“Oh, they’re fine. I’m just a little distracted, that’s all.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing, just work stuff.” Edward shrugs. “It’s okay.”
They shift to talking about their childhood memories: the tree house with two floors the gardener built in a three-hundred-year-old oak, the secret cupboard under the stairs in the south wing they’d both used as a hiding place. They talk about Tilly, who’s not visiting with him because she’s still recovering from the flu, and they even talk about Edward’s late wife, much to Alba’s surprise. She talks about Peggy, and tells her brother a little about Albert, but stops short of mentioning Stella.
“It’s not really work,” Edward blurts out at last. “I’m not fine. I’m sorry, I lied to you. When you asked me about father’s disappearance and…”
“And you told me you didn’t know where he was.” Alba waits.
Stella, watching them both, leans forward in the sink. Edward slowly snaps five ginger biscuits in half, one by one, releasing little puffs of dusky orange vapor that float between them. He takes a deep breath. “He was living in Italy—Sicily. Until two years ago we visited him every year in spring.”
“We?” Alba sits up and stares at her brother.
“Lotte, Charlie and I.”
Alba can’t quite make sense of what he’s saying. She hears the words but their meaning—the implications—momentarily elude her. “Why two years?”
“He died, the Christmas before last. Heart attack.” Edward gazes down at his plate, at the discarded biscuits.
“Oh.” Alba’s still confused. “So, wait… he didn’t leave us, he only left me.” She grips her coffee cup. “But I thought… I even… but, how the hell could he do that? And how could you not tell me, after all these years, how could you not?”
“I’m so sorry, Al, I really am.” Edward is on the verge of tears. He wishes he could reel back his words, unsay them, have them disappear. It was too soon, too fast. He should have waited until more time had passed, until he and Alba had a chance to create a less fragile bond, one that couldn’t so easily break. But it’s done now. It’s said. There’s no going back now. “He was cruel, and we shouldn’t have gone along with it. At the time we were angry, we blamed you and Mum for his leaving. We swore never to tell, but now they’re both gone and I wanted you to—”
“And what about Mum?” Alba can hear her voice sounding shrill. “You let her go through all those interrogations, the whole village treating her like a leper, you saw what it did… it broke her, it killed her!”
“I know,” Edward says. “I’ve regretted what we did every day.”
“But not enough to undo it? You had, what, ten years to tell Mum the truth. Why didn’t you?”
But Edward doesn’t have a satisfactory answer. It’s something he’s asked himself over and over again. “I’m so, so very sorry. I hope one day you might forgive me.”
Alba just stares at him. “I think you should go.”
“Please,” Edward says, “please…”
Alba can hear the crack in his voice. She can see the desperation in his eyes. But she shakes her head. She hears a small sigh from the kitchen sink, but Alba ignores Stella too.
“Now,” she says softly, “leave now.”
Edward wants to beg her to let him stay, to say he can’t bear to lose her again. He wants to weep and plead for the forgiveness he doesn’t deserve. But instead he stands and walks slowly out of the kitchen and out of the house. Alba, her eyes fixed to the floor, doesn’t watch him go.
—
When Alba ventures into the kitchen two days later, the ghost is sitting in the kitchen sink, as if she hasn’t moved an inch. Of course, except for reading, Alba has no idea how Stella otherwise passes her infinite time, so perhaps she hasn’t.
“Don’t talk to me about my brother,” Alba says before she sits down. “Whatever advice you have, I don’t want to hear it, okay?”
“Okay.” Stella shrugs. The problem of Edward will have to wait; she’s got a more immediate issue to address first.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Alba reaches her chair by the stove, frowning at the ghost. “You look like you’re up to something. I don’t like it.”
Stella smiles with exaggerated innocence, then says:
Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down and music and life will mingle.
Alba listens to the words from her parents’ favorite book, suspecting Stella is attempting to make some sort of point, but since she hasn’t touched a piano in twelve years and doesn’t play anything at all “wonderfully,” or even well, that point isn’t entirely clear.
