At the southern edge of this cove, a short block of stone buildings lined the beach, perhaps the old customs house and a few assorted homes or businesses. A small pier protruded from the far end of these structures, but it was not to this dock that the yacht sailed, but farther along to a far grander landing nearer to the castle. I blinked in bemusement at the gleaming white pier topped with castellated watchtowers on either end. No one entering or leaving Poole Harbor could miss it.
We disembarked and slowly made our way up the long wooden dock, each of us trying to catch our first glimpse of the castle proper. Regrettably, a wall and a series of tall elm trees blocked our view, making it difficult to see much more than the redbrick tower with its Union Jack flying proudly atop. That is, until we stepped through a portal and up the walk into a small garden. Then the castle loomed before us, as if sprouting from the forest.
The façade facing us was constructed from gray limestone and lined with numerous tall, Georgian-style windows, winking in the afternoon sun. At each corner the castle projected outward like a turret, but without the presumptuous pointed roofs that some buildings of newer construction tried to adopt with dubious success. Though apparently Walter, or his father before him, hadn’t been able to resist stamping their family’s coat of arms above the door.
Even so, it was certainly nothing to sniff at, as Nellie was doing, wrinkling her nose. I’d never known her to be such a high-hat, but our lives had taken very different courses since the autumn of 1914.
As we neared the arched door, it suddenly burst open and a lovely woman in a yellow dress of georgette crepe hurried out to greet us. “Oh, marvelous! You’re here. We were just discussing whether we should alert the lifeboat crew.” She beamed brightly at us and then at her fiancé as he emerged from the building to stand beside her, enjoying her own joke.
“I’m afraid that’s my fault,” Max told her. His lips quirked upward. “Ran into some trouble north of Poole.”
“Not you, Ryde,” Walter teased. He shifted his weight with his cane, then obliged him by inquiring, “What sort of trouble?”
“Me,” I stepped forward to proclaim, stealing Max’s punch line.
He smirked. “You said it, not me.”
Several of the men chuckled, a bass accompaniment to our hostess’s trilling laughter.
“Verity,” Walter said, reaching for my hand. I allowed him to pull me closer, leaning in to kiss the air next to his cheek. “It’s good to see you.”
His smile was warm. The same soothing countenance I remembered grinning at me from over Sidney’s shoulder the day we were wed. The same expression I imagined had calmed and bolstered hundreds of soldiers before they went over the top into battle. And yet it did not quite reach his eyes, not completely. I sensed some wariness there, some hesitance. Whether it was recognition of our mutual loss or something more, I didn’t know. But it chilled me more than I would have thought possible.
“You too,” I managed to reply before glancing into the eager eyes of the woman beside him. “And this must be your fiancée.”
Walter’s posture straightened proudly. “She is. Helen, meet Mrs. Verity Kent.”
“Oh, Verity . . .” She grabbed hold of my hands. “May I call you Verity?”
“Of course,” I answered, bowled over by her enthusiasm.
If possible, her face beamed brighter. “And you must call me Helen. In fact, I insist we all use our given names,” she declared. “It’s much too tedious otherwise.”
Everyone else seemed too stunned, or too enchanted, to answer, so I responded for them. “Frightfully tedious.”
She squeezed my hands where she still gripped them. “I’m so glad you could come after all. I knew we were going to be fast friends.” She laughed. “Isn’t this too grand?”
“Too.”
She released my fingers and I wiggled them inside my gloves, trying to get feeling back into them as she turned to the next person.
It was impossible not to note how young Helen was. Barely twenty, if I were to wager. To think, I had been two years younger than her when I’d wed Sidney and then watched him march off to war, utterly ignorant of the horrors he would face. As ignorant as Helen appeared to be about what Walter had come back from?
I wanted to believe she was more discerning, more understanding than I had been. After all, she couldn’t be completely blind to the pain Walter had endured as he recovered from his bullet wound. She must have lost friends and loved ones in the fighting. No one in Britain had been untouched by the massive casualties. But I had my doubts.
