EARLY WEDNESDAY MORNING she thought of the scrapbook, hidden behind the books on the shelf downstairs. Painfully Gwynn dragged on her clothes, then navigated the stairs, which seemed a long wavering tunnel. She staggered weakly into the sitting room and dropped to her knees. Slowly she pulled the books out, feeling sick—knowing in the way one knows things when one wakes up that she had to pin Tommy Chelton to the page, and then—what? Destroy the photograph? Burn it in the stove, perhaps? She had to get rid of him. She could not let him roam freely through her house, through her mind. Through her dreams.
She had chosen to trap the scrapbook behind the heaviest volumes on the bottom shelf. With them on the floor beside her, she reached a trembling hand into the cavern she had created. And felt nothing. Panicked, she scrabbled around, jerking other books from their places, tumbling them to the floor. Her breathing was fast, shallow, frightened. More books, and more, until the shelf was empty. The shelf was empty. Martin’s scrapbook wasn’t there.
It had to be. She ran a hand over the now-bare shelf, bending low to peer into the empty space. Then she took a deep breath and forced herself to begin methodically examining each book she had removed, stacking them all in a pile. Slowly. Looking at the title of each, stamped on the spine, even though none of them looked right, or felt right in her hand. She sifted them all to no avail. She bent again, her breath faster, more painful, and looked at the empty shelf.
The scrapbook was gone. Hurriedly she ran her hands over the piles she had made, in case she had missed it. She had to have missed it. Yet at the same time she knew she hadn’t. The book was gone. Martin’s book was gone.
GWYNN HEARD THE key in the lock, and turned as Mary entered. Mary’s lips were still pressed together in that tight line, the hurt disapproval that hardened her face, but about which Gwynn knew she could do nothing. It’s not my secret to tell. She heard her own voice in her head, defensive, climbing the register. Slowly, with her hand atop the book shelf, she hoisted herself to her feet.
Mary’s shrewd eyes took in the books on the floor, the empty shelf. “If you want me to clean that—” she began, but Gwynn put up a hand.
“No, no, it’s not that.” She dusted her hands on her legs, more from nervousness than from necessity. “I was looking for something.”
Mary nodded stiffly. “What would it be? I might know where it is.”
There was nothing arch in her tone, nothing at all indicating she knew what the missing something might be.
Gwynn licked her lips. “A book.” She looked down at her pile, realizing how stupid she sounded. “A scrapbook?” She stumbled over the words, trying to figure out how to hint at what she wanted without giving Martin’s secrets away to his daughter, if Mary still had no idea what she was talking about. “I thought I saw one. On this shelf.”
Mary only shook her head. “I don’t think so, really. Mrs. Chelton didn’t keep scrapbooks. No pictures. She didn’t want to be reminded of anything. It’s like she wanted the past to disappear completely.”
That made perfect sense, if you’d had her past. Gwynn nodded. “I guess I was imagining things.”
Mary untied her kerchief and slid it from her hair. “That’s all right, then. Tea or coffee this morning?” She moved off stiffly toward the kitchen, her back ramrod straight. “Just leave those there. I’ll take care of them.”
“No, that’s all right—” But Mary was already gone, through the kitchen door, allowing it to swing shut behind her. Slowly Gwynn returned to her knees to replace the books on their shelf.
The panic was returning, but she fought it back, trying to reason through it as she set one book next to another. If not Mary, then who? If not here, then where?
She feared she knew the answer to both those questions.
GWYNN PURPOSELY CHOSE the part of the afternoon when she thought The Stolen Child might be less crowded; she wanted to speak to Paul Stokes alone, without a herd of people around when she accused him of theft. The idea appalled her. Well, why should it? He’d let himself in before, without permission, without a key—he’d had to break the kitchen window to undo the latch to the door, but that hadn’t stopped him. Wasn’t that breaking and entering? And if you were going to commit B & E, why stop at one time? And why not pick up a thing or two while you were at it?
Like the spare key.
Gwynn wondered when she had last looked at the glass dish on her dresser top, really looked at it, and noticed the spare key. The one she had thought she might give to Colin. The one she would never give to Colin now.
