Sorry to go on like this. But it’s hard to be alone with my memories, and you’re the only one left in the world besides me who shares them. Only you can understand. I wish I was with you. I don’t even know where you are right now. I bet all your travels help you to forget. You were always the brave one. I’d never have the courage to live a life like yours. You got away, gave yourself a fresh start. If I wasn’t so scared, I’d change places with you in a heartbeat.

  Please write soon.

  Love Cecily

  In our letters, we’d talked about arranging a way of being together. We’d come up with the idea of meeting somewhere in Europe – Paris or Amsterdam. But there was the problem of Gabriel. He didn’t know of Alice’s existence, and I’d have to lie to him, make up a reason to take a weekend off. Anyway, since I’d known him, I’d told him I hated travel, was afraid of planes and boats. We’d never been abroad together. The truth was I couldn’t leave England. I’d fled to the other side of the country after Alice and Henry died, trying to escape my grief, but I wasn’t prepared to go any further from Hawksmoor or Daddy. I may as well have a chain on my ankle tethering me to them both. I was afraid of seeing her too, afraid of confronting the past. She thinks she betrayed me by leaving, but really, I’m the guilty one.

  Alice was curious about my life, my home and family. In my letters, I’d described all the boring details of my existence, sent her regular photographs, sometimes family shots with Gabriel and Bea, and she sent me ones of her. She was always alone, usually squinting into the sun, out of doors, with a café or bustling market or mountainside as a backdrop, and I always wondered who’d pressed the button. In our letters, we remarked on how similar we looked; beyond superficial details like hairstyles and clothes, it was reassuring to know we were still the same. When she asked me to send her a picture of Hollyhocks Cottage, instead of sending a snapshot, I drew the house for her and included a little sketch of Bea. I’d forgotten the satisfaction of sketching – the way it ate up time. When I was next in town, I popped into WH Smith and brought a couple of soft 2B pencils, a putty rubber and an A3 pad. I recreated the faces of Alice and Henry, Daddy and Mummy. I sketched Dilly and the Labs, the gnarled branches of the yew, and Hawksmoor itself with battlements and Pele tower.

  The side of my little finger on my right hand became ingrained with charcoal grey as it moved across the paper. I remembered the soft outline of the beech trees, the rooks rising from them. I used short scratches of pencil, little ticks for wings, as I thought about the starlings in their winter murmuration towards the fells, the way they netted the light above the tarn. And I heard their cries, the wild whistle of wind across water.

  I hardly went home any more. Daddy disliked Gabriel and Gabriel disliked Daddy. I kept my drawings hidden under my bed. They took on a significance I couldn’t explain, but they offered me a connection to Hawksmoor, each one a kind of magic spell bringing me closer to it, unravelling history with every stroke of the pencil, and promising me a different future.

  For the sake of Your name, forgive my iniquity, though it is great. Seven knots for seven sins. But it was The Church of the Sacred Heart that saved me. I went several times a week, attending Saturday confession, Sunday morning mass, and the exposition and benediction of the Blessed Sacrament on Wednesday afternoons. I was involved in the rota for doing the flowers, volunteered with cleaning, and helped at Sunday School, taking Bea with me. Bea didn’t like it; she stamped her feet and said she wanted to stay at home with Dad and it took all my willpower not to grab her by the arms and shake her. ‘You’re Catholic, Bea,’ I told her. ‘You’re part of an old and important family. This is your inheritance.’

  ‘Don’t want my inheritance.’ Bea pouted.

  I hated it when Gabriel watched our weekly struggle, me forcing Bea into her coat, and Bea trying to take it off again. I could see his disapproval, but he was unwilling to interfere. The day I’d told him I was pregnant, he’d promised to support me in my faith, and he knew that meant raising our child as a Catholic. I guessed he was waiting until Bea reached secondary school age. If she didn’t want to go to church then, he’d say that she was old enough to make her own choice. He didn’t understand that there was no choice. I couldn’t let Daddy down.

