by Emma Rous
“Where’s Genevieve?”
Beth
May 1989
Leonora gave me a different dress to put on for Markus’s father’s second visit—it was also blue, but in a more adult style, so it was a little more comfortable to wear. I’d grown taller since I’d moved to Raven Hall, and I was slimmer and fitter from all the outdoor exercise I’d had. I studied my reflection in the big cheval mirror in my bedroom, and my mind churned with questions.
The details didn’t make sense; I must be missing something. I didn’t mind helping Leonora and Markus out—I didn’t even mind too much if Nina’s grandfather shouted at me again. I just couldn’t understand the way it had all happened.
Surely Nina’s falling ill again, just before her grandfather’s visit, was a remarkable coincidence? But I couldn’t believe she was faking it—certainly not last time, when she’d looked so washed out and weak. Was it psychological—was she so terrified of meeting her grandfather, it brought on physical symptoms? But, despite her mother’s apparent fear of germs, Nina was one of the toughest, bravest people I knew.
Besides which, since Markus’s father now believed I was Nina, of course it made sense for me to play her again for this second visit. There was no alternative—Nina could hardly go skipping in and claim to be the same child he first met ten months ago. So perhaps Nina’s current illness really was just a coincidence. I frowned at my reflection. I just didn’t know. But something didn’t feel right.
“I think—yes, I think we’ll plait your hair again,” Leonora said, eyeing me critically in the drawing room. “I’m sure he won’t stay long, Beth. It’ll all be over soon.”
I closed my eyes as she tugged the brush through my hair, and this time I thought not about my parents, but about Jonas.
Jonas was in favor of our breaking the news to Nina that we were an item, but I’d asked him to wait. I worried that Nina would be hurt, and I felt guilty that my friendship with her had loosened in the last few weeks while I was sneaking around meeting Jonas in private. What if Nina became angry? What if she asked her parents to send me away from Raven Hall?
A little voice whispered in my head: They can’t very well send me away now—what if Nina’s grandfather comes back for another visit? But Leonora’s heavy strokes with the hairbrush reminded me of how determined she was. She’d find a way around any obstacle; I knew it. I couldn’t trust in my own importance. I had to keep Nina—and Leonora—happy.
“There,” Leonora said, standing back. “Perfect.”
I felt detached from my surroundings as I sat in the drawing room with Leonora and Markus, waiting for Markus’s father to arrive. My thoughts meandered up two flights of stairs, to the turret room, where Nina lay. I should have rushed up to see her when Leonora told me she was ill, but instead, I’d spent too long staring at my own reflection in that stupid mirror, puzzling over another odd aspect of this game. Why the plaits? Nina never wore plaits. I considered asking the question aloud, but I thought better of it.
“He’s here,” Leonora said tightly, from her position at the window. I smoothed down my skirt. I would do this calmly and properly, for Leonora and Markus’s sake, and for Nina’s.
This time, when Leonora tried to hold me back in the hall, Markus’s father snapped at her. “Let the girl come in with us.”
I followed him into the drawing room and took a seat next to Markus on the sofa. The two men ignored me for the first few minutes, and I didn’t pay too much attention to their conversation. Markus’s father grumbled about wanting Markus to help him run his business in the States, but I knew Markus would never do it—Leonora and Markus would never agree to leave Raven Hall. And I, as Nina, was ready to back up that sentiment.
Leonora brought in the tea tray more promptly than on the last visit, and once we’d finished our tea and cake, Markus’s father turned to me.
“So, Nina, will you humor an old man and play for me again today?”
I’d never shared Nina’s love of drama lessons at school, but I felt a strange calmness slide through my veins as I drew the role of Nina over myself this time, as if I were stepping inside her skin. I knew Nina inside out; she was almost a sister to me now, and in that moment, I almost believed I was her.
“Of course,” I said, rising to take my violin from Leonora’s trembling hands. “I’d be happy to.”
I played for him—much better than last time, thanks to the months of teaching that Markus and Leonora kindly paid for at my school. This time, I didn’t turn my back on him, and he smiled at me through his tears. When I finished, I sat down next to him, and his expression seemed genuinely apologetic.
“I’m sorry I raised my voice at you last time.” He patted my hand awkwardly. “Your playing brings back so many memories, I may have become a little . . .”
“Emotional?” I met his gaze straight on.
He blinked. “Well, that’s a strong word, but—”
I laughed then, and he gave me a puzzled smile in return. He wasn’t scary at all, I realized. He just didn’t know how to deal with his feelings. I felt suddenly, surprisingly, sorry for him, and for the trick we were playing on him.
“So,” he said, clearing his throat, “have you thought any more about my offer?”
In my peripheral vision, I saw Leonora reach for Markus’s hand; their faces were tense. I almost smiled at how easy it would be to say yes—Yes, please, Grandfather, take me back to America with you. But instead, I frowned gently.
“I appreciate the offer,” I said. “I really do. But you know—my life is here; my friends are here; I have exams at school next year . . .”
He bowed his head. “I understand. But”—when he looked up again, his eyes were glittering fiercely—“I won’t stop asking you.”
I smiled. “Okay. ’Til next time, then.”
