Francis’s wife, who he had introduced to me as Eleanor Elliot-Palmer, he now called Nell – ‘Your Nell, Mrs Ryland.’ She was a woman who said that she was sorry for leaving and wanted to make amends.
‘But Nell is just fifteen,’ I said. ‘I saw her go into my house just now. You are talking of your wife – a grown woman.’
He squeezed my arm gently but I shook it away and opened the door to the cottage.
‘Wait, Mrs Ryland!’ he said. ‘You are not ready, you don’t understand. You are still confused. There is something else you should know about—’
But I pushed past him.
She sat in the chair by the window, as she had done for so many years, her head resting on her hand as she gazed out through the glass, and when I entered she turned her head to me. Her hair was a chestnut colour, the ends curling about her ears and neck, and her eyes were a deep green, but she was not Nell.
‘Who are you?’ I demanded. ‘You are not my daughter!’
‘Mother?’ The word came from the other side of the room and I turned to see a woman rising from my basket chair. She was a woman who held herself with the confidence of one in her prime, her skin not yet slackened and her features still distinct. She wore a smart blouse and trousers with a leg so wide that I did not find them immodest. Her hair was the same colour as the girl’s and she wore it in a similar short style with a little wave to it that had become so fashionable. This was the woman that Francis had been speaking of, the woman that I had thought I did not know, but now I saw that it was her – this was my Nell.
The woman reached out her arms to the young girl, who ran over to her, and Nell put a hand protectively on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she said, the little scar on her cheek creasing into a dimple as she smiled at her. ‘I am here for you.’
And then I saw a likeness between them – the shape of their faces and the colour of their hair – the same likeness that people had always seen between Nell and me: the likeness of mother and daughter.
Then, Nell, my daughter, raised her head and looked at me, her eyes a little watery.
‘I’m sorry…’ she began, but the words seemed to catch in her throat and she swallowed hard. Then she held out a trembling hand to me. ‘We found the spare key on top of the porch,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but I thought it best to use it. I should probably put it back.’
I looked at the hand she held out to me, the tremble of her fingers and the large key in her palm.
‘Keep it,’ I said. ‘You do not have anything to apologise for. You are home now.’