‘It was something you said, Charlie,’ Frank explained, after Lotti had hugged him and Ben had shaken his hand and Sam and Henri and Clara had been introduced. ‘After I saw my brother’s grave, I got thinking. See, Jack always wanted a dog. And I thought about payment. I never did feel quite right about our deal. So I came looking for you and –’ he rummaged in the inside pocket of his jacket – ‘I thought I’d give this back and ask if I couldn’t have one of them puppies instead.’
And into Lotti’s hand he dropped the ring that had been in Théophile’s family since before the Revolution …
*
Albert Skinner missed the arrivals of Lotti and Henri and Frank for the most prosaic of reasons. He been watching out for the Sparrowhawk all day without moving, and he was absolutely bursting for the bathroom. He returned to his window just in time to see Lotti fling her arms round Frank.
Albert should have run, gone charging out of the hotel to snatch Lotti, waving an arrest warrant. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t take his eyes of the young man with the scarred face and tattered clothes standing with his hand on Ben’s shoulder, looking considerably older than twenty but alive, more than alive, actually smiling …
Was this Sam Langton?
And could his own boy, his son, one day smile like that again?
A motorbike revved, breaking the spell. Albert’s eyes flicked towards it and he swore softly. The driver in his helmet was almost unrecognisable, but there was no mistaking the eyepatch. So Captain de Beauchesne was part of this too, was he? Albert chastised himself, realising how the captain had fooled him in Paris. But now Lotti was climbing on to the back of the motorbike, and Albert shook himself.
He had come to France to do a job. He had disliked Hubert Netherbury since their first encounter, when Lotti’s uncle had ordered him to fetch Federico, and his dislike had grown with each of their subsequent exchanges. But his job wasn’t to like people, it was to uphold the law, which in this case meant ensuring the safety of an absconded minor.
Albert ran out of the hotel, past Sam, Ben and Clara, who looked aghast, and into the road where he hailed a passing cab and managed despite terrible French to instruct the driver to follow the motorbike.
He was in luck. Henri, with Lotti riding behind him, drove carefully. Albert’s driver, promised an extra tip for speed, did not. The cab screeched up outside the clifftop house just as Lotti climbed off the back of the motorbike. Thrusting a handful of notes at his driver, Albert jumped out of the cab.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
For a brief moment, before Lotti noticed him, Albert had a clear view of Lotti’s face, and what he read on it took his breath away.
Fear, certainly, or at least apprehension, but also … hope.
Fierce, burning, furious hope.
Then she saw him, and hope vanished, replaced by fear.
Henri turned, glowered and stepped forward to protect Lotti, but Albert made no move towards her.
Instead, Albert stared.
Albert stared, and Albert stared, and Albert stared.
Puzzled, Lotti stepped away from the motorbike, and began to walk towards the house. She reached the porch, then stopped and turned to see if he was following.
Albert continued to stare.
Lotti squared her shoulders. Once again, she reached for the lion’s head, and knocked. Once again, the housekeeper opened the door. For a moment, it looked like she would close it again. But then Lotti held out the ring …
The housekeeper scowled, but she took the ring and went back into the house, closing the door firmly behind her. Lotti waited, her heart in her mouth. At the gate of the villa, Henri and Albert stood side by side now watching.
The door opened and a tiny, silver-haired woman in her late sixties came out. There was a cry – Albert knew that he would never forget that cry.
The cry was surprise and disbelief and longing and joy and grief all rolled into one, but most of all it was love.
The silver-haired woman opened her arms, and Lotti fell into them.
Albert Skinner, with a nod to Henri de Beauchesne, walked away. Back down the hill he went, all the way to his hotel, where he checked out before boarding the next train to Paris, and then the boat train to England and his son.
‘Dangerous,’ Hubert Netherbury had written about Lotti’s grandmother in his last telegram, but now that he had seen Camille St Rémy, Albert didn’t believe it for a minute.
Lotti’s grandmother cherished Lotti in a way Hubert Netherbury never could.
