by Nicola Upson
“But that’s what you were thinking, isn’t it, when I came home that night and found you beside yourself. You were literally sickened by what she might have done. A sixteen-year-old girl, for God’s sake. Have you forgotten that so easily, Harry? Doesn’t it come back to you whenever she touches you? I can’t believe you’re still standing by her.”
She set her face to a lie, knowing how rarely she fooled him. “I was in shock that night. Everything was out of kilter, but it was an accident, and you mustn’t say it was anything else—promise me, Peter, or we’ll both suffer for it, not just George.” He nodded, and she knew she could trust him. “I’ll be all right—honestly, I will. We just need to get away from here and get on with our lives. And anyway, it’s my job to worry about you—remember? I’m not ready to change places with you yet. There’ll be plenty of opportunities for you to boss me around when I’m in my dotage. Don’t make me old before my time.”
“You’re not old—that’s what I mean. You could do much better for yourself.”
Harriet laughed. “Now you’re sounding like my father.”
“Yes, I suppose I am.” He smiled grudgingly, no more capable of staying angry with her now than he had been when he was a boy, resenting her half-hearted attempts to discipline him. They had always been more like brother and sister than cousins, thrown together by a family that seemed devoid of all the usual ties, and she had happily taken responsibility for him when no one else would. Until now, it was the only thing that had ever come between her and George—a longing for children on her part to which George could never be reconciled. For a while it had threatened to break them, but she had accepted her lot eventually, deflecting those instincts first to Peter and then to the stream of girls who passed through the college, glad of her care and guidance. And that had been enough in the end, or so she had told herself, knowing in her heart that—whatever the crossroads—she would always choose George.
“Do you remember these?” Peter asked, taking a pile of dog-eared pocket books in matching covers down from the shelf.
“You’ve still got them!”
“Of course I have. I take them everywhere. They were the first thing that anyone ever bought me, and the most important.” He flicked fondly through the pages of the Gowans and Gray art books, and she took one from his hand, looking for the inscription that she had written in the Christmas of 1903. “They’ll be printing one of these about you some day,” she said, “as long as you don’t get yourself killed first.”
“I’ll be more famous if I do.”
“Don’t joke about it.” She took his hand, and all the fear for him that the events of the last few days had briefly displaced suddenly resurfaced, stronger than ever. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.” He put the books in the side pocket of the holdall and stood up. “Come with me. I’ve got something to show you.” She followed him downstairs and out to his studio. “You asked me what I’ve been spending so much time on, and this is it.” He removed a sheet from his easel, revealing a small canvas underneath, and she saw her own reflection staring back at her—except it was her younger self, carefree and happy. “I wanted you to have a reason to think of me while I’m gone.” He hadn’t meant the words to sound so final, but they struck her as ominous, and she found it hard to separate the painting and his gesture from the knowledge that it might be a parting gift. She forced herself to look critically at the portrait, inevitably comparing it with the face she saw each morning in the mirror, and wondered where those years had gone.
“Do you like it?” he asked impatiently.
“I love it,” she lied, “but I wish you hadn’t finished it.”
“Why?”
“Because then you’d have a reason to come back.”
There was a knock at the door, and Harriet heard Josephine’s voice calling a hello. “Come in,” she said, relieved that Peter hadn’t had the chance to make a vow he couldn’t keep.
“Oh sorry—I didn’t realize you were here. I can come back later if I’m interrupting.”
“Of course you’re not interrupting. Come and have a look at what Peter’s just given me, and tell us what you think.”
“Be kind, though,” Peter said, winking at her as she walked across to the canvas. “I know how harsh you can be.”
“I don’t need to be kind. It’s stunning.”
“Not bad for a work in progress,” he agreed, looking at Harriet.
“It looks finished to me.”
“Not quite. The skin needs a richer tone, but I ran out of time. Is that the letter you want me to take to Summerdown?” he asked, nodding toward the envelope in Josephine’s hand.
“Yes, please, if it’s not too much trouble.”
He read the name on the front. “Private Jack Mackenzie. Is he a relative?”
“No.” Josephine hesitated, and Harriet looked at her curiously. “No, he’s a friend from back home in Inverness.”
“Consider it delivered.”
“Thank you.”
She turned to go, but Harriet called her back. “Can we talk about something before you leave for Moira House?”
“Yes, of course.”
Harriet squeezed Peter’s arm. “Don’t you dare go without saying goodbye this time.” He nodded and she walked out into the garden, still shocked by the thoroughness of the devastation. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” she said. “You strike me as a good judge of character—what did you think of Dorothy Norwood? And I want you to answer honestly, as if she hadn’t died. None of that sentimental rubbish that people use in hindsight when they don’t want to be disrespectful.”
The question obviously took Josephine by surprise, and she took some time to consider her answer. “I didn’t have long to get to know Dorothy, I suppose, but I’m very glad she was my pupil and not my sister or my friend.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“That she was bright and keen and quick to learn—the ideal student, capable of excelling at whatever she chose to turn her hand to. But on a personal level, there didn’t really seem to be anyone else moving in her orbit—at least no one she’d noticed.”
