Sterling probably knew that too.
Tilly packed her bag slowly, with her last remaining things. Inconsequential things such as dresses and hairbrushes. Nothing to show for more than twenty years in the world.
A soft knock at the door. She looked up. “Nell? You’re not supposed to be here.”
Nell held her finger over her lips in a “shh” gesture and beckoned her. Tilly followed, fearful of discovery and Sterling’s ire, as Nell led her into the garden.
The grass was dewy, the air cool and brisk. Nell took her down one of the greenways. Tilly hadn’t been in the garden since the escape and found she could barely tolerate the smell of earth and flowers. It reminded her so strongly of her foolishness.
“Here,” Nell said, at last. On the ground was a flat rock, and painted on it was a green band with a bow in it.
“What is it?” Tilly asked.
“This is from Seven Yard Beach. One of the rocks from down where we used to sit. I brought it up here myself and painted it. Do you know what this green thing is?”
Tilly shook her head.
“It’s Gawain’s green baldric. When he came back from his failure in the court of the Green Knight, the baldric was the symbol of his weakness. And everyone in Arthur’s court put a green baldric on, to show they loved him and to share in his weakness. For we are all weak, Tilly. We all make mistakes, we all lose our tempers, we say foolish things and make foolish decisions. When you are gone . . .” The girl’s face started to work against sobs. “When you are gone I will come here every day and remember you, and remember that I didn’t save you when I could have.”
“You couldn’t have saved me.”
“I could have. I knew you were planning something.”
Tilly gathered the girl against her. “I will miss you more than I can say.”
Nell sobbed against her chest for a few minutes, then stood back and took both Tilly’s hands. “He won’t be happy without you.”
“He won’t be happy with me either, Nell. I have let him down so sorely. If there was any love there . . . I am sure it is gone.”
Then footsteps crunching across the leaves alerted them they were not alone. The chief warder, Mr. Donaghy, was there, clearing his throat and indicating they should step apart. He had Tilly’s trunk by his side. She was to be led under guard to the jetty, but once she was on the steamer she would be a free woman. Somehow she was to make a life over on the mainland and put this part of her life behind her. She longed to see Sterling again, to read in his expression his love for her, his sense of loss. But he had carefully transformed himself into a closed book around her, dealing with her in the cool, neutral tones he used for people he cared little for or despised.
Tilly joined Mr. Donaghy, who indicated her trunk. “Is there anything else?”
“No,” she said, “that’s it.”
She followed him out of the garden and down the road towards the jetty. She turned for a last glimpse of Starwater behind her in the distance. The palms were rattling, the sun in the clear sky shone on the tin roof. Sterling stood on the verandah, watching them. She lifted her hand to wave good-bye, but he turned and went inside.
Tilly paused a moment. Closed her eyes.
“Miss Lejeune,” Mr. Donaghy said. “Are you ready to go?”
“No,” she said, her heart aching dully. “But I will go, nonetheless.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
The Truth Fixes Everything
2012
The knock was unexpected but not surprising. I’d been avoiding all calls for days. I shuffled to the door in my robe and bare feet, and opened the door.
“Stacy?”
“You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
Stacy held up the roughly written note I had pinned to my door. It said, I have gone back to the mainland. Sorry for inconvenience. “Who is this for?”
“Everybody. Mostly Joe.”
She crumpled it up. “And you don’t answer your phone anymore?”
“It doesn’t work over here.”
“Yes it does. It works enough. I usually have no problem getting you, even if it takes a few hours.” She pushed her way in, dropping her suitcase by the door. “I’m here because you’ve clearly crashed and burned if you’re not answering me. And those who have crashed and burned need friends.”
I put my head in my hands. “Oh, Stace. You have no idea how badly I’ve screwed up everything.”
Stacy put her arms around my shoulders and hugged me tight enough to bruise me. “And you thought the best way to handle this was to cut off all contact with the world?”
I nodded, afraid that if I spoke I would cry.
“Okay, Nina, listen. I’m going to make tea and you are going to tell me everything. And you aren’t going to do your usual thing where you only tell me half of everything because you think you’ll bore me or burden me or make me hate you. Everything.” She let me go and I stood back.
“All right,” I said, “as long as I can do it from bed.”
Stacy made tea and brought it to my bedroom, where I was back between the sheets curled into a fetal position as I had been since Marla called.
“Sit up,” she said. “That’s a start.”
I sat up and took the mug of tea she offered.
“First things first, why did you leave that note for Joe?”
“I slept with him.”
To my surprise, Stacy started laughing. “ ‘Sorry for the inconvenience’? That’s how you tell somebody you wish you hadn’t slept with them? I will have to try that.”
Her laughter cheered me a little. “That’s not why I’m hiding.”
“Then why are you hiding?”
“It’s big. I have a . . . big secret. And when you hear it, or if Joe heard it, then you’ll know why . . .” I trailed off, feeling light-headed and out of breath.
Stacy settled on the bed, her feet pulled up under her. “I’m listening.”
