Lucy gasped as she realised what the plan revealed. She had read, of course, about the measures taken against Catholic priests after Queen Elizabeth ascended to the throne. She knew that a great many houses had a secret chamber built into them, whether within the walls or beneath the floors, in order to shelter persecuted priests. But to think that there were one – maybe even two – here at Birchwood Manor was beyond thrilling. Even more exciting, it seemed probable to Lucy that Edward had no idea about the secret hideaways, for surely, if he had, it would have been one of the first things he’d have told them all. Which meant that she was going to be able to share something wonderful with him about the house that he loved: Edward’s ‘truthful’ house had a secret.
Lucy couldn’t get the boat back to the jetty quickly enough. She tied it up, gathered her books beneath her arm, and started running towards the house. Although she did not often give herself over to glee, and rarely to singing, she found herself humming one of Mother’s favourite dance tunes as she ran and took it up with gusto. Arriving back at the house, she went first to the Mulberry Room, for although Edward did not like to be disturbed while he was working, she was certain that under these circumstances he would make an exception. The room was unattended. A silk cloth had been draped over the canvas and Lucy vacillated briefly before deciding that she didn’t have the time to spare. Next, she looked upstairs in the bedroom that he had chosen for himself, overlooking the woods, but there was no sign. She ran along the hallways, peeking into each room that she passed, even braving an eyeful of Clare’s longing simper when she checked inside the front sitting-room.
In the kitchen she found Emma preparing the evening meal, but when asked after Edward’s whereabouts, the maid only lifted her left shoulder before launching into an admonishment of Thurston, who had developed a most unpleasant habit of climbing onto the rooftop of a morning and using the Napoleonic Wars rifle he had brought with him from London to take aim at the birds. ‘It’s a terrible racket,’ said Emma. ‘I mean, maybe if he stood a chance of bringing down a duck that I could roast … but his aim’s no good, and anyway, he takes shot at the smaller birds what don’t make for proper eating.’ It was a familiar lament and Edward had asked Thurston many times to stop, warning him that he might shoot one of the farmers by mistake and find himself up on charges of murder.
‘I’ll tell Edward as soon as I find him,’ said Lucy, in her best attempt at placation. They had formed a bond of sorts, she and Emma, during the course of the fortnight. Lucy had a feeling that the maid had her pegged as the only other ‘normal’ person in the house. As the artists and models flew in and out of the kitchen in loose costumes and with paint brushes tucked behind their ears, Emma seemed to save all of her head shakings and tut-tuts for Lucy, as if they were kindred spirits caught in a current of madness. Today, though, Lucy could spare Emma only the minimum of attention. ‘I promise, I’ll tell him,’ she said again, already on the move, skipping sideways and through the front door into the garden.
But Edward was in none of his favourite outdoor places, and Lucy was almost dying with frustration when she finally spotted Lily Millington about to leave the garden by the front gate that opened out onto the lane. The sun was catching her hair so that it looked ablaze.
‘Lily,’ she called. At first the model did not appear to hear her so she called again, louder. ‘Li-ly.’
Lily Millington turned around, and perhaps she had been far away in her thoughts, for her expression was as if she had been surprised by the sound of her own name. ‘Why, hello there, Lucy,’ she said with a smile.
‘I’m looking for Edward. Have you seen him anywhere?’
‘He went to the woods. He said he’d gone to see a man about a dog.’
‘Are you meeting him there?’ Lucy had noticed that Lily Millington was wearing walking boots and carrying a bag over her shoulder.
‘No, I’m off to the village to see a man about a stamp.’ She held up an addressed envelope. ‘Fancy a walk?’
With no chance to tell Edward what she had discovered about the house, Lucy decided that it was better to fill her afternoon with an activity than to wait around, cooling her heels.
They strolled along the laneway, past a church on the corner and into the village. The small post office was next door to a public house called The Swan.
‘I’ll wait here,’ said Lucy, who had seen an interesting stone structure over where the roads crossed and wanted to have a closer look.
Lily did not take long, emerging from the post office with her letter in hand, a stamp now affixed on its corner. Whatever she was posting was heavy enough to require a Two Penny Blue, Lucy noted, and was addressed to someone in London.
Lily slipped it into the post box and they started the short walk back to Birchwood Manor.
Lucy did not have the art of small talk, not like Clare and Mother, and she wondered what one was supposed to say to fill the silence in such a situation. Not that she believed silence needed filling, not generally, only that something about Lily Millington made Lucy wish to appear more grown-up, more clever, more significant than usual. For some reason that would require unpicking later, it seemed important that she should appear as more than simply Edward’s little sister.
‘Lovely weather,’ she said, causing herself to cringe into her collar.
‘Enjoy it while it lasts,’ said Lily, ‘it’s going to storm tonight.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘I have a rare and wondrous ability to read the future.’
Lucy glanced at her.
Lily Millington smiled. ‘I have an interest in synoptic charts and chanced to see one in a copy of The Times on the postmaster’s desk.’
‘You know about weather forecasting?’
‘Only what I’ve heard from Robert FitzRoy.’
‘You’ve met Robert FitzRoy?’ Friend to Charles Darwin; commander of the HMS Beagle; inventor of barometers and the first ever Meteorological Statist to the Board of Trade.
‘I’ve heard him speak. He’s the friend of a friend. He’s working on a book about weather that sounds very promising.’
‘Did you ever hear him speak about the sinking of the Royal Charter and the creation of the FitzRoy storm barometer?’
‘Of course. It’s quite remarkable …’
As Lily Millington launched into a fascinating account of the theory behind FitzRoy’s forecasting charts and the science behind his storm glasses, Lucy listened with an avid 97 per cent of her attention. With the other 3 per cent, she wondered whether it was too much to hope that when Edward lost interest in his model, Lucy would be able to keep Lily Millington for herself.
Lily Millington had been right about the storm. The stretch of perfect summer weather came to an abrupt end late that afternoon, sunlight disappearing from the sky as suddenly and surely as if someone had blown out the flame within the world’s lamp. Lucy didn’t notice, though, for she was already sitting in the dark, secreted within a hidden cavity beneath the skin of Edward’s house.
She had spent a most exciting afternoon. After they arrived back from the post office, Lily Millington had decided to walk down to the woods to rendezvous with Edward. Emma, still busy in the kitchen, was happy to report that Thurston, Clare, Adele and Felix had taken a picnic tea to share by the river and were planning afterwards to swim, and that she herself was ahead of schedule with the dinner preparations and – if there was nothing that Lucy was wanting – was going to ‘pop back home for an hour or so to put my feet up’.