Alicia snaps, “We? I don’t have a choice, end of story. Stop bugging me on this.”
He will not let go. “There’s always a choice. You stopped your dad selling and—”
“Yes, then he died.” Like a child, Alicia claps her hands over her ears.
“You have to hear this. Your father—it wasn’t just about selling the land.”
“What?” Rage and fear make Alicia formidable.
Rory backs up. “It’s true. I was back late because Mum was talking about Hundredfield this morning. Your dad just wanted to clean the place out and walk away; everything was to go, the state furniture, the armor. . . . Never mind the land, he wanted to sell anything that wasn’t nailed down. You were meant to have this place because you fought him for it.”
Alicia’s face has gone from red to white. “I will not have my family gossiped about in the village. Your mother has always hated me. I don’t know why and I don’t care, but if this goes on, I’ll—”
Exasperated, Rory shouts, “I said she was talking rubbish. I defended your family, Alicia.”
They stare at each other. They’re standing close.
“So, are you going to tell me what Hugh said?”
She moves away fractionally. “I asked for a preliminary valuation, but we didn’t get that far. The trees got in the way.”
“Trees?”
“The accident—accidents. I had the strangest feeling when it happened.”
“Go on.”
She half laughs. “I think they’re on your side.”
“What?”
“The trees, Hundredfield. I really felt as if the place were turning on me.” Alicia touches the bump on her forehead with trembling fingers. “Oh, this is all just mad. Why does no one want me to sell?”
“Hugh does. He’d make a nice fat commission.” There’s no antagonism this time, just fact. Rory sounds so sad.
“I’m exploring options. That’s all I’m doing. I have to.” But her voice breaks.
“You’re stressed, Licia. Pardon the cliché, but you just can’t see the wood for the trees.” He holds out his arms.
“Oh . . .” She surrenders, sobs into his shirt.
He holds her at a slight distance. After a minute, he murmurs, “Careful. Good cotton, this. It’ll shrink.”
“Sorry.” Alicia stands back, head buzzing, nose running.
He offers his handkerchief.
Crying does not suit Alicia. Her eyes have swollen to slits and her face is a shade of hectic scarlet. “I must look dreadful.” She blows her nose, a painfully loud sound.
Rory conquers a wince. “Not at all.” He looks at his watch. “You know what? Time for lunch. And before you say you’re not hungry, think of my feelings. I can actually make a sandwich without poisoning people.” He holds out a hand.
Alicia is overwhelmed. “You’re lovely. Have I ever told you that? Really, really lovely.” She cups his face in her hands.
The yearning in Alicia’s eyes is a shock. There’ve been clues for years, but Rory’s ignored them all. He’s her friend, they’re best friends. You don’t fall in love with your best friend.
The silence is brief but it’s enough.
Alicia shrinks, shrinks into herself. She’d enjoy dying right now, if that were an option.
Rory pretends not to see her distress. “Come on. Not so bad. You’re just feeling the effects of shock. You’ll be right by tomorrow.”
But the shock isn’t physical anymore. Alicia steps back. “Of course. Yes, you’re quite right.”
“Did Jesse . . .” Rory hesitates. “I know Mack took her to Jedburgh. Is she coming back?”
Alicia does her best to meet his eyes. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
Jesse says nothing as they drive from the car park of the care home. Huddled like a child, she leans against the window and seems to sleep.
Mack lets her be. He’s driving fast but with great concentration; they can’t get back to Hundredfield too quickly, that’s what he thinks.
But he looks at Jesse from time to time. If she is asleep, it’s bad dreams she’s having. Her face is clenched tight.
Mack tries to imagine himself into her mind, into what she’s just experienced. Is it possible to feel, really feel, someone else’s anguish? He would have said no, once. Now he just wants to see her smile again.
“Stop. Please stop.”
Rattled, Mack almost swerves off the road but does as he’s asked, steering his old MG onto the shoulder and cutting the engine. They sit in the ticking silence. Woods crowd close, and the deep canopy of summer dims the light to green shot through with gold.
Jesse asks politely, “Do you mind if I get out?”
“No. Of course.” He goes to open his door; he’ll sprint around and open hers.
But the girl climbs out by herself. “I won’t be long.”
“Really, you’re fine.” Mack leans across to pull her door closed. “We’re not far from Hundredfield now.”
Sometimes Mack wishes he hadn’t given up smoking. Usually he has a big man’s confidence around girls, but Jesse’s different, so different she might actually be crazy. Her behavior in Jedburgh . . . How does he feel about that?
Common sense kicks in. Jesse’s not insane, she’s just shocked and desperately unhappy—with good reason; and that sadness, in its own way, is attractive. Mack’s surprised by his need to comfort her. Not his usual response.
His fingers drum on the steering wheel. He’s feeling anxious. For her. He gets out, looks at his watch. Five minutes yet? He’s pacing, up and back the length of the car, kicking the tires.
What did his mother say about Jesse last night? A bird of passage. Not those words, but that’s what she meant. Mack stops pacing.
He stares at the woods, in the direction Jesse went.
He doesn’t want this girl to go anywhere. And if Helen isn’t pleased, that’s too bad.
