‘AH, THERE YOU are, I wondered where you’d—’
‘This. This!’
Josephine blinked in surprise from Pip to the drawing she’d thrust out towards her. ‘Where did you …?’
‘Why would … why … why would …?’ Her breaths came in jagged gasps. ‘Please, I must know.’
‘Dear girl—’
‘Miss Josephine, d’you know who this is?’
The woman had risen from her chair, face wreathed in puzzlement. She nodded without hesitation. ‘Of course.’
If the master’s dogs had cartwheeled into the room, Pip couldn’t have been more thunderstruck at what her mistress uttered next. She gawped at her, mouth hanging wide. ‘What?’
‘I said that the woman in that picture is Lydia May.’
Pip shook her head. What was she talking about? Her name was Annie and she was her mother. Lydia May was Cook’s daughter. Had the lady here lost her senses?
She turned the picture around and scanned it to check she hadn’t snatched up a different one from the pile in the study by mistake. But no; again, her beautiful mother gazed back at her. Hot tears of frustration stung behind Pip’s eyes.
‘What is the meaning of all this?’ Josephine spoke quietly, gently. ‘Where on earth did you find that picture? More importantly, what has you in such a tizzy over it? Pip, speak to me. Dear girl, what is it?’
‘Miss Josephine … Miss Josephine …’ Breath-snatching clarity, the possibility, truth …
‘Yes, yes? What’s wrong?’
‘Miss Josephine …’ Pip scrabbled for the lady’s hand and clung to it as though she was drowning. Which she was. A sea of chaos, pain, utter confusion, battered her mind. Wave followed wave, crashing the incredulous thoughts against one another.
She had to get out of here. She couldn’t, couldn’t …
‘Pip, please, tell me what—’
‘Air. I, I need …’ She disentangled her fingers from her mistress’s and walked from the room. Without thought or reason, for her legs were in charge now and she hadn’t a say in it, she found herself in the study once more, where she placed the picture in the leather carrier along with the others and returned everything to the drawer. She locked it, turned, and retraced her steps. After dropping the key into the pocket where she’d found it, she again descended the stairs. Then she headed for the kitchen.
‘All right, lass? Sup of tea? Lass, d’you hear?’
Pip, having ground to a halt, stared at the cook mutely. Emotion had deserted body and mind. She felt numb, nothing. She turned slowly, crossed to the back door and let herself out.
When she next became aware of herself, she was standing in the Green by the lakelet, gazing unseeing into its inky belly. Her senses were unaware of the surroundings; the birdsong, the smell of frost and winter foliage, the sting of the bitter breeze on her face, whipping her uncovered hair around her head like wild, golden snakes – nothing could touch her.
Mam never had mentioned a single member of her family. Dead, she’d said they were, long gone before her only child was born, and she didn’t like to speak of them, for their loss hurt. Pip had believed it without question. Of course she had; why wouldn’t she? Just the two of them. That’s how it had always been. Only each other, in the whole world, is what they’d had.
Lies.
Speaking of the past wasn’t something Mam indulged in; she would change the subject if Pip enquired about something. And it mattered not, not really, no, for they had needed no one else. And Mam made sure that the present was enough, and their future was the thing to look towards, nothing else. Just the two of them, for fathers and grandparents and siblings and aunts, great-aunts and uncles … they didn’t exist. Not for her.
Lies. Lies.
‘Don’t ever flee from your problems, lass, for there’s not a body alive can out-run what’s in the mind. Face it, resolve it. Trust in God’s protection and you’ll not go far wrong.’
Those words had fallen from her mother’s lips not long before she died. Her wisdom about things, about the world beyond their cellar door, had impressed Pip. She recalled thinking at the time that Mam had never run from anything for she knew instinctively it wasn’t the way to beat your demons. Clever, she was. More than anyone else she knew, and she was proud of her.
Lies. Lies. Lies.
