by Laura Wood
“Technically, the window was already broken,” I point out, and I channel Aunt Irene’s chilliest, most obnoxiously dignified voice. “So, if anything, it was only really entering.”
“An excellent point,” he agrees, grinding the end of his cigarette beneath his shoe.
“I wish you’d stop agreeing with me in that patronizing manner.” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “It’s so … so … disagreeable.”
“I know.” He looks up at me again, and the ghost of a grin appears on his face, but it is gone so quickly that I could have imagined it. “Do you think we might continue this on the ground?” he asks, his voice once more painfully polite. “It’s rather hurting my neck having to look at you up there, and I don’t think this get-up is the most appropriate choice for tree climbing.” He gestures towards his immaculate dinner suit.
“No, it’s not,” I say, trying to delay the inevitable. I feel anxiety humming in my chest as I realize that I am going to have to give up the relative safety of my tree branch. “I don’t suppose you climb a lot of trees,” I add.
“Not a lot of them, no. Not any more, anyway.”
“You’re missing out,” I mutter, and with a sigh I pull myself up on to the branch and clamber down, landing with a slightly dusty thump at his feet. I look up at him with what I hope is a defiant expression, pushing the tangle of my curls out of my eyes and wishing helplessly that I had not snuck out of the house in shorts and Pa’s oversized jumper.
(Oh, yes, my inner voice pipes up, if only you had gatecrashed his party in evening wear. Silly Lou, you should have dug out the Chanel.)
Close to, he is taller and even more impossibly elegant than I first thought. His suit fits him perfectly and he wears it with the ease of a man who spends a great deal of time in a dinner jacket. His face is intimidatingly severe, all sharp angles and firm lines. I try not to flinch beneath his appraising look, and I feel my knees tremble a little – not that I’d give him the satisfaction of knowing it. I glare back at him. Those inscrutable eyes finally hold a glimmer of surprise, and I rub my nose self-consciously before tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“You’re older than I thought,” he says, and for some reason I feel myself bristle at this. Did he take me for a silly child? I pull myself up to my full height.
“I’m seventeen,” I say stiffly. After all, I am not so much younger than him, although everything about his manner seems much more grown-up.
He seems to consider this for a moment. “Then perhaps you would like some champagne?” he asks.
“Champagne would be delightful,” I say airily, as if I drink the stuff all day.
“Wait here,” he says, and he bends, just a little, at the waist. “I’ll only be a moment.” He disappears away in the direction of the crowd.
Every instinct is telling me that now is the time to make a run for it, but somehow I know that’s what he expects me to do and so instead I dig my heels in. If he thinks that he intimidates me, then I’ll show him how wrong he is. The fact that I shouldn’t be here in the first place has become inconsequential. His arrogance is like a challenge that I can’t refuse.
By the time he gets back I’ve almost changed my mind three times, but I’m standing firm, precisely where he left me. He doesn’t give me the satisfaction of looking surprised, just holds out a saucer full of champagne.
“Sorry that took so long,” he says, and his eyes flicker towards the party. “It’s a bit of a din in there, and I can’t seem to take two steps without someone wanting to talk my ear off.”
The glass in my hand is cold to the touch, and I raise it to my lips, feeling the bubbles leap towards me even before the sharp taste floods my senses. My first taste of champagne. It tickles my nose and gives me the tiniest injection of bravery.
“Poor you,” I say sweetly. “Although perhaps throwing an enormous party isn’t the best idea if you want to be alone.” I look up at him over the top of my glass but his face remains stony.
“It’s not about being alone,” he says. “It’s about being with someone worth talking to.”
I’m totally thrown, as the sheer arrogance of that statement overwhelms me. This man certainly has a high opinion of himself. I bury my face in my glass, trying to hide my disapproval by throwing back a gulp of my champagne, but I end up spilling most of it down my front instead.
“Anyway, it’s not my party,” Robert continues, and thankfully he seems oblivious to my clumsiness. “It’s my sister Caitlin’s. I should really introduce you.”
