by Lily Graham
I was excited to bring the cottage back to life, and to learn a little about the people who had been there before.
Before I’d left the Bishop’s boat, I’d somehow managed to agree to one of his ‘cleansing rituals’ for the cottage. In my drunken stupor I’d said to Ange, ‘It’s only sage, right? What harm can it do?’
None, I supposed. But still, I wasn’t too crazy about my new pal Gaz running amok through my soon-to-be-restored cottage with his Russian hat and a pile of burning herbs, even if I had finished all his beer.
My mobile beeped and I dug it out of my pocket. It was a message from Adam.
‘Where have you been, stranger?’
For a while I stared at it in shock, unsure what to respond. Another text came through.
‘I came past the cottage yesterday but you weren’t there. I’ve got some new pages for you.’
I stared at the message for some time. How could he just act as if nothing had happened?
‘I thought you were busy?’ I texted back.
His reply came almost immediately. ‘Busy? Never too busy for you. Want to meet up? How about lunch? Got something I want to tell you.’
I could just imagine what it was. I suspected it had something to do with a long-legged, redheaded ex-fiancée.
‘Sorry, can’t today. I’m off to London tomorrow, but we can meet up when I’m back on Tuesday,’ I replied, thinking I’d deal with the damages then. I went back to working on the cottage, trying and failing to ignore the knot in my chest.
On my way home, I popped into the Harbour Cafe ordering a cappuccino from Sue and taking a seat at the counter.
‘You’re looking a little worse for wear.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
She shrugged. ‘Dave told me you joined their poker game.’
I smiled, pushing my hair behind my ears. ‘Yeah. Remind me never to do that again.’
She shook her head. ‘I know you’re on a sabbatical, but I can tell you right now, that’s no way to spend your time.’
I laughed. ‘You don’t have to tell me – or my liver. We’re both paying the price today.’
She grinned. ‘Can I get you something to eat?’
I nodded. ‘What do you recommend?’
‘The sea bass. It’s pretty great with the new potatoes and rocket from the allotment gardens.’
‘Great,’ I said, taking a sip of my coffee, just as the door swung wide, letting in a blast of crisp air.
Just then an American voice drawled, ‘Ah! Finally, someplace warm. I thought I was gonna die of cold.’
I looked up and felt my stomach drop.
The speaker had long red hair and looked like she’d just stepped out of the pages of a catalogue for fashionable winter attire. She was wearing a stylish cream coat, with her long slim legs encased in leggings and expensive-looking leather boots. She took off her cream knitted hat and shook out her hair, her eyes scanning the room for an available chair. Unfortunately, they also found me, even though I did my best to sink into the floor.
‘Victoria?’ she said, in her loud, carrying voice. Half the room turned to stare. I hunched my shoulders and silently prayed for her to go away.
‘Do you know her?’ asked Sue, as Jenna made her way towards me.
‘That’s Adam’s fiancée, or ex-fiancée, I’m not sure which,’ I said, still desperately hoping that he hadn’t fallen for this awful woman’s lies again.
Sue’s brown eyes popped. ‘His what?’
‘Jenna,’ I said, as she came to stand in front of me. ‘You’re still here. How…?’ I couldn’t bring myself to say anything more. ‘How?’ I repeated.
‘I’ll be in town for a while,’ she said, her tone implying that I was foolish for thinking anything less, while giving me a megawatt smile.
‘Oh. Great,’ I said, feeling anything but great as I cleared my throat. ‘So you’re staying with Adam?’
‘Oh… no. I mean, he wanted me to,’ she said, giving me a very fake smile. ‘He practically insisted, poor thing, but have you seen the size of that little boat of his? I mean, you can hardly swing a cat in there. You might not realise this, as you’re British, but where we come from the houses are, well, a lot bigger.’
I managed to bite my tongue, somehow, though I wanted to give her perfect long legs a swift kick.
When I saw Sue’s shocked face, I could tell I wasn’t the only one.
‘So I’m staying at this little inn, just up the road,’ she continued, blithely ignorant of how obnoxious she was being.
‘The Black Horse Inn?’ I asked, feeling a mild sense of poetic justice.
‘Yeah, there,’ she said, giving a little shudder. ‘Absolutely vile, as you can imagine. No heating to speak of, but it’s a small price to pay for love.’
‘I’m sure,’ I said, wanting to stab her with my cappuccino spoon. I got up before I could carry out that thought and cleared my throat. ‘Ah, Sue, it’ll just be the coffee, thanks. Got to run.’
Sue nodded. ‘Yeah, you’ve got that thing,’ she said, playing along. As someone who had been steering me towards Adam since I’d arrived, she understood that I needed to be anywhere that his beautiful fiancée wasn’t.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Cornwall, 1908
Tilly
Every day I waited for midnight so that I could sneak out and see Fen. I was careful during the day to follow all of Celine’s instructions, and I took a conscious interest in my lessons, especially botany. I felt mildly guilty at Celine’s enthusiasm, as she thought I’d finally given up on Fen and as a result was really trying her best to encourage it.
