by Lulu Taylor
Not so different to normal life, then. And I’m changed too.
She no longer had the burden of rage and bitterness she’d carried for so much of her life. The urge to run out and attack people as they passed had entirely gone.
For the first time she had hope for the future, or at least as much of a future as she had left.
Chapter Fifty-Four
It was five months later, with London bursting into spring bloom, when Buttercup received the visit from the police that she had been both wanting and dreading. When it was over, there was only one person she wanted to talk to.
‘Can you come over? Now?’
‘Of course I can. I’ll be right there.’
Buttercup paced around the penthouse flat, looking out over the roofs of Westminster. She was longing to be free of this place, but it was impossible to do anything with Charles’s assets frozen and everything up in the air. Elaine was still working downstairs, though Rose had gone, moving on to a better job as assistant to a glamorous fashion editor. Elaine’s presence made things awkward, but she was the best person to remain in charge of the day-to-day running of Charles’s very complicated affairs.
Maybe I’ll be free of it all soon. I can get out of this place, get somewhere that only belongs to me.
Gawain arrived half an hour later, having made the journey down from Bloomsbury as quickly as he could. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, after kissing Buttercup on the cheek.
She nodded, white-faced. ‘It’s Charles. They’ve found him.’
He hugged her. ‘Oh God. I’m sorry.’ He let her go and stood back to scan her face anxiously. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m okay. Better than I thought. Relieved. It means we can start to move on.’
‘Is it definitely him?’
‘They’re very sure. But there will be some final checks to be certain. There’s just no one else it can be. And there’s been no sign of Charles since the fire. So.’ She gazed at him, baffled. ‘But here’s the weird thing. He was in his car. In the garage. That’s why it’s taken so long – they were sifting the house first. The whole thing was burned to ash but they’re sure that’s how it was, although there’s more to investigate.’
‘In his car?’ Gawain frowned. ‘So he decided to . . . what? Set light to the house, lure you in, then gas himself in the car rather than burn in the fire?’
‘I suppose that’s what it looks like.’ Buttercup shook her head.
Gawain thought for a moment and said, ‘Maybe he didn’t want to die in a fire, and who can blame him. So he hitched it up so he’d lose consciousness in the car instead. The forensics will probably show it all in time.’
‘Yes.’ Buttercup sighed. ‘In any case, that’s the end of it. It’ll resolve the outstanding legal issues. He’ll be declared dead, we can have an inquest, and start clearing up the mess. We’ll be able to move on.’ She sat down, shaking her head again. ‘But I will always wonder – what did he intend to happen that night? Did he want me to die as well? Or did he want to frame me? I can’t work out the answer. Both are awful.’
Gawain said softly, ‘We’ll never know. But you’re still here, that’s the important thing.’
‘Yes.’ Her head fell onto his shoulder. She had got in touch with Gawain just before that terrible Christmas on her own in the London flat and they had met for a drink. When he heard she was planning to drive herself to see her mother for Christmas Day, he’d said, ‘Well, that’s handy. Because I’m going to spend it with my folks in Norfolk. My sister has a big house there and we all descend for the festivities. So I’ll drive you, and you can spend the day with your mother and then come to us. We’d love to have you.’
Buttercup had protested but she had quickly let herself be persuaded. It had been just what she had needed: a family untouched by the grief and tragedy of the last few weeks, a rambling house, nieces and nephews running about shrieking with excitement, Gawain’s sister and her partner and various in-laws, none of whom seemed to mind the chaos. Gawain had worried it would be too much, but she’d loved it all, from the endless parlour games to the late-night singsongs around the piano. If she needed time alone, she simply disappeared and no one asked questions or demanded to know what she was doing and when she’d be back. It was a relief to be part of something, not its sole focus, but part of a merry, rambunctious family.
‘Tell me if you want to go home,’ Gawain had said, ‘and I’ll get you back right away.’
