The vole lay curled on its side as if sleeping, but as Kathryn stepped over it she saw that half its insides were missing, no doubt due to foxes—the job half done—leaving the poor creature to slowly and painfully die. She walked on quickly, focusing on the beauty around her, knowing that nature was cruel.
There had been a late morning shower, and the woodland glistened like the landscape inside a Christmas globe. She had left Eleanor napping and slipped out for a walk. She hadn’t made the most of the countryside—too many trips to London—but now she had walked for miles, through the woods to Tudeley and back, testing her memory of the plants and trees, and getting cross whenever she couldn’t remember a name. Larger shrubs on the narrowing track gave way to forbs and grasses that signalled the edge of the wood. How annoying—why couldn’t she remember the name of the green-fronded plant with tiny white flowers?
The time with Eleanor had gone too quickly and it seemed impossible that it was their last day. She had planned a trip into Royal Tunbridge Wells for a cream tea—or Tonbridge if her grandmother was not up to going quite that far—and Kathryn wouldn’t take no for an answer.
The cool shadow of the canopy ended as she was thrown into the strengthening sun, the woodland floor giving way to long grass that brushed wet against her ankles. After the shade, the heat felt like a caress, and halfway up the hill she caught the scent of lavender. Thrusting her hands deeper into her jacket pockets, enthralled at the kaleidoscope of meadow flowers underfoot, she decided that they would definitely make it to Royal Tunbridge Wells on such a glorious day.
The tiny white flowers were cow parsley, she remembered and smiled to herself—until she glanced up again and noticed an unfamiliar black Mercedes parked outside the farmhouse.
What if her grandmother had left the door open again, and this uninvited guest had let themselves in?
Her feet couldn’t carry her fast enough, and she was out of breath by the time she reached the house and was racing around the front. Through the living-room window, the large outline of a man was just visible, his back towards her, bulky frame towering over Eleanor. The front door was still open, so Kathryn rushed down the hallway and burst breathless into the room.
Stephen Aldridge was standing over her grandmother, and they both looked up, alarmed.
‘Kathryn! Are you alright, dear?’
‘What are you doing here? I told you, my grandmother doesn’t want to sell.’
‘It’s okay,’ Eleanor said. ‘Stephen and I have been talking.’
‘Did you invite him here?’
‘No.’
He looked the same as he had the day she’d met him in Hampstead: tailored clothing, an outward respectability. Only today, something about his demeanour had changed.
‘I came of my own accord,’ he said. ‘It’s time you both knew the truth.’
‘The truth about what?’ Kathryn asked.
‘About Jack.’ Eleanor’s face was flushed, her eyes gleaming. Whatever Stephen had already told her, it seemed as if she was willing to accept it as the truth. ‘Stephen knows where Jack is.’
‘Where?’ Kathryn asked Stephen, the knot in her stomach tightening. It was clear that he had been hiding something from them all along; but did he know about their history together—about their engagement?
‘Alright then,’ Stephen said, ‘but you have to know it has only ever been about protecting Jack and his reputation—that was always the most important thing…is the most important thing. It was never just about the art, though that was one of the reasons I didn’t want you to find him.’
‘What, because I would work out that some of the pictures weren’t his?’ Kathryn said. ‘And you expect us to believe that you’ve done this because it would hurt Jack’s reputation, not because it would devalue your collection?’
There had to be more pictures: they would be hidden somewhere, squirrelled away like the important artworks had been during the war—and she had a feeling she knew who else might be involved in that.
Stephen Aldridge’s face clouded, the crow’s-feet around his eyes deepening before he spoke. ‘You worked it out?’
‘Yes, my grandmother told me. She’s already admitted that two of the paintings are by her.’
‘Well, you are partly right.’
‘You told me that most of his works were lost.’
‘Some of them were,’ he said and paused to take a deep breath, ‘but there are still a number held privately.’
Kathryn’s surprise at seeing Stephen was replaced by anger; and a deeply felt frustration at the time he’d wasted by not telling her any of this sooner.
‘By you and your family?’ she said impatiently.
‘And other private collectors…’
‘Alexander Gower?’
‘Yes, he’s one of them. We met at the sixtieth anniversary celebrations—he was interested in Jack’s work and seemed to know there were missing paintings. Anomalies, I think he called them. Anyway, he offered to help me build the collection by helping to trace the missing artworks.’
‘And did he?’ Kathryn said, folding her arms as she continued to stand in front of her new opponent.
‘To an extent. He knew enough to recognise Eleanor’s unsigned paintings—’
‘Children in the Attic and The Bermondsey Rescue?’ Kathryn interrupted as she glanced at Eleanor.
Her grandmother was watching Stephen intently, hanging on his every word.