“So.” Stella raises her eyebrows. “What do you think of that?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Alba admits.
“You are exceptionally intelligent, talented and will no doubt be successful at anything you choose to put your hand to,” Stella says. “But so far you only apply your brilliance to the study of life’s retelling rather than life itself.”
Alba says nothing.
“My hope is that you, like Lucy Honeychurch, will allow your passion for literature to leak into life,” Stella says. “And for that, you have to act.”
“Take to the stage?” Alba jokes. “How will that help?”
“Yes, very funny,” Stella says. “But I have a feeling that if you don’t do it now—”
“What’s the rush? I’m fine. I’m not even twenty. I’ve got a whole lifetime.”
“So you think,” says Stella. “But if you don’t do it now, with the power of the house behind you, then I’m afraid you probably never will.”
“Do what, exactly?”
“It’s time to face the things you really want. Not just in your fantasies, but in your life.”
“What do you mean?” Alba asks again, hoping that Stella doesn’t know about the Chocolates book but rather suspecting she probably does. Her heart quickens.
“You know exactly what I mean,” Stella says. “That girl loves you. And it’s time to find the courage to love her back.”
It’s time. Alba grabs a summer jacket from the coat rack and sees Florence Nightingale wink at her from the opposite wall. Alba stops. “What?”
“You’re finally doing it, well done.” Florence smiles. “You certainly took your time about it.”
Alba pulls on her jacket. “We aren’t all blessed with the courage of an army, you know. Some of us need to deliberate on the best course of action before—”
“Oh, what rot.” Florence interrupts. “Not acting when one should act is a waste of life. Feelings ought always to be distilled into actions that bring results. Now, go!”
“Okay, okay,” Alba snaps. “I’m going!”
With that she slams the door and runs down the path toward the street. Behind her, the door opens again as the house watches her go. At the window, Peggy smiles.
Alba runs all the way to the library, dashes through the doors and up to the counter, but Zoë isn’t there. Instead Andy sits at the computer with a look of bored resignation. Alba’s heart drops into her belly. If she doesn’t do it now, she might not conjure up the courage again. Maybe a few years down the line, with someone else?
Just then Zoë comes running up from the rare book room.
“I’ve got it, Andy boy, I’ve got it!” Zoë sees Alba and stops. “Oh, hello.”
“What is it?” Alba asks.
”A signed first edition of The Jungle Book. It’s a new donation.” Zoë holds it out as Alba inches forward for a closer look. “Here, you can touch it.”
Alba takes the book with great care, handling it as though it’s the most precious thing she’s ever held. She slowly turns the
pages. “The illustrations are so beautiful.”
“They’re painted by Kipling’s father,” Zoë says. “My favorite is Shere Khan.” She leans over the counter to find the chapter. Her fingers brush Alba’s and, for one single, eternal moment, neither one of them moves. Alba stares solidly at the tiger while her fingertips tingle as if she’s just had an electric shock. She can feel Zoë’s gaze on her face and her cheeks are as hot as if she’d just stepped into a pool of sunlight. Alba looks up. It’s now or never. She loosens her hold on the book and lets it settle in Zoë’s hands.
“I liked that book you loaned me, you know. The chocolate one, I mean—”
“Oh?”
“It was very…” Alba takes a deep breath, wishing Stella were there to hold her hand. “I’ve been thinking…”
Zoë waits.
“Yes, well,” Alba mumbles, “I was thinking, wondering if you still wanted to go for coff—”
“Yes.” Zoë grins. “I’d love to.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Tomorrow is her date with Zoë, but there is someone else Alba keeps thinking of. Since the day she threw her brother out of the house she’s been regretting her harshness to him. So yesterday she called Edward and invited him back to Hope Street. When he rings the bell she’s in the bathroom brushing her teeth and arguing with Sylvia Plath and doesn’t hear it.
