“A wedding day should be a magnificent affair,” Bella said, staring down at the small, sad bunch of wildflowers in her hand. “A celebration. A display of love.”
“Our wedding day is all of those things,” I assured her. The elopement was, of course, my idea. “And more. Because it’s us, for ever.” I kissed her forehead. “And so we don’t need anyone else. Ever.”
Biding Time, by Nathaniel Drury (1967)
I caught up with Nathaniel on the front drive, just as a large, black taxi cab pulled to a stop in front of the house, and Isabelle stepped out. Caroline had beaten us both, and was standing with her hands on her hips watching the proceedings.
“Nathaniel, darling, have you got any cash on you?” Isabelle asked, hooking her pale cream handbag over her arm. “Kia, my bags are in the boot, if you wouldn’t mind.”
I stepped forward automatically and opened the boot, as Nathaniel paid the driver. Isabelle, meanwhile, sashayed her way towards the house, looking for all the world like an ageing film star.
She’d obviously had peace and quiet and assistance to prepare herself for the party; her silver-blonde hair was perfectly waved and pinned at the back of her head, her make-up was flawless, and her cream shot-silk suit glittered in the sunlight. She looked every inch the bride she’d decided to be for the day.
The guests were starting to arrive, too, by the time I’d stashed away Isabelle’s bags. In just moments, the chaos of tents and family members shouting instructions at each other had melted away, and a real wedding-y atmosphere had emerged.
Over by the trees, the string quartet were settling in for the long haul, starting off with the ever popular Pachelbel’s Canon. Waiters in three-piece suits were circulating with trays of champagne, Kir Royale, and Pimm’s, which were being grabbed up gratefully by guests as they stepped out of their cars. Ribbons tied to chairs and tables and tents and flower arrangements fluttered in the slight breeze, as puffy white clouds floated across overhead. Mum and Ellie were standing alongside Isabelle to shake hands and kiss cheeks, and the air was awash with the scent of roses and too much perfume. Greg hovered at Ellie’s elbow, ready to cater to her every whim, I supposed. Every now and then she’d twist and smile at him, and the light that filled his face almost made me jealous. Not jealous that she made him that happy – I was past that. But just that I’d never had that effect on anyone.
Ellie and Greg were truly happy, and I was so glad that was the case. But it didn’t stop me wanting some of that happiness for myself, with my own right person. If I ever found them.
“Saskia!” I turned at the sound of my name, only to find myself suddenly accosted by a gaggle of women – old friends of Isabelle’s. I’d never been able to keep them all straight when I lived at Rosewood, so the chances of me remembering their names now was slim. Fortunately, they didn’t seem to need me to talk at all.
“Well, darling, this is a nice surprise!” A woman in a green straw hat pressed a powdery kiss to my cheek. “We weren’t at all sure that you’d be back for this little party you know.”
“Isabelle did say that with your very important job she wasn’t sure you’d be able to get away,” another woman, this one dressed in flamingo pink, said. Of course Isabelle wouldn’t have wanted to let on that she hadn’t invited me. That there was a potential, scandalous reason why I might not be welcomed back at Rosewood.
Mrs Pink frowned. “What is it that you do again, dear?”
“I’m a reporter,” I said, but no one was listening.
“Never mind her job,” Mrs Green said. “What we all want to know is where your young man is!”
“I’ll be honest,” a third lady said. I dubbed her Mrs Poppy, as her dress was liberally covered in large poppy prints that did nothing to disguise her very ample curves. “I always thought that the next wedding we’d be attending at Rosewood would be yours, Saskia.”
“Well, it’s not really a wedding…” I started.
“So, where is he?” Mrs Pink asked, prodding me with a bony elbow. “Your young man, I mean.”
How to answer that one? Did I say ‘Perth’ and continue the Duncan fiction? But that would only lead to more questions about why he hadn’t come with me. Did I claim I didn’t have one? Or would that just earn me pitying glances or – worse – attempts to set me up with their grandsons. I’d already been through that when Ellie and Greg got engaged, thank you very much.
Fortunately, I had an unlikely saviour.
“Saskia?” Edward appeared at my side, and put a hand at my waist. Isabelle’s friends all awwed. In fact, I think Mrs Pink honestly swooned. I couldn’t really blame her. Dressed in a charcoal grey suit, his hair neatly combed, Edward was the epitome of a classic English gentleman. “I think your dad is looking for you.”
