For a few golden minutes, she almost forgets that none of this is hers any longer—her beloved Raven Hall, her beautiful Avermere. But inevitably, her mind drifts on to the last days of her mother’s illness. She remembers arranging daffodils in a jug by her mother’s bedside, and seeing their vivid yellow reflected in the whites of her mother’s eyes. She remembers her mother beckoning her forward . . .
“Promise me, lovely girl, you’ll never leave Raven Hall. You’ll bring up your own children and grandchildren here, and you’ll teach them to love it as much as we do . . .”
Suddenly she’s picturing those two dreadful women again, and resentment swoops back into her chest like a kestrel dropping onto its prey.
How can this have happened? The slow-moving woman on the swing seat, the long-haired daughter in her orange crop top . . . For a moment, she tries to imagine herself wearing such an outfit, and despite the lump in her throat, she almost smiles. Daddy would have been scandalized. He’d have said she was encouraging the boys. As if boys ever came within a mile of Raven Hall anyway. She sighs. Poor Daddy. He had no idea it wasn’t the local boys he should have been worried about.
She thinks fleetingly of the young doctor. That’s what Daddy always called him, as if it were his official name—the Young Doctor—even though she happened to know his name was Roy, and he was nearly thirty.
She hasn’t seen the young doctor since the day Daddy died—not since they walked into Daddy’s study together and found Daddy collapsed over the green-topped desk. For days afterward, she didn’t think of anything or anyone much at all. But when the shock had begun to subside—when reality came creeping back in—she’d dared to hope that the young doctor might reappear. She’d even watched for him from the windows of Raven Hall, while the lawyers argued in low voices behind her.
But he didn’t reappear. Not when the lawyers told her the estate was bankrupt and Raven Hall would have to be sold. Not when a distant relation of her mother’s begrudgingly offered to take her in as a lodger, eighty miles away. Not when they dragged her, sobbing, down the stone steps and into a taxi on the final day . . .
She frowns and picks up her pace. She needs to decide—should she knock on the young doctor’s door when she gets back to the village? He’s the only person who ever showed an interest in her. And now, living at her distant relative’s house, she has no one to talk to at all. But what might he say if she knocks on his door this afternoon? “I’ve missed you,” or “I’m not interested”—which is more likely? She’s not an idiot—she knows he must have kissed other girls and told them they were special too, but . . . She plucks a daisy from the path and pinches its petals off as she marches along. He loves me; he loves me not . . .
“Hallo.”
She almost dies of fright.
A very tall young man emerges from the low hedgerow—he must have been crouching down. Is he going to attack her? But he holds up his hands, and his smile is apologetic.
“I was just taking pictures of some toadstools.” He taps the camera hanging around his neck. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Sorry.”
“Who are you?” She’s alert for any sudden movement, ready to run if he looks like he means her harm. But his expression is earnest, and he’s careful not to come any closer.
“Sorry. I’m not trespassing, am I?” he says. “I’m just visiting for the weekend, for a housewarming party.” He indicates the direction she’s come from. “Raven Hall—do you know it?”
She’s horrified to feel tears welling up, and she swallows hard. “Not really. A bit.”
“Ah. Well.” He looks away, toward the lake. “I thought this was all theirs, but—anyway, I should be getting back. My girlfriend will wonder where I’ve got to . . .”
His gaze slides back to her, and she feels it like an electric charge on her skin. Of course, she thinks. The girl in the orange crop top. Of course, she’s his girlfriend.
She should say good-bye and walk on. But he hasn’t moved to pass her yet. They stand there, holding each other’s gaze, and she finds she can’t walk on.
“Are you a photographer, then?” she says. “I mean, of wildlife, or something?”
His smile makes her heart skip. “Actually, I’m a student. In London. I’m studying horticulture. But I love it out here.” He gestures at the stunted hedgerow on one side of them, the bank of nettles leading down to the lakeshore on the other. “I’d love to live somewhere like this when I graduate. How about you?”
“Oh, I’m—” She wipes her palms on her skirt. “I’m just visiting someone here too. In the village.” She wrinkles her nose. “Or at least, I was thinking about it. I haven’t decided yet.”
“Oh, okay.” He tilts his head. “Well, you’ve got a long walk ahead, but I guess you know that. Do you want to come back with me? I could drive you down there if you like . . .”
“No,” she says. “I’m fine.” She narrows her eyes. “I’m not lost, if that’s what you’re thinking. I used to live around here. I know the way.”
“Oh, right. Great.” He studies her with a puzzled smile. “Well, I’ll probably be back this way some weekends, from now on. Maybe we’ll bump into each other again.”
She gives this suggestion some consideration. “Maybe.”
“I’ll try not to startle you so much, next time.”
“You’d better not.”
His laugh is gentle, like the breeze in the reeds. “It was nice to meet you, girl-who-isn’t-lost.”
She stares at him for a moment, drinking in his features, memorizing them to pore over later. Then she turns away and hurries on, without looking back.
Beth
July 1988
Itugged at the neckline of the blue dress and frowned down at my salad. Leonora and Markus had barely eaten any of their own lunch either; they were too busy exchanging uncharacteristically snappy words across the dining table. I wished with all my might that Nina would skip down the stairs and interrupt the meal by announcing she was fully recovered and ready to meet her grandfather. But instead, I had to listen to her parents bicker while my skin itched and sweated under the uncomfortable fabric. I longed for the afternoon’s visit to be over.
“We should sit outside, actually,” Markus said. “Dad always liked the garden here . . .”
“We are—sitting—in the drawing room.” Leonora enunciated each word with painstaking clarity. “And your father hated the garden, I remember you saying. And Beth can’t exactly play her violin outside, can she?”