A Place of Secrets (35 page)

Alicia’s voice flew about the house with orders that beds be made up and furniture rearranged, that the parson be summoned to discuss the funeral. It was her obvious lack of grief that incensed me most. She offered no consolation for Susan’s tears nor Mrs Godstone’s faded weariness, but instead complained about overcooked herring and undercooked puddings and ordered Father’s favourite old greyhound be shot, for the sight of its mange offended her. I told her, as calmly as I could, though I was fair stirred up, that I’d like to speak to Parson Orbison myself about the burial, for Father had once told me he wished to be buried by the folly and this I would like to arrange if he would allow it. At this she stormed about the room, shouting about respectable Wickhams being buried in the churchyard and I said, ‘It’s no good losing your temper, ma’am, I’m merely repeating his wishes,’ but that did not make her see reason.

Finally she calmed down a bit and said we’d see what the parson said when he came, then she called Mr Trotwood and entrusted him with a letter to be taken directly to Mr Wellbourne in his chambers. ‘He must visit us tomorrow to read the will, should it suit him,’ she told us, but if the tone of her letter were as sinister as her words, he would know that it must suit him very well.

Mr Orbison visited as darkness fell and stayed to dinner. Since the ground in the churchyard was hard as stone, he said, he could only imagine it would be worse on the hill where frost had lain thick these past weeks. And he would not, he added, holding aloft his wine glass like the Holy Chalice, have anything more to do with a place that was so obviously a pagan graveyard. Alicia’s eyes gleamed with triumph and her smile was like the flicker of a snake’s tongue. I dared say nothing more on the subject.

The following morning when Betsy opened the door to Father’s lawyer, Mr Wellbourne, an icy draught blew through the house. We all sat in the dining room, he and Mr Atticus at opposite ends of the table, Alicia and Adolphus to one side, myself and Mr Trotwood on the other. The rest of the household stood around the room and Mr Corbett fed the fire. Early in the proceedings Augustus was found listening at the door and his mother snapped at him to come in and hold his tongue.

Mr Wellbourne read the will in his cracked, whistling voice. It seemed to continue for pages and pages, but eventually he came to the meat. Alicia was granted the sum of £3000, some items of furniture and the portrait of their mother hanging in my father’s chamber. Several hundred pounds were to be shared amongst the staff. A donation was made to the Royal Astronomical Society. The rest: house, lands, chattels, money, were bequeathed to Esther Wickham, ‘my adopted daughter’. There was a collective sigh from the servants as Mr Wellbourne laid down the papers and removed his spectacles. Susan caught my eye and smiled. Mr Corbett winked, I swear it. I looked at Alicia. Her face was as tranquil as a summer’s day before a storm, but seeing the threatening wisp of cloud in her eye, I knew a deep fear.

At the other end of the table, Mr Atticus harrumphed and began. ‘Mistress Pilkington, Mr Pilkington, Mr Wellbourne, if I may. I must declare this will null and void forthwith.’ The room fell still as the frozen park outside. ‘You say, sir, that it was drawn up and signed last April, but this was after Mr Wickham fell and sustained the blow that eventually killed him and I am of the opinion that he was not of sound mind. I have written evidence from the doctor who tended him.’

‘Dr Brundall?’ cried Mr Wellbourne. ‘But he is one of the witnesses to the document.’

‘You will see here this letter dated the thirtieth of April last.’ Mr Atticus held up a single sheet. ‘It is in response to one Mrs Pilkington wrote Dr Brundall concerning her brother’s condition. I quoth: “I advise you to put off visiting your brother, for he is still weak, easily tired and occasionally muddled of mind.”’

‘I tell you,’ repeated Mr Wellbourne. ‘He witnessed the will. Why would he have done that if he judged his patient to be of unsound mind? We must interview him to clarify the matter.’

And so the argument went round and round. Mr Atticus demanded to see the original will which Mr Wellbourne said was drawn up before my arrival, but Mr Wellbourne had left it in Norwich. Alicia put in that she would honour all bequests made to servants in the new will, which lightened the atmosphere in some quarters of the room but not mine. The matter was adjourned until the old will be found and Dr Brundall made an affadavit. The carpenter arrived with the coffin and so the meeting dispersed.

