‘Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick about you,’ Cat had said.
‘I took the day to do some shopping.’
Cat had opened her mouth to chastise Lucy about being reckless with money, but the girl had interrupted her.
‘I only have one suit,’ Lucy had said. At least she’d had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I don’t have anything to wear when I clean it, so I bought another one. Second-hand, mind you.’ Lucy had given them a wan smile and hurried out of the room.
‘I don’t trust that girl one bit,’ Bede had said.
Now Cat stared at the ledger before her. She agreed with Bede. Lucy Bardwell couldn’t be trusted. More importantly, Cat’s intuition said that Lucy was hiding something. Cat would have to find out what that something was.
Chapter 3
Hugh never said goodbye to his mother, nor had he thanked Martin and Hermione for their hospitality. Instead he had left his mother a note, slipping it under her door and creeping away like a thief in the night The note explained Hugh had decided to go away and sort things out, that he didn’t see a future with Margaret, and as such, he would be taking the proffered stipend. Writing the words had caused him shame, but there was nothing to be done about it. He had lived his life in James’s shadow. Why had he thought that would change once his beloved brother had died? If anything, James’s death had thrown Hugh’s shortcomings into stark relief.
And here he was, forty-eight years old and dependent on his mummy for bread money. He’d write Martin a letter explaining everything once he and Margaret were settled. They’d arrived in Much Killham in the early afternoon, after an awkward train ride. Although the day had started out with passion, their lovemaking had quickly turned mechanical and void of emotion. It hadn’t taken long for Hugh to realise that Margaret was manipulating him with sex, as she had done hundreds of times in the past. When he pushed her away, feeling used once again, she had become angry with him, deliberately finding fault, while her behaviour escalated by the second.
When she’d started yelling, Hugh had hurried out of the house, opting to walk to the train station alone. During the journey, Margaret was too full of indignation to do anything other than sulk. As such, they barely spoke. For the first time in their marriage Hugh didn’t try to fill the silence with senseless babble. Instead, he stared out the window and planned a life free of Margaret’s never-ending schemes.
They were the only two people disembarking in Much Killham. Bitter cold wind whipped around them as they stood on the platform, while the train chugged away.
‘Oh, I hate this place,’ Margaret said.
Hugh surveyed the lush green surroundings, savouring the clean wind, while Margaret gave the attendant instructions about their trunks.
‘There’s no taxi available. We’ll have to walk,’ Margaret said.
‘It’s a perfect day for it,’ Hugh said.
She gave him a surly look. ‘Oh, do be quiet, Hugh. Save your country gentleman nonsense. It’s cold. I am not wearing proper shoes. If you hadn’t been in such a hurry the estate agent could have met us here and I wouldn’t have to spend another minute in this freezing wind.’
Hugh ignored her. He had studied a map of the area on the train and knew their cottage wasn’t too far. In another time he would have offered to go on ahead and find a taxi for his wife, as any gentleman would do. But he was tired of his wife and equally tired of being a gentleman.
‘We should stop at the shop for some provisions,’ Hugh said.
‘Do whatever you want,’ Margaret said, waving him away in a familiar dismissive gesture.
‘Very well. You go to the cottage. I’ll walk to the high street and arrange something to cook for dinner.’
‘Surely you don’t expect me to put on an apron and act like a housewife. I’ll starve first.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Hugh had turned and headed to the grocer’s on the corner, leaving Margaret to fend for herself.
Half an hour later, he stood in the lane and surveyed the grey stone cottage with mullioned windows that would be his home. The cottage was small, with two bedrooms upstairs, the kitchen and a small living area downstairs. The cottage hadn’t been occupied, it seemed, for quite some time. The front garden was overgrown, and so was the walkway that led to the faded front door.
‘What an eyesore,’ Hugh said out loud.
The cottage next door was well maintained. Fashioned out of the same grey stone as Hugh’s cottage, this house had a front door and window frames painted a glossy black. The garden around the house was weed-free and well mulched. Six apple trees loaded with red fruit lined the back of the house. A medium-sized barn and chicken coop were tucked into a corner. The place was charming, unpretentious, a perfect example of a small yet contained country cottage.
