‘Martha, Frankie, you are already living here and paying rent and other costs. If you can make any other small contributions, it would help us chip away at the problem and show the bank that we are doing our best. Any help you can give with the cookery school guests would also be greatly appreciated.’
‘Yes,’ said Sylvia. ‘The four rooms on the east side that overlook the gardens are nearly ready for guests; well…they’re not quite five-star luxury, but they’re clean and we’ve moved out all the clutter and put in some decent furniture from other rooms. We can sleep a maximum of eight, although we don’t yet have any parties that big on the books. It would make a huge difference if you could help look after the housekeeping, rather than us having to pay Agnes or anyone else. They won’t need more than some dusting, the bathrooms kept clean and sheets and towels changing.’
Both girls nodded sombrely, their faces creased with concern and tears welling in Martha’s eyes.
‘But what canIdo?’ asked Juliet. ‘I don’t want to lose Feywood, but I have no money. Nothing really.’ She looked around at the strained faces, all now turned towards her. ‘I don’t see how I can help,’ she added in a small voice, already knowing the answer. Nobody spoke. To her dismay, she felt a lump forming in her throat and tears in her eyes. ‘I’ll have to come back, won’t I?’ she whispered. ‘Work from here and give you rent, help with the guests.’
She tensed every muscle in her body, pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and summoned up all her willpower to stop the hateful tears from falling. She never, never cried in front of anyone else, not anymore, and had no intention of starting now. It was Martha who spoke next, her voice gentle.
‘That’s not so bad, is it, Jools? You always say you have nothing left over at the end of the month with the rent you pay in London, and you could work from home. We’re not so far from the city if you need to go back for meetings.’
‘Yes, join us here in the sticks,’ interrupted Frankie. ‘We can all huddle over a single candle together at night – very Dickensian.’
Léo laughed and Juliet glared at him, then turned to her sister, half-furious, half-despairing.
‘Oh, hilarious – I suppose this is funny for you, but it’s my entire life you’re talking about upending.’
Her voice cracked and she clamped her mouth shut. What more was there to say anyway?
Kind Will stepped in again, giving her a chance to compose herself.
‘Juliet, we’re so sorry that it has come to this. We do have a suggestion for returning to Feywood that might make things easier.’
Not trusting herself to speak, Juliet nodded.Return to Feywood, she thought, panic rising hotly through her body. She couldn’t bear it. To be sequestered here again, to lose what she had made of herself, what she had become, for better or worse. Wouldn’t it mean being a child again, losing her prized freedom? Maybe not, with her mother dead…
A voice cut into her thoughts, her Aunt Sylvia’s kind voice.
‘Juliet, dear, Rousseau has already discussed this with me, and I suggested that you might like to look at the space above the cookery school, the old haylofts from when it was a stable? There are roof windows so it’s bright and it’s warm and clean with running water, so with a few alterations you could use it to live and work in, if you liked.’
The softness and concern in her aunt’s voice threatened to tip Juliet over the edge, and she couldn’t, just couldn’t, cry infront of all these people. She had no idea how she felt, and she certainly didn’t want them to start filling in the blanks before she’d had a chance tothink. She stood up abruptly, preferring to look rude over seeming vulnerable or, God forbid, pitiable.
‘It’s fine. I understand. I’ll think about it.’
She turned and left the room, then fled up the stairs, taking them two at a time, to her childhood room, where she made straight for the bathroom – the only room where she was confident of a secure lock and relative privacy – and finally released the sobs of fear and helplessness and, yes, of relief.
After Juliet had left the room, it was Rousseau who broke the ensuing silence, his voice full of sadness.
‘Poor Juliet, so miserable at the thought of coming back to Feywood, but I don’t understandwhy.’
His face fleetingly looked like that of a child, crumpled in confusion.
‘I think it’s such alovelyplace to live – you do too, don’t you, girls? You seem happy here.’
Léo watched as Martha and Frankie exchanged glances. Clearly more to know here than Rousseau realises, he thought. It was Martha who spoke.
‘Yes, Dad, of course we are, but it’s…very different for Juliet.’
‘Different? But why? Haven’t you all always been welcome?’
‘Yes, but…you know that she and Mum struggled to get on, and I think that moving to London was her way of?—’
‘Of having some sort of teenage rebellion, a bit late, I should say,’ her father interrupted. ‘Well, that’s out of the way now, and with Lilith gone, I don’t know what she’s making such a fuss about.’
He clicked his tongue impatiently and cast a glance towards his sculpture. Léo realised that the man had had enough of the discussion and needed to work; he recognised the urge himself. He turned to cooking for all sorts of reasons, not all of them for professional progress: it could be soothing, to dissolve anger, to clear the mind and help him find fresh perspective. He sympathised with this great sculptor, who needed to work more than to deal with his petulant middle daughter, who was doubtless still working off that hangover which had made her look so ravaged this morning in the garden. He shook off the creeping memory of how attractive she had looked, regardless, and of how intrigued he was by her complicated reactions to her family home. Complex women had always been a weakness of his, however bad they were for him.
‘Mr Carlisle…’
‘Please, Rousseau.’