And if there was one thing the war had taught Albert, it was that children were to be cherished.
*
‘He lied to both of us.’
Camille St Rémy and Lotti sat in the back garden on a little terrace under a vine-covered gazebo, holding hands on a wicker sofa Lotti remembered well from scores of summer afternoon naps as a little child. A tray laden with tea and cakes lay before them, brought by the slightly shamefaced housekeeper and untouched because neither grandmother not granddaughter could bear to let go of each other.
‘I wrote and wrote,’ Camille said. ‘All of that first year, every week like I promised, even though you didn’t answer. I thought perhaps you were too little, that I shouldn’t expect a reply, but eventually I wrote to your uncle to ask if anything was wrong, if you were all right. He replied asking me to stop writing to you. He said my letters reminded you too much of your parents, that you had told him you wanted to forget them, to forget me … He said they upset you too much, that you cried uncontrollably when you read them …’
‘But I never did receive them!’ Lotti cried. ‘I wrote to you every week as well. When your letters stopped, I couldn’t understand it. I thought you must not love me any more. He said you didn’t love me any more!’
‘As if I could stop loving you!’ said Moune. ‘Oh, I should have known it wasn’t true, I should have trusted you, but he was so forceful, so adamant …’
‘He must have stopped forwarding your letters to me when I went to school,’ said Lotti, thinking. ‘And at school, the housemistresses read all our letters. He must have ordered them to stop my letters to you. But why?’
Camille sighed. ‘I think I know.’
And then she told Lotti something Lotti had never known – that in their will, Théophile and Isobel had made it clear that should the arrangement with the Netherburys prove unsatisfactory, Camille St Rémy should be given full guardianship of her granddaughter, and take over responsibility for Barton Lacey.
‘But why couldn’t I just live with you in the first place?’ asked Lotti. ‘I would have much preferred that.’
‘Your parents thought it would be better for you to have a younger guardian,’ Camille explained. ‘And also that you would prefer to stay at home in England. Of course, they never imagined that any of this would be necessary … As to your uncle, it was better for him if you and I were separated. He sent you away to have Barton all to himself, then made sure you and I never spoke so I never learned of his cruelty to you. My poor darling, were you really away from home for so long?’
‘Four and a half years.’ Lotti rubbed her cheek, then in a small voice asked, ‘Moune, you won’t send me back, will you? I can come and live with you?’
Her grandmother hugged her very close.
‘I will never send you away,’ she whispered. ‘I promise with all my heart. But now, Lotti, chérie, I need you to explain. How did you come to be here, alone, with this extraordinary haircut and these strange dirty clothes and your papa’s ring? What has been going on?’
Lotti grinned.
‘If I tell, you won’t believe me,’ she said. ‘But first, Moune, there are quite a lot of people I need to introduce you to …’
*
Hubert Netherbury arrived in Armande as expected, late in the afternoon. Furious to discover that Albert had already left town, he ordered his hotel concierge to fetch him a cab and went straight up to the house on the cliff, still bent on preventing a reuni
on between Lotti and her grandmother.
Hearing voices from the back of the house, he walked a little further along the road to peer through the hedge.
In the garden, a party was taking place. Sitting on the sofa under the gazebo, he saw Camille St Rémy, older than when he last saw her at his sister’s funeral but just as formidable, sitting with … Hubert did a double take … Lotti’s tutor from Great Barton.
Both women were looking very serious. Hubert wondered uncomfortably if they were talking about him.
He looked beyond them to the lawn, where a rowdy game of boules was taking place, led by a dishevelled but splendid-looking man with an eyepatch, and at the heart of the game, dressed disgracefully and with an outrageous new haircut, he saw his niece.
There might be time yet, thought Hubert uncertainly, to get her back. With enough confidence, he could march into the garden and order her away. He was still Lotti’s legal guardian, after all …
From the other side of the hedge, he heard a nasty growl. Looking down, he recognised the horrible little dog he had ordered to be shot at Barton Lacey.