Paul Stokes, that afternoon, had gone through her dresser drawers to find the hidden scrapbook; what was to stop him from availing himself of a spare key while he was at it?
She wanted to spit in the street.
Instead, she drew a deep breath and pulled open the door of The Stolen Child. The sudden fear gripped her, the memory of the last time she’d been in here—but she hadn’t been in here, it had been the other Gwynn; it hadn’t been her, it hadn’t—she tried to still her breathing, her racing heart. Inside, the public bar was nearly empty, only a woman in a fur-collared coat sitting at a side table, reading a newspaper. It was simply the dingy Child of the present, no crimson upholstery, no gleaming brasses. She wasn’t Gwynn Chelton; Tommy was not at the bar.
No, that was her cousin, Paul Stokes, leaning on both arms against the bar itself, gazing down at the book open before him. She did not have to move any closer to know what book he was so carefully examining. He did not look up until she was nearly upon him.
There was that smile again. The one that showed all his teeth. Gwynn bit her lip, but moved resolutely forward until only the bar separated them. Stokes did not straighten, as he might have for a customer. But then, he knew that she was not a customer.
“You’ve been in my house again,” she said without preamble.
“Ownership is in dispute,” he countered. “We’ve been through this before.”
“Your case has no merit.”
“We’ll let the courts decide, shall we?” His voice was cloyingly pleasant. It made her skin crawl—but he knew it would, and that’s why he did it.
She tried to force back her anger, because he wanted her to be angry, he wanted her to feel violated—if he only knew—he wanted to have the upper hand, and she couldn’t give it to him.“Possession,” she ground out, quoting her grandmother Lucy, her great-aunt’s sister, “is nine-tenths of the law.”
Stokes shrugged. “All right, then.” He dropped his black gaze to the book on the bar. Slowly, almost offensively, he turned the page with his beefy hand, and Gwynn saw, upside down but oh-so-recognizable, the photograph of her great-aunt at the dance, the photograph where Tommy Chelton looked on the unsuspecting girl with such a frightening possessive look. Gwynn shuddered, because she, unlike her great-aunt, knew what was coming, and it was unbearable. Except that Gwynn Chelton had had to bear it.
“You’ve been through my things again.”
“Prove it.” Paul Stokes didn’t even bother to look up.
She reached out, her stomach churning, and put her hand on the scrapbook.
Slowly, possessively, Paul Stokes pulled the book from beneath her fingers.
“Possession,” he parroted in the oily, faux-pleasant voice, “is nine-tenths of the law.” He laughed, looking down at the photograph. “At least—that’s what I heard somewhere.”
“You bastard,” she hissed. “You bastard. This isn’t even mine. It’s not our great-aunt’s. It wasn’t hers. It belongs to someone else.”
“Prove it,” he said again.
“Just give it back,” she said desperately. “He’s an old man. These pictures mean something to him. They’re important.”
“They are important, aren’t they?” Again Stokes seemed to be studying the face of Tommy Chelton, almost as though he knew how uncomfortable that made her. “They mean something to me.” Slowly he looked up, and the expression on his face made her shiver. “The pictures of my great-aun
t. My poor dead great-aunt. They mean something to me.” He narrowed his dark eyes. “She was unhappy, you know. Sometimes I thought I heard her, late at night. Crying out. Rather like I thought I heard you crying out just the other night.”
There was something so ugly in his tone that she could only stare, swallowing hard, before turning and fleeing from the darkened public bar.
SHE COULDN’T HAVE.
He couldn’t have.
After all these years?
And the other night?
Once inside the cottage, Gwynn slammed the door and slid the bolt.
He had a key.
She dragged one of the heavy dining chairs into the hallway and wedged it under the knob. Then she leaned heavily against the wall, sobbing in fear, in pain, and in frustration.
