Matt works hard at Rosecraddick Manor and when he isn’t there he has the children to think of. They come to stay at the small converted barn he rents outside the village and I’ve started to spend time with them. Initially we risk tentative weekend lunches and walks to the beach, before we do more together. The children are curious at first, but as the weeks pass the novelty of my presence wears off and we fall into a comfortable pattern of spending the weekends as a foursome watching films and cooking dinner at Matt’s place before I return to the Rectory. It’s a little coy maybe but there’s no hurry. Life, I’ve come to realise, will pass at the right pace; there’s no need to race or stress. When the twins lean into me as we watch a film together on the sofa, my heart melts and I know for certain it isn’t just their father I’m falling for. With Matt Enys and the children, things as simple as buying groceries or baking a cake become joys, and I wake up now with excitement about the day ahead.
I never thought the day would come when I would say this, but Perky Pippa was right all along: time really is a healer – if you let grief do its work. I wish with all my heart that Daisy Hills had discovered this.
Life in the Rectory has changed too. Matt and I often cook dinner together on Mrs Polmartin’s old range. His contributions are big curries, while I experiment with the fresh produce I find at the local farmers’ market or make lasagne so hot it scalds our tongues. We found an old sofa on Freecycle and placed it in the sitting room so that we could curl up and watch the flames dance in the wood burner while we talked late into the night. We talk a great deal, Matt and I, and we never run out of things to say. He tells me about his marriage break-up and his sadness at being apart from the children so often, and in turn I talk about losing Neil and recount funny stories about our teenage years. It no longer hurts to remember these anecdotes and I often find myself laughing. Sometimes I even sense Neil in the shadows, smiling and shaking his head with embarrassment at some of his daft antics.
The house is still far too big for one person and filled with echoes of the past, but imagining Daisy being here and picturing Nancy sneaking a kiss from Gem in the scullery makes me feel less alone. These people from the past are old friends and we live alongside one another very companionably. Matt has made me a copy of the diary and I reread parts of it from time to time, but it’s painful to equate the lively and determined Daisy who bursts from those pages with the elderly woman who’d spent her entire life searching for a lost love. Sometimes I go into the church and look at the window badged with Dickon’s clumsy attempt at atonement and try to make sense of it all, but I always fail. There’s something I haven’t grasped, I’m sure of it: the final piece of the jigsaw’s still missing. Love doesn’t just end or give up. Daisy never did. And the thing is, she was convinced that Kit was alive. What if she was right? What if he hadn’t died in action at all? But surely that’s impossible?
Oh! It’s so frustrating not to know! Stained-glass Kit, with his eyes raised to heaven and with angels escorting him into the clouds, is still keeping something back. But what?
“Maybe we’ll never know?” Sue Perry said one time when she came across me squinting up at the window. “Perhaps some things are meant to remain a mystery. What if Daisy had found Kit and he’d been so shell-shocked that he didn’t even recognise her? Maybe ignorance is bliss?”
“She would have been overjoyed to see him no matter what,” I insisted. Daisy had loved Kit unconditionally. Broken or whole, she wouldn’t have changed her feelings for him. No matter what Daisy might have discovered at the end of her search, she would never have walked away until she’d known for certain that she’d exhausted every avenue.
While I’ve been focused on my painting, Matt’s continued to work on the manor house and to help his colleagues with further research into Kit’s poetry. The Lost Poems, as the documents from the wall have come to be known, have caused considerable excitement in the literary world. Interest in Rosecraddick Manor is building too, just as Matt had hoped. Several national papers have run features on Kit, and a BBC crew’s keen to film a documentary. Although the Manor’s still closed, Matt tells me that he’s asked at least twice a day by visitors whether they can come in and look around.
“I think the love story’s really captured people’s imagination and added a whole new dimension to things. Hopefully we’ll have a lot of visitors,” he tells me. “This place may well pay for itself after all, which will take a huge amount of pressure off the Kernow Heritage Foundation.”