“Didn’t you want to introduce yourself first?” I ask. It suddenly strikes me as impossibly self-important that he hasn’t done so. I mean, yes, OK, I know who he is, but he doesn’t know that I know. Something about that makes me want to pick a fight.
“How rude of me.” He smiles, but it’s the smile of a shark before it attacks. “I quite forgot the proper etiquette when one meets someone hanging from the branches of a tree.”
“I wasn’t hanging from the branches,” I say acidly. “You make me sound like a monkey. I was perched. Elegantly.”
He gives me a long look. I know exactly who he is, but I’ll die before I admit it. I glower back at him.
Then he surprises me by reaching for my right hand, bending over it in a little bow and brushing my knuckles lightly with his lips. All the blood in my body seems determined to rush to my cheeks, even though I desperately will myself to look unmoved.
“Robert Anthony Frederick St John Cardew, your most humble servant,” he says, like a character in a regency novel, and I know, I just know, that he expects me to swoon.
“Louise Rose Trevelyan.” My voice is little more than a growl. “And I sincerely hope that you’re not expecting me to curtsey.”
He looks up and laughs, a short, sharp laugh that seems to have been surprised out of him, and his face is transformed for a second by a sudden lightness that makes him almost handsome. If that’s the kind of thing you like, I suppose.
“That’s a lot of names you’ve got,” I say, snatching my hand back from his fingers and wiping my slightly clammy palm on my shorts.
“I’ve got a few more, actually,” he says coolly, all that unexpected lightness gone from his face. “But I thought that for the sake of expediency I’d better save them for another time.”
“Right,” I agree. “Maintain an air of mystery.”
“Very important,” he says, and then after a pause he adds, “For a good story.”
“Ye-es.” I eye him nervously. It seems a strange thing to say, and there’s something dangerous and self-satisfied in his voice, like a card player about to reveal his winning hand, although his face remains implacable.
“Lady Amelia would approve.” His voice is silken, and he’s not looking at me.
I almost drop my glass, and I feel the blood leaving my face. “W-what did you say?” My words are little more than a croak. Surely I have misheard what he said?
“Lady Amelia,” he repeats conversationally. “I think she’d be firmly in favour of maintaining an air of mystery, don’t you? Although she can be a trifle … overdramatic at times.”
I close my eyes for a second, forcing my brain to make sense of his words. With a sinking feeling I remember the notebook that I lost. My eyes snap open, and I can see from the light gleaming in his gaze that he is enjoying this.
The truth dawns on me then, that I must have left the notebook behind the last time I was here, and my stomach lurches as I realize where my notes have ended up. Those fledgling thoughts, those precious scribbles, and it was Robert Cardew who found them. Worse than that … he read them. I never let anyone read them, no one but Alice, that is, and now this … this man is making fun of them.
“Overdramatic,” I repeat, mechanically.
Robert inclines his head. “I suppose it rather comes with the genre,” he muses, and I feel a wave of anger wash over me. I expect my literary tastes are a little low for him, the great big arrogant, patronizing snob.
&
nbsp; “I suppose it does,” I force myself to say with a lightness I don’t feel. A lightness that conceals the simmering, shimmering fury rising within me. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to return my notes to me. Losing them has put me a little behind.”
“Well, as much as I enjoyed them, I’m afraid I don’t carry them around with me,” Robert says glibly, patting his pockets as if to convince me the notebook isn’t there.
“Of course not,” I grind out, trying to hide how much I’m stung by the joke, by the fact that he’s laughing at something that matters so much to me, treating it so dismissively.
A frown flickers across Robert’s face. “I—” he begins, but I cut him off.
“Well, thanks for the champagne.” I keep my voice airy and drain the rest of my drink before handing the glass back to him. “I’d better be going.”
“I thought I was going to introduce you to my sister?” I think his voice is a challenge, and this time he must know that he has won. There’s no way I’m staying to talk to him, no way I’m walking into that party, a scruffy dusty girl who just fell out of a tree. Not to add insult to serious injury. Part of me had been quite enjoying sparring with him, I realize, but the joke about my writing has left me feeling small, slightly ridiculous, and now I want to get as far away from him as possible.
