The Lake House

by Kate Morton

  Her skin flamed as she remembered. The way she’d skipped up the stairs to knock on the door, brimming with excitement, with confidence. The special care she’d taken with her clothing and hair. The spritz of Mother’s cologne she’d sneaked beneath the buttons of her blouse and onto the insides of her wrists, just as she’d seen Deborah do.

  “Alice,” he’d said when he saw her, smiling (confusedly, she could see that now; at the time she’d thought only that he was as nervous as she was. The mortification burned!). “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

  He opened the boathouse door and she stepped across the threshold, pleased at the waft of perfume that trailed her. It was cosy inside, with only room for a bed and a basic kitchen. Alice had never been inside a man’s bedroom and had to work hard to stop herself from gawping like a silly child at the patchwork eiderdown draped casually at the end of the mattress.

  There was a little rectangular-shaped gift on top, wrapped plainly but neatly, with a piece of twine tied around it, a card made from one of Ben’s paper animals. “Is that for me?” Alice said, remembering his promise that he had something to give her.

  He followed her glance. “It is. Nothing grand, mind you, just a small token of encouragement for your writing.”

  Alice could have burst with pleasure. “Speaking of which,” she said, before beginning an excited account of having finished the manuscript. “Hot off the press.” She forced the copy she’d made specially into his hands. “I wanted you to be the first to read it.”

  He was thrilled for her, a broad smile bringing a dimple to his left cheek. “Alice! That’s tremendous. What an achievement! The first copy of many, you mark my words.” She felt so adult, basking in his praise.

  He promised to read it and for a moment she held her breath, waiting for him to turn the cover and see the dedication, but instead he set it down on the table. There was an open bottle of lemonade nearby, and Alice was suddenly parched. “I’d kill for a drink,” she said in a kittenish voice.

  “No need to do that.” He poured her a glass. “I’m more than happy to share.”

  While his attention was elsewhere, she released the top button of her blouse. He handed her the glass and their fingers touched. An electric shiver shot right down her spine.

  Without breaking his gaze, Alice took a sip. The lemonade was cold and sweet. She licked her lips delicately. This was it. Now or never. In one swift motion, she set down the glass, stepped towards him and took his face between her palms, leaning in to kiss him just the way she’d dreamed of doing.

  For a second it had been so perfect! She breathed in his scent, leather and musk and just the faintest tang of perspiration, and his lips were warm and soft, and she swooned, because she’d known it would be just like this, all along she’d known . . .

  And then, suddenly, the growing flame was snuffed. He pulled away, his eyes searching hers.

  “What is it?” she said. “Did I do it wrong?”

  “Oh, Alice.” Realisation and concern competed on his face. “Alice, I’m sorry. I’ve been so stupid. I had no idea.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I thought—I didn’t think.” He smiled then, kindly, sadly, and she saw that he felt pity for her and that’s when she knew. It hit her in an instant. He didn’t feel as she did. He never had.

  He was still speaking, his expression earnest, his brow furrowed and his eyes kind, but the ringing of mortification in her ears was shrill and unrelenting. Occasionally the frequency slipped and she caught a fragment of platitude: “You’re a terrific girl . . . so very smart . . . a wonderful writer . . . a great future ahead of you . . . you’ll meet someone else . . .”

  She was parched and dizzy, she needed not to be here anymore, in this place where she had so disgraced herself, where the man she loved, the only man she’d ever love, was looking at her with pity and apology in his eyes, and talking to her in the tone of voice all adults used to placate confused children.

  With all the dignity she could muster, Alice picked up her glass and finished the lemonade. She collected her manuscript with its nauseating dedication and started towards the door.

  And that’s when she noticed his suitcase. Later, she would reflect on the fact, and wonder whether there was something wrong with her that, even when her heart was breaking, a small part of her stood outside the emotional truth of the moment, taking notes. Later still, when she’d become better acquainted with Graham Greene, she would realise it was merely the splinter of ice that all writers held in their hearts.

  The suitcase was open against the wall and it was full of neat piles of clothing. Ben’s clothing. He was packing.

  Without turning back to face him, she said, “You’re leaving.”

  “I am.”

  “Why?” Oh, horrid vanity, but she felt a resurgence of hope that he did love her after all and it was his love that was forcing him to leave. His respect for her youth and his duty to the family who employed him.

  But no. Instead he said, “It’s time. Past time, in fact. My contract ended a fortnight ago. I only stayed on to help in the lead up to Midsummer.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  He was a gypsy, of course, a traveller. He’d never described himself in any other terms. And now he was leaving. Walking out of her life as casually as he’d walked into it. A sudden thought struck her. She turned. “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”

  Ben didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. She could tell at once by the pitying look on his face that there was.

  With a small dizzy nod, and without another glance at him, she left the boathouse. Head held high, gaze steady, one calm step after another. “Alice, your gift,” he called after her, but she didn’t turn around and she didn’t go back.

  Only when she’d rounded the bend in the path did she hug her manuscript to her chest and run as fast as her tear-blinded eyes allowed her, back towards the house.

