by Kayte Nunn
“Me too.” She smiled at him. Jonah looked at home in her small kitchen and she found she liked having him there.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Little Embers, Spring 1952
Esther was quick to notice the first hints of a changing season. Spring came early to this part of the world, and almost overnight the landscape was awash with narcissi, their heady perfume and cheerful orange and saffron-yellow petals dancing on the breezes that swirled around the island. When they were fishing one afternoon, Richard made her a present of a bunch of them and laughed when she buried her nose deep in the trumpets and emerged with it dusted with pollen. “I swear they have a scent unlike any other,” she declared. “Utterly divine.”
“They are also known as the Lenten lily,” he said.
“The what?”
“A symbol of the end of Christ’s time in the wilderness. Rebirth. Renewal. New beginnings.”
“New beginnings?” she echoed.
“The scent of narcissus will forever remind me of you,” he said, folding her in his arms.
She didn’t mind that he crushed the petals as they clung to each other.
They were interrupted from their embrace by a sharp tug on the line, almost causing the fishing rod to be lost to the sea. “Whoops,” cried Richard, running after it. “Nearly got away.” They worked in unison: Richard grabbed the rod and began to wind the reel in as fast as he could while Esther stood by with a large net, ready to catch the slippery fish as it emerged from the waves. She stumbled in the soft sand and landed awkwardly on one elbow, her skirt soaked by the saltwater.
Richard took one look at the expression on her face, threw his head back and burst out laughing.
“It’s not funny, you know,” she said as she got to her feet and attempted to brush the wet sand from her legs, giggling back at him nonetheless.
“Of course not,” he said between gasps, “I’d help you up, but this fish is rather more important. I can’t let it get away.”
“Is that right? You’d save the fish before me?” she said in mock annoyance, hands on hips.
“Well, we’ve got to eat. Have you still got the net?” he asked. “Come on, look sharp.”
After a few minutes’ effort there was another mackerel to add to the two writhing in the bucket on the sand. “Mrs. Biggs will be pleased,” he said as he removed the hook from its mouth. “Her stargazy pie is legendary, or so she tells me.”
“A man who’s driven by his stomach.”
“Among other things.”
Later, they tramped back to the house, the bucket containing five large mackerel and a couple of small fish swinging between them. “Careful!” Esther cried as the bucket swung perilously close to her. “You’ll get seawater all over me and I’ve hardly dried out.”
Richard flashed her a grin and she smiled back at him.
“Is it wrong to suddenly feel so happy?” Esther asked. “It’s just that I haven’t felt like this for months, years even.”
“Well, then how can that be a bad thing?”
Though she felt as if she were basking in perpetual sunlight, Teddy was never far from her thoughts, and guilt nipped at her with the sharpness of a razor clam. She missed him most at night, yearned for the soft velvet of his skin against hers, the sight of his ruddy cheeks and the sound of his voice when he called her “Mummy.” She reasoned with herself that he was probably better off without her, that he was thriving with the attentions of Nanny and John, that he was too young to be missing her very much. She still slept with his cap next to her, though the smell of him had long gone from it.
From time to time she thought of John, but though he pricked at her conscience, she quickly pushed such thoughts aside.
As they arrived at the front door, Richard left the fish outside before going to the shed to lock the fishing gear away. “I’ll see to those later,” he said. “But first I’ve got an hour with Robbie.” He looked at his watch. “Oh heck, the time ran away with us. I’d better not keep him waiting any longer.”
Richard kicked off his boots and bade Esther farewell, risking a kiss as he left.
Esther pulled off her own boots, tucking the laces out of the way and placing them neatly outside the back door. She walked into the kitchen, touching the place where Richard’s lips had been, and ran slap-bang into Jean. The nurse eyed her suspiciously.
“Fishing with Dr. Creswell?” she asked.
“Yes actually. Mackerel for supper tonight.” Esther’s reply was smooth, her face calmly innocent.
“Indeed.” The nurse looked at her closely. “I’d be careful if I were you, Mrs. Durrant.”
Esther chose to deliberately misunderstand her. “Oh, I doubt there is anything to fear from catching our supper,” she said lightly. “There’s nothing dangerous out in those waters.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Jean replied.
* * *
When the time came for Richard to leave the island for his mother’s funeral, Esther found herself at something of a loose end. The days dragged and she did her best to fill the empty hours with longer and longer walks. Her legs were strong now, the muscles in her calves and thighs defined in a way they had never been, and she felt as if she could carry on forever. Often she packed a sandwich or a couple of apples from the orchard—“red rollers,” Mrs. Biggs had called them, and they were delicious, sweet, crisp, and juicy—with only the fading light forcing her back to the house.
Sometimes she managed to persuade Robbie and George to join her. Robbie had stopped carrying Susie everywhere with him. In fact, Esther didn’t think she’d seen the doll since shortly after Christmas. She hoped that was a good sign.
“Do you think you’ll be going home soon?” she asked Robbie one day as they walked along the water’s edge together. George was a few yards ahead of them, but they had lingered to collect the smooth stones that lay scattered on the beach. The day was a fine one and so she cast off her hiking boots and socks and rolled up her trousers, enjoying the sun on her skin and the grit of the sand beneath her bare feet.
