‘This is Miranda, and this is Miriam,’ announced Stuart, bending each appropriate arm towards her with irrepressible pride. ‘Say hello to your Auntie Carys. Tea-time, I think.’ He handed his lavender-smelling parcels over to Poppy. ‘I’ll just put the kettle on.’
Carys watched as tiny, perfect little fingers, with tiny, perfect little pink nails, clutched at her outstretched hands, with the general intention of directing them towards one mouth or the other. Somewhere near her heart, a terrible ache had begun. The ache of the full realisation of what this illness of Mam’s could mean, and of a future maybe lost forever.
‘There’s a story there, somewhere.’ She looked up to find Poppy still watching her. Maternal adoration hadn’t quite banished the sharpness of her gaze.
‘I’ll take the cups through, shall I?’
‘Don’t think you’ll always escape that easily,’ called Poppy after her, as Carys fled.
They put me in with one of the maids, in a room at the very top of the charity hospital. It was small, with just space enough for two beds tucked either side under the eaves, with a small chest of drawers dividing them.
Lily her name was. I took her to be no more than eighteen. At first, she appeared a little afraid of me, but as she grew accustomed to my presence she began to chatter in the brief moments we spent there between our work and sleep.
I had never thought myself as old before, but Lily made me feel ancient with her constant talk of the pair of winter boots she was saving for and sighing after a fashion plate she had purloined from a discarded newspaper. And when it was not her hair or her clothing she was fussing over, it was the young man she was stepping out with each Wednesday afternoon, her half-day off.
The questions she asked! As if, in my supposed state as a widow, I knew everything there was possibly to know about the male sex. I could hardly say I felt I knew nothing at all, and even less, if possible, than I had known before. But at least, for the most part, she didn’t stop to listen, any more than in other of her ramblings, leaving me to murmur something every now and again but mostly left free to pursue my own thoughts.
And I had been, as ever, too quick to dismiss her. A few days taught me that, when it came to essentials, Lily’s head was screwed on. Her Tom might bewilder her at times, but she knew enough to keep herself out of serious trouble. Helped, maybe, by the sight of so many wretched women and their tiny, sickly babies too weak to cry, and who died, more often than not, in the few steps between the gateposts and the infirmary. Perhaps it was the girls, some no older than twelve, who came in disfigured with the disease already eating away at them. Enough, it had to be said, to kill even the most reckless of youthful ardour.
And she had a kind heart. In so intimate a space, it was impossible to hide my lack of even a nightdress. My story of my bag being stolen as I reached Paddington – which was true enough, the money in my stolen purse having been intended to buy an appearance of luggage – touched her immediately. Within hours she had begged and borrowed a few bare necessities – although I didn’t dare question the source of the threadbare, but spotlessly clean, nightdress – with a promise to take me to the best places to stretch my wages, as soon as they arrived.
At the time, I have to confess, I had my doubts I would last long enough in my new post to see such a thing as wages. Had it not been for the shortness of my cropped hair, I doubt whether I could have escaped for more than a day without being seriously questioned about my former occupation.
‘Fever,’ I explained to Lily, when she couldn’t quite contain her horror at my non-existent locks. I considered adding that it was the same fever that had killed my husband. It seemed a nice touch. But maybe one too far. So I let it rest.
Lily, however, accepted the fact without question, as did Matron and the rest of the staff at the hospital. After all, it was a charity hospital, and more than one of the nurses and the domestic staff had arrived as patients.
And meanwhile, I learnt to use muscles I had never used before. I had never thought there could be so much fetching and carrying, scrubbing and cleaning in the entire world. And the steps! Wherever I went, there seemed to be steps for buckets of clean water to be carried up, and dirty to be carried down. Every part of me ached so I could scarcely move.
By the third day, my little reserve of strength had all but given out. I carried on as best I could, with fear clenching itself hard in my belly that if I could not sustain myself in this place, then what would I do? The river, by then, had lost its appeal.