A woman who Hugh guessed to be in her early fifties had stepped out of the front door. Hugh watched as she stepped into a pair of wellies and hurried towards him, an unbelieving smile on her face.
‘Hugh Bettencourt?’ Her voice held a question now. And as she came nearer, memories came flooding back. Vera. Vera Mills. Could it be? Hugh smiled and set his groceries down. He hurried over to her, but stopped when he got close.
‘Is it you?’ She beamed at him.
Her brown eyes still held the same warmth. How long had it been since they had seen each other? How long had it been since he had broken her heart? What would have happened if he had stood up to his mother and married Vera?
‘Vera,’ he said.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve taken the cottage?’ Time stopped for a moment. Vera Mills smiled at him, that wide smile filled with simple and unadorned kindness, that smile that opened up her face. Hugh felt the warmth radiating from her and accepted it with gratitude, realising just how churlish and cold he had become over the years. In Vera’s presence he suddenly saw himself clearly and realised that his relationship with Margaret had pulled his bad qualities to the surface and frozen them in place. Remorse and regret flooded through him. Vera must have sensed it, for she put a warm hand on his arm.
‘Let’s don’t have any regrets, Hugh. Nothing to be done about them.’ She took her hand back and stepped away. ‘Am I to assume that stylish brunette is your wife?’
‘Not for long,’ Hugh blurted out. ‘We’re divorcing.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ Vera said. Her eyes travelled to his shopping bag. ‘Do you have enough provisions? I know the shops are short on everything. Let me know if you need me to help you with registering for your ration card. And you’ll probably need firewood—’ She laughed. ‘Forgive me. I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of getting yourself sorted.’
‘Actually, I’ve no idea where anything is, so perhaps tomorrow you could tell me where to go?’
‘I’d be happy to help. Come by for a cup of tea and we can get caught up.’
Before she turned to walk away, she said, ‘I’m glad you’re here. Glad we’ll be neighbours.’
He watched her walk back to her house, resisting the urge to run after her. There were so many things he wanted to ask her, so many things he wanted to say. Turning back to his own front door, he saw a curtain flutter in one of the upstairs rooms. Margaret had witnessed his conversation. Hugh didn’t give a damn.
***
That night, Hugh dreamed of Vera Mills. He dreamed of a time when he and Vera were young and life was full of promise. Dressing hurriedly, he lit the fire and put the kettle on. A sheet of paper lay on the kitchen table. Hugh started a list of the things they needed. Secretly he hoped for a glimpse of Vera. Should he go knock on her door? Take her up on her offer of help? After he poured himself a cup of tea, he moved to the window and watched Vera’s house, wondering about her life. He had yet to see a man around her house. Had she married? Did she have children?
Doing a quick calculation, he realised that he hadn’t seen Vera in close to twenty-six years. They had met one summer when Hermione and Martin had gone to the sea, leaving Hugh on his own
. On a whim, he had gone to a dance by himself, and had found Vera sitting alone while the music played. She was spending the summer with some distant relations who lived in Hugh’s village. Since she hadn’t known anyone, she was glad of Hugh’s company. Reluctantly, she allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. After that dance, they spent the entire evening sitting outside, talking and getting to know each other, unaware that the party had ended and the band had packed away their instruments and left. They would have talked all night had the host and hostess – an embarrassed expression on their faces – not reminded them that it was two-thirty in the morning. After that, they were together every day. They rode bikes, went swimming, shared their favourite books and music. That summer, his heart was full. He had met the woman he would marry.
Lady Rosalind had been touring the United States while Hugh was busy courting Vera Mills. Had she been home to witness her son’s new girlfriend, she would have made quick work of the situation. As it was, she had to find out about Hugh and Vera through the church gossip mill. Lady Rosalind had liked Vera, or at least she had made a pretence of welcoming Vera into the Bettencourt home. But when Hugh asked for his aunt’s ring, so he could propose, Lady Rosalind put her foot down, packed Hugh off to the family business in Edinburgh and promised to find him a more suitable wife. Vera took it all in her stride. Hugh had suffered mightily, but he didn’t dare defy his mother. His only regret was that he and Vera never had a proper goodbye. Lady Rosalind had seen to that.