It was an insightful comment, which chimed very much with Harriet’s own impressions. “Were you surprised to hear that she’d complained about us?”
“Yes, very. Partly because she seemed happy here, but mostly because she was far too selfish to care about something that didn’t directly concern her.”
Harriet smiled. “Yes, that’s what I thought too.” She sat down on the wall around the terrace, facing back to the house so that she didn’t have to look at the slowly dying roses. “Does Jeannie know your friend from back home?”
Josephine reddened. “No, they’ve never met. She was off looking for—”
She stopped abruptly, realizing her mistake, and Harriet finished the sentence for her. “Off looking for Lomax and Norwood. Yes, I know—Peter told me, so you can stop pretending. Anyway, a spot of truanting hardly matters now. I’m not in charge any more, so you and I can be friends. And speaking as your friend, I’d like to give you some advice, if I may. It’s up to you whether you take it or not.”
“Go on.”
“George and I have been grateful for everything you’ve done while you’ve been here—not just your teaching and your rapport with the girls, but your personal support for us through some difficult times. You’ve witnessed a lot of terrible things—things that no one should have to put up with—and it’s one of my biggest regrets that we’ve shown you how much hatred and prejudice exists in the world.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Josephine insisted, “and you’ve shown us plenty of more admirable things as well. That’s what I’ll remember. I’m glad to have been here.”
“Good, but that’s not why I’m speaking to you like this. I wanted you to know that it’s worth it. All the taunts and the abuse, even the violence—I’d put up with it all over again for the happiness and the love. Do
you understand what I’m saying to you?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“There were times when I was tempted to take the easy way out, but I’m so glad I didn’t.” She leant over and gave Josephine a hug, noticing that there were tears in her eyes. “You’d better go and finish packing. Jeannie will be wondering where you are.”
“What will you and Miss H do now?” Josephine asked. “Will you stay here?”
“No, but other than that, I’m not sure of anything.”
“Whatever you decide, I hope you’ll be happy.”
“Thank you. And Josephine …”
“Yes?”
“If you can’t be brave, at least be kind. Don’t blame the person who loves you for what you can’t face.”
1938
CHAPTER 1
The handful of houses at Birling Gap was scattered untidily across the landscape, as if someone had thrown a pile of stones into the air to decide where they should be built. There was a small hotel by a row of coastguards’ cottages, serving the summer visitors who came to walk the dramatic stretch of coastline, but otherwise, it was a remote and lonely spot, a good three or four miles from the Eastbourne to Seaford road, and that didn’t surprise Josephine. After the stories she had heard about those restless years following their departure from Charleston, she would have been surprised to find Harriet and George living at the heart of a community. Marta turned into a makeshift hotel car park that overlooked the shingle beach below, and they got out to take in the view. “This is stunning,” Marta said. “Quite a change from a rural farmhouse, though. I can’t see many gardens flourishing this close to the sea.”
Josephine agreed. “Although we only know for certain that Vera lives here. When she answered my letter, she said that Harriet was ‘nearby,’ but wanted to meet here.” She looked westward, back toward the rhythmic splendor of the Seven Sisters cliffs—sheer white precipices that seemed to have been cut sharply from above rather than shaped naturally by the sea—and wondered what had given the women the courage to return to a part of the world that had caused them so much heartache. “Perhaps a contrast is exactly the point. They were both devastated by what happened to the college gardens. I can understand why they wouldn’t even try to recreate that. It was probably just too painful.”
“Do you want me to come with you, or would you rather go and see them on your own?”
“I think I’ll get more out of Harriet if I go on my own. Vera didn’t mention George, so with a bit of luck it will be just the two of us. We always got on well, so I hope she’ll feel she can talk to me.”
“I hope so too. The sooner you come to some sort of peace about this, the better.”
It was unlike Marta to be quite so terse about anything, and Josephine glanced at her, concerned by how far she had pushed her lover’s patience. “You do understand why it took me so long to tell you about Jeannie?”
“Yes, I understand. I wish it hadn’t, but I understand. As for lying about what happened on the night, though—”
“We’ve been through all this. What choice did I have?”
“Telling the truth or saying nothing are two that immediately spring to mind. It’s not as if Charity Lomax—or any other journalist, for that matter—is doing this officially. You’re not obliged to answer.”
“I know, but I was frightened. She was accusing Jeannie of—”
The name was an irritant, and Marta held up her hand, effectively removing herself from the conversation. “I just want you to be safe, Josephine. If you insist on doing this alone, at least promise to be careful.”
“Of course I’ll be careful.” She wondered what Marta’s response would have been if the false alibi had concerned anybody else, but knew that she was in no position to argue. “What will you do while I’m gone?”
“Sit and worry until you come back.” Marta reached into the car and took out a book and some glasses. “I’ve got some reading to catch up on.”
Josephine looked at the copy of Rebecca. “Haven’t you had enough of Daphne du Maurier?”
“Alma asked me to read it. Anyway, it might give me a few tips on how to live up to the woman who comes before me.”
“Marta, don’t. You have nothing to live up to.”
