Her eyes close. With Francis here, everything feels lighter. There is something in the experience of forgiveness, of being forgiven. It switches something on. Like a warm little candle, flickering into the blackness. The way ahead is still shadowy, but there is enough light to begin stepping forward.
It is lovely to experience this twilight with her firstborn. Not that she thinks of herself as Francis’s mother. She would never wrest that privilege from dear Adeline who’d had the terrible misfortune of marrying Edward Fitzhenry. Oh, thatawfulman. What pain he’d caused. What evil. Although, Phyllida doesn’t really believe in evil. It lacks an appreciation for nuance, which is necessary in almost all things. One needs to examine the layers that make up a life.
Did anyone lavish love on young Edward when he was a toddler with a malleable little brain? What violence was meted out at the hands of his masters when he was sent to boarding school, aged five? What caused him, at age twelve, to enjoy ripping the wings off birds to see if it made them hop? (Dorothea had occasionally taken tea with Nanny Pam, Edward’s childhood nanny, back in those days at Bleddesley when Pam was living out her final days in the dower house. Edward had been an appalling child, she’d confided to Dorothea; quite the worst of her Fitzhenry charges over the generations.)
Contrast that totheirboy—Adeline’s and hers. He’d had love in those formative years. Until almost his tenth birthday, every day, Francis had someone in his life who loved him. Adeline,then Dorothea. And after that, he’d had Mrs Wilson, if you could measure love in illicit biscuit supplies.
But did Edward have that motherly love?
Waslovethe missing ingredient in the making of a psychopath? Only partly she supposes. These days they say it’s all in the genetics. Blame the DNA for their faulty non-empathising brains. Still, she ponders, the lack of kindness must dosomethingto transform a regular psychopath into a savage.
She opens her eyes. Dear, dear Francis. He and Phyllida had visited Louis David’s grave yesterday and they had both shed a tear. The absurdity of it; the cruelty and wonder of life and death and time. The fleeting beauty. It makes her head reel. As had Francis’s suggestion about her tainted inheritance. It’s over ten million Australian dollars now. That’s what a hundred thousand British pounds could become if you invested it carefully for fifty years. Francis agrees she should provide for Lottie, and then work with a charity that helps families affected by gambling. Roddy can continue to administer the capital sum, Francis suggested, as he’d done such a stellar job at making it grow these last few years.
Through the window, Phyllida sees Rupert and Dervla arriving. Lottie had filled her in on the committee discussions about Rupert and his wandering hands, and Miriam’s desire to ban his attendance today. But it seems that nobody had told him not to come. Despite her exhaustion, Phyllida rallies and exits through the side door to greet them. She leads them towards the drinks table, away from Miriam.
‘Lars, Hazel, I’d like you to meet our near neighbours, Rupert and Dervla.’
Lottie stares daggers at Rupert.
‘It’s a gorgeous village,’ says Hazel to the new arrivals. ‘Have you always lived here?’
Rupert laughs. ‘No,’ he says. ‘We came from Sydney when I retired. I was in banking for forty-seven years.’
‘And you, Dervla?’ Hazel continues.
‘She’s had no need to work,’ says Rupert proudly. ‘She was a lady of leisure. Reads books most of the time.’
‘She raised four boys and without much help from you, I expect,’ says Lottie. ‘I’d hardly call that leisure.’
‘Actually, I wanted to ask you, Dervla,’ says Phyllida, heading off the tirade she can see Lottie is itching to launch. ‘I’m thinking about opening the shop on a Sunday, going forward. I wondered if a weekly Sunday shift might interest you? I know Rupert plays Sunday golf, so I’m sure he’d be only too pleased for you to do your own thing.’ Phyllida turns to Rupert and gives him her most charming smile, ‘Wouldn’t you, Rupert?’
‘Oh, what a fabulous opportunity!’ says Hazel. ‘I’d love to work with old books.’
Rupert begins muttering something about Dervla’s low energy levels, but Phyllida ignores him and turns back to Dervla.
‘Well,’ says Dervla, eyes flicking between her husband and Phyllida, a tentative whisper of a smile emerging, ‘it does sound interesting.’
‘Brilliant!’ says Lottie, focusing her laser glare on Rupert. ‘Lookat us!’ she nods around the group. ‘Three bookdealers, a heritage specialist, a retired banker and’—she looks up at Lars and places her hand on his arm—‘one very accomplished human rights lawyer who does sexual discrimination cases to clean upworkplaces run by lecherous old dinosaurs who touch women’s bums. We’ve got it all covered here.’
Rupert blanches.
‘Indeed,’ says Phyllida, swallowing a smile as the warm breeze picks up and a group of garden clubbers drift towards the drinks table.
Francis appears at Phyllida’s side and puts his arm around her shoulder. ‘Hello, everyone.’
Phyllida beams up at him. ‘And let’s not forget one retired costume designer from the West End.’ She feels relief that he is holding on to her; almost as if he is holding her up. ‘Let me introduce you all to my dear friend, Francis Fitzhenry.’
Hands are shaken and Lars asks, ‘Where do you fit into this picture, Francis?’
‘A question I’ve often asked myself,’ says Francis. ‘I’ve known Phyllida for as long as I can remember. It’s almost as if’—he squeezes her shoulder—‘we’re family.’
EPILOGUE
TWENTY MONTHS LATER, CAMBRIDGESHIRE, ENGLAND, AND LERWICK, SCOTLAND
I am at my best today. The colourful spines of old books always add warmth to counteract the shadows, but today there are no shadows. The book tables, usually piled high with old tomes, have been pushed to the sides. Crystal glasses and a silver ice bucket sit atop a white linen tablecloth, awaiting the addition of champagne. A dining table has been brought in and set for twelve with exquisite silverware. Antique crystal vases filled with colourful summer blooms sit at intervals along the table. A huge arrangement of pink lilies has been placed next to the old cash register. Today, I sparkle.
Ellery Thistlethwaite hovers, more anxious than she would like. She feels the anticipation, the hum of promise. Something big is going to happen today, and it’s more than just the wedding. For years she has wanted to leave here, to travel the world, to jointhe Born Free Foundation and advocate against the poaching of wild animals. Something in the gleaming glass and silverware signals her new beginning.Today she will take steps, she thinks. She will be brave. And she is right, by day’s end she will have a handshake deal to sell the business. Today is her lucky day. She is about to meet an old woman, and afterwards she will understand she must not live her life for others; that her father’s desires are not hers to fulfil; that the books will find their own readers. She must simply set them free. The old woman will tell her of a lesson she recently learned: that letting go is where freedom lies. Destiny will carry the rest.
