Charles mentions the dinner party three days after his return from London. ‘Just a couple of chaps from the bank and their wives,’ he says, folding The Times and laying it on the table beside his plate of half-eaten kippers. ‘I thought a clay-pigeon shoot on Friday followed by dinner might make them more agreeable to my proposal. You’ll make the necessary arrangements with the staff?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
She waits, tensed, sensing something; an atmosphere hanging over the table. ‘Is that all?’
Charles narrows his eyes. ‘I think so. Were you expecting anything else?’
Lillian shakes her head.
For all her shock at returning from the flower show to find Charles’s car at the house, and her fear that he would somehow be able to read her betrayal, she had escaped lightly. She’d found him settled in his study, head bowed over a mountain of paperwork, a glass of whisky at his side and Monty stretched luxuriously at his feet. ‘Hello,’ she’d said, hovering at the open door.
He’d spun in his chair. ‘Darling, you’re so late. Had a good day?’
‘Yes. Joan insisted I return for sundowners after the flower show.’ She’d held her breath, her lie hanging in the air between them.
‘I’m sorry to have missed it this year. Was it good?’
‘Yes. Very well attended.’
He’d smiled and opened his arms to her, beckoning her to come to him. Lillian, with a feeling akin to dread, had forced herself across the room and stepped into his waiting embrace and Charles had drawn her close, pressing his face against her stomach, breathing her in. ‘I missed you. It’s been hellish in London.’
Lillian, holding herself stiff in his embrace, had hesitated, before lowering her hands onto his head. Her complicated, damaged husband. Sometimes he could be so hard to hate.
‘Have you seen Albie?’ she’d asked with a sudden flash of guilt and fear. Would Charles be cross that she had left him to his own devices?
‘Yes, safely tucked up in bed. He said he lost you in the crowds. Bentham drove him home.’
Lillian had swallowed down her relief and offered up silent prayers of gratitude for the always reliable Bentham.
‘I brought him a little gift,’ Charles had added, pulling back a little and looking up at her. ‘A record player of his own. He seemed to like it.’
Lillian had nodded. The pattern was repeating to the letter: violence followed by tenderness and lavish bribes. ‘Yes, of course. Lucky boy,’ she’d added, the words sounding hollow.
‘What happened to your face?’ He’d frowned, peering more closely at her cheek. ‘You’ve scratched it.’
‘Helena,’ she’d said simply, no other explanation required.
Charles had tutted, before leaning back in his chair. ‘I’m afraid I’ll be a while yet,’ he’d said, indicating the desk of papers in front of him.
‘In that case, if you don’t mind, I’ll retire,’ she’d said, jumping at the chance to leave him. She’d bent to kiss the top of his head before he’d waved her away, already returned to his paperwork.
Lillian looks at Charles now, seated across the dining-room table. She assumes he will return to his breakfast and the newspaper, but he is still staring at her, a frown on his face. ‘I need Friday to go well, Lillian. It’s important.’
‘I understand.’
Charles’s frown deepens. ‘Perhaps Albie should join us for the shoot,’ he adds. ‘Some sport would be good for the boy.’
Lillian studies her husband, noticing how tired he looks, how drawn. The stress he wears seems caused by something more than a couple of late nights in his study or a little too much whisky. I need Friday to go well. She has never thought of Charles as a man of needs; more one of wants and desires. Need has always been a little too close to weakness for Charles Oberon.
‘I received another bill from Cole & Osborne this morning,’ he continues. ‘Fincher is certainly racking up quite the expense sheet.’
‘He’s been very busy since you’ve been away.’
Charles tuts. ‘He must think me as rich as Croesus.’
Lillian stares at Charles. ‘You told him yourself that no expense was to be spared.’
Charles sighs. ‘Yes. I did. You’re quite right.’ He reaches for the sugar bowl and drops a lump into his tea. ‘Bentham says he never dines with the staff. Keeps to himself. I can’t help wondering if he might have found a lady friend.’ Charles stirs his tea slowly, the silver spoon moving round and round, clinking against the edge of the china cup. ‘Can’t blame a chap, I suppose. As long as she’s not distracting him from his work.’
Lillian looks up from the table.
‘Probably someone from the village,’ Charles continues. ‘Any guesses who she might be?’ he asks, eyeing her over his own cup.
Lillian’s thudding heart takes flight in her chest. There is no way he could know.
‘My money’s on that rather eager blonde down in the village,’ Charles continues. ‘The bubbly one with the irritating giggle.’
‘Susan Cartwright?’
