The Debutante (32 page)

She looked good behind the wheel. He’d never let anyone else drive that car, not even his wife.

Why was he so quick to hand her the keys?

Cate downshifted, speeding up a steep hill to the next corner. It had been a long time since she’d driven, maybe two years. And this car was exposed, raw, visceral. The
engine rumbled, a deep throaty growl beneath her; the wind tossing her hair. It was a sexy animal despite its age. And there was something intimate about driving it; a feeling of connectedness to a part of Jack that was wild too; unpredictable and yet sophisticated.

She accelerated over the crest of the hill, whipping round the corner past a field of stunned sheep. Here was the road. Slowing down, she checked the house numbers. Number twenty-seven. This was it. She pulled up outside. It was a detached William and Mary-style cottage, of considerable charm, with a view overlooking the sea below. It had a large, romantic front garden, filled with hollyhocks, rambling rose bushes, bluebells and daisies. Cate climbed out and, hauling one of the boxes off the back seat, pushed open the garden gate. The scent from the flowers was as refined as any blend by Creed or Guerlain. Putting down the box, she pressed the doorbell, excited to think of how pleased Jo would be with her unexpected gift.

The door opened. But instead of Jo, a tiny, very elderly woman with bright black eyes looked up at her. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m looking for Jo, I mean, Mrs Williams. I wondered if she was here.’

‘That’s my daughter. She’s gone out shopping. Can I help?’

‘Yes, my name’s Cate. I met her over at Endsleigh. I’m with Deveraux and Diplock, the valuers. I have something for her, a gift. I wanted to drop it off.’

‘Oh, she will be pleased!’ The woman smiled. ‘You know she was very upset to have to move. The whole thing’s been a bit of an adjustment for her. Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea?’

‘That’s very kind, but I don’t want you to go to any trouble.’

‘It’s no trouble. You’re in the country now—tea is our national sport!’

Cate carried in the box, placing it on the floor by the door.

‘Milk?’

‘Yes, please,’ Cate called.

It was a lovely home, opening onto a light-filled conservatory at the back; filled with comfortable chairs, a profusion of doilies and what appeared to be vast collections of small china figurines. While Jo’s mother put the kettle on, Cate examined the photographs lined up on the mantelpiece. There were faded black-and-white photographs of various family groupings, children and grandchildren, a couple of very old baby photos of startled infants in long white christening gowns, a picture of Jo and a man in a wheelchair, presumably her husband, in front of a beachfront property next to sign reading ‘The White House’.

‘I hope this isn’t too strong. I do like strong tea.’

Cate turned. ‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ she said, taking the steaming mug. ‘I was just admiring the pictures of your family.’

‘Thank you. I’ve been very blessed.’ She settled into one of the armchairs. ‘And now Jo and I are off to see the world!’

‘Really?’

‘Hasn’t she told you? She’s booked us into one of those fancy cruises. We leave for London in a week’s time, spend a few days at a posh hotel and then we’re off—for three months! We go to South Africa, the Middle East, Egypt, Russia, Spain, Marrakech…’

‘That sounds amazing!’

‘I’ve never even been out of England. But I’ve always wanted to travel only I’m too old to be getting on and off planes. Jo says we can see everything and at night we come back to our little cabin and eat our tea. She says we don’t even have to get off the ship if we don’t want to. Normally I’d never consider anything so extravagant but we’ve both come into a little money, so I suppose it’s fair enough.’

‘You must let us know when you’re in London and we’ll come and meet you.’

‘Oh, yes. We’re staying somewhere right in the centre of town … the Belleview or something like that. I have to look it up.’ She smiled. ‘So, I’m not very good at keeping secrets,’ she confessed. ‘What have you brought her?’

‘Well.’ Cate put her tea down and tore off the packing tape on the box. ‘While we were there valuing the contents, we came across a room in the west wing of the house. I’m sure you’re familiar with it. Really quite
beautiful, painted the most brilliant gold. Do you know the one I mean?’

‘That room has been locked a long time.’

‘Well, in there, we discovered these old books. See.’ She handed her one. ‘Many of them are first editions. Your daughter was particularly taken with them,’ Cate continued. ‘We thought she might like to have them.’

‘I see.’

It wasn’t quite the flurry of excitement that Cate was expecting. Perhaps she didn’t understand.

‘Most of them have never even been read. They’re really quite valuable,’ she explained. ‘And in wonderful condition. For example, this
Wind in the Willows
is extremely rare.’

‘You’re too kind.’ She held the book, unopened, in her lap.

‘I mean, of course …’ Cate faltered, ‘if you don’t want them … it doesn’t matter. We only thought…’

‘Forgive me. It’s just that we have so many things, my dear,’ she said quietly. ‘And with my daughter moving in we have even less space than ever. Neither one of us is very clever that way.’ She handed the book back to Cate. ‘I don’t mean to sound ungrateful but I think perhaps it’s best if you gave them to someone else, or perhaps kept them for yourself.’

Something had shifted. The woman who’d appeared lively and enthusiastic only a minute ago was suddenly
subdued and withdrawn. ‘I’m sorry.’ Cate put it back inside, folded the lid of the box down again. ‘I … I mean, we thought it might be a good idea.’

‘No harm done. I’m sorry you took the time to bring them all this way.’ She took another sip of tea.

Cate stood awkwardly, picked up her tea too. ‘Endsleigh is lovely,’ she said, trying to start again on more neutral footing.

