The Lake House

by Kate Morton

  She propped herself against the pillows, strapping on the beloved watch, and a memory came of sitting on his lap before the fire in the library while he read aloud from his William Morris and A.J. Wyatt translation of Beowulf. She’d been young, too young to comprehend fully the meaning of the old English words, and she’d been drowsy. Her head had been resting against his chest and she’d listened to the burr of his voice from the inside out, a warm, echo-y hum that was everywhere all at once. She’d been mesmerised by the flicker of orange flames reflected in the glass of his watch and in that moment the object had become an emblem for the feeling of absolute safety and contentment that had enveloped her. There, with him, in the eye of the storm, the centre of the spinning universe.

  Perhaps fathers and their daughters were always tied? Anthony was certainly a hero to their girls. He had been since his return from the war. At first they’d been awed, two little faces peering curiously from behind the door of his study, wide-eyed and whispering, but in no time at all they were smitten. Little wonder. He’d camped with them in the meadows, shown them how to weave boats from grass, listened patiently to all their tears and tales. A houseguest had once turned to Eleanor over mint juleps on the lawn, as Anthony played leapfrog with Deborah and Alice, as tiny tottering Clementine took her turn and he suddenly became a horse, galloping round the garden while all three girls dissolved with laughter; the houseguest had asked, mischief disguised as sympathy, whether it bothered her that her husband was so clearly the favourite. Eleanor had answered that of course it didn’t.

  It had almost been true. After the privations of the war, five long years during which the two of them had been forced to live apart, to grow up and take on new responsibilities, having him back where he belonged and seeing the unadulterated love and wonder on his face as he watched the children they shared was a panacea. It was like having her very own time machine, travelling back to an age of innocence.

  Eleanor took up the photograph she kept beside the bed, the two of them in the kitchen garden in 1913, Anthony in his straw hat, brand-new then. He was staring directly at the photographer, his smile lopsided as if he’d just made a joke; she was looking at him with adoration, a scarf tying up her hair; they were both holding shovels. It was the day they’d dug out the strawberry patch and made a complete mess of it. Howard Mann had been behind the camera. He’d arrived in his Silver Ghost one day, anxious “to see that the two of you hadn’t fallen off the edge of the earth’, and had ended up staying all week. They’d laughed and teased and argued fiercely about politics, people and poetry, just as they had in the Cambridge years, and when finally he returned to London, it was with reluctance and promises to come back soon, and a car boot filled with leftovers from their first harvest. Looking at the photograph now, remembering the two of them back then, Eleanor felt the gulf of time keenly. She felt humbled by those young, happy people. So sure, so whole, so untouched by life . . .

  She clicked her tongue, impatient with herself. It was lack of sleep making her nostalgic, the tumult of the past few months, the weight of the day ahead. Carefully, she put the frame back on the table. The sun was gaining strength now, a dazzling constellation of pinpricks had appeared in the brocade curtains. Eleanor knew it was time to get up and yet a part of her resisted, clinging to the irrational notion that by staying in bed she might somehow stop the countdown from starting. Keep the wave from crashing. There’s no way to hold back the tide. Her father’s voice. The two of them watching the sea down by Miller’s Point, waves collapsing on the rocks at the base of the cliff before relenting and being dragged back out again. It’s as inevitable as day following night. It was the morning he’d told her he was ill and made her promise she would remember who she was when he was gone, remember to remain good and brave and true. The old, much-loved line from Eleanor’s Magic Doorway.

  Eleanor blotted out the memory and focused. The first guests would arrive at eight o’clock that night, which meant she needed to be robed and ready, with a stiff drink under her belt, by half past seven. Oh, but there was still so much to do! The girls would have to be pressed into service. To Alice she would give the simple (some would say pleasurable, though not, she knew, for Alice) task of filling the guest-room vases with flowers. Deborah would do a superior job, but she’d been in a foul mood lately, petulant and opinionated, filled with the child’s naive faith that she was going to do everything better than her parents, and Eleanor wasn’t in the mood for an argument. As for Clemmie, poor child, it was enough that she stay out from underfoot. Dear Clemmie, already the most unusual of Eleanor’s children, and now stuck in that awkward foal-like phase, toothy and long-limbed, refusing to leave her childhood behind.

  The door opened abruptly and Daisy arrived with the silver breakfast tray held proudly aloft. “Morning, Ma’am,” she said with grating cheerfulness. “Big day’s here at last!”

  The maid set down the tray, babbling breathlessly about the menu and the guests and the parlous state of things in the kitchen. “Last I saw, Cook was chasing Hettie round the table with a guinea fowl in one hand and a rolling pin in the other!” Then, she moved to draw back the curtains, allowing light, remarkable full light, to flood through the glass and sweep away any lingering trace of night.

  And while Daisy began an unsolicited narration of the preparations taking place on the lawn below, Eleanor poured tea from the small silver pot and wondered how on earth she was going to manage all that the day required.