“Probably,” he sighed. He didn’t sound particularly enthused.
“Don’t you want to leave?”
He shrugged. “If I’m honest, I’m dreading it. What if nothing has changed? What if I go back to the way I was? What if it’s only being here that makes everything all right? What if here is the only place I feel that I belong anymore?” With a practiced flick, he tossed a flat pebble into the water, making it skip across the wavelets.
“But what about the people you love—your family? Don’t you want to be with them?”
He flicked another stone. “The person I care about more than anything in the world is right here.”
Esther stilled, then noticed him gazing ahead at George.
“It’s different for you. You have your husband, your son . . .”
“Yes,” she acknowledged, “I do. But you know, one of my sons died. After Teddy, I had another little boy.” She made herself say his name. “Samuel. For a long time I thought it was my fault. That I should have been there, should have known something was wrong.”
“Really?”
“I don’t think so now,” she said slowly. “Not anymore. Ri— the doctor, I mean—has helped me to see that it was an inexplicable accident, that some babies forget how to breathe and no one knows why. That it wasn’t anything I did or didn’t do.”
“Esther, I couldn’t imagine you ever hurting a fly,” said Robbie.
As she heard his words, she knew that wasn’t true. A decision had to be made, and she would hurt someone, sooner or later. “Show me how to do that?” she pleaded, breaking the intimacy of the moment.
“For you, Esther, I will reveal my secrets,” he said with a mock bow. “First you have to find your pebble. As flat and smooth as you can.”
“Okay.” She cast around the shoreline but could see nothing but shells, bleached white by the sun.
“The best ones are over there,” he said, indicati
ng a spot farther away from the beach, where the dunes met the path.
“How about these?” she asked as she returned, clutching a handful of shale.
He examined them carefully. “They’ll do. Now, it’s all in the wrist. Here, like this.” He covered her hand with his and snapped it toward the water. Esther, however, forgot to let go until too late and the stone sank into the water with a loud splash.
“Have another go. You can’t expect to get the hang of it on your first attempt.”
Esther selected another stone and did her best to copy the action she’d seen. This time the stone gave one skip before disappearing into the sea.
She gave a small whoop of excitement and noticed George turn back at the sound.
“That’s better. Don’t give up; you’ll soon get the knack,” said Robbie.
“We can’t give up, can we?” she asked, suddenly serious. “Even if it takes more courage than we think we possess.”
“I suppose not,” replied Robbie.
She gave him a squeeze. “It’ll be all right, Robbie, it’ll be all right, you’ll see.”
She said it to reassure herself as much as him.
* * *
Jean, however, used Richard’s absence to confront Esther, rounding upon her one day when Esther was digging up carrots from the vegetable garden.
“Mrs. Durrant, I think we need to have a talk,” she said.
“We do?” Esther was confused. Was this about her treatment?
“I know all about you. Your little secret. Think you’re Mrs. Perfect, don’t you? Well, you might have fooled Dr. Creswell, but you can’t fool me.”
“I’m sorry?” Esther stood up, the trowel hanging loosely from one hand.
“How dare you take another man when you’ve one of your own waiting for you at home? They’re thin enough on the ground as it is. God help your greedy little soul.” She shook with the force of her anger and Esther noticed a stray bead of spittle at the corner of her carmine-lipsticked mouth.
Somehow, Esther had known something like this was coming. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever been in love,” she replied calmly, facing her down. She would not be bullied or made to feel ashamed.
“Love? Love? I lost a man who died fighting for his country. What would you know about that? You’ve led a sheltered existence, haven’t you? A princess in your grand house, I bet. Never having to lift a finger.”
Esther’s mouth hung open. The ferocity of the woman’s attack stunned her.
“And what about your little boy?” Jean seethed. “What about him? Call yourself a mother? You’re not fit for it. Not fit at all.”
Esther could summon no defense against Jean’s accusations.
“It’s not right,” she continued. “I hope you rot in hell for what you’re doing. Dr. Creswell deserves so much better than you.” Her piece said, the nurse stormed off back to the house.
Jean is in love with Richard. The thought hit her with the ferocity of a speeding bullet. That explained her animosity, her digs about Esther’s responsibilities at home. It suddenly all made sense. Esther went, in that moment, from being irked by Jean to feeling compassion for the woman. She understood what hopeless love felt like.
Esther might have denied it, but she knew some of what Jean had said was true. What she and Richard had done was wrong, even if it amounted to little more than a few stolen kisses. Her place was at Frogmore, with Teddy . . . and John. For better . . . or for worse.
She worried about what Jean might do—if she wanted, she could ruin both of them with a few well-chosen words. She could only hope that Jean’s regard for Richard would persuade her to remain silent, but there was no guarantee of that.
As she lay awake in the small hours, she formulated a plan. She had to convince Richard of the need for her to return home as soon as she could. To persuade him that theirs had been a joyous, but brief, friendship, nothing more. No matter what her heart desired, what her body cried out for, she had to put an end to it. If she allowed things to continue, they would both overstep the boundaries and it would bring nothing but misfortune to them all.