‘Yes. That’s the one.’ Charles looks thoughtful. ‘I’ll ask Fincher to dine with us on Friday night. I’m sure my city friends would be interested to meet him. I’ll press him for a finish date . . . perhaps a few details about his after-hours activities, too.’ Charles’s lips curve in a smile for the first time that morning.
Lillian tries to return his smile but fails. It’s not the end of the world if Charles thinks Jack is having an affair with someone in the village. But she will have to warn him about the dinner party and Charles’s intentions.
‘You know it did occur to me that it might all be some clever ruse,’ he continues.
Lillian’s knife hovers over her toast. ‘A ruse? Whatever do you mean?’
‘The room. No one has seen a jot of what he’s been working on. What if it’s the greatest Emperor’s New Clothes trick ever performed?’ He lets out a gruff laugh. ‘I suppose that would make me the prize fool.’
Lillian lays her knife on the tablecloth. ‘No one could make a fool out of you, Charles.’
‘Perhaps not, but it doesn’t seem to stop people from trying.’ He eyes her again, then snatches up the newspaper, obscuring his face and signalling the end of their conversation.
Lillian looks out through the French doors across the terrace, her appetite completely gone. He can’t know, she tells herself. There is no way he can know.
Lillian agonises all morning about how to warn Jack. She doesn’t dare visit him in the west wing, but neither does she trust the house staff to carry a message for her; though in the end, it is he who finds her, on her way to talk to Mrs Hill about the menus for the dinner party. Her attention is fixed on the list in her hand, when a figure steps out from the kitchen at the far end of the panelled corridor. She glances up, expecting Bentham or Sarah, but finds Jack instead, striding towards her.
He doesn’t stop until he is standing right in front of her, taking her face in his hands and pressing his lips to her own.
It is a perilous situation yet she can’t help but respond, moving against him until they are pressed against the panelled wall, his weight against hers, the fear of discovery somehow adding to her desire. His lips are on her lips, her face, her neck. His hands are in her hair. ‘My dearest heart,’ he murmurs into her ear.
Somewhere, far away, she registers the sound of pans crashing in the kitchen, the distant murmur of voices, but she can’t stop herself, until, as quickly as their embrace has begun, it is over, Jack moving away, putting a respectful but unbearable distance between them. They stand staring at each other, breathing hard.
‘Did Bentham tell you? There’s a dinner,’ she says, her voice wavering. ‘Tomorrow night.’
‘Yes. But I need to see you. Alone.’
‘It’s too risky. Charles seems . . . he seems suspicious. He thinks you’re carrying on with someone from the village.’
Jack shrugs. ‘Good. Let him think that. Meet me in the woods. Saturday,’ he says, his voice low. ‘You know the place?’
She nods, an image of the leafy clearing where they first kissed clear in her head.
‘Midday. I’ll wait for you. If you can’t make it, I’ll try again the next day. I’ll be there . . . until you can come.’
He waits for her to nod and then he is gone, striding away down the corridor. She runs a finger over her mouth, tracing where he has kissed her. Saturday. Just two days to wait until they can be alone again.
There is a sudden burst of noise from the kitchen. A loud shout followed by a peal of laughter. Sarah appears in the doorway with a tray of silver. ‘Mrs Oberon,’ she says, nodding and smiling as she passes.
Charles’s guests arrive the following morning, two private bankers from London by the names of Edwin Parker and David Molesworth, with their wives Catherine and Miriam. The morning passes quickly with greetings and coffee and organising lunch with a flustered Mrs Hill before the men and a reluctant Albie troop off with Bentham for the shoot. Lillian sits in the parlour with the ladies, exchanging news while listening to the slow tick of the carriage clock. At three they take a walk about the gardens, Lillian pointing out interesting features and plants as they go.
The day creeps on. Charles and the men return from the clay-pigeon shoot mud-spattered and elated, and after tea and scones, they all retire to change for dinner. Lillian opts for a simple black dress and a single string of pearls but when Charles arrives in her dressing room he frowns. ‘You’re looking a little funereal, my dear.’ He throws open the doors to her wardrobe and rummages through it, pulling out a long, low-cut gold dress covered in elaborate beading. ‘Wear this. I need you to be at your most appealing. I want the chaps to understand that we’re . . . a solid investment.’
‘We?’ She laughs lightly. ‘Surely you’re the one they’re investing in? I doubt any dress I wear will have an impact on the business deals you’re cooking up.’
‘For God’s sake, Lillian,’ snaps Charles, ‘just do as you’re told. Wear the damn dress.’
She flinches as he throws the garment at her. ‘As you wish,’ she says. She waits, braced, breath held tightly in her chest, but Charles is already heading towards the door.
