The Lake House (21 page)

The door opened abruptly and Daisy arrived with the silver breakfast tray held proudly aloft. “Morning, Ma'am,” she said with grating cheerfulness. “Big day's here at last!”

The maid set down the tray, babbling breathlessly about the menu and the guests and the parlous state of things in the kitchen. “Last I saw, Cook was chasing Hettie round the table with a guinea fowl in one hand and a rolling pin in the other!” Then, she moved to draw back the curtains, allowing light, remarkable full light, to flood through the glass and sweep away any lingering trace of night.

And while Daisy began an unsolicited narration of the preparations taking place on the lawn below, Eleanor poured tea from the small silver pot and wondered how on earth she was going to manage all that the day required.

* * *

The curtains in the bedroom window lurched open and from where she sat on the garden seat, Constance could see that twit of a housemaid, Daisy, flapping her wings as she crowed and cawed by the glass, doubtless driving Eleanor to the brink of ear-stabbing distraction. It was no less than she deserved. Fancy lying in so late when there was a party to host! But then Eleanor had always been a most mercurial child.

Constance had had her own breakfast an hour ago. She always rose at the crack of dawn; it was the habit of a lifetime. Constance was not above vice—indeed she'd always felt it was a woman's duty to keep herself interesting—but punctuality was a virtue, she'd been taught as a child, without which one disrupted the lives of others. Such rudeness was not to be countenanced.

The garden was already a hive of activity. Constance had her stationery set with her and a list of letters to write, but it was almost impossible not to give in to diversion. A number of burly men were erecting elaborate fireworks launchers on the oval lawn and vans had started arriving with deliveries for the kitchen. Nearby, a pair of inelegant local boys with decorative wreaths were busy trampling the flowerbeds as they looked for somewhere to set down their ladder. One of them, a liverish-looking fellow with a rash of fresh pimples on his chin, had made the mistake of approaching Constance when they first arrived, looking for “the boss', but Constance had soon got rid of him with a blank stare and some prattle about the weather. Senility was a useful costume. It was true her thoughts wandered these days, but not as much as she let them all believe. She could still set her mind to accomplishing tremendous things if she were sufficiently inspired.

Yes, it was going to be a good day. Though she never would have admitted it aloud, and certainly not to Eleanor, Constance relished Midsummer. The Edevanes did not entertain often, but the tradition of Midsummer was one that Eleanor hadn't been able to let go, and thank God for that. The celebration at Loeanneth was the highlight of Constance's year, the only thing that made up for the fact she had to live here in this godforsaken place where the smell of the sea, its horrible crashing sound when the breeze blew a certain way, was enough to make her blood run cold. Constance despised the sound. It reminded her of that terrible night all those years ago; she'd thought herself rid of it when they'd left the house more than twenty years before, but life could be cruel like that.

Anyway. The purpose and excitement of the party preparations reminded her of happier times past: the anticipation she'd felt as a young woman, dressing in her silk and jewels, spritzing her cologne and pinning up her hair; the moment of arrival, making her grand entrance, casting her gaze across the crowd, catching the eye of a worthy conquest; and then, the excitement of the chase, the warmth of the bright dance floor, the hushed flight along dark corridors to claim her prize . . . Sometimes, lately, the past was so vivid, so
real
, she almost believed herself to be that young woman again.

Movement broke her reverie and Constance felt her smile drop away. The front door had opened and now Daffyd Llewellyn emerged, stumbling over the threshold as he adjusted his hat and hoisted his easel onto his hip. She sat very still, hidden in the shadows. The last thing she wanted was to be drawn into conversation with him. He was moving more slowly than usual, almost as if he were in some sort of discomfort. Constance had noticed it the other afternoon, too, when they were all out on the lawn and Eleanor made the announcement about the award he was soon to receive. Heartburn, apparently—not that it was any of her care or concern; Constance had no time for the silly, weak man. The way he'd lurked about the house and garden when she was mistress, with his eccentric clothing and his sad eyes, his ridiculous fairy tales—every time she'd turned around he'd been there. And as for that breakdown of his! Constance sniffed with contempt. The man had neither pride nor shame. What had he to feel despondent about?
She
was the one who ought to have felt aggrieved. He'd taken her child from her, spouted his rubbish about magic lands and redemption, and then presumed to intrude upon her hospitality. She'd ordered Henri to send him away, but Henri, pliant and meek in every other respect, had refused.

