“Well, if we’re inviting all of them,” said her mother, “we’d better ask everyone at your father’s office as well. We can’t cause offense.”
“It’s going to be as big as the wedding,” said Maddy to Della.
“What can we do?” said Della.
Nothing, Maddy knew. She began to wish she’d never suggested the party.
She’d wish it even more on the day itself, but that was another matter. Mercifully oblivious to how it was all going to turn out, for the two weeks that followed, if she wasn’t at the school, she was in and out of her parents’ home, with a frequency that the demands of a child’s party didn’t truly necessitate. But she’d been missing the villa’s creaks, its scent of citronella and wood polish, the light-drenched rooms, much more than she’d been prepared for when she’d watched her and Iris’s things being moved out. She exhaled each time she stepped onto the veranda and leaned on the balustrade, looking down into the garden she’d grown to love over the years. Occasionally, she stole up to her room and sat on her bed, holding her matches, Luke’s golden silk, staring through the window at the sunshine, feeling the knots in her ease. And it was so wonderful to spend time with Cook and Ahmed again, both of whom cackled, delighted, when she told them about the roast chicken debacle. “You should never have been leaving us,” they said, and she agreed quietly that she shouldn’t, then made them all chai, which they drank as they worked through the recipe books, preparing for the hordes of guests about to descend on them. Iris suspected nothing of what they were doing. She was too caught up reading stories with her grandmama in her old nursery, playing in the garden with Suya and the rest. As her birthday drew closer, she began to resist leaving at the end of the day, crying and begging Maddy to let her please, please just stay another few minutes. In the end, Maddy would carry her home, not admonishing her, but cuddling her tight, because it was clear that content as she’d seemed at Guy’s, she missed her home, too. Guy’s always felt too quiet by comparison when they got back there, too full of his staff who didn’t know them, and empty of him, since another of his surgeons had fallen ill, and he was practically living at the hospital.
Stifling as Maddy found his presence, with him gone, the hours after sunset felt very long. Iris, exhausted from her long days, was always asleep by seven, her quiet snores the only noise in the otherwise echoing house. Maddy was unwilling to invite her parents over, lest she worry them as much as she had at that lunch. She didn’t want to bother Della for the same reason; besides, Della was busy with her own family, and an increasingly difficult Emily. Peter, who’d left her in no doubt that she could bother him at any time, had also hugged her for a very long time after that grim Sunday, and would, she suspected, make her talk about things there was no point in talking about if she asked him to come.
So, without ever planning it, she asked the ayah to keep an eye on Iris, and started to go out herself.
Back to Luke’s old rooms.
She felt so guilty as she crept from the villa and into her silver saloon. She knew that Guy, who’d bought her the motor she was using to betray him—and who was working so very hard, always helping others—would be crushed if he knew what she was doing. Each time she pulled up outside Luke’s sleepy, silent apartment and stared across at the wooden door, imagining the shadow of herself running through it, she told herself that it would be the last. But it never was. Night after night, she slipped from her motor and traced her fingers along the windowsills. She sat on the steps he, too, had touched and clenched his diamond ring in her hands. She leaned her head back against the door, closed her eyes, and lost herself in her memories, sometimes for hours at a time.
She did that right up until the eve of the party.
The party when everything changed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
By one on that Saturday, the celebrations were in full, sun-bathed swing. Richard’s and Guy’s colleagues filled the large lawn, smoking and drinking in white suits and topees, their heat-flushed wives beside them: laughing, fanning their pink faces, sinking into the grass on their heels. Perspiring children ran everywhere, rocketing from the jugglers to the magician over to the ponies Richard had taken it upon himself to arrange, grabbing at the tables of sweating fairy cakes and sandwiches, the inevitable platters of curry puffs. There were far too many people, Alice had to concede that Madeline had been right about that. Well in excess of a hundred had come, and Iris, who’d stuck like a shadow to Madeline’s side from the outset, was clearly overwhelmed by all the strangers and not enjoying her surprise even a bit. Richard, resplendent in another of his paper hats, was trying to coax her over to the ponies, but she clung to Madeline, who still looked far too thin, and worryingly tired, with purple shadows of sleeplessness in her cream skin.