And yet they said youth was resilient. If it lived long enough. I was only two years older, but I didn’t feel so buoyant. Even when I was frantically dancing a tarantella with a handsome chap, thoroughly embalmed with gin, I knew what really lay beneath it all, even if I didn’t particularly want to take it out and air it.
At least, they seemed happy together. I only hoped Walter’s fond smiles indicated something more than indulgence. Otherwise they were swiftly going to grow disenchanted with each other once the initial whirl of attraction wound down.
“I expect you would all like to refresh yourselves,” Helen said, leading us through the doors and down a short corridor to what must have been the main foyer. “But after you’ve done so, I do hope you’ll join the rest of us on the lawn for tennis. There will be chairs and refreshments, of course, for those who have no wish to play.”
A pair of grand staircases curled around the edges of the round chamber, drawing one’s eyes upward to the massive crystal chandelier glittering overhead. The room was swathed completely in white, from the walls and moldings to the marble tile on the floor and the crisp white runners on the stairs, making the room appear massive, but also cold. The only spots of color to alleviate this blank canvas were the black wrought iron of the staircase railings and the round black table topped by an arrangement of crisp white flowers.
Next to this sparse coloring, Helen appeared even more bright and vivid, and her blond bob and buttery spring gown only accentuated that fact. I thought I began to better understand her appeal to Walter. She was directing the men to follow the butler when Felix sidled closer.
“I suspect you’re a woman who’s good with a racket.”
I eyed him askance. “Why, yes, Mr. Halbert. In more ways than one.”
His smirk widened. “Felix, please,” he reminded me. “We mustn’t disappoint our hostess.” He tipped his head forward, making a single dark curl from his slicked-back hair flop over his forehead—a calculated gesture I was certain.
He was an attractive enough fellow. I was sure plenty of women noticed when he entered a room. But regrettably for him, his antics did nothing but amuse me.
“Can I count on you to partner with me for doubles?” he asked.
I crossed my arms over my chest and swiveled to observe him more closely, narrowing my eyes in mock consideration. I didn’t particularly wish to encourage this flirtation of his, but I also realized it might prove to be quite useful. In any case, he seemed to find my deliberation entertaining, taking the opportunity to sweep his eyes up and down my form. Cheeky bounder.
“I’m game,” I told him. “But I warn you, I play for keeps. So if you prove to be a hayburner . . .”
He’d begun to walk away, following the other single men toward the stairs, but he glanced over his shoulder and winked. “Oh, I’m not.”
I shook my head at his unabashed conceit and turned to find out who was to guide me to my room. Helen was busy reassuring Nellie about the accommodations in her and Tom’s chamber. Accommodations Nellie had yet to see, and so could not possibly have found fault with. Yet. Even so, I noted a small furrow between our hostess’s eyes. The first sign of any strain I’d seen her exhibit.
While Helen was distracted, I took the opportunity to cross the room toward the main entrance. The large, oaken doors were propped open, allowing a delicious sea breeze to sweep through the house. It blew softly against my flushed cheeks and fea
thered the hairs against my temples. I could see now that the castle was oriented so that the front faced the sea. The wall separating the house from the pier stopped short of here. One could stride down the broad set of stairs and across a thin strip of pale sand, and dip their toes in the vibrant blue water in a matter of three dozen steps. It was a tempting thought, but for the fact that I knew the water would be icy cold, and certain to freeze my toes in a handful of seconds. Certainly not worth the effort to fumble with stockings and garters.
Sidney would have done it.
The thought struck me before I even knew it had formed, and I found myself smiling at the image of him hopping on one leg across the sand as he removed his shoe and stocking from the other, all the while calling over his shoulder, taunting me to join him. He would roll his trousers legs up to the knee and wade in, grimacing from the cold, but determined to coax me in. And I probably would have gone. I’d been eager enough to follow along that summer of 1914 when he’d returned to visit Freddy at my parent’s house. At least, until the autumn, when I couldn’t follow him anymore. Not across the Channel to the fighting in France.