“Not this evening,” I say with all the dignity I can manage. “I’m afraid I have another engagement. Thank you, Robert.” Then, before my courage can fail me, I turn and sweep off through the trees, leaving him standing alone in the moonlight.
CHAPTER
FIVE
I relive every painful moment of my encounter with Robert Cardew over and over, on an endless loop, for three days. Thanks to the loss of my notebook I feel vulnerable and exposed, as though Robert Cardew has seen some hidden, secret part of me. As the shock of our encounter wears off, the crackling, angry feeling in my chest only increases. Whenever I think about it I get all hot and cross, and I want to kick things. On the other hand, the sight of the party, of the glamour and the excitement, has also lingered in my mind, piercing me with pleasure and longing each time I remember it. I had hoped that my curiosity would be satisfied by my visit, but instead, that little glimpse has left me feeling even more lost and empty.
Then an envelope arrives. The envelope is heavy, and when I run my fingers over it the paper feels more like silk. It has my name and address scrawled untidily across the front in peacock-blue ink. I stand in the kitchen and rip it open with trembling fingers. Inside is a thick, white card edged with gold and engraved with glittering golden words.
Robert and Caitlin Cardew invite you to a
party in honour of Laurie and Charles Miller.
Join us in welcoming these
two back to dry land.
Cardew House, 29th June 1929.
Cocktails at 9 p.m.
Please wear white.
Along with the invitation there is another sheet of thick, creamy paper. It is covered in the same untidy writing that is on the front of the envelope. The words there make me need to sit down rather quickly.
Dear Louise,
I was too upset to learn from Robert that I missed making your acquaintance at our party the other night. He really is the most odious creature imaginable, I know, but if you could bear to see him again I would so love it if you could come to our next get-together as my guest. Come for dinner at seven, and stay over so that you don’t miss breakfast this time.
I can feel it in my bones that you and I will be the best of friends. Do say you will come, do! Do!
— CC
I hold the note in my hand, my heart thumping. CC must be Caitlin Cardew, Robert’s sister. I lift a hand to my forehead as if to try and rub away the frown that is hovering there. My brain just can’t seem to make any sense of this. Robert must have told Caitlin that I gatecrashed their party, that I broke into their house, that I was pretty rude to him after he caught me, that he insulted me (she is quick to point out his odious nature, after all), and her response is to invite me to dinner? I look again at the scrawling handwriting, at the quivering exclamation marks and the words heavily underlined. The spicy and exotic scent of unfamiliar perfume clings to the paper. I rack my brain, but I can’t remember seeing pictures of her in the magazines where her brother is such a fixture.
Finally, another thought, as clear and golden as a ray of sunshine, pierces this fog of confusion, and I feel the frown melting from my brow. I am going back! I’m going back to that beautiful, exciting place, and this time I’m going as an invited guest. The only fly in the ointment is that I’ll have to see Robert Cardew’s infuriating face again, but I suppose at a big party it will be easy enough to avoid him. Perhaps I will even be able to retrieve my notebook before he shares it with anyone else … if he hasn’t already.
Because of course I’m going to go. Of course I am. I run my finger over that final exclamation mark. Do! The invitation is another apple in my hand, begging me to take a bite.
I slip it carefully into my pocket now, so that I can take it with me. After almost two weeks I’m going to see Alice. It’s the longest we’ve ever been apart and I can’t wait. It feels as if a lifetime has passed, and there is so much to share. Today is to be my first visit to her new house. I wanted to go earlier, as soon as they got back, but Midge told me that the lovebirds needed some time to themselves. I felt a little embarrassed then. The books and films always seem to end with the wedding so the delights of the honeymoon occupy an often-visited, if hazy, area of my imagination. It’s strange to think that these things are no longer a mystery to my sister.