  Ambrose Stone understood my fears. When I joined him in prayer, he knelt so close there was only a whisper of air between us, and I knew he felt the brush of my thigh or elbow as a jolt of pleasure. But he understood me. He listened to my worries about Bea, and he prayed with me, asking God to guide my daughter, to keep her on the right path. Ambrose was a devoted helper at the Sacred Heart; he was the most enthusiastic of the cleaning volunteers. He polished brass and silver with rags, his thin fingers blackening as the metal grew brighter; he scrubbed the engraved flagstones, swept under the pews, oiled the hinges on the great oak door.

  I watched him loiter outside the confessional on Wednesday afternoons, saw how he chose his chore carefully on those days, getting to his knees with a scrubbing brush close to the partition of thin wood, where he cocked his head as he worked, absorbing the murmured sounds drifting from behind the screen.

  35

  ALICE

  All the way back from the gatehouse, on the twists and turns through town, I’m afraid I’m being followed, and by the time I reach the house, my fingers are shaking so much I can hardly turn the key in the lock. I slip inside as quietly as possible and put the chain in place. A living thing butts against my calf, and I smother a shriek. Sukie purrs at my feet, winding around my ankles, ever hopeful for a snack. Not now, I tell her silently, as I step past and up the dark stairs.

  The floorboards on the landing creak loudly, and I stop for a moment, waiting to make sure Gabriel or Bea haven’t been disturbed. I only let myself breathe properly when I’m inside Cecily’s room. I switch on the bedside light and slide the loose paper from her Bible to compare it with the crumpled notes she left at the gatehouse. The handwriting is almost identical. According to the address, Edith Baxter lives in the North, not far from the Lake District. I want to make the phone call right away, but it’s the middle of the night. I’ll have to wait until morning, after the others have left for work and school.

  I spend the rest of the night lying awake, trying to remember who Edith Baxter is and failing. When I do manage to drift into uneasy sleep, I dream about ruined castles and shadowy women laughing behind my back.

  When I’ve waved Gabriel and Bea off and shut the door, I go upstairs to retrieve the paper from the Bible and go back to the hall to dial the number carefully. It rings. My pulse races with fear and anticipation. I stand with the receiver clamped to my ear. It rings for a long time without clicking into an answer machine. I’m about to give up when an elderly, breathless voice picks up.

  ‘Edith Baxter speaking.’

  I am shocked into silence. There was a part of me that wondered if this woman was a figment of Cecily’s imagination. I try to speak, clear my throat. ‘Hello,’ I try again, squeezing the receiver tighter.

  There’s silence on the other end.

  ‘You don’t know me, but I’m trying to solve a mystery and I think you might possibly be able to help…’ my words tumble out and I frown, realising I’m not making much sense.

  ‘What’s that?’ the voice says, sounding suspicious. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘My name is Alice,’ I say. ‘Alice Deveraux.’

  There’s an intake of breath. ‘How dare you call me? Haven’t your family done enough?’

  I have the feeling she’s going to slam the phone down. ‘Wait,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know who you are or what my family has done to you.’

  There’s a long pause, and I hear the hum and echo of the miles between us. ‘Are you one of the daughters?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Alice.’

  ‘I’ve already spoken to the other one.’

  ‘Cecily?’ My body flashes cold. ‘But she hasn’t talked to me. And now I can’t get hold of her. She’s disappeared. I think this could be important. Please could you tell me what happened, between you and my family?’

  ‘Important?’ She repeats the word, as if turning it over in wonder. ‘Important to you, perhaps – but when it mattered, your father didn’t care how important it was to me. To my sister.’

  ‘Please,’ I beg. ‘I’m not my father. Whatever happened. I knew nothing about it.’

  Silence and distance rushes between us again. ‘I won’t talk on the telephone,’ she says eventually. ‘You’ll have to come and see me.’

  The line goes dead without her saying goodbye.

  I’m in the bedroom when I hear Bea and Gabriel arrive home. I rush downstairs to greet them as Bea passes me on the stairs, an apple clutched in her fist. ‘Hi, Mum,’ she says. ‘I’m going to get started on homework before supper.’ She looks as though she’s been crying.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Her voice is muffled over her shoulder. ‘I’m fine.’

