‘Now, now. We have banished any sad thoughts.’
‘But listen. I have a request. If for any reason our family leaves this house, will you return the book to its original home? I’m convinced Miss Byrne would approve. I dream of it hidden beneath the floorboards, waiting to be found in hundreds of years from now.’
‘I give you my word,’ she replied.
Thomas kissed her on the forehead. ‘Come on,’ he said, lifting Elizabeth easily into his arms. ‘Let’s go to dinner.’
Dinner that night was a strange affair. The wine, the finest from Sir William’s cellar, was drunk liberally, and the footmen, dressed in their new livery of burgundy and gold, hovered respectfully, but it was not the celebration Lady Keyt had intended. Though Thomas’s coat of midnight-blue velvet with pearl buttons and lace cuffs drew admiring glances from Lady Keyt and Elizabeth, Dorothy alone wondered bitterly whether his elegant clothes were a mark of respect for his family, or an attempt to attract Miss Johnson’s eye. While Thomas watched his father warily, he wondered at Molly’s reticence. Sir William, wearing an embroidered coat of his grandfather’s, could only stare at his glass.
After white soup, followed by roasted duck, glazed carrots and potatoes, Thomas’s favourite trifle was produced with a flourish. As soon as his plate was cleared, Sir William brought the dinner to an abrupt end.
‘If you will excuse me,’ he said, his speech more than a little slurred, ‘I’m for bed. It seems I can’t contribute much to the conversation.’ He rose to his feet unsteadily, barking rudely at the footman who tried to help him.
Dorothy looked up, as if seeing her father for the first time that evening. She looked at the embroidered coat she had loved so much as a child.
‘Papa, why do the dragons on your coat have fire coming from their mouths?’ she had asked him many years before.
‘Because they have very bad breath.’ At the time she had laughed, but now as she watched him, she wondered what had happened to the man she had so loved. Part of her pitied her father, but she knew that she couldn’t help him. He insisted on self-destruction.
The rest of the family retired to the drawing room. Thomas lowered Lizzie onto the sofa, tucking a rug about her knees, and Dorothy settled into her favourite armchair. She wished this cosy tableau could be fixed in time. She sensed transience in the air and was afraid. She looked up at the armorial shield hanging above the fireplace, representing the union of the Keyts and the Coventrys. The three kites emblazoned on the blackened wood appeared ominous and threatening.
Shortly before eleven Thomas stood up. ‘If you will excuse me, it’s been a long day and I’m very tired.’
Dorothy, Lizzie and their mother remained in the drawing room. They played cards until they were distracted by Molly’s voice in the passage. ‘Take your hands off me, Mr Whitstone! I beg of you, leave me alone!’
‘You would have let me touch you once, but I’ve heard there are bigger birds in the sky, and you want a brace of them.’
They heard footsteps running, followed by Whitstone’s bitter words: ‘I’m sure Lady Keyt would be interested to know who has been warming her husband’s bed!’
Dorothy turned to see her mother’s cards drop from her hands, scattering on the floor beneath her. Lady Keyt picked up the bell and rang it fiercely.
Whitstone came in, his head bowed. ‘Forgive me, milady. I thought you had retired.’
‘No, Mr Whitstone, I have not retired. Would you be good enough to explain the meaning of your words?’ Her face was ashen in the candlelight.
‘They meant nothing, milady, absolutely nothing.’
‘Do not lie to me. If you don’t answer me truthfully, you will leave my employment tonight.’
Despite her distress, her mother kept her dignity. ‘Whitstone, you have thirty seconds.’
The butler shuffled his feet, cleared his throat and began. Elizabeth’s hands clutched the sofa, while Lady Keyt sat rigidly in her chair. Dorothy got up and stood in front of the fireplace, her eyes bright with fury, while he told them about Sir William’s infidelity and Miss Johnson’s betrayal.
‘She didn’t deny it,’ he said at last, his eyes darting from one member of the family to the other. ‘Mrs Wright confronted her with the bloodied sheet. I’m so sorry, milady.’ Dorothy noted the sweat on his forehead and hated him. This pathetic man had destroyed her mother’s fragile equilibrium.
