‘Sir Howard’s wife was twenty-one when she died,’ she said, ‘and as Iris grew, she looked more and more like Lady Caldwell, and that scared him. He always wanted to keep Iris childlike, so she could never reach that age.’
‘I see that now,’ I said, ‘although I’m afraid that I did not at the time. I think I just saw Sir Howard as a little overprotective, for really every parent is a little sad when their child grows.’
‘You are not to blame,’ she said, ‘for you did not know him so well back then, whereas I did.’
‘Intimately,’ I said, repeating the word she had used before.
She nodded. ‘I’m afraid that I did not support his ways, for I saw how they made Iris suffer. She needed to grow up in her own way and have her own life. It is why I did not stand in her way when she became sweet on Samuel Denman.’
‘Samuel Denman?’ I echoed. ‘Are you saying that Iris had a relationship with Sam Denman?’
‘Yes, Samuel. I thought you must have known, because the boy was some kind of family to you.’
‘I didn’t know,’ I said. ‘Are you sure? They were from such different backgrounds. How did they even meet?’
‘It was that bloody horse,’ she said. ‘Do you remember the white mare?’
‘A little,’ I said.
‘Well, Sam sold it to them on behalf of Mrs Elliot-Palmer, and he taught Iris to ride. She was scared to sit on it alone and he was only a small lad so he would sit astride behind her, while I took the rope and I would lead them up on to the common.’
There was something about what she said that jogged my memory, and I could picture two people on the back of the horse – but it was not Sam and Iris that I remembered but Iris and Nell, both astride the horse on the cart track by the wych elms. They were laughing together, Iris’s head resting on Nell’s shoulder, yet I could not remember the horse being led.
‘But you did not always lead them, did you?’ I said.
‘No,’ she said quietly.
‘You see, what you said just then caused me to remember a little more,’ I continued. ‘You were in the family way at the time and Sir Howard treated you terribly. You were in no condition to lead a horse, so as soon as you were out of the sight of Haughten Hall, you did not. You knew what Sam and Iris were doing together but you did not tell Howard, and when Iris went missing you did not even tell the police for fear that Howard would find out and dismiss you.’
‘I just wanted her to live a little,’ she said. ‘There was no harm. I have never really believed that Sam was involved in what happened – I always liked the boy.’
She picked up a piece of cake and took a little bite, catching the crumbs in her hand as if we had been chatting about the weather. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said shrugging her shoulders. ‘I thought you knew. Maybe I was the only one who knew after all.’
And then I realised that there was one other who had known.
I knew the day that Nell must have found out about Iris and Sam. It was the day that I had sent her to Haughten Hall with a stupid errand of delivering liver salts to Iris, all in the hope of winning Sir Howard’s favour. She had worn her striped day dress and the boots that she complained rubbed her ankles. After she had left the house I had gone to sort the hymn books in the church, and I had returned home to find her broken. I now believed that what she had discovered that day had caused her to do what she did next – her ‘little mishap’ – something that, even after twenty-five years, I still could not speak of.
‘She knew,’ I said. ‘Nell knew. She did not tell me at the time, but now I see that she did.’
‘How can you be sure?’ she said, her cake poised in mid-air.
‘Back then I always thought that I did not know my daughter,’ I said, ‘but I know her now.’
She nodded and put down her cake quickly, hunting about for her coat, and I wondered what I had said wrong. ‘I should probably go, Mrs Ryland,’ she said. ‘I fear that I have upset you further – my intention was to offer you solace with what I knew but I fear that I’ve brought back memories that are not welcome.’
‘There’s no need,’ I said, but she had already stood up, her coat over her arm.
‘That is Nell’s shawl, isn’t it?’ she said, pointing to the chair by the window. ‘I remember it because it was the same colour as her eyes, although the parts left in the sunlight have faded. I noticed you looking towards it as we spoke. Is this chair where Nell would sit?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It is her chair.’
She took a few steps to the door but then looked back to me once more. ‘Won’t you come again to Haughten Hall, Mrs Ryland? I am sure Sir Howard would like to see you as a friend.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I will.’
‘Not even for the library? The books for your religious studies?’
‘No,’ I repeated. ‘There was a time when Howard was some comfort to me, but Nell was never happy when we went to visit, and I might never know what happened over that way. I have to do what I think Nell would have wanted – I think it is about time.’
She nodded.
‘But I wish you and your family well,’ I said, standing up so that I could see her to the door.
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but it is just me now.’ She took another little step towards the door but then drew back again. ‘My husband suffered from TB for many years,’ she said, as if she felt she should explain. ‘I finally lost him over twenty years ago. Not long after that, I had to give up my newborn son to the orphanage. I needed to support myself but could not keep a baby as well as my position.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said, but the words did nothing to ease my guilt. I did not remember my meeting with Dora in the parsonage all those years ago, but somehow I felt that I had failed her, and that my advice had resulted in a baby that was born only to be grieved.
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It was all a long time ago now,’ she said, although we both knew that this was something often said by those who grieved to stifle floods of sympathy.
I followed her to the door, muttering a last farewell as she walked down the garden path. As I shut the door behind her, I looked back to the window seat and saw that Nell was back, but it was not the Nell that I was used to seeing – this Nell was strange and altered.
17
She sat in the chair by the window, her head tilted to watch Dora as she disappeared down the garden path. Then she turned to me and I felt a stab of ice deep inside me as her eyes met mine.
The girl who sat in the chair was Nell, my daughter, but she was now changed. This Nell was not my silent companion of the last twenty-five years – the memory who had given me comfort by filling the space that my daughter had left. This Nell was my recollection of a less happy time, an echo from a day in March 1912 when I had returned home from church to find the girl in the window seat was someone I did not know.
She sat with her head resting on the back of the chair, her cheek nestled into her emerald shawl. She wore the striped cotton dress that she had set out in that morning and the boots that she complained rubbed her ankles. But she did not wear her bonnet.