“Excuse me.” I gave the gaggle a suitably polite smile, then walked quickly in the opposite direction, my hand tucked through Edward’s arm. “Thank God for that,” I said, the moment we were a respectable distance away. “Is Dad really looking for me?”
“No idea,” Edward said cheerfully. “But you looked like you were about to rip that woman’s hideous green hat off and stamp on it, so I thought I’d better get you out of there.”
“Good call. Isn’t green unlucky for weddings, though?”
“Why would I know?” Edward asked. “Besides, this isn’t actually a wedding.”
“Right.” No service to attend, no Master of Ceremonies to boss us about. “So, where are we going then?” We were still striding across the gardens, after all.
“The bar. Where else?” Edward flashed me a grin, and I returned it.
Maybe the day wouldn’t be entirely awful, after all.
In the end, it was everything a pseudo wedding should be, until the after-dinner speeches.
I’d been sat, with a slightly less professional name plate, exactly where Edward had written me onto the table plan – just apart from the rest of the family, on an extra chair shoved in between some second cousins, Edward and my godfather.
Pat Norris had been the family lawyer long before he took responsibility for my religious upbringing, and we were all very fond of him. The fact that he retained us as clients, despite having retired to the Welsh coast years ago, suggested that he felt the same about us.
“How are things in Perth?” Pat asked, pouring me a glass of white wine from the ice bucket in the centre of the table.
“Fine.” I took a large gulp. “The usual. Busy.”
“I keep asking your grandfather when I’m going to see your name on a hardback in the shops. You were always determined to be a writer like him when you were little.”
Beside me, Edward had a curious eyebrow raised. Time to change the subject. “I don’t suppose Nathaniel mentioned his speech for today in any of these little chats?”
Pat shook his head. “He’s being most secretive. Not secretive enough that we don’t all know he’s planning something, of course…”
“Of course. What would be the point of that?” I turned to Edward. “Have you read the speech?”
Edward shook his head, but his eyes never left the top table, where Nathaniel was pulling out Isabelle’s chair for her. “But I’ve got a suspicion about what he’s going to say,” he murmured.
He wouldn’t say any more. And when, an hour or so later, Nathaniel clinked his fork against his glass and stood up to speak, I understood why.
“When I met Isabelle, over fifty years ago now, she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. As you can see from looking at her today, that hasn’t changed.” Nathaniel reached down to touch Isabelle’s hand, and my grandmother made an attempt at a modest look down at the table. At the family table, I saw Therese roll her eyes.
“Fifty years of marriage is a huge achievement for anyone,” Nathaniel went on, pulling away from his wife and addressing his audience head on. “And I cannot claim that it has always been an easy journey.” I winced, and Edward patted my hand where it rested on the table.
“It’s not going to get any better,” Edward murmured in what he may have misguidedly thought was a comforting tone. “You might want to pour yourself some more wine.” I took his advice.
“But, as all writers know, that’s where the best stories lie – in the trials and the tribulations, the scandal and the betrayals. And what is life, if not our greatest story?”
All of a sudden, I had a terrible premonition of where this was going. “He’s not planning to…” I started to say, but Edward put one long finger to his lips and shushed me, a crooked smile on his face.
“Which is why it gives me great pleasure to announce, here, in front of all the friends and family who have gossiped about us over the years, that you will finally have the opportunity to find out the truth behind the legends – and all for the low price of eighteen ninety-nine, I expect.”
Rustling and whispering ran around the tables, and Isabelle had a rictus grin fixed on her perfectly made-up face. Two tables over, Ellie was whispering urgently in Mum’s ear.
“I can see most of you have caught on by now,” Nathaniel boomed, amusement in his voice. “That’s right – the next book I publish will be my own memoirs. An accurate, and hopefully entertaining, rendition of my life, my marriage, my family and my work – not that I think any of you will be reading it to find out about my writing habits!” There was a ripple of laughter among the outer lying tables – the ones occupied by people who knew they wouldn’t appear between the pages of Nathaniel’s memory.
“I have found, however, that writing an autobiography requires a different mindset to that of fiction. The research, surprisingly, is far more in depth, as I desperately try to remember the name of my first cousin – the one who got shot in Chicago – or who else attended the party we threw upon moving in to Rosewood.” He didn’t even glance down at Isabelle as he said that, but her face grew even tighter and more still. Was that the party he’d been talking about in the tree house? How much of what he’d told me had been story – and what on earth was the truth?