***
Hugh had been lucky enough to find firewood in one of the outbuildings. He had built a fire and had just put the kettle on when Vera knocked on the door, carrying a roasted chicken, complete with potatoes and garden vegetables, a bountiful meal in these times of rationing. Hugh had been delighted. Margaret had been terse and standoffish. She hadn’t even said thank you. After Vera had left, Margaret had complained that women of Vera’s ilk left her bored and in need of a drink.
Hugh sighed. Tossing the last two logs onto the embers, Hugh moved to the kitchen sink, washed his hands and started to prepare breakfast. He had just pulled the frying pan out when Margaret came into the room wearing shoes made for walking and carrying a holdall and the large handbag she used for travel.
‘I hope you’re not cooking for me,’ she said. ‘You know I don’t usually eat in the morning.’
‘Very well. I’ll just eat your share.’ Deliberately keeping his back to her, Hugh cracked two eggs into the frying pan, sliced two pieces of bread from the loaf Vera had brought over yesterday, and put them under the grill. He refilled his tea, not bothering to ask Margaret if she wanted some. Margaret could take care of herself as far as Hugh was concerned.
‘You’re leaving?’ He nodded at the holdall.
‘I’m off to deal with my brother. I’ve found a place to live near his home, so we don’t need to be under the same roof. And you can wipe that self-satisfied smile off your face. I saw the way you looked at the matron next door. Childhood sweetheart? You nearly swooned over the food she brought. Really, Hugh. Sometimes I think you are one of the most foolish men I’ve ever met. Surely you don’t fancy her.’ Margaret poured herself tea.
Hugh ignored her.
‘Things are going along as planned. Take solace in that. With any luck, I’ll have some money and we should be free of each other within a couple of weeks.’ She moved next to him at the sink. For a brief moment they stood close to each other, gazing out the window. Smoke curled from Vera’s chimney. Hugh imagined her kitchen, warm and smelling of apples and baking bread. Vera, busy working on some project, humming under her breath. A wave of longing washed over him, for Vera and for the welcome hearth and home she represented.
‘You’re maudlin, Hugh. I’m leaving. I’ll write if I need you.’
‘No,’ he said, turning on Margaret, angry at being treated like a puppet. ‘I’m going to stay here for one month. Then I’m going to Scotland. I’m not going to chase you down to say goodbye.’
With a sly smile on her face that told Hugh she didn’t believe him, Margaret grabbed her handbag and hurried out of the house. Once she had gone and the house had fallen silent, save the fire as it crackled in the grate, Hugh sighed with relief. Life was so much easier when Margaret wasn’t around. As for going to Scotland, that was a lie. Hugh wouldn’t be going anywhere. Not as long as Vera was next door.
Chapter 4
Lucy Bardwell slipped into the cover of the woods behind Saint Monica’s before the sun rose. Careful not to catch Mrs Carlisle’s fine blue suit on the brambles, she stepped over a patch of nettles and headed towards the trail that led to the bus stop. Lucy had lingered as Mrs Carlisle tucked the suit back into her wardrobe, where Lucy knew it would be promptly forgotten. That night no one had to ask Lucy to wash up the dinner dishes. When everyone was listening to the wireless, she had sneaked back up to Cat’s bedroom and stolen the suit, not feeling the least bit guilty for her transgression. In fact, she felt certain Mrs Carlisle wouldn’t even notice the suit was missing. Honestly, Lucy had never seen so many beautiful clothes in one place, all of them made of fine fabric, cut in classic styles that would remain fashionable for years. She glanced down at the skirt and the silk stockings on her long legs – also stolen from Mrs Carlisle’s room – and admired what she saw.