By seven o’clock, Charles’s facade is back in place. Lillian joins him and the guests in the drawing room. As she enters, the other wives coo and swoon over her flamboyant gown and Lillian accepts their compliments while trying not to feel like an out-of-season Christmas cookie next to their more conservative attire. Charles hands out cocktails. ‘To fruitful business ventures,’ he toasts, and Lillian takes a sip of the martini and watches her husband, noting the gleam in his eye and the high colour on his cheeks, wondering how much he has had to drink already. Something is off. She can’t put her finger on it but if there were a barometer measuring the atmosphere in the room, she knows the dial would be pointing towards change.
‘I simply adore your peacocks,’ says Catherine Parker, gazing out at the birds strutting across the terrace. ‘They’re divine. But tell me, I always thought they were supposed to bring bad luck?’
‘Only if you believe in superstitious nonsense,’ laughs Charles. ‘Why fear something so beautiful? I consider it a privilege to gaze upon such a creature.’
‘And you just let them roam freely around the place?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why don’t they fly away?’
‘Fly away?’ Charles laughs again. ‘Where would they go that could offer them better than a life at Cloudesley?’ He turns to the other lady at his side. ‘David tells me you have four boys, Miriam, the eldest at university?’ Charles shakes his head in admiration. ‘You look far too young!’
Miriam Molesworth flushes pink and lets out a high-pitched giggle. Lillian turns her back on the room and gazes out across the grounds, bathed in evening sunshine, to where the dark line of trees sits upon the horizon. Just a few more hours to get through and she will be with Jack again.
‘Ah, here are the stragglers.’
She turns to see Jack and Albie being welcomed into the gathering. ‘May I introduce another of our house guests: the artist, Mr Jack Fincher.’
Jack greets each of them in turn. When it comes to Lillian, he takes her outstretched hand and she feels the tip of his index finger momentarily brush the underside of her palm. ‘Mrs Oberon. How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you.’ Albie has sidled across the room to stand at her side. She smiles down at the boy. ‘Did you have a good day?’
He nods and holds out his hand, uncurling his fist to reveal a small, crumpled green leaf. Lillian peers more closely. ‘A four-leafed clover? How clever you are. Wherever did you find it?’
‘Over in the shooting field. It’s for you. Something beautiful,’ he adds, with a shy smile.
‘Oh no, this is yours. You must keep it,’ Lillian insists. ‘It’s lucky.’
‘Albie was quite the sharp shooter today, weren’t you, boy?’ says David Molesworth.
‘He could have hit even more targets if he’d spent more time practising his shot and less time drifting about in the clover.’ Charles turns to Jack. ‘How about you, Fincher? A successful day in the west wing?’ he asks, clapping Jack on the shoulder before handing him a martini.
‘Yes, very good.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
Charles takes a moment to introduce Jack and explain his extravagant commission as they move into the dining room and take their places at the long table, Lillian and Charles seated at either end with the guests scattered between them. She is relieved to have David Molesworth on her left and Edwin Parker to her right, with Jack a little further down the table, just out of direct eye-line. The wine is poured and over a smoked trout starter the conversation glides into a discussion of the recent execution of Ruth Ellis.
‘But don’t you think it is rather barbaric, in this day and age?’ asks Miriam, turning to Charles.
‘Justice is justice,’ says Charles. ‘She shot the man in cold blood. The jury convicted her in twenty minutes. Of course the woman should have hanged.’
‘Though it does seem rather medieval. What about redemption? If she really were a danger to others couldn’t they have simply kept her locked up?’
‘Ah yes, locked away, a perpetual drain on the state. That’s the trouble with caged birds. They cost a fortune in upkeep.’ Charles turns to Lillian. ‘We know another young lady like that, don’t we, darling?’ She knows, instantly, that he’s referring to Helena, but is too shocked to reply. Charles carries on, regardless. ‘You only feel sorry for her because Ruth Ellis is young and attractive,’ he continues, addressing Miriam again. ‘If it were a man who’d shot a woman I’m sure you’d feel differently.’
‘It’s the child I feel most sorry for,’ says Lillian, through gritted teeth. ‘Just ten years old and left without a mother.’
‘Better off without her, I say,’ says Charles, ripping into his bread roll.
‘Oh gosh, we have turned rather gloomy, haven’t we?’ says Miriam. ‘Tell everyone about that new play we saw at the Arts Theatre, David.’ She nudges her husband. ‘You know the one . . . Waiting for Godot. Oh it was quite unfathomable. Two men sitting by a tree waiting for someone who never arrives. I ask you!’
‘Sounds dreadful,’ says Edwin Parker.
‘It was,’ agrees Molesworth. ‘Coarse and dull.’
‘Why it’s getting such raves is quite beyond me,’ says Miriam.
