For the second time in less than twelve hours, Lou hesitated outside Tom’s bedroom. But on this occasion, the singing downstairs reminded her there was no time for indecision. She pushed the door open, and as she crossed the threshold, an invisible hand reached inside her chest and gripped her heart.
There were books laid out on the table as though the reader had just placed them down, an ashtray, complete with cigarette stubs on the arm of the chair, a pair of riding boots beside the fireplace, and a battered suitcase beside the bed.
Lou clutched the key. The teeth biting into her hand brought back to herself. If she was going to go rooting around in this room, then she had to do it now, before someone came and found her and wanted to know what the hell she was doing sneaking around where she had no right to be.
Summoning what little historian’s dispassion she could muster, she crossed the room, but in the few steps it took to reach the desk, all trace of dispassion fizzled away. Her hand shook as she turned the key in the lock and pushed up the roll top lid. The dry wood rattled as it laboured along the metal tracks and a musty smell escaped. It was the scent of old paper, of ink dried to a crust in an open bottle, of pencil shavings that had lain where they had fallen one hundred years earlier. And, amidst the bottles and papers and shavings, sat a parcel.
Lou stared at it for a moment. She reached and ran her fingertips over the brittle brown paper, a swell of nerves surging in her stomach. Who was she to open this package that had been hidden for a century; which had become a part of the fabric of this house, a part of its mythology? She fingered the string holding the paper in place. Who had wrapped this parcel so neatly and taking such great care? Had it been Sally, or Charlotte, or both? Charlotte. She had lived. She had not just lived, she had thrived. And along with Sally, she had wanted Lou to have whatever this parcel contained.
A breath escaped Lou’s lips, and before she could talk herself out of it, she pulled the end of the string. The neat bow unravelled and a flurry of fibres drifted to the floor. She carefully prised back the paper. Her heart leapt and instantly sank.
Wrapped inside the neat folds was a slim buff-coloured volume, its once pristine leather cover now worn, faded and water-stained. Lou pressed the surface of the book. Every memory attached to the book seeped into her fingertips. She saw Tom in the library, smiling at her, teasing that he only read Shakespeare’s sonnets. She saw herself pretending to read the philosophy before the fire in the morning room, when she was so sure that she could help the Mandevilles. But, most vivid of all, was the memory of Tom standing before her last night, confessing that he had read Plato’s words to feel close to her. He had taken this book to France with him. It had touched his personal possessions, his shaving things, his clothes, his uniform. Had he read Plato’s words again to feel close to her? A piece of paper stuck from the pages of the book. She pulled it free. Yellowed with age, the story torn from the page of a newspaper was dated 30 August 1914. Beneath the headline ‘The Fall of a Hero’, and in large bold text, was a quote from Sir Charles.
‘On that summer’s day, in a field in France, the glorious sun that was Thomas, set for the final time. While there is a Mandeville alive, he will be remembered. But the world in which we must all now live will be a darker place without him; without our boy.’
Each word cut like a razor to Lou’s soul. Pain seeped from Sir Charles’ words and cried out from this shrine a grief-stricken family had created so their boy would not be forgotten. The Mandeville’s pain was her pain. Their boy, her boy.
The words of the obituary formed a border around a black and white photograph of Tom in uniform. It wasn’t the splendid uniform of braid and feathers of his mother’s painting down in the hall, but a studio portrait in which he wore khakis and puttees and a cap. He looked so normal, so like Lou’s Tom.
‘Please take me back to him. Even if just for a minute.’
This house had spoken to her outside in the storm, it had turned on the hot water tap when she was cold, it had taken her back one hundred years. It could do this one thing, couldn’t it? She closed her eyes, picturing Tom sitting in the chair beside the fire, stroking his invisible moustache. When she opened her eyes again, she was back in the cold room. Loneliness stretched out like a road with no end. There was no way back. The door to Tom had closed forever. Tears began to stream down her cheeks. A sob made her chest heave. She took the book in her hands. The spine, broken through use, fell open at a well-thumbed page. A passage had been underlined, a few words written in the margin in grey pencil:
Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song.
