‘It wasn’t a misunderstanding,’ she said. ‘You tried to sell Winterbourne behind my back, organising for that woman to come round, telling her I wanted rid of my inheritance without asking me first. You should never have done it.’
He held up his hands, prepared for her rebuke.‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘That’s what I came here to tell you. It was a bad move.’
‘What were you thinking?’
‘That I was helping. I kept imagining you here, alone, and I know you’re independent – maybe you were afraid to ask for support.’ He sighed, ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know, Rachel, I care about you – is that OK, can I say that? I figured you were getting on with the emotional stuff, so if I could step in and take the onerous business of selling off your hands, maybe it would lighten the load?’
She thought about it from his point of view. Maybe she’d been unfair.
‘And you travelled thousands of miles just to tell me that?’ she said.
‘Some women might call it romantic.’
‘Contacting that realtor wasn’t a decision you had authority to make.’
‘Rachel, I know. I understand. I was worried, that’s all, about you coping.’
‘I’ve been coping just fine.’
‘I can see that.’ She thought he said it straight up, but there was a note of pomposity there that implied her current appearance – and, indeed, the state of the hall, littered as it was with scattered diaries, not to mention the heaped-up piles of plates and coffee cups just visible in the kitchen – suggested otherwise.
‘I meant well,’ Aaron said quietly. ‘Can you forgive me?’
Rachel felt tired. ‘Of course I forgive you.’
Aaron stepped across the diaries to reach her, barely seeming to notice them under his polished shoes. ‘Rachel,’ he said, ‘please reconsider what you said about us. That’s all I ask, just think about it. I don’t want to say more because I don’t want to frighten you off, but there is more, the way I feel about you, and I mean it. Being without you has made me reflect on things and, well, I know what I want.’
His words disturbed her. Things had always been easy between them; it was how she’d liked it, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted this new intensity. Had Aaron been concealing his feelings all along? She wasn’t ready for a relationship; she didn’t want to settle down. Was he saying he loved her? No one had loved her since Seth.
‘You can stay until tomorrow,’ she said, ‘but I’m not promising anything.’ She knew she sounded cold, like the closed, brittle self she had left behind in America – not the girl smoking against Jack’s farmhouse wall, letting secrets fall like rain.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘But you’ll at least let me take you for dinner, won’t you?’
*
The afternoon was a struggle. Aaron had expected to be welcomed as a lover and she could offer him no more than a slightly uncomfortable friendship. Politely Rachel asked after his business and the family Thanksgiving he had coming up (to which he rather sorely admitted he’d been planning to invite her), while he, quite justifiably, refrained from returning too many questions. Instead, he focused on Winterbourne.
Rachel was grateful for the distraction of the house, a talking point so vast she dared hope they could avoid personal interaction altogether. Aaron was enamoured by it. As they passed through the endless passageways of the majestic building, he stood at every painting, every artifact, every column, every urn, every hanging or tapestry or bookcase or chandelier, fascinated. Rachel found his fervour amusing. Aaron was used to five-star splendour, and was perhaps indulging her a little. She didn’t mind. The sheer gothic opulence at Winterbourne would be unlike any glitzy residence he had seen. She was glad of the difference: that this was hers, incomparable, unique.
Then, over a cobbled-together lunch of bread and cheese, Aaron asked if Wanda Pearlman had valued the property. ‘Of course not,’ she said.
He was eating standing up, a habit of his, leaning back against the counter. He could be on a billion-dollar-settlement conference call, she thought, were it not for the dust-caked soup tureens above his head, the enormous Belfast sink and cracked jelly moulds. Who had worked in this kitchen, she wondered, their sleeves rolled up, apron caked in flour as they beat flour and eggs and pulled cakes out of the oven? Each time she thought of the diaries, another universe opened: a shadow alongside this one. Had Alice cooked? Had Mrs de Grey? Had the woman called Christine?
