The Lake House

  Her hand went to her heart. The old ache was still there, lodged within her ribcage like a peach stone. After decades spent suppressing the memories, they came often these days. Strange the way she could forget what she’d eaten for dinner the night before, only to find herself right back in the frantic swirl of that room, that early morning as dawn was breaking outside and her body splintering inside. The gormless housemaid dithering with the flaccid cloth, Cook’s sleeves pushed up to her raw elbows, coals spitting in the fireplace. There’d been men in the corridor, debating as to What Should Be Done, but Constance hadn’t listened; their voices had been drowned out by the sound of the sea. The wind had blown ill that morning and as people started to move in the liminal dark around her, a confusion of rough hands and sharp voices, Constance had disappeared beneath the relentless heave and pound of the hateful waves. (How she despised that sound! Even now, it threatened to drive her mad.)

  Afterwards, in the wasteland of weeks that followed, Henri had called in a number of doctors, London’s finest, all of whom agreed it had been unavoidable—the cord had been wrapped tight as a noose around his little neck—and it would be best for everyone if the whole unfortunate incident were forgotten. But Constance hadn’t forgotten and she’d known they were wrong. The “incident’ hadn’t been unavoidable; her baby had been killed by incompetence. His incompetence. Of course the doctors had closed ranks around him—he was one of their own. Nature was not always kind, they’d advised, each more ingratiating than the one before, but she always knew best. There was nothing to stop them trying again.

  Stiff upper lip.

  Least said soonest mended.

  Things would be different next time.

  They were right about that. When Eleanor was born twelve months later and the midwife held her up for inspection—“It’s a girl!”—Constance had looked her over from top to toe, enough to see that she was wet and pink and squealing, before nodding shortly, rolling over, and sending for a hot cup of tea.

  She’d waited for the feelings to come, the rush of maternal love and longing she’d felt the first time (oh! that plump waxen face, the long fine fingers, the sweet curled lips that would never utter a sound), but the days had passed, one rolling into the next, her breasts had swelled and ached and then settled, and before she knew it Dr Gibbons was back to declare her fit and usher her out of confinement.

  By then, though, something between them had been silently and mutually resolved. The baby girl cried and shouted and refused to calm when Constance held her. Constance looked at the child’s bawling face and could think of no name that suited it more than another. It was left to Henri to name and hold and pace, until the advertisement could be placed and Nanny Bruen arrived on the doorstep with her impeccable references and nursery standards. By the time Daffyd Llewellyn stepped in, with his stories and rhymes, Constance and Eleanor were as strangers. Over time she nurtured her rage against the man who had taken not one but two of her children from her.

  But—Constance sighed—she was tired of being angry. She had held on to her molten hatred so long it had hardened into steel and she had grown stiff with it. As the band launched into another merry tune and people swirled about the lantern-lit dance floor within its ring of willows, she cut through the crowd to the tables where the hired waiters were pouring drinks.

  “A glass of champagne, Ma’am?”

  “Thank you. And another, please, for my friend.”

  She accepted the two brimming flutes and made her way to sit on the bench beneath the arbour. It wasn’t going to be easy—her old antipathy was as familiar as her own reflection—but it was time to let it go and be freed at last from the anger and grief that had kept her prisoner.

  As if on cue, Constance caught a glimpse of Daffyd Llewellyn on the edge of the crowd. He was heading directly towards the arbour, skirting around the revellers, almost as if he knew she was waiting for him. For Constance, the fact further cemented her certainty that she was doing the right thing. She was going to be polite, even kind; to enquire after his health—the heartburn she knew was giving him trouble—and congratulate him on his recent achievements and the upcoming honour.

  A smile pulled nervously at the edge of her lips. “Mr Llewellyn,” she called, standing to wave at him. Her voice was more high-pitched than usual.

  He glanced around, his body stiffening in surprise when he saw her.