But she’d stayed three days and loved every minute. It had been balm for her lonely soul.
Two months later, in London, Gawain had taken her hand and said, ‘I know it’s soon. But I’m here for you, if you need me.’
She had gazed at him, letting him hold her hand. ‘Slowly. That’s all. It has to be slow.’
‘Yes. I understand.’
And he’d been true to his word, not rushing her but letting things settle into an affectionate friendship as her wounds healed and she came to terms with what had happened. Now she stared at him. ‘I need to see my mother,’ she said. ‘Will you come too?’
‘Of course.’
‘But I want you to meet her this time.’
‘I’d be honoured.’
In the small private room in the nursing home, Buttercup’s mother lay on the daybed, her leg moving restlessly as usual.
‘Hello, Mum, it’s me.’ Buttercup kissed her and sat down next to her, Gawain joining her on the adjacent chair. ‘I need to let you know that they’ve found Charles. It’s all over. It’s finished. And I want you to meet someone.’ She took Gawain’s hand and placed it on her mother’s cool one. ‘This is Gawain. He’s my friend.’
Gawain leaned in and said quietly, ‘Hello, Buttercup’s mum.’
‘Wendy,’ she supplied.
He smiled at her. ‘Wendy. Good to meet you. I want you to know I’m going to look out for Buttercup. I mean, she’s very good at looking after herself and everything’ – he grinned at Buttercup – ‘but I hope it helps to know I’m here for her as well.’
Her mother let out a small bubbling sigh and her leg moved a little faster.
‘Is that the seal of approval?’ he asked.
Buttercup laughed lightly. ‘Well, it might be. She’ll need to get to know you a bit better.’
‘I’m glad she’ll get the chance,’ he said, staring at her meaningfully.
‘So am I.’ She tightened her hold on his hand. ‘So am I.’
She kissed him softly and happily.
Xenia sat in a wicker chair on the terrace, listening to the sound of Agnieska’s children playing in the garden. They were kicking a football about, laughing and shrieking, shouting to each other in Polish. They were equally fluent in English but they often spoke Polish when they were together. Agnieska, who was pegging out washing in the weak spring sunshine in the hope that it might dry a little, sometimes called to them in her language, and though she didn’t understand a word, Xenia smiled with pleasure at the sound of their chatter.
I like listening to them talk Polish to each other. I can pretend it’s Russian.
She had never learned Russian. The language of her family had been English and French in any case, and her father had never spoken Russian to her.
I’m Princess Xenia Arkadyoff, descendent of Tsars, and I can’t speak a word of Russian.
It made her laugh at the way life turned out.
Since Agnieska had moved into a comfortable three-bedroom brick house just down the lane, life had become a great deal easier. Xenia’s sight was almost entirely gone, so she didn’t know what she’d have done without Agnieska to look after her, and the house, coming up every day to assist her in all the things she couldn’t manage on her own and do the housework. When the children weren’t at school, they came too, to play in the large garden or eat freshly baked cakes in the kitchen, or watch the television with Xenia, though she only listened to it these days. Her hearing, in fact, had become a great deal better since she had lost the rest of her sight,
or so she thought anyway. Perhaps she was simply more tuned into sound then she had been when there was vision as well to rely on.
Now that it was spring, she looked forward to the time when the flowers would bloom so she could smell their perfume. She would ask Agnieska to take her to the graveyard to lay some on the grave where her mother’s body lay and where Papa’s ashes had recently been interred. It was a pleasure to be with them, even if for a short time. The joy was in knowing that at last they were together and her mother’s spirit was finally at peace. The mournful cry of ‘Paul, Paul . . .’ had echoed around the house so many times, and now Paul was here, with her.
And I shall join them before too long.
