Agnes closed the door quietly behind her, and stood a moment looking around. If she were Julius, where would she keep information about Genevieve?
The desk, of course. She moved silently across the rug, her hip brushing a chest of drawers, and prayed that the desk would not be locked too. It wasn’t. She opened it, revealing tidy stacks of paper and an intricate series of tiny cupboards and drawers. Her gaze lit on a leather-bound book and she flicked it open. It was a diary, and she quickly closed it. Yes, she had broken into his study and was rummaging among his belongings, but she had no desire to breach his privacy completely. Another, slimmer volume sat spine out between bottles of ink and a box of pens. She slid it out. This time it was an address book, and she hunted eagerly for G. No Genevieve. Not under M for Mother, or B for Breckby; although the rest of the Breckby family were there, the address in Hatby written in neat cursive. She slipped the address book back into place and tried one of the drawers. It wouldn’t budge, but there was no lock on it that she could see. She felt around under it; right at the back was a tiny metal lever. She pulled it, and the drawer popped open.
Letters. She took them out in a bundle and sat in Julius’s office chair, the letters in her lap. She leafed through them, and finally, near the bottom, she found it. A letter with a return address on the back from Genevieve Breckby, 22 Rue Cousineau, Paris. Her fingers fumbled to open it. At that exact moment, the door to the study opened, and there stood Julius. A hot, unpleasant feeling flashed through her blood. She could see his eyes, taking in the scene: his desk open, the drawer emptied, the letters in her lap, one half-open in her hands. And although she imagined he would be angry, the expression that arrived on his face was one of sadness. He was disappointed in her. His disappointment cut her a hundred times deeper than righteous anger ever could.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘You’ll have to leave,’ he replied.
‘I have a good reason. Really I do. Will you hear it?’
He wavered. She placed the letter among the others and left the bundle on the desk, then stood and walked towards him. ‘Please, Julius. I ask only that you listen to my reason.’ Her pulse was pounding hard at her throat. She kept telling herself that, if nothing else, she had Genevieve’s last address.
‘I will hear it,’ he said. ‘But you must swear to me that it will be the entire truth, Agnes, for I know you are hiding something. I have known it from the moment I first met you.’
Shame warmed her cheeks. ‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I am mortally sorry, but I swear to you, for the love I bear Marianna, I will tell you the entire truth. If you will but listen and try to forgive me.’
He strode past her, closed his desk. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We will go to the garden where nobody can hear us. You can tell me everything.’
•
The garden was damp, and no sun pierced the clouds. The stone bench was wet, so neither sat. Rather, they stood in the cool air, the door to the house shut behind them. Agnes crossed her arms defensively over her chest. Julius’s hands were clasped together tightly.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Let us start with this: Is Agnes Forest your real name?’
‘No, my real name is Agnes Resolute.’
‘You are one of Captain Forest’s foundlings, then? I knew the name was suspicious. I know more about Hatby than you perhaps imagined. Captain Forest is known to my family.’
Agnes felt the flame of embarrassment on her cheeks again. How foolish she had been.
‘Why are you here, then, Agnes Resolute?’
Agnes set her shoulders and said, ‘Julius, I have reason to believe that I am Genevieve Breckby’s daughter.’
She watched his face. Shock, but also recognition.
He sat heavily on the bench despite the wet, and Agnes kneeled before him.
‘You came here looking for her?’ he asked.
‘Aye, at first. But I stayed because my love for Marianna is nowt but genuine. Truly, it is more so than you know, because I think of her as my aunt.’
‘Why do you think yourself Genevieve’s daughter?’
She quickly explained the story about the unicorn button, about Miss Candlewick’s comment, and he nodded and showed no anger, from which she took heart.
‘Do you believe me?’ she asked him.
‘That you are Genevieve’s daughter? I can only say that I knew there was a scandal in the family, an illegitimate child, and I know that Genevieve would think little of abandoning a child; she abandoned me.’
The pronouncement stung, and words leapt onto her lips to defend her mother. She was different, unique, of course society would judge her. But Agnes sensed it was not the right time.