Greer, having graduated from pajamas to jeans, has left her bedroom to roam the house and stretch her legs, after spending the day reading teaching prospectuses helpfully procured for her by Alba. Striding along the corridor, slowing to smile at Elizabeth Taylor, she hears the doorbell and stops, realizing she’s never heard it before.
“You should answer it,” Elizabeth says.
“No,” Greer says, rather reluctant to be seen by anyone. “It’s not for me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Elizabeth winks. “I have a feeling he might be.”
Greer frowns, wondering if she’s heard correctly, when the bell rings again.
“Oh, go on,” Elizabeth cajoles. “Don’t be such a scaredy-cat.”
Greer opens the door to a tall, dark-haired man with big brown eyes, holding the hand of a little green-eyed girl. Forgetting to say hello, Greer just looks from one to the other. Then she notices the man’s expression change from one of friendly curiosity to bemusement. She says, “Oh, I’m sorry. Hello.”
“Hello,” Edward and Tilly respond in unison.
“Hi.” Greer smiles at the little girl, who fixes her with a wide-eyed stare, then hides behind her daddy’s leg. “What pretty red shoes,” Greer addresses the girl. “What’s your name?”
“Tilly,” Tilly squeaks from behind her father’s legs. “Matilda Jane Ashby. Miss.”
“What a lovely name,” Greer says. She can feel the man looking at her. When she glances up he holds her gaze. She feels drawn to him in a way she’s never really felt before. It’s not lust, nor a desperate desire to be loved. Instead it’s a gentle lifting of her spirits, a soft stirring in her chest.
As Alba walks down the corridor toward them, she sees sparks of silver that fire up the air, and smiles. At the sight of her aunt, Tilly gives a little shriek of delight and runs into the house, crashing into Alba’s legs and clutching them tightly.
“My little monkey.” Alba picks up her niece and squeezes her tightly. “I’ve missed you.”
“Miss you.” Tilly presses her face into Alba’s neck. “Miss you much.”
To her surprise, Alba feels a lump in her throat. “You’ve grown…” She swallows. “You’ve grown so big.”
Realizing he’s still staring at Greer, Edward turns to his sister. “She grows like a beanstalk,” he says. “She’s going to look just like her mother.”
“She’s beautiful.” Alba smiles. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Edward steps forward so he’s only a few feet from his sister and his daughter. The sight of them hugging makes him want to join in, to tuck them both against his chest. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.
“I know.” Alba, a little embarrassed that Greer is watching them, starts walking toward the kitchen, Tilly still in her arms. “I know, and you don’t have to be anymore, okay? Now, come and have a cup of tea and some more of those ginger biscuits you don’t like.”
Almost overcome with relief, Edward starts to follow his sister, then stops and turns back to Greer. He holds up his hand and gives a little wave. “’Bye.”
“’Bye.” Greer leans against the wall, watching Edward disappear down the corridor. The photographs remain perfectly still until he closes the kitchen door behind him.
“Well, well.” Florence Nightingale grins. “Now, what was that?”
“I’m not certain,” Emily Davies says, “but I do know it made me tingle all over.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” Greer shakes her head, dislodging the fantasies that have collected there, ignoring the thump in her chest. “It was nothing.”
Edward sits at the kitchen table, still a little distracted. Tilly slides into his lap while Alba makes two cups of tea and, as his daughter amuses herself with the buttons on his shirt, Edward thinks of the woman in the corridor.
“That was Greer.” Alba hands him a cup and Tilly a ginger biscuit. “She’s single.”
“Sorry?” Edward frowns.
“Oh, don’t bother.” Alba laughs. “I’m not blind.” She won’t tell him about the colors, not yet. And perhaps he doesn’t realize it right now, but she knows that she just saw her brother falling in love.
Edward blushes. “So… how are you?”
“I’m okay. I’m better, much better.” Alba sits and Tilly, clutching her biscuit, switches allegiances and laps. “So, how’s the job? Designed any great monuments to capitalism lately?” She pushes the plate of biscuits toward him. “They’re a few days old but still delicious, I promise.”
