I was nodding, but slowly; it certainly didn’t sound implausible. Percy Blythe didn’t strike me as the type ever to be warm and fuzzy, but I’d noticed on my first visit to the castle that she was particularly short with Mrs. Bird. And there was definitely some sort of secret being kept at the castle. Was it possible that this love affair was the very thing Saffy had wanted to tell me about, the detail she hadn’t felt comfortable discussing with Adam Gilbert? And was that why Percy was so adamant that Saffy should not be interviewed further? Because she sought to stop her twin from giving up their father’s secret, from telling me about Raymond Blythe’s long-standing relationship with his housekeeper?
But why would Percy care so much? Not from loyalty to her own mother, surely: Raymond Blythe had married more than once, so presumably Percy had come to terms with the realities of the human heart. And even if it were as Mrs. Bird proposed, that Percy was old-fashioned and didn’t approve of the classes mingling romantically, I was doubtful as to whether she would care so deeply after all these decades, especially when so much else had happened to bring perspective to their lives. Could she really consider it such a travesty that her father had once been in love with his long-term housekeeper that she would fight to keep the fact forever hidden from public record? I just couldn’t see it. Whether Percy Blythe was old-fashioned or not was neither here nor there: she was a pragmatist; I had seen enough of her to realize that a flint of steely realism lay within Percy’s heart. If she was keeping secrets, it wasn’t for reasons of prudery or social morality.
“Even more than that,” said Mrs. Bird, sensing perhaps my wavering opinion, “I’ve sometimes wondered whether—I mean, Mum never so much as hinted at it, but—” She shook her head and flapped her fingers forward. “No—no, it’s silly.”
She was now holding her hands clutched against her chest almost coyly, and it took me a confused moment to make out why, what it was she wanted me to think. I picked my way slowly along the prickly notion and said, “You believe he might have been your father?”
Her eyes met mine and I knew I’d guessed correctly. “Mum loved that house, the castle, all of the Blythe family. She talked about old Mr. Blythe sometimes, about how clever he was, how proud she was to have worked for such a famous writer. But she was funny about it, too. Didn’t like to drive past if we could help it. Clammed up right in the middle of a story and refused to go any further, got this sad, wistful look in her eyes.”
It would certainly explain a lot of things. Percy Blythe might not have minded that her father carried on a relationship with his housekeeper, but for him to have fathered another child? A younger daughter, another half sister for his girls? There would be implications if that was so, implications that had nothing to do with prudery or morality, implications that Percy Blythe, defender of the castle, protector of her family legacy, would do anything to avoid.
And yet, even as I thought such things, acknowledged the possibilities and drew quite tangible connections, there was something in Mrs. Bird’s suggestion that I just could not accept. My resistance wasn’t rational and I would have struggled to explain it if asked; nonetheless, it was fierce. Loyalty, however misguided, to Percy Blythe, to the three old ladies on the hill who were such a closed coterie that it was impossible for me to imagine there might be any addition to their number.
The clock above the fireplace chose that moment to announce our arrival at the hour, and it was as if an enchantment had been broken. Mrs. Bird, her burden lightened for having been shared, began to clear the salt and pepper shakers from the tables. “The room isn’t going to do itself, I expect,” she said. “I keep hoping, but I’ve been disappointed thus far.”
I stood, too, gathering our empty tumblers.
Mrs. Bird smiled at me as I arrived at her side. “They can surprise us, can’t they, our parents? The things they got up to before we were born.”
“Yes,” I said. “Almost like they were real people once.”
THENIGHTHEDIDN’TCOME
ONmy first day of official interviews, I started early for the castle. It was cold and gray, and although the previous night’s drizzle had lifted, it had taken much of the world’s vitality with it and the landscape looked to have been bleached. There was something new in the air, too, a bitter chill that made me drive my hands deep into my pockets as I walked, cursing myself because I’d forgotten to bring gloves.
