And later, as I wriggled my feet to find a warm spot between the freezing sheets, I realised that tonight, with my mother there beside me, I’d finally felt that I belonged.
‘Jesus Christ!’ my mother said as she entered the kitchen the following morning, where I was already stationed at the range, making breakfast. ‘I have a hell of a hangover. I’d forgotten how the English drink,’ she said as she walked towards me and gave me a spontaneous hug. ‘Something smells good,’ she commented, looking down at the sausages I was frying for Rory, who had snuck off to watch Harry Potter – his new favourite DVD – while nobody said he couldn’t.
‘You’re an amazing cook, Star, really. Just like your great-granny Tessie was. I still dream about her homemade chips.’
‘I make those too,’ I said.
‘Well, I’d love to try them one day,’ she said, her eyes wandering to the cafetière. ‘Can I take some coffee?’
‘Help yourself.’
‘Thanks. You know, Marguerite and I stayed up after all of you had gone to bed. We spent most of the time trying to work out what we were to each other. We got as far as half-second-cousins, but who knows? And who cares?! Boy, that girl can drink the shoes off a sailor.’ She sat down at the table and, despite her professed hangover, looked elegant in a pair of jeans and a cashmere jumper. ‘She was telling me how she’s fallen for the owner of the chateau where she’s painting her murals in France. And that she’s sick of High Weald and trying to keep it going. I got the feeling she’d like to move.’
‘Where to?’
‘Why, France, of course!’
‘What about Rory? He’d have to learn French sign language, and it’s so very different from the British version . . .’
‘I really don’t know, Star, but maybe she’ll talk to you about it. You know, by coming here, I’ve realised how normal I am. And what a simple life I lead, compared to my newly discovered English cousins.’
‘When do you leave for the States?’
‘I take the night flight later today. So if it’s okay with you, can we spend the time I have left together?’
‘I’d like that,’ I said.
After I’d served up breakfast and washed the dishes, we entrusted Rory with showing us around the gardens. He cycled along the hard, frosted pathways ahead of us, signing ‘slow coach’ to me if we lagged too far behind.
‘He’s a cute little boy, that one. And bright,’ my mother commented. ‘Not to mention very fond of you.’
‘I love him too. He’s so positive.’
‘He is. God bless him, I only hope life treats him kindly in the future.’
‘He has his family around him to protect him.’
‘Yes, he does. For now, at least,’ my mother added with a sad smile.
Later that afternoon, I asked Marguerite for the loan of her Fiat and drove my mother into Tenterden, where Orlando – who looked hungover too – was stacking books onto shelves.
‘Ah! The ladies of leisure deign to visit me in my humble abode. Welcome, Professor Gray. Perhaps I can now say a Yale professor of literature is my first customer? Now, I must first show you my wonderful first edition of Anna Karenina.’
‘Orlando, I told you last night, please call me “Sylvia”.’
As Orlando and my mother indulged their shared passion, I took over the shelf stacking, feeling rather like Rory as I struggled to understand what they were talking about.
‘Of course, the expert on early twentieth-century English literature is Star here.’ Orlando glanced over at me, sensitive enough to realise that I might be feeling left out. ‘Ask her anything about the Bloomsbury Set – in particular, High Weald’s ex-neighbour, our dear Vita Sackville-West, and her associated lovers. Which is ironic, given Lady Flora Vaughan’s own past.’
‘Star told me vaguely about the connection last night,’ my mother commented.
‘The next time you return to these shores, Miss Sylvia, you must read the journals in full. They are a fascinating glimpse into Edwardian England.’
‘Well, perhaps Star should edit them into a book. I’m sure the whole world would be fascinated by Flora’s story.’
‘I say! Miss Sylvia, that is an excellent idea. What with her in-depth knowledge of the literature of that period, plus her personal connection to Lady Flora, I can think of no one better qualified,’ Orlando agreed, and I felt two pairs of eyes upon me.
‘Maybe in time,’ I said with a shrug.
‘If you do, I’m sure that Yale University Press would be mighty interested in publishing it.’