By late afternoon, my arms ached, and my head was swimming. I was on the bottom step of a staircase, polishing the dark wood of the banisters, when the world began to spin around me. I shut my eyes to steady myself, leaning for a moment against the cool wood in front of me.
‘I have to say, that looks less than comfortable.’
I jumped to my feet, cloths and polish scattering around me. Had I been asleep? At the very least, it would have looked like it. And of all the people…
‘I’m sorry, Mr Meredith,’ I muttered. There’s nothing like fear to make pride go into hiding. ‘It won’t happen again. I promise.’ I’d kiss his boots, if he asked me.
‘Mmm,’ he said. Those blue eyes of his were watching me. ‘I’ve an idea I may know what you need.’
I felt my fists clench. Maybe not all my pride was gone, after all. I don’t know whether he saw the action, but if he did, he ignored it. ‘Well, come along, Mrs Smith,’ he said, walking towards a door at the far end of the corridor. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll speak to Matron.’
Wonderful. I could just see Matron – a small wire of a woman, rumoured to have been trained by Miss Nightingale herself – and her reaction to such information.
So, either way, I was a lost cause. Which meant I wasn’t getting myself into this one without a fight. I hobbled after him as best I could, the dark-painted walls of the corridor weaving in and out, and the tiles of the floor undulating alarmingly, in flying carpet manner, as I made my way through.
‘Take a seat, Mrs Smith.’
I stopped in my tracks as I reached the doorway, my head steadying in the influx of fresh – or the nearest the city could offer as fresh – air. I was in a small garden at the heart of the hospital. The broad leaves of plane trees reached above me, yellow and scarlet in their autumn colours. Dried leaves detached themselves and spiralled slowly downwards every now and again, although their cover still almost hid the brick walls rising all around the little space.
For the first time since I had arrived in London, I was aware of birds chirruping away, their little voices echoing against the bricks, along with the sound of running water. Sparrows, seemingly quite unafraid, alighted by my feet and settled to drink by a small pool surrounded by greenery.
From nowhere, a memory stirred. I was back on that long stretch of sand, beneath the rocky cliffs of Treverick Bay, on a day so still the sea lay turquoise and motionless, apart from the splashing of small feet amidst the shallows. The sun was gentle on my face, and the sound of childish laughter filled the salt-tinged air.
In an instant, the old ache was back, deep in my heart, strong as it had ever been.
‘Please, do take a seat,’ he repeated gently, bringing me back to him, with a start. I could think of worse acts of obedience. I sat down on a wrought iron bench in the warmth of the sun. Within minutes, he had returned.
‘Coffee!’ I couldn’t remember when I had last tasted coffee. Wine, I could have turned down with ease. But the mere smell of freshly-brewed coffee was my undoing. He watched me with an unexpectedly youthful grin as I took a sip and leant back, savouring the moment. ‘Thank you,’ I murmured, and to hell with all consequences.
‘No matter.’ He placed something else by my side: a fat square slab of fruitcake.
I swallowed. ‘I can’t…’
‘Yes you can. Cook’s best bara brith, all the way from Plas Eden. Best thing for those recovering their strength from a fever.’
His voice was firm,
without being highhanded about it. Despite myself, it made me smile. Hunger came out of nowhere, as it had not done in a long time, setting my senses alight. My stomach informed me I wasn’t about to pass up on this bounty, no chance at all.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Good,’ he replied. He would sit down beside me. Engage me in conversation. I braced myself, keeping my gaze on my cup, aware that he had utterly disarmed me with his thoughtfulness. ‘Take all the time you need,’ he was saying. I looked up, but already he was striding away, sunshine streaking through his fair hair and turning to gold the quietly falling leaves.
I swore to myself I wouldn’t; but I knew, deep in my heart, that was a memory that would stay with me for the rest of my days.
And, for his kindness, and his asking nothing in return, I hoped – I couldn’t quite, even then, bring myself to go so far as to pray – that he, on the other hand, would forget it entirely.