It’s so good to see the strain fall away from his face when he says this. The worry of the finances and the future of the house have weighed heavily on Matt, more heavily than I ever realised, and I send Daisy a silent thank you for helping to lift the burden. Matt’s right: Kit and Daisy’s story will draw people in. I just wish that the ending to it wasn’t so abrupt. I can’t shake off the feeling that there’s more.
When I’m not painting I still volunteer at the Manor, although when I do come over Jill’s so cold towards me I’m in danger of getting frostbite. She once caught Matt kissing me hello and gave me such a disapproving look I thought she was going to put us both in detention. Sue and Tim, on the other hand, are thrilled we’re together, and Matt and I are now regular visitors to the New Rectory for pizza nights. I’m putting down roots in this Cornish village that my husband was so fond of, and it feels right. Loving Matt hasn’t lessened my love for Neil; if anything, falling in love again has reaffirmed what I felt for my husband. I was so adored by Neil that I know that love, when found, is worth holding onto. The more you give, the more there is.
I know that Daisy Hills felt exactly the same way.
As the days become lighter and the holidaymakers return to the village, the manor house finally comes together. The rooms have all been cleared and are undergoing their last renovations before the house can be dressed and arranged. The icing on the cake will be the tour up through the Manor to Kit’s tower, where an exhibition about his poetry and World War One will be set up. At some point there’ll be a room dedicated to Daisy too. The Kernow Heritage Foundation is currently in talks with the Hills family regarding this, and Matt is very excited.
In addition, Trehunnist Autos is sponsoring a multimedia experience that’ll take visitors back in time to Cornwall during the Great War. A team of builders has just started on the project by taking down the plasterboard in the rooms above the solar and the entrance hall. Matt’s convinced that Kit’s family would have slept in these rooms, and he’s hopeful that some of the original features will have survived beneath all the later adaptations. The coach house and stables have already been converted to a tea room where Jill and her trusty volunteers will serve lunches and cream teas, so there’ll be an extra stream of revenue from that. Matt’s quietly optimistic that with the heightened interest in the newly discovered poems, the documentary and the added romance of Kit and Daisy’s love story, Rosecraddick Manor will be the Kernow Heritage Foundation’s greatest success story.
The Manor’s big opening is planned for the Easter weekend and the village is buzzing with excitement. If I’m a little sad to be sharing Daisy and Kit with everyone else, then I do my best to keep this selfish emotion to myself. Daisy would want Kit’s poetry to be shared and I know she’d be thrilled to see him receive the recognition he deserved. But as for her own part in his story? She never breathed a word about it when she was alive and I hope that by including her we haven’t disrespected her wishes. She wanted to be a writer though. Through the diary she did tell a story, so I like to think she’d be pleased. Her unsent letters have been returned to the Hills family for safekeeping, but they’ve kindly loaned the Kernow Heritage Foundation her engagement ring and have insisted that her diary should remain at the manor house with all her precious treasures. Daisy stays close to Kit this way, which feels right.
The week before Easter brings mild weather to Cornwall. Light breezes make the sleepy daffodils nod and unseasonal sunshine sends holidaymakers to the beach. With my co
mpleted paintings carefully packaged and waiting to be couriered to Moira, I find myself at a loose end. Rather than starting something new, I decide to walk to Rosecraddick Manor and catch up with Matt. It’s a beautiful day and I’m going to help the volunteers working in the gardens. I might not have the greenest of fingers but my weed-pulling skills might come in useful. Besides, after weeks of being cooped up painting, I’m looking forward to some fresh air.
“Hello, stranger!” Matt says, looking up from his laptop with a smile when I find him in his office. The sun slants through the diamond-paned window and his dark hair is glossy in the light. My heart lifts at just the sight of him. “I take it the paintings are all packed up and ready to go?”
I nod. “All finished and done. Can you believe it, Matt? I really thought I’d never paint again.”
“I never had any doubt you’d do it. You’re the most talented, determined and sexy woman in the south-west.”
I put my hands on my hips and give him an outraged look. “Just the south-west?”