Alice let go a troubled sigh. She hadn’t expected Madeline to struggle so much in her new life. She hadn’t imagined she’d struggle at all. For herself, unable to remain entirely deaf to Richard’s initial concerns, she’d watched her carefully throughout the engagement, wanting to be absolutely sure that she hadn’t helped push her into something she might come to regret. But Madeline had seemed so … fine. More than fine. Almost like her old self. Even Richard had come round, agreeing in the end that the match truly did appear for the best. Alice couldn’t think what might have happened since. She’d spoken to Iris, but Iris had assured her there’d been no arguments or cross words at home.
“And does Mummy still smile and laugh?” Alice had asked.
“Yes,” Iris had said, distracted by the doll she’d been playing with. “Guy cuddles Mummy, too, a lot.”
Alice bit her lip now, studying Madeline as she ran her finger around the neck of her loose, cream lace dress. Peter held a glass of champagne out for her to take, but Madeline shook her head, refusing it. Too hot, maybe. Or—Alice felt her leaden heart lift a fraction—perhaps she was pregnant. She’d been quite poorly with Iris, after all, unable to even smell alcohol. Yes, that really could be it.
Alice turned toward Guy, who was with Della, Jeff, and company by the magician—Jeff holding biting Emily firmly by the hand. Unlike the rest of them, Guy wasn’t watching the magician tapping his hat. He was studying Madeline, as though he’d be inside her mind if he could. He looked shattered after his long hours at the hospital, uncomfortable in his suit, and for once every one of his forty-eight years, but not despondent. Far from it. His gaze was … protective, almost.
As it would be, if Madeline was with child.
The more Alice thought about it, the surer she became that she might be. She almost started to relax.
And then she remembered Diana.
She’d seen her earlier that week, unfortunate enough to bump into her outside the Gymkhana Club, on her way to meet Richard for lunch. (They’d had lunches a deal more in recent years. With everything so much better with Madeline, she’d managed to stop pushing him away as she once had. It was so nice to have stopped doing that.) Diana had looked much as she ever had: overzealous rouge, a brittle smile, and black hair that she’d had cropped in the new fashion (a mistake in the Indian humidity; it frizzed beneath her hat).
They’d gone through all the pleasantries, both thinking, Alice was certain, of that letter Diana had sent back in 1916. One never imagines they’ll encounter a face like that twice. Alice, who normally did her best to forget Diana’s preposterous suggestion that Luke might have survived, of course hadn’t mentioned it.
The last thing she’d expected was for Diana to bring it up.
But she had. “Did you ever tell dear Maddy about it?” she’d asked.
“I told you I wouldn’t,” Alice had replied, her voice glacial to her own ears.
“It’s just there were developments,” Diana had said, and, to Alice’s choking alarm, had gone on, talking of how a Dr. Arnold had written to her, telling her that the man she’d thought she’d recognized as Luke had apparently recognized her, too. “He still had no memory, though. I wrote back to the doctor, tellin
g him that Maddy had married again, and sent the clippings of the photographs, so that this patient could see if he knew her.” She’d pouted. “It looked a lovely wedding, Alice. One would have liked to have been invited.”
“You weren’t here,” Alice had said automatically.
“Yes, of course,” said Diana. “I knew that must have been it.”
“Did you hear from Dr. Arnold again?” Alice had managed to ask.
“Only once,” Diana had replied. “He told me that he’d shown his patient the clippings, and I could leave it with him now.” She’d shrugged daintily. “Does one assume this man was or was not Luke Devereaux? And is Maddy or is Maddy not a bigamist?” She’d laughed. Actually laughed. “A divorcée rather pales by comparison.”
“It won’t have been Luke,” Alice had said, not laughing. “It can’t have been. Peter was with him when he died.”