“It became quickly apparent to me that I needed a research assistant. But, as my family will testify, I haven’t had the best of luck with assistants in the past.” Another chuckle, from those who’d heard the stories of past assistants, but not from those of us who’d actually lived through it. Edward, I noticed, had refilled his own wine glass, and was drinking it steadily down.
“What I needed this time, I realised, was someone who understood what I was trying to do, someone with experience in this field. Someone who could turn my recollections into true biography.” Nathaniel looked over in our direction. “Well, stand up, boy! Everyone, I’d like you to meet my collaborator in this project. The esteemed biographer and excellent writer in his own right, Edward Hollis.”
As soon as I heard the name, I wondered why I’d not figured it out sooner. No author pictures on the covers of his books, I suppose. Edward staggered awkwardly to his feet, very briefly, before dropping back down in his chair. Esteemed biographer indeed, I thought. The name Edward Hollis was synonymous with unflinching accuracy and truth, even in his biographies of national heroes and historical giants. No one ever came out sparkling clean in a Hollis biography, but no subject could ever claim defamation or slander. He might ruin careers and reputations, but Edward Hollis was scrupulously truthful and fair.
And I was terrified what truths he would find to tell of us.
I turned to ask him what the hell was going on, but Edward was already halfway across the marquee, headed towards the bar.
“Did you know he was going to do this?” Therese asked, dropping into Edward’s suddenly vacated seat. I peered around her and saw Nathaniel collaring his collaborator saying, “Edward! Come meet Cecil.” My grandfather, at least, was in his element.
“No idea,” I said, topping up the wine glass she’d brought with her. “You don’t seem too bothered by it.”
Therese shrugged. “I know what he’ll say about me, about my life. Nothing he hasn’t said to my face over the years.”
“I wish I felt as confident.” Therese chuckled. Over at the next table, the rest of the family was holding what looked like an emergency summit. “Should we be part of that?”
Therese glanced over. “I wouldn’t. They’re bound to repeat themselves endlessly over the next few days anyway. Isabelle especially. In fact, if you really wanted, I could probably recite every one of her arguments for you right now. They all add up to ‘I don’t want my husband telling the unvarnished truth about me.’ You know your grandmother – hates to be seen without her stage make-up.” She took a suspiciously large gulp of wine. I got the feeling she wasn’t quite as unflustered by Nathaniel’s announcement as she wanted me to believe. “We’re not missing anything. May as well enjoy what’s left of the party.”
But as the evening wore on, I realised that something was missing – Edward. I glanced around the marquee, checking on each family member. Dad stood at the edge of the tent, Caro at his side, pointing up at various constellations. Mum sat nearby watching them, a glass of wine in her hand. Therese was chatting to the barman as he topped up her glass, and Isabelle was at the heart of a gaggle of her friends. Ellie and Greg were the last couple on the dance floor, lost in each other’s arms as they swayed to the music. I jerked my gaze away to find my grandfather in another corner, deep in conversation with Pat. Presumably they were discussing the legal ramifications of his plans.
But Nathaniel’s collaborator was nowhere to be seen.
Hardly surprising, I supposed, since the tent was full of people who either wanted to yell at him for his part in the plan, or find out what secrets he knew. He’d lied to my family, by omission if nothing else. Right then, Edward was even less popular at Rosewood than I was.
The realisation sparked a sense of solidarity in me. I snatched up an almost full bottle of wine and set out to find Granddad’s biographer.
He wasn’t hard to find. On my way towards the terrace doors, I heard a large clunk from the Rose Garden and found Edward sitting on the bench, an empty wine bottle dropped on the shingle at his feet.
“Need some more?” I waved my bottle at him.
Edward looked cautious. “Have you come to yell at me too?”
“Family not happy with you?” I sat myself down beside him. “You do realise that I’m the only other person nearly as unwelcome here as you?”
Edward grabbed the bottle from me and took a gulp from the neck. “You’re family. You’re always welcome here. It’s your home.”
I shook my head and took the bottle back. “Even Greg practically told me to leave today.”
“Ah, but he just married in. He doesn’t count.”
We sat together in silence, passing the bottle between us and listening to the noises of the party. It was getting late; the sky was growing dark. “Surely they’ve got to go home soon,” Edward said, relaxing again after a couple of partygoers who’d strayed too close to our hiding place staggered back towards the drinks tent.
