Oh goodness, Blaise! What a screed! On a happier note, St Francis sends greeting to Jeoffrey. What a delightful person he is, and when I saw him curled up in the sunshine on a chair in the chapel I thought of Christopher Smart's lines 'For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest'. I hope that the usual winter convent bug, which has been afflicting you all, has abated now that the spring is here again.
I know I don't need to ask but I shall anyway – prayers, please, for guidance at this particular time.
With my love,
Hester
St Francis came sidling and winding round her ankles, and Hester put the top on her pen, pushed back her chair and reached for her shawl.
'Quite right, old friend,' she murmured. 'We need some exercise. Let's go and pick some catkins. Does that sound appropriate?'
As they crossed the lawn together and entered the wood, Hester realized that, in seeking his own history, Jonah had reminded her of things she thought she'd forgotten long since. In recreating the past so vividly for him, and searching her own memory so ruthlessly, she'd become vulnerable again. As she passed between the dazzling gold of the kingcups with their brightly glossed leaves, her usually undefined melancholy became focused and she seemed to hear voices in the river's whisper.
'And what's her history?'
'A blank, my lord. She never told her love . . .'
She remembered Blaise's question at Christmas: 'That was a good time, wasn't it?' and her own, swift reply: 'The best.'
Well, it was true; there have been many good times since but that brief time with the three of them together was the best. Hester wrapped the shawl more closely around her, as if to ward off loss and loneliness and the terrors of old age, whilst St Francis stalked ahead, tail held high, and down in the woods the yaffle laughed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As Jonah travelled down to Michaelgarth he was filled with trepidation. Even though it had been agreed that he should tell the truth, the prospect of facing Hester was a daunting one. He guessed that both Lizzie and Clio now knew part of the story and he wondered how he would deal with their questions. Lizzie, he had no doubt, would be quite open and direct – as she had been with her text messages – but ready to understand his dilemma. Anyway, he had little doubt that just at present she was concentrating so much on the success of her film event that she wouldn't demand a post mortem: Lizzie would simply be relieved that he'd turned up. She would rely on Clio to deal with anything concerning Hester.
As the train slowed down for Tiverton Parkway, however, Jonah's anxiety increased. He suspected that Clio might be more difficult to deal with, protective of Hester, puzzled by his silence; Clio would require some kind of explanation – and here she was now, waiting on the platform, watching him walk towards her. He could see at once that her expression was wary and his heart sank, although part of him was ready to be defensive: he felt rather as if he had been caught between Hester and his mother. He had no desire to criticize Hester to her god-daughter yet he needed to defend his mother's reaction to Hester's version of their shared past, should the question arise.
They stood looking at one another: she with her hands in her jacket pockets, her eyes cool; he holding his overnight bag, his expression neutral. However, she said none of the things for which he'd braced himself: no recriminations, no sarcastic observations. Instead she simply looked at him intently, as if reminding herself about him, and suddenly she smiled.
'Hello, Jonah,' she said. 'Can we go somewhere to talk?'
His relief was overwhelming. 'Hello, Clio. Why not? If there's time. I'm not sure what Lizzie's got planned.'
'There's plenty of time,' she answered, as they walked out to the car. 'You'll probably think I'm being pushy and that it's none of my business but I just hoped that we could get a few things straight between us before I see Hester.'
'Does that mean that I shan't be seeing her?' he asked, cautiously.
She looked at him quickly, hopefully. 'Will you want to? We didn't know, you see, whether you planned a visit to Bridge House, and Hester didn't want to press you.'
He heaved a sigh, a great gasp of frustration, and she watched him anxiously across the roof of the car as she unlocked the doors and he threw his bag onto the back seat.
'This isn't simple,' he said almost angrily, climbing in beside her. 'It isn't just a misunderstanding or a cooling-off on my part. If you think Hester won't object I'm very willing to explain the complexities of all this to you but I don't want to put you in a difficult position.'