‘Thank you, Whitstone, you may go,’ her mother said, quietly. ‘I think for your own safety you should leave the house. My husband has been drinking and I can’t answer for his actions.’ Dorothy noticed a small pulse at the corner of her mother’s eyes.
Lady Keyt stood and turned towards her daughters. ‘Lizzie, I’m truly sorry. We have all been deceived by Miss Johnson. Dorothy, please ask Mathews to carry Elizabeth to her room. Forgive me. I will see you in the morning.’
Elizabeth had pushed herself into the corner of the sofa, where she sat shivering uncontrollably. Dorothy went to her and held her tightly.
‘Oh, God,’ Elizabeth sobbed, ‘is there no end to this?’
18
Lady Keyt was not given to anger. Only under extreme provocation did she succumb to rage, as was the case on this particular night. After unpinning her hair in her bedroom and brushing it furiously for several minutes, she slammed down her silver brush and marched across the landing to her husband’s room, opening his door without knocking.
‘How could you do this to me, William? How could you betray me?’ She stopped in front of him, her eyes narrowed.
He looked up at her from his chair and felt afraid. He placed his glass of whisky on the table beside him. ‘Calm down, my dear. What are you talking about?’
‘No more lies. I’ve had enough of your lies. The servants know of your infidelity, and so do the children.’
‘You are mistaken. I have never been unfaithful to you.’ He stood up unsteadily, his nightcap askew on his head.
‘I know about Molly Johnson.’
‘What are you talking about? That is a ridiculous suggestion.’
‘Whitstone told me,’ she said flatly. ‘I beg of you, don’t belittle yourself further.’
William couldn’t breathe. He felt as if he was drowning. ‘Ann, you must believe me. The man is a servant, a cheap and common liar.’
‘Molly Johnson is also a servant, and yet you chose her above your wife. It’s too much. I’m leaving.’
William’s face crumpled. ‘I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me, I beg of you.’
‘It’s too late. I’ve put up with your black moods and your drinking. We’ve both suffered the same tragedy, but you have compounded it with your adultery.’
‘Forgive me, Ann. Please. I can’t live without you.’
‘I cannot. I have had more than I can bear. I don’t want any more lies and misery. Elizabeth and Dorothy have seen enough. I will take them to The College, if that is acceptable to you.’
‘Ann, please don’t do this. I swear to you, it will never happen again. Please give me one more chance.’
‘You have shared your life with me, and yet you have taken her to your bed without a care for my feelings. Tell me, why should I give you another chance?’
William was quiet. He turned from her, and with his hands gripping the mantelpiece he lowered his head until his forehead rested on the cold marble. When he spoke, it was with the pain and uncertainty of a lost man. ‘Since the accident, you have denied me your body and your bed. You have given your love to the children but not to your own husband.’
The truth of his observation cut Ann, and she moved towards him, her anger turning to regret, but she stopped herself and pushed her hands deep into the pockets of her silk dressing gown. She had dealt with too much to feel capable of starting over again.
William looked at his wife. ‘I will not allow you to leave,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘You are my wife. It is your duty to stay. You are the only woman I have ever loved. I beg you to reconsider.’
Ann looked at the broken man before her, the man she had once loved so passionately, and turned sadly.
‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ she said, her own heart breaking.
19
Dorothy remained by the fire long after her sister had gone to bed, staring into the fading embers. She now understood Mrs Wright’s excitement, the hushed gossip and furtive looks. She stretched out on the sofa, burying her face in the pillows, but she could not blot out the repulsive images. Her wrath turned solely on Molly. Her father’s destruction of his trees told her all she needed to know: her father could not live with his transgression; he was obviously remorseful. But Molly was far from repentant.
Dorothy’s mood bounced from hatred to despair and back again, until at last she fell asleep. When she awoke, the fire had died and the room was cold. She stood up, shivering, and dragged herself upstairs. Halfway up, she heard her parents’ angry voices. For once Dorothy had no desire to listen.
