‘It’s another beautiful day,’ says Sarah, moving about Lillian’s bedroom, folding discarded garments and tidying the assorted brushes and combs on the dressing table. ‘Perfect for the show.’
Lillian, threading a gold stud through her earlobe, catches Sarah’s eye in the mirror and shares a smile with her housemaid. ‘Yes, aren’t we lucky?’
‘Not according to Mrs Hill. She’s in a terrible state already, convinced her Battenberg is a disaster. And don’t get me started on the lemon curd drama we had yesterday. It’s this heat, apparently . . . it’s playing havoc with her baking.’ She rolls her eyes.
Lillian smiles. She likes Sarah and her cheerful, chatty demeanour. Charles has complained that she’s a little gauche, a little too familiar with her mistress but, most days, Lillian feels closer to her than anyone else in the house. At least, she thinks, she did, inserting the other stud into her earlobe, until Jack arrived.
Sarah picks up the ashtray from beside the bed before turning to Lillian. ‘Is everything all right, Ma’am? I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look a little peaky.’
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ says Lillian. ‘I didn’t sleep very well last night. It’s the heat.’ She turns back to the mirror, looking for traces of whatever Sarah has seen in her face. If only she knew the real reason for Lillian’s restless night. What would sweet Sarah think of her mistress then?
Sarah nods. ‘It’s none of my business. I was just . . . I was just worrying for you. What with Mr Oberon still away, it must get lonely.’
Lillian studies Sarah in the mirror as she continues to tidy her garments. Could she know about Jack? There is no way. They have been so careful. Sarah finishes her duties by straightening the bed covers. ‘You’ll be glad when he’s back.’
‘Yes. Just a few more days,’ she says, careful to keep her voice even.
‘We’ll miss him in the tug-o-war today though. Mr Oberon’s always on the winning team.’
‘That’s very true.’
‘My Stan is running the raffle,’ she adds, eagerly. ‘Will you drop by and say hello?’
‘Of course. I’d like to meet the man lucky enough to be stepping out with you, Sarah.’
Sarah blushes and gives a funny little curtsey before backing out of the room.
Lillian steps into the yellow cotton dress Sarah has laid out for her, then turns back to the mirror and scrutinises her reflection, wondering what people will see when they look at her today. She must wear some outward traces of her internal state – tired, yes, but somehow full of a pulsing energy too; as if aware of every tiny vibration in the atmosphere, alert with impossible aliveness. She brushes her hair, then takes up her straw hat and gloves.
Normally, she would dread these village functions, feeling like one of Charles’s baubles paraded for display; but today she can’t deny there is a part of her that is thrilled. Any opportunity to see Jack, even if it is in public where they will have to maintain a careful reserve, is welcome. Lillian has sat on enough village committees and boards to know that there is nothing a small English village likes more than the tantalising scent of a scandal.
Three large white tents stand proudly on the village green in horse-shoe formation, between which the rest of the fete stalls have been set up. Patriotic red, white and blue bunting flutters in the breeze welcoming a steady stream of villagers decked out in their Sunday best. The road is already clogged with cars. Bentham guides their vehicle once around the green then pulls up outside the Old Swan. ‘It might be best, Ma’am, if I drop you here,’ he says. ‘I’ll park in the field and wait for you.’
‘Thank you,’ says Lillian. ‘But please don’t wait for us. Come and enjoy the fete. I’m sure we’ll find you if we need you.’
Bentham nods. ‘As you wish.’ He opens Lillian’s door as Albie scrambles from the backseat, a scroll of paper tucked carefully under one arm.
Lillian straightens her straw hat, then tucks her arm companionably into Albie’s. ‘So,’ she says, turning to survey the bustling village green, ‘I’m needed in the exhibition tent but afterwards we can have some fun. Are you sure you won’t show me your entry?’ she asks, eyeing the rolled-up scroll in his arms. ‘A little peek?’
‘No, you have to wait.’
