Meanwhile, still standing in the castle yard, Percy Blythe was smoking, one hand on her hip as she watched the woods, and Meredith felt a whisper of doubt grow wings within her stomach. She had presumed she’d be welcome to stay on at the castle, but what if she weren’t? What if the twins were so shocked by her disobedience that they refused to look after her any longer? What if following her own desires had led her into terrible trouble? As Percy Blythe finished her cigarette and turned back towards the castle, Meredith felt suddenly very alone.
Movement drew her gaze to the castle roof and Meredith’s heart turned like a Catherine wheel. Someone in a white summer dress was climbing there.Juniper.Finished at last! Back in the outside world. As Meredith watched, she reached the flattened edge and sat, long legs dangling over the side. She’d be lighting a cigarette now, Meredith knew, leaning back, looking up at the sky.
But she didn’t. She stopped abruptly instead and looked towards the woods. Meredith held tightly to the branch; excitement had brought on a funny sort of laugh that caught in her throat. It was almost as if Juniper had heard her, as if the older girl had somehow sensed her presence. If anyone could do such a thing, Meredith knew, it was Juniper.
She couldn’t go back to London. She wouldn’t. Not now, not yet.
Meredith watched her mum and dad walk down the drive away from the castle, Mum’s arms folded over her middle, Dad’s limp by his sides. “I’m sorry,” she whispered under her breath, “I didn’t have a choice.”
FIVE
THEwater was tepid and shallow, but Saffy didn’t mind. A long soak in a hot bath was a pleasure of the past, and it was enough just to be alone with Percy’s ghastly betrayal. She eased her bottom forward so she could lie flat on her back, knees bent towards the ceiling, head submerged, and ears underwater. Her hair floated like seaweed around the island of her face and she listened to the eddies and gurgles of the water, the clanking of the plug chain against the enamel, and other strange languages of the watery world.
For their entire adult life, Saffy had known herself to be the weaker twin. Percy liked to pooh-pooh such talk, insisting there was no such thing, not with them, that there was only a sunlight and a shadow position, between which they alternated so that things were always in perfect balance. Which was kind of her, but no more accurate for being well intentioned. Quite simply, Saffy knew that the things for which she had a superior talent were those that did not matter. She wrote well, she was a fine dressmaker, she could cook (passably) and lately even clean; but what use were such skills when she remained enslaved? Worse, a willing slave. Because for the most part, it shamed her to admit, Saffy didn’t mind the role. There was an ease, after all, that came with being subordinate, a release of burden. And yet, there were times, like today, when she resented the expectation that she ought to fall into line without argument, no matter her own preference.
Saffy lifted her body and leaned against the tub’s smooth end, swiped the wet washcloth against her anger-warmed face. The enamel was cool on her back and she arranged the washcloth like a shrunken blanket across her breasts and stomach, watched it tighten and release with her breaths, a second skin; then she closed her eyes. How dare Percy presume to speakforher? To make decisions on Saffy’s behalf, to determine her future without consultation?
But Percy did, just as she always had, and today, as ever, there’d been no arguing with her.
Saffy exhaled, long and slow, in an attempt to control her anger. The sigh caught on a sob. She supposed she should be pleased, flattered even, that Percy needed her so fiercely. And she was. But she was tired, too, of being powerless; more than that, she was sick at heart. For as long as she could remember, Saffy had been stuck in a life that ran parallel to the one of which she’d dreamed, the one she’d had every reasonable expectation to believe would be hers.
This time, however, there was one little thing shecoulddo—Saffy brushed each cheek, enlivened by the creep of determination—a small way in which she might exercise her own feeble power against Percy. It would be a strike of omission rather than commission; Percy would never even know the blow had been struck. The only spoil of war would be a slight return of Saffy’s self-respect. But that was enough.
Saffy was going to keep something to herself, something that Percy would prefer to know: all about the unexpected visitor who’d arrived at the castle that day. While Percy was at Lucy’s wedding, Juniper was in the attic and Meredith was stalking the estate, Daddy’s solicitor, Mr. Banks, had arrived in his black motorcar, accompanied by two dour little women in plain suits. Saffy, who’d been making adjustments to the tea table outside, had first considered hiding, pretending there was no one at home—she didn’t particularly like Mr. Banks, and she certainly didn’t like answering the door to unexpected callers—but the old man had been known to her since she was a small girl, he was a friend to Daddy, and therefore she’d been bound in some way she couldn’t easily explain.
She’d run through the kitchen entrance, straightened herself in the oval mirror by the larder, then hurried upstairs, just in time to greet him at the front door. He’d been surprised, almost displeased, when he saw her, wondering aloud what times were coming to when somewhere as grand as Milderhurst was without a proper housekeeper, then instructing her to take him to her father. For all that Saffy longed to embrace society’s changing mores, she harbored an old-fashioned reverence for the law and its officers, so she’d done precisely as he said. He was a man of few words (that is, he was a man not disposed to making idle chitchat with the daughters of his clients); their climb was silent, and for that she’d been glad; men like Mr. Banks always made her tongue-tied. When they finally reached the top of the winding staircase, he’d given her a curt nod before showing himself and his two officious companions through the doorway and into Daddy’s tower room.