40
MARY SEEMED PREOCCUPIED Friday morning. She moved around the sitting room with a duster, her forehead creased deeply; there was no coffee laid out when Gwynn appeared downstairs. Wordlessly, Gwynn went into the kitchen and rooted around for the press, the coffee, a cup. From the other room she heard a small crash, then the sound of Mary swearing. Gwynn froze, hand on the press. She had never heard Mary curse; something was definitely wrong. She reached into the cupboard for a second cup, because Mary was obviously in need of one.
“No,” Mary said, as Gwynn brought the tray into the sitting room and lowered it onto the low table. “I can’t take the time. I’ve got to get done here and get over to Dad’s.”
There was something frightening in her tone. Gwynn straightened quickly, too quickly, and prayed Mary hadn’t noticed her gasp.
“What is it, Mary?” she demanded. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to bother you with this,” the housekeeper said stiffly. “It’s just a personal problem.”
“Mary. Tell me.”
At first it seemed she would not budge, but then worry got the best of her, and Mary shook her head. “I don’t know. The other day he seemed out of sorts when I took him down to the shops. Wasn’t interested. Not like himself at all.” She paused for a fraction of a moment in her dusting, lowering her head. “When we got back to the house, all he wanted was to put his pajamas on again and go to bed. No supper. Not even soup. He hardly touched anything yesterday, either.”
This, Gwynn understood, was the ultimate in tells for Mary. If someone didn’t want food, death might just be imminent. And her father was more than ninety, after all.
Gwynn bit her lip, stricken. Martin wasn’t supposed to be out unsupervised; she knew this. Yet she had encouraged him, because she had needed him. She had needed to share the burden of the knowledge of Gwynn’s violation, and who else to share it with but the man who loved her? Might still love her? Maybe it had been too much. Gwynn berated herself. He was an old man. He didn’t need to bear the weight of this oldest of heartbreaks, for a woman for whom he could do nothing. I can understand her. She heard his words again, and knew in her gut that letting him convince her to tell him what she had learned had been wrong. Selfish.
“I haven’t seen him like this since Mum passed,” Mary continued fretfully. “Sad. To the point of sickness.” She shook her head again and returned her attention to the dust. “I’ve got to get done here and go make sure he’s all right this morning. I might need to take him to the GP.”
Sad to the point of sickness. Gwynn knew what that meant. She felt it herself, deep within her chest. Deep within her womb. For the woman who had given up her life and her happiness for her younger sister, who had married and moved to the States. For the pregnancy that had ended—no children—for the child conceived in rape, and who had never been born.
That was just as well, Gwynn thought in agony as she sank onto the sofa and poured a cup of coffee for herself. A child of rape. Perhaps it had been a false pregnancy; perhaps her great-aunt’s system had been so shocked by the violation that she had only been that: late. Or perhaps there had been a miscarriage. Without a further glimpse, allowed to her by her great-aunt, Gwynn had no way of knowing. And perhaps that sort of ignorance was truly bliss.
THUS GWYNN WAS surprised, early Sunday morning, when the telephone awakened her and she answered it to find Martin Scott on the other end.
“I hope it’s not too early,” he said, without a greeting.
It was, and she yawned, but guilt kept her from saying so.
“I had to call before our Mary got to your house. I need to see you.”
“It’s Sunday,” she protested groggily, listening as the mantle clock rang the hour. Eight chimes. On a Sunday. She felt queasy, dizzy. “Mary is going to church. Doesn’t she take you with her?”
He snorted, but it was forced, the ghost of his accustomed good humor. “Not anymore. The beauties of old age. You put your foot down, and even your children have to listen to you.”
Gwynn knew he was trying, but his tone was thin, tired. “No, they don’t. And your Mary wouldn’t listen to you anyway, so don’t give me that.”
“All right,” he returned. “I just don’t want to go. And I tell her I’m old.”
The laughter was brittle, overlaying something else that moved like a dark river beneath it. They both knew they were skirting the real purpose of the call.
“Tell me,” Gwynn said at last. Simply.
“I need to come by,” Martin said.
“No,” she objected. “Let me come to you.”
“I need to come to Gull Cottage. And I might need your help.” He sounded uncomfortable, but determined.
“For what?”
