The Emerald Comb (30 page)

I decided to go home. If I sat on Irish Hill all day, pleasant as it might be, I’d never get any closer to finding out who’d been buried in our garden and why. Time to try to track down those servants. Or not. I felt the familiar little buzz of excitement at the prospect of a couple of hours’ uninterrupted research, and hurried down the hill.

Simon, thankfully, was home early that evening. We decided to have a barbecue in the back garden, and he set to work lighting the charcoal while I prepared some salads and sliced open burger buns. We had sausages, burgers and chicken wings, and I wrapped some strawberries in tin foil along with a drizzle of orange juice, to tuck into the embers afterwards for dessert. The kids loved barbecued food, and happily organised themselves into a mini-Olympics involving much bouncing on the new trampoline and scoring of goals in the football net, while we cooked the food and sipped a bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio. Sometimes, everything just slotted into place and life was perfect. Except for my niggling worries about whatever Simon was hiding from me.

‘Mu-um,’ said Lauren, in one of those wheedling tones where you just know you’re going to be talked into something against your better judgement, ‘you know how it’s Friday, and there’s no school tomorrow, and it doesn’t get dark till ten, and it’s a lovely warm evening?’

‘Ye-es?’

‘So can we all stay up late tonight? Playing out here? Until the stars come out? Even Thomas?’

Little Thomas stood beside his sister, with pleading puppy-dog eyes.

I looked at Simon and raised my eyebrows. ‘Well, I don’t see why not,’ he said.

‘OK, Thomas goes in when the first star comes out, and you and Lewis go in as soon as it’s properly dark.’

‘Yes!’ The children ran off again to the end of the garden to continue their games.

‘Nice to see them playing well together,’ commented Simon. ‘And including Thomas.’

‘Yes. Though we might pay for the late night with grumpiness tomorrow.’

Simon topped up our glasses. ‘Cheers, love. We’re doing a great job with our kids, even though I say it myself.’

I clinked my glass against his and smiled. He was right about the kids.

’They’re lucky,’ he went on. ‘Having each other, I mean. And you had Jo.’

‘Jo and I didn’t always get on, as you know!’ My sister and I didn’t get on too well even now. We were too alike in some ways and complete opposites in others.

Simon looked wistful. ‘Maybe it would be different now, if I’d had a sibling. If Mum and Dad had adopted another child as well as me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think it would be easier. I mean, dealing with Mum’s dementia. There would be someone else who really understood, who remembered her the way I do, from childhood. And maybe if she had a larger family to gather round her, she’d remember more.’

‘Maybe. But there would be no guaranteeing it.’

‘At least there’d be someone to share the visiting with. It’s hard, being the only one.’

I frowned. Simon only visited Veronica once a fortnight. ‘Love, if you find it that hard to visit her, maybe just go once a month?’

He looked at me, and bit his lower lip. Then he sighed, put his elbows on his knees and stared into his glass of wine, cupped in both hands. ‘I haven’t told you, Katie. I didn’t know what you’d think.’

‘Haven’t told me what?’

He swirled the wine around in his glass. ‘I’ve been going to Mum’s much more often lately. I found that on about half the occasions I visited, she was more with it – knew who I was and all that. So I figured that if I went more often, then overall there’d be more times when we could have a proper conversation. I thought it might help her keep her memories for longer.’

‘When have you been going?’

‘Two or three times a week. After work. I’ve been staying on the train down from London, and getting off at Bournemouth. Then I take a cab to her home. Spend ten minutes or an hour with her depending on how she is, then get the train back here.’

‘That’s why you’ve been late back so many times.’

He nodded. For a moment he looked just like Thomas, when caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. I could barely believe it. All those terrible thoughts I’d had, that he was cheating on me, when the only ‘other woman’ he was seeing was his mother. The darling man! I felt both relieved and mortified. How could I ever have suspected him?

I reached out to touch his hand. ‘But why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I thought you might advise me against it. You always say I’m so tense and stressed when I come home from seeing her. You’ve told me I need to look after myself first, or I’ll be no good to her. And you’ve often said I should go less often.’