  A flash of memory came and she saw him as a young man, the bright and dashing physician her husband had befriended. Constance steeled herself. “I wondered if you might have a moment.” Her voice wavered, but she caught it. Determined, resolved, eager to be released. “I was hoping we might talk.”

  * * *

  Constance was beckoning him with a glass of champagne from beneath the arbour, the very spot in which Daffyd was supposed to be meeting Alice in fifteen minutes. The girl had a sixth sense for Ben Munro’s whereabouts and Eleanor had pleaded with him to keep her occupied tonight. “Please, Daffyd,” she’d said. “It would ruin everything if Alice were to turn up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  He’d agreed, but only because Eleanor was the closest he’d ever come to having a child of his own. He’d loved her since she was tiny. A poppet in a bundle, a permanent attachment to Henri, always in his arms, and then later, when she was older, riding on his shoulders or skipping along beside him. Would she have been so like her father if she hadn’t spent so much time with him when she was small? It was impossible to say, but she was, and Daffyd loved her for it. “Please,” she’d said, taking his hands in hers. “I’m begging you. I can’t do this without you.” And so, of course, he’d agreed.

  In truth, he had grave misgivings about the whole idea. The worry he felt for Eleanor was driving him to distraction and distress. His heartburn had become chronic since she’d told him, and the old depression, the malaise that had once threatened to overwhelm him, was back. He’d seen firsthand what could happen to women who lost their children. It was the sort of plot invented by desperation that held together only in the long wee hours of night.

  He’d pleaded with her to reconsider, during the many conversations they’d had in which she’d poured out her heart, but she had been emphatic. He understood her loyalty to Anthony—he’d known them both when they were young and grieved as she did for the loss her husband had suffered—and he shared her fears for baby Theo. But to make such a sacrifice! There had to be another way. “Show it to me,” she’d said, “and I will take it.” But no matter how he twisted and turned the pieces of the puzzle, he could find no arrangement that pleased her. Not without making public Anthony’s troubles, and that she refused to do.

  “I made him a promise,” she said, “and you of all people know that promises aren’t for breaking. You’re the one who taught me that.” Daffyd had remonstrated with her when she said that, gently at first, and then sternly, trying to make her see that the logic animating his made-up world of faerie, those luminous threads he wove together to make his stories, were not strong enough to support the complications of a human being’s life. But she was not to be dissuaded. “Sometimes to love from afar is as much as we can hope for,” she’d said, and in the end he’d consoled himself that nothing was forever. That she could always change her mind. That perhaps it was all for the best, a temporary safe haven for the little fellow.

  So he’d done as she asked. Arranged to meet Alice here tonight, to keep her from stumbling where she shouldn’t and scuppering their plans. Eleanor had been sure the girl’s natural curiosity would be enough to ensure her compliance and he’d been readying himself all day, going over contingencies, anticipating problems; but he hadn’t foreseen being intercepted by Constance. As a rule, Daffyd tried to think of Constance as little as possible. They’d never seen eye to eye, even before the terrible business of that night. Throughout her courtship with Henri, Daffyd had watched from the sidelines as she led his friend a merry dance. S
o cruel, so uncaring, and yet Henri had been smitten. He’d thought he could tame her, that when she agreed to marry him her days of playing the field were over.

  Constance’s grief after the baby’s death had been real, though; Daffyd didn’t doubt that. Her heart had been broken, she’d needed someone to blame, and her eye had turned on him. It didn’t matter how many doctors explained about the cord, assured her that the result would have been the same no matter who was in attendance; she wouldn’t believe them. She’d never forgiven Daffyd for the part he’d played. But then, he’d never forgiven himself either. He’d never practised again. His passion for medicine had died that bleak morning. He was beset with images of the baby’s face; the clammy heat of the room; the terrible keening that came from Constance as she clung to the stillborn child.

  But now, here she was, holding out a champagne flute and asking to talk.