I had never told anybody this before. I had a superstition that somehow the act of taking the horrid truth out of my head and saying it in the world was going to kill me. My ribs shook. “Okay. Here goes. Seven years ago, when I was going through Eleanor Holt’s papers, I found a manuscript of a story. A novel. About a crime-solving widow in the fourteenth century.”
Stacy nodded, keeping her face deliberately impassive. I had been expecting pity or anger, so wasn’t sure how to proceed.
“Go on,” she said. “Everything.”
“I read it, and I really liked it. I thought, you know, this ought to be published. But it was written so long ago, it was kind of . . . old fashioned. The characters said things like ‘oh, bother,’ and sometimes instead of shouting their lines, they ‘ejaculated’ them. Can you imagine? The Widow Wayland ejaculating all over the place?”
Stacy was laughing again.
“So I started retyping them, changing things. It became apparent it wasn’t just little things, it was big things too. The story was so slow to start, so I cut out five thousand words from the front and started it with the first body. But it’s her story. The first novel was Eleanor’s: the premise, the characters, all the research, even the title. A friend gave me Marla’s name and address, and I sent it off to her because I thought she might appraise it and tell me if it was publishable.” I sipped my tea, then put it back down on the bedside table. “I had no expectations at all, but then Marla got back to me and she already had a publisher interested. I know now that I should have said right then that I didn’t write it, but I was swept up in the moment, and by then I’d found another two manuscripts and was thinking about how I’d reorganize and rewrite those. It seemed such a little mistruth, to say I’d written them, simply because I thought maybe ten people would buy the book and I’d be able to point to it and say to Mum, ‘Look, I did something of value.’ ” I shrugged, feeling foolish and guilty. “I had no idea how successful they’d be. Marla had warned me, I’d talked to other writers: the market was flat, most writer
s earn nothing, it was a tough industry. I had no idea. Marla had no idea. And then the first book came out and . . . boom.”
“Indeed,” Stacy said.
“But then I was out of manuscripts.”
“Hence the writer’s block.”
“It’s more like typist’s block. I’m not a writer.”
Stacy tipped her head to the side. “See, that’s not what I’m hearing. I’m hearing very much cowriter. The books weren’t publishable in the form you found them in. Certainly you didn’t create the widow, but you have written half a book about her on your own, haven’t you?”
“It’s rough. It’s rubbish. I don’t know anywhere near enough about the Middle Ages.”
“Then hire somebody who does. And give it a good edit. Nina, I’m sorry, but I did something naughty last time I was here. You were sleeping in after a bad night, and I went into your computer and had a scan through what you’ve written so far.”
I was both aghast and grateful. “And?”
“It’s fine. Nobody will know the difference, once you’ve polished it up. I think your voice is probably more a part of the Widow Wayland stories than you realize.”
The relief that flooded my limbs made me feel light. “Really?”
“Really.”
“But I still have to live with the knowledge that I stole the ideas.”
“Do you still have the manuscripts?”
I looked down guiltily. “No, I burned them. I became so worried somebody would find them and expose me.”
“Good,” Stacy said. “Very wise. So, the only people who know are you and me?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re not going to tell anyone and I’m not going to tell anyone . . . so . . .”
“The journalist. The one that was trying to get access to my papers. She found copies of letters from the publishers to Eleanor, saying we don’t want to publish your Widow Wayland books.”
Stacy stroked her chin. “That’s still not proof of anything beyond the fact you might have borrowed the name.”
“Are you saying I should lie?”
“When we can’t expect people to do the right thing with the truth, I don’t see why we should give it to them. This journalist, if I’m guessing rightly, wants to take you down? You’re rich and pretty and young. Giving her the truth would be irresponsible. So you cowrote a few of the books with your great-grandmother? That sounds like a family matter to me. It’s nowhere near a copyright infringement.”
I turned Stacy’s words over in my mind. Cowritten? Is that what they were? And was that why this one was so difficult? My cowriter hadn’t shown up for work.
“Nina, let me offer you some advice,” Stacy said. “If you find writing alone too difficult, then get out now. Don’t keep banging your head against it. You will be fine. You can sell that ridiculously overpriced apartment and come live with me for as long as you need, and I’ll help you sort out your contractual obligations and repayments. But if you think you can do it, then put this behind you, never speak of it again, and keep writing.”
I sank back against my pillow. “I’m so tired.”
“I’m led to believe writing is hard work for most. Lord knows I couldn’t do it. Being tired is not a reason to stop. It’s not a reason to switch off your phone and put ridiculous notes on your door for sexy marine biologists.”
I put my face in my hands again. “Why is life so complicated?”
“Because you’re a grown-up. But you get lots of benefits. You get to drive and buy your own shoes.”
I dropped my hands and smiled at her. “Thank you for coming. Will you stay and help me sort this out?”
“Of course I will.”
•
Joe showed up after lunch. I was dressed by now, for the first time in many days, in one of Stacy’s dresses. I hadn’t bothered with laundry in a while.
“You’re back,” he said.
“I never left,” I replied.
“Yeah, I guessed that. But the note’s gone, so . . .”
“I’m sorry. I had a . . . meltdown of sorts.”