‘I wouldn’t have stopped you from going, if you’d told me why you wanted to.’ Did he really think I would? Was I that much of an ogre?

‘I know, but you might have put me off. Put doubts in my head, even if you didn’t mean to. But I knew I wanted to give it a go. It’s kind of an experiment.’

‘And is it working? Do you get more quality time with her?’

‘A bit. Maybe once a week she’s on good form. But I can’t spend long, and I’m so tired – that all works against it.’

He looked as though he was going to cry. The stress he’d been under – all that extra travelling, dealing with his mother’s illness, keeping it all quiet from me. All on top of the house move, the bones, not to mention the contact from Amy. No wonder he’d been grumpy at times lately. And I hadn’t helped at all.

‘Oh, love,’ I said, taking his hand. ‘You should have told me. It was a good idea, and would have been easier for you if I’d known what you were doing. I could have supported you more.’

‘You’ve been fab. God knows what you thought I was doing for all those late nights.’

‘Well, you said you were working late so I…’

‘Believed me? Bless you.’ He leaned over and kissed my forehead. I felt myself blush with embarrassment. God knows what he would think of me if he knew the wild ideas I’d actually had about why he’d been late back so many times.

‘So what are you going to do now? It’s too much for you to keep going there after work.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It’s wearing me out, all this travelling.’

‘Why don’t we move her to Winchester? There are plenty of nursing homes near here. If she was just ten or fifteen minutes’ drive away, you could see her as often as you like. Every day, even.’

Simon stared at me. I wondered whether I should say any more. Would he think I was interfering? She was his mother – he needed to be the one who decided what was best for her. But I’d started now. Might as well say it all. ‘I know you always thought moving her would upset her too much. But in the long run it might be worth it – if she settled and you were able to see her without ruining your own health.’

‘She barely knows where she is now, half the time.’

‘Well then – it would make no difference to her. Does she have friends in the home?’

He grimaced. ‘They’re not really friends. Some days she’ll chat to anyone who’ll listen; on others she won’t say a word. Depends on her mood. I think she’d be just the same with a different set of people around her.’

‘So, what do you think?’

He sat in silence for a minute, staring at an overgrown Clematis which grew along the remains of the old garden wall. It needed a severe pruning. I made a mental note to do it after it had finished flowering.

‘Maybe if she was nearby I could even take the children to see her. If it turned out to be one of her better days we’d stay, if not, we would leave early.’ Simon looked carefully at me.

‘I think that would be a great idea. The twins are old enough to understand that she might not always know who they are. And Thomas is young enough to accept anything.’

‘I’ll start looking at local homes then. As soon as possible.’

I raised my glass to him and we clinked them. ‘Sounds like a good plan. But listen, Simon, keep me involved, all right?’

‘Will do.’

He still looked thoughtful. I guessed it would take a while for him to work through the implications of having his mother closer. I poured him another glass of wine, and we sat watching the kids play, and discussing his mother and Amy. It felt good to be talking openly with him, knowing he was not hiding anything more.

There was more than one star out by the time I retrieved Thomas from the den the kids were making at the bottom of the garden, and carried him yawning into the house and straight up to bed.

Chapter Twenty-One: Hampshire, April 1842

It was four months since the death of Georgia. Four long months. Agnes couldn’t remember how many inns they’d stayed in; how many trains they’d caught or stagecoaches they’d travelled in. It was all a blur. She wondered how on earth gypsies coped with this lifestyle – always on the move, never staying anywhere more than a few days. At each stage Bartholomew had a story ready for anyone who asked – they were travelling north to attend a relative’s funeral; they were travelling south on business; they were on their way to visit friends. And all the while he’d introduced her as his wife, Georgia, and their baby, Barty. She was beginning to understand what the plan was, and how it might work.

He’d bought her new gowns – not maids’ uniforms but ladies’ outfits. She had a trunk full of them now – beautiful dresses in silk and satin, dainty slippers to match, exquisite Indian shawls and beaded reticules. He’d bought her a necklace of silver and pearl, a delicate golden filigreed brooch, an opal and diamond ring.