'I think I understand a bit of it.' Clio pulled out of the car park and they drove away. 'I know it's to do with your mother staying at Bridge House during the war. Hester thinks she's told you something that's upset your mother and she can't think what it is.'
A rather bitter smile touched Jonah's lips. 'It's rather what she didn't say that's causing the problems.'
'That's why I hoped we could have a talk. Unless you'd rather simply explain it all to Hester and leave me out of it. It's just that she's really upset, Jonah, and that's why I'm interfering. I hate muddles.'
His smile this time was a genuine one. 'I can believe that. And anyway, I think I'd like to talk it through to someone who isn't tied up in it.' Suddenly this was true. 'I've thought about it all so much that I wonder if I'm going crazy. You can give me an unbiased view.'
'I can try to.'
They drove a little way in silence before Clio swung the car left over an iron bridge into a twisting lane and presently pulled into a small lay-by beside a little stone bridge. Still without speaking, they got out and stood together, staring down at the water. The river glittered, shining in the sunshine, sweeping between miniature cliffs of red earth; willows leaned from the banks, their slender branches dipping and trembling in the clear rush of water. A grey wagtail flitted to and fro, darting from the bank out onto the rounded river stones, and making sudden swoops upstream where a shimmer of midges hung in an ever-shifting cloud beneath the branches of a great beech.
When Jonah began to speak, his arms resting on the stone, Clio leaned nearer so as to hear him more clearly. He told the story very well, as if he'd gone over it time and again, sorting it out in his mind so that now it flowed chronologically, building the whole picture as it grew. He began by describing Michael's arrival at Bridge House with Lucy, of Eleanor's growing passion for him and his more reluctant return of love; he told of Edward's return from the Far East and of Lucy's fears of him and Eleanor, and of her love for Hester. All the while Clio listened, fascinated, her eyes on his face; though when he spoke about the fight, and Lucy's departure from Bridge House, she opened her lips as if she might interrupt – but changed her mind, waiting until he'd finished.
'So that's what happened.' He looked at her at last. 'And the terrible thing is that my mother has lived with this knowledge – that her father killed his best friend and then ran away. Or that's how it looks to her. She's seen him as a murderer and a coward and, until I first met Hester, she's refused to talk about it. Then, when I go crashing in all these years later, Hester doesn't even mention it when she tells me the story, and, to add insult to injury as far as my mother is concerned, agrees that it would make a great television play. When I told my mother in all ignorance that we were thinking about it she was utterly horrified. That's when she told me the truth at last: that Michael killed Edward and was persuaded to run away. She simply can't understand this detached outlook – and neither can I, now I know the whole truth. Of course, Hester has no idea that Mum saw it all. Well, you must be able to imagine now how impossible it would have been for me simply to carry on as if nothing had happened. I simply didn't know what to do for a while, so I did nothing. As it is, having dragged it all into the open, Mum agrees that the best thing is to face it out with Hester.'
He fell silent while Clio continued to watch him with compassion and a kind of horror.
'But, Jonah,' she said when he'd finished his recital. 'Jonah, you've got it wrong. Edward
didn't die that night. I don't know why Eleanor should have told your mother that he was dead. Listen to me, Jonah. Edward didn't die.'
He stared at her, his brows drawn together. 'What do you mean?'
'He didn't die.' She put her hand on his arm and shook him slightly. 'I know he didn't. He and Blaise and Hester lived together after the war. Hester's often mentioned that time the three of them were together at Bridge House. In fact, we were talking about it at Christmas with Blaise. Edward prepared Hester for her Oxbridge exam. He didn't die, Jonah.'
His eyes slid away from her urgent gaze, staring at nothing but as though he could see some other scene playing itself out in the middle distance. His face was immobile, grim.
'What happened, then?' He sounded angry, as if defying her to make sense of the story. 'She saw him go into the water . . .' He hesitated, thinking it through, suddenly seeing the weaknesses in Lucy's account. 'But . . . why should Eleanor tell my mother such a terrible lie?'