The house that had brought them so much unhappiness was still a ruin, but at least the discovery of human remains meant that things would be able soon to move forward. Until identification was confirmed, Charles Redmain was, officially, still alive, so Charcombe Park would remain as it was until the legal issues had been resolved. Xenia recalled how it had looked the last time she saw it: a blackened, roofless and jagged ruin with empty windows and broken walls. People often came to stare at it, drawn by its tragic air and the sense of what might have been.
‘Such a shame,’ they would sigh as they stood by the gates, gazing up the drive at the shell of Charcombe. ‘Such a pity! What a beautiful house it must have been.’
You don’t know the half of it, Xenia would think grimly. We’re better off with that house gone. I wish they would knock down what’s left.
There had been rumours that developers were interested in the plot for a new village-style retirement complex: a yoga centre and vegan organic café, gym and an art house cinema, with supported one-level apartments in tasteful shades of off-white and grey. It was the future, apparently.
We shall see. It should remain a ruin, as a warning.
But a warning of what, she never could quite decide.
‘Afternoon, Princess,’ said a cheerful gruff voice, and she turned in its direction.
‘Oh – good afternoon,’ she said politely. ‘Agnieska is hanging out washing, on the other side of the hedge.’
‘Okay, thanks. I’m going to surprise her. Everything all right with you?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Xenia heard the man clamber over the terrace and make his way down onto the lawn. From there he crept in silence along the small stone path that ran parallel to the hedge until he came to the gap that allowed access to the side garden where the washing line was.
‘Hello, gorgeous!’ She heard a squeal of delight from Agnieska and then a smacking kiss as he took her into his arms. ‘How are you?’
Agnieska answered in her sing-song broken English and soon they were talking as she carried on hanging out the washing.
Xenia leaned back, the sun on her face, enjoying its warmth.
I truly am old. I never thought it would happen to me, but it has. Fancy that. I’m an old creature who likes quiet and sunshine and snoozing, like Petrova.
The voices on the other side of the hedge began to resolve themselves from a shapeless murmur into words that she could snatch and weave into sense.
‘What do you mean?’ she heard. It was Agnieska’s voice. ‘Tell me simple.’
‘They found the boss at the house – up there. They know he was in the car.’ The man was talking in a low tone, obviously gesturing and using sign language to enhance his spoken communication.
‘How? You said they never find—’
‘Well, don’t worry, Aggie, they can’t do anything. It’s fine.’
‘Everything else burned?’
‘Yes, everything else. No evidence, no proof, no fingerprints . . .’ A sigh of frustration at her incomprehension. ‘You need to learn more English, love.’ He spoke slowly and clearly: ‘All gone. All burned.’
‘But . . . what if they find garage locked from outside?’
‘Stay calm. Wait and see, that’s all. The lock’s probably melted. I made sure the jerry can was by the door. The day he fired you, that’s when he signed his own bloody warrant. And he was going to let that poor girl burn while he drove off. If I hadn’t been there, she wouldn’t have made it. He started the damn fire, if he burned in it, that’s justice. I just made sure he didn’t get away with it. Right? Understand? Justice.’
‘Yes, he was bad man.’ She had gone to him, Xenia could tell, as her voice grew tender. ‘You were very kind, to do that for me.’
‘I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.’ His voice was gentle, muffled as if he were nuzzling her neck. ‘He wasn’t going to treat you like that, and not get what he deserved. So when I saw the chance to reset the balance – I took it.’
‘You made it all better,’ Agnieska said. ‘All better. My brave man. Thank you, thank you, Phil, you did that for me.’
‘Yes, darling, I did, and I know you’re going to repay me good and proper.’
Xenia, cold suddenly, could hear them kissing.
Oh, she thought. I understand. Now I know. Afraid, she got slowly to her feet, and felt her way inside. Suddenly she felt it was important that Agnieska and her boyfriend – Phil, was it? – did not know what she had heard.
The Redmain man wanted to burn his house with his wife in it, and get away somehow. But Phil put a stop to that. What must Charles Redmain have thought when he realised he was trapped in his garage with no way out, sitting in his car and understanding it was all over?