‘Do you get to the theatre much?’ asks Catherine, turning to Lillian.
‘No, not often,’ says Lillian.
‘Oh Lillian’s far too busy running this place to go gallivanting up to London, aren’t you, darling?’
She looks across at her husband and smiles. ‘That’s right.’
‘So, Jack,’ Charles begins, turning his spotlight on the artist as the plates are cleared, ‘the question I really want to ask is when you think you’ll have finished my room?’ He leans forward in his chair, elbows propped on the table.
Lillian is as interested as Charles in the answer, but she keeps her attention fixed on her wine glass as she twirls its stem in her fingers, watching how the candlelight catches the blackberry-coloured liquid, turning it blood-red.
‘Two weeks,’ Jack says, with surprising conviction.
‘Two weeks?’ Charles leans back in his chair, looking pleased. ‘Why, that’s excellent news.’
It takes every ounce of Lillian’s willpower to keep her gaze fixed on her glass; then realising her mouth has gone horribly dry, she takes a sip.
‘That is assuming you approve of what I have done,’ adds Jack. ‘It’s such a grand space, I’ve had to go with a rather ambitious design.’
‘I’m certain I will. I’m in a state of high anticipation.’ Charles turns to his other guests. ‘Mr Fincher has been most mysterious all summer long. I have no idea what he’s painting in there. I’m not usually one for surprises, but there’s something rather marvellous about the thought of having a room unveiled in its entirety.’
‘Bravo, Charles,’ says Edwin Parker. ‘Very bold. Life can be such a dull affair. It’s good to take a few risks.’
‘That’s exactly how I like to run my business, Parker. Calculated risk and return.’ Charles turns back to Jack. ‘I do hope you have enjoyed your summer with us? That you have found enough to occupy you in this quiet corner of the countryside?’
Lillian senses Jack’s eyes drifting in her direction, senses his discomfort from the way he shifts in his chair. Gripping the napkin in her lap, she wills him to keep his composure. ‘Indeed. I’ve found my time here to be very . . . inspiring.’
Charles smiles. ‘Excellent. I wonder if it’s vanity on my part to hope we might see a little of the Chilterns or perhaps even ourselves in some of your future works?’ Charles chuckles.
‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised,’ Jack agrees quietly. ‘My time here in your home is certain to leave quite the impression.’
‘And perhaps a little of the time you have spent out of the home too. Enjoying some of our local . . . sights?’ The innuendo hangs on Charles’s last word.
Jack merely raises his glass at Charles and, to Lillian’s relief, the conversation is halted by the arrival of a large silver platter rolled in on a trolley, the domed lid lifted to reveal a showstopping triple crown roast of lamb sporting tiny white paper hats.
Before dessert is served, Lillian excuses herself and slips outside onto the terrace to smoke a cigarette. She stands by the balustrade, blowing smoke across the lawn, watching it evaporate into the warm night. Her heart is a clenched fist in her chest. Two weeks, he’d said.
She turns at the sound of footsteps approaching, expecting Bentham, summoning her in for dessert, but is surprised instead to find Jack. He stands at a polite distance, leaning against the balustrade as he lights his own cigarette.
‘He’s watching us,’ she says quietly, glancing back through the French doors to where Charles and the other guests remain conversing.
‘I know.’ Jack seems calm. ‘But it would be far more suspicious if we didn’t talk, don’t you think?’
She nods and looks back out across the dark lawn. ‘It doesn’t seem so long ago that we stood here that very first time, you and I.’
Jack smiles. ‘When you played that cruel trick on me? Pretending to be someone else.’
‘That was no trick. That was your own foolish assumption.’ Her smile fades as she looks out to the velvet blackness hanging over the gardens. ‘Two weeks?’
He nods. ‘I can’t stay here forever, Lillian. Charles is getting impatient.’
She nods. ‘I don’t know how I will bear it here without you.’
‘You’ll come to the clearing tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’ Through the French windows she can see Charles peering out at them. ‘I should go.’ She stubs out her cigarette on the balustrade then slips from the terrace and returns to her seat.
Sarah serves generous slices of Mrs Hill’s summer pudding onto their best bone china and Charles, his tongue loosened by wine, moves the conversation into the more contentious sphere of politics and business, discussing his hopes for Prime Minister Eden and the trade potential with America.
Lillian, no longer hungry, but somewhat bolstered to have stolen a moment with Jack, turns to Edwin Parker on her right. ‘Have you enjoyed your day in the Chilterns, Mr Parker?’
‘How could I not? Beautiful countryside. This wonderful house.’ He lowers his voice. ‘And such attractive company.’