Chapter Three
‘An industrial estate?’ Rhiannon Lloyd looked up abruptly, splodges of watercolour dripping from her brush like terracotta rain onto the sketch on her knees. ‘You are planning to turn Plas Eden into an industrial estate?’
‘Not exactly industrial.’ Huw Meredith frowned at his aunt, smile fading rapidly. ‘More like a conference centre with purpose-built units for local business.’ He brightened. ‘Maybe craft shops, and studios for local artists. You’re always saying there’s not enough light in Eden. We could even put a purpose-built studio in the grounds for you.’
Poor Huw. Subtlety had never been his strong point, however hard he tried. Rhiannon concentrated on cleaning her brush in the jam jar of water beside her. Maybe it was different with your own children. Maybe there were bonds that bound you tightly, so that differences between you didn’t matter. She had tried so hard to love Huw and David equally since they had fallen to her care, all those years ago, even though Huw had made no secret of resenting her presence at Plas Eden from the start.
With a final swirl, she shook a shower of water droplets into the nearest rose bed and wiped the brush carefully dry. ‘So that’s what you and David were discussing at such length, just now?’ She should have known Huw had an ulterior motive for staying the entire afternoon, when usually on a Sunday not even his wife Angela could prise him away from the delights of Talarn Golf Club.
‘It was something we both felt needed raising.’
‘David agrees with you on this?’
‘Of course.’ Huw met her eye and turned an uncomfortable shade of pink. He cleared his throat, loudly. ‘Well, of course he’s not happy about it. None of us are, Auntie. But even David can see that the situation is impossible. That leg of his is never going to be as strong as it was before. He’s still got months of rehabilitation, and then he’s going to need to be careful. He can’t possibly lead adventure holidays, let alone the upkeep of Eden. It’s simply impossible.’
How very convenient, thought Rhiannon bitterly. Convenient for Huw, that is. Fifteen years ago, when his elder brother had taken over the running of the estate, Huw had never hidden his opinion that David was wasting both time and money in turning Eden’s west wing into self-catering holiday apartments and centre for outward-bound courses. Plas Eden sold – Huw had managed to suggest at every turn – would free up huge amounts of capital to invest in far more promising businesses. Such, coincidentally, as the ones Huw just happened to be starting up himself.
While Nainie was alive, selling Plas Eden had of course been out of the question. Within a year, David had managed to make the unpromising holiday venture pay, and Nainie had had her stroke. Huw had stopping his muttering. Until now, that is.
Rhiannon placed her brush with the rest in her little metal case, and set to tidying away her painting materials into their wicker basket, her face hidden. It might be unfair of her, but she couldn’t help but note that Huw’s renewal of this eagerness to see Plas Eden sold, did not only coincide with David’s unfortunate accident. There was now no longer Nainie, needing constant care, with the costs of hiring someone else to look after her, or of a nursing home, a drain on the estate.
Rhiannon pushed the thought quickly from her mind. Huw was, after all, the nearest thing to a younger son she would ever have. David took squarely after his father, and was a Meredith through and through. With Huw, on the other hand, there were times – not often but every now and again – when she could catch a fleeting touch of Marianne in his face. Huw had inherited her sister’s brown hair and dark eyes, and that long straight nose of hers, the one that Rhiannon could recognise in her own mirror. Huw was her flesh and blood, alright, however much their respective inner lives remained an anathema to each other.
‘Would you like to join David and me for dinner?’ she murmured, politely, by way of a peace offering.
‘That’s okay, Auntie. Must get back, Angela’s expecting me.’
‘Another time then.’ She did her best, but the relief in her voice was not exactly subtle. She picked up her basket and folding stool, accompanying Huw towards the impressively large black four by four sitting squarely in Eden’s driveway.
As he reached the car, Huw turned. ‘And you’ll think it over, Auntie?’
‘Of course I will, cariad. Give my love to Angela.’
‘Yes, yes. She’s very fond of you, you know.’ Which, thought Rhiannon, was possibly the nearest Huw would come to any statement of family feeling.
