The Lake House

by Kate Morton

  Alice set her mouth in a haughty line and her eyes glistened with disdain. “Yes, Mother,” she said, enunciating the title as if she couldn’t get it off her lips fast enough.

  Mother. No one was particularly fond of her. Even Eleanor winced sometimes at the woman’s incessant pedantry. She wasn’t a bit of fun and could always be counted on to temper a boisterous occasion with a sermon on responsibility or safety. And yet, she was essential. Eleanor would have collapsed under the heartbreaking strain of Anthony’s condition, but Mother was always equal to the task. She made sure the girls gave their father space when he needed it and was ever on guard to catch him before he slumped. Mother didn’t worry that her children looked upon her as a harridan. Why would she? It was all in the interests of helping them to become their best selves.

  Eleanor, in contrast, cared a great deal, lamenting the loss of those distant war years when the girls had curled up on her lap and listened to her stories, when she’d run with them across the estate, exploring and pointing out the magical places of her own childhood. But she’d long since stopped feeling sorry for herself. She’d witnessed other families where life had been made to revolve around the exigencies of an invalid and had come to the firm conclusion that the ancillary damage was simply too great. She didn’t want the shadow of Anthony’s disappointment and distress to spill across the lives of her growing daughters. If she could just absorb his troubles herself, then the girls would remain unaffected, and one day, when she found the right doctor, when she discovered a cure to restore him, no one would be any the wiser.

  In the meantime, Eleanor committed herself to keeping Anthony’s condition concealed, just as she’d promised him she would. It was in the service of this promise that she made sure always to place plenty of orders with the department stores in London. She didn’t need half the things she bought, but that was beside the point. It was one of the simplest, most believable ways she’d concocted over the years to get the girls out from beneath his feet. Between visits to the beach, or field trips to the meadow, they were made to accompany her into town to collect parcels. For their part, they found it entirely credible (though manifestly irritating) that their mother was a compulsive shopper who wasn’t content without the latest frippery from London. And so it was that morning.

  “Deborah, Clementine, Alice! Come along! Martin is waiting.”

  There was the usual kerfuffle as the girls tore about the house trying to find their shoes. There would have to be a lecture later—young ladies, responsibility, a duty to themselves, that sort of thing. Mother was good at delivering lessons. But then she ought to be; she’d had the perfect example in Constance. Eleanor amazed herself how much the shrew she could sound, how cold and unamused. Their faces when she delivered her stern calls for improvement were studies in boredom and dislike. Worse, except for the merest, occasional flicker of hurt and confusion that crossed Deborah’s face—as if she almost remembered a time when things had been different—they revealed an utter lack of surprise. This, for Eleanor, was the most terrifying aspect of all. Her daughters had no idea how much she envied them their freedom and cheered their lack of social graces; how like them she’d once been; what great friends they might have become if things were different.

  Finally, her daughters arrived at the foot of the stairs, more dishevelled than Eleanor might have hoped, but with a shoe on each foot, which was at least something. Eleanor ushered them outside to where Martin had the car idling, and they all piled into the back. While the girls bickered about who was sitting near the window and whose dress was stuck beneath whose bottom, Eleanor glanced through the window and up to the attic where Anthony was now asleep. If she could just keep the girls out all morning, by afternoon, God willing, he’d be restored and they could salvage part of the day. Sometimes, their best family time came after mornings like these. It was a strange pattern of push and pull, in which the depth of his despair was later matched by the radiant relief of his recovery. They were jewels, those moments, rare but precious reminders of the man he used to be. The man he still was, she corrected herself, deep beneath it all.

  The clouds had lifted by the time they reached town. Fishing boats were returning to the harbour and seagulls drifted and cawed above a still, slate sea. Martin slowed when he reached the High Street. “Anywhere in particular you’d like me to set you down, Ma’am?”

  “This will be perfect, thank you, Martin.”

  He pulled the car over and opened the door, letting them all out.

  “Would you prefer me to wait while you do your shopping?”