Lillian smiles in what she hopes is a bland, unencouraging way.
‘One might ask why Charles would keep a sophisticated young lady like you tucked away,’ he continues, patting her arm. ‘But perhaps he likes to keep you all to himself. He’d be wise.’
The man takes a sip of his wine then licks his lips. She knows he is flirting with her. She can sense Charles watching from the far end of the table and smiles again, hoping that he is, at least, pleased to see her putting in a little effort with his guests. ‘Catherine,’ she says, trying to draw the man’s wife into the conversation, ‘how about you? Are you a town or a country person at heart?’
‘Oh town. Most definitely town. I can’t imagine looking out and seeing only green every day. It would drive me mad.’
Miriam Molesworth has caught wind of their conversation. ‘Yes, what exactly do you do around here?’ she asks Lillian, looking utterly bewildered. ‘No shops, no restaurants, no society events? Of course the countryside is perfectly charming, but—’
‘Oh, you’d be surprised. We have our social calendar, the parish council, the Women’s Institute, fetes and charity functions, the same as everywhere. We find ways to amuse ourselves.’ She can’t help glancing quickly at Jack.
‘But is that enough for you, my dear? Times are changing. Since the war, there are so many more opportunities.’
Charles gives a snort from the other end of the table. ‘Lillian’s a homebody through and through, aren’t you, darling? No personal ambition whatsoever.’
‘Except of course to support you, I’m sure,’ says Miriam with a small, ingratiating smile. ‘You know what they say, behind every great man . . .’
‘Perhaps Charles is just worried you will show him up,’ teases Parker, patting her on the arm again. ‘Maybe that’s where you’re going wrong, Charles? Involve her in the business,’ he suggests, turning to Charles. ‘A woman like Lillian – brains and beauty – she might be just what you need to pull Oberon & Son out of the doldrums.’
Charles goes very still and Lillian holds her breath. She knows he won’t like any reference to his business struggles being mentioned at the table. But after a beat, he smiles. ‘You’re all quite right,’ chimes Charles. ‘Times have changed. It’s almost impossible to find good staff these days, which is why I need Lillian here. A house like this doesn’t run itself. Besides,’ he adds, knocking back another slug of wine, his eyes glinting dangerously in the candlelight, ‘if she had just done her wifely duty and sired me a few more sons, she’d have plenty to keep her busy.’
A silence falls over the table. Lillian folds her napkin and lays it carefully on the table. She reaches for a glass of water and takes a sip. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Jack’s knuckles blanching white on his wine glass.
‘Cover your ears, Albie,’ says Edwin Parker, who then turns to the assembled adults. ‘As a father of three, I think I speak with some authority when I say that I’ve always found the act of siring children to be far more pleasurable than the actual children themselves.’
The man winks crudely at Lillian. Catherine Parker blushes pink and slaps her husband on the arm with her napkin. ‘Really, Edwin!’
But Charles, after a short moment, lets out a loud bellow of a laugh. ‘Well said, Parker. Well said.’
Jack is the first to excuse himself after a last round of digestifs in the drawing room, citing another early start as his reason for retiring. Lillian waits dutifully for the other guests to head to bed, first the Molesworths, then finally the Parkers, both couples having grown surprisingly animated as the night progressed. With the sound of the Parkers’ goodnight calls still echoing on the staircase, Bentham appears in the room and begins to clear the glasses and ashtrays. Charles pointedly holds on to his tumbler. ‘Thank you, Bentham. That will be all.’
‘Very good, Sir.’
Lillian is hoping she might slip away herself, but Charles is already pouring himself another large brandy from the drinks cabinet. ‘Well, darling, how do you think that went?’
‘Oh,’ she says, watching Bentham disappear through the open doorway, a little startled that Charles should consider her opinion in any way important. ‘I think everyone enjoyed themselves. Don’t you?’
Charles smiles grimly and takes a large swig of his drink. ‘Tedious bores, the lot of them.’
‘Excuse me?’ She notices the slight slurring of his words, the sway in his stance.
‘Pandering to those bland moneymen all day, charming their dull little wives, having them poke and prod and paw at the house. Nobody knows the things I have to do to keep the business . . . this house . . . our family afloat. Nobody understands the hoops I have to jump through.’
Lillian, wishing she had retired with the guests, has one eye on the door. ‘You work very hard,’ she says in a soothing voice.
Charles takes another large slug of brandy. ‘Did you enjoy yourself this evening?’
‘Yes,’ she lies. ‘It was very pleasant, though I am rather weary now. Forgive me, darling,’ she says, rising from her seat, ‘but I think I’ll go up too.’