Mack stubs that mental cigarette on the ground and sets off to find Jesse Marley. He doesn’t want her to get lost.
There’s water close by. Jesse hears it as she sloshes along a muddy path. Her canvas shoes are starting to leak, but she doesn’t care; she needs time to think. Alone.
She plays the day like a film in her head, seeing it from every angle.
The face of the old nun, her eyes, the way her mouth moved when she said, “Your mother died, Jesse.”
She died. Jesse flinches.
And the car park.
There had been a child, she had heard those desperate sobs, though neither Mack nor the man in the car park had.
Rory will offer explanations, if she ever tells him. She can hear him, hear what he’ll say. Eva’s death makes the child a symbol of her own loss, her own abandonment. Jung would have loved it too. But that wasn’t what happened.
Jesse walks on. Ahead, the trees are less dense and the water rush is louder. It lulls her, softens the grip of anguish. A few steps more and she’s standing on a riverbank. Close up, the roar of the water blocks anything else, even thought; it’s almost a voice.
Jesse stares around. Dragonflies flit and dart, and a waterbird paddles among reeds in an inlet carved out of the bank. It’s strange to find such a large, still pool beside a river in full spate. It’s perfect somehow, the calm water and the trees, the sun glancing and bouncing off the surface of the pond.
What is it about this place?
It feels, it seems—what? Like coming home.
She walks to the edge of the pool and kneels. The breeze dies and the surface settles to a perfect reflection of the sky, but in the green depths, something moves. She leans closer.
The roar of water enters Jesse’s head.
And in that chaos of sound, someone is calling her.
Jesse, here I am.
A woman’s face is beneath the water. The eyes, pale green, pale blue, hold Jesse. Are those jewels? Is this real?
Hair floats and twines—an amber cloud moving like something al
ive.
The woman smiles. She’s deeper, drifting deeper, holding up her hands.
Jesse’s lying on the bank. She’s reaching down, falling down, sliding into the green.
Arms enfold her tenderly, and she rests against the woman’s shoulder as they float together through the green-glass world.
The bottom is a long way below, a long way, but Jesse can see it. And she can see what she has to do.
It’s there among the weeds. She has to pick it up.
“Jesse!”
Her body rocked and buffeted, Jesse opens her mouth to protest.
The woman is gone.
No!
But Mack grasps her hand, an arm clamped around her chest. He churns up, up, as Jesse flails, silver bubbles streaming from her mouth.
Don’t drop it, don’t . . .
Urgency fades.
It’s no longer important to struggle.
There’s no point.
No point at all.
On the bank, Mack clicks to automatic.
No airway obstructions and flip.
Jesse’s on her back.
Air.
Nostrils pinched, his breath in her mouth.
One, two, three, four.
Compress.
Hand heels against her sternum, full weight behind each push.
One, two, three, four.
Nothing.
Same again.
Air. Compress. Air. Compress. Air. Compress.
“Come on!” To himself, to Jesse.
Pale as old spaghetti, just as limp, Jesse opens her eyes. Her face is defenseless, newborn.
Mack sits panting. It’s ridiculous and shocking but he’s laughing, shaking his head as he reaches for her hand.
“Welcome back.”
Jesse can nod, that’s all.
His jacket lies on the grass, and he covers as much of her body as he can. “There’s a rug in the car.”
From somewhere, he finds the will to stand and then to run.
And return.
Kneeling beside Jesse, when she stares at him, it’s as if Mack’s never been seen, never been looked at, before this moment. And in her face such loss, such confusion, he wants to cry.
“Got two. Come on. That’s it.” Mack’s babbling, helps her to sit up, pulls the picnic rug around her shoulders, and dumps the smelly, old dog-rug on top.
She says faintly, “Wet Labrador. Lovely.”
Jesse’s hair is all over her face. Mack drags it out of her eyes.
“Second time today, Mack. Careful.” She can hardly speak for shaking.
“What?”
“You’re holding me up again.”
“I’ll carry you.”
“You’ll do your back in.” Not much of a joke.
“I don’t think so. Good practice. Training starts soon.” Mack’s making conversation as he puts an arm under Jesse’s knees and slings the other around her back.
The muscles remember when he scoops her up—all these years of rugby—and he starts the walk to the car; it’s easier than he thought.
He hitches her higher, finds a rhythm, as Jesse leans into his shoulder.
The sound of the river recedes and all he hears is her breath. And his.
Jesse slowly closes her eyes. She’s cold and she wants to curl up and never wake again. But something’s digging into her chest and she remembers—and is glad. She still has it. It’s wedged inside the sling. . . .
38
THE ESTATE office is a mess. Alicia knows it is, but she’s not about to start tidying now—she’d be at it for days and days. And, she absolutely does not want to breathe in all those mold spores and dust. She’s got enough problems.
It’s impossible not to replay that moment. Rory’s shock when she put her hands on his face. His expression. The gentle way he took her hands away and—
Stop!
Alicia will not let herself go there. She might feel sick, and she might feel like crying, but she cannot avoid what must be done right here, right now.
