The Emerald Comb (9 page)

I scanned Simon’s face for clues as to what she’d said, how he’d taken it. He looked drawn, the way he always looks after visiting Veronica. But was he more upset by her stories this time? Had she said something distressing? Before she was ill she’d always talked about that day with warmth and affection. The chubby blond four-year-old running full pelt into the hallway of the children’s home in pursuit of the resident cat, and stopping abruptly when he saw her and Peter standing there in their coats and hats. His formal greeting, parroting what he’d been taught:
Good afternoon, Mr and Mrs Smiff
. His shy smile when Veronica told him he could now call her Mummy, and Peter, Daddy. The wondrous moment when he first slid his warm, sticky hand into hers, as they led him outside to their car and his new life.

‘What did she say that was different?’ I asked, as gently as if he was still that shy little four-year-old.

‘She spoke about her fears that it wouldn’t work out, that I might change their relationship and not for the better, that despite all the visits they’d had with me before it became official she might find it all too much and have to send me back. I never heard her say anything like that before. I’d always grown up being told that I was special because they
chose
me. That their life wasn’t complete until I joined the family.’

He took another gulp of his wine. His eyes sparkled. My big strong rugby-playing husband, close to tears. We might have had our ups and downs lately, but seeing him like this broke my heart.

‘Katie, it hurt, you know? To hear that she’d thought they might have to send me back. Even now, after all these years.’

‘She didn’t know what she was saying.’

‘She did. She just didn’t know who she was saying it to.’

I rubbed his shoulder. I didn’t know what I could say to comfort him. ‘Perhaps you should stop visiting her. It wouldn’t hurt her, she wouldn’t even realise anything had changed.’

‘It’s my duty. She’s got no one else.’

‘But it just upsets you. I hate to see you like this. And it’s not even as if she’s your real m—’

Whoops. Wrong thing to say, or nearly say. Simon glared at me. ‘She’s my mum, Katie. She, and no one else.’ He knocked back the rest of his wine and stood up decisively. ‘Well. Enough of that. Where are our gorgeous children?’

‘Sitting room, watching
Jungle Book
.’

‘Great, I love that film! Mind if I join them while you’re making dinner?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but sashayed off across the hallway, singing something about the bare necessities of life. I heard Thomas squeal ‘Daddy, Daddy!’, ticklish giggles from Lauren, and the clap of a high-five, ‘Yo, Dad!’ from Lewis.

The next day, Sunday, was grey and rainy. There was no hope of going out anywhere, so we decided to get on with the unpacking. There were still piles of boxes in the corners of rooms, waiting to be sorted out. Some boxes contained things like photo albums, outgrown toys and old school books. Those would go in the loft above Lauren’s room as soon as we’d installed a loft ladder. That was the only part of the house we’d not yet explored. The hatch was sealed shut and Simon didn’t want to open it up yet. ‘Time enough,’ he’d said. ‘Plenty to sort out down here before we venture up there. Right then, what shall we tackle today?’

‘The study,’ I said. ‘Let’s unpack the books and files, and fill up those shelves. I’ll give them a dust and polish first while you get the kids settled doing something.’ I hoped my family tree research folders would turn up somewhere amongst the books.

I made us a cup of tea, then went back to the study armed with a damp cloth, dusters and polish. The shelves and cupboards needed a thorough clean before we could put anything onto them. The wood was dark with age, with a deep patina from centuries of beeswax. Walnut, perhaps, I thought. I pulled open the fold-down desk where Veronica had put the tea tray on my first visit, and reached deep inside with my damp cloth to get the dirt out of the corners.

‘That’s funny,’ I said.

Simon looked up from the box he was opening. ‘What?’

‘The panel at the back inside the desk is loose. Oh!’

I’d pushed on one side, and the panel had opened up. I bent down and peered inside. There was a small drawer behind, made of the same walnut wood but looking less aged. It had a tiny metal ring as a handle. I gently pulled on it but it didn’t move.

‘It’s stuck.’

‘Let me look,’ said Simon, and I moved out of the way. He gave a tug, and then joggled the drawer from side to side to free it up. Gradually he eased it out of its slot.

‘There’s something in it,’ he said.

‘Dead spiders?’ I suppressed a shudder.

He reached in and pulled out a small bundle of dusty, beige cloth. ‘This has been in there a long time, I’d say.’