‘As would a number of commercial publishers here too,’ countered Orlando. ‘The story has all the elements of what one might call a “bodice ripper”, never mind that it’s true!’
My mother glanced at her watch. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to get back to the house – my train to London leaves soon.’
Back at High Weald, my mother came down the stairs with her suitcase.
‘Mouse is giving you a lift to the station,’ I said.
‘Oh Star.’ She took me in her arms and held me tightly. ‘Please keep in touch with me as often as you can manage. Otherwise I might begin to think I dreamt all this. You have all my numbers? And my email?’
‘I do, yes.’
A horn beeped from outside.
‘Right, I’m going to have to say goodbye. But the moment I get home, we’re planning another trip. Either you come to me in Connecticut and meet your half-brothers and sister, or I return here to you, yes?’
‘I’d like that.’
My mother gave me a big hug, then blew me a kiss as she walked out of the door, and I watched her get into the Land Rover beside Mouse. As the car drove off, I felt suddenly bereft without her. This woman seemed to know me so intimately – in a way that nobody else did – whereas I was only just getting to know her.
Later, after Rory had gone to bed, I served up the bubble and squeak I’d knocked together from the leftovers and we ate in comfortable silence, all of us exhausted from the past two days. Orlando excused himself and ambled off to bed, while Mouse went upstairs to take a look at a leak that Marguerite had discovered on her bedroom ceiling.
‘And currently collecting in a saucepan,’ she sighed as she helped clear the table. ‘I’m back off bright and early to France tomorrow morning, by the way. Mouse will give you some cash for any groceries you need while I’m gone.’
‘When will you be back?’
‘Never, if I have my way, but there we are. God, how I hate this house. It’s like caring for an ancient, ailing relative who you know is beyond any help.’ Having dried off a plate, Marguerite reached for her Gitanes, lit one and flopped into a chair. ‘I was saying to Mouse that I really ought to consider selling it. I know it’s meant to go to Rory, but I’m sure there’s some City boy and his aspirational wife who’d love to chuck their millions at a country pad like this. At least Mouse has said he and Orlando will throw some money my way from the proceeds of the bookshop. No less than I deserve under the circumstances,’ she added darkly.
‘Rory’s happy here.’
‘Yes, he is, because it’s become his home. Ironic, really . . .’
Her eyes fled to the window and she sighed heavily, releasing a stream of smoke. ‘Anyway, I’m out of here tomorrow for a while and a lot of that is thanks to you, Star. Seriously, you’ve stabilised the house and its inhabitants. Especially Mouse.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I mumbled.
‘You didn’t know him before your arrival. He’s different, Star, and at least that’s given me hope that things can change in the future. He’s actually making an effort with Rory, which in my eyes is a miracle. And even Orlando has become less detached from the real world since you arrived in his life. I’ve often wondered whether he’s gay, but I’ve never seen him with anyone, male or female. My guess is that he’s asexual. What do you think?’
‘I think he’s in love with his books. And they are all he needs,’ I said, not comfortabl
e with discussing my employer’s sexuality.
‘You know what? I think you’re absolutely spot on.’ Marguerite smiled.
‘Rory will miss you when you’re gone,’ I offered, wanting to return the conversation to safer territory.
‘And I’ll miss him, but the good news is, he’s always been used to new people taking care of him. He had a flood of nannies before I decided it was time to take over. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll leave you to it.’ She stood up and stubbed out her cigarette in the hapless cactus pot. ‘Here’s a tip: it’s wonderful being in love. It lights us all up. Night, Star.’ With that, she blew me a kiss and left me with my hands in the soapsuds, my head spinning.
Once I’d finished clearing up, I wandered along the corridor towards the sitting room with a cup of hot chocolate, feeling I needed some time to catch my breath.
‘Hi.’ Mouse walked in just as I’d sat down.
‘Hi.’
‘I’ll have to call a plumber in tomorrow to look at that leak. Not that he’ll be able to do much. My guess is that it’s the roof.’