“To do with me?”
I shook my head.
“Well,” he replied. “I want you to see something.”
Stacy was at my shoulder now, all fluttery eyelashes. “Hi, Joe.”
“Do you want to come down to the boat shed with us?” he asked her. “I was fixing the damage that Julian caused when I found it.”
“Found what?” I asked.
He turned his gaze back to me. “A box full of papers. Eleanor’s papers.”
My heart jumped. “Why didn’t you bring them?”
“It’s a big box and the bottom is falling out of it. Have you got a laundry basket or something similar?”
I raced to the laundry, tipped out my dirty washing, and followed Joe and Stacy down to the boat shed.
They chatted ahead of me, no awkwardness between them. I thought about how Joe had said he loved me. I wondered how different he’d feel if I told him the truth about the Widow Wayland. What if he saw it differently from Stacy? I thought of the admiration he’d expressed for my creativity. He would be disappointed; he might even think I’m a liar.
The boat shed was dark and musty. I could see the new beams Joe had nailed in.
“You know you didn’t have to do this,” I said.
“Yes, I did,” he replied. “Julian broke the old ones.” He smiled. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“Consider me surprised.”
“The box is up in the back corner of the loft. I’ll go up and hand down the papers for you to put in the basket. Okay?”
“Okay,” Stacy said.
We watched Joe climb up on the new beams and haul himself into the loft.
“Be careful,” I said. “No more accidents in here.”
He came to the edge of the loft with the first handful of papers. “I’ve reinforced it,” he said.
Joe kept passing down handfuls of papers and we piled the papers as neatly as we could in the laundry basket, then took them back up to the house.
At the door, Joe hesitated, clearly hoping for an invitation to come in.
“Thanks, Joe,” I said, outside the door, my hand on the doorknob, my body barring the way in. “I didn’t even think of looking in the boat shed for more papers. Largely because I only recently found out I had a boat shed.”
Stacy, Joe, and I stood there for a moment in awkward silence, then Stacy slipped past me with the laundry basket. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said.
When she was gone, I closed the door behind her, leaving Joe and me alone on the verandah. Joe smiled at me sadly. “So,” he said.
“So,” I replied.
“So you’ve been avoiding me and now you’re not going to invite me in?”
“I don’t think it can work,” I blurted.
“You still love Cameron?”
I nearly laughed. There was no way I loved Cameron, and my feelings for Joe were burning a hole in my ribs. “I don’t think it can work,” I said, with more conviction this time because it felt so true. I didn’t want him to know the truth about me, so I had to let him go.
He smiled tightly and, without a word, turned and left.
I took a moment to gather myself and went inside.
Stacy had the laundry basket on the floor of the living room. She’d moved the coffee table up against the wall and was slowly sorting. “You broke up with him?” she asked, her head bent over the box.
“There was nothing to break up.” I knelt next to her. “You know what I’m hoping to find, don’t you?”
“I’m half hoping you won’t find it,” she said.
We dived in.
•
Letters and short stories and poems and essays. We sifted through them all. They appeared to be in no order, as though the pages had been dropped, regathered haphazardly, and thrown in the box.
It was Stacy who found it.
“Widow Wayland!” s
he shrieked, snatching up a sheaf of papers.
I could see immediately it wasn’t a full manuscript, but I took them from her hands anyway.
“Dark Horses, a Widow Wayland Mystery,” I read from the front page. My hands shook.
“Go on,” she said, leaning into my shoulder.
“It’s not a full novel.” I already had the front half of a novel. I didn’t need this; I couldn’t use this.
“The rest might be somewhere else.”
But I went to the last page in the bundle and read the last paragraph aloud to Stacy. “And then the Widow Wayland became disillusioned because no man would publish—nor even read without some prejudiced idea of ‘women’s stories’—her manuscripts and so she ran off to Havana with a handsome young man and lived happily ever after. THE END.”
“What does that mean?” Stacy said. “Does that happen in the story?”
“Of course not. That was Eleanor, angry that she had been rejected.”
Stacy picked up a manila envelope, stuffed with folded papers. “Oh yes, she was rejected. There are dozens of letters in here, telling her to take her manuscript elsewhere.”
“And no doubt a copy of one of those letters is what has that nosy journalist interested,” I said. I read the last lines over and over. She gave up. Eleanor gave up.
Stacy touched my shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“I’m going to have to write this book, aren’t I?”
Stacy looked at me, waited for me to finish.
“This is it. She stopped. She gave up, Stacy. But I’m not going to. I am absolutely not going to give up. Eleanor was writing at a time when it was so difficult for women. Everything’s been easy for me and all I do is whine. I have to finish this book, and then write another and another. For Eleanor. Because she couldn’t.”
Stacy leaned in to hug me. “She would have been so proud.”
“Except for the part where I plagiarized her,” I said, through a mouthful of Stacy’s dark hair.
“You mean the part where you took her unpublishable manuscript and made millions of people read about the Widow Wayland and see her on the television?” Stacy sat back. “Don’t tell me she wouldn’t have been pleased.”