Something Cook had said recently, about the ability to sense spirits, now came back to Pip: ‘Got passed down, it did, from my mam – famous for it were Annie May …’ She squeezed her eyes shut. Everything was slotting into place. Clearly, Mam had decided a new identity would be wiser, to fit with her fresh life. She’d adopted her grandmother’s name. It must have been the first one that came to her when choosing – she must have thought a lot of her, been close to her. Pity she’d deprived her child of the same opportunity with her own.
How different life could have been. The anger inside her expanded further.
Mam had kept herself to herself, was civil with their neighbours but never allowed herself to get too friendly, too close, reveal too much, Pip realised now. She’d kept the world out and her secrets locked tightly within. She’d likely reasoned that in escaping to a larger town, there would be a higher chance of securing work. Blending in. Disappearing amongst the multitude of faces for ever. She’d ended up in Manchester, a suitable distance from her home in Bolton. Perhaps also, part of the decision may have been that her aunt, Cook’s sister, lived here. Had Mam planned to throw herself on her mercy but for whatever reason decided against it, to go it alone instead, at the last minute? They would never know.
By some twist of fate, the very people she’d felt the need to cut free of had themselves relocated to the same city. And Cook, she’d fretted each day since, pined still for the daughter she was certain would return some day.
But she wouldn’t. Because she was gone for good. Annie, Lydia, were one and the same. And both were dead.
How could this be? How could her mother have lied to her all those years? She’d been reared but a short distance from Bracken House, from kith and kin, for all that time with neither side having an idea how near to one another they dwelled. It was too incredible to accept, to bear. How had this, any of this, been allowed to happen? All those wasted years! So much loss, on both sides – with Pip stuck in the centre, missing out more than anyone, without a single clue it was occurring.
Again, numbness wrapped around her heart like a protective shield and she welcomed it, for the pain in her was like nothing she’d known before and never would again, she was certain. The one constant throughout her entire time on this earth, the person who had loved, protected, nurtured, was a stranger, a fake. Annie had never existed. Right now, Pip wished she herself didn’t either.
Footsteps and familiar laughter floated towards her from beyond the railings. She blinked and moved behind a tree to steal a look at the trio passing down the wide street. Father, mother, daughter. A family. Perfect, right. As it should be. As everyone deserved …
Again, Miss Lucy’s laughter – yet now, it brought none of the warmness to Pip’s soul that it always had. For the first time, black envy of the innocent little girl she’d only ever loved, had felt instantly drawn to – dear God, now she understood why – who had the life she’d been cheated of, stirred. And Pip hated herself for it. She hated him.
The urge to scream at the top of her lungs to the world and everyone in it struck her with such force that pain stung her throat. Slowly, the corrosive fog clogging her breast began to clear. Bitterness towards her mother, which she’d never believed she could ever feel, was leaving her. It was replaced with an altogether stronger emotion – fury – towards another: Philip Goldthorpe.
Pip, she thought suddenly. Mam liked that name. A smile would stroke her lips whenever she uttered it. Pip. Philip. They sounded eerily similar, too much so to be coincidence. Had it been a secret reminder of him? Had bestowing it upon her daughter brought her a modicum of happiness, made her feel she was keeping his name and his memory alive? She’d never ceased loving him, had she?
A deadness settled within her. Neither her mother nor anyone else was to blame in all this. He was. He’d used her, cast her aside, broken her, left her feeling she had no option but to abandon all she’d ever known and loved. He’d ruined her life. In the process, he’d dashed any chance of a normal existence for the child he’d helped create. For her. And to all intents and purposes, he’d done so with an easy mind. He cared not a fig, wondered about it less. He’d ejected it from his mind as callously as he’d rejected the woman who adored him.
He deserved to pay.
He’d destroyed the lives of others. Now, it was his turn. She’d smash to dust all he held dear, as he’d done to her.
When she was finished with him, he’d be the one wishing he’d never been born.