I held my breath while he cradled the bundle in one hand and unwrapped it with the other. It was a black hair comb, with some sort of stones set along the edge. Simon rubbed at the stones with a finger. ‘Green glass,’ he announced.

‘Let me look.’

He handed the comb to me. My fingers were instantly blackened where I touched it. ‘I think this might be silver, badly tarnished,’ I said. ‘Let’s see.’

I went out to the kitchen with it, followed by Simon. Under the kitchen sink I found a jar of silver dip. I dipped a corner of a duster into it, then rubbed at the comb. Yes, it was silver. Gradually the true colour of the metal revealed itself on the top edge. The stones too began to glow.

‘Simon, I think these are emeralds, not glass. Some kind of precious stone, anyway.’

‘Could be,’ he said. ‘I guess a jeweller’s shop would be able to say for sure.’

I slotted the duster between the teeth of the comb and sawed back and forth. The books were forgotten as we both sat at the kitchen table, me cleaning, Simon watching, until the whole comb shone. It was a beautiful piece.

‘Wow,’ said Simon, as I held up the comb.

‘Some lucky woman wore this in her hair,’ I said. ‘I wonder how old it is? Victorian, or maybe even earlier?’

Simon rolled his eyes. ‘More likely it belonged to Mrs Delamere – you’ll have to give her a ring and ask her.’

He was right. I’d have to check whether it was hers. I must admit, I hoped it wouldn’t be. As I turned the comb over in my hands I felt a tingle – like the one I’d felt when I first entered the house. A kind of connection. Somehow I knew this had belonged to a woman in my family. Georgia St Clair, perhaps, or Bartholomew’s mother Constance.

‘Wonder why it was hidden away like that?’

‘To keep it safe, I’d guess. No burglar would find that drawer. Come on – let’s get on with unpacking the books.’

As I stacked the shelves, I found myself thinking about the comb. Who had worn it? Who had bought it for her? Why had it been hidden away in the back of the desk?

I phoned Vera Delamere that evening, and described the comb and where we’d found it. She was delighted to hear from us and wanted to know all the details of our move, how well we were settling in, which child had been allocated which room. She knew nothing about the comb, as I’d expected, but sounded as intrigued as I was, wondering who it might have belonged to. So the comb was mine to keep. I found a velvet padded jewellery box, tucked the comb inside it, and put the box in my bedside drawer.

The house had given up its first secret. Would there be more to follow?

Chapter Seven: Brighton, May 1838

She was certainly a pretty girl, thought Agnes, as she stood behind Miss Georgia at the dressing-table mirror, brushing her hair. She had a sweet face, unblemished by time or hardship. Though she’d lost her poor papa this last year, the grief hadn’t marked her at all. Agnes felt a sudden rush of love for her young mistress.

‘How shall I do your hair, miss?’ she asked. ‘Shall I pin it all up? Will that work with your new bonnet?’

‘Oh, Agnes, don’t pin it
all
up,’ said Georgia. ‘Leave some ringlets. The fashion is to have them tumbling down from beneath the bonnet, in front of one’s ears. So that’s what I shall have.’

Agnes frowned. ‘We should have twisted your hair in rags last night, if you want ringlets. But I’ll do what I can.’ She began pinning up the back section of hair, leaving a few strands at either side. If she heated a poker a little in the fire, she’d be able to twist the hair around it to make the curls.

‘It is my wedding day, remember, Aggie. A girl should have the hairstyle she wants when she’s getting married.’ Georgia pouted a little, then sighed. ‘I’m sorry, dear Aggie. You are right – I should have thought of the ringlets last night. Will you do your trick with the poker?’

‘I will. And you will look lovely. A worthy bride.’

Georgia smiled, and caught hold of Agnes’s hand over her shoulder. ‘You are so good to me. Don’t ever leave me; I could not manage without you. I shall be sure to ask my new husband to increase your wages.’

‘Thank you, miss.’ Agnes finished pinning the back of the hair into a neat chignon, and began carefully heating the poker in the fire.

‘He is a fine man, is he not? Do you like him, Aggie?’

Agnes kept her back turned to her mistress, in case Miss Georgia caught sight of the flush which spread across her face and throat. If only Miss Georgia knew quite how much she liked him, and in precisely what way. She cleared her throat. ‘He will make you a fine husband indeed, miss.’

‘But do you like him, I asked?’

Agnes turned back to Georgia with the heated poker. ‘’Tis not for me to like or dislike him.’ She picked up a lock of hair and carefully wound it around the end of the poker. ‘’Tis whether
you
like him or not, is all that matters. Now keep still lest I burn you with the poker.’

