Lillian finally looks up and Maggie sees the tears in her eyes. ‘Oh my dear girl,’ she says softly.
‘I don’t want to upset you. I’m sorry. I thought it might remind you of Charles, and of happier times. Something to lift your spirits,’ she adds helplessly, parroting back the doctor’s own words.
‘Oh, Maggie,’ says Lillian, reaching for Maggie’s hand. ‘You left Gus because of this?’
Maggie shrugs. ‘Not because of it, no. But it helped to bring my feelings for him into focus.’
Lillian looks at the paper in her lap and shakes her head. ‘Things aren’t always what they seem. We humans can create wonderful illusions for each other.’
‘What I saw was no illusion,’ says Maggie firmly. ‘The way you looked after Charles after his stroke. The way you ran this house. You’re an inspiration.’
Lillian shakes her head sadly. ‘I let him suffer, Maggie. I stood by and watched as he suffered. I had no compassion for him left in my heart.’
‘No,’ says Maggie. ‘That’s not true. I saw you, day in, day out, caring for him. That was true love.’
This isn’t going the way she had imagined it. She’d thought Lillian would be thrilled to be reunited with her love letter, but she seems more sad and confused than ever. ‘It might have felt that way to you. I’m sure it was exhausting looking after him, and so hard to see him trapped in that wheelchair. I know he wasn’t always the most . . . grateful. But you stuck around. You were there for him, always. For better or worse.’
Lillian’s head snaps up. She looks at Maggie, suddenly clear-eyed and intent. ‘Listen to me, Maggie. You’re right to wait for a love that feels passionate and true – a love that you can’t live without – but in the meantime, take the reins.’ She sounds urgent. ‘Don’t let life just happen to you. Go out there and make it wonderful. Paint your pictures. Make them beautiful. Love. Laugh. Live.’
Maggie grips Lillian’s hand and squeezes it back. ‘I will. I promise.’
Lillian nods and turns her face to the window. ‘This house should have been filled with love and life. There should have been children running through its corridors and climbing the trees. Instead, it was a house of dust and dead things, beauty trapped behind glass, pinned to boards, caught in frames. Life fluttering at the bars of an invisible cage. It wasn’t how it was meant to be.’
‘Gran, don’t upset yourself. I’m sorry. I thought seeing the letter again would cheer you up.’
‘Death and decay,’ murmurs Lillian, her face still turned to the window. ‘It was all death and decay. Perhaps it would have been better if it had all gone up in smoke.’
Maggie watches Lillian. She looks so tired and drawn and Maggie can’t help the terrible feeling that her grandmother is somehow slipping from her, like the leaves that have started to turn on the trees across the estate, the first of them falling on the breeze, drifting and spiralling to the ground.
Chapter 28
When she opens her eyes, she is in the hospital. Charles sits in a chair beside her, slumped forward with his head resting in his hands. Lillian finds her gaze drawn to the startling white of his scalp, the skin visible where his once-thick hair has begun to thin at the crown. She has never noticed this before about him. A small, physical sign of Charles’s advancing age, his fallibility.
Her legs throb with a dull pain. She moves, trying to rid herself of it, and Charles lifts his head at the sound of her shifting on the mattress. ‘You’re awake.’
She nods and tries to pull the mask from her face.
‘Here,’ he says, ‘let me.’ Gently, he removes it and lays it on the pillow beside her. ‘How are you feeling?’
She swallows. ‘Tired. My legs hurt.’ She looks down and sees for the first time that both her legs are dressed in white bandages, from the ankle to just above her knees.
He nods. ‘I’m so sorry, my darling. I feel wholly responsible.’ His eyes shine, filled with remorse and tears. ‘It’s all my fault.’ He reaches for her hand.
‘What happened?’ Her voice is a dry rasp.
‘I was the one that invited him to the house. I was the one that persuaded him to stay and work on the room.’ Charles gives a little shudder. ‘To think, I could have lost everything – you – Cloudesley . . . it doesn’t bear thinking about.’
Lillian gazes at him, uncomprehending. ‘Where’s Jack?’