  I go down into the hall, where Gabriel is hanging up his jacket. He hasn’t been pushed under a bus. He’s unhurt and whole and breathing. I want to hug him. But he dodges me, striding into the kitchen. I follow him, feeling puzzled, as he shuts the door behind us.

  ‘What’s the matter? Did something happen?’ I ask.

  ‘How could you?’ he says, his voice low and angry. ‘How could you keep it from me? I’m her father.’

  ‘What?’ I ask, a sick feeling gathering in my belly.

  ‘I talked to Megan’s parents,’ he says. ‘Her father phoned me.’ He paces up and down. ‘He told me, Cecily. Megan confessed what happened that afternoon, after he’d asked her why they weren’t friends any more.’

  His fury is a fist rammed at my chest.

  ‘I picked Bea up from school,’ he goes on. ‘Took her to a café and explained that I knew. She broke down and cried. Then she told me she’d already spoken to you.’

  I stare at him, waiting.

  ‘And you thought you’d keep it to yourself?’ His voice twists.

  ‘She made me promise⁠—’

  ‘She’s the child. You’re the adult,’ he shouts. He turns away from me. ‘I thought this was too good to be true,’ his voice drops. ‘These last few weeks… I had hope,’ he looks at me with wounded eyes. ‘I thought we could make it work between us. But I was wrong – you’re a liar. You haven’t changed.’

  ‘No. You’re wrong,’ I say. ‘I’m not her – I’m a different person.’ The words slip from my tongue. I want so badly to make him understand. But the truth isn’t enough on its own – and now is not the time to explain.

  The door opens, and Bea is there. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Go back to your room.’

  ‘No,’ she says, standing her ground. ‘Is this about Mum not telling you?’ She’s looking between us, anxiously. ‘Don’t be angry with her, Dad. I begged her not to tell you. I made her promise. She wasn’t happy about it.’

  Gabriel says nothing, his face is closed, his arms folded.

  She goes up to him. ‘Dad, don’t blame her for this.’

  Gabriel sinks into a chair with a groan, his head in his hands. I turn to Bea. ‘I think he needs a bit of time.’ I keep my voice low. ‘Why don’t you go upstairs, and I’ll call you down to supper.’

  She scrunches her forehead, uncertain, standing on one leg and then the other, looking at Gabriel’s bowed head and hunched back.

  ‘He’ll be alright,’ I tell her. ‘He just needs a minute. Okay?’

  She nods and leaves the room, shutting the door.

  ‘It was such a shock,’ he whispers. ‘My little girl.’ His mouth quivers and collapses. ‘It could have been even worse. And then when I knew you’d been keeping it from me—’ he shakes his head.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I tell him, pulling up the chair next to him. I put my hands over his. ‘I understand, Gabriel.’

  We’re staring into each other’s eyes. ‘Cecily,’ he whispers. He leans forward and we kiss, salt in my mouth, his face wet with tears. ‘I don’t want to lose you again.’

  After supper, and Bea has gone up for a bath, we talk about the incident and what we can do about it. Megan’s father has told David’s parents, and there’s going to be a meeting between us in a week when David’s parents get back from France. ‘What do we want out of it, this meeting with his parents?’ Gabriel asks.

  ‘We need David to understand what he’s done,’ I say. ‘He needs to apologise to Bea, properly.’

  Gabriel nods. ‘Yes, that’s what I think, too.’

  ‘She said “no”,’ I remind him. ‘She was sensible and brave.’

  ‘You’re right.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry I snapped at you. When Bea told me, I sort of went into freefall.’

  We walk upstairs together, and outside Cecily’s bedroom door, we pause. The air between us is charged with the unspoken. It crackles like static. His eyes hold mine, the green inside them clear as a mountain stream. He leans towards me, and our lips meet. I fumble behind me for the handle and open the door to Cecily’s room; he follows me in. ‘Wait,’ I whisper, closing the curtains.