‘Yes, but the important thing, which I didn’t realise at the time, was that the fiftieth anniversary had marked the end of the Crown Copyright that covers the work of all war artists. The paintings were even more valuable then.’
‘In what way?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Artists or their estates were free to exploit their paintings—reproductions, postcards, licensing, not to mention selling them to museums and private collectors.’
Kathryn nodded. ‘And so Gower would earn more money too.’
‘Yes, but it isn’t just Jack he’s interested in. The discovery of your grandmother’s paintings adds to a small body of work by women war artists, and that money and prestige was far too tempting for Gower. Jack’s work alone would be valuable, but with the lost art of Eleanor Roy—well, it would be even more so.’
Kathryn sat down, taking in all that he had said. ‘Are you still working with him?’
‘Look, he’s done nothing wrong. In fact, he’s in a good position to get the works appraised and exhibited, so you may want to contact him.’
Kathryn looked at her grandmother, but Eleanor’s expression gave nothing away.
‘Of course, there is someone else I can recommend, if you would rather,’ Stephen suggested. ‘He runs a fine art gallery in London.’
‘Thank you, Stephen, but I think you’ve done enough,’ Kathryn said, her tone suddenly cold. ‘This is something that my grandmother and mother can work out together.’
‘Certainly, but here is one slight problem,’ he continued, ‘the copyright period for non-WAAC paintings is actually seventy years, so Gower has a dilemma on his hands. Identifying your grandmother’s paintings would mean waiting another five years before the copyright ends.’
‘So what do you think he’ll do?’
‘I’m not sure. I know he wants the prestige of making the discovery, but the rest is entirely up to you, Eleanor—what do you want?’
‘I want to know why Jack didn’t come to me before…or you?’
Stephen sighed and sat down in the chair opposite her.
‘I asked Jack about you after Gower suggested I find The Crimson Sun, but he said that you had worked for the committee. I could tell it upset him—his mood changed. He told me that he didn’t want to rake over the past. I didn’t tell him that I contacted you because I thought I was protecting him.’
‘But you’ve spoken to him about it now?’
‘Yes, and he wants to see you.’
Eleanor shot Kathryn a look. She had seen her grandmother’s emotions fluctuate over these past few days but now there was a steely determination in her eyes, and the promise of a smile on her lips.
It all seemed to fit into place. Kathryn knew how proud Stephen was of his uncle and his achievements, but did he know about the engagement? ‘But that’s not the only reason you didn’t tell Jack, is it?’ Kathryn said, fishing.
‘No, it’s not,’ Stephen said, returning Kathryn’s glare. ‘I’m sorry, Kathryn.’ He sounded sincere.
‘What for?’
‘Because it was my cowardice and greed…’ He stopped and looked away.
‘I don’t follow,’ she said with a frown.
‘I wanted to protect Jack, but I didn’t want to share his legacy with anyone either.’
She shook her head. ‘But why would you have had to?’
‘If people had found out that the paintings weren’t all his work, then it would follow that they don’t all belong to us.’
‘And you would have to give them back,’ she concluded.
‘Yes.’
‘And the reason you kept the diaries hidden?’
‘Because I suspected,’ he replied.
Eleanor’s mouth tightened and she looked down at her folded hands.
Stephen looked at her. ‘So it’s true?’
‘Suspected what?’ Kathryn asked.
Stephen kept his eyes on Eleanor, waiting for her reply.
She twisted in her chair so that she was facing her granddaughter. ‘Because, Kathryn, Jack is Abigail’s father…Jack is your grandfather.’
She leaned back in the chair and released a long breath: the weight of the great secret she had carried for so long.
First Kathryn felt disbelief, then it took her a moment to register what Eleanor had said, and it began falling into place: the mystery, Eleanor’s secrecy, fragments of information shared with her, memories that almost revealed what happened but weren’t quite enough.
But why hadn’t her grandmother told her? Why hadn’t she told any of them?
Then a thought flashed into her head. ‘But what about Grandpa?’
‘Edward will always be your and Tom’s grandfather, Kathryn. The same as he will always be Abigail’s father.’
‘Did he know?’
‘He never knew about Jack. He always thought I was a widow. We loved each other, Kathryn, the same as he loved you.’
‘So, this search wasn’t about what happened to Jack or selling the painting?’
‘No,’ Eleanor said forcefully. ‘It was about you finding him…and telling him who you are.’
Kathryn gaped at Eleanor and then sank back slowly into the chair, her gaze falling on the purple bloom of a flower in the wallpaper, staring trancelike.
The fact that Chris had thought this was some kind of wild-goose chase suddenly struck her as hysterically funny and she fought off the desire to laugh. What would he say when she told him the truth?