I couldn’t follow him now either.
The image of Sidney faded, scattering in the breeze, and I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly chilled. The knife blade of grief once more cut into my breast, making me hold my breath to try to blunt the pain. I was constantly deluding myself into thinking I’d moved past this, when all I’d done was dull the point occasionally with gin and dancing and vigilance. Then something would strike me from nowhere—a whisper of a resemblance in a stranger passing on the street or the smell of his cologne—and I would find myself right back here. Trying to catch my breath.
We hadn’t been married long enough before he went to war for me to miss the normal domestic things. Like his razor beside the sink, or his clothes scattered on the floor, or his warmth beside me in bed at night. And at times I’d counted myself lucky not to miss that.
But conversely, I’d spent our entire marriage waiting for him to come home, and sometimes it felt like I still was. Like the war had never ended. He’d been dead fifteen months, but I would still find myself wondering when he would have leave next, or noting something I should tell him in my next letter. Those were the moments that were most agonizing, as if I were reliving the initial shock of his loss over and over again.
“Verity, I almost forgot. This arrived. . . .”
I turned back to meet Walter, who had returned to the foyer through a doorway on the left, his cane tapping on the marble floor. But something in my face must have given away my distress, for he stopped abruptly.
“What is it?” he asked in concern. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” I forced a smile to my face. “No, just . . . my shoe pinching my foot.”
The excuse was clumsy, but he was kind enough not to say so. I could see in his eyes he’d guessed the real cause of my sorrow, for he seemed to feel it, too. It was etched in the lines at the corners of his eyes, the sadness pleating his brow. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who was finding this weekend difficult.
Then why invite me?
His gaze dropped from mine to the item held in his hand. “Of course.” He cleared his throat. “Well, this came for you earlier.”
His arm extended and I stiffened. It was a letter.
For a moment, I couldn’t make myself reach out and take it, too wary of what I would find. But when Walter glanced up at me again curiously, I forced myself to accept it.
“Thank you.” My fingers brushed over the handwriting on the cream envelope and I exhaled in relief. It was from a friend in London. I would know her distinctive swirls and flourishes anywhere. She’d asked me to run an errand for her on my way through Ringwood, and was undoubtedly anxious to remind me of it.
I could feel Walter’s eyes still watching me, and I attempted to laugh off my earlier misgivings. “Just a friend reminding me of an obligation. Again.”
“Rather persistent.”
“You have no idea.” Daphne didn’t understand the meaning of the word pester.
Having seen Nellie and Tom off with the housekeeper to show them to their rooms, Helen rushed over to us. “Verity! I’m so terribly sorry. You must’ve believed I’d forgotten you.”
“Not at all,” I assured her. “I was just admiring the view.”
She followed my glance toward the open door. “Oh, yes. Isn’t it heavenly? And to think, Walter almost sold this place.” His expression tightened at the reminder, but her blue eyes gleamed at him with undaunted affection. “I’m so glad he didn’t.”
Some unspoken communication seemed to pass between them, though I couldn’t read it. A command or request given, and the other acquiesced.
Then Helen reached out to take my hand. “Come with me. I’ll show you to your room myself.”
I allowed myself to be towed along, listening with only half an ear as she burbled on about the other guests and her plans for the party. The other half of my mind was diverted by the evidence of recent refurbishments and the sheer opulence of our surroundings. From the carpets to the furnishings to the sculptures and artwork adorning the walls—everything was fashioned of the highest quality one could buy.
I was slightly taken aback by it all, as I remembered Sidney mentioning early in the war how low Walter’s coffers were running. But between the castle and the gleaming new yacht, it was evident that wasn’t the case now. I couldn’t help but wonder if some of that was courtesy of Helen’s inheritance. After all, her father had been a wealthy and well-connected man, and rumor was he’d left it all to her. Perhaps cynically, I pondered whether that was part of Helen’s appeal.