'I don't know. I'd need to think about it. But that's why Hester didn't make anything of it. Why should she? She insisted that Michael and Eleanor should go simply because it was impossible for them to stay any longer, and they agreed with her. It would have driven Edward raving mad to see them together after that. Look, Hester's told me a bit about all this in the last few weeks, mainly because she was trying to see what aspect of what she told you might have upset your mother, and although I don't know all the ins and outs of it I do know that Edward didn't die.'
'But Michael knocked him into the river, and Hester wouldn't let him go for help.'
'There must be some other explanation about that. You must ask her. But surely this explains everything else? Obviously your mother must have been terrified and, having seen the fight, there's no reason why she shouldn't have believed Eleanor, but at least it makes sense now. Not why Eleanor should tell such a terrible lie but it makes sense about Hester.'
Jonah raised his head. On either bank of the river the combes rose high and steep, covered with larch; above the tallest of them, black against the pale blue sky, a raven flapped his slow, calm way.
Jonah took a breath, allowing his mind to experiment with this new information: Edward had not died. He longed to believe it. His heart was beginning to fill with a tremulous joy. Clio watched him anxiously, willing him to accept the truth. He turned to look at her and, quite instinctively, she opened her arms to him and they embraced.
'Sorry.' He let her go, feeling a fool. 'It's just a bit overwhelming. I'd convinced myself, you see, and yet I didn't want to think about Michael like that. The way Hester talked about him, I'd begun to love him.'
'I can see that.' She was remembering that first arrival at Bridge House and Jonah plunging out into the rain. 'Oh God! And your poor mother. Living with it all these years.'
'I'd like to speak to Hester,' he said urgently, catching her arm. 'It's not that I don't believe you, Clio, but I want her to describe it to me exactly as it happened and then I can explain it to my mother. Can you phone her?'
'There's no signal here but we'll just go straight there. Come on.'
'We need to warn her.' He hung back anxiously. 'It's not fair to arrive unexpectedly.'
'Don't be a twit.' Clio reached into her pocket for the car keys. 'Hester will be only too pleased to tell you the truth and get things sorted out. Trust me. Get in the car, Jonah. We're going to Bridge House.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
All day she'd been waiting. Ever since Clio had gone off to Michaelgarth, knowing that she was to pick Jonah up later that afternoon, Hester had been waiting. She'd guessed that Clio would broach the subject of his silence and all day she'd been wondering how he would react, what he might say. She'd been unable to settle to any work but had roamed through the house, into the garden and the wood, and then back again, stalked by a puzzled St Francis. Picking things up and putting them down again, unable to eat or concentrate, she'd stared out of windows, smoothed cushions, her mind distracted.
She was standing on the terrace when the car drove over the bridge and pulled up. Jonah climbed out and stood for a moment, looking at her. She instinctively raised her hand in greeting and then let it drop, her heart hammering painfully in her side, unable to move forward. It was Clio who came round the car and led Jonah in through the little gate on to the terrace. Hester could only gaze anxiously at him, trying to read his face, puzzled by the almost elated expression she saw there. He came to her and took her hand in his, and she grasped it eagerly, gratefully, still staring up at him.
'Jonah.' She spoke his name tentatively – and then Clio was there, taking her other arm and leading her into the house, through the drawingroom and on into the book-room where the fire burned, comforting and steady. Hester and Jonah stood facing each other on the hearthrug whilst Clio remained near the door, watching.
'Clio told me something amazing.' He was still holding Hester's hand. 'She told me that Edward didn't die.'
Hester frowned, puzzled. 'Didn't die?'
By the door Clio shifted, ready to put in a word of clarification, but Jonah spoke again.
'Not then. Not when they fought. She says that Michael didn't kill Edward.'
'Kill him?' Hester was surprised into an expression that was almost amusement. 'Of course he didn't kill him. Edward died over two years later from pneumonia. Who said Michael killed him?'
Jonah heaved a great breath. 'Mother did. She believed that Michael killed Edward and then ran away.'