She smiles. Since Albie announced his decision to enter in the eight-to-ten-year-olds group of the portrait competition, he’s been very cagey. She assumes it’s down to Jack Fincher having been invited to be guest judge this year, or perhaps he’s taken a leaf out of the artist’s book and decided to keep his work hidden until the grand unveiling. Either way, she’s pleased that he’s decided to involve himself with the show this year. ‘Do you have enough pocket money?’ Albie nods and jingles the change in his trouser pocket. ‘Don’t spend it all on spun sugar and toffee apples; you know how you made yourself sick that time.’
‘That was two years ago,’ he says, rolling his eyes at her. ‘I’m not a little boy anymore.’
‘Of course you’re not,’ she says, squeezing his arm. ‘In that case, I suggest you stay away from the beer tent.’
He is still grinning as they cross the road and venture on past a couple of unsuspecting Shetland ponies tethered to a tree stump, waiting to carry boisterous children back and forth across the green for sixpence a turn. A man in a striped apron is setting up his lucky-prize barrel while nearer the tea tent, players from a local brass band adjust their jackets and arrange sheet music on stands. ‘Well, this is me,’ she says. ‘Good luck.’
They part outside the exhibition tent, Albie slipping away to submit his painting, Lillian heading inside to join her fellow judges. ‘Here she is,’ exclaims Mrs Palfreyman, chair of the flower-show committee, pointedly checking her watch, an icy edge lurking at the corners of her smile. ‘I was just suggesting we start with the savoury produce, then move on to jams and chutneys and finish with the cakes and biscuits. Are we all in agreement? Very good,’ she nods, and makes for the table laden with pies and tarts before any of them can reply. Major Bramfield, Mrs Bingle and Lillian share rueful smiles and fall in obediently behind their self-appointed leader.
‘At least we’ll get a decent spread this year,’ says the major, ‘now rationing’s finally over.’
Lillian sees Mrs Bingle glance at the straining buttons on the major’s linen jacket and knows she is wondering exactly how much rationing he might have suffered over the last few years.
It is slow going and Mrs Palfreyman, a stickler for the rules, does not miss a single opportunity to display her impressive knowledge of home baking, insisting on debating everything from the appropriate thickness of the peel in the marmalade to the ideal quantity of dried fruit in the rock cakes. Lillian is happy to bow to her superior knowledge but the usually agreeable Mrs Bingle proves to be an eloquent and opinionated sparring partner. Lillian, beginning to feel increasingly warm and lightheaded in the airless tent, fans herself with the show programme and takes a backseat with the major, though she is pleased to note that Mrs Hill secures a unanimous first-prize placing for her lemon curd, and a highly commended ribbon for her Battenberg.
Just as Lillian is beginning to think she’d be happy never to see another cake in her life, Joan sidles up to her, looking fetching in a blue tea dress. ‘Hello, darling. Enjoying your power as our resident Mrs Beeton?’ She scans the array of entries and prizes. ‘Tsk tsk,’ she tuts, ‘poor Mrs Lacey. She’ll be positively crushed. Only third prize for her coffee and walnut cake?’
‘I shouldn’t be too much longer,’ she whispers. ‘Assuming Mrs Palfreyman and Mrs Bingle can ever agree on the appropriate spread of jam in a Victoria sponge cake.’
Joan grins. ‘Hang in there, old girl. I’ve seen just the thing for a little fun.’
‘Mrs Oberon,’ calls Mrs Palfreyman, pointedly.
‘Sorry,’ says Lillian, rolling her eyes discreetly at Joan. ‘Coming.’
Lillian traipses back to her post and finishes off the judging by awarding the last ribbon to a wonderful treacle flapjack. Then, at last, she is back at Joan’s side and making for the bright square at the far end of the tent. They pass trestle tables loaded with groupings of green beans, carrots and potatoes. Joan points out a large, inappropriately shaped marrow with a snort and Lillian has to hide her smile as she swats her with the show programme. ‘You are incorrigible.’