  * * *

  The curtains in the bedroom window lurched open and from where she sat on the garden seat, Constance could see that twit of a housemaid, Daisy, flapping her wings as she crowed and cawed by the glass, doubtless driving Eleanor to the brink of ear-stabbing distraction. It was no less than she deserved. Fancy lying in so late when there was a party to host! But then Eleanor had always been a most mercurial child.

  Constance had had her own breakfast an hour ago. She always rose at the crack of dawn; it was the habit of a lifetime. Constance was not above vice—indeed she’d always felt it was a woman’s duty to keep herself interesting—but punctuality was a virtue, she’d been taught as a child, without which one disrupted the lives of others. Such rudeness was not to be countenanced.

  The garden was already a hive of activity. Constance had her stationery set with her and a list of letters to write, but it was almost impossible not to give in to diversion. A number of burly men were erecting elaborate fireworks launchers on the oval lawn and vans had started arriving with deliveries for the kitchen. Nearby, a pair of inelegant local boys with decorative wreaths were busy trampling the flowerbeds as they looked for somewhere to set down their ladder. One of them, a liverish-looking fellow with a rash of fresh pimples on his chin, had made the mistake of approaching Constance when they first arrived, looking for “the boss’, but Constance had soon got rid of him with a blank stare and some prattle about the weather. Senility was a useful costume. It was true her thoughts wandered these days, but not as much as she let them all believe. She could still set her mind to accomplishing tremendous things if she were sufficiently inspired.

  Yes, it was going to be a good day. Though she never would have admitted it aloud, and certainly not to Eleanor, Constance relished Midsummer. The Edevanes did not entertain often, but the tradition of Midsummer was one that Eleanor hadn’t been able to let go, and thank God for that. The celebration at Loeanneth was the highlight of Constance’s year, the only thing that made up for the fact she had to live here in this godforsaken place where the smell of the sea, its horrible crashing sound when the breeze blew a certain way, was enough to make her blood run cold. Constance despised the sound. It reminded her of that terrible night all those years ago; she’d thought herself rid of it when they’d left the house more than twenty years before, but life could be cruel like that.

  Anyway. The purpose and excitement of the party preparations reminded her of happier times past: the anticipation she’d
felt as a young woman, dressing in her silk and jewels, spritzing her cologne and pinning up her hair; the moment of arrival, making her grand entrance, casting her gaze across the crowd, catching the eye of a worthy conquest; and then, the excitement of the chase, the warmth of the bright dance floor, the hushed flight along dark corridors to claim her prize . . . Sometimes, lately, the past was so vivid, so real, she almost believed herself to be that young woman again.

  Movement broke her reverie and Constance felt her smile drop away. The front door had opened and now Daffyd Llewellyn emerged, stumbling over the threshold as he adjusted his hat and hoisted his easel onto his hip. She sat very still, hidden in the shadows. The last thing she wanted was to be drawn into conversation with him. He was moving more slowly than usual, almost as if he were in some sort of discomfort. Constance had noticed it the other afternoon, too, when they were all out on the lawn and Eleanor made the announcement about the award he was soon to receive. Heartburn, apparently—not that it was any of her care or concern; Constance had no time for the silly, weak man. The way he’d lurked about the house and garden when she was mistress, with his eccentric clothing and his sad eyes, his ridiculous fairy tales—every time she’d turned around he’d been there. And as for that breakdown of his! Constance sniffed with contempt. The man had neither pride nor shame. What had he to feel despondent about? She was the one who ought to have felt aggrieved. He’d taken her child from her, spouted his rubbish about magic lands and redemption, and then presumed to intrude upon her hospitality. She’d ordered Henri to send him away, but Henri, pliant and meek in every other respect, had refused.

  And now it was Eleanor’s turn to cosset and indulge the man. She’d adored him as a girl, and he her, and the pair still shared a singular friendship. Constance had seen them in a cosy tête-à-tête a couple of weeks ago, sitting on the garden seat near the roses. Eleanor had been telling him something, her face a study in anguish, and he nodding, and then he’d touched her cheek with his fingertips and Constance had realised Eleanor was crying. She’d known then what the conversation was about.

  A warm breeze blew lightly and petals scattered like confetti. Constance saw many things these days. She’d have preferred to keep her youth and beauty, but it did no good to rail against the inevitable and it turned out there were benefits to ageing. When she lost her ability to turn heads, she gained the capacity to sit very still, to breathe very quietly, to pass unnoticed. And so, she saw things. She saw Deborah giving her mother a hard time since she’d become engaged; Alice sneaking away to meet in secret with that gardener with the dark hair and the gypsy eyes; that business between Anthony and the pretty young nanny.

