ABIGAIL

She had made her way back to Richard’s cottage, a haven. The relief of walking down the hill to Lynmouth, turning the corner, passing the Rhenish tower, watching the water lash at the rocks beyond, seeing the village winding away and up the valley, the river meandering in between the buildings, a babble behind, a man in glasses and a cap fishing from his balcony at the back of his house. She wanted to linger in the small square of garden, chat with his neighbours over the fence, sit on the bench with his father playing draughts and drinking glasses of cold water.

Beth was there as she arrived, sitting on a rug in the front garden, her baby swaddled in layers in her arms, her son roaming around on a search for snails.

‘Mama, mama.’ He looked up from squatting in the middle of the flowerbeds.

Beth smiled slowly, her face pale but content. ‘Don’t trample the flowers, George.’

‘Not ’ramplin’.’

Abigail moved across to the fence, feeling lighter already, giggling as she saw George watching in fascination as he followed a snail trail with one finger. He looked up at her, blowing his fringe out of his eyes with a puff, then scrabbled backwards to the safety of his mother on the rug.

‘I’m sorry.’ Abigail laughed, realizing she had scared him away.

‘You’re not normally shy, George,’ Beth chided. ‘That’s Abigail. Say hello to her.’

He hid behind his mother.

‘Are you well?’ Beth called over. ‘I’d get up, but…’ She shrugged from her spot on the ground, a light laugh.

‘No, don’t, you definitely have your hands full.’ Abigail looked at the little boy, his feet turned inwards, dressed in corduroy shorts and a shirt. ‘What were you looking for, George?’

He paused, a quick glance at his mother, who nodded encouragement. ‘Go on.’

He took a step towards her, not quite meeting her eye. ‘Snails.’

‘Ahhhh,’ Abigail said, peering over the fence and down the wooden boards. ‘I bet you’ll find one if you keep looking.’ She scoured the panels, pretending to search. ‘Is that one?’ she asked in an innocent voice, gratified that George had trotted over on unsteady legs to crouch down and stare.

‘Where? Where?’

‘I think he just disappeared behind that pot.’ She giggled as he turned his intense gaze on the terracotta pot spilling over with rosemary. ‘How are you coping with the two of them?’ she called across, watching Beth reach a hand out to tuck the blanket in.

‘It’s busy. It’s his christening next week.’ She nodded at the bundle in her arms. ‘So we’ve been making plans, but everyone’s been so kind, dropping us in food and all sorts.’

The baby was sleeping, his eyes shut, his pudgy hands clutching at the woollen blanket over him, a solemn expression on his face as if he were in the middle of a very serious dream.

‘He’s gorgeous,’ Abigail said, wanting to walk across the lawn and stroke his skin, impossibly smooth and new, feel his fingers curl around one of her own.

‘He was a lot less gorgeous last night! But you’re right,’ Beth said, unable to stop a smile from spreading across her face as she looked down at him.

Richard emerged from the house and leant against the doorway, his arms folded. Abigail felt her face move into a smile, everything else melting away as she took him in. His shirtsleeves rolled up, his skin browner from the recent good weather, his hair curling over his collar.

‘Hello there,’ he said softly, walking across to her. He bent over the fence too, grinning down at George, who was still rootling around in the earth near the terracotta pot. ‘Digging for treasure?’

George looked up. ‘Treasure,’ he mumbled, at the same time as Beth called out, ‘Richard, do not give him ideas!’

‘What?’ Richard laughed as Abigail nudged him. ‘He could find gold.’

George had raised his head, twisting back and forth from his mother to Richard, the whites of his eyes more pronounced than ever. ‘Gold?’

‘Oh goodness.’ Beth laughed, the baby snuffling as she rocked.

‘Right, we need to get out of here before Tom comes back and skins you alive.’ Abigail giggled, automatically reaching out a hand to Richard’s arm. She felt everything unclench within her, the last few days insignificant in this patch of sunny garden.

He threw an arm across her shoulders as they walked back towards the cottage and she felt herself leaning into his warmth, a thrill running through her body, her breathing faster. They entered the house together, the hallway dark as their eyes adjusted. The cottage was so familiar to her now she’d become a regular visitor, and she felt her whole body unfurl as she stepped across the hallway. The door on the left was open, revealing Martin’s bedroom, his slippers resting next to the bed, shafts of sunlight spilling into the room.

‘You’re right on time,’ Martin called out from the living room opposite.

For a second she stared up at Richard, their eyes meeting in the silence.

She moved through, leant down to kiss him on the cheek. ‘That’s a new tie,’ she said, admiring the jaunty yellow spots.

Martin adjusted it with a half-smile. ‘See, Richard, a lady of taste. Boy hasn’t noticed,’ he added.

‘Just jealous, Dad,’ Richard called from the pantry at the back, the steam from the kettle whistling on the range.

She was fussed over, told to sit, already happier, being back in the small front room, fresh flowers from the garden in a jug on the windowsill, jigsaw boxes piled up on the window seat, the latest laid out on a table in the corner, a painting of a steam engine emerging from the shapes. They sat and chatted and ate coffee cake, Richard missing a spot of icing on his mouth, Abigail grinning at Martin as he pointed it out.

