A Place of Secrets

by Rachel Hore

  Jude looked into Euan’s eyes, shocked into silence as she worked it out. “Stella means star, doesn’t it? Like Esther. Oh, Euan. It’s got to be only a coincidence.”

  “It might be. Or it might not. I went down to Starbrough church on Wednesday, and took a look at the graves. And, indeed, there was a Hugh Brundall there, whose wife, Stella, died in 1815.”

  “Of course! I think I saw that, when I walked around the graveyard,” she said, trying to remember. “I suppose the surname might have been Brundall, but I remember ‘Stella’ because I was looking for ‘Esther.’ Oh, Euan, do you think that’s what happened to her? She married the doctor’s son?”

  “It could be a complete coincidence, of course, but it might be worth following up. We’ve no other clues.”

  “The parish records might have more information,” she whispered. “Megan at the museum said they’d probably be in the County Records Office—1815 is too early for the births, deaths and marriages registry. Goodness, if Esther died in 1815, she’d have been fifty-three, not all that old.”

  “That’s true. The Starbrough parish records are indeed in the county archive. I checked with one of the churchwardens. You can go tomorrow, can’t you? I’ll come with you, if you like.”

  “Oh Euan, that would be marvelous, thank you. But … what you said, that Stella was in our family Bible. It would mean that the Bennetts were her descendants, that Esther was my ancestor.”

  “Looks like it, doesn’t it?”

  Jude was silent for some time, trying to come to terms with that idea. “And that would mean—oh God—I’d be distantly related to Lord Madingsfield! What a dreadful idea!”

  “I thought that would amuse you! Now, the charcoal has heated up nicely. If you wouldn’t mind helping me bring out the food, we’ll get this show on the road.”

  They busied themselves cooking, then eating, a delicious meal of steaks and sausages and salads, as the world around them sank into twilight and bats began to flit about. Jude didn’t say much. She was still thinking about what Euan had discovered. After all this effort, it wasn’t a Wickham ancestor she’d discovered in Esther, but her own. She just couldn’t believe it.

  “Euan, why has all this happened?” she asked. “The whole story, I’m talking about—the dreams and Esther and Tamsin and … everything really. What is it all for? What does it mean? It’s almost as though we got caught up in some whirlwind.”

  He laughed. “Now why on earth do you expect me to know the answer to that? I’m just a simple man, your honor.”

  “Still, if you take the story back and back it goes back to Esther being frightened and lost in the forest.”

  “Or before that, to Lucille being taken from her family in France. Maybe you can go back further than that. I don’t think there’s a simple answer, Jude. You’ll go blind thinking about it.”

  “I suppose so,” she said, and held out her glass.

  “Mmm, simply delicious,” she said finally at nine o’clock, finishing a bowl of raspberries and cream. “Now what about these moths?”

  “You’re sure you’d like to? I’ve got everything ready.”

  “Oh yes. I haven’t come all this way to miss the moths. Where are we going to hunt them?”

  “Up by the folly. It’s quite sheltered up there, and I’m trying to keep a regular tally.”

  “How many do you think we’ll see?” Jude asked, getting up, stretching.

  “Oh, hundreds, I should think.”

  “Hundreds? Really?” She’d expected him to say a dozen.

  “You’ll see. Now, I haven’t asked you yet—would you mind being note taker?”

  “Your amanuensis?” she said, folding her arms in mock outrage, and he laughed.

  “Never. We’re equals, you and I,” he said softly.

  If it hadn’t been getting dark she might have seen the tender look in his eyes. For now, with the gathering night, their mood was changing. The air felt as thick as treacle between them and they moved like dreamers as they put away the food and prepared to go out.

  She helped Euan haul several bulky holdalls of equipment into the trunk of his car and they drove in silence the short distance up the hill, and right along Foxhole Lane to park near the folly. When they got out, it was to breathe air that was fresh and cool under the trees, the scents of earth and foliage strong, but there was no hint of rain.

