We entered the room together, Gabriel holding the carrycot. He put it on the floor and went towards Daddy, who was standing motionless at the head of the table. My eyes flicked towards the clock, checking we weren’t late, and then back to my father’s face. He gave nothing away as he shook Gabriel’s proffered hand, not even when Gabriel omitted to call him ‘Sir,’ like I’d told him to. Daddy dwarfed my husband. Gabriel’s head came up to the older man’s shoulders. Daddy hadn’t shrunk with age, as some men did. He stood upright, with straight spine and raised chin. Suddenly, I wished Gabriel was taller.

  I approached, uncertain of what to do or say. ‘Daddy.’

  ‘Cecily,’ he gave me a long look under his majestic eyebrows, his pale blue gaze indecipherable, shielded. ‘It’s good to have you home.’

  Encouraged, I touched his hand. ‘It’s wonderful to be here.’ He didn’t respond to my touch, and my fingers fell away from the waxy coolness of his skin. He hated fuss, hated kissing and hugging. It was not his way.

  We sat down, Gabriel and I either side of the table and my parents taking their positions at each end. Daddy bowed his head and crossed himself. I followed suit, noticing Gabriel’s hands lying inert in his lap. ‘Bless us, O Lord, for these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty. Through Christ, Our Lord. Amen.’ My lips traced the words silently and I crossed myself again. Gabriel scratched his chin and shuffled his chair closer to the table.

  A girl from the village came in with platters of potatoes and greens, putting them in the centre of the table, placing a hunk of roast beef before Daddy, before scurrying from the room. He stood to carve, spending a minute sharpening the knife. With weighty ceremony, he severed the string binding the flesh, and then carved each slice with clinical precision. As we took up our forks, I leant forwards. ‘Daddy, Gabriel is an expert on the Civil War. He’s had a book published on it.’ I couldn’t keep the eagerness from my voice. I turned to Gabriel. ‘My father is writing a book, too. About the history of weapons. The Civil War marked an important change with the introduction of the musket, didn’t it, Daddy?’

  He nodded and carried on chewing. I thought that he could show Gabriel his weapon collection after lunch. They could take a walk in the grounds, look at the yew tree, and Daddy could explain how he’d found the cannonball wedged in the trunk when he was a boy. It would be alright. My heart lifted.

  ‘Do you have a publisher?’ Gabriel asked. ‘It sounds fascinating.’

  Daddy finished his mouthful, blotted his lips on his napkin. ‘Not yet. I still have work to do. The subject deserves dedication. I don’t believe a book can be rushed off every couple of years. Worthwhile study takes a lifetime.’

  ‘It would be lovely to have that luxury.’ Gabriel smiled. ‘But my books help to fund our living expenses. Lecturing isn’t exactly lucrative.’

  I wanted to kick him under the table. I was sure I’d told him that money was a subject to be avoided at all costs. Daddy gave Gabriel a withering glance and returned to the task of spearing a carrot with his fork.

  ‘There was a Civil War battle right here,’ I said, brightly. ‘On the front lawn.’

  Gabriel made interested noises, but Daddy refused to be drawn. Bea started to whimper and stir. Not now, I thought. Please, not now. If we left her, she might go back to sleep, but Gabriel was already out of his chair, bending over her carrycot. Mummering nonsense, he scooped her into his arms.

  ‘Don’t fuss,’ I said. ‘She could have slept longer.’

  ‘Too late for that.’ He smiled, holding her against his shoulder. ‘I think she needs another feed, darling,’ he said, peering into Bea’s face.

  Heat flooded my cheeks. The atmosphere in the room stiffened, bristling with embarrassment. ‘Can’t she wait?’ Mummy said in a low voice.

  ‘This is precisely why babies should not be allowed in dining rooms,’ Daddy said.

  Gabriel looked at him incredulously. ‘She’s hungry,’ he said. ‘And she needs her mother. Cecily can feed her and eat at the same time.’

  My heart thumped. Daddy glared at Gabriel. ‘This is my house, and we eat in peace. There will be no jumping up and down, juggling infants.’