‘Shh!’ Hubert hissed. ‘Go! Go away!’
But Federico did not shush, and he did not go away. Instead he began to bark. At the sound, Lotti looked up. Seeing her uncle, she paled. Ben, noticing, came to stand beside her.
‘We can thump him if you like,’ he whispered. ‘There’s enough of us.’
But Lotti shook her head. Then, raising her chin, she looked her uncle directly in the eyes.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ve already won.’
EPILOGUE: BEN AND LOTTI
The party went on late into the evening. Cake and tea gave way to champagne and sandwiches, and now the housekeeper, whose name was Janine, was rifling through the kitchen cupboards with Henri and Clara, looking for something for supper, Frank was asleep on the lawn, and Sam and Moune were playing with the puppies. Lotti and Ben slipped through the hedge with Federico on to the cliff, where they picked up a path leading through trees to a ledge looking out over the river.
‘Papa’s secret place from when he was a little boy,’ Lotti said. ‘We used to come here to watch the sunset. It’s so strange to be back without him. Don’t look down, you’ll get vertigo.’
‘After all we’ve done, I think I can cope with a bit of vertigo,’ Ben scoffed, but he pressed his back against the cliff face because the drop down to the river was very high and steep.
They sat for a while in companionable silence, watching the boats on the river below, while Federico explored the clifftop.
‘What a long way we’ve come,’ said Lotti at last. ‘The canal, the Thames, the Channel …’
‘… the convent, the hospital, the river …’
‘Did you see, Ben, earlier, the captain and Clara holding hands?’
‘I did,’ said Ben. ‘And I’m glad.’
‘And how Janine went all soft when she saw the puppies, and how Frank drank too much champagne …’
‘Is that why he’s asleep?’ grinned Ben.
‘… and how Federico and Moune absolutely adore each other? Darling Federico, with a proper home at last.’
They were silent again, but now the silence was different, because their whole lives had changed and they hadn’t talked about it yet.
‘Poor Sparrowhawk,’ said Ben.
‘Will you get her back?’ asked Lotti. ‘Is that even possible?’
‘Sam is going to talk to the river authorities tomorrow,’ said Ben. ‘But it’s unlikely, and even if we do, she won’t survive another Channel crossing. We have to go back to England though. Sam’s not actually discharged from his regiment yet, and he says there’s paperwork, and then he has to get a job, and I have to go to school and we have to find somewhere to live, but I don’t want to go.’
‘I have to go to school too,’ sighed Lotti. ‘Though it probably won’t be so bad, if I can come home every day. Ben!’
‘It’s not goodbye,’ said Ben firmly. ‘I won’t let it be. I’ll run away again if I have to!’
‘No, Ben, listen! I’ve had such a good idea. If Moune is right and she can become my guardian and Uncle Hubert moves out of Barton Lacey, you can live there with Sam, and Zachy!’
‘Me and Sam, at Barton Lacey?’ Ben began to laugh. ‘That’s mad. Your grandmother wouldn’t let us!’
‘Why shouldn’t she?’ demanded Lotti. ‘She loves you. And anyway it’s my house.’
‘Your uncle might not agree to any of this.’
‘We’ll make it happen,’ said Lotti. ‘You and me, we’ve done it before. We’ll never really say goodbye, even if we live in different countries. And meanwhile, Ben, listen. There’s a whole summer before school starts, and Moune says you can stay here as long as you want. And, look …’
‘Where?’
‘Can you lean over, just a bit? Do you see that building, down below?’ She pointed to a low wooden riverside structure. ‘That’s a boathouse. And in the boathouse there’s my father’s old boat, the one I told you about the first time we met. It’s just a rowing boat, nothing fancy like the Sparrowhawk, but Moune says with a bit of work it will be absolutely fine to take out. She even thinks we could have an engine fitted. Frank could help us with that, while he waits for his puppy to be old enough to take back to England. Moune says, if we want it, it’s ours. What do you think, Ben? You know, if we keep going west, we could reach the sea. There are marshes there like on the Thames, and huge beaches, and at the right time of year, there are seals …’
Ben listened, his head touching Lotti’s as she talked on, sketching out her plans.