After his chauffeur had driven him away, Leonora and Markus seemed unnerved, casting me odd, anxious looks.
“Did I do all right?” I asked, suddenly worried I’d messed it up.
Leonora said nothing, merely staring at me, but Markus pulled himself together and patted me on the back.
“You were great,” he said. “You kept him happy; you clearly know how to handle him.” As he headed for the door, he gave Leonora a pointed look that I was unable to decipher. She turned away. I unraveled my plaits with my fingers and headed up to see Nina.
* * *
* * *
“You don’t need to hide it,” Nina said.
I was pouring her a fresh glass of water from a jug on her bedside table, and the handle slipped, sloshing liquid onto the wooden surface. I hurried to dry it with a tissue, hoping my cheeks weren’t growing as red as they felt. Was she talking about her grandfather’s visit or about Jonas?
“Your dress,” she said sadly. “And your hair’s all wavy. Did Mum plait it again? What was he like?”
I sank back onto her bed. “You know I couldn’t say no, don’t you? I mean, after doing it last time . . .” I sighed. “He was here less than an hour. He’s—he’s grumpy, I suppose, but underneath that, he’s quite nice, I think. He goes back to the States tomorrow.”
Her dark eyes were enormous. “Did he like you?”
“Why do they do it, Nina?” I searched her gaze, desperate to find an answer. “Why didn’t they just tell him the first time that you were ill? It’s just—I don’t understand . . .”
A tear slipped down her cheek. “I don’t know. How am I ever going to meet him now, if he thinks you’re me? My own grandfather . . .”
My heart squeezed with sympathy, and I leaned forward and hugged her, despite the risk of germs.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry about everything.”
But she didn’t reply to that. She merely asked me to leave so she could go back to sleep.
* * *
* * *
Remembering the cautious air of celebration after Markus’s father’s last visit, I went back downstairs, half expecting to find Leonora and Markus drinking wine, but they were nowhere in sight. I carried Nina’s empty water jug into the kitchen and set it down next to a couple of mugs by the sink. I was already thinking of Jonas again, wondering whether I might ring him at his mum’s B and B—I felt bad for thinking it, but Nina’s illness was an ideal opportunity for Jonas and me to spend a whole evening alone together. I don’t know what made me notice the mugs—perhaps the novelty of the faint chocolate aroma, as we hadn’t drunk hot chocolate since the end of the winter. I almost moved away, and then I leaned back over them.
One mug was the standard Raven Hall china, and the other was Nina’s own—a custom-made, satisfyingly chunky mug with her name painted on. Both had the usual thick chocolate dregs at the bottom. But Nina’s held an extra layer—a thin, oily layer that didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen before. I picked up the mug tentatively and tilted it to the light, and my skin prickled. There was definitely something unusual in there. What on earth was it?
Suddenly, the mug handle seemed to be burning my fingers. I set it down quickly and glanced behind me to the door. Had something been added to Nina’s drink? Was this why she was sick? The idea was shocking, but the more I tried to come up with an alternative explanation, the faster my heart raced.
Poison.
I backed away from the sink and retreated up the stairs to my bedroom as quietly as I could. Who could I ask about this? Who could I go to for advice?
It would be appallingly disloyal to mention this to anyone outside of the family. And what might the repercussions be if I mentioned it to Leonora, or to Markus, or to Nina? What if I was wrong? They’d be hurt, offended—outraged, even. It didn’t bear thinking about.
My only option was to keep it a secret.
I crawled into my bed and pulled my sheet and blanket over my head, and a single word rolled around and around in my mind.
Poison. Poison. Poison.
I thought back to earlier that morning when Raven Hall had felt like a safe place. Now I wasn’t so sure.
She spreads her meager picnic around her on the grass and sighs. She spent all of last Saturday roaming Avermere without managing to bump into the tall, kind-eyed horticulture student. It took her three hours to hitchhike to Raven Hall again this morning, and so far, her luck hasn’t picked up.
Where is he?
There were several cars parked in front of the stable block again today, but she’s never been good with car makes. She recognizes the young doctor’s Ford Capri—mink blue, he told her it was, once; his pride and joy—but other types are just a blur, and she couldn’t begin to work out whether the student’s car was here this morning. She imagines him at home in London instead—perhaps his long-haired girlfriend has gone to visit him there.
She’s brought her sketchbook with her, and she tries to distract herself by drawing her view of the lake and its little island, but her heart’s not in it. She closes the book with a snap. Then, just as she’s packing away her uneaten food and preparing to leave, along he comes, striding down the trail with a long stick in his hand, like an overgrown schoolboy. She scrambles to her feet, her heart booming.
“Aha!” he says. “Hallo. I was hoping I might bump into you.” He eyes the flattened patch of grass and her crumpled clothes, and he narrows his eyes. “You don’t live out here, do you? In a little burrow by the lake, or something?”
She laughs, delighted. “I wish I did.”
“I’ve got some tea, in a flask . . .” He pulls a face as he swings his rucksack from his shoulder. “Sounds boring, I know, but . . .”
She shakes her head. “It sounds lovely.”
