The Secret by the Lake

by Louise Douglas

  About the Book

  A FAMILY TRAGEDY

  Amy’s always felt like something’s been missing in her life. When a tragedy forces the family she works for as a nanny to retreat to a small lakeside cottage, she realizes she cannot leave them now.

  A SISTER’S SECRET

  But Amy finds something unsettling about the cottage by the lake. This is where the mother of the family spent her childhood – and the place where her sister disappeared mysteriously at just seventeen.

  A WEB OF LIES

  Soon Amy becomes entangled in the sister’s story as dark truths begin to rise to the surface. But can she unlock the secrets of the past before they repeat themselves?

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Louise Douglas

  Copyright

  The Secret by the Lake

  Louise Douglas

  For my cousins: Julie, Mark, Richard,

  John, Paul, Sarah and Andrew, and their

  families, with all my love xxxxxxx

  PROLOGUE

  Blackwater, Somerset, July 1931

  IT WAS A beautiful thing, a heart-shaped pendant – a ruby surrounded by tiny diamonds, set within a gold clasp in the shape of two hands joined together – and dangling from a slender gold chain.

  ‘It’s more than a hundred years old,’ Madam had explained some weeks earlier, ‘and very precious. It’s been in my family for generations.’ Madam’s jewellery, normally kept locked in the safe, had been laid out on a velvet cloth spread over the table in the dining room, along with her silver candlesticks, her Victorian tea-set and various other items of high value. They were making an inventory ‘for insurance purposes’, she had said, although that wasn’t the real reason. The real reason was because she wanted to remind her young husband which side his bread was buttered.

  The housemaid was holding a pen and notebook. Ruby pendant, she wrote under the column headlined: DESCRIPTION OF ITEM. ‘Approximate value?’ she asked the older woman.

  ‘At least one hundred guineas.’

  100 guineas, the girl wrote. The pendant lay on the ink-blue cloth beside its box. She could not properly see the colour of the stone. She reached out towards it; Madam immediately tapped her hand away.

  ‘No, no, you’re not to touch it, it’s awfully delicate,’ she snapped.

  There were a great many things in the grand house called Fairlawn that the housemaid was considered too heavy-handed to touch.

  Now that same girl sat on the trunk of a huge oak tree that had recently fallen into a grassy hollow at the side of the lake. In front of her the great expanse of water lay flat, echoing the light in the sky, shivering in the breeze and disturbed every now and then by fish rising to feed on myriad tiny flies that hovered inches from its surface. Sedge warblers were wading amongst the fringing reeds and the willows dipped their pale leaves down between the yellow iris to meet their own reflections. Cow parsley and nettles grew around the fallen branches of the tree, and pink and blue wildflowers lay in scented drifts. The midges danced in their thousands.

  The girl loved this cool, dappled place. She thought of it as somehow blessed.

  The sun was bright in the clouds just above the horizon. It was growing late. She was waiting for her love. She looked about her, but all she could see were the trees and the lake; she listened, but all she heard was birdsong and the distant clopping of a horse crossing the dam at the end of the reservoir. Perhaps he was having trouble getting away. He often did.

  She slipped her hand in the pocket of the ugly brown dress that Madam insisted she wear to work, took something out, glanced furtively around again, and then uncurled her fingers … and there was the ruby pendant, nestled in its delicate gold chain. She held the necklace up so that the diamonds caught the sunlight and fractured it into tiny splinters. Then she shut one eye and held the ruby close to the other, so that all she could see was the pure colour, and the way light cut through the blood-red interior of the stone. It was as if she were inside it, caught inside the jewel.

  There was a sound to her right, the snap of a twig underfoot. She closed her fingers around the pendant and looked over her shoulder. It couldn’t be him, he always whistled to let her know he was coming. She crouched down amongst the branches of the fallen tree, hiding behind its leaves and shadows. She peered through the greenery and her heart raced in despair when she saw who it was. The man was walking along the path that crossed behind the hollow. He stopped at the opening and stood for a moment with his hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun, looking out over the lake. He had taken off his jacket and was carrying it over his arm. The girl could see the braces pulled tight over his shoulders, the redness at the nape of his neck and its sinews, sweat glistening on his forehead, his thick, black hair.