  “It’ll be a good flying night,” Euan remarked, handing her the smallest bag to carry, his hand briefly touching hers so she felt again that tingling feeling. “Are you sure you’re all right with that? Moths are fussy—they don’t like wet or wind or cold. There’s not much of a moon, either, to compete with our light.”

  Together, they passed through woods gleaming elegant black and gold in the dying light. When they emerged into the clearing the looming folly surprised Jude anew with its stark strangeness. It was theirs again tonight, the place they’d first met, the place where so many other important events had happened.

  “We need to set up here, near the trees,” Euan said, lowering the bags he was carrying. Unzipping one, he lifted out what looked like a heavy car battery. “Moths don’t like it in the open. Here, grab the other end of this.” She helped him spread a white sheet on the ground then watched as he unfolded a large box with no lid, placed it on the sheet and fitted a strip of wood bearing a large lightbulb across the top. Then he crouched down and she watched in puzzlement as he spread three or four strips of egg carton against the inside walls of the box.

  “And those are for what?” she asked.

  “The moths will circle the light for a while, and then they like to hide in the shadows near it but not touching—egg cartons are perfect. Perhaps moths are like people,” he said. “They’re frightened of being burned.”

  “I understand,” she said softly.

  He smiled up at her. “I know you do.” Then he said, “Can you find two sheets of Plexiglas in that bag there?” She foraged, then passed them to him, and he slotted them onto the box on either side of the bulb, to act as a lid, leaving a gap for the moths to go down into the box.

  “This is a mercury vapor light, very very bright. Too much for our eyes to stand. Moths like the blue end of the light spectrum. We don’t know for certain why they’re attracted to light, but we think it’s because they navigate by the moon and stars. Here we go.” When he plugged the wire from the light into the battery and switched it on, the bulb glowed pink, then so blue-white she had to turn away.

  “Now all we have to do is hang about and wait for the moths.” He came to stand beside her, lantern in hand. “Shall we walk a bit? It’s lovely in the woods at night.”

  It was now starting to get properly dark. Eerie, she thought, in this strange white light, to see the silhouettes of the trees all around. He gave her his hand and it seemed natural to take it.

  “Can we go up the tower?” she asked, some instinct compelling her.

  “If you like,” he replied, surprised.

  They walked up the stairs and into the little room. She hadn’t been up here since that day they’d lost Summer. It was back as it had been when she’d first seen it, Euan’s papers spread across the small table. It felt tranquil, at peace.

  “Can we go up on the roof?” Jude asked.

  “Sure,” he said. He climbed the ladder and pushed open the trapdoor, and was there to help her when she followed him. When she was safely up, he switched the lantern off so their eyes could get used to the darkness.

  She stood next to him without leaning on him, no longer afraid of being so high, gazing out over the darkening forest. She could just glimpse the upper half of Starbrough Hall, the odd light on here and there. The soft nightlight—that was the children’s room, she told herself. The shadow moving at the window, she imagined to be Alexia, tucking the children into bed, or tidying their toys and clothes. Above, a few solitary stars were beginning to burn through the navy sky, between little wisps of cloud.

  And all the time she was awar
e of Euan, waiting quietly beside her. “I needed to come up here,” she said. “To find out what it’s like now.”

  “And what is it like?” She could not see the expression in his eyes, but heard by his tone that the question meant more than the obvious.

  “It feels peaceful now. I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “You’ve had no more dreams?” he asked lightly.

  “No. Claire says Summer hasn’t had any, either.”

  “That’s good.” But the mention of Claire was between them.

  “You know it was never Claire for me,” he said in a low voice.

  “I know that now,” she replied.

  “Would she mind if…,” he said. “I can’t tell…”

  “Are you asking whether I’m standing back, in case it hurts her feelings? Is that what you mean?”

  “You’ve always been so caring of her feelings.”