She sourced books and took me along to meet Terry, one of the gardeners, who showed me around the greenhouses and spoke to me about what grew when and how, all while I held a secret smile in my heart, one that got me through Rose’s insufferable scorn and my mother’s smug belief that her plan had worked.
Dark circles formed beneath my eyes and every day was a constant battle with fatigue, but I was happier than I’d been in weeks.
As night fell, I counted the hours till the household went to sleep. As time passed and I seemed less resistant to my incarceration, Celine began to keep the key in the same, careless spot on her bureau. It was easy to convince myself that this was ample justification for my theft.
In the still hum of the darkness, I tiptoed out like I had that first night and made my way to the cottage, to the shed and what had become our midnight garden. Together we’d plant seeds that I’d got from Terry during the day, and Fen and I would work out a plan for the kitchen garden. Sometimes Arthur came to find us and would curl up at Fen’s feet, like a cat.
Here, away from the roar of the ocean, we were safe. ‘Mam sleeps like the dead, and da, well, he doesn’t like to come out at night,’ Fen told me.
‘Why not?’
‘Just doesn’t like the dark.’
Every night he’d show me the seedlings that had come to life. We planted whatever we could find: hollyhocks, tulips, dahlias, feverfew.
I’d tell Fen about what I’d learned from my books. Show him the pages that I’d turned down just for him.
We became fascinated with the language of flowers, and the early Victorians.
‘Apparently, almost all the flowers stand for something. And when you’re sent something like this,’ I said, pointing to an illustration of datura, ‘you were really telling someone that they had deceitful charms.’
‘What about these?’ he said, pointing to meadowsweet.
I opened up a book with old-fashioned writing, scanned the contents, and then snickered, ‘Uselessness.’
He laughed aloud. ‘The only problem is that everyone would know what you were saying.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Well, most of the Victorians knew about this, didn’t they?’
I nodded. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, if it were me, I’d prefer that it was more of a secret code. I mean, what’s the point of sending d
atura to someone when, say, your great-aunt knew what you were saying as well?’
I laughed. ‘Good point! You know, if it were me, and this were my garden…’
‘It is your garden – it’s our garden,’ said Fen.
‘You know what I mean. Well, if it were truly mine, I’d only plant the most unusual plants and flowers. And I’d use that to create a secret code.’
He nodded. ‘Not the usual hothouse flowers.’
‘Exactly.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Present day
The London sky was the colour of pewter, and from the open kitchen came the scent of caramelised onions and green peppers. I breathed it in, along with my surroundings. I loved Cornwall, but there was something about London too, something that couldn’t help but make me feel alive.
The crowds were another story. I hadn’t missed those.
‘Cooking? You?’ said my editor, James Marsons, with no attempt to hide his scepticism as he took a seat opposite me. We were in a cafe around the corner from his offices, near King’s Cross, where we’d decided to meet while I was in town finalising the paperwork for the sale of my former marital home.
James had grown a moustache, but he still looked like he was only barely out of his twenties. He was tall, thin and pale, with large green eyes that never missed a thing.
‘You look tired, James,’ I said, noticing the shadows under his eyes, like dark bruises.
He waved a slim hand. ‘Course I’m tired – and pale. Haven’t been outside in six months. You used to look like this too, you know. Except, my God, look at you! You’ve actually got a tan. How? Also, are you really wearing a skirt?’
I shrugged. ‘I walk, I go outside, sit in the sun, do some gardening…’
He looked at me as if I had suddenly switched over to Japanese.
‘The skirt, well, that’s only because I’m staying with my mother at the moment and she stole my suitcase and bought me this to wear instead.’
He shook his head and gave me an amused look. ‘You do look nice, though. More importantly, are you really living on a houseboat?’
I nodded, and couldn’t help but smile. ‘Oh, it’s lovely. It’s tiny, of course, but I’ll actually be really sad to leave it once the cottage is ready. There’s this little family of ducks who come visit me every morning, and I wake up every day to the sound of the water lapping.’
He shook his head at me in mock disgust. ‘And you’re cooking for other people who are still alive to tell the tale?’ James was clearly not ready to let that one go.
As my editor for over ten years, he’d sampled more than one failed dinner experiment, after which we’d had to resort to takeout instead, so he had reason for his scepticism.
‘I know, I know, but things have changed. I’ve changed.’
‘I can see that. You look great – really. I was hoping when you called that you were ready to talk about a new project.’
I smiled. ‘You know me too well. I have something, I think… but it’s early days yet.’
‘Can I hear a little bit about it?’
I hesitated. ‘Not yet. But soon, I promise.’
‘I can’t wait,’ he said. ‘Okay, tell me about this cottage of yours.’
So I did.
‘When it’s ready you should come down, have a break, it’ll do you good,’ I told him.
‘You know, after seeing you and how great you look, I think I will.’
Walking the familiar streets around London, it was hard to believe that I wouldn’t be calling it home ever again. Earlier in the day, I’d met Mark at the lawyer’s office as we finalised the last bits of paperwork for the sale.
The house in Chelsea had sold for more than we’d expected and I was finally closing the last chapter between Mark and me.