‘Oh,’ I said, as I focused my eyes on the flames leaping from the logs on the fire.
‘Mind if I sit down?’
‘No. Can I get you a hot chocolate?’
‘No thanks. I . . . want to talk to you, Star.’
‘What about?’
‘Oh, all sorts of things, really,’ he said as he sat down in the chair opposite me, looking as uncomfortable as I felt. ‘Well,’ he breathed, ‘it’s been quite a ride since you first appeared in the bookshop, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it has.’
‘How are you feeling now about finding your mother?’
‘Fine. Thank you for taking the trouble to go to Cambridge on my behalf.’
‘It was no trouble, really. As a matter of fact, it did me good to go back to a place where I’d been so happy. It was where I met Annie.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I drove up to Cambridge a couple of hours before the lecture, and had a beer at the pub where I’d first spoken to her.’
‘That must have been comforting,’ I ventured.
‘No. It wasn’t actually. It was horrific. I sat there, and all I could hear were her thoughts on my behaviour since her death. And what a selfish and ultimately cruel human being I’d been since she left me. I’ve been wicked, Star, I really have.’
‘You were grieving. That’s not wicked.’
‘It is when it affects everyone else around you. I’ve almost destroyed this family, and I’m not exaggerating,’ Mouse added vehemently. ‘Then later that evening, I met your mother, and saw the love she’d held for you through all these years, even though she’d believed up until a few weeks ago that you were dead. And I imagined Annie, somewhere up there, looking down at me and what I’d done. Or hadn’t done,’ he checked himself. ‘I stood on the bridge by King’s College and almost threw myself into the Cam. I’ve known for a long time the chaos my behaviour has caused, but just like an alcoholic who knows he’s a dirty drunk, then has another drink to make himself feel better, I haven’t known how to put it right.’
‘I understand,’ I said quietly, and I did.
‘That night in Cambridge was seminal,’ he continued. ‘I understood that I had to put my past to rest and say a final goodbye to Annie. And stop wallowing in self-pity. What good was holding on to her memory when it had so negatively affected those still living? And then I drove home with a new determination to try and put things right.’
‘That’s good,’ I encouraged him.
‘And the first port of call is you. On the bridge that night, I admitted to myself that I have . . . feelings for you. Which have confused me – I honestly thought I’d never love again. I’ve been wracked with guilt; having spent the past seven years putting my dead wife on a pedestal, I felt I was somehow betraying her, that the fact I actually felt happy in your company was wrong. And I was – and am,’ he continued, ‘scared shitless. You might have gathered that once I love, it’s all-consuming.’ He gave me a small, wry smile. ‘And, Star, inconveniently, I’m sure, for you, I’ve realised that I do love you. You are beautiful in every way.’
‘I’m not, Mouse, I can assure you,’ I said hurriedly.
‘Well, to me you are, although even I realise you must have your faults, just as Annie did. Listen . . .’ He leant forward to reach for my hands, which I reluctantly gave to him, my heart beating so fast I thought it might burst out of my chest. ‘I have no idea how you feel about me. That calm exterior of yours is impenetrable. I asked Orlando last night, as he seems to be the one who knows you best. He said he thought that my behaviour towards you has been so erratic as I’ve slid between love, then guilt for feeling love, that you were probably as scared as hell of feeling anything, even if you did.’
Mouse, usually so eloquent and sparing with his words, was rushing on. ‘So, I decided that the first thing I should do on the journey to rehabilitation and to hopefully creating a new and better “me” was to man up and tell you. So? Do you think you might? Feel something for me?’
What I felt was that Mouse had an unfair advantage with his bridge epiphany. He’d had time to put his feelings – real or imagined – into some kind of order. Whereas I’d had none.
‘I . . . don’t know.’
‘Well, that was hardly a line from Romeo and Juliet, but at least it’s not an outright “no”. And’ – he pulled his hands away from mine, then stood up and began to pace – ‘before you decide whether you do or you don’t, I have something else to tell you. And it’s so dreadful that even if you do discover you have some feelings for me, it’s bound to finish them off immediately. But I can’t deceive you from the start, Star, and if we’ve got any chance together in the future, you have to know.’