Charles’s eyes narrow slightly. ‘It’s no wonder you’re exhausted . . . after that little display.’
She stops halfway across the room, uncertain to what he is referring. Was he pleased with the way she responded to his guests? Or was he, she wonders, cold ice now gripping her insides, hinting at something more sinister . . . something to do with Jack?
Charles takes a last gulp from his tumbler then returns it unsteadily to the mantel beside him. ‘That was quite a performance.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Your friendly little tête-à-tête.’
‘You asked me to be friendly.’
‘Friendly . . . yes.’ Charles’s eyes flash. ‘Flagrantly whoring yourself in front of our guests is another matter entirely.’
‘Charles,’ says Lillian, her heart squeezing tight in her chest as she realises that to reach the open door she will need to pass her husband, ‘perhaps we should discuss this in the morning, when things might seem a little clearer.’ She takes the first few steps across the room but doesn’t make it any further.
It is the shock, initially, more than the pain that takes her breath away. One minute she is making for the door, the next she is on the rug in front of the hearth, lying in a pile of broken glass, her head ringing. The force of his fist crashing into her temple has sent her sprawling against the drinks cabinet, glasses and the brandy decanter toppling as if in slow motion and smashing onto the tiled hearth, her left leg twisted beneath her at an awkward angle.
With the sound of shattering glass still ringing in her ears, she looks up at Charles, one hand to her temple, trying to clear her blurred vision. ‘Please, Charles,’ she says, her voice sounding strangely far away. ‘Don’t.’
His shadow falls over her, an ugly sneer coming into focus. ‘You think I’m a fool?’
Before she can reply, he has dragged her up by an arm and pinned it behind her back until she is cowed before him, whimpering with pain. She can feel the spilled brandy seeping through her dress, cold and wet against her skin.
‘Please,’ she cries, wincing in fear, ‘not my face. Think of the guests . . .’
Charles’s eyes flash dangerously but she sees her words register and his raised fist drop to his side. ‘I don’t know why you’re angry,’ she implores.
‘You don’t know why I’m angry?’ he hisses. ‘You’re my wife! You’re mine. The only reason people look at you is because of me. You were nothing before you met me. Nothing.’
‘You’re right,’ she says, knowing that to appease him now might be her only chance to bring this to a swift conclusion. ‘I was nothing,’ she agrees through her tears.
‘And after all I’ve done for you, and for your vegetable of a sister.’ He shakes his head and gives a bitter laugh. ‘You think I’m a fool. But I saw you with him . . . twirling your wine glass . . . smiling and batting your lashes.’
Lillian’s heart sinks. He knows. Somehow he knows.
He wrenches her arm more forcefully and she whimpers in pain, defeated, her head still ringing. ‘We – we didn’t mean – it was so unexpected.’ At that moment she knows she will spill every secret – tell him everything there is to know about her and Jack. ‘We . . . we . . .’
But through her fog she hears Charles shouting, apoplectic in his rage. ‘I told you this was important. I told you to be charming. Not to act like some wanton strumpet. You were an embarrassment. A bitch on heat.’
Lillian swallows. ‘I’m so sorry . . .’
‘And with his poor wife sitting right there.’
It takes Lillian a moment to process Charles’s words. ‘His wife? I don’t understand.’ The cogs in her brain are struggling to turn. He isn’t talking about Jack. He is talking about that man. The banker. Edwin Parker.
It is so ridiculous she could almost laugh. ‘You’re right,’ she says, putting a hand to her lip, bringing it away and seeing blood on her fingers, seeing it trickling onto the beaded bodice of her dress, garish red and gold mingling. ‘Catherine was right there. The three of us were sharing a joke. I did nothing but what you asked of me. The dress. The conversation. Only what you asked.’
‘Only what I asked?’ He punches her hard in the stomach, dropping her arm so that she collapses onto the ground, gasping for air. She lies very still, hoping that if she remains passive she won’t incite any further violence, but the ordeal isn’t over yet. He kicks out at her, catching her painfully between her ribs with his dress shoe.
Lillian moans and curls in on herself as he kicks her twice more then bends and pulls her up by the hair so that she sits slumped against the marble hearth, a grotesque parody of a rag doll as Charles stands before her, a monstrous blur, hissing vile words in her face.
‘Let’s go upstairs, shall we?’ he suggests. ‘Let’s wake Albie and show him what a disgusting whore he has for a step-mother.’
‘No,’ she cries. ‘Please, don’t.’
‘Please don’t,’ he mimics in a high whine.
‘Please, not Albie.’
‘He’s my son,’ he hisses, then slaps her so hard her head knocks back into the marble fireplace with a sickening thud. ‘My son, you hear? He’s nothing to do with you. You useless, barren whore. You couldn’t even keep our baby alive, could you?’