When she reached the wide trail, she slipped off her wellies and donned her good city shoes. Tucking the boots behind a shrub, she made a mental note of where she had hidden them for easy retrieval later. She pulled a mirror out of her pocket, checked her lipstick and fiddled with her hat. Once certain she looked her best, she slipped on her grey leather gloves, and hurried to the bus stop before she changed her mind. She didn’t think about her actions, didn’t question if she was making a mistake, until she had boarded the bus and paid her fare, the gesture a commitment in its own right.
The minute she handed her coins to the driver, doubt settled in. Her love trysts had been conducted in secret, often at a hotel room that Lucy paid for with her own money. She had been so wrapped up in her own life, her schooling, her responsibilities at Saint Monica’s and the dance parties that she went to every Wednesday night, she hadn’t given much thought to her lover. In Lucy’s mind, the secretive nature of their relationship had been her doing. But as she thought over the past few months, she wondered why her lover hadn’t been more insistent about spending time with her. He’d never asked about her family or her situation. So preoccupied had she been with her own life, she hadn’t given his life, and how he spent his time when he was away from her, much thought.
He loved her. He would love their baby. Surely he would do the right thing and marry her. They could find a nice house, maybe get a nanny to help. Life was so much easier with someone to share its burdens. Lucy wanted to stay active and busy after the baby was born. Often after having a child, a woman would let herself go. Lucy refused to be one of those women. She would be a devoted mother, but she vowed to put just as much effort into being a good wife. When her husband came home at the end of his workday, he would find Lucy waiting for him, looking pretty.
The bus lurched. Waves of nausea interrupted her domestic fantasy. Her stomach rumbled. She took a small piece of bread out of her handbag and ate it slowly. After she forced herself to eat every last bite of it, she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, waiting for her stomach to settle. The uncertainty of her situation had been eating away at her since she’d missed her monthly course and ultimately discovered she was pregnant. Once she had explained about the baby, and once plans were made, the knot of tension would fade. Cat Carlisle – in her overzealous need to rescue women in need – would probably be disappointed in Lucy. Lucy liked Cat, admired her and wanted to be like her, but circumstances had changed. Lucy needed a husband, needed a father for the baby she carried. Lucy couldn’t worry about Cat Carlisle’s approval. Not now. She had other things to tend to.
Thank god she wasn’t alone. Their baby would be well loved and cared for. That was all that ma
ttered. Wasn’t it? Doubt and insecurity crept into a corner of Lucy’s mind, threatening to take control. She needed her lover’s tender care right now. Tears welled in her eyes.
Thirty minutes later, the bus pulled to a stop before a large village green. Lucy stood for a moment, taking in the gently curving road, the row of businesses, followed by flats. Deciding it wouldn’t do for her to show up feeling peckish, she looked for a café. A cup of tea and a spot of breakfast would serve her well. Nestled between a dressmaker and a clock repair shop, Tea and Biscuits held – by Lucy’s count – ten tables covered in blue-and-white checked cloths. A white-haired woman wearing an apron moved nimbly between the tables, taking away dirty dishes and returning from the kitchen with plates filled with breakfast. The smell of the food took Lucy by surprise. Dizzy all of a sudden, she sought a place to sit as her stomach roiled.
‘Are you quite all right, dear? You look a bit pale.’ The white-haired lady wiped off an empty table and pulled a chair out for Lucy. ‘Please, sit down. I’ll get you some tea, love. You just sit and rest.’
Lucy’s childhood had been a bumpy one. A boating accident had killed her parents when Lucy was just 13 years old. Consequently, she had grown up craving the influence of a mother figure. Her brother, bless his heart, had tried his best to see Lucy got an education and learned comportment. There had been various women over the years – usually women who were rich and beautiful – whom Lucy had tried to emulate. As such, she never really had a well-developed sense of self. When she saw Cat Carlisle at the school, impeccably dressed and so very sophisticated, she knew in an instant she wanted to be like her. Although Lucy had never been a terribly good student, she was an astute observer and had made a practice of studying Cat Carlisle’s ways. Before long, she had started to mimic Cat’s voice and her sophisticated manners.
House of Lies Page 4