‘Come with me,’ says Joan, ignoring her. ‘I’ve had the most splendid idea.’
Outside, they weave their way through the crowd, past a group of enthusiastic Morris dancers clashing sticks and waving hankies with impressive effort for such a hot day. ‘Keep it up, boys,’ yells Joan, storming by. The heady scent of spun sugar, sawdust, warm trampled grass and anticipation hangs in the air. ‘Where are we going?’ asks Lillian, but Joan doesn’t answer, marching on until they are standing in front of a small, jewel-coloured caravan sheltering in the shade of a tree at the edge of the green.
‘Palm reading,’ she says, turning to Lillian with a wicked glint in her eye. ‘I thought it would be a bit of a hoot.’
Before Lillian can protest, Joan has already disappeared through the beaded curtain covering the entrance to the caravan, the emerald-coloured glass clinking behind her. There is nothing for it but to follow.
The caravan interior is small and cramped and a heavy scent, something like cedarwood and cinnamon, hangs in the air. A young, curly-haired woman with green eyes and an armful of silver bangles sits behind a card table. ‘It’s two shillings a reading,’ she says. Joan slips eagerly into the empty seat opposite the fortune-teller, placing her money on the table. ‘For both of us,’ she says pointedly, ‘so you can’t chicken out,’ she adds, turning back to Lillian.
The young woman slides the coins into her dress, then takes Joan’s palm in her own hand and studies it silently.
‘You have a long life line,’ the woman says. ‘Strongly governed by your heart. Lucky in love and money.’
Joan smiles. ‘What every girl wants to hear.’
‘There are two men in your life.’
Joan nods. ‘That’ll be Gerald and Georgie.’
‘And I see a girl, too . . . with blue eyes, like her mother.’
Joan smiles. ‘I’d like another child.’
Lillian looks around the interior of the caravan, noting the colourful fabric draped from the ceiling to create a tent-like atmosphere, the small bed in the corner, the smoking incense burning over the hearth. She wishes she were outside, sitting under a tree.
‘There will be a choice to make soon,’ the fortune-teller continues. ‘I see travel in your future. Perhaps with your husband’s job?’
Joan nods eagerly. ‘Yes, yes, we’ve talked about it.’
‘Your heart line is very deep. It dominates. Your marriage is strong but you need to learn to control your temper. It’s a good hand. You’ll live a long and fruitful life.’
Joan beams up at Lillian and she smiles back, thinking what a waste of money it all is.
‘Your turn,’ says Joan, vacating the chair for Lillian.
Lillian settles at the table and holds out her hand. The young woman takes it in her own, her touch surprisingly soft. She stares intently down at Lillian’s palm, then frowns and clears her throat. ‘You have experienced great sadness. You’ve lost something very precious. You feel it, deeply.’
Lillian swallows hard but doesn’t move. She doesn’t want to sway the woman’s reading with her own reactions. It’s all a load of rubbish, she knows; a clever mix of body language and mumbo-jumbo.
‘Someone has come into your life,’ she continues. ‘Someone important. They have something to teach you. You must listen to them, but ultimately you must find your own way.’
Lillian can’t help but think of Jack. Does he have something to teach her?
‘You are strong.’ The woman looks up at Lillian, her almond eyes staring into Lillian’s, a soft smile on her face. ‘Stronger than you know. This is good. You will need to be strong for what is coming.’
Lillian blinks and then averts her gaze slightly to the left of the woman, settling on the small painting of a white horse hanging on the wall behind. ‘There is a branch here,’ the woman adds, stroking a line on her palm, sending a tingling sensation through Lillian’s arm. ‘It indicates change. A moment, or perhaps an event. But I can see something else. It’s a warning. You need to take care.’
The woman’s bangles jangle on her arm as she grips Lillian’s hand a little tighter. Lillian feels strange, a little giddy, her head swimming with the close atmosphere and cloying scent of the incense as the fortune-teller leans in and lowers her voice. ‘I see danger.’