“Assuming Jeannie is that woman, of course. There are plenty of years still unaccounted for.”
Josephine was about to deny the suggestion, but it would have only made things worse to admit that her grief for Jeannie and the fear of being found out had scarred her so deeply that it was a long time before she allowed herself to feel anything for another woman. “What does it matter?” she said. “It’s now that counts.”
“Just do one thing for me, Josephine. When the next old flame crawls out of the woodwork needing your urgent attention, at least have the decency to tell me yourself, rather than letting me find out from someone else—and preferably before you introduce me to her at the theater.”
Marta started to walk away, but Josephine caught her arm. “What do you mean? Who told you about Jeannie?”
“It’s not important.”
“Of course it is. Was it Charity? Did she speak to you the other night, because if she did—”
“If you must know, it was Archie.”
“Archie?” Josephine stared at her in bewilderment. “When did you speak to Archie? And what on earth did he tell you?”
“I saw him when I was in Cornwall,” Marta admitted.
“What? He just happened to be strolling across Bodmin Moor?”
“No, of course not. I asked him to meet me there. I was worried you might be putting yourself in danger by raking up the past, and I knew he’d want to help if he could.”
“How dare you go behind my back where Archie’s concerned?” Josephine’s anger flared quickly, but she had the presence of mind to realize that very little of it was Marta’s fault. The idea that Archie had somehow known about Jeannie and that he might have told Jack horrified her. As painful as it had been at the time, she had made her decision and stuck to it, and the last thing she wanted was to hear that Jack might have died doubting her loyalty to him.
“I wanted to help,” Marta reiterated. “Apart from anything else, you and Archie needed to make your peace after Bridget’s death. He misses you as much as you miss him.”
“It was your fault we argued in the first place. If you’d told me about Phyllis as soon as you found out, he wouldn’t have felt so betrayed.”
“I really don’t think you’re in a position to complain about withholding information.”
“So what did he tell you?”
“That Jeannie obviously cared for you. He thought I knew, and of course I should have. It was obvious from the way she looked at you the other night. She still cares for you.”
Marta turned away and walked toward the hotel, and Josephine understood for the first time how frightened she was—not angry or jealous, but frightened. “Why are you still reading books for Alma Reville?” she called after her, ashamed now of being so caught up in the past that she had failed to give Marta the reassurance she needed. Marta stopped but refused to look at her, and it was left to Josephine to guess at the answer. “You’re going with them, aren’t you? You’re going to America.”
“I haven’t made my mind up yet.”
“But you’d made your mind up before all this started.”
“Yes, I had.”
“Please don’t go.” She took Marta’s hands, suddenly as frightened as she was. “I’ve given you every good reason to doubt me these last few weeks, and I’m sorry, but I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you, and I never will.”
Marta seemed convinced of her honesty, but her hesitation proved to Josephine that it had come too late. She opened her mouth to say more, but Marta stopped her. “There’s something I’ve been too afraid to ask you,” she said.
“Then ask me now.”
“All right. Are you going to see her again?”
Josephine shook her head. “N
o, I’m not, but seeing Jeannie or not seeing her makes no difference to you and me. There’s no choice to be made, Marta, and there never will be—not for me, anyway. I made my mind up a long time ago.”
Marta nodded, acknowledging the question in the answer. “Yes, so did I.”
Only when the tension between them relaxed did Josephine allow herself to consider what she had come so close to losing. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“So am I. Jealousy is my least favorite trait, but I’ve surprised myself by excelling at it recently.” She smiled and brushed the tear from Josephine’s cheek. “Go and do what you need to do. I’ll wait for you in the hotel, but if there’s the slightest sign of trouble, come and get me. I mean it, Josephine—don’t take any risks.”
Josephine reiterated her promise and walked back up the lane they had driven down, looking for Thistle Cottage. She found it on the left-hand side at the end of a terrace of three, built of soft red brick and pleasing to the eye, with an air of quietness and order. The white picket gate stood open, inviting her into a small front garden that—though carefully tended—lacked the natural exuberance of its neighbors, and she walked up to the front door, feeling slightly apprehensive. She had never really known Vera Simms and would have much preferred to call directly on Harriet, but she could understand the instinct for caution or safety in numbers, and resolved to make the best of whatever time they allowed her. Her sense of anticlimax grew stronger as the first knock went unanswered, and she tried again, then followed the herringbone path round to the garden at the back. A child’s laughter greeted her as she rounded the corner of the house, and she stared in astonishment at the man with a little boy on his shoulders. He looked older, obviously, and his once jet-black hair was now streaked with gray, but there was no mistaking Peter Whittaker. He waved when he saw her and swung the boy down to the ground, bringing forth another squeal of delight. “Go and find your brother, Tom,” he said, ruffling the child’s hair. “Granny’s friend is here, and I need to speak to her.” Tom looked as if he was about to protest, but Whittaker grinned and pointed to the house, and the boy ran obediently inside. “You look surprised to see me,” Whittaker said. “I told Vera that she should have mentioned our marriage when she wrote to you, but obviously she hasn’t.”