“Err, I mean the entire world? If not the universe? Will that do?”
“You’re off the hook,” I say.
Matt abandons his work to pull me into his arms and kiss me. I kiss him back, delighting in the sensation of his arms around me and the pure joy of the embrace. Desire curls in my belly and I marvel at how just a kiss can fill me with darts of longing.
“Yes, definitely the most beautiful, talented and sexy artist in the universe!” he affirms when we break apart.
I’m about to reply when a loud throat-clearing interrupts us. Dale, the foreman of the building team, is standing in the doorway looking awkward.
“Sorry to interrupt, Matt, but there’s something you need to come and have a look at.”
“Your timing’s awful, Dale,” Matt groans. “Please tell me it isn’t dry rot or deathwatch beetle?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s a building issue.”
“Can it wait until tomorrow? The Project Manager will be back then. I’m not much use to you, I’m afraid. Not unless you want a history lesson.”
“You might want to give him a call, mate?” The foreman suggests. “The thing is, Callum got a bit carried away with the wrecking bar when he was taking the plasterboard off…”
“Something tells me I’m not going to like the next part of this story,” Matt says, wincing. “You’re going to tell me there’s a bloody great hole in the wainscot underneath the plasterboard, aren’t you? As in, the wainscot that needs to be preserved?”
“Afraid so, boss. We’ve been rushing to try and get it all finished by next week and Callum was a bit overenthusiastic. Anyway, it’s not just that. There’s something else.”
“There’s more?”
“Yeah, there’s more – but don’t look so worried. We haven’t trashed anything else. We’ve found something really odd and it doesn’t make sense to us, but it might do to you lot. Come on.”
Intrigued, Matt and I follow Dale upstairs and through the rooms above the entrance hall, until we reach the final chamber directly over the room where Lady Rivers burned Daisy’s letters. Without the featureless plasterboard in place, the original panelling is laid bare. At the far end of it, a fireplace has been revealed. Sure enough, there’s a big hole in the panelling on the right-hand side and I see Matt flinch.
“We knew a fireplace would be there because it connects to the flue below,” he begins, but Dale interrupts him.
“It’s not the chimney I’m showing you. Well, not exactly. It’s this. Look.” The builder pulls his phone from his jeans pocket, turns on the torch and directs the bright beam into Callum’s handiwork. “This part isn’t connected to the room behind, although it ought to be. See? There’s no light coming through from that room. It’s totally hollow. It looks to me like there’s a tiny room next to the chimney breast but behind the panelling. Weird, huh?”
“No, not weird at all. Absolutely brilliant!”
“Brilliant?” Dale echoes. “Can I have that in writing before Kernow Heritage Foundation sues my company for damaging priceless panelling?”
“I don’t think they’ll do that. You’ve found something very exciting. This is a priest hole!” Matt’s buzzing with this discovery. “I thought there might have been at least one at some point, given what we know about the family who lived here in Elizabethan times. I never could figure out how the tower room would have worked as one, though – it’s far too visible. They must have been using this little cubbyhole instead. What a great find!” He turns to me. “Come and have a look, Chloe. It’s fascinating.”
I step forwards and peer in while Dale shines the light. The smell of dust and age hits me and as my eyes adjust I make out a small room barely big enough to sit in – and something on the floor, which looks like a book.
“There’s something in the far corner,” I say, puzzled.
Matt peers over my shoulder. “You’re right. What on earth is it? Hey, Dale! Can we get the rest of that plasterboard off right now, but maybe with a little less enthusiasm?”
“Do you need to call someone to check it’s OK before I get going?” Dale says, poised for action. “Like I said, mate, I don’t want to be sued.”
“The Foundation wants the plasterboard removed in any case, and you’re nearly there anyway,” Matt replies. “I’ll check in with the Project Manager first though.”
He pulls out his mobile and, after a brief conversation, gives Dale the thumbs up. “It’s all good. Go steady and let’s see what’s there.”
