘a vision’ and realised warmly that some of her teacher’s affection for the house was starting to rub off on her.
‘It’s a shame we got off to such a bad start,’ said Charlotte, breaking the silence. ‘All I ever wanted was to help you, Ada. I know how difficult it is to be the new girl.’
Ada, sucking on her humbug, nodded.
‘But you never listen, and you never seem to learn.’
Although Charlotte was still smiling, Ada experienced a sudden, unpleasant jolt of foreboding. At the other end of the boat, the older girl reached to slide something out from beneath her bench seat.
It was the découpage box sent from India.
As Ada stiffened, Charlotte removed the lid and reached inside, pulling out the little bundle of fur. ‘He is rather sweet, I’ll admit. But pets are not allowed at Miss Radcliffe’s school, Ada.’
Ada stood up at her end of the boat, starting it rocking from side to side. ‘Give him to me.’
‘You’re going to get yourself in a lot of trouble if you don’t let me help you.’
‘Give him to me.’
‘What do you think Miss Thornfield will say when I tell her?’
‘Give him to me!’
‘I don’t think she understands,’ May Hawkins piped up.
‘No,’ agreed Charlotte, ‘such a shame. I’m going to have to teach her.’ She slid to the side of her seat and flung her arm out wide so that Bilī was almost touching the water. He was the merest scrap in her hand, cycling his hind legs fearfully as he sought to gain purchase, desperately trying to climb to safety. ‘I told you, Ada. Rule number one: I always win.’
Ada took another step and the boat rocked harder. She had to save him.
She almost lost her balance but she didn’t sit down. She needed to be brave.
May was holding on to her legs now, trying to stop her from getting past.
‘Time to say goodbye,’ said Charlotte.
‘No!’ Ada kicked free of May’s hold and lunged towards the other girl.
The boat was rocking violently now and Ada fell heavily to the planked wooden floor.
Charlotte was still holding Bilī out over the water and Ada scrambled to her feet. She lunged again, and again she fell. This time, though, she didn’t hit the planks.
The water was so much colder than she had imagined, so much harder. She was gasping for breath, her hands flapping and her mouth opening, her vision blurring wetly.
She couldn’t stay at the surface. She couldn’t cry for help. She began to panic.
Down, down, down she went, limbs flailing, mouth filling with water, lungs beginning to burn.
Everything was different under here. The world sounded different. And it was getting darker. The sun was a tiny silvery disc beyond the surface, but Ada was falling further away, like a girl in space, surrounded by stars that slipped between her fingers when she reached for them.
Through the silty water, amongst the furry reeds, she saw Shashi on the terrace, smiling her wide, white smile, and Mamma at the desk in the library, and Papa in his study with the spinning globe. Tick, tick, tick, it went when it was spun, tick, tick, tick …
She was going to have a chakkali when they reached the market.
But where was Shashi? She was gone. Candles flickering …
Ada was lost.
But she was not alone. There was someone in the water with her, she was sure of it. She couldn’t see who it was, but she knew that someone was there. A shadow … a sense …
The last thing Ada felt was her body hitting the bottom of the river, her arms and legs impacting against the gentle rocks and slippery weeds as her lungs grew larger than her torso, pushing their way into her throat and filling her head.
And then the strangest thing: as her brain was burning, she saw something ahead of her, a bright blue shining light, a jewel, a moon, and she knew, somehow, that if she just reached out and grabbed it, the bright blue light would show her the way.
VI
Something very interesting has happened. This afternoon we had another visitor.
Jack spent the morning in the malt house poring over a stack of papers that he brought in with him when he got home last night. I glanced over them when he went to put a pie in the oven for lunch and gleaned that they replicate the contents of the email sent yesterday by Rosalind Wheeler. For the most part they are text, but one appears to be a map. A floor plan, more properly, hand-drawn and corresponding largely to the layout of the house, presumably produced by the mysterious Mrs Wheeler. I suspect that in combination with the written notes, it is designed to lead Jack to the Radcliffe Blue.
He came back into the house just before midday and we passed a contented hour as he tried to make sense of the plan, staring at it and then measuring out footsteps along the lengths of each room, stopping every so often to make a small adjustment with his pen.
It was around one when the knock came at the door. He was surprised but I was not, for I had noticed the slight, elegant woman earlier, standing on the edge of the lane that runs alongside the front wall. She had been staring up at the house, arms folded across her middle, and there was something in her bearing that made me wonder whether I had met her before. I hadn’t; I knew that when she came closer: I never forget a face. (I never forget anything. Not any more.)
People often stand in the laneway and look up at the house – people with dogs and muddy boots, guide books and pointed fingers – so there was nothing unusual in that. To venture into the garden and knock on the door, though, is not usual.