She shut her bedroom door and went to her bureau. Inside lay Thomas’s letter to Molly. She picked it up and, striking the tinderbox, watched the flame ignite and grow. She held it to the letter, then dropped the burning paper into the fire. Staring into the flames she felt her anger tighten like a vice in her chest. She climbed onto her bed and tried to sleep, but it was useless. She rose and went to her washstand. As she stared at her exhausted reflection in the mirror, she considered that neither parent was blameless – her mother’s rejection had played its part.
When quiet returned to the house and her father’s door closed, Dorothy went to find her mother. Lady Keyt was in her bedroom, sitting at the foot of her bed, when Dorothy knocked to come in. As her mother looked up to greet her, Dorothy saw more lines of pain etched into her face.
‘Is this my fault, Dotty? Was any of this my fault?’
‘Of course not, Mama,’ she lied.
‘I can’t bear to think of it. I trusted Molly, and I thought I could trust my husband.’ Her words rekindled Dorothy’s indignation. He had betrayed her mother, banished Miss Byrne, and shot her beloved Ophelia. He had ruined all of their lives.
‘Mama, I’m sorry. I’ll look after you,’ she said, putting her arms around her.
Returning to her bedroom, Dorothy sat at her bureau and finding her notebook she wrote furiously. Molly would know of her anger.
Though you would whore with my father, and prey upon my brother’s affections, have no false hope: you will be sent from our house. I saw through you the moment I set eyes on you. You are nothing, Molly Johnson. Nothing.
She crossed it out and started again. By the third draft she was satisfied; she would write it out tomorrow. She climbed into bed and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
20
In the middle of the night a scream awakened Molly. She lit the candle on her night table, sat up in bed and listened. For a moment there was silence, but the scream came again. She pulled a robe around her, and unlocking the door to the passage, she ran down to the large, central landing.
Ruth stood by the broom cupboard, white-faced, in her white gown and frizzed brown hair.
‘What’s wrong?’
Molly followed her gaze. Thomas Whitstone’s door lay open.
‘Sir William! He has a sword,’ she whispered. ‘He’s killed Mr Whitstone!’
The servants came, one after the other, rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Dorothy arrived with Lady Keyt.
‘Out of my way. Get out of my way.’ Sir William barged out of Whitstone’s room, his sword raised. Everyone drew back. ‘He betrayed me!’ he cried. ‘He betrayed me to my wife.’ He looked wildly around the room until his eyes fixed upon Molly. ‘And you, you have bewitched me,’ he gestured towards her, the sword waving dangerously.
All eyes turned to Molly: Lady Keyt, frozen in shock; Mrs Wright, her lip quivering, her nightcap squashed on her greying curls; Dorothy, her eyes bulging in her pale face.
You do what you can, when you can, my love. Molly remembered her mother’s words as she walked towards the man who had raped her. He swayed before her, his eyes unfocused. Her heart beat wildly as she gazed at the raised sword. ‘Give that to me, Sir William. Someone else will get hurt.’
She reached up, but he waved it threateningly. She stepped back but maintained her composure.
Dorothy was forced to admire Molly Johnson’s courage, even as it highlighted Dorothy’s own weakness. ‘Sir William, give it to me. I beg of you.’ Molly put out her arm and this time he didn’t resist. Slowly she caught his wrist and lowered his hand, gently prising open the clenched fingers, until the sword clattered to the ground.
He seemed to awaken as if from a dream. ‘What have I done?’ he asked, his muddled brain clearing.
‘Come, sir; let’s go downstairs. It’s all right, sir. You can come with me.’
‘But Molly . . . do you hate me?’
‘It doesn’t matter now.’
He let her take his arm and lead him like a child.
Thomas passed them on the stairs. For a moment Molly looked into his eyes.
‘What’s going on? Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?’
No one answered.
This time Thomas shouted. ‘What has he done?’
‘I think your father has murdered poor Whitstone,’ his mother replied. Dorothy burst into tears, not because of ‘poor Whitstone’, but because of the look that had passed between Thomas and Molly.