‘You should find out,’ commented Aaron, swilling the glass in his hand. ‘I can’t even estimate. Guess I’m not clued up on real estate over here. There’s all the land as well, of course. You’d be talking tens of millions, maybe more.’
Rachel put her chin on her hand. ‘I’m planning to sell,’ she said, ‘eventually. But I’m not ready yet. There’s too much still to find.’
‘Like what?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘I can do complicated.’
Rachel looked into his eyes. She drew a breath.
‘Do you remember how you told me, back in New York, that I’d been through a lot?’ He nodded. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you were right. And it started way back at the beginning, before you, before the gallery, before I lost my husband, before I found out I was adopted, before any of that. It started here, at Winterbourne. This house is it. It’s my past, and until I fill it with something I can touch, something I can take home, I won’t be able to put the things I’ve been through behind me and move on.’
‘I get it, Rachel. I do.’
‘My real mom is only a step away, and who knows what, then, I’ll learn about myself? I’ve never known anything about myself, not even the name I was born with. Can you imagine what it will mean, to know those things for sure? To know how I came into the world? Winterbourne is more than an auction. It’s my home.’
‘But you can’t keep it. You can’t live here.’
‘I can until I’m done with it. Or it’s done with me, whatever.’
‘It’s a draughty old castle, Rachel. It’s not a person.’
She couldn’t stop, now that she’d started. She had to confide in someone. She had to have someone as level-headed as Aaron tell her it was nonsense, though she wasn’t sure if that would be a relief or a disappointment. She needed perspective.
‘I’m afraid that something bad happened to them, Aaron,’ she said, ‘my mother and my grandmother – to both of them. I found these journals belonging to my aunt and they talk about this curse on Winterbourne, on the women who lived here—’
Aaron started laughing, then stopped when he saw her expression.
‘I’m sorry, Rachel, but you can’t be serious. A curse?’
‘I know it sounds ridiculous. But it’s what my aunt believed.’
‘And what you believe, by the sounds of it.’
At her failure to reply, he went on, ‘Listen, this is what I was afraid of. It’s part of why I came out here, to see if you were holding up. On your own in this place, I knew it could be bad. Then when you emailed telling me we were off, it was like I suddenly realised, yeah, that’s what’s happened. She isn’t thinking straight.’
‘I’m thinking fine,’ said Rachel. ‘I’ve never been thinking more clearly.’
‘But you’re entertaining the idea of a Winterbourne curse? Come on.’
It had been a mistake to tell Aaron anything. She should have told Jack; he knew Polcreath and the house and he wouldn’t have judged her. But what hurt most was that maybe Aaron was right. Maybe she had spent so much time locked up at Winterbourne with that dank cellar and that creepy mirror and the bats that flew into the windows at night, that she had lost her grip on what was real and what wasn’t.
Constance was hardly a reliable narrator. Her diaries could pour forth any kind of fiction and Rachel was a fool to take them at face value. But the alternative, somehow, seemed worse: that there was no truth to any of it, that every word in the diaries was made up, and she was no better off than when she
started.
*
Aaron insisted on driving into Polcreath in the early evening. Rachel would have preferred to walk given the roaring beacon of attention that was the cherry-red Porsche, but he wouldn’t be deterred. In New York Aaron preferred to keep a low profile; she suspected that, here, he rather relished the idea of shaking up a sleepy English coastal town. She thought of the mud-caked boots and musty Barbours hanging by the door to the Landogger Inn, the damp dogs dozing by the fire and the locals sucking tops off their pints, and prayed to go anywhere but there.
‘There’s a nice-looking bistro on the water,’ she volunteered as they parked in the harbour. ‘Shall we try that? Great lobster, I’ve heard.’ She made that bit up.
‘Hmm.’ Aaron stepped out of the Porsche and breathed in the sea air. Gulls swooped overhead, their wings buffeted on a bracing wind. ‘I’d rather somewhere authentic. Let’s go local. How about that pub over there?’
Rachel’s heart sank. The Landogger did indeed look attractive, nestled in the hillside amid a cluster of sparkling lights. ‘It’s not that great,’ she said. ‘There’s another place, similar, on the other side of town. How about we…?’
