‘Laetitia,’ said Pudding, looking dismayed. ‘Laetitia Marie Cartwright. Oh dear,’ she added, and Irene smiled.
‘Laetitia? That’s … so grown-up. It’s a lovely name,’ she said, but couldn’t keep her smile from widening when Pudding met her eye. ‘I fear it might be difficult to make it stick, after all this time,’ she said.
‘Won’t it just,’ Pudding said, ruefully.
‘How about Tish? I think I could get used to Tish. Perhaps Pete might, too.’
‘Pete? Oh, there’s no chance of that. He’s known me since we were knee-high – I’m sure I’ll always be Pudding to him.’
‘Ah, well.’
Irene picked a thread off her skirt and got up, hooking a thumb under her waistband to reposition it. She might have to let out a few of her own clothes soon, if she kept on eating the way she had been. The thought caused a residual tweak of anxiety, until she remembered that she wasn’t in London now, or anywhere near her mother, and didn’t need to care about being so thin she hardly had the energy to stand. ‘I was thinking, Pudding, about you having enough to do once we’re down to two horses and Tufty,’ she said, and saw from Pudding’s worried expression that she had been thinking about it too. ‘I have a number of ideas,’ she said. ‘But, obviously, it’ll be entirely up to you. Could we rent out some of the stables and grazing to people who need extra, do you think?’
‘Oh, yes! Livery service, that’s called – it’s quite common.’
‘I’ve no idea if there’s any demand for it, around here,’ said Irene. ‘Since there’s so very much grass everywhere. But we could try. And, you know, Hilarius would probably like a little more help with the shires, come the winter. He’s not getting any younger, after all.’
‘Do you mean to stay on, then?’ said Pudding, looking hopeful.
‘I … I haven’t completely decided. But I shan’t simply sell up and leave you all in the lurch, I promise.’ Irene hurried on to forestall Pudding’s crestfallen expression. ‘You might even get your own horse, Pudding, and keep it here if you wished.’
‘Really? Oh! That would be stupendous!’ Pudding cried. Then she sagged. ‘I should never afford the livery and keep.’
‘I dare say we could hash something out,’ said Irene, smiling.
The house was very quiet after Pudding had gone – off up the lane with Pete in his dad’s pony and gig. His face had blazed appropriately when Pudding had emerged in the teal dress, and he’d stumbled through the debonair good evening he’d clearly been rehearsing. Irene wondered about hiring more servants to fill the space, but there was hardly enough for Clara and Florence to do as it was, with only Irene in residence. She took a book and went out onto the terrace. The house felt slightly off kilter somehow, and Irene suspected it was because Nancy had gone, and none of them had yet adjusted to her absence. For the first time since the hiatus between Alistair’s father marrying and then becoming a widower, Nancy Hadleigh was not in residence. And would not be, ever again.
Irene had thought it all through at least twenty times before concluding that there was nothing to be gained by reporting Nancy to the police. The doll was flimsy enough evidence, and they didn’t even have it any more. Whatever Hilarius had seen, it had been fifty years ago, and his testimony alone wouldn’t be proof enough if Nancy denied it all. And she was being well punished by Alistair’s death, and her role in bringing it about – Irene was certain of that. She would carry the grief and the blame around with her the rest of her days. A slow poison, as Rose Matlock had termed it. As the mistress of Manor Farm, Irene had told her to go, and never to come back. Nancy had given her a steely look that hadn’t quite concealed the fear and anger it was meant to, and Irene had gone along with her to Chippenham station to make sure she got on the London train. The Hadleighs still had their Mayfair apartment, but as far as Irene knew – thanks to a letter from Cora McKinley – Nancy had gone to Italy on a one-way ticket. It had been a tentative olive branch of a letter from Cora, full of apologies for absence and curiosity about the events at Manor Farm.