I make my way over to the house – Alice’s house, I mentally correct myself – with the invitation burning in my pocket. The house is part of a terraced row of cottages in the middle of the village – squat, ugly buildings of dark stone that were built a long time ago to withstand the storms that roll in from the sea. Alice and Jack’s house is sandwiched right in the middle, a narrow slip of a building. There is no garden out the front, but Pa made Alice a window box that she has filled with daisies. It stands proudly on the slightly crooked windowsill, and this out-of-place riot of cheerfulness is so much my sister that it makes me smile. I knock on the door, feeling suddenly shy, and it flies open immediately.
“What are you thinking?” Alice demands, sweeping me into a hug. “You don’t have to knock like you’re some sort of visitor.”
I laugh into her shoulder, relieved that she looks and sounds the same, as though being married was going to write itself on to her body somehow. “I am a visitor, Alice!” I say.
“Oh, but not really.” She pulls me through the door.
I stand, looking around me with interest. The room we are in is quite dark, and my eyes take a moment to adjust.
“Gloomy, isn’t it?” Alice asks.
“It’s—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Don’t say anything, I know it is. It’s because the window is so tiny.” Alice is brisk. “But it’s lovely and cool in the hot weather and it will look much better when I paint everything white.”
“What? The walls, you mean?” I rest my hand on the rough stone.
“Everything.” Alice’s eyes gleam. “The walls, the furniture, the floor.”
“Everything?” I echo. “What does Jack think?”
“Jack thinks I should have whatever I want.” Alice gives a toss of her head and a wicked smile. “It will be like living in a cloud,” she finishes firmly.
“Hmm,” I say, unconvinced. “A cloud? Perfect for a pair of lovebirds like you.” Alice laughs, and it’s a pleased kind of laugh, soft and musical. “So,” I say, nudging her in the ribs, “are you going to give me the tour?”
Alice’s dimple flashes. “Of course.” She flings her arms wide and speaks in a grand voice. “As you can see, this is the living area and dining hall.”
There is a small stone fireplace with two battered armchairs pulled up next to it and a pretty blue rug laid out on the flags
tone floor. In one corner is a little table with two chairs. “Oh, the cushions look wonderful!” I exclaim. Alice and I saved up and sent off for the material months ago, convinced that it was the spitting image of a fancy Liberty print, and Midge has made two blue, floral-patterned cushions to tie on to the dining chairs.
“There’s even enough material left over for a tablecloth,” Alice says. “And Aunt Irene gave us a pair of silver candlesticks as a wedding present so we’ve been dining like royalty all week.”
I snort in a very unladylike way. “I doubt royalty have to eat whatever it is you’ve been cooking.” It is well-chronicled that Alice has not taken naturally to the domestic arts.
“I’m not that bad,” she says now, crossly.
“You once set fire to our kitchen,” I remind her. “While making a sandwich.”
“It was only a very small fire,” Alice mutters mutinously, her arms folded over her chest.
“So, lots of burnt toast, then?” I ask.
This draws a reluctant smile. “Quite a lot,” she admits, and she unfolds her arms.
“But Jack eats it without complaint,” I simper, clasping my hands together. “For you can do nothing wrong. Love’s young dream. You angel, you goddess!” I press the back of my hand to my forehead and pretend to swoon into one of the armchairs.
“Something like that.” A smile curls at the corner of Alice’s mouth. The secret smile that builds a wall around the two of them.
“So, show me the rest,” I say quickly, jumping to my feet. Alice leads me through the back to a very tiny kitchen with a small stove and a wooden cabinet, on top of which her wedding china is proudly displayed.
Beyond this room stands the long, narrow garden which is currently overgrown in a tangle of weeds and dandelions. “The outhouse is down there.” Alice gestures before turning back to the living room and heading up the steep staircase. There are two rooms upstairs – one tiny box room and Alice and Jack’s bedroom. Unlike the downstairs it is bright and light thanks to the larger window that looks out over the back garden. Alice has hung lacy net curtains and they ripple slightly in the breeze from the open window. There is also a washstand, a wardrobe, a small chest of drawers decorated with stencilled daisies, courtesy of Freya, and a bed.