Dale nods. “No probs. Give us ten minutes and we’ll be clear.”
While the builders set to work we stand back and watch. Matt takes my hand and I feel him trembling.
“This is incredible,” he says. “I wonder what’s inside?”
As the plasterboard falls away I shiver. What else is lurking in the dark? The remains of a long-dead priest, starved to death while trying to hold out on those who hunted him? Are his bones bleached with age and pearly in the gloom? Part of me wants to run into the bright spring sunshine. Another part is transfixed by the slow striptease of the old house as she reveals her secrets.
Finally, the last chunk of plasterboard is prised away to reveal the dusty wainscot. Matt stands beside the fireplace, passing his hand over the old panelling and frowning.
“These priest holes were carefully concealed, but perhaps for this one there’s a place on the panelling that will release a catch, if you know where to press. It’s worth a try, anyway.”
He presses his palms against the wainscot. His fingers reach high and low until there’s a loud click. One panel swings back and a hole gapes open. All I can see are blackness and cobwebs. I step away, repelled by the musty stench and the darkness, but Matt has no such reservations and squeezes inside as best he can, stooping and turning sideways to cram his tall frame into such a small space. Seconds later, he reverses out again clutching a cracked leather document folio. It’s dusty and cobwebby but, even so, there’s no mistaking the embossed initials.
C.R.
Matt and I lock eyes. We both know what this means, even if we don’t quite understand it.
C.R. Christopher Rivers. Kit.
“Shall I open it?” Matt asks me. There’s uncertainty in his voice. “I think there are documents inside and I’m pretty certain they’re his.”
My thoughts are swirling. If Kit hid anything in such a secret place it’s because he wanted to make sure it was safe. But safe from whom? His mother? The servants? People who had no right to look at it? People like us? Or did he use the priest hole in the hope that at some point it would be discovered? Is there something in here we need to know? More poems maybe? Or a childhood diary?
I imagine Daisy leaning over my shoulder. The jigsaw is nearing completion.
“Open it,” I whisper.
It’s time for Kit to speak. He’s been waiting to do so for a very, very long time.
Chapter 11
Kit, 1916
It was strange how he’d once been able to think so clearly, to distil images into just a few sharp words or contain outrage inside the twist of a metaphor. In battle he’d been decisive and fast, his brain never fogged by fear or mired by confusion. In love, too, he had chosen once and never deviated. His mind had been a blade and his thoughts slices of clarity. But that was a different time and a different world. Now, when he needed so badly to write, the words wouldn’t come. No vocabulary existed to describe what had happened to him or to pretty up the grotesque he had become.
Fragments of ideas whirled and danced in a storm that never stilled or settled. He found himself in the laudanum-heavy hinterland between sleep and wakefulness, where wind blew rain against the glass, footsteps scraped across boards and hushed voices tightened with concern. He floated on these sounds a while before spiralling back into the deep place inside, where soft arms held him and warm lips brushed his. He tried to call her name and beg her to stay, but the explosion had shattered language as well as limbs and nothing remained but gurgling.
Daisy.
Her name had been his charm. It was the amulet he’d worn into every battle and each gut-churning patrol. It had kept him safe for so long. When his men had wept or, broken by the horror, fallen senseless to the ground, it was only Daisy who’d kept him from buckling. He would have given away his inheritance in a heartbeat to keep hold of his greatest treasure: a faded photograph blurred by the caress of fingertips, and fraying where it had been folded. He couldn’t have lived through it all without bringing her to the forefront of his mind. Only the determined tilt of her chin and the clear gaze that stared out from the picture could dredge his courage up from the deepest place. In the insanity of this conflict, this Hades of mud and wire and confusion, it was her he fought for. The politics were meaningless now, the enemy as confused and as afraid as him. From what Kit saw of the miserable prisoners they took, they were just like his own men, except for their languages being different. The dreams of fighting for Shakespeare and Keats and an Albion seeped in the golden haze of nostalgia were long over. Kit simply fought to stay alive and to return to Daisy. She was everything.
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