If she wanted her son back—and oh, how she longed for him—then her only choice was to return to her husband. She knew there was no way that John would let her take Teddy and leave him. In any case, no court would agree to it, not with her history, and, she reluctantly admitted, he deserved better than that.
Silent tears soaked her pillow as the first light of a new day began to dawn.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
London, Spring 2018
Hampstead was a sea of cherry blossoms and as Rachel wound her way from the station up along the edge of the Heath and toward the High Street she stopped to admire the delicate pompoms, many of which had showered the pavement like confetti. After just a short time on St. Mary’s, the crowds and the noise and the dirt of the Underground came as a shock to her, and she was happy to be out of the crush and closer to nature again, even if it was bounded by buildings. The suburb was a tangle of brick houses set on a series of undulating hills and she enjoyed the uphill tramp to Esther’s house.
She stopped and checked the map on her phone again and worked out that she was only a few streets away from her destination. In fact, Well Walk was just around the corner. Curious, she detoured to see it for herself.
Frogmore didn’t look much different from the Google image that she’d found: tall and solid, with a series of square-paned windows at the front. The tree in the garden was also a cherry, adrift with blossoms. A panel of buzzers was fixed to the left of the front wall: the house had been turned into flats. She wondered exactly how long ago Esther had moved out.
She had emailed the copy of the photo she had found at Embers to Eve, asking at the same time if she might come to visit, telling her that she was going to be in town later in the week. Checking her watch, she saw that it was just after two o’clock, the time that Eve had suggested in her reply. Taking one last look at Frogmore, she began to walk in the direction of Esther’s present home.
The house was narrow and part of a terrace, but still imposing, with a spiked black-painted front fence and windowboxes overflowing with scarlet geraniums. She let herself in the gate and lifted the heavy iron ring of the doorknocker. The sound of it banging on the metal echoed in the quiet street.
“You must be Rachel,” said the girl who answered the door. She was slim, with long fair hair and a healthy, rosy complexion completely at odds with those of every other Londoner Rachel had so far encountered. Her eyes were an arresting gray-violet. She was dressed in an old pair of jeans, a pale pink sweater, and embroidered leather slippers, and a tiny diamond twinkled on one side of her nose. “Eve.” She held out her hand for Rachel to shake.
“Thank you for seeing me. I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience,” said Rachel, grasping her hand.
“I’m terribly sorry,” said Eve, “but Grams had a bit of a turn last night and she’s not up to visitors just at the moment.”
“Oh.” Rachel was disappointed. She had been excited at the possibility of finding out who had written the love letters, and what had happened all those years ago. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She might be better, perhaps later next week . . . ,” Eve offered.
Rachel shook her head. “I’m only up for a few days, while I see my supervisor. I suppose I should give you these.” She fumbled in her daypack and brought out the book and the photograph. The letters were still tucked inside the book. “The book has her name in it as well.” Rachel hadn’t yet mentioned the letters to Eve, thought that possibly Esther Durrant might want to see them first, indeed might even want to keep them to herself.
“Thanks. I’m helping her write a memoir at the moment, so this might come in useful,” said Eve, looking at the photo. “She was beautiful when she was young, wasn’t she?” Eve turned the picture toward Rachel and pointed to the young woman on the left of the frame.
“Did you show it to her when I emailed it throu
gh?” Rachel asked.
Eve nodded. “She looked at it for a long time. And then the next day, she wouldn’t get out of bed at all. Said she felt dizzy. She doesn’t have a temperature, and the doctor can’t find anything specific, but she seems rather shaken.”
“Oh, I do hope I haven’t been the cause of it,” said Rachel, contrite.
“She’s a tough one,” Eve replied. “She’s climbed the highest mountains on three continents. I doubt that a photo would faze her that much.”
“Well, do let me know if there’s anything more I can do, or if you need anything from Embers, anything at all.”
“Of course,” Eve smiled. “I’ve got your details. Thank you for coming all this way. I’ll make sure she sees it as soon as she wakes up.”
Rachel walked back across the Heath to the train station and tried to forget all about Esther Durrant and the mysterious letters. She’d done her bit by getting them—finally—to her and she really didn’t need to have any further involvement. But not knowing much more than when she’d first found them nagged at her. She knew she’d have a hard time letting it go. She supposed she could always email Eve in a week or so’s time, use the excuse of inquiring about her grandmother’s health. That thought made it a little easier to walk away.
The rest of the day was Rachel’s to spend as she liked. The weather was fine and so she decided against getting back on the tube, making her way on foot back toward her hotel, which was near Green Park, instead. She checked the map on her phone and worked out a rough route, one that would take her down through Regent’s Park and into Mayfair. She brightened. She’d treat herself to tea at Fortnum & Mason and try not to think too much about her meeting with Dr. Wentworth on Monday.
She was nearly there when she looked up at the street sign to check her progress: she was standing at the entrance to Cork Street. She’d been preoccupied the entire hour and more that it had taken her to walk from Hampstead, but she’d half-known where she would end up when she’d seen the street name as she was looking at the map.