“Well, quite,” Diana had said. “You were so sure about that, weren’t you? I made mention of that to Dr. Arnold, too.” Her eyes had twinkled. Alice, who’d never hit a soul, had been tempted to strike the patent enjoyment from her face. “Are you going to tell Maddy,” Diana had gone on, “so she can write to Dr. Arnold herself and check?”
Alice hadn’t answered.
She’d thought about it. Endlessly.
She did it again now. She looked from poor, tired Guy, back to Madeline, who was kneeling before Iris, apparently trying to talk her into something, and decided to say nothing. What was the point? That unfortunate soldier really couldn’t have been Luke. Luke—poor, poor Luke—was dead. And Maddy had her family now. A proper family. She needed time, help to adjust, settle into the long years of happiness Alice knew were waiting for her, here. In India.
She simply couldn’t bring herself to jeopardize that.
* * *
Guy stared at Maddy talking to Iris, oblivious to Alice studying him. He smiled at the way Maddy held Iris’s cheeks in her hands, head on one side as she attempted to cajole her into having some fun. His wife; so exquisite.
He’d watched her, just a few short hours before, as she’d dressed for the party. He’d just got back from the hospital—where, thanks to some temporary staff being sent from Poona, they’d soon no longer be so shorthanded—and, fresh from his bath, had sat on the edge of his bed to fasten his cuff links. He’d paused, catching sight of her through their ajar connecting door. She’d been wearing just her corset. Her hair had been loose, falling over her bare shoulder. He’d watched the rise and fall of her chest as she’d bent, pulling her stockings up over her calves, and listened to the soft whisper of silk on skin. Her fingertips had skimmed her knees, her thighs, and he’d felt the heat in his own hands. He’d wanted to go to her. He’d felt such an urge to do that. He’d known that he should leave her, that she was busy, getting ready for Iris, but it had been too long since he’d touched her. So he’d stood, unable to help himself, and crossed to her room.
She’d raised her eyes, seeing him.
“Hello,” she’d said, and had smiled; that small, slow smile she seemingly reserved for him. “You look like you need to sleep, not go to a party.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he’d said, taking her hands in his, kissing her wrists, hearing her breath falter, still so nervous.
He’d pulled her closer, wishing he could help her stop being nervous. He’d lifted her hair, run his lips down the soft nape of her neck, losing himself in her scent, the feel of her, willing her to do the same with him.
She’d demurred, telling him there was no time.
“Let me,” he’d said. Please let me show you how much I love you.
“Tonight,” she’d murmured.
“I can’t wait,” he’d said, and, in the end, she hadn’t made him. He’d been too rushed, though. He hadn’t even stopped to give her time to go the bathroom as she’d asked. He’d felt rather ashamed afterward. He’d apologized, for being such a boor.
“You’re not a boor,” she’d said quietly, already straightening her stockings, and he’d tried not to pay attention to the unwelcome thought that she might have been glad it had been over so quickly.
“We’ll see you in a minute,” he heard her say now to her father and Peter, as she stood, leading Iris up the lawn.
He frowned, wondering where they could be going.
Not stopping to think, he set off after them.
* * *
They were off to have cake with Cook in the kitchen. The gardener’s trio had been too shy to come and join the party with so many there, and Iris was worried they’d be upset with her when she saw them again at school, so Maddy had told her they’d find them, too, and bring them in.
“Ahmed as well?” Iris had said.
“Ahmed, too. And Peter will fetch Emily and Lucy…”
“I will,” Peter had said.
“And I’ll get Grandmama,” Richard had said.
It was only now, approaching the villa, hearing Guy call her name, that Maddy realized she’d forgotten all about him. She stalled, cursing her own insensitivity.
“Oh no,” said Iris, “poor Guy.” (From the mouths of babes.)
“Go and tell him,” Maddy said, pushing her off with a hand to her warm, clammy back.
Iris trotted away.
Maddy watched her go, saw Guy smile, open his arms to her. “Hello, sweet one.”