'Lucy said that?' Hester stared at him. 'But why on earth should she imagine such a thing? She didn't even know about the fight. She was in bed.'
'No,' said Jonah. He let go of Hester's hand and gently pushed her into the armchair beside the fire. He sat opposite, leaning forward, arms on his knees, hands lightly linked together. 'No, she wasn't in bed. She couldn't sleep that night because of the storm, so she got up and went into your bedroom. She said the light was on and that she hoped you might be persuaded to read her a story. You weren't there but she got up on the little stool to look at the Midsummer Cushion.' He paused. 'Can you guess what happened next?'
Hester, sitting forward, studied him through half-closed eyes, her face strained and anxious, as if she believed this might be a test question that it was crucial she should answer correctly. Suddenly her face relaxed and she smiled sadly.
'Ah, poor Lucy. She reached up to touch the Midsummer Cushion and the string broke and it fell to the ground. Poor little girl, poor Lucy. What a shock that must have been. She loved it so much. And so that's why she asked you to ask me the question? "What happened to the Midsummer Cushion?"'
Jonah nodded. 'It haunted her, you see. She lost her balance and reached out to clutch at something to save her. It crashed down to the floor and immediately afterwards there was the fight and she thought that it was all her fault. She'd been told that if it broke something terrible would happen.'
'That was simply a family superstition.' Hester dismissed the notion. 'Nanny cashed in on it when we were little, to stop us from touching it when my mother had it reframed, and the story grew in the telling. But wait a moment, Jonah. I still don't quite see where this is leading us. So Lucy got up and went into my room and the Midsummer Cushion was broken . . . What happened after that?'
'She came downstairs, looking for you, and went into the drawing-room. She says that Michael and Eleanor were sitting on the sofa together, talking, and suddenly Edward burst in from the terrace and she hid behind the sofa . . .'
'That's it.' Hester struck her hands together lightly, almost triumphantly, her eyes closed as she recalled the scene: the shadowy fire-lit room, the drawn curtains, the newspaper sliding to the floor and the unexpected flash of colour behind the sofa. 'So it was Lucy,' she said softly. 'I could always imagine that scene, you know. I remember it clearly, the room as I saw it that evening as I came in from the hall and switched on the light, and yet I could never quite pin down the patch of colour behind the sofa. It shouldn't have been there and I co
uld never place it. Oh, now I see!' She stared at him in sudden realization. 'So she saw it all.'
Jonah nodded. 'She saw the fight, saw Michael knock Edward into the river, but what then, Hester?'
She nodded, her hands clasped tremulously, reliving that evening in her mind's eye.
'Wait a moment. Yes, we were all out on the terrace. I looked down into the river and saw Edward struggling in the water. Eleanor seized me as if she thought I might plunge in after him. Michael ran out towards the road to get help but I called him back. I knew there would be no traffic at that time of night and, anyway, Edward was being dragged downstream. I knew exactly where he'd try to get ashore. He'd been familiar with the river since childhood and I guessed he'd strike out for the little beach where we used to paddle. Even on a night like that he'd have a chance there but I needed Michael to help me, you see. We all agreed that he'd have to leave Bridge House, he and Eleanor and Lucy, but I needed his help first. We ran through the house leaving Eleanor to get Lucy up – there was no sign of her then – and when we reached the little beach Edward was there, clinging to an overhanging branch. He screamed with rage when he saw Michael but he was too weak to resist his help. Between us we dragged him up the bank and over the lawn and he fought like a child might fight an older, stronger brother. It was pitiful. We got him into the kitchen and I told Michael to bring towels and dry clothes and Edward's medicine before he went. Even when Michael had disappeared Edward continued to struggle with me but he'd been hurt and he was exhausted, and in his condition it was all too much for him. Presently, Michael just pushed in the things through the half-open door and went away. The sight of either of them would have driven Edward right over the top. It was only later that I realized that I never said goodbye to Lucy.'
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