Lucy sat on her bed, fingers stroking the ears of her dalmatian while she stared at the photograph of her mother she’d propped against her pillow. Before coming here, she’d been lonely in the middle of a family. Now she spent more time than ever by herself yet was hardly lonely at all. Mr Walsh was kind and entertaining. Bee was a terrible cook, but she never sent Lucy to bed hungry and always made her laugh. And she was getting to know the mother she hadn’t thought she cared about, and rather liked it.
Tucking her dalmatian next to the photo, she slipped out of her room to find Bee and see what she could do to help around the house. It was something she’d thought of to make sure they would never want to send her away.
But Bee’s bedroom door was closed, and Mr Walsh was outside it, pressing a finger to his lips.
‘She’s having one of her bad days,’ he said in a low voice, ushering Lucy downstairs.
Lucy put the end of a piece of her hair in her mouth. ‘Doesn’t she at least want some breakfast?’ she asked around it.
Mr Walsh made their meal and kept up some friendly chatter, but Lucy could barely swallow her toasted raisin bun despite the generous helping of apricot jam. As soon as she had finished helping him to rinse and dry the plates, she raced back upstairs and hovered near Bee’s closed door. When Mr Walsh came by she asked him if Bee might like the cat for company, or perhaps a book to read. He shook his head and gave her shoulder a squeeze.
Half an hour later when he saw Lucy still outside the door, he quietly tried to coax her back downstairs.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, let the poor child in if she’s that bothered,’ came Bee’s muffled voice.
Mr Walsh opened the door, and Lucy saw Bee curled up beneath a fuzzy counterpane, fingers pressed to one temple. Her face was pale, and Lucy wasn’t used to seeing her with her hair undone and tangled, but otherwise she looked much the same as always.
‘See, not dying,’ Bee said with a grimace. ‘Only women’s troubles.’
‘Are you sure? Can I get you something? Maybe a cup of tea?’ Lucy tiptoed forward, reaching out so just her fingertips rested on the edge of the bed.
Bee’s hand sneaked out from underneath the counterpane to give them a squeeze.
‘What you can do for me is go out with Humphrey and enjoy yourself,’ she said. ‘I had an excursion planned and I don’t want you to miss it.’
It was hardly going to help Bee, but if this was what she wanted, Lucy would do it. She gave Bee what she hoped was an encouraging smile, then went downstairs with Mr Walsh to climb into the Anglia.
They drove for an hour through green, cramped roads, listening to old swing songs on the radio. When they pulled into a wide dirt car park, Mr Walsh explained that he’d brought her to Osborne House, where Queen Victoria and her family had once lived.
Their tour guide led them past long grass lawns overhung by tall trees to a sprawling yellow building that she insisted wasn’t a palace but certainly looked like one to Lucy.
Inside, the guide pointed out a glass and gilt brass chandelier that resembled a cluster of hanging flowers; a statue of the queen’s favourite dog, Noble; and a billiard table which the queen herself had learned to play on. But Lucy couldn’t stop fretting over what might happen if Bee got worse and needed some medicine, or was hungry but too weak to go downstairs to the kitchen. They should have stayed home with her.
Lucy began chewing her thumbnail as they left the building and wandered through the fountain gardens. As they traipsed down a staircase with awkwardly shallow steps, she switched to the other thumb. By the time they reached a boardwalk leading into the wide grounds, she’d bitten crescent moons off both thumbs, her left index finger and her right pinky.
Mr Walsh kept glancing at her sideways but only broke the silence after twenty or so minutes, telling her they were nearly at the Swiss Cottage. Lucy didn’t know what this meant, and didn’t ask, but he explained that it was a playhouse Prince Albert had made for his children.
Lucy didn’t care—although she hoped Mr Walsh couldn’t tell—but when the Swiss Cottage came into view, it managed to distract her from her worries. The muddy-brown building didn’t look like a playhouse—at least not one Lucy had ever seen. It was about the same size as her old home in London, with a peaked roof that reached over the edges of walls made from horizontal logs stacked one on top of the other. Its upper storey was ringed with an intricate wooden railing, from which two staircases led down to ground level. High up on the walls were carvings in a language she didn’t understand.
Mr Walsh encouraged Lucy to explore, telling her that behind the casement windows she would find a full kitchen and scullery, a sitting room, and even a dressing room.
But Lucy’s feet had turned to lead. All she could do was stare at the fanciful building and think of one thing. The prince must have loved his children very much to give them all this.
A strange emptiness took over Lucy.
‘Why did you bring me here?’ she asked, her voice low.