Edward obligingly takes one. “Actually I’m doing some pro bono work at the moment, building a community theater in Camden.”
“So we’re both broke right now.” Alba tickles Tilly, who giggles. “How inspiring.”
Edward dunks his biscuit in his tea and chews. “And what are you up to?”
“I’m not sure.” Alba shrugs, attempting nonchalance. “I have to leave here in three weeks.”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I should get a job. Goodness knows what I’m qualified for.” Alba smiles, pretending she’s not as worried as she is. The questions of where she will live, and what she will do with her life, have been taking up far too many of Alba’s thoughts.
“You can do anything you want to,” Edward says, “of that I’m quite certain.”
“I should probably just get a proper job, like the rest of you.”
“You should do what you like with your life,” Edward says. He glances at his daughter, who, oblivious to them both, is working her way methodically through the plate of biscuits in front of her. “You should do whatever you want.”
“That’s funny,” Alba says, “I always thought it didn’t matter what I wanted, all that mattered was that I lived up to the family name. Although, I suppose I’m not really an Ashby after all, am I? So perhaps I should just make up a pseudonym.”
“Woodenum.” Tilly giggles, spluttering a shower of crumbs onto her aunt’s lap.
“Why a pseudonym?” Edward asks.
“Well, I’ve started doing a bit of writing. I’m sure nothing will come of it, but…” Alba shrugs, too nervous to confess the full extent of her hopes.
“Oh, okay, well that sounds great.” And because Edward is too nervous to pry, they sit in silence for a while, sipping tea and chewing biscuits. Tilly licks her lips and kicks her feet under the table.
“We’re thinking of selling the house,” Edward says. “The upkeep is enormous, and now that mother’s go
ne, none of us really want… Anyway, it’d give us all a nice little nest egg. Then you could stave off the lackluster jobs for a while and just write, if you wanted to.” He shifts in his chair, trying to gauge his sister’s reaction.
Alba wonders exactly how to frame her response. She doesn’t want to offend her brother, she must temper her delight at the idea just a little. “Well, I…”
Misreading her hesitation, Edward rephrases. “It could be a fresh start,” he says. “A new beginning. What do you think?”
Alba offers him the single biscuit remaining on the plate, the sole survivor of Tilly’s culling. “I think I’d like that very much.”
“Good.” Edward smiles and bites into it. “So would I.”
—
It’s three days since Alba’s seen Stella, and she’s getting worried. Last night, she fell asleep at the kitchen table, trying to rewrite Carmen’s song, waiting up for Stella, who never appeared. But she can’t worry now. She has to focus on wonderful, witty things to say. She’s never been on a date before and has no idea what to say or do. Perhaps they’ll just end up as friends. Though it isn’t a matter of “just,” really. Alba would love a real friend, someone who isn’t a character in a book or a ghost in a kitchen, someone who’s set firmly in the land of the living, with whom she can visit bookshops, libraries and the like. Alba’s experience with Edward has shown her that the house is careful not to be magical around strangers. Which is why, in a rash act of intimacy, she invited Zoë to visit. She’s now feeling a little nervous about it, but she wants to show Zoë something of herself—all her books and, most important of all, the place that has changed her life forever.
An hour later, when Alba opens the door, her heart lifts and she smiles. For a moment they stand awkwardly together, not sure what to do next. Alba resolves the question by stepping aside. “Come in.”
“Thank you.” Zoë smiles as she steps over the threshold. “Gosh, this place is amazing.” She notices the pictures. “Who are all these women?”
“They’ve all stayed here, over the years,” Alba explains, just as Peggy had nearly three months ago. She points out Florence Nightingale, Joan Greenwood and Emily Davies as they walk toward the kitchen. At the sink, Stella smiles, knowing she isn’t needed anymore.
The House at the End of Hope Street Page 23