  “Thank you,” he said, accepting the glass and taking a larger sip than he might have. It was cold and bubbling and he hadn’t realised quite how parched he was, how nervous about the task that lay ahead. When he finally stopped drinking, Constance was watching him, a strange look on her face, surprised, no doubt, by his uncouth thirst.

  And then it was gone. She smiled. “I’ve always loved Midsummer. There’s so much possibility in the air, don’t you think?”

  “Too many people for me, I’m afraid.”

  “At the party, perhaps, but I was speaking more generally. The idea of renewal, a fresh start.”

  There was something unsettling in her manner. She was as nervous as he was, Daffyd realised. He took another swig of champagne.

  “Why, you of all people know the benefit of a fresh start, don’t you, Daffyd? Such a transition you made. Such a surprising second chance.”

  “I have been fortunate.”

  “Henri was so proud of your literary endeavours, and Eleanor—well, she worships the ground you walk on.”

  “I’ve always been inordinately fond of her, too.”

  “Oh, yes, I know. You spoiled her dreadfully. All those stories you told, writing her into your book.” She laughed lightly, before seeming to experience a sudden sobering of mood. “I’ve become old, Daffyd. I find myself thinking often about the past. Opportunities missed, people lost.”

  “It happens to us all.”

  “I’ve been meaning to congratulate you on your recent honour, the royal order. There’ll be a reception at the palace, I presume?”

  “I believe so.”

  “You’ll meet the King. Did I ever tell you, I almost enjoyed the same privilege when I was a young woman? I fell ill, alas, and my sister Vera went in my stead. These things can’t be helped, of course. Life is filled with twists and turns. Your success, for instance—a tremendous case of roses from the ashes.”

  “Constance—”

  “Daffyd.” She inhaled and drew herself to full height. “I was hoping you might agree it was time to put the past behind us.”

  “I—”

  “One cannot hold on to ill feelings forever. There comes a time when one must decide to act rather than to react.”

  “Constance, I—”

  “No, let me finish, Daffyd, please. I’ve imagined this conversation so many times. I need to say it.” He nodded and she smiled brief appreciation, before lifting her glass. Her hand shook slightly, whether from emotion or advanced age, Daffyd didn’t know. “I’d like to propose a toast. To action. To remedy. And to renewal.”

  He met her glass with his own and they drank, Daffyd almost gulping the last of his champagne. He was stalling; he felt overcome. It was all so unexpected and he wasn’t quite sure what to say: a lifetime of guilt and grief welled up inside him and his eyes glazed. It was too much to bear on a night that was already heavy with distressing duties.

  His tumult must have been evident, for Constance was scrutinising him, watching as closely as if she were seeing him for the first time. Perhaps because he was being observed, he felt himself sway unsteadily. He was hot suddenly. It was stuffy here, very warm. There were so many people fussing, and the music was too loud. He drained the last dregs of his champagne.

  “Daffyd?” Constance said, frowning. “You look peaky.”

  His hand went to his forehead as if to steady himself. He blinked, trying to focus his vision, to stop seeing fuzzy haloes around everyone and everything.

  “Shall I get you a glass of water? Do you need some fresh air?”

  “Air,” he said, his throat very dry, his voice raspy. “Please.”

  There were people everywhere, faces, voices, all a blur, and he was glad to have her arm to steady him. Not in a million years would Daffyd have anticipated a scenario in which it would be Constance rendering him aid. And yet, without her, he feared, he might have fallen.

  They passed through a group of laughing people and he thought he glimpsed Alice in the distance. He tried to say something, to explain to Constance that he couldn’t go too far, that he had important business to take care of, but his tongue was lazy and wouldn’t form the words. There was still time. Eleanor had said they weren’t meeting until midnight. He would do as he promised; he just needed a bit of cool air first.

  They followed the path beyond the hedge until the noise of the crowd seemed very far away. His heart was galloping. It was more than his usual heartburn or anxiety; he could hear his pulse coursing behind his ears. It was guilt, of course; memories of that terrible dawn so long ago; his failure to save the little lad. To think that Constance should be the one to make amends. Daffyd felt an overwhelming urge to weep.

