From across the room, Francis looked up from his book. ‘There you are, Thea! There are so many new books.’ He had discarded his coat and was settled in the children’s corner on a cushion beneath gold stars Dorothea had painted on the wall years ago.
A sadness overcame her: a combination of her dead mother’s letter, and the sight of the boy here without his own motheramong the books that had been Adeline’s most constant companion. Her eyes prickled and Mr Thistlethwaite gave a small nod. He knew how much Dorothea missed Adeline—The Right Honourable the Viscountess Fitzhenry according to the parcels of books Dorothea used to occasionally package up and post for her—because he had seen their friendship flourish up close. Adeline, or Lady Fitz as Dorothea had named her early on in their decade of friendship, had been a true book collector, and Dorothea had been thrilled to chat to her in the shop every week.
Adeline Fitzhenry had owned one of the finest collections of books and paraphernalia on botanicals and botanical prints in the country, and on the arrival of any decent book or original artwork of botanicals, Dorothea and her employer knew to contact her straight away. Once, Lady Fitz had travelled to Amsterdam just to view a set of Redouté’sLes Roses. The hand-coloured plates from the early 1800s had been commissioned by the Empress Josephine. Only five vellum sets were known to exist in the world, the edition was so rare.
So, it came as no surprise that Adeline’s boy was also enchanted by books. One of Dorothea’s favourite memories was his delight when she had handed him a dusty rare first edition ofTreasure Island, complete with the inscription made to another little boy, written almost ninety years earlier. It had been enough to make his mother weep. Dorothea had pointed out the several telltale misprints in the edition and told him this made the book very special. She remembered Francis hugging it to his six-year-old chest and telling her he would always look after it. Lady Fitz had given one of her glorious smiles.
Dorothea kneeled beside Francis now and picked through the books he had selected.
‘Can we get this one for Cricket?’ he asked. He held it up:A Practical Guide for Horse Ownersby Jack Widmer.
Horses were the only thing Cricket Fitzhenry seemed to care for. She rode for hours each day. Francis liked to walk down to the stables and watch her grooming the huge, beautiful animals. Cricket could talk about horses ad nauseum. It was only when you wanted her to focus on people she found it difficult.
Cricket had confided to Dorothea recently about Edward’s hope for a quick pregnancy. But the girl seemed terrified at the prospect. ‘It’s all he talks about,’ she said one morning as she found Dorothea picking vegetables in the kitchen garden. ‘Couldn’t we wait a few years?’ She seemed perplexed by her new husband, who wanted at least another three children. ‘I want to keep riding. I don’t want my figure to be ruined.’ Cricket’s brow had furrowed then: What if she didn’t know what todowith a baby? Would Dorothea know? Would she help her?
‘Of course,’ Dorothea had said, soothing the poor girl. ‘I’m the nanny. I haven’t much experience with babies, but I’m sure to be completely on top of things when your time comes.’ Dorothea had felt leaden in this conversation. Edward’s unforgiveable actions during his engagement to Cricket sat like an elephant across her chest. But she wouldn’t be the one to break the girl’s heart. Perhaps she need never know of her husband’s true nature.
Francis began reading from a book and pointing to something in the pictures. Dorothea smiled and thought how immediately Adeline had taken to motherhood with Francis, and how desperately she had wanted it. She wondered if Cricket really wouldbe up to the task when the time came. Dorothea wasn’t sure. There was something so fragile about the girl, and so ominous about Bleddesley House. Nothing about it was welcoming to outsiders. An eerie quality pervaded the great hall, where Adeline Fitzhenry had died.
Upon being told of her fatal fall, Dorothea had been devastated.Poor motherless Francishad been her first thought, little more than two years ago when she heard the news. Then for some reason, a more fearful thought had struck her.It had not been Adeline’s time.Dorothea had tried to bat away the trickle of dread, but somehow, she knew: Lady Adeline Fitzhenry had been stolen from them. When Len, the second gardener at the manor house, had told her what had happened to Adeline, Dorothea had not been able to rid herself of the whisper of doubt.No, that’s not right. That’s not how it happened.
But she had to be calm, to push that thought away. Because back then, at just seven years old, Francis Fitzhenry had needed her. She had to leave her lovely bookshop position and her flat above the shop; there was nothing in this world she had been more certain about. She must have that nannying job.