“My grandparents’ parties have been known to go on all night.” And into the following day, if the story Nathaniel had told me earlier had any truth in it. “Haven’t you covered any of the parties in the book so far? Like…the one they threw when they moved into Rosewood?” If anyone knew the truth behind the story – apart from Nathaniel – it would be Edward, right?
But he just signalled for me to be quiet as we heard footsteps on the gravel again.
“We need a better hiding place,” he said, once the crunching had faded away.
I thought for a moment, then said, “I know a place.”
The attic was still stuffy, despite the hour, and I forced the window open as Edward worked the cork out of a bottle of brandy he’d liberated from Nathaniel’s study on our way up. “He got me into this mess, after all,” he’d justified.
“Who does all this stuff belong to?” Edward asked, kicking out at a box underneath the window from his cushion seat.
I peered at the box in question. “Well, that one’s mine, anyway. Most of this stuff near the door is. Further back…” I shrugged “…anyone’s guess.”
For a moment, it looked like Edward was about to get up and investigate, but instead he slumped back against his cushion. I dropped down to sit beside him and grabbed the brandy from his hand. “Why’s all your stuff up here?” he asked.
I shrugged again and as I raised my shoulders, I could feel the warmth of his arm against mine, the rub of his shirt against my bare skin. I hadn’t realised we were so close. Was it his nearness or the wine making my blood buzz?
“You know why,” I said, shifting a little to my left to try and maintain some distance, at least. “You already admitted that Ellie told you all the gory details.”
Edward stretched out his left leg so it ran along my right and, suddenly, somehow, his shoulder was touching mine again too. “She told me about you and Greg – about what happened.” He turned his head to look at me, and I could feel his breath against my neck. “Doesn’t seem very like you.”
“I like to think I was a different person then.” I didn’t say that the problem was knowing that it was still me. Or realising that everything I’d believed about what had happened had just been a story. Accepting the truth was even worse. “Younger, for a start. And particularly stupid.”
“Or just in love?” Edward asked, passing me the bottle. I winced at his words. “How did it happen? Not the… I mean… I don’t need the actual gory details, or anything…”
He trailed off, and I sighed. “We were always close, the three of us, from the first time she brought him home. I was worried that I’d, I don’t know, lose her, now she had Greg. But he went out of his way to include me, too. We did everything together, and I adored them both. Then when they got engaged, Ellie was so busy with the wedding plans, Greg and I ended up spending a lot of time together, just talking. About the future, our hopes, dreams, that sort of thing. I always wanted to be more like Ellie – you know, petite and blonde and lovely, instead of tall, dark and difficult. Greg made me feel like it was okay to just be me.”
But if anything, what happened next had only made it more obvious than ever that I would never be Ellie. Ellie would never have done what I did.
“That summer…” I paused, my conversation with Greg still echoing through my mind. I couldn’t tell the story the way I always had before, in my head. I knew better, now. “Greg and I… I thought we were in love. Or I wanted to believe we were. And I imagined that Ellie knew, deep down. That she…I don’t know. I guess I told myself enough stories until I convinced myself that it was okay, somehow. That it was still just the three of us.” I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter. She’s my sister.” I took a long slug of brandy, and absently wondered just how much I’d had to drink already. “I slept with her fiancé, two days before their wedding. I betrayed her, she’s never going to forgive me, and I just have to accept that.”
Edward was silent for a long moment, staring out towards the window and the ongoing party. Noises still floated up: music and voices and clanking crockery. They must be on to the sausage and bacon baps Ellie had ordered, in lieu of an evening buffet. “I think she’d like to,” he said, eventually.
“Hmm?” I asked, drowsy from the brandy and the long day.
“Ellie. I think she’d like to forgive you. She’d like to move on. She just doesn’t know how.”
“Do you think she’ll ever figure it out?” My voice came out smaller than I’d intended, and Edward snaked an arm around my shoulder, just like he had the night before.
“I hope so,” he said. Then, “I think she will.” He sounded more certain that time, and I allowed myself just a little bit of hope.
“It’s nice that she has you here,” I said, leaning into his embrace. “Rosewood’s a long way away from pretty much everywhere else. It’s hard to make friends.”
“She has Greg. She doesn’t need me,” Edward said. “Is that why you left? To make new friends?”