  How had she got it so wrong? Sitting on the garden bench beneath the arbour, as Midsummer celebrations swirled around her, Alice still couldn’t understand. Her mind spooled back across a year of interactions. He’d always been so pleased to see her, listening intently when she spoke about her writing, her family, even offering suggestions when she complained about Mother, the misunderstandings they’d been having, trying to mend the rift between them. Alice had never met anyone who cared so much, understood her like he did.

  It was true, he’d never, not once, touched her, not properly, not the way she wanted him to, and she’d wondered at the things she’d heard Deborah saying about young men and their lecherous, leering attentions; but she’d simply supposed him too much of a gentleman. And that was the problem. She’d supposed too much. All along, she’d seen only what she wanted to see: her own desires reflected back at her.

  With a heartsick sigh, Alice glanced about for Mr Llewellyn. She’d been waiting over fifteen minutes now and there was still no sign of him. She ought to leave. After dragging herself out to meet him, he hadn’t even bothered to keep their appointment. He’d probably forgotten all about it, or had got caught up with more enjoyable company and was running late. It would serve him right to turn up and find that she wasn’t here.

  But where would she go? To the gondolas? No, they were far too close to the boathouse. She never wanted to set foot down there again. To the house? No, there were servants everywhere, all of them Mother’s spies, only too happy to report that Alice had disobeyed instructions. The dance floor? Hardly! She couldn’t think of anything she felt like less than kicking up her heels and whooping in the fashion of those other fools—and who, pray tell, would she dance with?

  And there it was. The awful truth. She had nothing better to do and no one to do it with. Little wonder Ben didn’t love her. She was utterly unlovable. It was ten minutes to midnight, the fireworks woul
d begin soon and Alice was all alone. She was hopeless and friendless, and there didn’t seem to be much point at all in going on.

  She saw herself then, as if from above. A lone, tragic figure, dressed in her prettiest frock, hugging her knees; a girl whose entire family misunderstood her.

  She looked, in fact, a bit like an immigrant girl, sitting on the wharf after a long sea journey. It was something about the curve of her shoulders, the bow of her head, her fine, straight neck. She was a steadfast sort of girl, dealing with great loss. Her family had all been killed (how? Horribly, tragically, the details didn’t matter, not now), but with fierce determination she’d charged herself with avenging their deaths. Alice sat taller, as the kernel of an idea began to grow. She reached slowly into her pocket to stroke her notebook. Thinking, thinking . . .

  The girl was alone in the world, utterly bereft, abandoned and forgotten by all those she might have presumed to trust, but she was going to prevail. Alice would make sure of it. She stood quickly as a spark of animation fired her from within. Her breaths had quickened and her head was swimming with shimmery threads of ideas that needed braiding together. She needed to think, to plot.

  The woods! That’s where she’d go. Away from the party, away from all these silly revelling people. She would concentrate on planning her next story. She didn’t need Ben, or Mr Llewellyn, or any of them. She was Alice Edevane, and she was a storyteller.

  * * *

  The plan was to meet in the woods, five minutes after midnight. Eleanor only realised when she saw him waiting, right where he’d said he’d be, that she’d been holding her breath all night, expecting it to go wrong.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hello.”

  Oddly formal. The only way they were going to get through the awful task ahead. They didn’t embrace, rather brushed each other’s forearms, elbows, wrists in an awkward approximation of the affection, the ease, to which they were both accustomed. Everything was different tonight.

  “You had no trouble?” he said.

  “I met a housemaid on the stairs earlier, but she was flustered, gathering champagne flutes for midnight. She thought nothing of it.”

  “Probably a good thing. It puts you at the scene well ahead of time. It’s less suspicious.”

  Eleanor flinched at the blunt expressions. At the scene. Less suspicious. How had it come to this? A reeling sensation of panic and confusion swirled within her, threatening to fell her. The world beyond, the surrounding woods, the party in the distance, were all a blur. She felt entirely disconnected from it all. There was no lantern-lit boathouse, no guests laughing and flirting in their silks and satins, no lake or house or orchestra; there was only this, now, this thing they’d planned, that had seemed so reasonable at the time, so logical.

  A peony shell whistled through the sky behind them, cycling higher until it burst, a cacophony of red sparks, falling back over the lake. It was a spur to action. The fireworks were scheduled to run for thirty minutes; Eleanor had instructed the pyrotechnician to mount a display that no one could resist, she’d given the servants permission to enjoy the show, Daffyd was keeping Alice occupied. “We must get moving,” she said. “There isn’t much time. I’ll be missed.”

  Her eyes had adjusted to the dark of the woods and she could see him quite clearly now. His face was a picture of reluctance and regret, his dark eyes searching hers, looking, she knew, for a crack in her resolve. It would be very easy to show him one. To say, “I think we’ve made a mistake,” or “Let’s give it a little more thought,” and retreat in different directions. But she hardened her heart and started towards the trapdoor that led down to the tunnel.