15
LOTTIE
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
I park the van in front of Miriam’s house. At the far end of the driveway, my mother is standing with a hose in her hand, watering her beloved flowerbeds. She is wearing an enormous straw hat, a black bikini and her gardening slides. This is the Miriam of old. In the last ten years she began covering up with a sarong or a summer dress, but lately she seems prepared to show her ageing body. I think it’s something to do with her new therapist.
I remember the first time Miriam’s penchant for getting around in her bikini struck me as unusual. I was fourteen and had brought a friend home from school to work on a group project for history. As we came through the front gate, there was Miriam, sunning herself on the deck. She insisted on being introduced to my friend—Wendy, I think it was, one of those friends who came and went with the seasons—and she hadthen stood in her pink string bikini, quizzing Wendy on what her father did for a living, whether she had a boyfriend yet, and advising her on all the reasons she should consider getting a bob cut to frame her pixie-like features to best effect. Then my mother had lain back down and begun reading her book again. Normal mothers would have offered us afternoon tea or enquired about our homework. Normal mothers would have worn clothes.
Miriam’s figure back then, at nearly fifty, had still been fabulous. Her first breast enhancement had balanced her out perfectly. And compared to my chunky, flat-chested figure, which elicited nothing but teenage disgust when I stood in front of the mirror, she was all the things my peers aspired to be. Still, I remember burning with shame at Wendy’s sideways glance of disbelief.
These days, Miriam’s skin has lost its bounce. I sometimes see her twisting in front of the glass doors, trying to assess the ravages so grievously inflicted on her dearest asset by the ageing process. I feel sad that it upsets her.
I need to take some clothes down to Phyllida’s house if I’m going to stay there, but I have no energy to talk to my mother. With the air conditioning off, the van is becoming an oven. I open the door but can’t seem to move. Phyllida has always urged patience whenever I express frustration at my mother.Every one of us has a cross to bear. Your mother is doing her best.It’s annoying how my grandmother sees the good in everyone. She knows Miriam is a self-absorbed meddler, so why I am the one who has to make allowances? But when I look up at my mother again, I wonder if I’m looking at it the wrong way. Miriam is taking steps to own her body and its place in theworld. I should be proud of her. But I worry that beneath the brittle exterior she is lonely and scared. She’s been reading articles out to me about body positivity lately, which her therapist probably recommended. But as she still constantly mentions the ways my body and my clothes are letting me down, I don’t think she’s really got the gist of the whole thing yet.
Years ago, I found letters Miriam had received from David. Love letters so heartfelt and poetic they made me flush with the shame of delving into her private past. Young David was besotted with my thirty-something mother, it seems. I assume the feeling was mutual, because the letters were wrapped so carefully and stored with a pressed flower in a pink cardboard box. Miriam sometimes talks about David as if he was the second coming of the Lord. I used to hang on every word about my father.Handsome, strong, kind, devoted. There was never much substance to the stories, though. She only knew him for a few months and for only a couple of those was he healthy.
David was six foot four and my mother six foot one, and both were strikingly beautiful. From photographs, I can’t see that I share any features with David. Nor do I have my mother’s perfect features, apart from our unusually arched eyebrows and the shape of our ears. It perplexed me as a teenager—how could I have the world’s best-looking parents and come out looking so odd?
When I asked Phyllida about it she would get this strange, distant expression. She would just talk about how David and I shared a beautiful soul and then she would change the subject. So, in my world, David is simply the handsome ghost who fathered me. A saint taken before his time. And Miriam is the only parent I have ever known.
I sit in the heat of the van weighed down by indecision, scrolling on my phone. I open my email inbox and read a chain of emails involving the upcoming open garden at our place. Each month, someone in the village opens their garden and the garden club puts on sandwiches. This month it is Miriam’s turn to host, and, by virtue of the fact that I am now back living in a household that is a member of the club, Miriam or Judy or whoever runs the club has added my email to their general distribution list. But I see this particular email is to the garden club organising committee, and for some reason, Miriam has copied me in.
From:Miriam Peters
To:Garden Club Committee
Cc:Charlotte Peters-Banks
Subject:Open Garden on the 20th at our place
Friends,
I am busily weeding and pruning and getting the garden ready for our opening before Christmas. Given it’s the festive season, I will be providing sparkling wine on the day. I am thinking of obtaining some from Belton’s Estate—we should support local. Perhaps the committee will contribute to the cost?
