Oran had gone quiet. His expression, April saw, was unmistakably that of a person who, now in full possession of the facts, regrets their original eagerness to say yes.
Edward had also observed the change. ‘Qualms?’
‘What if the box has details about — the past?’ said Oran.
‘It may well,’ said Edward. ‘But then it may also just contain items the Reverend wanted your grandfather to have. It seems universally agreed in Kingsfield that the Reverend held your grandfather in high esteem.’
‘You know, if it hadn’t been for the Reverend, I would never have known that my mother had been adopted,’ said Oran. ‘I was twelve and he came to call on us. Granddad George was out but the Reverend seemed keen to stay anyway, so I made a pot of tea and he asked me all about school and whether I enjoyed being in the church choir, which I did, and whether I wanted to sing a solo at their next performance, which I most definitely did not. Then he stared at me in silence until I was going mad with the need to fidget, and said, “You have your mother’s eyes.” Which was true; I’d seen the photos. Then he added, “But not her hair. That beautiful summer-gold hair that was her own mother’s crowning glory.” I was about to say my ginger locks were a blessing from my father, but the Reverend suddenly went all of a blink, like a mole in sunlight, and said he had to go right away, so I showed him out. In the hallway, coming back, I passed a photo of my grandparents on their wedding day and it struck me that my grandmother’s hair was dark brown.’
‘Not summer-gold,’ said Edward.
‘As un-summer-gold as you could get,’ said Oran. ‘I checked the family photo album just to be sure she hadn’t dyed it, but my nan had been a brunette from childhood, dark as Elizabeth Taylor or Ava Gardner. Took me months to gird up the courage to ask Granddad George whether he and Nan were my mother’s real parents, and he grew so angry with me, I never asked again. I didn’t need to. His anger gave me all the answer I needed.’
‘He might have felt embarrassed that he’d never told you,’ said April.
‘Or he might have been worried that the circumstances around the adoption would come to light,’ said Edward. ‘Seems your suspicions that it did not go through any official channels could be correct.’
Oran looked at Edward. ‘My grandfather meant the world to me,’ he said. ‘I won’t do anything to betray his memory.’
‘Understood,’ said Edward. ‘Then how about this? Sunny has invited us all to dinner, so let’s collect the box from Miss Brownlow as I’ve already agreed and take it with us. After we’ve eaten, I will personally undertake the investigation of the box’s contents. That way, if I find anything … controversial … then I can instruct you to close your eyes until the offending matter is disposed of.’
To April, he added, ‘The dinner invitation extends to you, too, if you’re free. Sunny had an excellent stifado in Greece, apparently, that she’d like to try out on us.’ He saw Oran’s face. ‘It’s a type of casserole.’
‘Of course it is. No possibility for misunderstanding there.’
‘Come along?’ said Edward to April.
April had a vision of the four of them around Sunny’s table, laughing and talking and eating Sunny’s no doubt excellent food, and she was filled with a longing so intense that it took all her willpower to contain it.
‘I might come later,’ she said. ‘For the grand opening of the box.’
‘Please do,’ said Oran. ‘Much as I loved my grandfather, I admit I am very tempted to find out more about my mother. I might need someone with actual willpower, such as yourself, to stand by me and hold me back. To set an example of what it takes to never, ever give in to those baser urges, no matter how Siren-like their call.’
CHAPTER 20
August, 1938
He’d have him on the final run, thought James. Day was a better oarsman but James was twice the runner. What he lost on the water, he’d make up easily over ground.
The current guides race champion was a local man, Tom McNaught. He was twenty, a fit and strapping woodsman, and had won the race by miles for the past three years. He would not appreciate being beaten, and certainly not by lads barely fifteen years old. But James and Perry were well ahead of him. And as soon as James was out of this boat, he could surely sprint past Day and take the win.