Lillian shudders, but she lifts her gaze to meet the fortune-teller’s clear green eyes. The young woman leans in closer still, her voice no more than a whisper. ‘Be very careful. Someone is watching.’
Lillian snatches her hand away, as if scalded. ‘Sorry. I . . . I think I need some fresh air.’ She pushes her way out of the airless caravan, through the clinking beaded curtain and bursts, blinking, back out into the bright daylight. Joan joins her a moment later. ‘What a fraud,’ she snorts. ‘She can’t have been more than sixteen years old.’
Lillian nods and tries to smile. ‘I knew it would be a waste of money.’
‘What was she whispering about at the end there?’
‘Nothing. Silly nonsense. I think she was trying to scare me.’
‘It’s all a lot of rot. What would a girl like her know about life and love?’
Lillian tries to smile but the muscles in her face are fixed rigid.
‘Come on,’ says Joan, threading her arm through Lillian’s, ‘let’s get a cup of tea and calm our nerves with the soothing racket of the brass band.’
The tea tent is crowded with people taking respite from the afternoon sun. Joan guides Lillian through the crowd. The air is hot and close, the scent of well-trodden grass trapped under the canvas. Lillian stands in the queue and watches children weaving in and out of the tables and chairs. Standing there in the brightness of the tent, surrounded by the crowds, it’s easier to push the fortune-teller’s words from her mind. Just a load of mumbo-jumbo. I see danger. How ridiculous.
‘So where’s that scrumptious husband of yours today?’ Joan asks.
‘He’s still in London.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? I would have had you over for a game of tennis or dinner. You must be going out of your mind with boredom. Although,’ she adds, ‘perhaps you haven’t been so lonely after all?’
Lillian follows her friend’s gaze and sees Jack, for the first time that day, standing near the tea urns, looking handsome in a pale-blue shirt, caught up in conversation with a couple of elderly ladies from the village. Her stomach lurches at the sight of him, but she bats Joan on the arm with her flower-show programme, feigning shock. ‘Really! I’m a married woman.’
‘Oh I know. It must be simply awful having to look at that face all day,’ she adds with a lascivious twinkle in her eye.
‘I never see him,’ she protests, a little too quickly. ‘He’s always locked away in the room, working on his murals.’
‘Well, I’d say that was a missed opportunity, wouldn’t you?’ says Joan. ‘Maybe I’ll invite him over for dinner,’ she continues, seemingly unaware of Lillian’s furious blushes. ‘A few martinis and a game of rummy with some of the local ladies and I’m sure we’ll knock that conscientious streak out of him. Look at them all fawning around him, like bees glued to the honeypot.’
Lillian sees that Jack and his companions have been joined by three younger women from the village, all glossy hair and swishing skirts, laughing and teasing.
‘He’s quite the introvert,’ she says softly. ‘I don’t think he much likes these social gatherings.’
‘I’m not sure you know Mr Fincher as well as you think,’ retorts Joan and, as if to prove her point, peals of laughter erupt from the group surrounding Jack.
At last Joan and Lillian reach the front of the queue. They order their teas then head to wait near the urn, closer to where Jack stands. Susan Cartwright’s shrill voice carries towards them. ‘Oh go on, be a sport. It’s for a jolly good cause.’
Lillian watches Jack throw his arms up in defeat.
‘Yes,’ murmurs Joan, her gaze scanning Jack from top to toe. ‘Quite a dish.’
They sit themselves at the far end of a trestle table and after a moment, as she’d hoped he would, Jack appears beside them. ‘May I join you?’
‘Be our guest,’ says Joan.
Jack pulls out the chair next to Lillian and as he sits, she feels his foot settle beside her own, a light but insistent pressure brushing against her heel. Joan teases him briefly on his newfound status as village heartthrob and engages him in a conversation about his art, but as soon as her attention is diverted by the arrival of others from the village, Jack slides his own hand beneath the table and strokes the soft part of Lillian’s wrist where it rises out of her glove. ‘You look beautiful,’ he murmurs.