Her grandmother’s figure blurred as Kathryn fought the instinct to cry, overwhelmed by the sudden sadness of losing her grandfather, not yet able to accept this discovery. ‘So that’s why you could never let me see the diary?’ Kathryn murmured, realising that she and Stephen must be related; that he was a second cousin.
The wooden frame creaked as Stephen shifted to the edge of his seat. ‘We guessed that if your grandmother hadn’t told you about Jack all these years, she wasn’t going to now, but we were wrong. If you don’t mind me asking, Eleanor,’ Stephen said. ‘What made you change your mind?’
‘It was my granddaughter,’ she said, hands stretching out towards Kathryn. ‘I realised that sometimes the future needs protecting more than the past does.’
Kathryn’s gaze flicked up to Eleanor and then back down, her lips quivering as she struggled to hold back her tears.
The atmosphere in the room had changed. The tension dissipated, the confrontational mood replaced by one of warmth, and the three of them were silent as they registered all that had changed. Kathryn should still have been angry but there was too much else to think about now and too many questions she had for her grandmother.
She looked at Stephen. ‘Can you give us some time alone, to process this?’
‘Of course.’ He stood and bent forward and took Eleanor’s hand between his. ‘We’ll see you soon, though?’
‘Yes, I’m looking forward to it,’ she replied, patting his hand.
‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ he said, straightening. But when he reached the door, he stopped and turned to Kathryn. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.’
She waited for the front door to close and for her breathing to even out.
‘Come and sit down, Katie.’
Kathryn moved slowly. Sitting on a corner of the sofa close to Eleanor, she looked at her thoughtfully. ‘There are so many things I want to ask you.’
‘I know, Katie. I’m sorry.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us before…Oh my God, does Mum know?’
‘No. I couldn’t tell you, any of you, not before Edward died. He might not have been blood family, but he was a father to Abigail and a grandfather to you and Tom—I couldn’t take that away from him.’
Kathryn glanced over at the window and the footsteps retreating across the gravel drive, the car door slamming and an engine starting. Stephen drove away.
When she looked back, Eleanor was still gazing at her. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you. I didn’t know if you would ever find him. What if you didn’t, what was the point?’ Her voice cracked. ‘You would have all just had a lot of heartache and more questions.’ She stopped for a moment, swallowing hard. ‘I couldn’t risk it until I knew he was still alive and mentally sound…I couldn’t risk you all hating me.’
‘We couldn’t hate you, don’t be silly,’ Kathryn said, with a look of tenderness as she reached for her grandmother’s hands.
‘You’re not angry with me?’
‘No, not angry, just a little confused. Pops died five years ago, so why now?’
‘I was going to leave it. I thought let sleeping dogs lie, but when Stephen contacted me…and seeing you, Kathryn…all this soul-searching and uncertainty. I thought it might help to settle you—knowing who you really are, where you came from. I want you to get on and enjoy your life,’ she said, gripping Kathryn’s hands more tightly.
Kathryn shook her head. ‘And what if we hadn’t found him?’
‘Then you would have just gone home, and no harm done. This really was the only way. I couldn’t have found him on my own.’
Kathryn thought about Eleanor’s words, that it might settle you, but surely it would be far more unsettling for her grandmother—unless she really did want to know what happened to him. She supposed that her instinct to know would have been as strong as Eleanor’s.
‘So Jack did nothing more than try to help you and paint some pictures for a few greedy officers, and you were both punished by never being able to be together?’ Kathryn said, thinking aloud.
‘I don’t think it was ever anything sinister, Katie. The WAAC just didn’t want those things made public. I always assumed they simply didn’t want any issues with their war artists distracting from their work.’
She examined Eleanor’s face. They might have a different history now but she was still the same grandmother Kathryn knew and loved, and with the same smile; the same one that Eleanor had worn in the engagement photograph seventy years ago. And it was that photograph she would be showing to her mother and Tom in a few days’ time.
‘You really loved him, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, Kathryn,’ Eleanor replied without hesitation. ‘I most certainly did.’
‘And when did you give up on him?’
Eleanor’s expression changed, and all traces of sadness disappeared.
‘I never gave up on him, Katie. I always hoped he would come back. But, when he didn’t, my father found a husband for me just as he said he would. Luckily, it was Edward.’ And she smiled.
Kathryn felt she understood but there must have been so many times when Eleanor wanted to confide in them—and what about Cecily and her brothers—had any of them known? She would let her mother have that conversation; there had been enough revelations for one day. There was still one question she did want to ask, though.
‘And what about your dreams of being a war artist? You had to let those go too.’
Her grandmother was thoughtful for a moment before she spoke. ‘Yes, Katie, but I loved being a teacher, and look at what I got in return.’ Her hand was gently stroking the side of her granddaughter’s face.