Jack, despite his initial surprise, took the interruption in his stride, glancing through the kitchen window and then thudding down the hallway towards the door in that heavy, purposeful manner of his, opening it with characteristic might. He has been in a black mood ever since he returned from his meeting with Sarah yesterday. Not angry, rather sad and frustrated. Naturally I am filled with curiosity as to what went on between them, but thus far he has not obliged me. He made only one phone call last night and that was to his father; they were marking an anniversary of some sort, because Jack said, ‘Twenty-five years today. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’
‘Oh,’ said the woman, taken aback by the opening door. ‘Hello – I didn’t actually … I thought the museum was shut during the week.’
‘And yet you knocked.’
‘Yes.’
‘Force of habit?’
‘I suppose so.’ She collected herself and then reached into her bag to retrieve an ivory-coloured piece of card, holding out a small, fine hand to present it to Jack. ‘My name is Elodie Winslow. I’m an archivist with Stratton, Cadwell & Co. in London. I look after the archives of James William Stratton.’
It was my turn then for surprise, and let me assure you, that does not happen often. While Jack’s utterance of Ada Lovegrove’s name the other night had given me some defence against the return of my past, I was nonetheless momentarily struck. I had not encountered his name in years and had no reason to think that I would ever hear it again.
‘Never heard of him,’ said Jack, turning the card over. ‘Should I have?’
‘Not really. He was a reformer back in Victorian times, improving the plight of the poor, that sort of thing. Are you the person I should speak to about the museum?’ She sounded doubtful, as well she might. There is little of Jack that gives any impression of the guides who usually man the door, foisting their rehearsed patter upon visitors no matter how many times they have spouted it before.
‘In a manner of speaking. I’m the only person here.’
She looked unconvinced but said, ‘I know you’re not usually open on Fridays, but I’ve come from London. I didn’t expect to find anyone here. I was just going to peek over the wall, but …’
‘You want to look around the house?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind?’
Invite her in.
After a moment’s consideration, Jack stepped aside and gestured in that generous, physical way of his, indicating that she should come inside. He closed the door quickly behind her.
She stepped into the dim hall and glanced about her, as most people do, leaning close to view one of the framed photographs that the Art Historians’ Association has hung along the walls.
Some days, when I am in need of amusement, I haunt the entrance hallway, enjoying the reverent comments made by visitors of a Certain Type while they postulate as to the events behind the photo. ‘It was at this time, of course,’ the sensibly outfitted man of advanced years will intone, ‘that the Magenta Brotherhood were engaged in fierce debate with respect to the artistic worth of photography, wondering whether it might in fact be more properly considered a science than an art.’ To which the long-suffering companion beside him will invariably reply, ‘Oh, I see.’
‘Make yourself at home,’ said Jack. ‘In a careful sort of way.’
She smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I’m an archivist. I spend my life taking care of precious things.’
‘You’ll have to excuse me a minute – I have a pie in the oven and I can smell it burning.’ He was already backing away towards the malt house kitchen and I left him uttering his expletives to follow our visitor.
She walked from room to room downstairs, an enigmatic expression on her face. Only once did she stop and stifle a small shiver, glancing over her shoulder as if she sensed that she might not be alone.
On the first floor, she hesitated at the window overlooking the woods to glimpse the river, before climbing the stairs all the way to the attic. She set her bag down on Mildred Manning’s table, which disposed me at once to like her, and then took something from within that made me startle. It was one of Edward’s sketchbooks. I would have known it anywhere. The shock was almost physical. More than anything, I wanted to grab her by the wrists and implore her to tell me everything: who she is and how she came by Edward’s book. She had mentioned James William Stratton, a company called Stratton, Cadwell &
Co., and a collection of archives. Is that where the sketchbook has been stored all of this time? But how on earth could that be? The two men did not know each other; as far as I’m aware, they never even met.
After turning through the pages of the sketchbook – quickly, as if she had done so many times before and knew precisely what she was searching for – she stopped at an illustration and studied it closely; she then went to the window overlooking the back meadow and stood on tiptoe, craning her neck to see.
The sketchbook was still open on the table and I rushed to it.
It was the one that Edward used over the summer of 1862. I had sat beside him while he made those very lines on that piece of cotton paper: studies for the painting he had planned, something he had been thinking about for years. On the following pages, I knew, were his sketches of the clearing in the woods and the fairy mound and a stone croft by the river, and at the bottom corner of one, in loose, scratched lines, the heart he had penned, and the ship on the wide sea, as we spoke excitedly of our plans.
I wanted nothing more than to be able to turn those pages, to see the other drawings, to touch the memory of those days. But alas, after much experimentation over the years, I have had to accept that my abilities in that respect are limited. I can make a door slam or a window rattle, I can yank the loosened skirt of a nasty schoolgirl, but when it comes to finer manipulations – the pulling of a thread or the turning of a page – I do not have the necessary control.