The crowd around the lake was large. As many as two hundred people had turned out to enjoy a picnic and the sight of other people expending energy on a hot summer’s day. Lily was there, James knew, in the big marquee his father had ordered, eating food delivered by Fortnum and Mason along with his other guests, local dignitaries mainly, men like him whose wealth now also gave them influence, who headed boards and committees that knew best about what was good for people, and who were buying up the land that those left with only breeding could no longer afford to keep. James’s father’s success with the local Tithe-Payers Association had brought about calls for him to enter politics. Lewis Potts would never enter into any contest without being very sure he would win, James knew, and so his father was prepared to spend time building a base of support, and doing favours for others that would, when the right time came, require appropriate favours in return.
Lily had been invited because his father liked to show her off. Lily, in a way, James thought, had become his father’s property. He had taken over her life, and she did whatever he told her. James knew the Blythes were not happy about it — Sunny said so. Sunny said that the money they received from Lily’s modelling fees was not enough to compensate for her absence from the farm. The calf-rearing had gone badly that year because Mrs Blythe could not dedicate herself to the full-time care they required in those first weeks. Because of that, there’d been an outbreak of scours, which, ironically, forced Lily’s mother to spend three whole days and nights trying to save them. The whole lot, bar one lone skinny, sickly calf, died, and Mrs Blythe had taken to her bed for another day, sorrowful and exhausted. Sunny’s mother went around to help out, and tried to bring James’s mother with her, but his father would not hear of it. James’s mother had duties of her own, he said, and the Blythes were hardly a charity case. There were setbacks all the time in farming; it was the nature of the beast.
Sunny also said that the money was not enough to alleviate the Blythes’ worry about the society James’s father had introduced Lily into, in particular the older men. It had never occurred to James to worry about rivals that were not his own age, but now he became alarmed. ‘Had Lily complained?’ he asked Sunny. ‘Had anyone, you know, behaved — questionably?’
‘You mean got all goatish and lechy?’ Sunny said. ‘Asked to slip their John Thomas up her cunnikin?’ (Sunny had found an unexpurgated edition of Lady Chatterley’s Lover and insisted on reading the juicy bits aloud to James, causing blood to rush to his face and, more humiliatingly, to other places. Sunny, fortunately, was always too engrossed in the book, which she found hilarious, to notice.)
No, Sunny had not heard Lily complain, but, as she rightly pointed out, when did she ever? ‘Lily never says a bad word about anyone,’ Sunny said in exasperation. ‘And she never argues or stands up for herself. It’s as if she’s under autosuggestion — obeys any instruction given to her, no matter what it is. I do so wish she would develop a bit of gumption!’
James couldn’t imagine a Lily who argued. Her sweet nature was part of what made her so attractive. Sunny, who, in James’s mind, had always looked more like a boy than a girl, had given him quite a shock when he’d first arrived home for the summer. Her hair had been cut in a blonde curly bob, she wore stylish clothes (God knows how she afforded them) and she’d tanned her skin a smooth golden brown. With her bright blue eyes and white smile, she was, James had realised with a start, gorgeous. He’d never thought of Sunny as beautiful before, but here she was, a chic woman of the age, even if she were not a woman quite yet. Whereas Lily, he’d been quite relieved to see, was a little taller but otherwise exactly the same. As was Rowan, except that now, to his secret, intense ple
asure, James had definitely outgrown him. Sunny insisted that Rowan’s growth had been stunted by the fact that Ted barely fed him. If it weren’t for the Blythes, she said, he’d starve. James told her she was exaggerating. Rowan was naturally small and wiry, that was all.
Rowan hadn’t been able to join in the lakeside sports. Old Ted needed him to help ready the woods for the cub hunting Mr Potts had planned for the following week. It was a precursor to hunting proper, which would start in a few months. Old Ted, James knew, did not like the hunt. Loathed the noise, the damage to copses and fences, the disruption that unsettled his already scatty pheasants at the all-important nesting time. But James’s father wanted to hunt cubs, and so Ted and Rowan would be out there, checking fences for anything that might injure a horse, making sure there would indeed be young foxes laying up in the coverts and, closer to the time, stopping the earths so they could not escape back underground.
