‘It appeared on my desk.’
‘And that frightened you? You cuckoo, David must have left it.’
‘I suppose so.’ She sniffed sheepishly. ‘I thought I heard –’ she broke off. She had been about to say, ‘Someone calling Georgie,’ but she stopped herself in time. If she had she was going mad. It was her imagination, working overtime in a shadowy too-silent house.
‘Where is this rose? Let’s fetch it in.’ Luke suddenly stood up. ‘Come on, then I’ll help you put the supper on for the infant prodigy. He’s going to refuse to go to bed until he’s had his money’s worth of the Christmas tree this evening.’
The fire in the study had died to ashes. Stooping Luke threw on a couple more logs as Joss walked over to the desk. Her pen lay on the page, a long dash of ink witness to the haste with which she had thrown it down. Next to it lay a dried rose bud, the petals curled and brown, thin and crackly as paper. She picked it up and stared at it. ‘It was fresh – cold.’ She touched it with the tip of her finger. The petals felt like tissue; a crisped curled margin of the leaf crumbling to nothing as she touched it.
Luke glanced at her. ‘Imagination, old thing. I expect it fell out of one of those pigeon holes. You said they were full of your mother’s rubbish.’ Gently he took the rose out of her hand. Walking over to the fire he tossed it into the flames and in a fraction of a second it had blazed up and disappeared.
12
Lydia’s notebook fell open at the marker, a large dried leaf which smelled faintly and softly of peppermint.
16th March, 1925. He has returned. My fear grows hourly. I have sent Polly to the Rectory for Simms and I have despatched the children with nanny to Pilgrim Hall with a note to Lady Sarah beseeching her to keep them all overnight. Apart from the servants I am alone.
Joss looked up, her eyes drawn to the dusty attic window. The sun was slanting directly into the room, lighting the beige daisies which were all that was still visible on a wall paper faded by the years. In spite of the warmth of the sun behind the glass she found she was shivering, conscious of the echoing rooms of the empty house below her.
The rest of the page was empty. She turned it and then the next and the next after that. All were blank. The next entry was dated April 12th, nearly a month after the first.
And now it is Easter. The garden is full of daffodils and I have gathered baskets of them to decorate every room. The slime from their stems stained my gown – a reprimand perhaps for my attempts to climb from the pit of despair. The best of the flowers I have saved for my little one’s grave.
April 14th. Samuel has taken the children to his mama. Without Nanny I cannot look after them.
April 15th. Polly has left. She was the last. Now I am truly alone. Except for it.
April 16th. Simms came again. He begged me to leave the house empty. He brought more Holy Water to sprinkle, but I suspect like all the perfumes of Arabia, even jugs full of the miraculous liquid cannot wipe away the blood. I cannot go to the Rectory. In the end I sent him away …
‘Joss!’
Luke’s voice at the foot of the attic stairs was loud and sudden. ‘Tom’s crying.’
‘I’m coming.’ She put the diary back in the drawer of the old dressing table and turned the key. There were only two more entries in the book and suddenly she was afraid to read them. She could hear Tom’s voice now, quite clearly. How could she not have heard it before?
Which of Lydia’s children had died? Who amongst her lively, much-loved brood occupied the grave in the churchyard which she had decorated with Easter daffodils?
Two at a time she fled down the steep stairs and along the corridor to the nursery. At every step the fretful wails grew louder.
He was standing up in his cot, his face screwed up, wet with anger and misery. As he saw her he stretched out his little arms.
‘Tom!’ She scooped him up and cuddled him close. ‘What is it, darling?’ Her face was in his soft hair. It smelled of raspberries from his jelly at lunch.
How could Lydia have borne to lose a child: one of her beloved brood?
She hugged Tom closer, aware that his bottom was damp. Already the sobs were turning to snuffles as he snuggled against her.
‘Is he OK?’ Luke put his head round the door.
Joss nodded. For a moment she couldn’t speak for the lump in her throat. ‘I’ll change him and bring him down. It’s almost time for his tea. Where’s Lyn?’
Luke shrugged. Striding into the room he threw the little boy a pretend punch. ‘You OK soldier?’ He glanced at Joss. ‘You too?’ He raised a finger to her cheek. ‘Still feeling bad?’
Joss forced a smile. ‘Just a bit tired, that’s all.’