The Sisters Blythe had told me not to knock, but to come in directly when I arrived and make my way to the yellow parlor. “It’s on Juniper’s account,” Saffy had explained discreetly as I left the day before. “A knock at the door and she thinks it’shim,arrived at last.” She didn’t explain further the identity ofhim;she didn’t have to.
The last thing I wanted to do was upset Juniper, so I was on guard, particularly after my faux pas the day before. I did as I’d been told, pushed open the front door, stepped into the stone entrance hall, and followed the dark corridor. Holding my breath, for some reason, as I went.
When I reached the parlor, no one was there. Even Juniper’s green velvet chair was empty. I stood for a moment, wondering what to do next, whether I’d somehow got the timing wrong. Then I heard footsteps and turned to see Saffy at the door, dressed in her usual pretty fashion, but with an air of fuss about her, as if I’d caught her unawares.
“Oh!” She stopped abruptly at the edge of the rug. “Edith, you’re here. But of course you are”—a glance at the mantel clock—“it’s almost ten o’clock.” She brushed a fine hand against her forehead and attempted a smile. It refused to form easily or fully and she dropped it. “I’m so sorry if I’ve kept you waiting. Only, we’ve had rather an eventful morning and time quite slipped away.”
A creeping sense of dread had followed her into the room and it settled now around me. “Is everything all right?” I asked.
“No,” she said, and she wore a pallor of such utter bereavement on her face that my first shocking thought, given the empty chair, was that something had happened to Juniper. It was almost a relief when she said, “It’s Bruno. He’s disappeared. He’d gone from Juniper’s room when I went to help her dress this morning and we’ve seen neither hide nor hair since.”
“Perhaps he’s playing somewhere,” I suggested. “In the woods or the gardens?” Even as I said it, I remembered the way he’d looked the day before, the shortness of breath, the sagging shoulders, the ridge of gray along his spine, and I knew it wasn’t so.
Sure enough, Saffy shook her head. “No. No, he wouldn’t, you see. He rarely strays from Juniper, and then only ever to sit by the front stairs, watching for visitors. Not that we ever have any. Present company excepted.” She smiled slightly, almost apologetically, as if she feared I might have taken offense. “This is different, though. We’re all terribly worried. He hasn’t been well and he’s not been acting himself. Percy had to go looking for him yesterday, and now this.” Her fingers knotted together at her belt, and I wished there was something I could do to help. There are certain people who exude vulnerability, whose pain and discomfort are particularly difficult to witness, and for whom you would endure almost any inconvenience if it promised to ease their suffering. Saffy Blythe was one of them.
“Why don’t I go and have a look at the spot where I saw him yesterday?” I said, starting for the door. “Perhaps he’s gone back there for some reason.”
“No—”
She said it so sharply that I turned immediately; one of her hands reached out to me, the other worried the neckline of her knitted cardigan against her fragile skin.
“What I mean is”—her outstretched arm dropped to her side—“how kind it is of you to offer, but that it’s unnecessary. Percy’s on the telephone right now, calling Mrs. Bird’s nephew so that he might come around and help us search … I’m sorry. I’m not being very clear. Forgive me, but I’m rather flummoxed, only”—she glanced beyond me, at the door—“I had hoped that I might catch you like this.”
“You had?”
She pressed her lips together, and I saw that she wasn’t merely worried for Bruno’s safety, she was nervous about something else. “Percy will be along in a minute,” she said softly. “She’s going to take you to see the notebooks, just as she promised—but before she comes, before you go with her, there’s something I need to explain.”
Saffy looked so serious then, so vexed, that I went to her, placed a hand on the side of her birdlike shoulder. “Here,” I said, leading her to the sofa, “come and sit down. Is there something I can get for you? A cup of tea while we wait?”
Her smile was lit with the gratitude of a person unused to being the recipient of kindness. “Bless you, but no. There isn’t time. Sit with me, please.”
A shadow shifted by the doorway and she stiffened slightly, listening. There was nothing but silence. Silence and the odd corporeal noises to which I was growing accustomed: the gurgle of something behind the pretty ceiling cornice, the gentle breathing of the shutters against the windowpane, the grinding of the house’s bones.