“I left because I couldn’t stay,” I said simply. “After what I’d done… Ellie was so upset, and she wouldn’t tell anyone why but they knew it was my fault. I knew it was my fault. And when she married Greg anyway…they had enough to sort out between the two of them. Me being there could only make things harder. So I left.”
“To try and make her happy?” Edward shook his head a little. “Do you ever think that if you’d stayed you might have made up by now?”
“No.” Because if leaving was the wrong thing, and staying would have been the wrong thing, what else could I have done? But I couldn’t stop hearing her words, You just ran away the minute the confetti was thrown. Had she wanted me to stay?
I turned my body inwards, resting my head lower down on Edward’s chest, listening to his heart beat through his thin dress shirt. “I thought you were going to hate me, when I first arrived. I thought that Ellie had told you everything, so you’d despise me.”
“So did I.” Edward sounded surprised, almost rueful. “In fact, you’re pretty much the last person I ever thought I’d want to get to know better.” That would have stung a hell of a lot worse if he hadn’t tightened his arm around me and added, “I’m still not quite sure how you won me round.”
“So you’re not just gathering material for the memoirs, then?” I asked, wondering how I’d managed to forget about them, even for a short time.
Edward shook his head, and I felt the movement more than I saw it. “I think Nathaniel’s got more than enough for that already.”
“Why do your family think you’re having a midlife crisis?” Time to shine the spotlight on his life, for a change. “I mean, aren’t you just doing your job, same as always?”
“Not exactly. Usually, the subjects of my biographies are long dead, for a start. But this time…I guess I needed a new direction, for a while.”
“You mean you’re running away from something too.” Except he got to run to Rosewood, instead of away. Lucky Edward.
“I suppose I am,” Edward admitted. “Life out there in the real world got kind of screwed up for a while. And when Nathaniel asked me to come here…I jumped at it. Left everything else hanging and jumped on the next train.”
“That doesn’t sound like you either.”
“It’s not. Hence the midlife crisis accusations.”
I tilted my head to look up at him, his arm sliding down to wrap around my waist until I was practically lying in his lap. “Are you glad you came?”
“Very,” he said. “I just hope I’m allowed to stay, now it’s all out in the open. That Isabelle won’t talk him out of the memoirs project, I mean. I hadn’t expected to find, well, a place here at Rosewood. But now I have…”
“You don’t want it snatched away,” I finished for him. “Trust me, I understand that.” Except Rosewood hadn’t been snatched from me, had it? I’d thrown it away.
“The memoirs… Is… What happened with me and Greg. Is it in there?” Because it was one thing for Edward and Ellie to know what I was, what I’d done, and quite another for my family and friends to find out, at the same time as the rest of the British reading public. God, my parents. Whatever they suspected, it would kill them to read it there in black and white. And Caro, when she was old enough. How could I bear that?
“I don’t know,” Edward said, slowly. “We haven’t got that far yet. I don’t know if he…”
“It doesn’t matter. Well, it does, but we don’t have to talk about it.”
Edward twisted around on his cushion, and pulled me closer, up his body. “You said it yourself; you’re a different person now.”
“The people reading it won’t know that, though, will they?” To my horror, I could feel tears burning behind my eyes. I blamed the brandy, and swore to myself that I absolutely was not going to cry in front of this man.
“They don’t matter,” Edward said and, ever so gently, kissed the top of my head. “They really don’t.”
“Easy for you to say.” I gave a watery chuckle. “All anyone ever says about you is how truthful you are, how factual, how honest. It’s the people you write about…”
“People like your family.” He sighed. “I wouldn’t be doing this if Nathaniel hadn’t asked. I… Well, he helped me out, a long time ago, and I owe him, I guess. But it’s up to him what he wants to include. I won’t… I’m not trying to ruin your family, or anything.”
“I know that.” And strangely, I did. I barely knew this man – mostly because he’d been keeping his true identity a secret from me and almost everyone I cared about until today – but I knew that, lies aside, he didn’t want to hurt us. Whatever his initial response to me returning to Rosewood, I got the feeling that Edward might even be on my side.
It was nice to think so, anyway.
“Good. I wouldn’t want you to think…” He sighed. “God knows why, but I’d hate for you to think badly of me.”
I looked up at him in surprise. “I don’t.”
Edward started down into my eyes. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said, his voice low and warm.
And then, out of nowhere, he kissed me.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, pulling away. “I shouldn’t…”
But he should. He really, really should.