Then, something strange.
As Guy took Iris in his arms, he stopped, looked over her black curls toward the villa, his attention apparently caught by something on the large shaded veranda. His stare widened in what seemed like alarm at whatever, or whoever, was there.
Maddy didn’t hesitate before following his gaze. It came as instinctively as a breath—held, not taken—to look up, toward the cause of his shock. She gave herself no time to pause, to guess what she might see. Even if she had, she wouldn’t have allowed herself to imagine that it would be him, hands in his pockets, eyes dark in his unforgettable face. Did you really think I could miss another birthday?
She moved, turning her head in curiosity, and raised her eyes. It took a fraction of a second, no more, and then she saw him there. A white shirt. A linen jacket. Dark hair beneath a panama.
A sob rose in her throat. It swelled, choking her, not coming out.
He stood just back from the balustrade, unblinking, staring at her, as though unable to think what was happening either. She watched him—the taut stillness of his jaw, his cheeks—his face that she loved so well, and her tears finally broke free, a strange, strangled sound with them; of elation, overwhelming joy. For a beat, that was all she knew. He’s alive, she thought, alive. The sheer wonder of it flooded her, filling her lungs, her chest, her fingers, her every single nerve. She longed to run to him, to throw herself into his arms. Her muscles screamed to do it.
But she didn’t move.
Nor did he.
She couldn’t think what was stopping them.
Then he looked past her, to where Guy was of course holding Iris. Slowly, wrenchingly, she returned to the unyielding reality of the garden they were in. She watched Luke (Luke) absorb the sight of their daughter in Guy’s arms. Stop, she wanted to shout, don’t.
But he’d already seen.
Pain filled his face, and she felt her own chest fracture.
Because he’d come, at last. After six years of waiting, he’d come.
And it was two months too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
He left the veranda before she could make herself move to stop him, disappearing without a word. It was almost, agonizingly, as though he’d never been there at all. The party somehow continued—the magician blew his horn, people clapped and laughed, the ponies neighed, everyone seemingly oblivious to how the world had just shifted on its axis—and Maddy was dimly conscious that she should be grateful to have had no vast audience, but all she could think about was that Luke was alive, he was alive, and she’d let him go.
She needed to get him back.
Legs shakin
g with urgency, she made to set off.
But, “Mummy,” came Iris’s voice, cutting through the heat, the garden’s noise, stopping her in her tracks. The only voice that could possibly have done such a thing.
Maddy turned. Iris was running toward her, little face wrought. At the panic in her expression, the confusion in her blue eyes, Maddy closed her own, feeling a stab of shame that she’d been about to leave her without a word. She dropped to the grass, opening her arms—fluid with shock—and picked her up, holding her quaking body tight.
“Why are you crying?” Iris asked.
“I’m not crying,” said Maddy, biting the insides of her cheeks to stop herself doing it more.
“That looked like my daddy in your photograph,” said Iris.
“It was,” said Maddy, picturing him already halfway down the driveway, looking over his shoulder, wondering why she hadn’t cared enough to follow. “Iris, I need to go after him.…”
“No, Mummy, no.” Iris clung to her. “Stay with me.”
“I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“You can’t.”
“Come, too,” said Maddy desperately.
“I want you to stay here,” said Iris.
“Let’s go into the villa,” came Guy’s voice, letting Maddy know he’d moved to join them. When had he done that?
“Guy,” she began, glancing again at the empty space Luke had left, “I need to—”
“No,” said Iris, tightening her hold.
“Let’s go inside,” said Richard, also suddenly present, face drawn beneath his paper hat, a fraught Alice at his side.
I don’t want to go inside, Maddy almost shouted. It was Iris, limpet-like around her, who held her short.
“I’m not letting you go,” Iris said, in case there was any doubt.
Maddy drew breath, ready to beg her. But before she could, Iris started crying, too.
“Iris,” Maddy said in despair, “Iris, you don’t need to…”
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