‘Bee thought you might find it interesting. I know there’s not a lot for children to do in Bonchurch and—’ Mr Walsh stopped short, catching sight of her face. ‘You don’t mean Osborne House and the Swiss Cottage, do you?’
Lucy shook her head. She couldn’t give voice to the question that was burning the back of her throat. Why, after all these years, had she been brought to live with the father who’d kept his existence a secret until now? Why, if he was only going to ignore or hide away from her?
Mr Walsh sighed. ‘You don’t know this, Lucy, but we—Bee and I—checked up on you throughout the years. From afar, so as not to upset your aunt and uncle. I don’t think I’m wrong in saying you didn’t seem very happy living with them?’
Again Lucy shook her head, although she felt guilty at the admission, as though she could still get in trouble with Aunt Cynthia for daring to complain.
‘And it only seemed to get worse with the passing years,’ Mr Walsh continued. ‘The way your aunt spoke about Evie … It just didn’t seem right. Not when there was another option. A better option; one I’d wanted for you from the very beginning.’
Lucy’s thumb edged towards her mouth again, but there was no nail left to chew.
‘So my father didn’t want me here,’ she said. ‘I came because of you?’
Mr Walsh studied her before answering. ‘It’s a complicated thing. He was frightened. Had been from the very beginning. I’d hoped his fear was something he’d find his way out of, but then your mother died and everything got so much worse.’ His voice was measured but Lucy thought she heard something in it; a crack perhaps, or the tightness of unshed tears. ‘I’m sorry I ever let him send you away. I should have done more to change his mind. You should have grown up here, with us.’
It didn’t make Lucy feel any better. If anything, it seemed to confirm that her father had never wanted her.
She wanted to walk away from the Swiss Cottage; she didn’t want to be confronted with this family’s love for each other. But everywhere she looked she could see it. In one direction was a thatched summerhouse full of wheelbarrows painted with each child’s initials. In another, a miniature fort complete with brick barracks—a gift from the sons to their mother on her birthday. And if she went back the way they’d come, she’d pass a row of carefully tended garden plots bearing the names of the princes and princesses. Was this how families were supposed to be? So full of love they had to put physical marks everywhere for the world to see? It confused her; gave her the sense she’d been missing out on something without realising it.
She thought about the photo she’d left on her bed; the woman whose mouth was twisted in a half smile, one hand resting on the full curve of her belly. Would it have been different if her mother was still around?
Her voice shook when she spoke. ‘Mr Walsh, how did my mother die?’
Mr Walsh didn’t answer straight away. He stared out across a paddock of wildflowers, his shoulders set in a straight line. He raised one hand to his eyepatch, then stopped, his fingers hovering just below it.
‘I’m not sure it’s right for you to know just yet,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Not when you still know so little of her. I wouldn’t want you to remember her only in terms of her death.’
Lucy didn’t remember her at all. She bit her lip to stop from saying so.
‘I can see that’s an unsatisfying answer,’ he added. ‘Would it help if I told you some more about her instead?’
‘Like what?’
‘Let’s see … She once went swimming in the French Riviera in her clothes because there was no time to buy a swimming costume and she didn’t want to miss the opportunity. She used smoke as a special effect in our show when no one else had thought of it. She sang while she was working but never realised it; and I often caught her in the galley—that means kitchen—having a midnight snack.’
The corners of Lucy’s mouth twitched at these new pieces of information. ‘She sounds interesting. But then … I suppose a lot of bad people do?’
Mr Walsh’s nostrils flared; he shook his head, his mouth in a grim, straight line. ‘Don’t ever believe that. What your aunts told you was wrong. Your mother was all kinds of good. She was curious and quick to learn. She was warm, caring and fiercely protective of you.’
This last lessened the emptiness inside Lucy a little. It was nice to think of a mother who’d loved her the way the children who’d once lived in this place had been loved.
She turned back to the Swiss Cottage, squinting against the sun. She might not have been given an entire house to play in, but if her mother had been alive perhaps she would have given Lucy a room full of toys and books, or marked a door frame to show her changing height. Things that would show anyone who cared to look that Lucy was, in fact, important to someone.
It was strange, but Lucy was beginning to miss this person she’d never known.
She slipped her hand inside Mr Walsh’s as they walked back to the car. His hand was big and warm, and his fingers curled softly around hers.
His voice was as gentle as the breeze that caressed their cheeks when he said, ‘You know one of the most impressive things about your mother? It was the way she gave people chances. More than they deserved, even. She was just that kind of person.’