I slid a hand up his chest to the back of his neck and held his mouth against mine, just long enough to let him know that I really wasn’t objecting to his kisses. His mouth felt cool in the sultry summer night air, and the sheer quantity of alcohol consumed certainly hadn’t affected his kissing ability.
“You’re sure?” he asked, and I just kissed him again. This was where I wanted to be – here in this moment, away from the rest of the family, from the party, from reality. With Edward.
Long, clever fingers methodically unfastened the row of tiny buttons at the back of my dress, running all the way up my spine. The fabric fell away, and I arched my back as his fingers ran across it, my nerve endings shivering.
God, I wanted this man. I wanted the oblivion of a night in his arms. I wanted the freedom, the closeness, the acceptance. And then in the morning…
The thought was a bottle of cold champagne poured over my head.
In the morning, I’d be leaving Rosewood again. Going home to Perth. To Duncan.
I’d be running away from another ill-advised liaison, straight back to the man I’d spent days telling everyone was my boyfriend. And even if he wasn’t, I couldn’t deny that he was something to me. I owed him more than this.
If I wanted to start putting my life in order, become the Saskia who could come home to Rosewood with my head held high, it had to start here.
Not to mention the small fact that, very soon, this man would be writing my life story in my grandfather’s memoirs.
Edward’s fingers stopped stroking my skin, and he pulled back a little. This time, I let him go. “What changed?” he asked.
I swallowed, looking up into his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He gave a small nod, then got to his feet, moving around me and pulling me up too. “You’re leaving tomorrow,” he said, as he began to fasten up the dozens of ridiculously small buttons on my dress again. “This is bad timing.”
“Yes,” I said. I wanted to explain more, but the words were gone. All I knew was that, for all it felt incredibly right to be kissing him, this wasn’t how I wanted it to be. Not secretly, hiding away in an attic from the rest of my family, cheating on my not-really-a-boyfriend. Edward deserved more than this.
Hell, I deserved more than this.
“I should go to bed.” My voice was too loud, and I spun round to face him too fast, my head buzzing.
“Yeah.” Edward’s chin dropped to his chest. “I’ll just…wait it out up here, I think.”
I nodded mechanically. “I’ll…see you tomorrow. Before I go.”
I was out the door before he had a chance to respond.
I stumbled along the corridor, down the stairs to the first floor, then slammed to a halt when I heard the voices, almost too late to avoid being seen.
“You’re selling our secrets!” Isabelle shrieked, and I pressed myself closer to the wall by the stairs. “Sharing our private moments with the world, and why? Because you can’t come up with your own stories any longer?”
“This is an important project, Isabelle,” Nathaniel replied, his voice a low growl. “It matters to me.”
“And what about me? It’s my history too, remember.” They came into view as Nathaniel approached his study door, just a couple of metres away past my hiding place. Isabelle trailed behind him, still talking. “You promised me, Nathaniel. You swore you’d never—”
“It’s a biography! Of course I need to tell our history, that’s the whole point.” He swung round to face her, his back to me. They were both still dressed in their Golden Wedding outfits, same as me – although I suspected my dress might be rather more rumpled after my moment in the attic with Edward. I tried to straighten it without drawing attention to myself. The last thing I needed was my grandparents catching me sneaking out after snogging Nathaniel’s biographer in the attic. Everyone at Rosewood already thought badly enough of my romantic choices.
“You already made a fiction of our courtship,” Isabelle said, desperation in her voice. “Why do this? Why turn our whole marriage, our lives together into nothing more than a story?”
Nathaniel shook his head. “I knew you wouldn’t understand. But you’ll see, when you read it.”
Isabelle’s face turned hard. “So, you’re doing this. Even though your whole family thinks it’s a bad idea.”
“I’m doing this because it matters. I want our story told, the way it should be – not the way some stranger would write it once I’m dead.” He turned away from her and I saw the determination in his eyes. He strode towards me, and I shrunk back further into the shadows – but he didn’t even glance in my direction as he passed. Instead, he threw open his study door and walked through, ignoring Isabelle’s wail behind him.
“I hate you, Nathaniel Drury!” she yelled, as he slammed the door behind him. Then she spun on her heel and stormed off back down the corridor to her rooms.
I stood, silent and still for a long moment, until I was sure the coast was clear. Breathing too fast, I picked up my shoes and ran barefoot towards the Yellow Room, very afraid that Nathaniel’s memoirs might tear apart my family more irreparably than even I’d managed.