‘I’ve never asked Marianna about it, of course,’ he continued. ‘She and Genevieve bear no love for each other.’ He chuckled darkly. ‘No love at all. And I wouldn’t upset her by mentioning Genevieve’s name and you must promise you won’t either.’
‘By my word,’ she promised. ‘I wouldn’t want to cause her any pain.’ But even as she said this, she wondered if it were true. If she found Genevieve, if they were reunited, Marianna would eventually have to know.
He ran a hand through his hair. A gust of wind shook raindrops out of a tree and onto them, but Agnes maintained her posture before him, knees growing damp and cold.
‘And what is it you want from Genevieve?’ he asked softly.
‘Put your mind at rest. I desire no money, no elevation in society. I desire only to know … what it is I am. I spent nineteen years in an institution that was determined to make us all conform. Others around me accepted it, became biddable. I never could. That must come from somewhere. Bred into me, as surely as my fair hair.’
Julius nodded. ‘I do understand. I am an orphan myself, with no memory of my parents. But, Agnes, Genevieve is not what you think she is. She abandoned you, she abandoned me. She does what she wants, yes, but cares little for how her wants may cause the unhappiness of others.’
‘But she took you in, long before she abandoned you,’ Agnes said boldly. ‘And she left me with a token that led to her. Perhaps she is not so callous as you think.’ Then quieter, she said, ‘You keep her letters.’
He smiled ruefully. ‘Kept her letters. There haven’t been any for many years.’
‘No? Then how do you know she is not sick, or dead, and cannot write to you or come back for you?’
Julius shook his head. ‘Ah, Agnes. How am I to explain to you?’
‘With words. With the truth, as I have given you today.’
‘Yes, reluctantly, and only today,’ he said, and it was the closest he had yet come to expressing his anger over her betrayal.
She dropped her head. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
‘I know you are, but I also know you aren’t, for you would have done it the same again, wouldn’t you?’
‘I … I suppose so. But I am not proud of it, nor do I think myself your superior for tricking you. I am driven by a savage engine, Julius.’
‘Then perhaps you are a little like her,’ he said. ‘But I see more good in you than I saw in her, at the end.’
‘At the end?’
‘She left. I know she and Marianna had argued. I was a lad of eleven and I adored her. Of course I did; she was the only mother I ever knew.’ He turned his eyes away, chewed on his bottom lip a moment as though reining in a strong feeling. ‘She was good to me, for a while. Brought me to live with Marianna because her husband was awful, particularly to me. I don’t remember much about him now, but he had violent moods, and I often caught the rough edge of his tongue.’
‘She saved you from him?’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps she was saving herself. But yes, things were much more settled and happy with Marianna. For a while. Then Genevieve left. She crept into my room early one morning … I’ll never forget it. Rousing me from the hard sleep that children sleep. Grey morning light. She kissed me and said she’d be back for me very soon. I folded it into my dreams
and fell asleep again. When I woke up, in daylight, she was gone.’
Agnes waited. He turned his gaze back to her, his dark eyes sad. ‘I waited. There is probably little more I can say without making myself sound pathetic. I waited. She sent letters … the ones you found. Short letters full of nothing: How are you? I am well. Today I saw a monkey at the zoo. I don’t think any of the letters were more than a page long. The shortest was the last one, where she told me …’ His voice caught. He cleared his throat, then said, ‘I’ll never forget the words: “I think it fair to tell you I don’t intend to return.”’
His hands were soft on his knees, and Agnes longed to put hers over his, to squeeze his fingers in her own.
‘So, Agnes, if that is the kind of woman you look to for example, perhaps you are better looking elsewhere.’
Agnes turned this over in her mind, and still couldn’t find it in her heart to condemn Genevieve. With only one side of the story, how could she? But she had no reason to dissuade Julius from his opinion, especially on the day she had been revealed as a liar and a sneak.
‘Do you still want me to leave?’ she asked him.
He shook his head. ‘You are welcome to stay until we prove your presumption one way or another. I will go to see my aunt’s family in Hatby at the end of the month, and I will try to elicit the truth from them. If it is true, I will do all I can to have you welcomed to the Breckby family, in a way that is sensitive to Marianna’s feelings. There is no longer any need for you to pick locks and read old letters.’