  She held her breath. She did not move. Her heart thumped inside her chest. He was so close she could see the black mole on his neck, the individual hairs of his beard; she could smell him, even over the hot smell of the mud at the water’s edge. If he took another step he would be upon her. She braced herself, prepared for the worst, but then she heard a voice in the distance calling him. He hesitated, but the call came again and this time he turned and went back the way he had come. She let out her breath and leaned back against the tree.

  He must have seen her walking towards the lake and followed her. What if he had been watching her all along? What if he had seen her admiring the pendant? Could he have seen it? Might he have realized wh
at it was?

  ‘No,’ she told herself. No, even if he had seen her sitting on the trunk, he would have been too far away to see what she was holding. He couldn’t possibly have recognized the pendant.

  He couldn’t have.

  Oh, but what if he had?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Les Aubépines, France, April 1961

  IT HAD BEEN a glorious spring, warm enough to swim in April, and the day’s damp towels were pegged on the washing-line in the garden behind the lovely old French farmhouse, the place where I’d spent my last ten summers with the Laurent family. Bicycles were stacked against the back wall, and tennis racquets and balls were heaped by the door. The air smelled of the settling dew, of the lovage and lavender that grew wild amongst the pine trees on the dunes, of summer’s approach. The beach stretched pale, the waves frilled with silver as they tumbled and rolled on to the sand, and the sea beyond wrinkled and shifted, moonlight sliding over its surface like oil in a pan.

  We were wrapped in cardigans, Viviane and I, sitting in the hollow of the dunes. The sand that had been warm earlier was cold now beneath our bare feet. The child was unusually quiet. She wrote her name in the sand with her finger and then took a handful and trickled it over the letters until the word disappeared. She moved closer and rested her head on my shoulder. I put my arm around her and pulled her into me; we settled into the warmth of each other, as we always did, as we had done for all of her life. I had never felt such love for anyone, and I’d never felt such sadness either. I had always believed that I would never have to leave her. I thought we would be together, always.

  ‘What time are you going tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘After breakfast.’

  ‘I wish you weren’t going.’

  ‘Oh, Vivi, so do I.’

  I couldn’t tell Viviane how I was dreading the impending separation from her, and from her parents, Julia and Alain. I could not explain that I didn’t know how I would muster the strength to tear myself away from the family I had loved so deeply for ten years, ever since Vivi was a baby. Instead I rested my cheek against the top of her head and breathed in the salty smell of her hair, committing the moment to memory so it would be there when I needed it later, when I was alone.

  ‘Why do you have to go?’ Viviane whispered.

  ‘I’ve told you, sweetheart. My grandmother is ill and my father needs me at home; there isn’t anyone else to help him.’

  ‘And what about me? What will happen to me?’

  ‘Oh my darling, you’ll carry on growing up and you will become cleverer and better and stronger. Your dear mother and father will look after you. And I’ll write to you and you’ll write to me and it will be almost as if we were still together – you’ll see, it will be almost the same.’

  ‘It won’t be the same at all.’ Viviane picked up a twig and dug the point of it into the sand. She concentrated on this for a moment and then added: ‘At least I’ll still have Emily. Emily wouldn’t leave me.’

  I smiled and ran my hand the length of her back. ‘I thought you had left her,’ I said. ‘I thought you’d decided you were too big for imaginary friends now that you’re almost ten.’

  Viviane shrugged. She flicked sand into the air with the point of the twig.

  There had been a time, not so long ago, when I’d had to lay a place for Emily at the table, when Julia, Alain and I had to be careful where we walked in case we accidentally stepped on Emily’s toes, when, at bedtimes, I was obliged to read a story to Emily and kiss her goodnight, along with Viviane. Lately, though, her name had hardly been mentioned and Viviane was less inclined to wander off alone, her hand holding an invisible hand, her lips moving as she carried on both sides of a two-way conversation. Once or twice I’d been surprised and amused to catch myself feeling sorry for the imaginary friend whose place in Viviane’s affections was being superseded by tennis lessons and new friendships, a passion for music. That evening, I was actually relieved to hear that Emily was still part of Vivi’s life. At least she would have Emily’s company when I was gone.

  I kissed her head.

  ‘It’s late now, darling, and it’s getting cold. We ought to go in. Your mummy will be wondering where we are.’

  I pushed myself to my feet, held out my hands to pull Viviane up, and then dusted the sand from my shorts. Viviane stood and wrapped her arms around my waist.