  He switches on the side light, but I switch it off. I can’t risk him seeing the tattoo at the base of my spine. He doesn’t complain about the darkness, just takes my face in his hands, and we’re kissing again, shrugging off our clothes. His skin is hot, and I rub my cheek against his chest like a cat, kiss the hollow at the centre of his sternum. I put my mouth to his wrist. His pulse jumps against my lip. The fibres of my body thrum with need, the substance of me melding with the bones and sinews of him. I slip underneath his surface like ducking under a wave, swimming through the mystery of him, diving into his heart’s core. There is such recognition, such joyful relief. We move together as if we’re remembering an ancient dance, as if we’re reviving a ritual dense with meaning.

  He says her name at the moment of climax, and I hold his shoulders as he shudders against me, our skin slick with sweat, my mouth against his neck; but before our bodies separate, tears are squeezing from my eyes in a silent howling. I love this man. I can’t give him up now. I can’t give him back. I don’t even feel guilty, not any more.

  36

  CECILY

  I took Beatrice back to Hawksmoor for Easter, while Gabriel stayed at home. He didn’t celebrate the risen Christ, and the atmosphere between him and Daddy was unbearable for everyone. Bea made a fuss about coming. She got car-sick, and wanted to stay with her father, but I insisted. She was my proof to Daddy that he had a Catholic granddaughter, that I had done one thing right.

  ‘Why do we have to go?’ Bea complained on the long journey. ‘I don’t like Grandad. He’s scary. And the house smells bad. I have nightmares there. It’s creepy.’

  ‘It’s an extraordinary piece of history,’ I corrected her. ‘Grandad is stern, but he loves you. And if he asks you about going to church, tell him that you go every week.’

  ‘But I don’t.’

  ‘I know. But you should. And it will make him happy.’

  ‘It’s a lie.’

  ‘It’s a white lie,’ my fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter. ‘God forgive me, but I’ve let you get away with skipping church too many times lately.’

  ‘But you don’t go all the time.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I glanced over at her, annoyed by her teenage sarkiness. ‘Please don’t contradict me just for the sake of it.’

  She sighed loudly and sank down in her seat, staring out of the passenger window. We had to stop several times for her to throw up. The car smelt of sour milk, and Bea’s complexion took on a greenish tinge. I kept driving, pushing my guilt away. She had to go back to Hawksmoor sometimes – had to see her grandparents. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t love the house, or at least find it exciting, intriguing. Perhaps she’d feel that way if she’d had siblings to explore it with, to discover all the places that are perfect for games of hide and seek. Hiding places. My hands gripped the steering wheel, trying to stop the past catching me, dragging me back to the open mouth of the priest hole.

  I blinked and loosened my fingers. That was one hiding place I’d make sure Bea would never see.

  The roads flashed past, the names of towns and cities falling away, the sky changing colours from apricot to silver. As we turned off the motorway, a surge of black clouds obliterated the sun. Rain thundered onto the roof of the car, making a river of the road. I slowed down, switching on the headlights. ‘Our welcome home.’ I smiled. ‘Lake District weather is different from anywhere else.’ I squinted through the wipers, through the ripple and flow of water.

  ‘I know,’ Bea sighed. ‘It rains here all the time because of the winds coming across the Atlantic Ocean. Then they reach the mountains, and they lift or something, making the clouds release moisture, blah, blah. It’s like a geography lesson, Mum. You tell me every time.’

  I didn’t bother to reply. As we drove further into Cumbria, I glimpsed the purple smudge of mountains in the distance. Drystone walls made a familiar grey etching over the landscape; sodden sheep were small boulders against the green, the animals inured to the weather, patiently waiting for the rain to stop. Lambs huddled under their mothers’ bellies.

  By the time we drove through the gates of Hawksmoor, the fierce downpour ceased as suddenly as it started. I tried not to notice the way the place had become even more overgrown, overhanging trees dripping onto the car, the tangle of undergrowth, nettles and weeds pressing up on either side. I looked for golden daffodils, spotting the bright faces of tulips and hyacinths tucked into the dense grass. Signs of Easter. Signs of hope. As we went past the coach house, I pointed out the huge rhododendron blooms, splashes of blood red against the green. ‘And there’s the yew,’ I murmured, as we passed its dark mantle of drooping leaves.