by Anita Frank
‘Thank you, Miss Marcham. I suspect you will be leaving us now that your work here is done. I do so hope you will come and see us again. Perhaps when the baby’s born – if not before.’
A smile, almost childlike in its unaffected simplicity, played upon her lips. She patted my arm – dare I say with fondness – and shuffled from the room.
I slumped as the door clicked behind her. I flattened my palms on the table and leant against them, my head lolling. I felt exhausted, yet also relieved – even strangely euphoric. At last – at long last – all was done, all was settled.
I spent a few moments embracing my solitude. Finally, I shook my head clear of my thoughts, locking away the revelations of the past few hours. I resolved to calm myself by doing something utterly normal, if only for a few minutes, before I left to find Annie.
I sat back down and reached for Lady Brightwell’s copy of The Times. I spread it before me and leafed through, skipping over disheartening articles about the war, choosing instead more mundane stories, those considered sufficiently newsworthy to fill a couple of inches on the inside pages.
In the end, feeling somewhat restored, I closed the paper and stood. I was just pushing back my chair when the date at the top struck me: Thursday 31st May. I drew in a sharp breath, my fingers flying to my locket, as guilt scalded my cheeks.
It was Gerald’s birthday – and I had forgotten.
Epilogue
I congratulated myself on how well I managed to fudge the truth. Annie and I returned home later that day, having bid an emotional farewell to Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott, who stood side by side on the top step of the porch, waving us off until we were out of sight. Before I climbed into the car, Miss Scott had pulled me into a surprise embrace, and pressed her lips to my ear. She confided they intended to bury the precious bundle under the cedar tree in the park, without fuss, and sadly without ceremony, but at least they could always look upon it and know that he was there.
I treated Annie to a first class ticket on the way back. My purpose was two-fold: I had become very used to her quiet company, but I also had some unsettled business. We were an hour into our journey before we finally had the compartment to ourselves. As soon as the door slid shut behind a rather harassed mother and her two demanding young children, I threw myself forward.
‘I know about Billy.’
I didn’t need to say anything further. She flushed with guilt – as well she should.
‘I was surprised you could see him.’
‘Did you not think to mention—’
‘I thought it best not to.’
I leant back in my seat and marshalled my thoughts.
‘He picked me up.’
She shrugged and smiled. ‘He saved you.’
‘And what of the address, the baby home – how did he know that?’
‘Mrs Henge charged him with taking an urgent letter to Miss Scott, in London. She gave him the fare, so he could take the train up without delay. He didn’t know its significance – the address meant nothing to him – it was just a big house as far as he could see.’
‘He told you this?’ I asked, still unsure how her strange power worked.
‘He showed me glimpses – the envelope, the train, the house. But I didn’t know what it all meant, not then.’ She shuffled forward in her deep seat to speak in confidence. ‘What I don’t understand, miss, is how the baby ended up in the wall the way it did.’
‘Well, there I can help.’
After my extraordinary encounter with Lady Brightwell – and disconsolate for having allowed events to distract me from the significance of the day – I had gone for a walk in the grounds where I chanced upon Miss Scott. It had been a very awkward meeting at first, but having had time to ponder, I now trusted she had acted in all innocence with regards to swapping in her baby and I did not hesitate to tell her so.
She was, of course, very grateful and most relieved that she could finally divest herself of the secrets that tormented her. She had received an urgent letter from Mrs Henge, telling her the awful news that the Brightwell baby had sickened and died. The housekeeper had begged Miss Scott to return as quickly as she could with her son, suggesting they make an exchange – Mrs Henge, now in charge of the nursery, could conceal the death until Miss Scott’s arrival. No harm would be done, she had persuaded her friend, and nobody need ever know.
Beguiled by the prospect of keeping her beloved new-born son, Miss Scott had returned with great haste, and under careful arrangement, slipped back into Greyswick in the early hours of the morning, Mrs Henge giving her entry while the household slept.
The question then was what on earth to do with the poor dead mite. In a broken voice, Miss Scott told me of their awful descent from the nursery carrying the tiny corpse, with no clue of how to dispose of it, terrified someone would catch them at any moment.
‘We had so little time,’ she explained, wiping her dripping nose with a laced handkerchief. ‘Constance suggested the building site of the new wing and it seemed perfect. So, we crept out onto the foundations, and chose a wall that was already half-built. We lowered the baby inside the cavity, throwing in some powdered cement to conceal him the best we could. The following morning, I returned to take up my position as lady’s maid as if nothing had happened. We lived on our nerves for days, expecting the body to be discovered at any time, imagining the uproar that would follow, but it never happened. The wall got higher and higher, and then they added the first floor, and he just got lost in it all. Until yesterday.’
She grabbed my arm. ‘I never forgot him, Miss Marcham, I want you to know that. I loved my boy, but I never forgot hers. You must believe me.’
And I did.
My mother was relieved to see me home, though she seemed a little dubious when I told her that Dr Mayhew had declared me quite well. I naturally thought it best not to go into great detail about the unfortunate accident that had delayed his own return.
She took my chattiness and heightened spirits as a good sign, and accepted that I might indeed be making small but significant steps to recovery – if not to my former self, then to a new self, different perhaps, but more adept at dealing with the world around her – and in these uncertain times, that could only be a good thing.