Agnes dropped her head in shame. He didn’t understand. She didn’t want entrée into the Breckby family; she wanted to meet Genevieve. She needed to meet Genevieve.
Luckily, she already had the address.
•
Marianna lingered in bed for four more days. A persistent cough took hold of her and she slept worse than ever. On the fourth night, Agnes heard her name called seemingly seconds after she had fallen asleep. Reluctantly, she slid leaden feet into her slippers.
‘Coming,’ she mumbled, reaching for her dressing gown. ‘I’m coming.’
In Marianna’s room she lit the lamp and drew the curtains. Marianna sat up, coughing weakly.
‘Can I fetch you some water, Marianna?’ Agnes asked, kneeling by the bookshelf searching for the most boring book available.
‘No, no. I’ll catch my breath soon. What time is it?’
Agnes glanced up at the carriage clock on the dresser. ‘It’s just before eleven o’clock.’
‘Oh, dear. That’s early.’ She coughed again, but then settled against her pillows. ‘Come and sit with me, Agnes. I don’t want books, I want company.’
Agnes stood, yawning and pulling her reading chair towards the bed.
‘No, not the chair. Just you.’ Marianna patted the bed next to her.
Agnes warily climbed up, sitting on top of the covers, holding her knees against her chest.
Marianna coughed again, lighter now. She looked pinker than she had for days. Agnes smiled at her. ‘I know the cough is bothering you, but you look quite well.’
‘Thank you, dear. I’m on the mend I suppose. I just …’ Her brow knitted, and Agnes waited for her to finish. ‘It’s silly, really. But sometimes I’m afraid I’ll die in my sleep, all alone.’
‘It’s just a cold, Marianna. You won’t die, I promise.’
‘I know. I know. But in the dark, when the cough has hold of my lungs, I can imagine it. Imagination can be a fierce thing, don’t you think?’ She considered Agnes’s face. ‘You are tired. I’ve tired you out this week with my silly worrying.’
‘Aye, I’m jiggered,’ Agnes admitted.
‘Make yourself more comfortable. Come.’
Agnes settled on her side, propped up on her elbow. Marianna reached for her hand then sank back into her pillow with closed eyes. ‘I feel calm when you’re here,’ she said.
Guilt stung Agnes’s heart. For the past few days she had been planning her departure – at least in the short term – from Marianna. She had only waited for the older woman to recover from her illness.
‘Why don’t you go back to sleep,’ Agnes yawned.
‘Will you stay a little?’
‘Aye, be right.’
Marianna sighed and, as the carriage clock ticked on in the softly lit room, her breathing became deep. Agnes blinked back sleep, her thoughts blurring against one another. The few phrases of French she’d learned from the book, the train schedule for Victoria to Folkestone, Genevieve’s address.
When Marianna’s voice came it seemed unnervingly loud and sudden. ‘Why be afraid of death? It’s living I’ve been afraid of.’
Agnes blinked, shook herself. ‘Marianna?’
But Marianna settled into sleep again. Agnes watched her a while, Marianna’s face soft in repose, her chest rising and falling quietly. Agnes considered their hands, interlinked on the bed covers. Her eyes fell closed …
Hours later Agnes woke. The lamp had burned down, but the soft summer dawn was at the window and her hand was still in Marianna’s. Gently, she extricated her fingers. She rose, drew the curtains closed, made sure Marianna was warmly tucked in and kissed her soft cheek.
‘Sweet dreams,’ she said, turning away, and she meant it.
•
Within a week, Marianna was well again. She even slept a few nights in a row, giving Agnes some much-needed rest. It was a Thursday morning after Julius’s departure, when Agnes waited in the drawing room, balanced on the edge of the sofa, Gracie’s shawl folded in her lap.
Marianna came down after breakfast and sat in the wing-backed chair beside the window. ‘Good morning, Agnes.’
Agnes stood and crossed the room, kneeled before Marianna, and carefully placed Gracie’s shawl in her lap.
‘Agnes? What is this?’
‘It is the most valuable thing I own,’ Agnes said. ‘It is how you know I will come back.’
