The Lake House

by Kate Morton

She could see it clearly now on the desk beneath the window, where a shaft of light revealed a coating over every object: the inkwell, the lampshade and the collection of open books spread haphazardly between them. A sheet of paper on top of the pile caught Sadie’s eye, the sketch of a child’s face, a beautiful face with large serious eyes and soft lips and hair that fell either side of small ears so that he (or she, it was hard to tell) looked more like a garden pixie than a real child. Sadie didn’t know enough about drawing to be able to tell exactly what the artist had done, which traits he or she had exaggerated or concealed, to make the picture seem more like an illustration from a children’s book than a regular portrait. The drawing was smudged in places, she noticed, the black ink smeared, the strong lines blurred, and something had been written in the bottom corner, a signature and a date: June 23rd, 1933.

  Loud noise and a barrelling movement behind her made Sadie start, bumping her forehead on the glass. Two black, panting dogs burst through the brambles to sniff at her feet. “You want your breakfast,” she said as a cold wet nose prodded her palm. Sadie’s own stomach took up the suggestion, letting out a low grumble. “Come on then,” she said, stepping back from the window. “Let’s get you home.”

  Sadie took one last look at the house before following the dogs back through the overgrown yew hedge. The climbing sun had slipped behind a cloud and the windows no longer glinted at the lake. The building had taken on a sullen cast, like a spoiled child who enjoyed being the centre of attention and now wasn’t happy being ignored. Even the birds were more brazen than before, crisscrossing the hazy clearing with calls that sounded eerily like laughter, and the insect choir was growing louder with the day’s expanding heat.

  The lake’s flat surface glistened in a secretive, slatey way and Sadie suddenly felt every bit the intruder she was. It was hard to say what made her so certain, but as she turned to leave, ducked through the hole in the yew and started chasing the dogs home, she knew in that twist of the gut way a police detective had better hope she developed, that something terrible had happened in that house.

  Four

  Cornwall, October 1932

  The girls were laughing, and of course they all whooped with glee when it nearly took the top off Mother’s head! Alice brought her hands together in excitement as Clementine thudded after the little glider.

  “Just don’t throw that thing too near the baby,” warned Mother, patting the top of her hair to make sure every pin was still in place.

  If Clemmie heard the warning she gave no sign. She was running like her life depended on it, hands in the air, skirt flying, ready to catch the plane if it even looked like crash landing.

  A clatter of curious ducks had waddled up from the lake to observe the commotion and they scattered now in a flurry of feathers and indignant quacks as the glider, with Clemmie close behind it, came skidding to a halt among their party.

  Daddy smiled over the book of poetry he’d been reading. “Beautiful landing!” he called from his seat by the old planter. “Just beautiful.”

  The glider had been his idea. He’d seen an advertisement in a magazine and sent away to America especially. It was supposed to be a secret but Alice had known about it for months—she always knew who was giving what to whom well ahead of time; she’d seen him point to the advertisement one evening back in spring and say, “Look at this. Perfect for Clemmie’s birthday, don’t you think?”

  Mother had been less keen, asking him whether he really thought a wooden glider was the most appropriate gift for a twelve-year-old girl, but Daddy had only smiled and said that Clementine wasn’t an ordinary twelve-year-old girl. He’d been right about that: Clemmie was decidedly different—“The son we never had,” Daddy had been fond of saying before Theo came along. He’d been right about the glider, too; Clemmie had torn off the wrapping at the table after lunch, her eyes widening as the gift was revealed, and then she’d actually squealed with delight. She’d leapt from her seat, dragging the tablecloth behind her in her rush to reach the door.

  “Clemmie, no,” Mother had implored, reaching out to catch a tumbling vase. “We’re not finished yet.” And then, glancing beseechingly at the others, “Oh, let’s not go outside. I thought perhaps charades in the library . . .”

  But it was rather difficult to celebrate a birthday party when the guest of honour had fled the scene, and thus, to Mother’s obvious chagrin, there’d been nothing for it but to abandon the carefully arranged table and move the afternoon’s festivities to the garden.