It seems to Lillian as though his voice is coming from the end of a long tunnel, fading away. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmurs.
‘Get up,’ he is telling her, but she cannot move.
‘You disgust me,’ he says and with one last, half-hearted kick, he turns away from her, breathing heavily. She hears him wrestling with the door on the overturned drinks trolley. There is a clinking sound as he takes up one of the unbroken bottles of spirits, then the crunching of his shoes on broken glass as he leaves the drawing room, closing the door behind him. Lillian leans back against the mantelpiece and allows the darkness to take her.
‘Lillian? Can you hear me?’
It feels like being dragged up from the murkiest depths, like being hauled from the bottom of a deep well. As she comes round, every bone in her body aches, every muscle protests as she fights against the reality of consciousness. She doesn’t want to wake up but someone’s desperate voice is bringing her round. ‘Lillian. You have to wake up. Please! I can’t get you upstairs on my own.’
‘Jack?’ she says, her voice little more than a croak.
‘No, it’s me. Albie. You have to get up. Before anyone sees you.’
Lillian feels Albie tugging at her arm, but she slumps back against the hearth.
‘Lillian?’ Albie’s hands shake her gently, until she moans in pain. ‘Can you hear me?’ The boy sounds close to tears, but still she can’t rouse herself.
‘Go back to bed,’ she mumbles. ‘Leave me. If he finds you here—’
‘Shhhh . . . it’s all right. He’s in his study. He’s already passed out. I checked.’
‘I can manage,’ she says, but only half-heartedly. She knows there is no way she can make it up the stairs by herself; and if she stays where she is, come morning she will be discovered by the servants, or worse, one of their guests.
‘Wait here. I’ll be back,’ says Albie.
She doesn’t know how long she lies there, but after a while she becomes aware of another presence in the room. Strong hands grasp her underneath her arms and lift her gently. She feels strangely disconnected, airborne, floating weightless like a feather. ‘This way,’ she hears Albie say. ‘Hurry.’
A series of familiar faces float in and out of focus as she is carried up the stairs, painted eyes leering at her out of the dimly lit stairwell. When they reach her room, she is laid upon the covers of her bed. She hears Albie speak again. ‘Thank you. You may go. And please, don’t tell anyone.’ The tall, dark figure, little more than a blur, leaves the bedroom.
‘Jack?’ she croaks.
‘No, I told you. It’s me. Albie.’
The boy carefully removes her shoes and places a pillow behind her throbbing head, then she feels him gently wipe a trickle of blood from her nose with a damp towel. He pulls the sheets back from underneath her. ‘Can you get under the covers?’ he asks.
She nods and somehow stands and shrugs off her dress, but even the soft mattress and the brush of the sheets against her skin as she lies back down make her gasp in pain.
‘Will you be all right?’ he asks.
Lillian reaches out to stroke his cheek. ‘Please don’t cry. I’ll be fine.’
Albie burrows his head in his arms and sits for a moment, overcome. ‘I hate him,’ he mutters into the bedcovers. ‘I hate him so much.’ When he looks up, he grips her hand tightly. ‘I know Father can be beastly, but I couldn’t bear it here without you.’
She nods. ‘I know. Go to bed. It’s late.’
She waits for him to leave, listening for the sound of the door clicking shut behind him before she allows herself to slip away once more into a mercifully deep sleep.
She dreams of peacock screams, fists and smashing glass and when she wakes, a triangle of daylight has hit the centre of the ceiling rose above her bed. A fly that has been buzzing agitatedly at the windowpane, pulling her every now and then from sleep, falls silent at last. Lillian’s head throbs and her ribs ache every time she moves but she wriggles herself up from under the covers and props herself into a sitting position. She squints around at the room, noting the ruined gold dress strewn across the chair, her shoes lying discarded on the floor. Slowly, she reaches up and touches her face, tenderly assessing the damage. Her lip feels cracked and dry and there is a nasty, throbbing lump at the back of her skull, a crust of dried blood around her nostrils. But her face, thank goodness, seems relatively unmarked.
She lies there for a very long time. Listening to the fly. Watching the sunlight moving across the ceiling of the room, drifting in and out of full consciousness until the door to her room opens and she sees him standing framed in the doorway, a tray in his hands. She looks at him for a long moment before turning her face away.
Charles clears his throat then crosses the room, laying the tray on the stool at the end of her bed. ‘Mrs Hill was sorry to hear you’re under the weather. She’s made you a little porridge.’
Lillian doesn’t say a word. It’s always the same. Pretence followed by remorse, apologies and pleading promises that it will never happen again. That he never meant to hurt her. She knows the pattern well.