‘Yes. Certainly very beautiful to look at.’

‘Your daughter was telling me all about how you came there when Irene Blythe was first married.’

‘Yes, as a lady’s maid. That was a long time ago.’

Cate looked around the room again, desperate for a fresh topic of conversation.

‘It must’ve been exciting working for such a famous person.’

‘Well,’ Jo’s mother frowned, brushing a bit of lint from her skirt. ‘it wasn’t quite the same in those days.’

There was something unyielding between them now; an invisible door she couldn’t budge. It had something to do with the house, the books …

‘That room upstairs,’ Cate persisted, ‘I thought it was the most beautiful in the house. Do you know why it was locked?’

‘They didn’t need it,’ the woman answered briskly. ‘Most of the house was shut down during the war to conserve energy. That wing was never properly used again.
Besides—’ she put down her teacup decisively—‘how many rooms does a person need?’

Suddenly it was obvious—they were all children’s books. Cate wondered why she hadn’t seen it before. ‘It was a nursery, wasn’t it?’

‘I don’t know what it was for. It was always locked.’ The old woman stood up. ‘I’m sorry you had a wasted trip. I’ll let my daughter know you were here. She was thinking of stopping by the auction so you may see her then.’

Cate put down her unfinished tea. Her visit was clearly over now. Picking up the box, she followed Jo’s mother to the door. ‘Did you know Diana Blythe?’

‘I met her.’

‘What do you think happened to her?’

‘I have no idea.’

Cate laughed, trying to charm her. ‘I suppose you must get asked questions about her all the time!’

The woman said nothing.

‘It’s just odd, isn’t it, that there’s no grave?’

‘Grave?’

‘I know her body wasn’t found but, I mean, it’s unusual not to mark the loss of a loved one in some way, with a grave or a monument.’

Jo’s Mother seemed to consider this. ‘Not everyone wants to remember the past,’ she said at last.

‘Yes. Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’

She opened the door. ‘It was good of you to stop by.’

(Cate got the feeling this wasn’t entirely true.)

Walking back to the car, she put the box back with the others. Her mission was a spectacular failure, that was certain.

Turning back to the cottage, she raised her hand goodbye.

But the old lady had already shut the door firmly behind her.

Endsleigh
Devon

17 October
1940

My dearest,
What news, my love? A few lines are all that I require. I do hope you got my last letter. Life here in Arcadia continues to be more of a paradise lost than regained. Not least because Alice keeps looking at me in Horror. Of course it’s obvious I’m in the pig. Last night I finally braved it. ‘Alice, I’m going to have a baby.’ Again, that Horror face and then Complete Silence. So I said, ‘I may need some help.’ To which she replied. ‘Yes, ma’am, most women do.’ And left the room. I simply howled. But now at least she’s a little less open-mouthed, which is a blessing. Little John has developed quite an infection in his lungs and the doctor came round to see him. Irene has spent two days praying with him by his bedside and he seems to have turned a corner. She’s quite triumphant. Still, she’s asked Alice to find them somewhere else to stay. I know it’s all on my account which makes me feel dreadful.

Irene makes me keep myself only to the house and gardens. I am so bored I could scream but she’s right I suppose; even if I don’t care two beans what anyone thinks, she does very much. And yet there’s always masses to do—paper drives, scrap-metal collections; Irene is forever out giving stirring speeches about physical and moral hygiene: ‘A clean heart and a clean body cannot fail to bring us closer to victory!’ (How killing!) She brings me piles of bandages to roll from the hospital—it seems the one domestic talent I do possess. I do thousands in a day and still there are always more. That old gardener of Irene’s (I so long to call him Toad for no good reason other than I’m aching to call someone Toad) has ploughed up the whole of the side garden and planted the most incredible lot of vegetables. He used to be quite slow but now whips round the place in a positive tornado of activity. But Irene has done something terribly sweet, which is to give me a little project. All her restoration of course has had to wait and the gilding she was going to use for the library she’s given to me to paint the nursery. She’s terribly excited, says it will be beautiful and we shall decorate it in such a lovely way. It’s so extravagant but I started the other day and the effect is quite striking. Cannot help the feeling she thinks that I will stay here forever. Already she’s had the most extensive collection of children’s books sent from Hatchards and every day she has some new plan. We paint together; I do the low-down bits and she is quite good at dealing with heights and being up on top of the ladder. It reminds me of when we were children; it is so much easier between us when we are painting in silence.

Your own, very own,

Baby xxx

The next day and a half were a flurry of organisation and activity. It wasn’t until early evening, when the auction was over and most of the crowds had dispersed, that the pace relaxed again. Rachel was seeing to the final paperwork with Mr Syms; removal vans were loading up the last of the furniture, now headed for various destinations throughout the UK and even the world. Cate wandered through the house looking for Jack. Eventually she found him lying on his back, eyes closed, stretched out under the horse-chestnut tree in the garden.

‘Hey,’ she called and he looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun.

‘Hey! I never got to ask you what happened with the books. You managed not to get lost?’

‘I got there all right. But Jo’s mother didn’t want them. She turned me away.’

‘Really?’ He laughed, shaking his head. ‘So ends my life of crime. And public service.’ And he closed his eyes again, inhaling deeply. She looked down at his face, peaceful in repose. Rachel was right; he
was
handsome and there was something incredibly appealing about the way he didn’t seem to notice it or care.