‘No, let’s go there,’ he said, with the single-mindedness that had drew her to him in the first place; and, smiling winningly, he took her arm and they walked along the shingly sea path. She hadn’t come this way before. The water glittered lilac and there was scarcely anyone in sight. Aaron was dressed in an Armani suit, loosened at the neck, and his usual brand of cologne. The less people saw them, the better.
‘Look,’ said Aaron, as the tree line momentarily parted and Winterbourne’s turrets came into view, ‘there you are, on top of the world.’ He said it so simply and nicely that Rachel squeezed his arm, a rush of affection warming her heart. It had been sweet of him to come. The Wanda Pearlman thing had been a mix-up. It would be nice to have him here, after all. But the sight of a group of men outside the Landogger quickly extinguished any resurgence of optimism. One was noticeably taller than the others, and shaped horribly like Jack Wyatt. As they came closer, her fears were confirmed. Jack raised his hand to wave at her, and she nodded back.
‘Hello,’ he said as they reached the door, immediately eyeballing Aaron. ‘How was the hangover yesterday?’ His companions drifted inside.
‘Uh yeah,’ she said, ‘not great. Um, this is Aaron.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Jack, although he looked anything but.
‘Aaron Grewal,’ said Aaron. ‘And you are…?’
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Rachel. ‘This is Jack. He’s been helping me up at the house.’ She wished instantly that she hadn’t said that.
‘Has he?’ said Aaron, interested.
‘We’re just coming in for a drink,’ said Rachel quickly.
‘Strange choice of place,’ said Jack.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I would have thought Raffini’s was a better fit with Armani.’ He said it in a friendly enough way and fortunately Aaron took it as a compliment.
‘Anyway, see you later.’ She ushered Aaron inside but Jack caught her arm.
‘This is the one it’s over with?’
‘I’m not in the mood, Jack.’
‘He isn’t you,’ he said. ‘He definitely isn’t you.’
‘What would you know about what is or isn’t me?’
‘More than you think.’
She turned on him. ‘Tell me, Jack: how does it feel to be right all the time? Does it ever get boring?’
‘Not really.’
‘It does for other people.’
‘Him? Seriously? Rachel, that guy looks like he moisturises.’
‘You’re the one who knows an Armani suit when he sees one.’
‘What can I say? I’m not all cowsheds and dog whistles.’ ‘Leave me alone.’
‘Never. You’re stuck. I like you.’
She shrugged Jack off, wishing they had never come anywhere near the Landogger – and, when she stepped inside, her wish multiplied. Aaron was standing at the bar perusing its menu of jacket potatoes and cottage pie, while the eyes of all the locals were trained on him. Fishermen in rubber boots ogled his haute couture; round-bellied darts players nudged each other; dog walkers raised eyebrows.
‘Let’s sit down,’ she murmured to him, leading him to a corner table. Luckily the place resumed its chatter and Rachel went to the bar to order. When she returned with wine and poured a hefty slug into her own glass, she felt mildly better. But it didn’t help that Jack was occupying a bar stool in her direct line of vision and she was aware of his eyes on her throughout her entire conversation with Aaron. She hated the idea that he was critiquing her life – re-evaluating it, even – based on the signals her companion gave off. When they’d first met, Jack had dismissed her as a soulless city girl. He’d since discovered she wasn’t. Oh, what do I care? she thought furiously. It didn’t matter what Jack thought. He could think any damn thing he liked.
Besides, she felt defensive of Aaron. These people could judge him all they liked, and they could judge her too. They had as much right to be here as anyone else.
When their lasagnes arrived, Aaron surprised her by producing a copy of City magazine. ‘Here,’ he said, passing it to her, ‘I thought you’d want to see this. Front-page news.’ He squeezed her fingers as she took it. ‘I’m proud of you,’ he said.