LA,
You are my reason. You are my song.
TM. 22nd August 1914
Lou’s hands began to tremble. She willed herself back to last night; to Tom’s smile as he had kissed her; to their hands grasping at her corset in their desperation to get to one another; to his lips tracing the curve of her waist and stomach. She could still smell him on her skin, in her hair. They had slept in that bed, kicking away the sheets because the heat of their bodies was the only warmth they needed. That bed would never know them again, it would be forever empty, forever cold.
‘You said you’d find me, Tom. You promised. I can’t face a world without you in it. I just can’t. Why did I let you go?’ Afraid that her tears would spoil the book, she dug in her pocket. Pulling her hand free, she found that she was clutching not a tissue, but a grubby handkerchief, embroidered in the corner with two initials. TM.
She collapsed into the chair beside the fire and muffled her cries with the handkerchief that still smelled of woody cologne. A travel rug draped over the back of the chair slipped down and rested about her shoulders. Behind Lou, the curtains billowed although the window was closed and the air outside was perfectly still.
‘There you are,’ Mum said, easing through the throng in the hall. ‘You missed a smashing concert.’ She joined Lou to look up at the portrait beneath the stairs. ‘I’ve always liked that painting. He’s very handsome, don’t you think? With kind eyes.’
Lou pressed the book-shaped bulge in the pocket of her parka as the crowd parted, making way for a wheelchair.
Will brought the chair to a stop. ‘Hello again, Louisa. We wanted to catch you before you leave. This must be your mum. It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs Arnold.’ Will held out his hand. ‘I’m William Morrison, and this is my great-grandfather, Bert.’
Not used to shaking hands, Lou’s mum blushed as she took Will’s hand. ‘Are you friends of Lou’s?’ she asked, sounding a tad confused.
Bertie lifted his chin from his chest. ‘Louisa is a tremendous friend to us. And to Hill House.’
‘Lou’s been helping with …’ Will paused as though working out how to phrase his words. ‘With a long-term regeneration programme of Hill House.’
‘Has she now?’ Mum slipped her arm through Lou’s. ‘Well, our Lou has always loved history.’
Bertie’s eyes came to rest on Lou. ‘Louisa still doesn’t fully appreciate what she’s done for us. The help she has given.’
‘That’s my Lou all over,’ Mum said, squeezing Lou’s arm. ‘She’s always hiding her light under a bushel. And I’m sorry, gentlemen. You’ll have to excuse her today. She’s a bit under the weather. She goes quiet when she’s poorly. Always has, even when she was a little girl.’
Bertie’s blanket fell from his knees. Lou’s mum knelt to collect it from the floor. As she tucked it around Bertie’s lap, checking that he was ok, Will took a step closer to Lou. ‘You’ll be all right, I promise,’ he said, his quiet words lost to anybody but her. ‘You’ll always have friends at Hill House. And you’ve got my number. Phone me. Anytime. I’ll always be there for you, Lou.’ He ran his fingers through his fringe and made to turn away. Lou stopped him.
‘Will, I just want to thank you,’ she whispered. ‘For everything.’
‘It’s us that should be thanking you. Perhaps in the New Year, you’ll let me take you for that meal. You know, we could catch up.’
‘I’d like that. But it’ll be my treat.’
Will smiled. ‘I know better now than to argue with you, Louisa Arnold.’
He took her hands in his and gave them a gentle squeeze before taking the handles of the wheelchair. Bertie and Will said their goodbyes, Will turning the wheelchair in the direction of the ballroom.
‘They were nice, weren’t they?’ Mum said. ‘And you’re a dark horse. I had no idea you were helping here. What is it, some kind of volunteering project?’
Lou nodded and moved in closer to her mum.
‘You’re still not right, are you? Come on, then, let’s get you home. I’ll make you a nice hot chocolate. If you’re good, I might even let you have one of the gingerbread men I made yesterday. How does that sound?’
Lou rested her head on her mum’s shoulder. Keeping her hand over the book in her pocket, she walked slowly by her mum’s side. Together, they left Hill House.