  Gabriel gave me a confused, questioning look, as he bounced Bea in his arms. I couldn’t meet his gaze and stared down at my hands on the white tablecloth. Nausea twisted in my belly. Two instincts clashing. But here, in Hawksmoor, the rules had been etched into me since I could walk and talk. I’d smelt the smouldering cinders of Daddy’s rage that morning as we’d entered the hall.

  Bea began to howl, her sobs ricocheting off the panelled oak, fuelling disapproval, shaking the dust, disturbing the routine and quiet with her demands. I stayed in my chair. I put another mouthful of food between my lips. My child’s screams went on. I dared not look at Daddy, keeping my gaze on the wooden wainscoting, the red wallpaper above, the portraits. The painted faces seemed to tremble with indignation. I swallowed with difficulty.

  Gabriel walked towards the door; the wailing Bea slumped over his shoulder. He turned at the threshold, his face dark with suppressed rage. ‘You’re really not coming?’

  I gave him a mute gaze, appealing to his understanding.

  His shoulders stiffened. ‘I’ll take her outside then, so you can finish your meal in peace.’ There was an ironic twist to his voice, a coldness I’d never heard before. ‘Come and find me when you’re ready.’

  ‘It’s better to let them cry,’ Mummy said, vaguely. ‘Better not to give in to a child’s demands.’

  I shook my head. We ate in silence. Bits of gristle got stuck between my teeth, catching in my throat, the taste of blood on my tongue. Bea’s sobbing could be heard still, a muted but desperate wail. To my horror, I felt dampness seeping into my bra. I hunched my shoulders protectively, praying it didn’t penetrate my shirt. I felt the weight of my breasts, pendulum-like, the spread of my hips on the chair. Gabriel told me he loved my new curves. But now I understood that I had become clumsy and unlovely in my milky fleshy self.

  As we finished the meal, scraping up the greasy remains, Mummy made conversation, asking me about Exeter, about Bea’s routine, about the weather. I answered without elaborating, my chest tight with anxiety. I felt Daddy’s disappointment. My mistake of choosing a husband without his approval was a thing that could not be erased. It was a foolish to think I could talk him round. I’d never had any power over him.

  ‘Your husband,’ he said suddenly. ‘How close is he to converting?’

  ‘Converting?’ My pulse leapt at my temples. I remembered the letter I wrote before the wedding, hinting that Gabriel was considering it. ‘Close,’ I told him quickly. ‘Very close.’ I cleared my throat. ‘And Beatrice will be brought up Catholic, of course.’

  I caught a slight lift in his expression, and he pursed his lips. ‘I’ll talk to him about it this evening, when I hope he’ll have the manners to remain at the table. I’ve never known such extraordinary behaviour.’

  I nodded, numbly, putting my knife and fork together on my clean plate. ‘Maybe I can be excused?’ I asked. ‘I should go and attend to the baby.’

  ‘Your husband will have to go hungry,’ Daddy said, indicating Gabriel’s congealed meal. ‘And no dogs to give it to. Criminal waste.’

  ‘Dilly will eat it,’ Mummy said quietly, the ancient dachshund snoring at her feet.

  Daddy ignored her, flicking his napkin, leaving it crumpled on the table.

  In the Pink Room, I couldn’t calm Bea. She twisted away from my leaking nipples, convulsing and inconsolable. I slumped on the edge of the bed, tears slipping down the side of my nose. ‘She’s too upset.’

  ‘I can’t believe you wouldn’t feed her at the table.’ Gabriel was tight-lipped, his hair sticking up, his collar awry. ‘It’s been a nightmare trying to console her. Jesus. In this day and age, you can’t breastfeed your own child in front of your parents?’

  ‘I told you they were old-fashioned,’ I said, persuading Bea at last to latch on, hardly feeling the stab of pain connecting nipple to womb, tracing fire through the branching avenues of my body.

  ‘My God, Cecily. Sometimes I wonder who you are.’ He went over to the window and looked out at the grounds. ‘This place is falling to bits,’ he said. ‘I can’t understand why your parents persist in living here. It stinks of damp. It’s not good for Bea. All those spores.’

  ‘It’s their home. Our home,’ I said, cradling Bea closer. ‘It’s beautiful. Full of history.’