And now it was Eleanor's turn to cosset and indulge the man. She'd adored him as a girl, and he her, and the pair still shared a singular friendship. Constance had seen them in a cosy tête-à-tête a couple of weeks ago, sitting on the garden seat near the roses. Eleanor had been telling him something, her face a study in anguish, and he nodding, and then he'd touched her cheek with his fingertips and Constance had realised Eleanor was crying. She'd known then what the conversation was about.

A warm breeze blew lightly and petals scattered like confetti. Constance saw many things these days. She'd have preferred to keep her youth and beauty, but it did no good to rail against the inevitable and it turned out there were benefits to ageing. When she lost her ability to turn heads, she gained the capacity to sit very still, to breathe very quietly, to pass unnoticed. And so, she saw things. She saw Deborah giving her mother a hard time since she'd become engaged; Alice sneaking away to meet in secret with that gardener with the dark hair and the gypsy eyes; that business between Anthony and the pretty young nanny.

It was a pity Eleanor wasn't as watchful as Constance. She might have figured things out sooner. Constance had wondered how long it would take for the penny to drop. Of course, she could have told her daughter what she'd seen, but people were inclined to shoot the messenger, and evidently Eleanor had got there in the end, for the young nanny was gone now. She'd been sent packing with very little warning and no fanfare. And good riddance. The covert smiles, the snatched conversations when they thought no one could see. Constance had seen, though. She'd even observed the young woman handing over a gift one afternoon, a book. Constance's eyes weren't what they'd used to be and she hadn't been able to discern the title, not then, but she'd taken it upon herself to creep into Anthony's study later and there she'd seen it, among the butterflies and magnifiers, the same green cover. A book of poems by John Keats.

It wasn't the infidelity to which she took exception—Constance saw no reason men and women shouldn't take their pleasure where they found it—but discretion was key. It behoved people of their kind to make the right choices, so that news wasn't leaked outside the circle, where it could be twisted into gossip. And therein lay the rub. A person in one's employ was most certainly
not
within the circle, and to entangle oneself in such a way was not only foolish but unkind. It gave the servants ideas above their station and no good could come from that.

Comfort had a habit of breeding transgression, and Rose Waters had become far too comfortable, particularly in her handling of baby Theo. The nanny had maintained none of the professional barriers one might expect, kissing the child and crooning softly into his ear, cuddling him close as she carried him about the garden, never sitting him as was proper in his perambulator. It was the sort of gushy treatment one might have tolerated from a doting family member, but
not
from the hired help. And the liberties taken had not ended there. Rose Waters had repeatedly overstepped her bounds, culminating recently in a moment of madness when she'd dared remonstrate with Constance for venturing inside the nursery “during rest time.” Constance was the boy's grandmother, for goodness' sake, and had only wanted to sit by the cot and watch the little lad, his compact chest rising and falling with rude good health.

Thank God Nanny Bruen had returned. Constance was cheered by the very thought. It had been good to see her old stalwart again recently, brought back into the fold and placed in charge of Theo. Constance took a special interest in her little grandson, and the restoration of proper standards was sorely overdue. She made a mental note to have a word with Nanny Bruen later. She'd seen something quite unacceptable not thirty minutes before. Clementine, that unfortunate freckled child with the horsey teeth, had appeared at the side of the house with the baby riding high on her back! Constance had felt a rage rise within her. She'd called out, intending to remonstrate, but the girl had ignored her.

Now Constance glanced back down the garden to where she'd last seen the girl, disappearing around the lake. The mower clattered away on the lawns behind her and she took up her stationery set, using it as a fan. Mechanical noises always made the heat seem worse and it was going to be
dreadfully
hot today. People did strange things in hot weather, unexpected things. It was not unheard of that a person might go a little mad when the temperature sweltered. Constance had never enjoyed Shakespeare—for the most part he was an utter bore—but he had one thing right: midsummer was a strange and unpredictable time, during which anything might happen.

There was no sign of Clementine and the baby. Theo's laughter still pealed in her memory and Constance felt her heart soften. He really was the most delightful child: a bonny nature, a smile that collapsed into dimples, those plump, sturdy legs. She wondered, sometimes, what the other little boy would have been like, the first one, had he been given half a chance.