  And so here they were, the whole family, Mr Llewellyn, Grandmother and Nanny Rose, too, spread out over the lawn of Loeanneth, as the long shadows of afternoon began to spill across the deep green grass. The day was glorious, autumn but not yet cold. The clematis was still blooming on the wall of the house, little birds twittering as they whipped across the clearing, and even baby Theo had been brought out in his Moses basket.

  A farmer was burning heather in one of the neighbouring fields and the smell was wonderful. It always made Alice happy, that smell, something to do with the change of seasons, and standing there watching Clemmie tend the wooden glider, the sun warm on her neck, the ground cool beneath her bare feet, she experienced a delicious moment of profound wellbeing.

  Alice dug into her pocket and pulled out her notebook, hurrying to make a note of the sensation and the day and the people in it, chewing on the end of her pen as her gaze tripped over the sunlit house, the willow trees, the shimmering lake and the yellow roses climbing on the iron gate. It was like the garden from a storybook—it was the garden from a storybook—and Alice loved it. She was never going to leave Loeanneth. Never. She could picture herself growing old here. A happy old woman, with long white hair and cats—yes, certainly a few cats to keep her company. (And Clemmie would visit, but probably not Deborah, who would be far happier in London, with a grand house and a wealthy husband and a team of housemaids to arrange her clothes . . . )

  It was one of those days, Alice thought, as she scribbled happily, when everyone seemed to feel the same way. Daddy had taken a break from his study, Mr Llewellyn had removed his formal jacket and was getting about in his shirt and waistcoat, Grandmother deShiel looked almost cheerful as she dozed beneath the willow. Mother was the notable exception, but then she never liked having her careful plans flouted, so a certain amount of curt displeasure was only to be expected.

  Even Deborah, who wasn’t usually one for toys, considering herself far too grown-up and ladylike, had found Clemmie’s enthusiasm contagious. The fact had made her understandably cross, so she’d insisted on sitting alone on the garden seat beneath the library window and speaking, when she deigned, at a brusque clip, as if she really did have far better things to do and they were just lucky she’d decided to bless them with her presence. “See if you can make it turn a circle,” she called now, holding up the box in which the glider had arrived. “It says here that if you get the rubber bands just right you can make it turn a loop.”

  “Tea is ready,” said Mother, her tone of censure sharpening as the afternoon’s progress spiralled further away from that which she’d envisaged. “The pot’s fresh but it will only get colder.”

  They’d had a large lunch and nobody much felt like tea, but Mr Llewellyn was a faithful friend, fronting up as requested and accepting the cup and saucer Mother thrust upon him.

  Deborah, by contrast, ignored the entreaty entirely. “Hurry up, Clemmie,” she said. “Give it another toss.”

  Clemmie, busy fastening the glider inside the satin sash of her dress, didn’t answer. She tucked the hem of her skirt into her knickers and craned her neck to take in the top of the sycamore tree.

  “Clemmie!” Deborah called, imperious now.

  “Give me a boost?” came their youngest sister’s reply.

  Mother, though busy foisting cake on Mr Llewellyn, was always alert for signs of impending trouble, and didn’t drop a crumb as
she said, “No, Clemmie! Absolutely not!” She glanced towards Daddy, seeking agreement, but he was back behind his book, happily ensconced in the world of Keats.

  “Let her go,” soothed Mr Llewellyn. “Everything’s all right.”

  Deborah could resist the call of the afternoon no longer, tossing the box onto the seat beside her and hurrying down to the base of the tree. Nanny Rose was cajoled into linking arms to form a step, and Clemmie hoisted herself up. After a moment of scrabbling and a few false starts, she disappeared into the lower boughs.

  “Be careful, Clementine,” Mother admonished, gravitating towards the site of the action. “Do be careful.” She hovered beneath the tree, sighing with exasperation as she tried to follow Clemmie’s progress through the thick foliage.

  At last, there came a triumphant whoop, and an arm appeared, waving from the top of the tree. Alice squinted into the afternoon sun, grinning as her younger sister positioned herself in the highest fork and inched the glider free from where she’d strapped it. Clemmie wound the elastic bands tight, lifted her arm, making sure to keep the whole thing at the optimum launch angle, and then, then, there came—release!

