Weyward(28)

Violet had seen animals die. The weasel she’d kept as a pet when she was small; a rose-breasted bullfinch grievously injured by Cecil. She had watched the light go from their eyes; their little bodies slacken. She had felt how afraid they were, of whatever came after: the dark unknown, yawning ahead. Violet couldn’t imagine condemning another human being to that fate.

But poor Frederick had been given no choice.

They were ready to start shooting now, Father first. She hung back and watched Graham, who was sweating and puffing already, throw the clay pigeons high in the air. Blackbirds flew from the trees at the first shot. Father missed.

‘Throw them higher, boy!’ he yelled to Graham.

Frederick stepped forward to take his shot. He lifted the rifle as easily as if it were an extension of his body. The clay pigeon shattered, shards drifting to the ground like snow. Father clapped Frederick on the back. They talked for a while – Violet couldn’t hear what they were saying – before Frederick walked over to her.

‘Your father wants you to have a go,’ he said. ‘Come on, I’ll show you – it’s easier than it looks.’

Violet didn’t say anything. She’d never shot the rifle before – normally Father just let her sit on the grass and watch.

He handed her the rifle and stepped behind her.

‘Put it on your shoulder, that’s it,’ he said.

The rifle was impossibly heavy; Violet’s arms shook with the effort of lifting it. The metal felt cool under her hands, and slightly damp from Frederick’s sweat. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Graham watching.

‘I’ll help you,’ she heard Frederick say behind her, so close that his breath tickled her ear.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Like this.’

Frederick put his hands on her waist. When the gun went off, Violet fell backwards into his arms.





15


KATE


Kate takes a long sip of tea before she opens the package. There is a sweet, cloying scent as she unwraps the cloth, which is spotted white with mould. Inside, a stack of letters. The ink has faded to a dull brown, and the paper is creased and yellowed. The date on the first letter reads 20 July 1925.

My darling Lizzie,

I have not slept this week for thoughts of you.

Outside, the world is bright and green with summer, and even young Rainham has a spring in his step. But I cannot bear the long days. In fact, I hate them. I hate each and every day that stands between now and when I shall see you again.

I cannot settle to anything – even hunting brings me no comfort. All I can do is mope about, like a man tormented.

I long for you to come and join me, here at the Hall. I truly believe, my darling, that you will be happy here – much happier than in that dank little cottage. As I write this, I am looking out through my study window at the gardens. The roses are in bloom and their delicate beauty is unmatched in this world, other than by your face.

Trust me when I say this, for I have seen the world. The world, and every specimen of woman it contains. Oriental girls with coal-black hair and obsidian eyes. African princesses, their swan necks looped with gold. So many faces I have seen and admired.

But none compare to yours.

Oh, your face. I dream of it each night. Your ivory skin. Your lips, as red as fresh-spilled blood. Those dark, wild eyes. Each night I fall deeper into dreams, like a man drowning.

I must have you.

My darling. I have spoken to the vicar and he can perform the ceremony in two weeks’ time. But we must ensure that everything is in order before we can proceed, as we discussed. My parents and my brother are due to return from Carlisle on Thursday. I expect them home by sundown.

We are closer than ever, now. You must not falter but be brave, for the sake of our union. For our future. It is as Macbeth said:

‘Who could refrain, that had a heart to love, and in that heart courage to make love known?’

I enclose, as a symbol of our promise, a gift. It is a handkerchief. I sent to Lancaster for it, demanded only the finest quality for my love. My bride.

I count the days until you are mine.

Yours forever

Rupert

Who are Rupert and Elizabeth? Previous inhabitants of the cottage, perhaps. But, no – Rupert had written of ‘the Hall’. Did he mean Orton Hall – her family’s old seat?

Could they be related?

She searches through the other letters, hunting for more details. Rupert writes of first setting eyes on Elizabeth at a May Day Festival in the village. He had – in his words – been ‘transfixed by her ivory skin and raven locks’.

Some of the letters are about arrangements to meet – always at dawn or dusk, where the lovers won’t be seen. There’s a dark undercurrent to Rupert’s words, as though danger stalks the couple; their stars conspiring against them. What did Elizabeth need such courage to face?

She can’t figure it out. Nor can she confirm the identities of the correspondents – Rupert never signs his last name, and there are no further references to the Hall.

Sadness wells up in her. Something in Rupert’s tone reminds her of early texts from Simon.

I can’t stop thinking about you, he’d texted, after their third date. I feel like I’m sixteen again.

He had taken her to a little sushi place in Shoreditch. She had felt out of place among the other female diners, with their sleek hair and expensive jewellery. She had agonised over what to wear, texting pictures of different outfit options to her university friends. She’d wanted to wear something simple, a plain navy dress she’d had for years, but one of the girls, Becky, had talked her into borrowing a slinky red top. It was so low-cut that it exposed a mole on her breastbone, a dark pink smudge she’d hated since childhood.