That night I sat for an hour with Father in his room. He was dressed in his best suit and arranged in the open coffin in such a manner that he appeared merely asleep. I wept for him and kissed him farewell, for tomorrow the hearse would come and the coffin be closed and we’d follow him to the churchyard where he, the star-keeper, who had swept the heavens and explored the highest reaches of the human mind, would be buried in a dark hole to be gouged in the frozen ground. At eleven o’clock I retired to my room and, worn out by the sorrow and anxiety of the day, slept deeply without dreaming.

The writing here was less firm, and blurred in places as though by tears, and Jude stopped reading and sat staring into the distance, trying to imagine what it had been like for Esther, to lose her beloved father and feel she was losing everything. Awful. Should she read on or stop and transcribe
the bit she’d just read? Read on, she decided, but at this point there came a knock on the door and Euan came in.

“I won’t disturb you,” he said. “I’ve come to see Robert. Just wanted to confirm with you that tonight’s on. Fiona and her husband are coming for supper and I’ve told Claire she’ll have a tent mate.”

“Was Claire all right about it?” Jude asked.

“I think so. Why shouldn’t she be?”
Euan asked, sounding surprised.

“Oh, no reason.” She changed the subject. “Euan, I’ve found some more pages of Esther’s journal. It’s awfully sad. I must tell you—”

“And I’d love to hear about it. But Robert seemed a bit impatient. I’d better go. See you this evening. I said seven o’clock to Claire.”

Do you really not know why Claire would mind, you marvelous man?
Jude thought, as he went off
to Robert’s study. She slumped in her seat, all energy suddenly gone. Perhaps he was completely unaware of her sister’s interest in him. Or of hers. She sighed. Well, she’d have to go to the sleepover now. Heck, when had she last slept in a tent?

She was turning back to Esther’s memoir when the door opened once more. It was Alexia again.

“How are you getting on?” she asked Jude.

“With Esther?
Oh, fascinating. I—”

“Good, I am pleased. I’ve just bumped into your friend Euan rushing down the corridor, and he tells me you’re camping this evening. So I thought I’d come and ask you if you needed anything. I’ve got a couple of sleeping bags if you want to borrow one. Would you like to come and choose?”

“Oh, thank you,” Jude said, standing up. She’d have to finish reading Esther later.

“I kept mine from Guides,” Alexia told her as they went upstairs, “though you might prefer Robert’s. It’s warmer.”

“I imagine you would have been a jolly good Girl Guide,” Jude said, laughing. “Always prepared.”

Alexia smiled and performed a mock salute. “I think we’ve got an air mattress somewhere, too. Anyway, let’s get you kitted out.”

“Alexia, you’re amazing,” Jude told her as they reached
a spare bedroom full of fitted cupboards, from which the mistress of the house started dragging items out. “You put up with an extra guest for two weeks, and pull sleeping bags out of hats, all without seeming to mind a bit. But I must be a real nuisance.”

“Honestly, you’re not,” Alexia said, giving her a hug. “I’ve always loved looking after people. It’s the one thing that really makes me happy.
And I meant to tell you, if you want to stay next week as well, please do. We’d love to have you!”

“Are you sure? You must have read my mind.”

“I’ve already talked to Robert about it. Of course we’re sure. Now, there’s that one and this one, and I might even have a blow-up pillow somewhere.”

* * *

Jude packed herself an overnight bag and was ready by six. At last, she told herself. She
simply must read the rest of Esther’s memoir; she had to know what happened. She slipped along to the library, settled herself at the desk and began to read. She read and she read it again, and only when her phone rang and it was Euan to ask where she was, did she push the pages away reluctantly and leave the house. So deep in the eighteenth-century past was she, it was as though Esther walked beside
her all the way.

It was difficult to drag herself out of her thoughts, but if anyone could do it, it was Claire, flirting with Euan.

“Will you put the tent up for us, Euan?” Claire wheedled, as bossy as her daughter.

“I think I can manage that.”

“And can we
possibly
borrow your shower in the morning?”

“Yes, I can allow that, too.”

“And—how about breakfast in bed?”

Euan threw back his head and
laughed.

“It’s all right for you, you’re sleeping in a nice comfortable room.”

“I’m almost tempted to come and join you. The smell of paint in the cottage is awful.”