She slumps into a chair. Leather-bound account books stare at her—one for each month of the year, for every year—and they’re all around the walls, neatly labeled in a number of different hands. From where she’s sitting at her father’s old desk, she can see the accounts from more than a hundred years.
Too much information! And the problem is, she knows it’s all useless. She’s been through this lot too many times.
But you might have missed something.
Alicia pulls the pile from the last five years closer.
Go on! She opens the ledger for the previous year. Flipping through the pages, her hand touches the word December. The month before her father died.
Here it is, all neatly written down.
The debits (too many), the credits (too few), the bottom line.
The bottom line. Disastrous.
Alicia sits back. She knows this story so well, all the mistakes her father made. Leasing the land and trying to keep up with repairs from the money that came in; not enough, never nearly enough.
She closes the ledger with a snap, gets up, goes looking.
That’s where she put it. Alicia picks up a brochure and folds it out. She remembers why she hid it. She’d been so horrified she’d actually rung—actually had a conversation with the National Trust about gifting Hundredfield—that she’d put it “away” so she wouldn’t have to see it again.
But there it is, wedged into one of the bookshelves between Husbandry for the Practical Farmer and the classic Herbal Handbook for Farm and Stable.
A car’s crossing the bridge as she picks up the phone. It’s Mack; Alicia knows the sound of the old MG. That must mean Jesse’s coming back. Is that a good thing?
“Hello? . . . Thank you. Lady Alicia Donne here.” She so rarely uses her title, but it’s useful sometimes. “Yes, I’d like to speak to”—she peers at the brochure—“Dr. Elizabeth Humboldt, if I can? She might remember me. We spoke a few weeks ago and she sent me some information. . . . Yes, I’ll wait.”
Unseeing, Alicia stares out the window. It’s a beautiful day now. The rain’s held off at least.
“Dr. Humboldt, hello. . . . Yes, Alicia Donne. You do remember? . . . Excellent.” Alicia sits down at the desk, spreads out the brochure. “Sorry not to have been in touch, things got busy. . . . Yes. You know how it is.”
“What were you thinking?” Rory, furious, skewers Mack with a glance.
Mack’s walking Jesse slowly into the great hall. Their clothes drip on the tiles. She’s shivering. He says quietly, “This was all I had.” He pulls the rug more tightly around Jesse. He’s slung his jacket over her shoulders as well.
“Look at her. Jesus!” Rory hurries to a ground-floor bathroom.
“It’s okay, Jesse. You’ll be warm soon.”
The girl sits gratefully with Mack’s help. Unselfconsciously she leans into his shoulder and closes her eyes. She’s so tired. Just wants to sleep.
Rory’s back. He’s got a bundle of towels, throws a couple to Mack. “I’ll put these around you, Jesse, then we’ll get you into a hot bath.”
She nods, white-faced.
Rory strips off the jacket and the sodden rug. He hesitates. “What happened?”
Holding the girl, Mack just shakes his head. “Later.”
“What do you mean, later?”
“Just what I said.” Mack’s tone is even.
Alicia’s head appears around the estate-office door. Her eyes widen.
Rory takes control. “Can you run a bath for Jesse, please? A hot one?”
“Of course.” Alicia hurries to the great staircase. “Bring her up.” Her eyes are red. The others don’t notice.
One on either side, the brothers help Jesse stand. Mack says gently, “Take your time. Absolutely no hurry at all.”
Rory picks up on the tenderness. His expression changes. “That’s right, Jesse. One foot after the other, that’s all you need to do.”
When they get Jess
e upstairs, Mack can’t help staring at Alicia. “What happened to you?”
Alicia ducks her head. “Bring Jesse into the bathroom, please. I’ll take it from there.”
“Are you sure? I can help.”
“I’m certain, Mack.” It takes real effort, but Alicia’s back to cool as she shuts them outside.
Rory calls out, “Jesse should have some hot sweet tea. I’ll bring it up.”
The room has filled with steam when Alicia turns off the taps. “Let’s get you in. Why don’t I help with your clothes?”
Jesse’s sitting on a stool beside the bath. Her expression is drained, her eyes blank. “I’m so sorry, Alicia. That’s all I ever seem to say.”
Alicia strips off the towels. “Top next. Left arm first.”
Like a child, Jesse does as she’s told as Alicia pulls the sleeve down and extracts her arm. “Sling side next.”
Jesse’s too tired to express an opinion. All of this feels like some complicated dream. Another one.
“Here we go.” But the busy hands stop.
Jesse remembers what’s next to her chest inside the sling.
Water spurts into the kettle from the tap. “What was Jesse like before the accident?” Rory takes it to the Aga. His face is drawn.
Mack says nothing. He’s wearing a pair of Rory’s jeans and a shirt. The shirt, in particular, strains across the chest and shoulders.
“Mack, we have to talk. I’m trying to find out if Jesse tried to kill herself.”
Mack opens his mouth. And closes it again. “I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
Mack flares. “She was upset.” Folding his arms, he leans back on the sink.
Rory get mugs from the cabinet. “After you went to Jedburgh?”
A reluctant nod.
“What caused that?”
“You should ask Jesse.” Mack’s mouth is clamped in a stubborn line.
Wild Wood Page 30