‘It’s all right, Dotty,’ her brother said, taking her in his arms. ‘Don’t cry.’ He took her hand and led her to a chair. ‘Dotty, you wait there. Mother, you sit down, too. This won’t take long.’
Dorothy watched him disappear into Whitstone’s room, and within seconds she heard his laughter.
‘It’s fine,’ he called. ‘Come and look. There is no one here. Our drunken father has driven his sword into a pile of pillows.’
She crossed the threshold. A candle burnt on the dresser, and feathers like snowflakes settled on the floor. On the bed, the slashed and torn pillows bore witness to her father’s rage.
‘You see, the bird has flown.’
Dorothy shook her head. ‘Mama warned him. She told him to get away.’
‘What’s going on? Please will someone explain why Father should wish to kill Whitstone?’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake, can you not see what is in front of your eyes? Molly is Father’s mistress and Whitstone had the stupidity to tell Mama.’
Thomas looked at his sister, comprehension dawning in his eyes. ‘No, I had no idea. How stupid of me. All these years, I’ve been a fool.’ He turned and stumbled down the stairs.
Dorothy followed. ‘Thomas, forgive me! Please come back.’ He looked at her in amazement, his eyes filling with tears, and continued on, deaf to her voice.
He left the back door open; she ran after him into the garden. It was raining, a freezing rain that pelted down her neck and into her eyes. Her steps were urgent. She ran down the path, stones piercing her thin slippers. ‘Thomas, where are you?’
Reaching the entrance to the pool garden, she heard her brother’s voice shouting against the wind. ‘My father will be rid of me, and I will be rid of the world.’
She saw him near the pools and feared he would drown himself. ‘No, Thomas!’ she yelled. ‘Please God, no.’
He looked up at her for a moment, then laughed hysterically and ran off into the darkness, his wet nightshirt clinging to his body.
She ran after him but he was gone, out through the upper gate and into the woods beyond. ‘He will die if he stays out in this,’ she sobbed. ‘He will surely die.’ She returned through the garden and into the courtyard, hammering on the door of the man whom she trusted above all others.
‘Lorenzo, help me, please help me!’
Lorenzo, unaware of the unfolding drama, put his head through the window. On seeing Dorothy below, he ran downstairs.
‘You are soaked through! Put this around you.’ He laid a coat around her shoulders whi
le Dorothy told him what had happened.
‘You must help me,’ she pleaded.
‘Of course,’ he replied, pulling his breeches over his underclothes and nightshirt. ‘You go back inside the house and I promise I will find him.’
‘No,’ she replied, ‘this is my fault and I’m coming with you.’
They ran through the white gate at the end of the courtyard and down the track towards the Hanging Meadow. They called his name but there was no reply. They looked in the Dingle and the woods above the deer fence, but still there was no sign.
‘Think, Miss Dorothy: where would your brother go?’
Dorothy, panting from exertion, suddenly remembered. ‘He’d go to the tree house,’ she said. ‘He always went to the tree house.’
They ran together towards the stream and stopped underneath the large beech tree. When they called he didn’t answer.
‘I will go up,’ Lorenzo said, his foot already on the first rung of the ladder.
Lorenzo found Thomas huddled in the corner. His arms clutched his knees and his teeth chattered.
‘Leave me in peace,’ he said as the dark head appeared through the entrance.
‘I will not,’ Lorenzo replied, taking a seat beside him. ‘It’s freezing and we should be by a good fire. I have whisky in the cupboard for just such an occasion. Will you have one with me?’
‘I don’t want to live. What is there to live for?’
‘You should not say this, you who have everything. Come now, you crazy Englishman, and get down that ladder.’
Dorothy stared helplessly at the tree house waiting for a sign of progress, until at last Thomas appeared at the doorway. Without looking at her he climbed down the steps and walked into her waiting arms. Lorenzo had only taken the second step down when the wood, rotten from years of neglect, gave way. He plummeted to the ground.
He lay amongst the wet leaves and rotting vegetation, groaning at the sharp pain that shot through his ankle. ‘It may be broken,’ he said. Dorothy knelt beside him.
‘This is all my fault,’ she said miserably.
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