They make themselves comfortable on the grass, and the student pulls out more than just a flask—he has a Tupperware container packed with perfectly ripe strawberries, and two generous slices of treacle tart wrapped in brown paper. She discovers she is hungry after all.
“They’re from the garden,” he tells her as she bites into her first strawberry. “At Raven Hall. They’re good, aren’t they?”
She closes her eyes and pretends to be savoring the taste while she squashes down memories of nurturing those strawberry plants with her mother, years before.
“They’re gorgeous,” she manages to say at last. “What’s it like, then, studying horticulture in London?” Really, she wants to ask him whether his girlfriend minds him taking picnics out into the countryside to share with a girl he barely knows. But she’s worried what the answer might be—that he feels sorry for her, or that any old companion would do. If either of those is the case, then she’d rather not know.
He gives an exaggerated sigh, then grins at her. “It’s harder than people think, actually. I’ve just finished a load of exams, and there’s never enough time to do what I want . . .”
“Isn’t this what you want?”
“Well, yes, what I mean is—I feel guilty about doing nice things like this, when I should be . . .”
“Working?”
“Yeah . . .” He tosses a strawberry husk into the undergrowth. “And my mum’s not very well, so I feel like I should spend as much time with her as I can.”
“Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry. My mum was ill, too, for a long time.”
He squints at her, and then he sits up straight and gives her a concerned look. “Do you mean . . .”
“She died, a few years ago. I—” She shakes her head, not sure what she wants to say. “I miss her so much, every day.”
“Oh.” Tentatively, he reaches out and touches the back of her hand. “I’m really sorry. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have . . .”
“It’s fine,” she says. “It’s just—I suppose I might know a bit more how you feel. Than other people do, I mean. Luckier people.” She’s thinking of the long-haired girlfriend in the orange crop top.
He nods slowly. “We don’t actually know what’s wrong with my mum. The doctors can’t work it out . . . She’s a medical mystery.” He tries to smile. “But they’re trying different treatments. And, you know, we’re lucky in other ways. Mustn’t take stuff like this for granted.” He gestures at the tangled weeds behind them. “When you think of what other people go through—did you know the poor family who lived at Raven Hall before? They had a daughter about your age—”
“No,” she says abruptly. “I never knew them.”
They sit in silence for a minute, watching a swallowtail butterfly explore a patch of thistles.
“Well . . .” The student crumples his treacle tart paper into a ball and drops it into his rucksack. “You’re right. We should talk about happier things, before I have to get back. Did you meet up with your friend the other day?”
She stares at him, trying to get past the phrase “before I have to get back.” Has he grown bored with her already? Is he missing his girlfriend? And what friend does he mean? Oh, of course—the young doctor.
“No, I didn’t bother seeing him, in the end,” she says. She drains her tea and hands the cup back to him. “I need to get going myself, actually.”
They don’t speak as they gather their belongings together and brush crumbs from their clothes, but once they’re ready to go their separate ways, the man stretches out his hand.
“I’m Markus, by the way,” he says. “It was nice talking to you, and—thanks, you know, for understanding about my mum.”
She nods. “I’m . . .” But the tip of her tongue hesitates on the roof of her mouth as his earlier words rattle through her head: “the poor family who lived at Raven Hall before.” She lifts her chin. “Lara,” she says. “I’m Lara. I’ll look out for you again next weekend.”
Beth
Summer/Autumn 1989
My thoughts were haunted by that oily gleam in Nina’s hot-chocolate mug.
For days, I tr
ied to find an innocent explanation. I scoured the pantry for vitamins or medicines that might account for it, with no success. When the others were occupied elsewhere in the house, I experimented furtively with marshmallows and other sweet ingredients, attempting to dissolve them in boiling water, then letting them cool. But I failed to re-create the strange-looking shiny layer.
I kept replaying the night before Nina’s grandfather’s first visit: Markus popping his head into the tree house and saying, “Come on, sleepyheads . . . Mum’s making you hot chocolate indoors to warm you up . . .”
Twice, Nina had fallen ill just before her grandfather’s visits, and each time she’d drunk hot chocolate in the hours beforehand. Hot chocolate that, on the second occasion, looked to have had something unusual added to it. Hot chocolate that, on the first occasion at least, Leonora had made for her.
But why on earth would Leonora want to poison her own daughter?
* * *
* * *
I withdrew into myself, telling Jonas I needed space and telling Nina I needed to concentrate on my schoolwork. I sat in my bedroom for hours, flicking through prospectuses for higher education courses that provided accommodation, wondering whether I should apply for one the following year to give me an escape route from Raven Hall. When I wasn’t worrying about poison, I was brooding on my lost family, wondering what my brother, Ricky, would be doing now if he were still alive. I longed to ask my parents for advice. I resented not having Ricky here as a role model.
Meanwhile, Nina bounced back to full health, and the rest of my life rumbled along in its normal routine; as the weeks passed, my anxiety about the possibility of poison eased, and my melancholy mood gradually lifted. I stayed alert for any recurrence of illness in Nina, or any sign of odd behavior in Leonora, but nothing happened to raise my suspicions. Eventually, I decided I might have been mistaken. Perhaps I hadn’t seen anything strange in the mug after all.