He’d taught her to mind her ts and hs, to lose her country burr, to hold out her hand and incline her head when being introduced to someone new. He’d reminded her to hold her head high, her back straight, and walk as though she was gliding on casters beneath her skirts. He’d taught her how to be a lady.

And now, finally, the time had come to return to North Kingsley. They’d taken a train from London to North Kingsley station, then Bartholomew had hired a cab to take them and their trunks to Kingsley House. Agnes gazed out of the cab at the fields as they passed, their spring growth just beginning to emerge from the brown earth. The hedgerows were bursting into bloom, celebrating the end of a long, cold winter. It felt as though they were putting on a display to welcome her back. It was a little over a year since she’d first come here, on that stormy day when Georgia had given birth to little Barty. Just over a year ago, but so much had changed. Barty had changed too; he was already beginning to walk, and was a big eater.

Her own son must also have had his first birthday, she realised with a jolt. As the months had passed, she’d thought about him less and less often. Her time was taken up with caring for little Barty, who now felt like her own child. His face lit up whenever he looked at her. When he cried, she was the only one who could comfort him. And she knew that when he began to speak, she was the one he would call ‘mama’.

As the cab lurched its way along the rutted road, she realised sadly there was no place for her own son in this new life Bartholomew had forged for them. Although the people of the village had never met Georgia, they’d known of the birth of her baby. There would be no possibility of explaining a second baby of the same age. Agnes knew her dream of bringing her own son to live with them would never be realised now. He would have to stay with her parents. Besides, he wouldn’t know her. Last year, her arms had ached to hold him whenever she thought of him. Now, with Barty to hold and cuddle, that ache had gone.

She put her hand on her tummy. If she was right, there’d be another baby before the end of the year. A brother or sister for Barty, and a cementing of her relationship with Bartholomew.

The cab was now nearing the village. Agnes caught her lower lip between her teeth. Would their plan work? Would people accept her as Mrs St Clair? After Polly and the Fowleses had been sent away, only a couple of people from the area – Libby, and Dr Moore – had ever seen both her and Georgia. The short-sighted doctor had once mistaken Agnes for Georgia, as she sat in her red gown beside the fire, with Barty on the hearthrug at her feet. That, Bartholomew had told her, was what had given him the idea.

Still, as the cab entered the village, Agnes pulled her veil over her face.

Bartholomew looked at her. ‘Nervous?’

‘A little,’ she admitted.

He patted her hand where it lay on the seat beside her. ‘It’ll be all right. Trust me.’ He gave her a tight smile, and leaned forward to instruct the driver where to go.

The house, when they arrived, felt cold and unwelcoming. Agnes carried a sleeping Barty upstairs to find a cot. She shivered as she passed Georgia’s old room, and went on up to the room she’d used in the attic. She put Barty down gently, went to the window and gazed out across the garden. To think she was now to be mistress of this house! It was what she had always wanted, and yet…things were not quite as she would have them. Bartholomew had been colder to her than he used to be. He made love to her, and treated her as his wife, but – something was missing. Something she could not quite put her finger on. It was as though he’d buried a part of himself along with Georgia.

Bartholomew entered the room. ‘Ah, there you are. What are you doing up here? This is not your room now. We will need this room for one of the new servants.’

He came to stand behind her. ‘I must plant a tree in that spot.’ He nodded at the place beside the garden wall where Georgia was buried.

Agnes glanced down at that spot. It no longer looked newly dug. Last autumn’s leaves still covered it, and a few bluebells had seeded themselves and were nodding their violet heads in the spring breeze. Why did he want to plant a tree? Some kind of memorial to Georgia?

‘To stop anyone digging there,’ he said, as if he’d read her mind.

The following day, after a makeshift breakfast of bread and cold ham bought the previous day, Bartholomew looked across the table at Agnes.

‘Today we must start setting up our household. We need servants, and you, as the mistress of the house, must go out and employ them.’

Agnes gasped. She had not thought she would need to go into the village as Mrs St Clair quite so soon. But she realised the sense of it – sooner or later she would have to go out. They needed a cook, a kitchen maid, a house maid and maybe also a nursery maid. They also needed to stock up the kitchen, and Bartholomew would need horses and a man to look after them.