  She was surprised that he hadn’t noticed how her thoughts about Claire had changed in the last couple of weeks. But if you haven’t told him, how would he know, you idiot, she berated herself. And, anyway, now there was Jon.

  “I thought about what you said. About me pitying her.” So much had happened since that conversation. “I feel so differently about her now. I don’t feel sorry for her anymore. You were right. We must each live our own lives, make our own choices. What I feel about things is different to Claire.”

  He was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, and his voice had a tender little catch to it, “And what do you feel about … things?”

  She reached up and touched his face in the darkness. He stepped forward and now he was holding her close and their faces were a breath apart. And then he drew her to him and his lips moved across her face in little moth kisses and then met her mouth and they both clung together, Jude finding her body fitted snugly against the contours of his, and they stood pressed together a moment, feeling the beat of one another’s hearts. “Since you ask, I feel…,” she whispered, “amazingly happy.” She staggered slightly, as if from a surfeit of happiness, and he steadied her.

  “So do I,” he replied, kissing her again. Finally he said, “Come on. We’d better go down before we swoon and fall over the side.” She giggled.

  At the foot of the ladder they stopped to embrace again, then he led her down the stairs, and at the bottom he set down the lantern and in a swift, impulsive movement, lifted her down the last few steps and pressed her against the wall, kissing her again very satisfyingly until she complained of lumpy brick digging into her back.

  Then he laughed, and brushed moss from her hair and they went out into the night.

  “Look!” he said and she cried out in surprise.

  In the bright light on the far side of the clearing, a huge swarm of moths was swirling. “Come on.” Hand in hand, they hurried over to the trap.

  “There are hundreds of them,” she cried, turning all around to see.

  “I told you there would be. Now, where’s that notebook? Here, hold this, and here’s a pencil and a flashlight, and now we’ll have a look.” He knelt down, businesslike, amid the swirl of insects and slid out one of the Plexiglas covers. Dozens of moths had settled on the egg boxes beneath, spreading their beautiful wings like ladies in crinolines.

  “Look at that, what on earth’s that great thing?” Jude cried, seeing a big furry golden moth.

  “That’s a drinker. It’s named for its thirsty caterpillar,” he told her. “Go on, write down drinker.”

  She did so obediently. “And this one is a common emerald.” A small, bright-green moth. She wrote that down, too. “Two peppered moths, three satin whites.”

  “Oh, they’re gorgeous,” she breathed. “I love those best.”

  “Another two here. And look at this one coming. An elephant hawk moth.”

  “Oh, it’s marvelous.” She stared at the large, furry pink and brown creature that whirred around frantically before landing on the Plexiglas.

  He put down one egg carton and picked up another. “These tiny ones are more primitive. They’re known as micro moths, as opposed to the more evolutionarily advanced macro ones. Ah.”

  He scrabbled in a bag of plastic specimen pots and, taking one out, neatly potted what Jude took to be a tiny, nondescript insect. “I’m glad I’ve seen one of these. A pinella. It proves my point about migration. This little guy must have flown some distance. There aren’t any pine trees round here—not till you get near the village.”

  “How will it get home?”

  “It won’t, I’m afraid. Adult moths don’t live very long. They breed quite quickly after emerging from their pupas, and then their job is done.”

  “All that effort to become moths, just to breed and die? That’s awful!”

  “Is it?” he said, pretending to study the pine moth. “Mmm, I rather like the idea.”

  She laughed, then broke off. “Oh look!” It was now jet black beyond the circle of the lamp, and more and more moths were crowding in, dropping on the sheet outside the box, or circling madly above the light. Many plunged into the box and fluttered about before crawling into an egg compartment, ready and waiting to be identified. Euan called out name after name, and Jude scribbled them down, writing the foreign words phonetically if she didn’t know how to spell them.

  By eleven o’clock she’d written down fifty-six species. By midnight they had one hundred ten.

  “That’s incredible,” she said, when they’d counted them up.

  “And there are different ones at different times of year,” he told her. “Since I arrived here I’ve found nearly five hundred species just in these woods.”