  ‘I agree about the history,’ he said. ‘But it should really be in the public domain. Private houses like this are an anachronism.’

  I looked at the back of his head and hated him. The feeling took my breath away, but it was liberating to acknowledge that I despised the way I could see the tips of his ears through his hair, the way he hummed to himself, the click in his jaw when he ate. Seeing him next to Daddy, I saw that he was weak. I was ashamed of him.

  ‘Daddy thinks you’re going to convert,’ I told him. ‘I couldn’t disappoint him. He’ll ask you about it this evening.’ He turned to me, and the look on his face told me that he wasn’t going to go along with the charade. Another hateful thing: his stubbornness. ‘You can’t do it for me?’ My voice was small, hard.

  ‘I told you before.’ His voice was equally hard.

  We glared at each other over the head of our sleeping child.

  33

  ALICE

  Surfacing out of bad dreams, the first thing I see as I open my eyes is Cecily’s crucifix above my head. How can my suspicions about her be real? I sit up in bed, rubbing sore eyes. My head throbs. The books she left on her bedside table catch my attention, the King James Bible, and beneath it, the weighty tome about the Borgias. I pick it up and flick through pages about murders within a family, the art of killing someone slowly.

  I don’t know who Cecily is. All our years of separation have made us into strangers. I’ll never know if the soup was poisoned, but I must stop her getting into the house again to tamper with our food. Poison is the number one choice for women who want to kill. The old joke of arsenic in the soup suddenly feels horribly real – and I remember how the Borgias’ victims became gradually weakened, suffering from strange aches and stomach pains, as if succumbing to some unknown disease. But there are other methods of getting rid of someone. Gabriel is out and about during the day, walking next to roads and railway lines. It would only take a well-timed push to send him under some fast-moving wheels. What if she’s employed someone to do it for her? Maybe that’s who the watcher in the hoodie is. The thought gives me a lurch of panic. I can’t follow Gabriel around all day, and I need to be here to protect the house. I’m convinced she has a set of keys. She can let herself in whenever she wants.

  I double-lock the doors and keep the chains latched in place, check the window catches are secure. When I’m in Cecily’s room, I peer out of her window, looking for the figure on the other side of the street.

  Gabriel and Bea are finishing their breakfast when I come into the kitchen, and they both look up and smile. ‘Darling,’ Gabriel says, coming over and kissing my cheek. ‘Didn’t you sleep well? You look tired.’

  I know from an earlier quick glance into the bathroom mirror that my eyes are bloodshot, my skin sallow and my forehead etched with a crazy paving of worry lines. ‘It wasn’t a great night,’ I admit. ‘I was a bit restless.’

  He’s giving me a concerned look. It’s the same one he gave me when I swept the soup onto the floor, and when I ran screaming into the street. He’s wondering what other erratic, irrational behaviour to expect from me.

  ‘But I’m okay,’ I reassure him.

  ‘You could have a weekend away,’ he suggests. ‘If you need a break? I could come with you?’

  I smile. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Right,’ he swings his jacket off the back of the chair. ‘I should get going.’ He looks at Bea. ‘Want a lift to the bus stop?’

  ‘Yup.’ She gets up, a piece of toast clamped in her mouth, and grabs her satchel from the floor. She takes the toast out of her mouth to kiss my other cheek, leaving a sticky smear of jam. ‘Bye, Mum. Have a nice day.’

  I watch them leave, and my shoulders ache with worry. ‘Be careful,’ I call after them. ‘Be careful, you know, crossing roads and things.’

  They turn and give me bemused looks, and then, with cheerful waves, they walk out of the house, and are swallowed up by the bright spring morning.

  There’s another piece of folded paper on the floor near the doormat. I open it with trembling fingers and stare down at my sister’s writing:

  Meet me at the castle gatehouse tonight. Next to the entrance. 11 p.m.

  I’ve glimpsed the ruins in the distance, the stone glowing red in the sunset. I’ve flicked through a guidebook about Exeter I’d found in Gabriel’s room, so I know that the castle was built by William the Conqueror into existing Roman walls. The ancient gatehouse is the only segment of the original building still standing; the guidebook said the last woman branded as a witch in England was executed there.