‘I don’t want you to worry about a thing. I’ve had a word with my friends at the police station and they’re taking care of it all. The most important thing is that you are safe.’
‘I don’t understand . . .’
‘The fire, in the painted room. It was started deliberately.’
‘The fire?’ She closes her eyes and it comes back to her. The smoke. The flames. The terrible, burning heat. She glances down at the bandages on her legs. ‘What happened?’
‘It seems our friend decided to punish us for our generosity and hospitality.’
‘Who?’ asks Lillian, struggling to keep up; but suddenly she knows the name that will leave his lips before he speaks it out loud. ‘No,’ she says vehemently. ‘Not Jack.’
‘I know. I felt the same as you but I’m afraid the evidence is clear. Someone lit the fire and locked the door, trapping you inside the room.’
Lillian swallows. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
Charles stares at her evenly. ‘It doesn’t?’
‘No. I was there. I went in to . . . to see the murals.’
Charles studies her carefully. ‘So did you lock the door, Lillian? Did you lock yourself in the room and set the fire?’
She shakes her head. ‘No.’
‘Only it seems,’ he adds carefully, ‘that there were only two people who went into the room that morning: Jack Fincher . . . and you.’ He holds her gaze. ‘Just the two of you,’ he repeats.
And it’s then that she realises he knows. He knows about the affair.
He shakes his head sadly. ‘I won’t say I’m not disappointed, Lillian. I know I haven’t been the perfect husband. I know my temper leaves a lot to be desired. But to run into another man’s arms like that . . .’
Lillian looks at the blank ceiling overhead. How does he know? And suddenly, a more chilling thought: Where is Jack?
Charles continues, oblivious to her growing panic. ‘What I’m struggling to understand is why he would have wanted to destroy the room, and possibly you in the process.’ Charles shakes his head, sadly. ‘It suggests a very unhinged mind. Someone who would be a great danger to themselves and others. If the fire had really had a chance to take hold, the whole house could have gone up.’ He gives a shudder. ‘It simply doesn’t bear thinking about.’
She wants to laugh at Charles’s ridiculous suggestion, but the sound catches in her throat and turns into a great, racking cough.
‘Careful, my love,’ says Charles, reaching for the mask and placing it tenderly over her nose and mouth. ‘You inhaled a great deal of smoke. You’ve suffered some nasty burns on your legs. It’s going to take time for you to heal.’
She sucks in the oxygen, waiting for her heart to stop thudding in her chest, then removes the mask from her face again. ‘Where is Jack?’
‘Please, you mustn’t concern yourself with him.’
‘Is he . . . is he all right?’
‘The police are interviewing him.’
The rush of relief she feels is enormous. He’s alive.
‘I’m afraid they’ve found clear evidence that points to Jack. His lighter was found at the scene.’
Lillian’s relief that he is still alive disintegrates again at the knowledge of what he is suspected of. She shakes her head. ‘Jack wouldn’t have done it.’
Charles eyes her. ‘Yes,’ he says firmly. ‘Jack started the fire.’
Lillian stares at him. ‘No.’
‘He was the only person with the key to the room. And . . .’ he adds pointedly, ‘he had a motive.’
‘What motive?’ Lillian can’t believe
what she is hearing.
‘The spurned lover. If he couldn’t have you, no one would.’ Charles is watching her face closely. ‘Your beautiful, heartfelt letter of farewell. It might have been just the red flag to set him off. These temperamental artist types . . . they feel things so deeply. A jealous rage . . . who knows what he was capable of?’
‘How do you know about the letter?’
Charles pats her hand. ‘Don’t worry yourself about the details. Your only job is to get better.’
Lillian eyes him coldly. Jack would never have destroyed that room. He would never have hurt her. He was angry, of course. He’d spent that final night in a rage, painting the last piece of the mural, adding the fox with the savaged hawk at its feet. He was jealous and angry, but he never would have gone to such violent lengths.
‘I want to see Jack.’
‘I hardly think that’s a good idea, do you?’
‘I need to see him.’