  His head was spinning. Voices, so many of them, cacophonous, distant, but one cut high above them all, close to his ear, in his ear. “Just wait here. Rest a moment, I’ll fetch you some water.”

  He was ice cold suddenly. He glanced around him. The owner of the voice was gone. He was alone. Where was she? Where was who? Someone had been with him. Or had he imagined it? He was tired, so tired.

  His head swirled with the sounds around him. Fish flicking their tails in the dark pools, mysterious dripping noises in the depths of the woods.

  He glimpsed the boathouse. There were too many people there, laughing and squealing as they skylarked in the lamp-lit boats. He needed to be alone, to breathe, to regain his composure.

  He would walk just a little further in the other direction. Along the stream. It had always been one of his favourite places. Such good days they’d had, such good, long, sunny days, he and Henri, and, later, little Eleanor skipping along, delighting them with her perspicacity. Daffyd would never forget the look on Henri’s face when he watched his daughter, the cast of absolute adoration. Daffyd had tried to sketch that expression many times but never managed to capture it on paper.

  He stumbled and corrected himself. His legs felt very odd. Loose, as if all the ligaments had turned to rubber. He decided to sit down for a time. Just a short time. He fumbled in his pocket for one of his heartburn pills, popped it in his mouth and swallowed hard.

  The earth was cool and damp beneath him, and he leaned his back against the strong, solid trunk of a tree. He closed his eyes. His pulse was like a river, flowing fast after rain, rhythmical. He felt himself, a boat caught by the current, swishing and turning and throbbing.

  Daffyd could see Henri’s face now. Such a gentlemanly face, a good face. Eleanor was right. Sometimes to love from afar was the most one could hope for. And it was better, surely, than never to have loved at all.

  Oh, but it was hard.

  The stream lapped at the banks and Daffyd Llewellyn’s breathing slowed to match it. He had to see Alice; he’d promised Eleanor. He would go soon. Just a few more minutes here, the earth solid and cool beneath him, the tree faithful, the breeze light against his cheeks. And Henri’s face in his memory, his old friend, calling him, motioning with his hand that Daffyd should follow soon . . .

 
* * *

  Alice was glancing at her wristwatch when she almost ran into her grandmother. The old woman was walking very quickly, and seemed to be in a state of uncharacteristic excitement. “Water,” she said when she saw Alice; her cheeks were red and her eyes bright. “I need some water.”

  Ordinarily, Alice would have found her grandmother’s unusual energy enough to spark her curiosity, but not that evening. Her own world had collapsed and she was far too busy soaking in her own shame and distress to wonder at the peculiarities of others. It was only out of a deep sense of duty that she’d come to meet Mr Llewellyn tonight. Alice could hardly bear to think back to their conversation that morning; she’d been so keen to get rid of him, so excited to go and show her manuscript to Ben, so proud. What a mistake that had turned out to be.

  Lord, but she could just about die of embarrassment! Alice sat on the chair beneath the arbour and pulled her knees to her chest, utterly miserable. She hadn’t wanted to come to the party at all, preferring to lick her wounds in private, but Mother had insisted. “You’re not going to sit inside all night sulking,” she’d said. “You’re to put on your best dress and join the rest of your family outside. I don’t know what’s got into you, and why you have to choose tonight of all nights, but I won’t stand for it, Alice. Too much planning has gone into the evening for you to spoil it with your mood.”

  And so, here she was, under sufferance. She’d wanted to spend the whole night in her bedroom, hiding beneath the covers, trying to forget what a fool she’d been, what a stupid little fool. It was all Mr Llewellyn’s fault. By the time she’d got rid of the old man that morning, she’d figured it would be cutting things too fine to show Ben the manuscript; Mr Harris and his son would be back any minute. And so, instead, she’d decided to take her pages straight to the boathouse later that afternoon. That way, Alice had reasoned, they could be together in private at last.