The two cars, sixty years apart, unable to escape the boundaries of the house. The house holding them, not letting them go. Only a few were allowed to leave.
I’m safe now. I’m free and at peace. I’ll forget it too. What good can it do? What’s done is done.
Author’s Note
There is no HMS Cymbeline that fought in the Battle of Trafalgar, and no Captain Redmain. But the captains that did take part in that victory were richly rewarded, and you can see some of their prizes at the marvellous museum at Portsmouth.
There is no Delilah but the story of Natalie’s manic depression echoes that of Vivien Leigh, a great star tormented by illness. The biography Vivien Leigh by Anne Edwards provided inspiration for poor Natalie, although of course she is a fictional creation whose story is her own.
Acknowledgements
With endless thanks to my terrific team at Macmillan: Wayne Brookes, my superstar editor, and Alex Saunders, the miracle worker. Katie James is a wonderful and wise publicist and Lucy Wai heads up the excellent marketing team, and I’m in awe of Stuart Dwyer and the splendid sales team. I love my covers – thank you to Neil Lang for such beautiful, atmospheric creations.
The text was particularly testing this time and I owe a huge debt to Anne O’Brien, who edited, Eugenie Woodhouse, who proofread, and Samantha Sharman at Macmillan who did the mammoth desk edit with such sensitivity and intelligence. Thank you all for your words of encouragement and advice.
Special thanks go to Clare Bowron, whose expert reading and brilliant suggestions made so much difference to the story. You went above and beyond – thank you.
Thanks as always to my marvellous agent, Lizzy Kremer, at David Higham Associates, and her team: Harriet Moore and Maddalena Cavaciuti, patience and helpfulness personified.
Love to the SWANS – the South West authors and like-minded ladies who bring sparkle and support into my life.
Lots of love and thanks to the Acha crew: Lucie, Magnus, Minnie, Wilf, Hetty, Phil, Millie and Scarlett, and of course, James, Barney and Tabby. Your endless patience with my work, and supplies of coffee and food, made it a pleasure, and I still got to play Empire in the evenings. Hurray!
Thank you to all the readers and book buyers, and those who get in touch via Twitter and Facebook – your encouragement means so much; and to everyone who supports books and writing, especially our wonderful independent bookshops.
Lulu Taylor
Dorset 2018
HER FROZEN HEART
Caitlyn, there’s something I have to tell you.
About Sara.
Caitlyn thinks her marriage to Patrick is a success. For one thing, he is one of the few people not to fall head over heels for her beautiful friend, Sara. Life is lived on his terms, but they are happy. Aren’t they?
When a devastating accident turns her existence upside down, Caitlyn is forced to reassess her marriage, what she truly knows about Patrick, and his real feelings for her best friend. In the refuge of an old manor house, she begins to discover the truth.
At Kings Harcourt Manor in 1947, the worst winter in decades hits England, cutting the inhabitants off entirely. For Tommy Carter, widowed at the start of the war, it is particularly hard: the burden of the family falls on her. She has the solace of her children, and the interesting presence of her brother’s friend, Fred. But there is also Barbara, a mysterious figure from her past who appears to want a piece of Tommy’s future as well.
Praise for Lulu Taylor
‘Interesting characters, well researched detail and a dash of romance. Perfect for a winter’s eve’
SUNDAY MIRROR
THE SNOW ROSE
I know they think I shouldn’t keep her . . . That’s why I’ve escaped them while I can, while I still have the opportunity . . .
Kate is on the run with her daughter Heather, her identity hidden and their destination unknown to the family they’ve left behind. She’s found a place where they can live in solitude, a grand old house full of empty rooms and dark secrets. But they’re not alone, for there are the strange old ladies in the cottage next door: Matty and her sister Sissy. They know what happened here long ago, and are curious about Kate. How long can she hide Heather’s presence from them?