As the four by four purred itself down the drive – most probably consuming half an ancient forest before it had reached the gate, she muttered to herself darkly – Rhiannon strode back towards the house.
When Rhiannon had first come to live in Plas Eden, the west wing – now turned by David into pristine holiday apartments – had been a vast hinterland of cobwebbed rooms containing the dusty, moth-eaten remains of Victorian beds and Edwardian sideboards.
In those days, the east wing, in all its shabby, cluttered and entirely unpretentious state, had been the family home. It had remained that way ever since. There had been plans, years ago, to modernise the east wing and bring it up to scratch to meet Eden’s grand exterior. But after Nainie’s stroke, change had been impossible. Both David and Rhiannon had been in agreement: Plas Eden was Nainie’s life, the guardian of her memories. While Nainie was alive, nothing in the family part of the house could change.
‘Kettle’s on,’ came a distant voice, echoing through the panelled corridors as Rhiannon pushed open the heavy oak door into the hallway.
‘Thanks! Be with you in a minute,’ she called back, keeping her tone deliberately light. Rhiannon shivered slightly as she carefully stored her painting materials in a cupboard under the wide sweep of stairs, amongst the collection of boots and old coats half smothering a child’s sledge still kept there, just in case. However much she tried to push the fact from her mind, change was unmistakeably in the air, unsettling every part of her.
Rhiannon quickly made her way along the corridors to the large and well-worn kitchen. An ancient Rayburn, battered but still going strong, clicked and whirred gently to itself in the corner amidst the scrubbed pine of the units. A rack for drying clothes hung just above, festooned with dried bunches of rosemary and last year’s lavender.
‘Huw’s gone,’ came David’s voice from the sunroom that led off from the kitchen. She could hear the strain beneath the attempts to be cheerful.
‘Yes I know. Coffee?’
‘I was going to make it.’
Rhiannon smiled. The coffee had indeed been ground and measured and mugs set out on a wooden tray. ‘So you have, cariad. I only need to pour the water. You stay where you are. I can manage that.’
‘Hrmmph,’ came a grunt from the sunroom. No sounds of David struggling to his feet. Rhiannon frowned to herself. That was unlike David: the afternoon with Huw must have seriously taken it out of him.
On second thoughts, she reached down the tin with the remains of a spiced-apple cake. The topping had turned out far too sweet, but she had a feeling that
neither of them would notice. There are times when only serious amounts of sugar will do.
‘Hello Hodge.’ The sounds of the cake tin being opened brought the arrival of a black Labrador-type dog of uncertain parentage, yawning and stretching as he reached her side. A damp nose butted her nearest hand, feathered tail batting slowly against the table leg in appreciative greeting.
Fitting the cake amongst the mugs, Rhiannon carried the tray down the two steps to the sunroom, Hodge trotting along in adoration – and not a little hope – behind her.
David was sitting in one of the ancient armchairs, his bad leg propped up on a stool. He looked up from scowling at his laptop as she appeared. ‘How did the painting go?’
‘Not bad. The light was beautiful this afternoon.’ She placed the tray on a low coffee table set next to David’s chair. His face was drawn and grey, the faint lines at the corners of his mouth tight. She hadn’t seen him like this since those first weeks after he’d been released from hospital, when there had been a metal brace running the length of his shin, keeping his shattered bones in place. The attaching rods had protruded from the flesh like an instrument of torture. David had never complained, but she knew him well enough to know when he was in pain.
‘Good.’ David closed up his laptop and placed it amongst the books and papers on a folding table that had been positioned on the other side of his chair. ‘Come over here, Hodge, and stop eying that cake. You always were a dog with a one-track mind.’
Rhiannon poured the coffee in silence, as David concentrated on fussing Hodge’s ears. They couldn’t put this off forever. One of them had to start somewhere.
‘Huw came to see me as he was leaving,’ she remarked, placing David’s mug within easy reach.
‘He did?’ David paused, hand half-outstretched towards his drink. The frown was back, deeper this time. ‘And what had he got to say for himself?’
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