When I squirrelled myself away with Madeleine a little later, things took on a very different tone. I explained the edited highlights of what had occurred, omitting all reference to Lady Brightwell’s baby on the very sensible grounds that nothing could be gained but a lot of hearts could needlessly be broken. I assured her that Lucien had passed into eternal peace and there were no more ghosts at Greyswick – except perhaps Billy, but I thought it wise not to mention him either. For the first time in weeks, she looked truly happy.
‘You look different too, Stella,’ she said with a smile as I went to leave.
‘Do I?’ I laughed. ‘I can’t think why.’
‘You look brighter about the eyes and there’s a levity to you I haven’t seen for a while. And you’re wearing pink,’ she declared. ‘Pink always suits your complexion – you look very pretty in it.’
I rolled my eyes but blushed at the compliment all the same.
I bumped into Annie Burrows in the corridor, her arms full of freshly pressed sheets. She beamed at me.
‘Pleased to be home, Annie?’
‘Oh, very much so, miss. I’m grateful for the peace and quiet,’ she called, heading for the linen cupboard.
I smiled and went into my bedroom, closing the door behind me. My steps slowed as I approached the dressing table. I studied the reflection of my gold locket in the mirror and felt a wave of unsullied – but not indulgent – sadness wash over me. I reached behind and undid the clasp, savouring the feel of the pendant in my hand, before separating its two halves. I looked for a moment at the young woman I once was but would never be again, and I felt no regret. Life moves on, and we have little choice but to move with it. My eyes slid to the other cherished image, my fingertip traci
ng the square jaw, angled from the camera.
‘Oh, Gerald. I love you, I always will, but the time has come for me to let you go. You were right. I must live … just as you wanted me to.’ I pressed my lips to the silken surface, then snapped the locket shut. I returned it to its velvet case, before tucking it away for good in the drawer of my dressing table.
I took a deep breath to contain my swell of emotion. I had anticipated it – forewarned is always forearmed – and I let it surge over me, until eventually it ebbed away, and I felt better for its cleansing. Then I checked my wristwatch and headed from my room. The timing would be perfect.
I tapped lightly on the door of my father’s study. Smiling with satisfaction at the returning silence, I let myself in. It was empty, just as I had anticipated – at this time of day he would be dressing for dinner. I gazed up at the life-sized portrait hung behind his desk – my grandfather.
He had a kind face, I had always thought that. The artist had captured it well – the crow’s feet creases hinting at jollity, the humorous quirk about the mouth – but there was sadness too, a wistfulness caught in the eyes for what might have been. I studied those familiar features again, warmth building in my chest.
‘Thank you, Grandfather,’ I whispered. ‘I know you tried, with Grandmama and Lydia. You didn’t manage to save them – but you sent me Annie Burrows, and I rather think, between the two of you, you have succeeded in saving me.’
In a spontaneous gesture, I reached up and touched the glistening toe of his shoe. ‘Thank you,’ I whispered again.
And as I turned away, though there could be no possible explanation for it, I swear my nose twitched at the scent of pipe tobacco, lingering in the air like a sweet memory of a warm summer’s day.
Acknowledgements
The Lost Ones would not exist without my dear friend Rebecca Netley, to whom this book is dedicated. It was only through her cajoling and encouragement that I found the courage to put pen to paper and pursue my dream. I never, in a million years, imagined this would be the outcome. Rebecca, thank you for everything.
I also need to thank my lovely agent David Headley, for having such faith in me from the outset, and for ensuring that The Lost Ones found its perfect home with the fabulous Kate Mills at HQ Stories, who has demonstrated such patience, understanding and good judgement. I have been overwhelmed by the enthusiasm shown by the entire publishing team but, in particular, I would like to thank Victoria Moynes and Joe Thomas for all their hard work behind the scenes.
I am very blessed to be surrounded by a wonderful group of friends who have cared for and supported me in so many ways over the years. I would especially like to thank Rachael Staines, Anita Matthews and Kate Fox, who have been with me throughout this journey, as well as my oldest friends Emma Redfern and Paul Turner, for always being there, even though I’m rubbish at staying in touch!
Writing can be a very solitary exercise, but I’ve learnt that writers are an incredibly friendly and supportive bunch in both the real and the virtual world. It is my good fortune to belong to the brilliant VWG – virtual friends and talented writers all – who keep me constantly entertained with humorous conversations and extraordinary gifs. Their unfailing support has been amazing. You guys are the best! I would also like to thank Helen Boyce and the members of TBC for their generous help and kind words.
Finally, I would like to thank my family. My dad for patiently answering my questions on crop growth and shooting seasons, my mother for never refusing to buy me a book when I was younger and for always encouraging me to read, and my brother Charles for being on hand whenever I have computer issues!
My wonderful husband Rod has lent me his editor’s eye without complaint and has been a constant tower of strength throughout the years. My gorgeous girls Isabel and Molly, of whom I am so proud, have listened patiently to me expound story ideas when I’m sure there’s something far more interesting they’d rather be doing, and Jack, my treasured boy, you are a joy to me. I love you all so much. I couldn’t have done any of this without you, and I wouldn’t have wanted to.
About the Publisher
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