Rachel read the article, a generous spread boasting a banner of the gallery exterior with Rachel standing outside it, grinning widely. Paul had run a sensational item, name checking her several times, and the exhibition critique was outstanding.
‘Thank you,’ she said, meaning it. Seeing the gallery moved her. Reading Paul’s words moved her. To think that this whole world had been turning far away from Cornwall and she had virtually forgotten about it, her life in New York, her apartment, the team she worked with, it all seemed so distant.
When she finally gazed up at Aaron, he seemed to anticipate this.
‘This is who you are, Rachel,’ he said gently, reaching in to touch her arm. ‘You belong in New York, with your job, with the career you’ve built.’
She nodded.
‘Those guys need you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I need you. Come home. Please.’
Rachel couldn’t stop looking at the picture. She felt a pang for the gallery, the colour and activity it generated that was such a far cry from the world she inhabited here. Aaron watched her earnestly. She had never considered herself a runaway: she had always faced things. But was that what she’d been doing in England? Had she deliberately lost herself in Winterbourne as a means of escape, in pursuing a maze that might just as easily spit her out exactly in the place she’d begun? What if the truth wasn’t at Winterbourne at all, but back in the real world? She had worked so hard for this success, striving ever since childhood to accomplish something she could be proud of. Well, here it was. And here she was, thousands of miles away.
‘I know you’re searching,’ said Aaron, ‘but this is it.’ He tapped the cover of the magazine with his finger. ‘This is you, Rachel, not a heap of old diaries in a spooky house in the middle of nowhere. This. Your creation.’
She looked up and her eyes flitted across Jack at the bar. He would never know the person she was in New York. He knew her here, and barely, but it wasn’t the same. He knew none of her ambition, her brilliance or resilience. Aaron did. The gallery reminded her of it: the same gallery that Jack would make fun of.
Aaron was right. Perhaps it was time to go home. Winterbourne had nothing left to offer her but upset. Did she even want to find out about Alice and her mother? Did she want to face yet more tragedy and sadness, over facts she couldn’t change?
She would pack her belongings in the morning and set in motion a sale. Aaron would help her. He had always helped her, always been good to her – and she saw that now, in the fact he’d travelled such a distance to be with her. He cared about her, the real her, and he’d known what was right even when she
couldn’t.
When Jack left the pub minutes later she tried not to look, and to focus instead on Aaron’s plans for their return, the places he’d take her, the shows he wanted her to see and the new apartment he’d bought off Broadway. No pressure, he pledged, they’d take it a day at a time: he only wanted her to be happy.
Rachel watched the door close behind Jack, and pictured him walking back to the old farmhouse across the dark, still fields.
She raised her glass to Aaron’s and clinked it.
Chapter 27
Cornwall, 1947
Autumn tips into winter. Grey skies freeze; the sea churns black. Winterbourne stands like a citadel on the hill, indifferent to the icy mists, as lonely as the light at Polcreath tower. I watch the tower, that single beacon out at sea, standing at my bedroom window or on the windswept cliffs. It is more visible on some days than others. I imagine the men working the light and their isolation chimes with my own. Jonathan has cast me out on a hostile sea. When the tower light blinks at night, the last punctuation mark before the wild Atlantic begins, inside my heart bleeds darkness.
I long for him as readily as the fires in the hearth take flame; the slightest kindling and I warm once more, before a sharp gust blows my hope to ash. He avoids me these days. He spends more time than ever locked away in his study, smoking and gazing at pictures of Laura. Accordingly I harden as surely as the garden’s frozen lawns, stiff in the morning with sparkling dew, their trees naked and shivering.
The imminence of a new housekeeper lurks over me like a guillotine. For this precious, painful time, I can pretend that we four are a family, my husband distant because of his injuries; and I must play the doting, patient wife while my children run around my skirts and laugh softly in dimly lit corners. But with the new arrival, I will no longer be the woman of this house. I will be plain, misguided Alice Miller, a governess with no home of her own. Jonathan will not be dissuaded. Since our last exchange I dare not speak to him on the most trifling matter, let alone this.
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