Weyward(66)

‘Marry me?’ she said. ‘Why?’ What had any of this to do with marriage, she wondered. She had thought that couples wed when they were in love. There had been nothing of love that afternoon in the woods.

‘It is the decent thing,’ he said. ‘For the child. And for the family.’

The child. The spore that was growing in her stomach, feeding from her like a parasite. She hadn’t thought of it as a child.

‘But I don’t want to marry him,’ she said softly. Father ignored her, looking ahead at the road.

‘I won’t marry him,’ she said, louder this time. Still he ignored her.

Outside, the sky grew dark and knotted with clouds. There was a storm coming, she could feel it on her skin. She watched the sudden glow of lightning. The rain grew heavier, blurring the window so that she could barely see out of it. Then, the car slowed and juddered before coming to a halt. She tried to remember how long they had been driving. Less than ten minutes, she thought – surely that wasn’t long enough to get to Windermere?

Father opened his door and Violet breathed in the fragrant smell of wet earth. He collected her case from the trunk and then opened the door for her to get out. She drew her coat around her and pulled the brim of her hat down against the rain. Squinting ahead, she could see a low, squat cottage, overgrown with vegetation, the stone dull and wet. The windows were cobwebbed and dark.

Father rummaged for the keys in his overcoat. Now that they were closer, Violet saw that there were letters carved into the stone above the door. Weyward.

She rubbed the rain from her eyes, in case she was seeing things. But there it was. It looked like it had been carved a very long time ago: the first slant of the W was faint, and the other letters were green with lichen.

‘Father? Where are we?’

He ignored her.

Violet was gripped by the sudden fear that Frederick would be in the cottage, waiting for her … but when Father unlocked the heavy green door and she saw the dim corridor beyond, it was clear that there was no one there.

Father lit a match, piercing the blackness.

Inside, the dark rooms had a sunken look, as if they were trying to disappear into the earth. The ceiling was so low that Father, who was not a tall man, had to stoop.

There were only two rooms: the largest one, at the back of the cottage, had an ancient-looking stove and a cavernous fireplace. The other, two single beds and a battered old bureau. There was a scrabbling sound in the roof: mice, Violet thought. At least she wouldn’t be totally alone.

‘You will stay here until Frederick next has leave and can return for the ceremony,’ said Father. ‘I’ll come to check on you every few days with provisions. For now, you’ll find some tins and a dozen or so eggs in the kitchen. Perhaps the solitude will help you reflect on your sins.’

He paused before looking at her, his features twisted with disgust. ‘Frederick told me he had intended to ask for your hand, that he wanted to wait until after the wedding but you … wouldn’t take no for an answer.’

Her cheeks burned as the memory of the woods came back to her.

Father was still talking.

‘I have been foolhardy,’ he said. ‘I should have known. You are your mother’s daughter, after all.’ He turned away, as though he could no longer bear the sight of her.

‘My mother? Please – where are we? What is this place?’ Violet asked as he walked towards the door. He stood at its threshold, his hand on the doorknob, and for a while she thought he would simply leave without responding.

‘It belonged to her, actually,’ he said. ‘Your mother.’ He slammed the door behind him, so hard that the little house shook.





PART THREE





33


KATE


Kate stares at the writing on the box for a long time.

Orton Hall.

The cardboard is mildewed and lifting at the edges. One side looks as though it has been eaten by something. She remembers the glittering remains of the insects at Orton Hall and shudders. She isn’t sure she can even bring herself to touch the cardboard, but she is conscious of Emily watching her, eyes bright with anticipation.

She takes a deep breath. Then she opens the box.

Dust clouds the air, catching in her throat. She coughs as she peers inside.

All the books are very old, and some are in better condition than others. She pulls out a copy of An Encyclopaedia of Gardening. Its green cover is faded and swirled with mould. She shakes it, and crushed insect wings fall out, glimmering like pearls in the light.

‘Ugh,’ says Emily, reeling backwards. ‘That’ll be the infestation Mike mentioned. He’s been up at the Hall, helping to clear it out. He thought I might want the books. The viscount’s been moved to a care home, over in Beckside. He was in quite a state, apparently. Poor man. Hold on – I’ll get a dustpan.’

Emily bustles out of the storeroom, and Kate pulls the next book out of the box.

It’s a rather dense-looking tome titled Introduction to Biology. One of the pages is folded down, and Kate shudders at the unsettlingly graphic diagrams of insect reproduction.

There are some fiction titles, too: a dog-eared copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. The Complete Works of Shakespeare. She wonders who they belonged to. If they could have belonged to Graham or Violet.