  “I’d no idea there were so many.”

  “There are twenty-seven hundred species in the U.K.,” he told her. “And only sixty-four kinds of butterfly. We are losing one or two to climate change or whatever, but then we get sightings of new ones.”

  “Do you log all these results, then?”

  “Oh yes. There’s quite a moth fan club in the area and we pool our knowledge. Now, I think we’ve seen enough, don’t you? If you’ve got that lantern ready I’ll switch off the light and we’ll put everything away.”

  She held the lantern and watched him dismantle the trap with deft fingers, shaking out the moths that refused stubbornly to leave egg box or sheet. There were moths in their hair and their clothes and they brushed them off one another, laughing, before gathering everything together, ready to take back to the car.

  Overhead, the last shreds of cloud cover were blowing away.

  “Look at the stars,” Jude cried. “Oh, look at the stars!”

  They stood together with their arms around each other, gazing at the light show above their heads. “There are so many tonight.” And there were. Hundreds and hundreds. They felt dizzy just looking.

  “Here.” Euan found the sheet they’d used for the moths, shook it out again and spread it out on the ground. They lay on it together, holding hands and staring up at the sky.

  “An ocean of stars,” Euan whispered.

  “I’m sure they’re moving. The whole sky is moving,” Jude cried.

  He laughed and squeezed her hand. “Not the sky, Jude, the Earth. The Earth is turning.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “‘Rolling onward into light.’” That’s from a hymn, I think.”

  “I saw something. What was that?”

  “A shooting star. It’s the Perseids. A meteor shower. Oh, there’s another.”

  And now she was looking for shooting stars, they were everywhere, sudden little trails of light, like sparks from fireworks, that shone briefly then vanished.

  “It’s an odd feeling, as though they’re performing just for us,” she whispered.

  “They are,” he said firmly.

  They lay in silence, each thinking their own thoughts. And there came into Jude’s mind another time where she’d stared up at the stars and felt supreme happiness. It had been after the school dance, with Mark, when he had promised on a
star always to be friends. It had been one of the most important moments of her life. And now she had to accept that it was gone. Long gone. Into the past, like Mark had gone into the past. She tried to recapture the happiness she’d felt then, and the two moments, then and now, briefly merged with an intensity that made the tears start. Mark had gone, passed into the care of the Keeper of the Stars, but the stars were still there. And now, now there was Euan close beside her, waiting.

  She rolled over to lie in the crook of his arm and soon he began to kiss her again. They loved each other as the Earth turned under the ancient stars.

  * * *

  She stayed at Euan’s that night, not that they slept much.

  * * *

  In the morning they drove to the Archive Center in Norwich to find out what had happened to Amelie Madingsfield, who’d become Esther Wickham, and, finally … there it was on the microfiche. Stella Brundall, née Esther Wickham, who had been buried in Starbrough churchyard on 10 March 1815. There was just the name, nothing further.

  “Do you know what I’ve remembered?” Jude asked Euan later, as they shared supper at the table in the new kitchen. “That Atlas of the Heavens in the Starbrough collection—you might not remember seeing it, but it’s full of the zodiac pictures that inspired the ceiling painting in the Starbrough Hall library.”

  “I don’t remember, but you told me it was the origin of the painting.”

  “There’s something I puzzled over.”

  “Only one thing? It seems as though we’ve had to solve a lot of puzzles.”

  “We have, haven’t we?” She leaned forward and ruffled his hair, and he pulled her to him and kissed her. When she’d recovered her breath she went on. “Well, this puzzle is a handwritten dedication in the front of the book. It said ‘AW from SB.’ I thought the AW was Anthony Wickham. But suppose it was Augustus Wickham—Chantal said that Augustus changed his name to Wickham—and SB was Stella Brundall?”

  “What, you mean that they became friends after everything that had happened?”

  “I know we can’t prove it, it’s a whimsy.”

  “Castles in the air.”