Saffy’s intention hadn’t been to snoop; indeed, she’d resented the intrusion on her time almost as much as she resented any task that took her up to the ghastly tower with its smell of impending death, the monstrous framed print on the wall. If the tortured struggle of a butterfly trapped in a web between the banisters hadn’t caught her eye, she’d no doubt have been halfway down the stairs and well out of earshot. But she had and she wasn’t and so, while she carefully unthreaded the insect, she heard Daddy say: “That’s why I called you, Banks. Damned nuisance, death. Have you made the amendments?”
“I have. I’ve brought them to be signed and witnessed, along with a copy for your records, of course.”
The details thereafter Saffy hadn’t heard, nor had she wanted to. She was the second daughter of an old-fashioned man, a spinster in her middle years: the masculine world of property and finance neither interested nor concerned her. She wanted only to free the weakened butterfly and get away from the tower, to leave the stale air and stifling memories behind her. She hadn’t been inside the little room for over twenty years, she intended never to set foot inside again, ever. And as she hurried down and away, she’d tried to elude the cloud of memories that pressed upon her as she went.
For they’d been close once, she and Daddy, a long time ago, but the love had spoiled. Juniper was the better writer and Percy the better daughter, which left very little room for Saffy in their father’s affections. There had been only the one brief, glorious moment in which Saffy’s usefulness had outshone that of her sisters. After the Great War, when Daddy had returned to them, all bruised and broken, it was she who had been able to bring him back, to give him the very thing he needed most. And it had been seductive, the force of his fondness, the evenings spent in hiding, where no one else could find them …
Suddenly there was bedlam and Saffy’s eyes snapped open. Someone was shouting. She was in the tub but the water was icy; the light had disappeared through the open window leaving dusk in its place. Saffy realized that she’d slipped into a doze. She was fortunate that was all the slipping she’d done. But who was shouting? She sat up, straining to hear. Nothing, and she wondered whether she’d imagined the noise.
Then it came again. And the din of a bell. The old man in the tower, off on one of his rants. Well, let Percy see to him. They deserved each other.
With a shiver, Saffy peeled back the cold washcloth and stood, sending the water buckling back and forth. She stepped, dripping, onto the mat. There were voices downstairs now, she could hear them. Meredith, Juniper—and Percy, too; they were all there, all of them in the yellow parlor together. Waiting for their dinner, she supposed, and she would fetch it for them as she always did.
Saffy tugged her dressing gown from the hook on the door, fought with the sleeves and fastened it over her cool, wet skin, then she started down the hallway, her wet footsteps echoing along the flagstones. Nursing her little secret close.
“YOU WANTEDsomething, Daddy?” Percy pushed open the heavy door to the tower room. It took her a moment to spot him, tucked in the alcove by the fireplace, beneath the Goya print; and, when she did, he looked frightened to see her and she knew immediately that he’d suffered another of his delusions. Which meant that when she went downstairs she’d more than likely find his daily medicine sitting on the hall table where she’d left it that morning. It was her own fault for having expected too much, and she cursed herself for not having thought to check on him as soon as she’d arrived home from the church.
She softened her voice, spoke to him the way she imagined she might to a child, had she ever had the chance to know one well enough to love them: “There now. Everything’s all right. Would you like to sit down? Come along, I’ll help you get settled here by the window. It’s a lovely evening.”
He nodded jerkily, started towards her outstretched arm, and she knew that the delusion had ended. She knew, too, that it hadn’t been a bad one because he’d managed to recover himself sufficiently to say, “I thought I told you to wear a hairpiece.”
He had, many times now, and Percy had dutifully purchased one (not an easy thing to do in a time of war), only to leave the wretched thing lying like a severed fox’s tail on her bedside table. There was a crocheted blanket draped over the arm of the chair, a small, brightly colored thing that Lucy had made for him some years ago, and Percy straightened it over his knees when he sat down, saying, “I’m sorry, Daddy. I forgot. I heard the bell and I didn’t want to leave you waiting.”
“You look like a man. Is that what you want? People to treat you like a man?”
“No, Daddy.” Percy’s fingertips went to the nape of her neck, centered on the little velvety coil that dipped lower than the rest of her hairline. He’d meant nothing by it and she wasn’t offended, only a little startled by the suggestion. She sneaked a sideways glance at the glassfronted bookcase, caught her image rippling in the dimpled surface; a rather severe-looking woman, sharp angles, a very straight spine, but a pair of not ungenerous breasts, a definite curve at the hips, a face that wasn’t primped with lipstick and powder but that she didn’t think was manly. That she hoped was not.
Daddy, meanwhile, had turned his head to look out across the night-draped fields, blissfully unaware of the line of thinking he had sparked. “All of this,” he said without shifting his gaze. “All of this.”
She leaned against the side of the chair, rested an elbow on its top. He didn’t need to say more. She understood as no one else the way he felt as he looked out across the fields of his ancestors.