Irene sat a while in the sinking sun, absorbing the last of its warmth. St Nicholas’ sat in the middle of the field below, doing just the same. There were fewer flowers on the Hadleigh plot since Nancy’s departure, but Irene had resolved to visit once a week, and to refresh a small arrangement there whilst there were still flowers to be had from the garden. The mill steamed, down in the valley, and the brewery leaked its hoppy smell, and she noticed that the stone tile roofs of the cottages had moss in the crevices of their northern slopes. The tall trees on the valley sides were a darkening green, and dusty. She couldn’t stay on at Manor Farm. She simply didn’t belong there, though she had no idea where else she might belong. She would be too lonely, for starters. She had a friend in Pudding, but that was all. Somehow, she would have to find a way to make more. There was still an emptiness where Alistair should have been; it was still his house, his home, not hers. He had wanted her to make it hers too, but without him she didn’t know if it could ever feel right. She had to admit to herself, though, that the view of the valley had come to look beautiful to her, and the smells of the farmyard were familiar rather than offensive now, and she liked the walk down the hill to the bridge across the By Brook. She even liked riding out with Pudding, though she still wasn’t ready for the lead rein to be taken off, and objected to the way the smell of horse lingered for hours, even after she’d scrubbed her arms to the elbow. She took a slow breath, and tried to hear Alistair’s footsteps on the terrace behind her, coming from the house with a smile and a gin and tonic. She wished she would hear it; wished to see his smile one more time, and fall into the safety net he’d offered.
Hand in hand with the loneliness she knew was coming was the certainty of boredom, since clearly she didn’t have anything to write about, just yet – unless it were some chronicle of her new life – a humorous, fish-out-of-water type of thing. The idea caused barely a flicker of interest. Or, of course, the story of Clemmie Matlock’s short life – how it ended, and how that had led to the death of Alistair Hadleigh. A story of lies, secret grief and secret jealousy; a story of ruined lives and lost chances. A sudden conviction took hold of her, a sudden surety. She would write it, and it would be her final act of gratitude towards Alistair: the truth of his death. And in a way it would be an act of justice towards Eli Tanner, since his life had been ruined too, many years before. However gravely he had transgressed now, he had been gravely wronged himself. A little justice for Clemmie and Eli and Alistair. A little justice, of a different kind, for Nancy. She would wait until Eli’s trial was over. The truth was bound to cause a stir; it might even cause the police to question Nancy – if they could find her. Any money the book made could go to the Tanners and the Matlocks, and however unhappy some people might be about what she would write, it would be the truth. So that was that. Not too long before, she would have shied away from causing any kind of trouble, and drawing any kind of attention to herself. But it didn’t scare her as it once had. Some things were simply more important.
She would have to find a way to involve herself in the farm, and the mill, and the village – which might be even harder now, since she was sure she’d be blamed for Nancy’s sudden departure. She wouldn’t be able to tell people the true reason, at first, and just had to hope that Clara or Florence had been listening at doors as usual, and that word would get about. Ruth, the Cartwrights’ daily, might be quite useful in that regard as well. The church fête, and dinner parties; the hunt meet and Sunday school outings. She couldn’t possibly take it all on. The thought of knocking on doors and introducing herself, of sending out invitations and holding parties for people she barely knew – these things did still fill Irene with dread. But she would have to start, if she stayed. Perhaps she could begin on a small scale – making peace with Cora McKinley, for example. She might even invite some of her old school friends down from London, in due course. There were a few who might have got bored enough of the London scan
dal, and be curious enough about the Slaughterford scandal, to accept. She went into the pantry for a glass of lemonade, fetched paper and a pencil, then returned to the terrace and continued to make her plans. Because that was what she was doing, she realised, as the sun slunk lower towards the western hills. She was making plans to stay.
Author’s Note and Acknowledgements
Whilst Slaughterford and its mills, geography and prominent buildings do exist, and have been recreated with some historical accuracy in this novel, all the people and events I describe are entirely fictitious – with the exception of the boiler explosion at Rag Mill, an accident in which three people, including ten year old Vincent Watt, were killed. This tragic event took place in November 1867.
My thanks to Michael Woodman, for talking to me about his life and work at Chapps Mill, and for lending me his books; to Angus Thompson and Karin Crawford, the present owners of Chapps Mill in Slaughterford, for showing me around; and to Janet and John Jones at Manor Farm, for sharing their memories and letting me look around their home.
A huge thank you to my brilliant editor, Laura Gerrard; to my wonderful agent, Nicola Barr; and to all the talented people at Orion Books, working so hard behind the scenes.
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AN ORION EBOOK
First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Orion Books
Ebook first published in 2017 by Orion Books
Copyright © Katherine Webb 2017
The right of Katherine Webb to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978 1 4091 4859 3
Typeset at The Spartan Press Ltd, Lymington, Hants
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK
company
www.orionbooks.co.uk
Table of Contents
Title Page
Contents
Map
Firstly
1: Three Girls
2: The Doll
3: Nature’s Child
4: Touched
5: The Change
6: Allies
7: The Roots of Things
8: Deeper Still
9: Dead Ends
10: Two Confessions
11: Beginnings
Author’s Note and Acknowledgements
Also by Katherine Webb
Copyright
The Hiding Places Page 40