‘You don’t seem to understand. Mr Fincher is in serious trouble.’ He tuts. ‘Sad really, to throw it all away now, at the height of his career . . . and for what? A woman?’ He shakes his head again pityingly. ‘This job could have made him. It could have set him up for life. Instead he faces charges of arson, possibly attempted murder. He could be locked away for years.’
Lillian sinks back against the pillows. The morphine is beginning to wear off and the dull ache she has felt in her legs is sharpening now, like a blade scoring her skin. ‘You’re wrong. Jack would never destroy that room.’
Charles shakes his head, sadly. ‘The terrible irony is not lost on me. A man so skilled at creating trompe l’oeil; well, he certainly deceived my eye.’
‘It’s all an illusion, Charles,’ Lillian says, her voice rising in frustration and pain. ‘Don’t you see? You, me. The business. Cloudesley. You work so hard to present the perfect image, with your parties and your peacocks, but it’s you, Charles. You are the master of trompe l’oeil. It’s all false. Jack has lifted a mirror to your own deception.’
Charles stares at her. ‘Well, well, I do believe you might love him after all.’
Lillian glares at him. ‘Jack would never hurt me.’
‘Tell me this then,’ says Charles, his tone suddenly shifting to ice-cold, ‘if it wasn’t Jack, that only leaves one other person.’ He eyes her. ‘Locking yourself into a room, setting fire to it. They’re hardly the actions of a sane woman. Perhaps we should ask for a psychologist to come and visit you? Dr May, I’m sure, would provide some interesting background . . . a woman who so recently suffered the loss of her own child. It might be enough to weaken an already distressed mind.’
‘The loss of our baby is your fault, Charles, yours alone,’ she spits. ‘It was your rage, your fists, that robbed us of that child.’
Charles’s eyes flash. ‘The secrets you keep, Lillian. If I had known you were carrying my child, if I had known how delicate you were, do you really think I would have . . . have hurt you?’
‘I was going to tell you, but it was too early. I wanted to wait. I wanted it to be a surprise,’ she says, the words leaving her throat with a sob.
Charles narrows his eyes. ‘A wife shouldn’t keep secrets from her husband. Who knows what the repercussions could be. The loss of our baby was on you, my dear. Just as anything that happens to Jack now is on you.’
Lillian leans back against the pillows and blinks back the hot tears of anger and frustration threatening to spill from her eyes.
Charles carries on, regardless. ‘Perhaps a medical evaluation of your mental state might help us get to the bottom of this terrible mystery. I hear they have some very sophisticated facilities these days for . . . damaged women.’
She hears the unspoken threat in his voice and stares at him, horrified. ‘You can’t do this.’
‘I can’t do what, Lillian? I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t betrayed my spouse. I haven’t destroyed another man’s property.’
‘But you’re punishing Jack for something he didn’t do.’
‘You seem so very sure he is innocent. Perhaps you know of another motive?’
‘I didn’t set the fire,’ says Lillian weakly, her legs burning with pain. ‘And neither did Jack.’ And it’s then that she knows. The fox. The hawk. There is only one person she’s ever known to be full of uncontrollable violence and rage. And the letter? How did Charles know about her letter to Jack? She had taken it to the room. She can picture it clearly, lying there on the table where she left it, waiting for Jack’s return. How would Charles know about her letter – how would it have survived a fire, a flimsy piece of paper – unless Charles too had been in the room that morning to take it?
‘It was you,’ she says through gritted teeth. ‘You did it.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Charles stares at her, coldly. ‘You think I’d set fire to my own house? My pride and joy?’
‘We both know what you’re capable of in a moment of rage.’
Charles leans back in his chair. ‘You’re beside yourself, Lillian dear. It’s the morphine playing with your mind. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Let’s leave all of this detective work to my friends at the police station, shall we?’
Lillian shudders. She well knows what sort of treatment Jack might receive in the hands of Charles’s ‘friends’.
‘Frankly,’ Charles adds, after a moment’s silence, eyeing her carefully, ‘I’d be happy for this whole mess to disappear. If only we could wave some sort of magic wand . . .’
Lillian studies her husband’s face, reading the expression in his eyes. ‘What do you want, Charles?’