  It was a pity Eleanor wasn’t as watchful as Constance. She might have figured things out sooner. Constance had wondered how long it would take for the penny to drop. Of course, she could have told her daughter what she’d seen, but people were inclined to shoot the messenger, and evidently Eleanor had got there in the end, for the young nanny was gone now. She’d been sent packing with very little warning and no fanfare. And good riddance. The covert smiles, the snatched conversations when they thought no one could see. Constance had seen, though. She’d even observed the young woman handing over a gift one afternoon, a book. Constance’s eyes weren’t what they’d used to be and she hadn’t been able to discern the title, not then, but she’d taken it upon herself to creep into Anthony’s study later and there she’d seen it, among the butterflies and magnifiers, the same green cover. A book of poems by John Keats.

  It wasn’t the infidelity to which she took exception—Constance saw no reason men and women shouldn’t take their pleasure where they found it—but discretion was key. It behoved people of their kind to make the right choices, so that news wasn’t leaked outside the circle, where it could be twisted into gossip. And therein lay the rub. A person in one’s employ was most certainly not within the circle, and to entangle oneself in such a way was not only foolish but unkind. It gave the servants ideas above their station and no good could come from that.

  Comfort had a habit of breeding transgression, and Rose Waters had become far too comfortable, particularly in her handling of baby Theo. The nanny had maintained none of the professional barriers one might expect, kissing the child and crooning softly into his ear, cuddling him close as she carried him about the garden, never sitting him as was proper in his perambulator. It was the sort of gushy treatment one might have tolerated from a doting family member, but not from the hired help. And the liberties taken had not ended there. Rose Waters had repeatedly overstepped her bounds, culminating recently in a moment of madness when she’d dared remonstrate with Constance for venturing inside the nursery “during rest time.” Constance was the boy’s grandmother, for goodness’ sake, and had only wanted to sit by the cot and watch the little lad, his compact chest rising and falling with rude good health.

  Thank God Nanny Bruen had returned. Constance was cheered by the very thought. It had been good to see her old stalwart again recently, brought back into the fold and placed in charge of Theo. Constance took a special interest in her little grandson, and the restoration of proper standards was sorely overdue. She made a mental note to have a word with Nanny Bruen later. She’d seen something quite unacceptable not thirty minutes before. Clementine, that unfortunate freckled child with the horsey teeth, had appeared at the side of the house with the baby riding high on her back! Constance had felt a rage rise within her. She’d called out, intending to remonstrate, but the girl had ignored her.

  Now Constance glanced back down the garden to where she’d last seen the girl, disappearing around the lake. The mower clattered away on the lawns behind her and she took up her stationery set, using it as a fan. Mechanical noises always made the heat seem worse and it was going to be dreadfully hot today. People did strange things in hot weather, unexpected things. It was not unheard of that a person might go a little mad when the temperature sweltered. Constance had never enjoyed Shakespeare—for the most part he was an utter bore—but he had one thing right: midsummer was a strange and unpredictable time, during which anything might happen.

  There was no sign of Clementine and the baby. Theo’s laughter still pealed in her memory and Constance felt her heart soften. He really was the most delightful child: a bonny nature, a smile that collapsed into dimples, those plump, sturdy legs. She wondered, sometimes, what the other little boy would have been like, the first one, had he been given half a chance.

  She would sit with Theo this afternoon, Constance decided, and watch him sleep. It was one of her favourite things to do these days, and with Rose Waters gone, Eleanor busy and Nanny Bruen mindful of her proper place, there would be no one to stop her this time.

  * * *

  Clemmie took the narrow path of beaten grass along the stream. There were other, quicker ways to get there, but Theo liked to splash in the shallow water at the crossing and Clemmie liked to make him happy. Besides, it was Midsummer’s Eve and the house would be in uproar all day. The longer they were out and away, the better. It occurred to her, with dispassion and not self-pity, that they probably wouldn’t even be missed.

  “Just as well we’ve got each other, little Wub,” she said.

  “Gah!” came Theo’s gurgled reply.

  A surge of emotion that felt as much like loss as love came suddenly upon her and she tightened her grip on his legs, so round and squishy. He might have replaced her as the baby in the family, but Clemmie couldn’t now imagine the world without her brother in it.

  The rising sun was behind them and their long, jumbled shadow stretched ahead, her elongated body with his little legs stuck out at midway. His head was peeking over her shoulder as he clung to her back and every so often he extended a small, excited fist to waggle a plump finger at something they were passing. It had taken a bit of practice, but he was good now at holding tightly round her neck. She could even stretch her arms out wide when the mood struck her, gliding t
hem through the air, listing this way and that as she made elaborate aerobatic manoeuvres.

  She stopped when they reached the rock crossing, tossed aside the picnic bag she’d brought with her (party cakes stolen from the kitchen), and let Theo slide down the back of her legs onto the large mound of dry grass clippings on the bank. He landed with a delighted giggle and clambered to his feet. “Wah,” he said importantly, pointing at the stream. “Wah.”

  While Theo tottered through clover to the muddy edge, squatting onto his bottom among the reeds, Clemmie hunted for the perfect skimming stone. It had to be small and flat and smooth, but beyond that, it had to sit just so in her fingertips. She took one up and judged its weight, the roundness of its edges, before discarding it again as too uneven.