  ‘Oh Amy, please don’t go!’ she said.

  The night was still and lovely. The sky was full of stars, the Milky Way draped across the firmament so there seemed almost more light than darkness. Moon shadows stretched long and low across the sand, the wind breathed amongst the pine trees, the needles whispered. I looked for one last time towards the sea and I took hold of Viviane’s hand and I felt as if my heart was breaking.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TWO DAYS LATER, I arrived back at the family home, a steelworker’s two-up two-down in Sheffield, the house my grandmother shared with her son, my father, and her black Labrador dog, Bess. Nothing much had changed in all the years I’d been away. I tried not to notice how dark and cramped and uncomfortable it all was and threw myself into the task of caring for Granny.

  She and I had never been close and my genuine, heartfelt pity for her was tempered by knowing what I’d given up in order to come home to care for her. When I was a child, she had rarely shown me affection, even when I’d desperately needed it. And now she needed me and I’d had to leave the family I loved with all my heart to come back to her.

  I had been nine years old and the war was still raging when my beautiful mother, the mother I adored, kissed me for the last time, told me she was going out to buy cigarettes, tied her headscarf beneath her chin, buttoned up the fox-fur collar of her coat, left and never returned. That night I cried for her. The next day I knelt on the bed to look out of the front window, waiting for her to turn the corner and come down the street, all clippy in her heels with her skirt-hem swinging, but she did not appear. I asked the neighbours but nobody had seen her. I couldn’t understand why neither my father nor my grandmother was concerned about her whereabouts. What if a bomb had fallen close to where she was? What if she was trapped, somewhere, in the rubble, and nobody was looking for her? I couldn’t understand why they didn’t miss her as much as I did.

  Dad ignored my tears and my questions. Granny was made of sterner stuff.

  ‘Be quiet,’ she said as I sat sobbing at the tea-table, ‘or I’ll give you something to really cry about.’

  ‘Oh please, Granny,’ I begged, ‘please make my mummy come home.’

  ‘It would be best if you didn’t think about her,’ Granny said – which was, I suppose, a gentle way of letting me know that my mother was gone for good.

  A few days – maybe a fortnight – after my mother had left, we moved into Granny’s house, Dad and I, and a new family moved into ours. Dad continued to refuse to talk about my mother at all and Granny frowned upon any public mention, forever after referring to her absent daughter-in-law as ‘that piece’. My mother was demoted from the centre of my universe to someone so peripheral she could not even be named. I wrote her name, Daisy, in the dust on the floorboards, I scratched it into the window ledge, I picked a hundred daisies and made her name out of flowers. I tried to bring her back to me by force of will. It didn’t work.

  My father left my upbringing to his mother as he had previously left it to his wife. He spent his nights at his important war work in the foundry and his days, when he was not sleeping, tending to his pigeons, or racing them, all the time with an expression on his face that implied he had expected little from life, and had not been disappointed.

  I learned early on to keep my love for my mother, and my anxiety, to myself. I don’t think I was a particularly difficult child. I did my best to please my grandmother, until the day it dawned on me that perhaps such a thing was impossible. After that, I simply stayed out of her way as much as I could. I left school and home at fifteen, paying my way through nanny college by taking
cleaning and waitressing jobs in the evenings and at weekends. As soon as I qualified, I moved to France to live with the Laurents – Viviane, Julia and Alain. Julia had been a professional ballet dancer, but had injured her hip badly in a fall. Pregnancy and childbirth had debilitated her further. She needed somebody to help her care for her baby daughter and fortunately, from all the candidates who applied for the role, she chose me. I was officially an employee but I felt, from the start, like one of the family. I’d come to understand what it meant to receive affection, to be trusted. I had found myself cared for and valued, and for the first time since my mother went away, I felt I belonged. In return, I’d given my heart and soul to the Laurents. I would have done anything for them; anything.

  But my grandmother was dying and there was nobody else to look after her; I had no choice but to return to Sheffield in the spring of 1961 and it was difficult. Twelve years had elapsed since I’d last lived at home. It wasn’t easy to adjust to being back in the cramped old house, walking the old streets with the dog, seeing the old faces, but I did my best. The harder I worked, the less time there was to think about what I had left behind. And I tried not to think about France and the Laurents, really I tried, because I could hardly bear the anguish of missing them when I did.