  I have a whole day to endure before our meeting. I can hardly control my rage. I’ve gone beyond wanting explanations, I’m going to tell her exactly what I think of her – she’s lied to me, betrayed Gabriel and Bea, and made me take her place under false pretences for some warped plan of her own. Using the kitchen table, I spread out the town map she left for me, and plan my route to the castle ruins, imprinting it on my mind so there’ll be no mistakes or getting lost this evening.

  I wait until supper is over and the house is quiet. Bea’s in bed, and Gabriel is working at his desk upstairs; he’s often there until gone midnight. I creep down the stairs, close the door quietly and hurry away with Cecilia’s puffer jacket pulled around me, the hood up. I hurry down cobbled streets past closed shops and pubs. I’m panting as I walk up the hill to the castle ruins. The gatehouse rears out of the darkness, a jagged stone shape backlit by moonlight. There’s nobody around. A fox slinks past, eyeing me with distrust. I wait by the gatehouse. The air is wild and fresh and minerally green. There’s the distant hum of the town below, the rustle of branches and leaves. The night is dense, stars concealed by fists of cloud.

  I bring Cecily’s watch face close and squint. She’s over half an hour late. My anger is seeping away, replaced by anxiety. I have a bad feeling about this. The clouds shift and a skull-like moon bleeds light onto the world around me, and suddenly I can see more clearly, leaves and grass, the texture of the ruined gatehouse. Looking at the wall next to the entrance, I notice a sheen of white, a corner sticking out between the stonework at the height of my shoulder. It looks like a scrap of paper. I pinch the edges with my fingernails to pull it out. In the moonlight I make out the words tumbling across the page.

  Remember Edith Baxter.

  I’m certain it’s Cecily’s writing, just scruffier and larger than her usual script – as if she was in a tearing hurry when she wrote it, or angry, or drunk, or all three. There’s another flutter of white higher up. I pull it out and unfold it.

  Speak to Edith Baxter.

  I find four more bits of paper, all with that one name scrawled in urgent capitals.

  EDITH BAXTER.

  The name on the paper I’d found inside her Bible. I crumple the notes into my pocket. Another rustle in the gloom. ‘Cecily?’ I hiss.

  There’s a soft rush of air, like the suppressed sound of someone breathing, lungs working quietly. Is that a human shape beyond the fall of ivy? I’m listening hard, pulling in the smallest noises. The wind moves through the branches, shivering leaves, and the hairs on my neck stand on end. I turn and walk quickly away, stumbling along the downwards path, heading for the lights of the town.

  The scraps of paper are still in my pocket. I know I’ve heard the name, a long time ago. I wish I could remember her, whoever she is, then perhaps I could solve Cecily’s riddle. There’d been a phone number and address scribbled next to Edith Baxter’s name in paper I’d found in the Bible. I quicken my pace, filled with a new urgency.

  34

  CECILY

  Dear Alice,

  Hearing about your adventures and the places you’ve been makes my life seem very small. That day in the snow, I should have listened to you. You were right. Everything at Hawksmoor was rotten, and we needed to run. But I was under a spell. I couldn’t leave. I wish you’d understood that I wasn’t as strong as you – I always needed you, Alice. You should never have left me.

  When I fell in love with Gabriel, I thought that was my chance to start again – how stupid I was, there was never any hope, was there, not after Hawksmoor. Bea is at school now, and my days are long and lonely. I have my proofreading of academic manuscripts, but it’s dull work. There’s something wrong with me. My head aches and I feel a hundred years old. I can hardly get out of bed. In the kitchen, I drop pans, stumble on my way down the stairs. Sometimes I think it would be easier to let myself fall – and hope for a clean broken neck. Like Henry.

  I’ve made so many mistakes, Alice. I don’t think I can be forgiven for them.

  Thank God I was firm with Gabriel about not having more children. He wanted them, but I knew I shouldn’t. I’m not fit for that kind of responsibility. We have a kitten, a sweet little thing, but I forget to feed her. Bea is better at caring for her than me. All the house plants are dead. I had to throw them out – desiccated soil and withered leaves – such a waste. I don’t want any more living things to look after. No more children, or animals or plants.