It had started to spit lightly, droplets clinging to the panes of glass, the sky now a milky grey. She knew she had to leave, had to head back to the house. She’d told her sister she liked to walk up on the moors, but lately Connie had started to ask more questions. She wondered if she suspected something, if she wanted to ask. She bent to kiss Martin on the cheek, moved to the doorway, spilling thanks.

‘Wait there,’ he said, reaching for his walking stick, shooing Richard away with the other hand. ‘I’m fine, just let me.’

Richard stepped back, taking Abigail’s hand in his. For a second she froze, then allowed her hand to relax in his grip, enjoyed the sensation of their skin touching. Martin was rifling in the top drawer of a dresser, taking things out, placing them on the side, rummaging. Finally he produced a small box.

Resting back in his chair, his chest rising and falling with the effort, he looked up at her. ‘For you,’ he said, holding out the box to Abigail.

Glancing at Richard, she released his hand and crossed the room, taking the box from Martin. Looking at him for permission to open it; he nodded almost imperceptibly and she lifted the lid.

Inside, resting on a velvet cushion, was a brooch: the silhouette of a woman in profile, in cream on a lilac background.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, not wanting to sound false or over the top. It really was a lovely piece of jewellery, delicate, the cream woman made out of shell.

‘She wore it often. She would have loved to have seen someone have it, someone special to us.’

The lump in her throat had returned and she blinked, placing the brooch back on its cushion. ‘Thank you. I love it.’

‘Well now, don’t start crying on me, I haven’t made a lady cry in years and I don’t plan to start now.’ His voice was gruff as he said it, and he clapped a hand on his thigh.

Richard had appeared at her side, one hand on the small of her back, looking at it over her shoulder before she closed the lid. ‘She adored that brooch,’ he said, his voice low and controlled.

For a brief second Abigail panicked that he was unhappy she’d been given it. It did seem like such a generous gift, and it had belonged to his mother. She felt the box grow heavier with this responsibility.

‘She would have loved you having it.’ He closed her hand over the box. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ he said quietly, his eyes watering so that he had to look away.

‘Pah!’ Martin waved them both away with a hand and a laugh. ‘Get out before we all start weeping on one another. You make sure this one looks after you, Abigail, and you come back and see us again soon.’

‘Definitely,’ Abigail said, leaning down again to kiss the old man’s cheek, feeling the bristles under her lips, smelling Old Spice.

He turned as red as the teapot. ‘Well don’t be expecting presents every time. I’ll be wanting you making the tea next time you’re about.’

‘Naturally.’ She laughed as she crossed the room, the box gripped tight in her hand, safe with her: Maisie’s brooch.

She clutched the brooch to her all the way back, leaving Richard at the bottom of Mars Hill, his promises to meet again soon still in her ears as she climbed the hill away from him, grinning goofily as she let herself in, straining her ears for noises before taking the stairs two at a time.

Her room seemed different somehow. Had she left the bedspread with those creases on the right? Had she not plumped her pillow? There still seemed to be a depression where her head would be. She had thought she’d left the window open on the first notch of the fastening, had she closed it without thinking? Had she left her hairbrush resting on its bristles, the smeared silver facing up?

She traced a finger along the chest of drawers, straightened the lace doily under the wash bowl, turned the handle of the jug to ninety degrees. The book she had been reading was still resting on the bedside table, a bookmark sticking out. A glass of water, almost empty, alongside it. Her eyes flicked over to the wardrobe, which was ajar an inch. She lifted the brass handle to push it closed, pausing momentarily to wonder why it had been open in the first place. Taking a breath, she pulled the door back, revealing lines of blouses, skirts, pressed and hung in neat order, her cardigans folded up in a pile, the drawer with her underclothes shut.

Feeling silly now, paranoid, she pushed the door shut, hearing the latch click into place. She sat on the trunk at the end of the bed, breathing evenly as she calmed herself. He hadn’t been here. And yet the room felt different, smelt different, not hers.

That night she hid the brooch between layers of undergarments, secreted between silk, thinking of Maisie and Martin and their marriage, their sons, imagining the woman in the photograph wearing it.

She wished for the twentieth time that there was a lock on the door and that she was mistress of the only key. She felt fidgety, restless as she went to lie on her bed, reached for her book, tried to focus on the words and stop her mind creating things that hadn’t happened. She couldn’t help but have one eye always watching the doorknob, a shadow in the crack below, one ear listening for the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. She chewed her lower lip and lay back. The words, focus on the words. She rested her head on the pillow and, for a moment, imagined the scent of pipe smoke and mothballs filling her nostrils, then she took a breath and forced herself to read.

She pinned it to her chest in the morning, under a cardigan so that it remained her secret, another secret. She knew she would have to tell her sister soon, wanted her to know, yet something stopped her, she felt herself wavering on the edge of a confession. She would wait a little longer.