We were both overly polite to one another. Though it didn’t last too long on Mark’s part. Suzie, a clerk with a too-tight bun and even tighter pencil skirt, had looked at me and remarked, ‘It’s always a bit sad to sell your first home, isn’t it?’ And Mark had given me a cold look and said, ‘Not that we needed to.’
I’d closed my eyes and counted to three. A few months ago all I would have been able to do was retaliate with hurt and anger. Perhaps I really had changed, in more ways than one.
Before we left, I gave Mark a smile, and said, ‘Look after yourself.’
He nodded. ‘You too, Smudge.’
Back at my parents’ place in Knightsbridge that evening, my mother poured me a glass of wine, and said, ‘So, your father and I have been talking…’
I looked at my father. We shared a look that said, ‘Your mother spoke, and I agreed.’ He nodded along, but his big brown eyes were amused. They were the same eyes as mine. He was wearing his navy bathrobe, and the little tufts of dark hair on his balding head were standing up.
‘And we’ve decided,’ Mum continued, ‘to buy a cottage in Cornwall too.’
‘Ah,’ I said, fixing a smile in place. I cleared my throat. ‘That’s great.’
‘Just for holidays, you know,’ she said.
I exhaled.
She snorted. ‘Don’t be like that. It’ll be lovely.’
‘Yes, it will,’ I said, taking a sip of wine. ‘Have you decided where you’ll buy?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Well, I think with your granddaughter to think of, it just makes sense that you consider Cloudsea, you know, so you’re closer to her.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, well now you mention it, that does make sense.’
I buried a smile. Stuart was going to kill me, but it would be worth it.
To be honest though, having my parents around a bit more wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
Until… ‘What’s that?’ I asked, pointing at the pile of plastic bags in the corner of the kitchen.
‘Oh, that?’ Mum said, dismissively. ‘Just some stuff for charity.’
Out of the top of one bag I could just make out what looked like a shoe. I stood up to take a closer look.
‘I think I’ll call it a night,’ said my father, exiting fast.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ I said, pointing at the bag, where it looked like one of my Converse trainers was poking out.
She shrugged. ‘I’ve been through your suitcase and made three piles for charity. Thought we could go shopping tomorrow, what do you say?’
I gave her a look. ‘No! Stop going through my suitcase, or from now on I’ll book myself into a hotel whenever I’m in London.’
Part of me hoped she’d say, ‘Fine, book a hotel.’ There I’d have peace and quiet – and access to the full extent of my wardrobe, judgement-free.
But she just sighed. ‘Okay, fine, you win. But please consider giving up just one of the bags.’
‘Half a bag,’ I conceded. ‘And we visit one shop tomorrow, that’s it.’
God help me, but I liked my new skirt.
When I climbed into the spare bed that night, I thought of what James had said about how much I’d changed. The truth was that so much had had to happen before I could actually live a simpler life – but it was simpler now, at last. All I needed now to feel perfectly content was a slice of Angie’s lemon cake, a good book, and perhaps the company of my favourite blue-eyed American.
I tried not to think of Adam, but it was hard. I couldn’t deny that my feelings for him had grown. The kiss had just pushed it all to the surface.
Why did Jenna have to turn up now?
Chapter Thirty-Five
Cornwall, 1908
Tilly
There was a solitary flower lying on my dressing table. It was the first thing I noticed when I entered my bedroom to change before dinner.
It looked like an ordinary daisy, with thin, pale, spiky petals and a bright yellow stamen, but I knew who it was from.
Wrapped around the stem was a thin piece of paper. I unravelled it, saw Fen’s messy handwriting and began to laugh.
Goose flower.
Soon,
Fen and I were taking other inspirations from the Victorians. One night, while we worked at the wooden table that he had pulled into the shed, measuring soil into the waiting pots in the early April light, we decided to create a coded alphabet as well.
‘Celine told me that the Victorians used to send secret letters, often written in code. The place where you put your stamp, for instance, had a hidden meaning. We could do that – you know, if you want to send messages in the day.’
Fen agreed. ‘Da told me that during the war they used coded messages too.’
Taking a pen and pencil, we worked out our own cipher text.
I copied it out for both of us. ‘Keep it safe.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll keep it here,’ he said, burying it in a small blue pot. ‘So no one will find it.’
He took a green flowerpot from the shelf. ‘We’ll use this one for the messages. I’ll put it next to the big pear tree by the brook – Old Tom, it’ll be our mailing box.’
So our secret communication began. Old Tom proved to be a good aid. As I appeared more docile at home, and reports of my new studious side gained traction, I was allowed to venture out alone again. Though someone from the house was never too far away.
‘Celine tells me you’ve progressed quite well,’ my mother had said. ‘I’m glad to hear it, glad to see you’ve put that foolishness behind you.’
I had given her a tight smile and ignored Rose’s disbelieving scoff – something I was later to regret.
Most days, I would sit underneath the branches of the pear tree and read, and when I was sure that whoever had been appointed to follow me wasn’t looking, I would slip my fingers beneath the pot and quickly place my latest message inside, or take one out and slip it between the pages of my book. Later, at home, I’d read it in private.
In time, our made-up code became as easy to read as if it had been written in plain text. Yet, with the aid of the cipher, we told each other things that we couldn’t have face-to-face.