‘What is it?’
‘Right . . .’ Mouse stopped pacing and turned to me. ‘The thing is, Annie was deaf.’
I looked up at him as he willed me to make the connection. I knew it was there, but I couldn’t grasp it.
‘In other words, Rory is our . . . my son.’
‘Oh my God . . .’ I whispered, as everything I hadn’t understood about this family finally fell into place in one stark moment of revelation. I stared into the fireplace as I heard Mouse breathe out and sit down heavily.
‘When she was pregnant, we were both so excited. Then she went for her first scan, and they found she had ovarian cancer. Obviously she couldn’t have any form of treatment, as it could harm the baby, so we were left with a horrific choice: continue with the pregnancy and take the consequences of a delayed course of chemotherapy, or abort, and have treatment immediately. Being the optimist she was, Annie decided on the former, knowing that whether she lived or died, it would be her one chance to have a child. The doctors had told her that everything would need to be removed as soon as she gave birth. Are you following me, Star?’
‘Yes.’
‘Rory was born, and they performed Annie’s operation almost immediately. But by then, the cancer had spread to her lymph glands and her liver. She died a couple of months later.’
I heard his voice break before he continued.
‘The truth is, when her illness was first discovered, I’d begged her to abort the baby and give herself the best possible chance of saving herself. You already know how I adored her. So when she left me, every time I looked at Rory, I didn’t see an innocent baby, but his mother’s murderer. Star, I hated him. Hated him for killing his mother . . . the love of my life. She was everything to me.’
He choked on his words, and it took him time to recover. I sat frozen in my chair, hardly daring to breathe.
‘After that, I don’t really remember very much, but I had some form of breakdown and was hospitalised for a while. That was when Marguerite, bless her, had no choice but to take Rory and have him at High Weald. I eventually came out on endless drugs, and Rory was brought back to me, with a nanny to care for him. I was encouraged to – as my therapist put it
– “bond” with him. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even bear to look at him. Then my father died too and that just about did it. Eventually, after a series of unsuccessful nannies, whom I frightened off with my aggressive behaviour, Marguerite suggested that Rory should come to live at High Weald with her full-time. They’d all given me up as a lost cause. And I was. I let both my architect’s practice and the farm go to rack and ruin. The upshot is, Marguerite has had the burden of taking care of Rory for the past five years, and has been unable to move forward in her own life or career. And Rory himself . . . God, Star, he thinks I’m his uncle! And worst of all, he knows nothing about his own mother! I haven’t let anyone mention Annie to him his entire life! He’s so much like her; she was a talented artist too . . . How can I ever make it up to him?’
There was silence then, as Mouse sat, breathing heavily, with his head in his hands.
‘Well,’ I said eventually, ‘at least you made him brownies the other day.’
He looked up at me then, the agony in his eyes obvious. Then he raised his hands.
‘I did. And thank you,’ he signed perfectly back to me.
44
I told Mouse that I needed to go to sleep. I was exhausted from my own trauma of the past few days, and now his. I lay down on the bed and wrapped the blanket and eiderdown around me like a cocoon, needing to analyse the facts before my heart made a decision.
Although I felt deeply for Mouse and the complexity of the loss he’d endured, I also felt for Orlando, Marguerite and especially Rory. Innocent of all charges. Damned only by being born.
And yet . . . he was a happy, untroubled soul, who engendered love simply by his generous giving of it. He had accepted his unusual circumstances as children did – as I had – without question. And despite his father’s behaviour towards him, there had been others there to cradle him if he fell, as there had been for me.
As for Mouse’s confession about his feelings, I steeled myself not to take them too seriously. He’d had an epiphany, due to returning to Cambridge. And all the years of loneliness and misery had almost certainly collected into a misplaced love for the only single female within reach: me. I’d worked for his brother, put food in his stomach and cared for his son . . .
The Shadow Sister Page 49