‘Come … back?’
Agnes would have given everything she owned not to have seen Marianna’s face in that moment: uncomprehending, desolate. ‘I have to go,’ Agnes continued quickly. ‘It’s a family thing. But I will be back. I don’t know when and I hope it won’t be long.’ She hadn’t enough money for it to be a long trip; indeed, if she ran out too fast, without sufficient for a return fare to London, she would be forced to stay and find work. ‘But I promise I will be back. If you’ll have me.’
Marianna considered the shawl in her lap, her mouth drawn into a line.
‘I will need all the wages I am owed thus far,’ Agnes said, keeping her voice neutral despite her high emotions.
‘See Pamela,’ Marianna said grudgingly.
‘Please don’t be angry with me,’ Agnes begged, sick with guilt.
Marianna didn’t say a word.
‘Marianna?’
Nothing.
Agnes stood and left Marianna sitting there, face turned stubbornly away.
Within an hour Agnes had her things packed in an old fruit crate from the back of the pantry, the Paris book stolen and hidden among her clothes. They wouldn’t miss it, and of course she intended to bring it back, so, she reasoned, it wasn’t so much stolen as borrowed. She gave the staff the same story she had given Marianna, that she needed to see family unexpectedly; but she did not wait to see nor say goodbye to Julius. Easiest not to see his face, answer his questions. Easiest not to feel so keenly how much she’d miss him. As she left the house on Belgrave Place behind, her sadness at letting Marianna down began to balance out by her excitement about what came next. Crossing the Channel. Paris. Her mother.
The Present
Predictably, I wake at two-thirty in the morning. Wide awake, with misplaced morning energy surging through my blood. I keep my eyes resolutely closed for an hour, but sleep comes no closer and I open them with a sigh. A streetlight beyond the window sends a beam struggling in beside the blind. I hear rain. I rise and open the blind, and outside is dark and wet. A single car speeds past, tyres his
sing on the wet road, its tail lights reflected red in black puddles. Then the road is empty. It’s both too late and too early for traffic.
I pull on warm clothes and go to the kitchen. Mum has no coffee, only tea bags in a bent box. I drink a cup of weak tea and then take the keys and head out to the car. While I’m feeling energetic, I can make an early start on the mound of old papers in Mum’s office and then be up at the clinic to see her when visiting hours begin. I hope that I might find the second page of that letter I was reading, but having seen the mess of her office I don’t hold out much hope.
There’s a smudge of light on the horizon when I arrive at the college. I let myself in through the front door, and it clangs shut and locks behind me. I pass a cleaner at the top of the stairs, wheeling his trolley along the corridor. He looks at me curiously but says, ‘Good morning,’ nonetheless.
‘Morning,’ I say, aware of how Australian my accent has become. Back in Sydney, I’m regularly ribbed for sounding like a pom; here, I’m practically the Crocodile Hunter. I let myself into Mum’s office and switch on the light. By now, I am dying for coffee. Dying for it. I tell myself that in a couple of hours I’ll have lots of things sorted, and the cafe across the courtyard behind Beech House will be open and might even sell something with bacon on it.
I start by pulling books out of the pile and sorting them into neat stacks. I shake each one before I stack it, to make sure nothing important has been filed between the pages. At one point, a photograph drops out and I bend to pick it up. It’s Mum and me. I look about twelve or thirteen; awkward, skinny, smiling with closed lips. I sit on the floor and study it longer. Mum is wearing big sunglasses, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, and she is laughing so widely that I can see her back teeth. She is a picture of gorgeous vivacity. I don’t remember this photo. I try to glean details of the surroundings but it looks as though we are sitting on a couch, belonging to somebody I’ve long forgotten. I stand and stretch, then tuck the photo into my handbag. I see my phone in there, lying dormant, and think about phoning Geoff. I haven’t contacted him since a brief text message telling him I’d landed. But then, what will I say to him? Unburden my heart about Mum? He was tired of me unburdening my heart, I knew it. ‘You used to be so happy.’ He had said it so many times, in an accusatory tone, as though it was my fault and nothing to do with him, or with all the miscarriages.
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