  Maybe he won’t follow, she thought, she hoped. And then she could go back alone, leave her sleeping baby where he was, return to the party as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She could wake tomorrow, and when she next saw Ben they would shake their heads together in amused disbelief, astonishment at the madness that had engulfed them, the crazy thing they’d almost done, the enchantment they’d been under. “A folie à deux,” they’d say, “a lunacy shared by two.”

  But even as she thought it, even as her spirit lifted and lightened, she knew it would solve nothing. Anthony was worse than ever. Theo was in danger. And now, in an unimaginable—a devastating—development, Deborah and Clemmie had found out about Eleanor and Ben. The very thought that her daughters knew she’d been unfaithful to their father made Eleanor want to shrink into a tiny speck of dust and float away. Which was weak, and lazy, and only served to heighten her self-loathing. No, this plan, this sickening unthinkable plan, was the only way to stem disaster’s flow. More than that, it was precisely what she deserved.

  Eleanor started. Something had just moved in the woods, she was sure of it. She’d glimpsed—or had she heard?—something in the dark. Was someone there? Had they been seen?

  She scanned the trees beyond, hardly daring to breathe.

  There was nothing.

  She’d imagined it.

  It was nothing more than a guilty conscience.

  All the same, it was as well not to linger. “Quickly,” she whispered, “follow me down the ladder. Quickly.”

  She reached the bottom and stepped aside to make room for him in the narrow, brick-walled tunnel. He’d closed the trapdoor behind him and it was blacker than night. Eleanor turned on the torch she’d hidden earlier and led him through the passage towards the house. It smelled of must and mould and a thousand childhood adventures. She longed suddenly to be a child again, with no more to worry about than how to fill the long sunlit day. A sob burned her throat, threatening to burst free, and she shook her head angrily, cursing herself for such indulgence. She needed to be stronger than that. There would be far worse to come in the days ahead. Sometime tomorrow morning the discovery would be made, a search would be called, the police would become involved. There’d be interviews and an investigation, and Eleanor would have to play her ghastly part—and Ben would be gone.

  Ben. She could hear his footfalls behind her, and the fleeting, stinging awareness came again that she was going to lose him, too. That in a matter of minutes he would turn and walk away and she would never see him again . . . No. Eleanor clenched her jaw and forced herself to focus only on her progress. One foot in front of the other, only stopping when she reached the set of stone steps that led up through the cavity in the wall of the house. She shone her torch’s beam towards the door at the top and drew a deep breath. The air was thick inside the passage, still and earthy, and dust spores hung in the strip of light. Once they went through that door, there’d be no turning back. She was steeling herself to start climbing, when Ben grabbed her wrist. Surprised, she turned to face him.

  “Eleanor, I—”

  “No,” she said, her voice unexpectedly flat in the narrow bricked space. “Ben, don’t.”

  “It kills me to say goodbye.”

  “Then don’t.”

  She realised at once, from the brightening of his expression in the torchlight, that he’d misunderstood her. That he thought she was suggesting he need not leave. She hurried to add, “Don’t say it. Just do what has to be done.”

  “There must be another way.”

  “There isn’t.” There wasn’t. If there were, she’d have found it. Eleanor had thought and thought until she felt her brain would bleed from the effort. She’d enlisted Mr Llewellyn and even he had been unable to suggest an acceptable alternative. There was no way to do the right thing by everybody, to keep everybody happy. This was the closest she had come, this plan in which she would bear the brunt. Theo would be confused at first—God help her, he’d be distressed, too—but he was young and he’d forget. She believed Ben when he said he loved her, that he didn’t want to be without her, but he was a gypsy and to travel was in his blood; eventually he would have moved on regardless. No, it was she who would suffer most, left behind to endure thei
r loss, missing them both as the moon misses the sun, always wondering—

  No. Don’t think about it. With all the force of will she could muster, Eleanor pulled her hand from his and started up the stairs. She ought to be concentrating instead on whether she’d done everything she needed to in order to make the plan work. Whether the extra draught of whisky would ensure Nanny Bruen’s continued slumber. Whether Mr Llewellyn was even now engaged with Alice, who’d been especially ornery all evening.

  At the top, she peered through the hidden spy-hole in the secret door. Her eyes were glazed and she blinked furiously to clear them. The hallway was empty. In the distance she could hear the booming fireworks. She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes left of the display. It was enough time. Just.

  The handle was solid in her hand, very real. This was it. The moment she’d known was coming, but had refused to imagine, concentrating instead on the logistics, never allowing herself to picture how she would feel when she reached this threshold. “Tell me again what kind of people they are,” she said softly.

  His voice behind her was warm and sad and, worst of all, resigned. “The very best,” he said. “They’re hardworking and loyal and fun; their house is the kind of place that always smells of good food, and no matter what else they might be short on, there’s never any shortage of love.”

  Where is it, she wanted to ask, where are you taking him? But she’d made Ben promise never to tell her. She couldn’t trust herself. The whole thing would only work if she didn’t know where to find him.