  “No, thank you.” Eleanor smoothed her skirt over her hips as a salty ocean breeze caressed the back of her neck. “I’m sure you have other errands to run for Mrs Stevenson and we’ll be a couple of hours yet.”

  The driver agreed to return for them at twelve-thirty and the arrangement was met with predictable complaint: “But two whole hours, Mother!” “To collect a few parcels?” “I’m going to die from boredom!”

  “Boredom is the province of the witless,” she heard herself say. “A state to be pitied.” And then, ignoring all further protestations, “I thought we’d have some morning tea while we’re here. You can tell me what you’ve been learning in your lessons.” Not a lot, was Eleanor’s suspicion. Judging by the number of small newspapers in circulation, the tittering of housemaids when they ought to be busy doing other things, the girls were far more focused on the old printing press than they were on their schoolwork. Eleanor had been just the same, of course, but there was no need for her daughters to know that.

  Cheered somewhat by the suggestion of cake, if not by talk of lessons, the girls followed Eleanor into the cafe on the promenade where the four of them shared a relatively cheerful time, the only hiccup when Clementine upset a jug of milk, and a bucket and mop had to be called for.

  Alas, the geniality could only be stretched so far. The polite conversation and pot of tea had both dried up when Eleanor sneaked a glance at her father’s wristwatch and saw there was still over an hour to fill. She settled the account and drew on plan B. She’d come prepared with invented reasons to visit the haberdashery, the milliner and the jeweller, and led the girls along the High Street. By the time she’d finished enquiring about repairs to a clasp on her gold link bracelet, however, they were beside themselves with boredom.

  “Please, Mother,” said Alice. “Couldn’t we just go down to the sea while you finish up here?”

  “Yes, please, Mother,” chimed Clementine, who’d almost broken three clocks in as many minutes.

  “Let me take them, Mother,” said Deborah, who, at sixteen, was just beginning to glimpse her role as eldest daughter and adult-in-waiting. “I’ll keep an eye on things, make sure they behave properly, and have us all back to help you with the parcels before Martin returns.”

  Eleanor watched as they went, releasing a long-held sigh. Really, she was as glad as they were. It was far easier to fill time when she didn’t have to keep them entertained and in line. She thanked the jeweller, agreed with his suggested method of repair, and stepped outside the shop.

  There was a wooden bench seat in the square and Eleanor was pleased to find it empty. She sat down and passed a quiet half-hour watching the comings and goings of the village. As a child, Eleanor had never realised how much enjoyment could be gained, as an adult, simply from sitting. The absence of demands and expectations, of queries and conversation, was a true, simple joy. It was with some regret that she noted there were only fifteen minutes remaining until Martin returned to collect them, and that it was time to brave the post office.

  That is—Eleanor steeled herself—it was time to brave the postmistress. Marjorie Kempling was a gossip with a seemingly inexhaustible trove of material she was bursting to share. Presumably as a consequence of Eleanor’s frequent visits to collect parcels, Miss Kempling had come to regard the pair of them as something akin to co-conspirators. It was a misgui
ded assumption, and one which Eleanor did nothing to encourage. She had little desire to know the ins and outs of her neighbours’ lives, but it seemed no amount of crisp silence could deter the other woman’s enthusiasm. Indeed, it seemed the more space Eleanor allowed, the greater was Miss Kempling’s commitment to fill it.

  Eleanor hesitated briefly on the top step of the stone post office building. There was a little bell positioned on the architrave on the other side of the door, and its effusive tinkle was a sound she’d come to dread. To Miss Kempling it was a clarion call; to Eleanor it signalled the beginning of the onslaught. She readied herself, determined simply to march in and politely but firmly extricate herself and her parcels with the minimum of fuss. And then, with more force, perhaps, than was necessary, she took hold of the door’s handle and prepared to push. Right as she did so, the door slipped away from her and, to her immediate mortification, Eleanor fell straight into a man trying to exit the post office.

  “I’m so sorry, forgive me,” she said, stepping back onto the landing.

  “Not at all. It was my fault, I was hurrying. I had a sudden overwhelming need for fresh air and a moment’s silence.”