Living at Barton Lacey! Summer holidays in France! Seals, and going west all the way to the sea!
It was mad. It was preposterous!
It was … irresistible.
Far below, the evening sun lit up the water.
CHAPTER ONE
Goodbye, Cherry Grange!
Imagine a house, in a garden.
The paint is flaking and the chimney is cracked and the uncut grass is wild. But ignore all that. Look here instead, at the giant wisteria with a trunk as thick as your arm, its purple flowers dripping against the old stone wall. Look at the swing hanging from that ancient oak, those cherry trees planted in a circle around the house. One of the trees is so close to a window that in summer, when it fruits, the girl who lives here can reach out to pick the cherries.
Imagine that – picking cherries from your bedroom window!
The house, Cherry Grange, was named for the trees. A man called Albert Mistlethwaite built it over a hundred years ago when he came home from a war, and his family have lived here ever since.
That’s a lot of cherries, and pies, and cakes, and pots of jam …
We’ll go inside now. Do you see those pale rectangles on the hall floor, those other pale rectangles on the walls? They were made by rugs and pictures, but those have gone now, along with all the furniture. There’s nothing left but dust and sunlight.
Let’s move on! Here is the kitchen – and here is the family, finishing breakfast. Small, pale eleven-year-old Alice sits cross-legged on the counter with her nose in a book, chewing the end of one of her stiff dark braids. Her father Barney (you may have seen him once on television) stands drinking coffee by the window with his back to the room, while his older sister Patience, in paint-spattered dungarees, dries crockery at the sink.
The last of the Mistlethwaites, in their natural habitat. Take a good look – you’ll not see this again. For today the house is sold and they are moving out.
Shh! Listen!
Something is about to happen.
*
A blood-curdling screech broke the silence in the kitchen, followed by a series of thumps. Barney turned away from the window.
‘The house,’ he observed, ‘is crying.’
‘It’s just the wind in the chimney.’ Patience finished drying and began to stack crockery into a plastic crate. ‘It doesn’t help
being all dramatic about it. And hurry up with that mug.’
A juddering moan – the water pipes – succeeded the thumps.
‘Revenge of Cherry Grange,’ rasped Barney in a loud stage whisper. ‘That’s what it would be called if it were a film. The Curse of the Mistlethwaites. The Haunting of the Brown-Watsons.’
The Brown-Watsons were the happy, bouncy family of six people and two Labradors who had bought Cherry Grange. All the Mistlethwaites loathed them, even Patience, who actually wanted to sell the house.
‘Barney, your mug!’ she snapped now.
‘All right, all right!’ Barney drank the coffee and handed her the mug. ‘But just so you know, Alice has already written a story about the Brown-Watsons, and they all die except the dogs. It’d make a cracking film, wouldn’t it, Alicat?’
Alice looked up from her book and blinked. ‘What?’
‘We’re talking about your story,’ said Barney. ‘And ghosts.’
Patience shoved the crate at him. ‘Go and put this in the car,’ she said, then, ‘Alice, where are you going?’
Alice, at the mention of ghosts, had turned even paler and slid off the kitchen counter. Now, like scores of Mistlethwaites before her, she was opening the garden door with a practised kick.
‘Mum,’ she said.
‘Your mum? What? Alice! Breakfast!’
But Alice was already gone.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Natasha Farrant lives in London with her family and a large tortoiseshell cat. She has written numerous books for children including the Bluebell Gadsby series. She has been shortlisted for the Queen of Teen Award and longlisted for the Guardian Children’s Prize. Natasha is also the author of the Carnegie-longlisted and Branford Boase-shortlisted YA historical novel The Things We Did For Love, Carnegie-nominated Lydia and runaway bestseller The Children of Castle Rock. She would love to live on a boat.
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