He moves across to the window and lifts the catch, propping it open to let a little air into the room. When he turns back to her, she feels him inspecting her with a tentative, sideways look. She lifts her face to him and he has the good grace, at least, to wince before looking away. ‘About last night . . . I was . . . I was very upset. I’m sorry.’
He waits but Lillian doesn’t say anything.
‘I’ve been under a lot of pressure. I’ve lost a lot of money. It’s been difficult.’
He approaches the bed and reaches for her hand. She withdraws it.
She doesn’t want his excuses. ‘What’s the time?’ she asks, the words thick on her tongue.
He glances at his watch. ‘A quarter to twelve. You’ve slept most of the morning; but you don’t need to worry about that. The guests have been well looked after. They left after breakfast. I’m here for you; me . . . Albie . . . the staff. You don’t need to leave this room, not until you’re feeling stronger. We all just want you well again.’
Not until I’m feeling stronger, she thinks. She turns away from Charles and looks out of the window.
‘Would you like me to call Doctor May?’
She shudders at the man’s name, remembering the last time he inspected her. Remembering his cool hands roaming over her stomach, pressing and prodding. His stern face as he turned to her and told her that she had lost the baby. In his cold manner had been the suggestion she had been nothing more than careless, when really it was plain to both of them that the wounds and bruises on her body that had caused the miscarriage could in no way have been self-inflicted. ‘There’s no need,’ she says, coldly.
That’s the miracle in all of this, she thinks. Her body and its amazing process of renewal; each cell and bone and strip of flesh regenerating, closing up, healing, making her physically well. It’s a betrayal, her body perfecting itself again and again – on the outside at least – hiding the truth of their marriage to the outside world, readying her to take Charles’s brutality again and again.
‘You should eat something,’ Charles says.
‘I’m not hungry.’
Somewhere down on the terrace she hears a door open and close. She imagines Jack, stepping out into the bright day, making his way across the terrace and onto the lawn, heading into the woods to wait for her in the clearing.
‘There, there,’ says Charles, moving back to the bed and patting her leg over the covers. ‘Don’t cry. Everything is going to be fine. I saw Parker and Molesworth before they left. They were most impressed by dinner last night. They were sorry not to be able to thank you in person . . .’ Charles clears his throat. ‘It’s good news, actually. They’ve offered to lend me the money I need for the business. As I’m sure you can imagine, it’s quite a weight off my mind.’
The steady beat in her temple increases in intensity. If she could reach the tray she would tip it up and send its contents crashing to the floor, but instead she turns her face back to the wall.
‘I haven’t been myself of late,’ Charles continues. ‘The disappointment of losing the child, the pressures of the business. But with a little investment, I really think this could be a turning point for Oberon & Son . . . for us.’
Charles continues with his self-pitying monologue but Lillian isn’t listening. She is imagining Jack, striding through the wildflower meadow, tiny insects fluttering up from the grass all around him. She wonders how long he will wait for her in the clearing. How long will he give her before he assumes she isn’t coming and returns to the house? Will he think she doesn’t care enough to come? That she has changed her mind?
And then, despair truly rises; for even if she had made it, what good would it have done them? A few snatched moments here and there, until the room is finished and he leaves Cloudesley forever. In two weeks she will be nothing but a memory, perhaps a figment in his dreams, a shadow on one of his canvases. She thinks of Jack out in the world living his life while she remains trapped at Cloudesley, entombed like the fading butterflies encased in glass boxes, or the hunting trophies hanging upon the walls.
Another tear slides down her cheek. She used to think she could stomach this life. When the fairy tale had turned to nightmare, she’d told herself that a life with Charles could be tolerated. For Albie. For Helena. Besides, she had nothing but what Charles had given her and knew nothing of love but what he had taught her. Where else could she go?
But one summer has changed her. She knows now about love and desire. Jack has opened her eyes to a different kind of love. He has brought dreams of a different kind of life, and the knowledge that he will now leave her makes the thought of remaining in this one unbearable.
‘So you see,’ continues Charles, his voice cutting through her thoughts, ‘nothing at all has changed. Not really.’ He reaches down and tentatively strokes her hair. ‘Everything is going to be fine. We will get you better and everything will carry on as normal.’
Nothing has changed. Carry on as normal.
How little Charles understands.
Externally, perhaps, nothing has changed. The cuts and bruises will heal, in time. But her heart is another matter. Her heart is rearranged, alive, beating, wide open. Her heart is a bird, ready to soar. Yet here it must remain, locked away at Cloudesley, just another curiosity in Charles’s collection of dead things, trapped and gathering dust.