It was a pity, James thought. He would have liked Rowan to see him win. Because that’s what he was determined to do. He would beat them all, including the famous Tom McNaught, and claim a hero’s welcome and perhaps a kiss from Lily, which would really show Day!
Day had left him behind on the first row across the lake but James had caught him again on the hill run, and they had slotted oars into rowlocks neck and neck. James tried not to fume as Day pulled ahead in strong, seemingly effortless strokes, and focused instead on the final half-mile run. It was over uneven, hillocky ground, with a subtle but taxing slope that would sap the energy of the unprepared. James had run here before — he had run everywhere that lay within twenty miles of home. He knew how to tackle it. Day wouldn’t.
The rowboat crunched hard onto stones. James threw off the oars and leapt out. He did not bother to look for Day. All that mattered was that Day was ahead and needed to be caught. He heard whistles and cheers from nearby spectators. Someone called his name, but he did not waste time turning. He ran, fast, in pursuit of his rival.
He saw him. At a guess, Day was fifty yards ahead, with about a quarter of a mile more to go. James knew he could run faster, but was that too big a lead? Well, he’d know in the next few seconds whether he was gaining ground.
Day was running well. Back upright, knees high, arms pumping. He was heavier than James, but he had strength and a long stride. James’s legs and lungs burned, his palms smarted, rubbed raw by the oars, and salty sweat stung his eyes. But he dug in, and was rewarded by the sight of Day’s back inching ever closer.
The finish line was now less than fifty yards ahead. Day’s lead had shrunk to twenty. James knew he needed to take extra care now. A toe clipping a clod of earth, a twisted landing in a hidden hole — he could be undone any second.
He wasn’t. He passed Day with ten yards to go, heard his friend’s oath, and grinned. The crowd cheered with enthusiasm, even though he was not their champion, and James collapsed backwards onto the ground and beamed in triumph at the sky.
The sun was blocked by Day, bending over him, dripping sweat.
‘Bastard,’ Day panted. ‘Sodding bastard.’
Another cheer, a loud one. Tom McNaught had crossed the line. Day held out a hand and hauled James to his feet.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Best be gracious in victory.’
The unseated champion was smiling, but his handshake crushed hard as a millstone. James gave a short prayer of thanks when McNaught was dragged away by his mates, promising commiserations in ale, though he couldn’t help resenting the way the man was being congratulated by all around him, as if he had won. He was their local hero, James decided, shaking out his fingers discreetly to get the blood flowing again. Their lad, their Tom, could never be supplanted by rich James Potts or posh Peregrine Day.
‘Christ, I may never play the piano again,’ said Day. ‘The man has hands of steel.’
An unbridled whooping got their instant attention. Sunny was racing towards them, arms circling, yelling like a Red Indian. Walking some way behind her, James saw, was Lily, smiling serenely. As usual, his heart went straight to his mouth.
‘Woo-hoo!’
Sunny skidded up, used James as a brake by grabbing his arms. She flung her own around his neck and hugged him hard, not caring, it seemed, that he was sweaty and smelled ripe as an old cheese.
‘That was brilliant!’
Sunny was wearing an outfit that must have given his father apoplexy, thought James. It was a pantsuit, wide-legged, with a halter top, in jaunty striped patches of blue and white, which made it look as if it had been reconstituted from men’s shirts. It showed a lot, James couldn’t help but note, of smooth tanned skin.
He’d stared at her a shade too long, but needn’t have worried. Sunny had lost all interest in him.
‘Hello,’ she was saying. ‘Who are you?’
Months later, Day admitted to James that he’d only just stopped himself from saying ‘I’m the man you’re going to marry.’ James had replied that it would have been entirely unnecessary. It was obvious to even the rocks that love had struck them like a hammer.
‘Well done, James.’
Lily was beside him. Her smile lit up her face, but she made no move to give him a congratulatory kiss. She was carrying a straw hat. Her dress was white and silky, with short draped sleeves and a collar that sat wide across her shoulders. Pretty, modest, not overly fashionable. Undoubtedly a dress bought for her by his father.