Not that she wasn’t beautiful and effervescent enough to capture most men’s notice on her own. I knew she’d been popular among the London set during the war. I’d never met her, but I’d certainly heard of her.
As she seemed to have heard of me. “I can’t imagine how we’ve never crossed paths before now. I’ve been hearing your name and that of your darling husband for years.” Her expression arrested in horror. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That was rather thoughtless of me.” She pressed a hand to my arm. “You must forgive me. Walter is always chiding me for the way I chatter on. It really is frightfully annoying of me to do so.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” I replied, trying to stem the flow of her words. “I can’t expect everyone to act as if Sidney never existed. Nor would I want them to.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She smiled gratefully and resumed her stride down the hall. “In any case, it’s been over a year now, hasn’t it? You must be learning to get on without him.”
The words were spoken carelessly, and though I knew she meant well, they still lodged in my chest like a splinter. As if one could quantify the exact period of mourning one should endure. As if the pain automatically lessened once enough time had passed.
“Yes,” I murmured. “Is there any other choice?”
She stopped at a door on the right, opening it as she pivoted to face me, displaying no evidence she’d heard the slight edge to my voice. “Here we are. You’ll let me know if anything isn’t to your approval. I do so want you to be comfortable.”
For a moment I thought I detected a hint of sarcasm in those words, but nothing in her expression or demeanor supported that notion. I brushed it aside, deciding I’d imagined it. Easily done, as I was drained and somewhat oversensitive after the long drive that morning and my vigilance when confronted with the other guests.
And now I had to change clothes and join them on the lawn for tennis, as Helen reminded me before leaving me to explore my chamber on my own. I closed the door with a decisive click and turned to survey my assigned accommodations.
This room had plainly been treated to the same refurbishments as other parts of the house. Mallard blue toile wallpaper covered the walls, and gold satin drapes flanked the windows, already pulled to allow warm sunlight to flood the room. A four-poster bed with caramel and
ecru striped hangings, and a soft gold coverlet dominated the space. I crossed the medallion-patterned carpet, feeling the heels of my pumps sink into the plush texture as I pulled my gloves from my hands. My luggage had been brought up for me; the large case was propped on a bench next to the wardrobe, while the valise and hat box rested on the dresser.
I had turned my steps toward the suitcase to search for my tennis whites when something resting in the middle of the counterpane caught my eye. It was a book. A rather plain volume of moderate thickness, and yet my heart quickened in dread. Somehow I knew the presence of this work of literature was no accident, nor was it a simple courtesy of our host. If he or Helen had meant to leave books in our room, they would be placed on the escritoire by the window, not the bed.
I glanced around me stupidly, as if the person who had left it might still be there watching me, waiting for me to pick it up. Inching closer, I sank down on the edge of the mattress to reach over and lift it into my hands. I could feel how worn and dented the cover was, my fingers finding the sunken divot where something had either struck or been dropped onto it. A sense of déjà vu swept over me, a feeling that I had somehow already done this before. And when I cracked open the book I understood why.
There, at the top of the first page, read my inscription: To my dearest Sidney. With all my love, Verity.
I hadn’t seen the book in three years. It had not been among the few effects Walter and the other men in Sidney’s battalion had been able to send home to me. I’d never even missed it. And yet, there was no denying this was the copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress I had given my husband after he’d mentioned in one of his letters that he wished he had a copy. At the time I’d thought it an odd book to request, but I’d wanted to do what little I could for him, so I’d hurried out and bought a copy. Nothing fancy. I knew it had to stand up to the mud and marching. And it had. Remarkably.
But what was it doing here now? Where had it come from? And why had someone placed it on my bed?
Loosening my grip on the book, I feathered through the pages. Surely there would be something.... There. Tucked between the pages was a plain white slip of paper. I turned the book to read the short, typewritten note.
This Side of Murder Page 3