  Eleanor laughed, in spite of herself. She met his eyes and it took her a moment to remember where she knew him from. He had changed. His hair was longer, dark and curled, and his skin was a great deal browner than it had been. He looked quite unlike the neat young man she’d first encountered on the train home.

  His smile caught. “Have we met?”

  “No,” she said quickly, remembering the journey, the handkerchief, the thrill she’d felt when his fingers brushed hers, “I don’t believe we have.”

  “In London, perhaps?”

  “No. Never.”

  A faint frown had settled on his brow, but he smiled as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “My mistake, then. Apologies. Good day.”

  “Good day.”

  Eleanor let go her breath. The incident had left her unexpectedly rattled and she waited a few seconds before proceeding inside. The bell tinkled merrily and she fought an urge to reach out and deliver it a stilling blow.

  The postmistress’s eyes lit up when she saw that it was Eleanor. “Mrs Edevane, how lovely to have a visit. I’ve a number of parcels here for you. But my goodness, you look so peaky!”

  “Good day, Miss Kempling. I’m afraid I’ve just run into a gentleman on the steps. Terribly careless of me. I’m a little shaken.”

  “Oh my! But that will be Mr Munro. Here—sit down, my dear, let me fetch you a cool glass of water.”

  Mr Munro. She might have guessed Marjorie Kempling would know who he was. Eleanor hated herself for being interested. She hated herself even more for the irrational flare of envy she’d felt at the postmistress’s comfortable use of the man’s name.

  “But isn’t he a dish!” Miss Kempling bustled back from behind the counter, a glass of water clutched in one paw. “He could be in the films! Quite unlike the other young fellows we see around here. A jack-of-all-trades, from what I gather, he travels all over taking work where it’s offered. He’s been labouring for Mr Nicolson at the apple orchard over the summer.” She leaned close enough that Eleanor could smell the oily day cream on her skin. “He’s living in an old caravan on the river, just like a gypsy. You can tell by looking at him, can’t you, that he’s probably got some of the blood. That skin! Those eyes!”

  Eleanor smiled thinly, disdaining the other woman’s excitable manner, her taste for gossip, and yet unconscionably eager to hear more. Oh, but she was the worst kind of hypocrite!

  “Not a gentleman, exactly,” the other woman was saying, “but fine manners and a lovely way about him. I’m going to miss his visits.”

  Miss them? “Oh?”

  “That’s what he was in for just now, to let me know he won’t be needing letter collection anymore. His contract with Mr Nicolson is expiring and he’s moving on next week. He left no forwarding address, more’s the pity. Quite the man of mystery. I said to him, ‘But what if post arrives and I’ve nowhere to send it on to?’ and do you know what he replied?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “He told me that all the people he cared to hear from would know where to write to him, and the rest he could do without.”

  * * *

  There was no forgetting him after that. Miss Kempling had given Eleanor just enough information to fuel her interest and she found herself thinking of him often over the next few weeks. Mr Munro. The name had insinuated itself into her mind and came to her at the oddest times. When she was visiting Anthony in his study, when she was watching the girls on the lawn, when she lay down to sleep and the night-birds started crying on the lake. He was like a song that got stuck in one’s head and couldn’t be escaped. She remembered the warmth of his voice, the way he’d looked at her as if the two of them were in on a private joke, how she’d felt when his hand brushed hers on the train, as if it were fate and the two of them were always destined to meet.

  She knew such thoughts weren’t safe and she knew that they were wrong. The illicit frisson accompanying them told her that. She was shocked by herself, and dismayed; Eleanor had never imagined she’d be capable of attraction to anyone but Anthony and it felt sullying in some way to find herself in this position. She assured herself that it was a temporary state of affairs, an aberration; that she would forget this other man soon enough; that in the meantime her thoughts were her own and no one else need ever know. The man himself had moved on weeks ago, and he’d left no forwarding address. There was no real risk. Why shouldn’t she take out a pleasant memory now and again, what harm was there in that? And so she continued to remember, sometimes even to invent. Mr Munro. That easy smile of his, the pull she’d felt when he looked at her, what might have happened had she said instead, “Why, yes, I remember you. We’ve met before.”