‘I can’t wait to tell Rowan,’ she said. ‘He’ll be so pleased for you.’
Jealousy punched James hard in the gut. Why was she even mentioning Rowan when the only person who mattered today was he, James Potts, the winner? He would have beaten Rowan, too, had he entered. He would have beaten him by miles.
He heard Day inviting Sunny to take a ride with him in his car. Even though he was a year too young to have his licence, Day had a blue and silver MG, a present, apparently, from his godfather who’d had a big win at Monte Carlo. Day was hiding the car from his father, because the old man would most likely sell it out from under him, having been forbidden by Day’s mother to flog any more of the Stubbses. Day had roared up in the MG, hopping out just in time to make the start. He’d have driven it like the clappers, thought James; the car had a top speed, so Day claimed, of seventy miles per hour. Hearing that, a classmate had cited a statistic that more Britons had been killed by cars in the early part of the decade than in the whole of the Napoleonic wars. Day had laughed and promised only to run over people he didn’t like.
He was laughing now, and Sunny was laughing with him, gazing up at him with eyes sparkling with amusement and (blindingly obvious to James) sexual heat. Why couldn’t Lily look at him like that? Why couldn’t her gaze be white-hot with admiration and longing? What did he have to do? Slay a bloody dragon?
Perhaps it was time to drop the mask and declare his intentions, like Scaramouche. If he waited too long, there was a risk he’d be too late. One of his father’s friends might decide the age gap was not so very great, and if his father approved of the match there’d be no stopping it. And there was the threat from Rowan, too. Not that Rowan had ever expressed an interest in Lily beyond friendship, but everyone knew that Farmer Blythe considered Rowan to be almost as fine a lad as his own two sons.
‘Come on, Jam-pot!’ Sunny grabbed his arm. ‘They’re about to give out the prizes. If you want yet another trophy for the cabinet, you’d better hotfoot it.’
‘Jam-pot, eh?’ said Day, in the voice of one now in possession of a potentially useful piece of information.
Lily smiled. ‘It’s his nickname,’ she said.
Of course it’s my bloody nickname, thought James. Only an imbe cile would have needed that explanation. Only an imbecile would have given it!
He composed himself. There were people waiting to praise him, award him that handsome silver winged cup. They’d probably want him to make a speech.
James followed the others up the hill, preparing in his mind the kind of modest words people would expect to hear from
the winner of the day.
CHAPTER 21
mid-May
April hadn’t opened James’s art folio since that afternoon at Sunny’s when it had been handed into her care. After her failed trip home, April had unpacked her suitcase and placed the folio on the top shelf of Kit’s wardrobe. There she’d intended to leave it, but Sunny’s stories had sparked a curiosity about James. He was her relative, after all.
Her rational brain reminded her that a young man, dead over thirty years before she was born, could hardly have drawn anything that would connect to her. But his death was the reason she was here, in his father’s house, scraping wallpaper that he would have passed by every day. His finger marks were probably on that wallpaper somewhere; small boys’ fingers, as she knew, being magnetically attracted to anything they weren’t supposed to touch. And, who knew, perhaps there were some drawings in here of Empyrean’s interior? Not that it really mattered — their restoration work was a patch-up at best — but it would be nice to know that she and Oran weren’t too far off the mark.
She stood on tiptoe and slid the folio off the wardrobe shelf, took it to the kitchen table and opened it up.
There was the map, of course. April touched the chain around her neck and wondered whether it held the secret of the lock the two keys had been made for. But the little images of the lamb, dog, apple and beehive gave no more clues to their meaning than before. It was a mystery that would probably never be solved, April told herself. She slid the map to one side, and lifted the folio’s first page.
The drawings were as she remembered — neat pen and ink renditions of farm scenes, churches, rose-covered village cottages. There was one of an apple tree, a swing hanging from a branch. The apple tree the four children used to play in, April guessed. She glanced back at the map — she must ask Jack to help her find the place where it used to grow.
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