‘Oh, I do like him. He is clever enough, handsome enough, and fun enough. And my uncle likes him.’ Georgia fingered the ringlet Agnes had made. ‘But I am not sure that I actually
love
him. Does that matter?’

Yes, Agnes wanted to shout. Yes, it matters! If you don’t love him, leave him for one who does! But she bit her tongue. ‘Love will grow, Miss Georgia. If you like him and respect him, those are the seeds and soil from which love grows.’

‘You sound just like him! He said something like that on the very day he asked me to marry him. Oh, how I remember that day!’

And I, too, thought Agnes, remembering how he’d taken her for the first time on her narrow bed, crushing Georgia’s silk gown. She felt a pang of guilt. If only Mr St Clair wasn’t her mistress’s fiancé. She felt torn between love and loyalty to Miss Georgia and her overwhelming desire for Miss Georgia’s intended. She unwound the last strand of hair from the poker. It sprang back into a perfect curl. She smiled. ‘There, miss. Ringlets, as you wanted.’

Georgia admired her reflection in the mirror. ‘Do I need a spot of rouge?’

‘You are lovely as you are, miss. Naturally pretty.’

‘Do you think Bartholomew loves me?’

‘I am sure he does. Shall I help you put on your wedding gown now?’

Georgia leapt to her feet and clapped her hands, as excited as a child on her birthday. ‘I’ve been longing to wear this gown! It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Oh, can you imagine Bartholomew’s face when he turns and sees me walking up the aisle wearing this?’

Agnes could imagine it. His face would soften into a smile. He would hold out his hand to his bride, and his eyes would not leave hers. He would whisper something sweetly in her ear, making her eyes light up. But Agnes was not imagining Georgia standing beside Mr St Clair at the altar. It was herself she pictured there.

‘And you too must have a new gown!’ Georgia ran to her closet and pulled out the pale green gown she’d worn on the day Bartholomew proposed. ‘Take this one, Aggie dear.’

Agnes blushed. Why had she picked
that
one to give away, of all her gowns? ‘Oh, miss, I couldn’t take that one. It suits you so…’

‘And it will suit you too. Your colouring is just like mine. Why, we could almost be sisters, don’t you think? You the older and wiser one, me the silly younger one.’ She giggled. ‘You must wear this gown when we next go out and about together. People will wonder why Bartholomew chose the younger sister rather than the older one!’ She pushed the dress into Agnes’s arms.

Ah, but he had chosen
both
sisters, thought Agnes, with another surge of guilt at her betrayal. One for her status in society and one for her skills in the bedroom. She took the dress and draped it over the back of a chair. ‘Thank you, miss. It’s a beautiful gown.’

‘Well, if it needs altering to fit you at all, I suppose you can do it today while we are at the church. I shan’t be needing you again until later, after the party, so your time is your own. Now then, help me get into my wedding gown!’

Agnes bit her lip as she held out the gown for Georgia to step into. She’d expected to be asked to come to the church to witness the wedding as a guest. She and Georgia had always been so close – yes, almost like sisters! But Georgia could be so self-centred at times. She was thinking only of herself, her outfit, her hair. Her wedding.

Agnes felt a pain in her chest as she once again pictured Bartholomew standing at the altar. Painful though it would be, she resolved to be at the church and witness the wedding for herself. And she’d wear the green gown – the gown on which they had first made love. Maybe he’d see her and remember that day…

The day was grey and overcast, with rain threatening from the west. Bartholomew sighed as he drew open the curtains of his bedchamber and looked out across the barren beach and steely sea. Georgia had so hoped for a day of sunshine and warmth; she’d wanted to walk to and from the church via the promenade. But that was not looking likely now. He would send for cabs to collect them, and ask the drivers to wait outside during the ceremony. Georgia would not want to spoil her new ivory silk gown.

It was three weeks since he had proposed to her. Charles Holland had been keen for them to marry and move out as soon as possible, but Georgia had insisted on time to make preparations, get a new gown made, prepare a trousseau. And Bartholomew had needed to find a house to let, as Holland had made it clear they would not be welcome to stay in his house after the wedding. Tonight, their wedding night, was to be their last night in the Brunswick Terrace house. Tomorrow they would move to a smaller property at the eastern end of Brighton, in Sussex Square where they would stay for the summer at least, before moving to London for the winter season, if that is what Georgia wanted.