Is she so sure she wants her mother back?
She shuts her eyes again and focuses on her hand where it rests on the paper; on the press of the graphite, waiting.
There. A sense of weight. Pressure. So faint it is almost nothing, but she feels her hand urged to move. Down first, then a loop, then down again – she cannot follow it. Her hand is cold, as though there is something laid atop it, guiding her.
It lasts only briefly, and then her hand is a dead thing, flaccid and inert.
She must look at what she has produced; there is no hiding.
A mess: that is what she has made. There are great loops and scrawls, lines bisecting lines, flourishes and curls. It is nonsense.
She picks up the paper to scrap it, but the changed angle causes something to catch her eye. It is a wobbling, misshapen word, like a trick-eye puzzle. At first nothing and then –remember.
Her eyes flick to her reflection in the window, to the figure she had seen behind her. Nothing. She is alone.
Remember.
Remember what? Her mother? The ghost’s command?
It is not proof. Not proof she can share, not something she can show Cecilia. She must do something else. Somethingmore.
5
Cecilia
‘WHAT ON EARTH ISthat girl playing at?’ Claudine would be pacing if she could; Cecilia can tell from the tense play of her fingers around the strap of her umbrella, how the cords of her neck stand out above her high collar.
The three of them – Claudine, Penelope and Cecilia – are pressed into the carriage as it rattles north up Regent Street. Neither Penelope nor Claudine seem to notice her misery, and it is a blessing to be forgotten by them. Odette left her there in the gallery, watched by so many curious, judging eyes. Cecilia waited, hot-faced with shame and sorrow, for her to return, then went looking for her. But there was no trace.
‘I will speak to George about her behaviour. She is putting on a show intentionally. She cannot abide not to be the centre of attention for even a moment.’
For the first time, the traitorous thought comes: perhaps Claudine is right – at least in part. Odette’s misery has made her selfish, and they will all bear the cost of it.
And yet, she would go to her at once if she called.
God, she is crying.
Claudine focuses on Cecilia, takes her hand. ‘You did not deserve to be the target of such hurtful words. I am grateful that you entertained my little scheme, and I am sorry that it came at such a cost to you.’
Cecilia’s skin crawls where Claudine’s hand rests on hers, and it is only because they are both wearing gloves that she does not snatch hers back at once.
‘I am sorry I didn’t find out her secret for you,’ says Cecilia, taking the opportunity, as they jolt round a corner, to remove her hand and clasp one of the leather straps hanging from the ceiling. ‘I am not sure I can be of any help to you.’
‘I’ve always said she was a spoilt girl,’ adds Penelope. ‘Self-involved. Hardly surprising given her mother’s own weaknesses, but it is quite intolerable.’
This speech is clearly aimed at Claudine, but she pays little attention, instead leaning in to speak conspiratorially to Cecilia. ‘You know her better than either of us. Youdobelieve she is keeping some secret?’
The tone in Claudine’s voice catches Cecilia in the midst of her thoughts. There is almost a sense of nervousness, an attentiveness that is unwarranted. Cecilia knows why she herself fears Odette keeping something from her – but why should Claudine fear it?
What a thought: Claudine isafraid.
Cecilia considers her words. ‘I cannot rightly say. Is there some specific matter you suspect she may be concealing?’
‘No.’ The reply comes too quickly.
‘Let her have her secrets then.’ Cecilia gives a hopeful smile. ‘It does none of us any harm, does it?’ She hopes she comes across naive, idealistic – unimportant.
For the first time, Claudine falters. ‘I suppose that may be true.’