She would sit with Theo this afternoon, Constance decided, and watch him sleep. It was one of her favourite things to do these days, and with Rose Waters gone, Eleanor busy and Nanny Bruen mindful of her proper place, there would be no one to stop her this time.

* * *

Clemmie took the narrow path of beaten grass along the stream. There were other, quicker ways to get there, but Theo liked to splash in the shallow water at the crossing and Clemmie liked to make him happy. Besides, it was Midsummer's Eve and the house would be in uproar all day. The longer they were out and away, the better. It occurred to her, with dispassion and not self-pity, that they probably wouldn't even be missed.

“Just as well we've got each other, little Wub,” she said.

“Gah!” came Theo's gurgled reply.

A surge of emotion that felt as much like loss as love came suddenly upon her and she tightened her grip on his legs, so round and squishy. He might have replaced her as the baby in the family, but Clemmie couldn't now imagine the world without her brother in it.

The rising sun was behind them and their long, jumbled shadow stretched ahead, her elongated body with his little legs stuck out at midway. His head was peeking over her shoulder as he clung to her back and every so often he extended a small, excited fist to waggle a plump finger at something they were passing. It had taken a bit of practice, but he was good now at holding tightly round her neck. She could even stretch her arms out wide when the mood struck her, gliding them through the air, listing this way and that as she made elaborate aerobatic manoeuvres.

She stopped when they reached the rock crossing, tossed aside the picnic bag she'd brought with her (party cakes stolen from the kitchen), and let Theo slide down the back of her legs onto the large mound of dry grass clippings on the bank. He landed with a delighted giggle and clambered to his feet. “Wah,” he said importantly, pointing at the stream. “Wah.”

While Theo tottered through clover to the muddy edge, squatting onto his bottom among the reeds, Clemmie hunted for the perfect skimming stone. It had to be small and flat and smooth, but beyond that, it had to sit just so in her fingertips. She took one up and judged its weight, the roundness of its edges, before discarding it again as too uneven.

This process she repeated once, twice, three times, before finding one that, though not perfect, looked as if it might do the trick. She put it in her pocket and started searching for the next.

Alice was the best at finding stones. She was one of those people who always won at games because she had a love for detail and a stubborn nature that refused ever to give up. They used to spend hours down here selecting and then tossing their prized skimmers. They'd cartwheeled, and made swings with the long, sinewy boat ropes, and built elaborate cubby houses in the gorse. They'd fought and tickled and laughed, administered sticking plasters to one another's knees, and fallen asleep, tired and sweaty, beneath the May bushes as the afternoon sun bleached colour from the garden. But Alice was different now, this summer, and Clemmie had been abandoned.

She picked up a light-coloured stone with funny speckles and rubbed it clean with her wet thumb. It was ever since they'd come down from London. They were all used to the way Alice became lost behind her notebooks, in the makebelieve worlds of her stories, but this was different. She was moody, swinging from over-the-top glee to sullen exasperation. She'd taken to making weak excuses to be alone in her bedroom—
I need to lie down . . . I'm busy writing . . . I have a headache . . .
—and then sneaking away so that when Clemmie went to find her she wasn't there.

Clemmie glanced back to where Theo was digging with a stick in the dirt by the stream. He hooted happily as a grasshopper leapt from one reed to another and she smiled wistfully. Theo was a glorious little fellow, but she missed Alice and would have done anything to have her back, for things to be as they had been before. She missed both her sisters. The two of them had gone on without her, becoming grown-ups without so much as a backward glance. Alice with that mooning expression, and Deborah engaged to be married. Clemmie felt it as a betrayal. She was never going to be like them, never going to grow up. Grown-ups were mystifying. Clementine despaired at the weary tedium of their instructions (“not now', “slow down', “stop it at once'); the dull conversations, the mysterious headaches, the excuses they made for absenting themselves for any activity that might prove fun; and she resented the infinite small betrayals, the realm of insinuation and nuance in which they moved, of saying one thing and meaning another. Clemmie lived in a rather more black-and-white world. For a pilot, there was much to be said for binary choices: yes or no, up or down, right or wrong.