She jumps at his touch, the words of the fortune-teller echoing in her mind. Someone is watching. ‘Don’t,’ she says. ‘Not here.’
He has an intense way of looking at her, the undercurrent of a smile hidden in his dark grey eyes, the slightly predatory way his gaze sweeps over her that brings a flush to her skin as she remembers the intimate things he did to her the night before; her hands gripping the bedhead, the way she had bitten down on the back of her hand to prevent herself from crying out. It’s agony not to be able to touch him. To hell with virtue and propriety; all she wants to do is seize his hand and drag him away from prying eyes and idle gossip and those pretty girls, back to Cloudesley, back to the privacy of her bedroom.
‘I’ve been bullied into sitting for the sponge throw,’ he says at a normal volume. Then, lowering his voice so that only she can hear, he adds, ‘Perhaps we could escape afterwards? The whole village is here. Who will miss us?’
Before she can answer, Susan Cartwright is standing over them again, tugging at Jack’s shirtsleeve. ‘Come on, Jack. You’re up next.’ She turns to Lillian, smiling sweetly. ‘You don’t mind if I steal him away, do you?’
Lillian returns her smile. ‘Be my guest.’
Lillian would be happy to stay where she is, but Joan is already up and out of her seat. ‘Now this I have to see,’ she says. ‘Come on.’
They stand squinting in the sunshine as Jack is locked into the old village stocks and a gaggle of giggling girls take it in turns to hurl wet sponges at him. It is Susan who has the best aim, her last sponge hitting him square on the forehead. He emerges slick and wet, his damp linen shirt clinging to his body. Susan rushes across and poses for the photographer from the local newspaper, her lips pressed to Jack’s cheek. Joan lets out a wolf whistle but Lillian turns away, a horrible blaze of desire and jealousy flaring inside her.
‘Lillian, Lillian, come with me.’ Albie is at her side, tugging her hand. ‘I won! Come and see.’
It takes Lillian a moment to realise what Albie is talking about. ‘You won? How wonderful.’ Casting a last glance back at Jack, she takes the boy’s hand in her own. ‘Show me.’
They enter the craft tent and Albie leads her proudly to the makeshift gallery where the children’s paintings have been tacked to display boards.
‘Oh my,’ she says, seeing the colourful watercolour marked with a red ribbon. ‘It’s . . . it’s . . .’
‘It’s you,’ says Albie, turning to her with a delighted smile. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Yes,’ says Lillian. ‘I do. I really do. It’s lovely.’
Albie has captured her with beautiful, childish innocence: a round pink face, her blonde hair a yellow sweep on her head, eyes the colour of a clear lake, spidery black eyelashes and a pearl choker around her throat.
‘This calls for a celebration,’ says Lillian.
They leave the exhibition tent and make for the long queue waiting for ices. The line snakes beside a red-and-gold striped puppet booth with a show in full swing, rows of children sitting on the grass and a large crowd of parents standing behind. The audience is laughing uproariously as the grotesque form of Mr Punch, with his hook nose and curved chin, turns to the crowd and crows ‘that’s the way to do it’ in a high falsetto. Judy pops up from below, holding a puppet baby. She asks Mr Punch to babysit the infant and the audience falls about laughing as Judy disappears and Punch proceeds to sit on the baby. Moments later Judy is back and the two puppets begin to fight, Punch hitting Judy repeatedly with a large wooden stick.
Lillian feels her stomach twist. She looks down and finds Albie watching the performance, his eyes wide and his face as white as a sheet, his hand gripping her own more tightly as the puppets tussle and fight.
‘Lilli,’ he asks, looking up to her, ‘why are they all laughing?’
She stares down at the boy. ‘I don’t know, Albie. I really don’t know.’