“I can’t tell you over the telephone,” Martin hedged. “Can you be ready for me in about an hour?”
“But why?”
“Just be ready. Can you be?”
Gwynn didn’t like the sound of it. But, as guilty as she felt, she couldn’t turn him down. “In an hour,” she agreed reluctantly.
GWYNN TOOK A quick bath, pulled on her clothes, and was waiting with the tea at the ready when Martin appeared at the door. Again he wore the fedora pulled low over his brow, as though that would disguise him from any prying eyes. He entered the hall, and his glance took note of the dining room chair against the wall, but he said nothing about it. Instead he only moved past into the sitting room.
He had aged even more since she had seen him last, Monday afternoon on the waterfront. He seemed smaller, seemed to have shrunk—instead of a sprightly, spirited older gentleman, Gwynn found herself faced with a stooped old man who moved stiffly, gingerly, in fear of falls and broken bones. He had a stick today, blackthorn, and he leaned heavily on it as he lowered himself painfully onto the sofa.
Gwynn poured him a cup of tea, and turned the tray slightly to bring the milk jug and sugar tongs closer to his hand. Then she too sat, but on the sofa, not in her great-aunt’s wing-backed chair. She waited.
“Thank you,” he said formally, “for letting me come.”
Gwynn nodded in acknowledgment. The words hung between them, and she watched him pour a bit of milk into his coffee, then drop in a lump of sugar. She had done it wrong again. Probably always would. He appeared to take great pains with the stirring.
“I still don’t know why you’ve come. What is this about, Martin?”
He lifted the cup to his lips, but didn’t take a drink; his eyes skirted her to rest on the chair, moved back to its proper place. The marks it had made scraping uneasily over the carpet had been eradicated by Mary’s industrious hoovering, but Gwynn imagined she could still see them. Somehow, too, she could imagine the impression of her cousin’s body in the upholstery, claiming ownership of their great-aunt’s wing-back.
Suddenly she stood and went to the chair. She crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap, trying to channel the other Gwynn. It’s your chair, she thought, trying to make an impression on it, and on the atmosphere. It’s yours. I’m reclaiming it for you. But she only felt a confused fear and sadness, and was unable to tell whether it was her great-aunt’s, or her own.
She met Mart
in’s eyes. The blue seemed dull, glazed.
“What’s happened to you?” Her voice sounded shrill to her own hears. “Martin, what is it?”
He shook his head. Even his fluffy white hair was dull, flat.
“I can’t sleep, young Gwynn,” he said quietly. “I dream of her.”
Gwynn kept her eyes locked on his face. She licked her dry lips.
“I do, too,” she whispered.
But again he lowered his head. “No. You don’t understand. She comes to me. I hear her screaming. And then I hear her sobbing. And there’s nothing I can do.”
He was clenching his bony hands in his lap so tightly that his knuckles showed knobby and white.
Then in her mind’s eye she could see him as he had been then, a young freckled-faced man in uniform, home on leave, dancing with a beautiful red-haired girl in his arms. Dreaming of his future with her, of their life together, of their children. He had loved her. The handsome young face superimposed itself over the lined one before her, and she could read plainly the heartbreak there. No. He still loved her. Gwynn dropped to her knees on the carpet beside him, took his clenched hands in her own. The hands that had held her great-aunt all those years ago, the hands that had returned home that December and found themselves empty. Forsaken.
“Tommy Chelton was a monster,” she whispered, holding onto his hands as though to give him a lifeline. There was such hatred in her voice that Martin looked up sharply.
“Is that how you knew?” he asked.
She lowered her head and did not answer.
“Tell me, Gwynn,” he said, more urgently. “Does she come to you in dreams as well? Do you hear the screaming? Do you hear her sob?”
She shook her head, the tears starting again. She refused to look up.
“But why wouldn’t she tell me? Why wouldn’t she write to me?”
“She didn’t tell anyone. He raped her in the dovecote, and then he gaslighted her—he convinced her no one would believe her—she’d followed him up there of her own accord, so she must have known what would happen. That’s what everyone would think. They’d blame her.”
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