“Well, if you don’t mind sharing my sleeping bag…,” Claire said, fluttering her eyelashes.

Jude listened to this exchange with some amazement and not a little envy, that her sister possessed this easy teasing way with men. Euan
just seemed to be friendly, as usual.

The evening, despite Jude’s fears, was a great success. Darcey’s parents, Paul and Fiona, joined them. First Euan cooked burgers and sausages on a barbecue in the field. They all ate them with rolls and salad. Ice cream and fruit followed. Paul had brought his guitar and they sat around the glowing barbecue singing silly songs from Paul’s extraordinary repertoire.
Then, it being nearly nine thirty and the little girls eager to start the next part of the adventure, Paul and Fiona said good-bye and Euan made hot chocolate, which they drank looking up at the stars, which were just starting to burn overhead. “My star’s over there, I think,” Summer said.

“Darling, you can’t possibly see it,” Claire said, “though you’re quite right, it is near Arcturus in Boötes.”

“I don’t mind not seeing it. I think it can see me,” Summer retorted, which Jude thought a nice sentiment.

“I expect it’s watching over you,” she told Summer.

“And me,” Darcey echoed, not really understanding.

Claire helped Darcey and Summer into their pajamas and anointed them with insect repellent, then Jude elected to read to them from the book of fairy stories that Summer had brought with
her, though Claire wasn’t very pleased about it and stomped off into the house, her limp pronounced accusingly. The girls chose “Rapunzel,” so Jude adjusted the hurricane lamp and settled herself in the bed with a girl either side of her.

“‘Once upon a time,’” she read, “‘there were a man and a woman who longed for a child of their own. They lived next door to a nasty old witch, and usually they
kept out of her way, but one day when the woman looked out of her window she saw a most delicious-looking salad growing in the witch’s garden and she wanted some very badly indeed. Eventually, one moonlit night, she persuaded her husband to gather her some, but the witch caught him at it.’”

Jude went on to tell how he bargained for their lives, and that the price was to give her their first child.
“‘When a little girl was born to them, the witch came and took her. She named her Rapunzel and when she was twelve and very beautiful the witch took her far away and locked her up in the top of a tall tower without a door and with only one window.’”

“Why did she do that?” asked Darcey.

“Because the witch thought she was precious, a thing to be kept safe and all to herself.”

“That’s not a good
thing to do to someone,” said Summer. “If she’d been free she might have liked the witch.”

“I think she was such a nasty old witch no one liked her,” said Jude firmly. “Fancy taking away someone’s child like that. Now, shall we get on with the story?

“‘Rapunzel grew up to be very lovely. She had very long, strong golden hair, which she kept tied in a single plait, like a piece of silken rope.
And every evening when she came to visit her in the tower, the witch would cry out from below, “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your golden hair,” and Rapunzel would unfurl her lovely plait and allow the witch to climb up it.’”

There were no further interruptions from the girls, and Jude read how one day a prince came riding by and saw the tower and was enchanted to hear the beautiful voice of a
girl, singing. When the witch came he hid behind a tree and saw how she climbed up the tower with the help of the owner of the voice, who was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. After the witch had gone, he stood below her window and cried, “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your golden hair,” and you can imagine Rapunzel’s astonishment when a handsome youth climbed up her plait and stepped through her
window. Of course, the two of them fell in love, and for many days afterward the prince visited Rapunzel in secret and she agreed to be his wife. They discussed over and over how on earth he could free her.

“And now comes the horrible part,” Summer told Darcey.

“‘One day, when the witch climbed up to see Rapunzel, the girl complained and said, “The other one doesn’t pull my hair so,” then clapped
her hand over her mouth as she realized that she’d betrayed her lover. The witch pretended not to have noticed her slip, but after she left the tower she hid herself in the forest to watch. When she saw the prince cry up to Rapunzel, and her darling captive respond eagerly to his request to let down her hair, she threw herself into a fair old rage. But when she’d calmed down again, she thought
up a plan. The very next day she went earlier than usual to the tower and climbed up Rapunzel’s hair. This time she overcame Rapunzel, tied her to a chair and cut off her plait with a single swish of her knife and kept it for herself. Then she banished the girl to a desert.’”