“I’m sorry, Merry,” he said, covering her fingers, still clutching at his shirt, with his. “It’s for the best. Go and fetch your things. We’re going home.”
And that’s when Meredith did the very wicked thing, the betrayal for which her mother would never forgive her. Her only excuse that she was robbed entirely of choice; that she was a child and would be for years to come, and nobody cared what she wanted. She was tired of being treated like a parcel or a suitcase, shunted off here or there depending on what the adults thought was best. All she wanted was to belong somewhere.
She took her dad’s hand and said, “I’m sorry, too, Dad.”
And as bewilderment was still settling on his lovely face she smiled apologetically, avoided her mum’s furious glare, and ran as fast as she could down the grassy lawn. Leaped across the verge and into the cool, dark safety of Cardarker Wood.
PERCY FOUNDout about Saffy’s plans for London quite by chance. If she hadn’t absented herself from tea with Meredith’s parents, she might never have known. Not until it was too late. It was fortunate, she supposed, that the public airing of dirty laundry was something she found both embarrassing and drear, and that she’d made her excuses and gone inside, intending only to allow the requisite time to pass before returning to stilled waters. She’d expected to find Saffy crouched by the window, spying on proceedings from afar and demanding a report—What were the parents like? How did Meredith seem? Had they enjoyed the cakes?—so it had been somewhat surprising to find the kitchen empty.
Percy remembered she was still carrying the teapot and, following her rather feeble ruse, returned the kettle to the stove. Time passed slowly and her attention drifted away from the flames, and she started wondering instead what dreadful thing she’d done to deserve both a wedding and a tea engagement on the same day. And that’s when it came, a shrill clattering from the butler’s pantry. Telephone calls had become rare after the post office warned that social chatter over the networks could delay important war talks, so it took a moment for Percy to realize the cause of the indignant racket.
As a consequence, when she did finally lift the receiver, she succeeded in sounding both fearful and suspicious: “Milderhurst Castle. Hello?”
The caller identified himself at once as Archibald Wicks of Chelsea and asked to speak to Miss Seraphina Blythe. Taken aback, Percy offered to jot down a message, and that’s when the gentleman told her he was Saffy’s employer, calling with revised advice regarding her accommodation in London as of the following week.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wicks,” said Percy, blood vessels dilating beneath her skin, “I’m afraid there must have been a misunderstanding.”
An airy hesitation. “A misunderstanding, did you say? The line—it’s rather difficult to hear.”
“Seraphina—my sister—will be unable to take up a position in London.”
“Oh.” There was another pause, during which the line crackled across the distance and Percy couldn’t help picturing the telephone wires, strung from post to post, swaying in the wuthering breeze. “Oh, I see,” he continued. “But that is odd, only I have her letter accepting the position right here in my hand. We’d corresponded quite reliably on the topic.”
That explained the frequency of mail Percy had been carrying to and from the castle of late, Saffy’s determination to stay within reach of the telephone “in case an important call should come through regarding the war.” Percy cursed herself for having been distracted by her WVS duties, for not having paid closer attention. “I understand,” she said. “And I’m certain that Seraphina had every intention of honoring her agreement. But the war, you see, and now our father has been taken ill. I’m afraid she’ll be needed at home for the duration.”
Though disappointed and understandably confused, Mr. Wicks was mollified somewhat by Percy’s promise to send him a signed first edition of theMud Manfor his collection of rare books and rang off in relatively good spirits. There would be no question, at least, of his suing them for breach of contract.
Saffy’s disappointment, Percy suspected, would not be so easily managed. A toilet flushed somewhere in the distance, then the pipes gurgled in the kitchen wall. Percy sat on the stool and waited. Within minutes, Saffy hurried in from upstairs.
“Percy!” She stopped still, glanced towards the open back door. “What are you doing here? Where’s Meredith? Her parents haven’t left already, surely? Is everything all right?”
“I came to fetch more tea.”
“Oh.” Saffy’s face relaxed into a faltering smile. “Then let me help. You don’t want to be away from your guests too long.” She fetched the jar of tea leaves and lifted the pot’s lid.
Percy considered obfuscation but the conversation with Mr. Wicks had so surprised her that she drew a blank. In the end, she said simply, “There was a telephone call. While I was waiting for the kettle.”
Only the faintest tremor, a fine drift of tea leaves from the sides of the spoon. “A telephone call? When?”
“Just now.”
“Oh.” Saffy brushed the loose leaves into the palm of one hand; they lay together like a pile of dead ants. “Something to do with the war, was it?”
“No.”
Saffy leaned against the bench top and clenched a nearby tea towel in her hand as if trying to avoid being pulled out to sea.
The kettle chose that moment to spit, hissing through its spout before winding itself up to a menacing whistle. Saffy took it off the heat, remained at the stove with her back to Percy, her breath stilled.
“It was a fellow by the name of Mr. Archibald Wicks,” Percy said then. “Calling from London. A collector, he said.”
“I see.” Saffy didn’t turn. “And what did you tell him?”
A shout from outside and Percy moved swiftly to the open door.
“What did you tell him, Percy?”
A breeze, and on it the yellowing scent of cut grass.
