I ate dinner at a table by myself in the cozy dining room of Mrs. Bird’s farmhouse. The whole place smelled warmly of the vegetable stew that had been served, and a fire crackled in the grate. Outside, the wind continued to build, buffeting the glass panes, gently for the most part, but with occasional sharper bursts, and I thought—not for the first time—what a true and simple pleasure it was, to be inside and sated when the cold and the starless dark spread out across the world.
I’d brought my notes to begin work on the Raymond Blythe article, but my thoughts would not behave themselves, drifting back, time and again, to his daughters. It was the sibling thing, I suppose. I was fascinated by the intricate tangle of love and duty and resentment that tied them together. The glances they exchanged; the complicated balance of power established over decades; the games I would never play with rules I would never fully understand. And perhaps that was key: they were such a natural group that they made me feel remarkably singular by comparison. To watch them together was to know strongly, painfully, all that I’d been missing.
“Big day?” I looked up to see Mrs. Bird standing above me. “And another tomorrow, I don’t doubt?”
“I’m going to see Raymond Blythe’s work notebooks in the morning.” I couldn’t help myself; the excitement just bubbled up and out of its own volition.
Mrs. Bird was nonplussed, but in a kind sort of way. “Well, that’s nice, dear. You don’t mind if I …?” She laid a hand on the chair across from me.
“Of course not.”
She sat with a heavy lady’s huff, flattening a hand across her stomach as she righted herself against the table edge. “Well now, that feels a bit better. I’ve been run off my feet all day.” She nodded at my notes. “But I see you’re working late, too.”
“Trying. I’m a bit distracted, though.”
“Oh.” Her eyebrows arrowed. “Handsome fellow, is it?”
“Something like that. Mrs. Bird, I don’t suppose there were any phone calls for me today?”
“Phone calls? Nothing I can think of. Were you expecting one? The young fellow you’re mooning over?” Her eyes brightened as she said, “Your publisher, perhaps?”
She looked so hopeful that it felt rather cruel to disappoint her. Nonetheless, for clarity’s sake: “My mum, actually. I had hoped she might make it down for a visit.”
A particularly large gust of wind rattled along the window locks and I shivered, from pleasure more than chill. There was something about the atmosphere that night, something enlivening. Mrs. Bird and I were the only two remaining in the dining room, and the log in the fire had been honeycombed so that it glowed red, popping occasionally and spitting bits of gold against the bricks. I’m not sure whether it was the warm, smoky room itself, its contrast with the wet and the wind outside; or a reaction to the pervasive atmosphere of knots and secrets I’d encountered at the castle; or even just a sudden desire to have a normal conversation with another human being. Whatever the case, I felt expansive. I closed my notebook and pushed it aside. “My mother came here as an evacuee,” I said. “During the war.”
“To the village?”
“To the castle.”
“No! Really? Stayed there with the sisters?”
I nodded, pleased out of all proportion by her reaction. Wary, too, as a little voice inside my head whispered that my pleasure stemmed from the sense of possession Mum’s link with Milderhurst conferred onto me. A sense of possession that was most misplaced, and one that I’d thus far failed to mention to the Misses Blythe themselves.
“Goodness!” Mrs. Bird was saying, clapping her fingertips together. “What a lot of stories she must have! The mind boggles.”
“Actually, I have her war journal here with me—”
“War journal?”
“Her diary from the time. Bits and pieces about how she felt, the people she met, the place itself.”
“Why then, there’s probably mention of my own mum in there,” said Mrs. Bird, straightening proudly.
It was my turn to be surprised. “Your mum?”
“She worked at the castle. Started as a maid when she was sixteen; finished up as head housekeeper. Lucy Rogers, though it was Middleton back then.”
“Lucy Middleton,” I said slowly, trying to recall any mention in Mum’s journal. “I’m not sure; I’ll have to check.” Mrs. Bird’s shoulders had slumped a little under the weight of her disappointment and I felt personally responsible, clutching at ways to make it better. “She hasn’t told me much about it, you see; I only found out about her evacuation recently.”
I regretted saying it immediately. Hearing myself speak the words made me more acutely aware than ever how strange it was for a woman to have kept such a thing secret; and I felt implicated somehow, as if Mum’s silence might be due to a personal failing of mine. And I felt foolish, too, because if I’d been a little more circumspect, a little less eager to absorb Mrs. Bird’s interest, I wouldn’t be in this predicament. I prepared myself for the worst, but Mrs. Bird surprised me. With a knowing nod, she leaned a little closer and said, “Parents and their secrets, eh?”
“Yes.” A lump of charcoal popcorned in the hearth and Mrs. Bird lifted a finger, signaling that she’d be back in just a minute; she squeezed herself out of her chair and disappeared through a concealed exit in the papered wall.
Rain blew softly against the wooden door, filling the pond outside, and I pressed my palms together, held them prayerlike against my lips, before tilting them to lean my cheek on the back of my fire-warmed hand.
When Mrs. Bird returned with a bottle of whisky and two cut-glass tumblers, the suggestion so suited the moody, inclement evening that I smiled and accepted gladly.
We clinked glasses across the table.