  The glider flew like a bird, soaring across the pale blue sky, dipping slightly and then straightening, until the air speed slowed and the pressure on the tail lessened, and the rear part angled up.

  “Watch!” shouted Clemmie. “Watch it now!”

  Sure enough, the glider started to turn a great loop, right out over the lake, a sight so spectacular that even Mr Harris and the new gardener stopped what they were doing down at the jetty and gazed up towards the sky. Spontaneous applause broke out as the glider completed its stunt and continued its cruise, clearing the water and landing with a gentle slide on the flat grassed area by the fountain on the other side of the lake.

  The whole world seemed to have stalled as the little plane described its circle, so it was with some surprise that Alice realised the baby was crying. Poor little mite! With all the excitement, he was being quite ignored in his basket. Alice, accustomed to thinking herself an observer, glanced around, waiting for someone to step in, before realising she was the only person free to help. She was on the verge of starting for Theo’s basket when she saw Daddy was going to beat her to it.

  There were some fathers, or so Alice was led to believe, who would’ve thought it outside their remit to comfort a little baby, but Daddy wasn’t like that. He was the best father in the world, kind and gentle and really, really clever. He loved nature and science, and was even writing a book about the earth. He’d been working on his tome for over a decade and (although she wouldn’t have admitted the fact out loud) it was the only thing Alice would’ve changed about him if she could. She was glad he was clever, and proud of him of course, but he spent far too much time in the company of that book. She’d much rather they had him all for themselves.

  “Alice!”

  Deborah was calling, and whatever she wanted to say must’ve been important because she’d forgotten to sound disdainful. “Alice, hurry up! Mr Llewellyn is going to take us in the boat!”

  The boat! Ripping! Such a rare treat—it had been Mother’s as a girl and was thus considered an antique and Not For Use. Alice beamed and her heart danced and the afternoon sunlight was suddenly brighter than it had been before. This really was turning into the best day ever!

  Without another thought she pocketed her journal and started running for the lake, almost barrelling into Mother, who, in typical stuffy fashion, was striding purposefully towards the house, only too eager to forsake an adventure in the boat in favour of a cup of lukewarm tea.

  Five

  Cornwall, 2003

  “We’re back!” Sadie kicked off her muddy running shoes in the small entrance hall of her grandfather’s place, herding them into line against the skirting board with her toes. The cliff-top cottage was thick with the smell of something warm and savoury and her stomach, starved of breakfast, pleaded loudly.

  “Hey, Bertie, you’re not going to believe what we found.” She rattled out a serving of dog biscuits from the tub beneath the coat rack. “Granddad?”

  “In the kitchen,” came his reply.

  Sadie gave the ravenous dogs a final pat and went inside.

  Her grandfather was at the round wooden dining table, but he wasn’t alone. A small energetic-looking woman with short grey hair and spectacles sat across from him, a mug in her hands and a joyous smile of greeting on her face.

  “Oh,” Sadie said. “Sorry. I didn’t realise—”

  Her grandfather waved the apology aside. “Kettle’s still hot, Sadie, love. Pour yourself a cup and join us? This is Louise Clarke from the hospital, here to collect toys for the Solstice Festival.” As Sadie smiled hello, he added, “She’s kindly brought a stew for our supper.”

  “It was the least I could do,” said Louise, half standing to shake Sadie’s hand. She was wearing faded jeans and her T-shirt, which was the same vibrant green as the frame of her spectacles, read: Magic Happens! She had one of those faces that seemed lit from within, as if she were getting better sleep than the rest of the population; Sadie felt dusty, creased and scowling by comparison. “Beautiful work your grandfather does, such fine carving. The hospital stall’s going to be brilliant this year. We’re incredibly lucky to have him.”

  Sadie couldn’t have agreed more, but, knowing her grandfather’s distaste for public praise, she didn’t say so. Instead, she planted a kiss on top of his bald head as she squeezed behind his chair. “I can see I’m going to have to crack the whip and keep him working,” she said as she reached the bench. “That stew smells amazing.”