He holds up his hands. ‘I’m sure I speak for all of us, Lillian, when I say it might be better for this family to avoid a full-blown scandal. It’s a precarious time for the business, as you know. I’m on a knife edge with investors. I for one can’t bear to think of the police and the press raking through our personal business, uncovering your sordid little affair, printing their terrible muck.’ Charles gives a little shudder. ‘I suppose it’s fortunate that Chief Inspector Timbrell is such a close personal friend of the family. I’m sure if I were to have a little word in his ear, reassure him that I’m keen to avoid any unnecessary drama and not interested in pressing criminal charges . . . well, perhaps there is a way we can all avoid the scandal.’
Lillian eyes him carefully, starting to understand.
‘It’s not just your reputation at stake, you see. Imagine poor Albie, returning to school to face the whispers and gossip. Children can be so cruel.’ Lillian swallows. ‘And any scandal that rocks the business right now might have a terrible knock-on effect. I’d hate to think what would happen to Helena should I not be able to meet the high cost of her care at The Cedars.’ He stares at her pointedly. ‘And of course, there is Mr Fincher himself, facing a prison sentence and the certain end of what was once such a promising career. So many lives affected by your betrayal. But of course,’ he continues in a smooth, reassuring voice, ‘if you could promise me that the affair was over, that Mr Fincher was out of your life for good . . . if you could promise me that you would never see him again . . .’ Charles shakes his head sorrowfully, ‘well, perhaps it would be best for us all if I were to drop the charges and let him be on his way.’
Lillian understands. Jack’s freedom rests in her hands. If she promises never to see him again, Charles will allow him to walk free.
‘He didn’t do it,’ she says, almost a whisper.
‘One of you will be charged,’ hisses Charles. ‘If I don’t intervene, the police will arrest one of you. Is that what you want? They have the evidence. They can lock him up like that.’ He snaps his fingers to make his point.
She closes her eyes. She will never see him again. She will never feel his lips on hers or his arms around her. And her letter – he will never read it. He will never truly understand how she felt about him.
She can’t bear to think of him never knowing that she was prepared to give it all up; u
nderstanding that she would have put everything on the line for him. But the alternative is Jack behind bars and his career cut off in its prime. She will not let Charles ruin both of their lives. She will not be the cause of Jack losing everything. She loves him too much for that. She closes her eyes. ‘Drop the charges,’ she says.
‘And you will never see him again?’
Lillian nods.
Charles sits back in his chair. ‘I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. I really think it’s for the best. You will feel so much better when you are home again.’
‘How did I . . . who got me out?’
‘Bentham,’ says Charles firmly. ‘Monty was barking, going crazy. Bentham and Albie saw the smoke from outside. They raised the alarm and smashed the windows. Bentham dragged the pump up from the ornamental fountain and got the hoses in there and he and Blackmore put the flames out before the fire could spread too far. It was a remarkable rescue. You owe them your life.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Remarkable.’ She turns to study the flowers in the vase behind Charles. ‘The room? Is it . . . ?’ She can’t bear to think of Jack’s labour of love, a fleeting, beautiful thing, lost forever.
‘Destroyed. But don’t you worry about that,’ he says, patting her hand again. ‘It’s a small sacrifice to make for your safe return. All that matters is that this nasty business is finally over. We’ll have you home again and everything back to normal in no time.’
Normal. The word sends a chill down her spine. The pain in her legs rears up, bad enough to make her gasp. ‘I think I need a little more morphine.’
‘Of course,’ says Charles, rising from the creaking chair, reaching over to smooth a lock of hair from her face. ‘I’ll call the nurse. Oh, and Joan’s outside. She’s most insistent about seeing you. Shall I send her in?’
‘Oh, my darling,’ says Joan, rushing in, hovering by the bed, seemingly uncertain whether to throw herself at Lillian or take up the chair just vacated by Charles. In the end she opts for the more sensible choice and seats herself at Lillian’s bedside. ‘You poor thing. I can’t believe what has happened. I had to come, as soon as I heard. I couldn’t leave without seeing you. What a frightening ordeal.’
The Peacock Summer Page 30