  * * *

  But of course there is always a risk when the heart allows a breach, no matter how small or harmless it might seem. The next occasion on which Eleanor needed to take the girls away from Loeanneth was a glorious morning, the first after weeks of drizzling rain, and the last thing she felt like doing was lacing herself into one of her formal dresses to make the trip into town. And so, she decided, they would have a picnic instead.

  Mrs Stevenson packed them a lunch and they set off down the path between the laurel hedges, circumnavigating the lake until they reached the stream that ran along the bottom of the garden. Edwina, never one to be willingly left behind, panted fervently beside them. She was a lovely dog, loyal and faithful to them all, but particularly fond of Eleanor. They’d bonded, the pair of them, over the incident with Anthony when Edwina was just a puppy. The dear old girl had arthritis in her joints now, but refused to let it stop her, accompanying her mistress wherever she went.

  The weather was exceptional, and perhaps because they’d been cooped up for days they walked further than they otherwise might have. Eleanor swore later to herself that she hadn’t taken them to the edge of Mr Nicolson’s orchard on purpose. Indeed, it was Clementine who’d led the way, running ahead, her arms outstretched, and Deborah who’d finally pointed to the flat, grassy spot beneath the willow on the water’s edge and said, “Oh, do let’s sit there, it’s perfect!” Eleanor knew where they were, of course, and endured a small flutter of embarrassment as the fantasies she’d harboured over the past month came rushing back to her. But before she could demur, suggest they move their picnic further upstream or across another meadow, the blanket was out and the two older girls lolling on it. Alice was frowning at her notebook, biting her lip as she willed her pen to keep up with her tumbling thoughts, and Eleanor had to accept, with a sigh, that there’d be no moving on from here. And really, there was no good reason to go elsewhere. That man, Mr Munro—her cheeks flushed even as she thought his name—had moved on weeks before. It was only her guilty conscience that baulked at the idea of sitting in
this particular field on this particular farm.

  Eleanor unpacked the picnic basket and spread Mrs Stevenson’s goodies across it. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the four of them ate ham sandwiches and Cox’s Orange Pippins and far too much cake, washing it all down with fresh ginger beer. Edwina watched proceedings imploringly, snaffling up each small titbit as it came her way.

  But really, the heat for October was uncanny! Eleanor undid the small pearl buttons at her wrist, rolling her sleeves back once, and then twice, so they sat in neat pleats. A somnolence had come over her after lunch, and she lay back on the blanket. Closing her eyes, she could hear the girls bickering lazily over the last slice of cake, but her attention drifted, sailing beyond them to pick out the plink of water as gleaming trout leapt in the stream, the thrum of hidden crickets on the rim of the woods, the warm rustling of leaves in the nearby orchard. Each sound was an exaggeration, as if a bewitching spell had been cast over this small patch of land, like something from a fairy tale, one of Mr Llewellyn’s stories from her childhood. Eleanor sighed. The old man had been gone over a month now. He’d left, as he always did, when summer finished, seeking the warmer climes of Italy to soothe his restless legs and spirit. Eleanor missed him terribly. The winter months at Loeanneth were always the longer and colder for his absence, and she, personally, was stiffer without him, more contained. He was the only person who still looked at her and saw the slip of a girl with wild, tangled hair and a seemingly unquenchable spirit.

  She fell asleep, aware, just, as she tipped over the cliff of consciousness, and dreamed she was a child. She was on her boat, its white sail full of breeze, and her father and Mr Llewellyn were waving from the shore. Her heart was full of happiness; she felt no uncertainty or fear. Light rippled off the water and the leaves glistened, but then, as she turned back to wave again, she realised she’d drifted further than she’d meant to, and the lake was no longer a shape she recognised, opening instead to spill away from the house and her family, and the current was strong, pulling her further from them, and the water was no longer still, the boat was rocking from side to side and she had to hold on tightly so as not to fall—