  Louise beamed. “It’s my very own recipe—lentils and love.”

  There were any number of rejoinders to choose from, but before Sadie could settle on one Bertie had interjected. “Sadie’s stopping with me for a while, down from London.”

  “A holiday, how lovely. Will you still be with us in a fortnight when the festival rolls around?”

  “Maybe,” said Sadie, avoiding her grandfather’s gaze. She’d been less than specific when he asked about her plans; “I’m playing it by ear.”

  “Letting the universe decide,” Louise said approvingly.

  “Something like that.”

  Bertie raised his eyebrows, but evidently thought better of pressing. He nodded at her muddy clothing. “You’ve been in the wars.”

  “You should see the other guy.”

  Louise’s eyes widened.

  “My granddaughter’s a runner,” Bertie explained. “One of those curious people who seem to enjoy discomfort. The weather this past week has given her cabin fever and it seems she’s been taking it out on the local tracks.”

  Louise laughed. “It’s often like that for newcomers. The fogs can be oppressive for those that haven’t grown up with them.”

  “No fog today, I’m pleased to report,” Sadie said, carving a thick slice of Bertie’s daily sourdough. “It’s crystal clear out there.”

  “Just as well.” Louise drained the last of her tea. “I’ve got thirty-two dangerously excited children back at the hospital waiting for their seaside picnic. Another postponement and I fear I’d have had a mutiny on my hands.”

  “Here, I’ll help you with these,” said Bertie. “Don’t want to give the little inmates cause for insurrection.”

  While he and Louise wrapped tissue paper around the carved toys, packing them carefully into a cardboard box, Sadie spread butter and marmalade on her bread. She was impatient to tell Bertie about the house she’d found in the woods. Its strange, lonely atmosphere had followed her home and she listened only vaguely as they picked up the tail end of a conversation about a man on their committee named Jack. “I’ll go and visit him,” Bertie was saying, “and take one of those pear cakes he likes, see if I can talk him round.”

  Sadie glanced through the kitchen windo
w, beyond her grandfather’s garden and down over the harbour to where scores of fishing boats were bobbing on the velvet sea. It was remarkable how quickly Bertie had managed to find a place for himself in this new community. Only a little over twelve months since he’d arrived and already it seemed he’d formed connections that ran as deep as if he’d lived here all his life. Sadie wasn’t even sure she could name all her neighbours in the block of flats she’d lived in for seven years.

  She sat down at the table, trying to remember whether the man in the upstairs flat was Bob or Todd or Rod, but let it slip away unresolved when Bertie said, “Go on then, Sadie, love—tell us what you found. You look as if you fell down an old copper mine.” He paused in his wrapping. “You didn’t, did you?”

  She rolled her eyes with affectionate impatience. Bertie was a worrier, at least he was when it came to Sadie. He had been since Ruth died.

  “Buried treasure? Are we rich?”

  “Sadly not.”

  “Never know your luck around here,” Louise said, “what with all the smugglers’ tunnels pitted along the coast. Did you run around the headland?”

  “The woods,” Sadie replied. She explained briefly about Ramsay, how he’d gone missing and she and Ash had been forced to leave the path to find him.

  “Sadie—”

  “I know, Granddad, the woods are thick and I’m a city-slicker, but Ash was with me, and it was just as well we went looking because when we finally caught up with Ramsay he’d got himself stuck down a hole in an old jetty.”

  “A jetty? In the woods?”

  “Not right in the woods, it was in a clearing, an estate. The jetty was by a lake in the middle of the most incredible overgrown garden. You’d have loved it. There were willows and massive hedges and I think it might once have been rather spectacular. There was a house, too. Abandoned.”

  “The Edevane place,” Louise said quietly. “Loeanneth.”

  The name when spoken had that magical, whispering quality of so many Cornish words and Sadie couldn’t help but remember the odd feeling the insects had given her, as if the house itself was alive. “Loeanneth,” she repeated.