The Lake House (37 page)

“Please, Mother,” said Alice. “Couldn't we just go down to the sea while you finish up here?”

“Yes, please, Mother,” chimed Clementine, who'd almost broken three clocks in as many minutes.

“Let me take them, Mother,” said Deborah, who, at sixteen, was just beginning to glimpse her role as eldest daughter and adult-in-waiting. “I'll keep an eye on things, make sure they behave properly, and have us all back to help you with the parcels before Martin returns.”

Eleanor watched as they went, releasing a long-held sigh. Really, she was as glad as they were. It was far easier to fill time when she didn't have to keep them entertained and in line. She thanked the jeweller, agreed with his suggested method of repair, and stepped outside the shop.

There was a wooden bench seat in the square and Eleanor was pleased to find it empty. She sat down and passed a quiet half-hour watching the comings and goings of the village. As a child, Eleanor had never realised how much enjoyment could be gained, as an adult, simply from sitting. The absence of demands and expectations, of queries and conversation, was a true, simple joy. It was with some regret that she noted there were only fifteen minutes remaining until Martin returned to collect them, and that it was time to brave the post office.

That is—Eleanor steeled herself—it was time to brave the postmistress. Marjorie Kempling was a gossip with a seemingly inexhaustible trove of material she was bursting to share. Presumably as a consequence of Eleanor's frequent visits to collect parcels, Miss Kempling had come to regard the pair of them as something akin to co-conspirators. It was a misguided assumption, and one which Eleanor did nothing to encourage. She had little desire to know the ins and outs of her neighbours' lives, but it seemed no amount of crisp silence could deter the other woman's enthusiasm. Indeed, it seemed the more space Eleanor allowed, the greater was Miss Kempling's commitment to fill it.

Eleanor hesitated briefly on the top step of the stone post office building. There was a little bell positioned on the architrave on the other side of the door, and its effusive tinkle was a sound she'd come to dread. To Miss Kempling it was a clarion call; to Eleanor it signalled the beginning of the onslaught. She readied herself, determined simply to march in and politely but firmly extricate herself and her parcels with the minimum of fuss. And then, with more force, perhaps, than was necessary, she took hold of the door's handle and prepared to push. Right as she did so, the door slipped away from her and, to her immediate mortification, Eleanor fell straight into a man trying to exit the post office.

“I'm so sorry, forgive me,” she said, stepping back onto the landing.

“Not at all. It was my fault, I was hurrying. I had a sudden overwhelming need for fresh air and a moment's silence.”

Eleanor laughed, in spite of herself. She met his eyes and it took her a moment to remember where she knew him from. He had changed. His hair was longer, dark and curled, and his skin was a great deal browner than it had been. He looked quite unlike the neat young man she'd first encountered on the train home.

His smile caught. “Have we met?”

“No,” she said quickly, remembering the journey, the handkerchief, the thrill she'd felt when his fingers brushed hers, “I don't believe we have.”

“In London, perhaps?”

“No. Never.”

A faint frown had settled on his brow, but he smiled as if he hadn't a care in the world. “My mistake, then. Apologies. Good day.”

“Good day.”

Eleanor let go her breath. The incident had left her unexpectedly rattled and she waited a few seconds before proceeding inside. The bell tinkled merrily and she fought an urge to reach out and deliver it a stilling blow.

The postmistress's eyes lit up when she saw that it was Eleanor. “Mrs Edevane, how lovely to have a visit. I've a number of parcels here for you. But my goodness, you look so peaky!”

“Good day, Miss Kempling. I'm afraid I've just run into a gentleman on the steps. Terribly careless of me. I'm a little shaken.”

“Oh my! But that will be Mr Munro. Here—sit down, my dear, let me fetch you a cool glass of water.”

Mr Munro. She might have guessed Marjorie Kempling would know who he was. Eleanor hated herself for being interested. She hated herself even more for the irrational flare of envy she'd felt at the postmistress's comfortable use of the man's name.

“But isn't he a dish!” Miss Kempling bustled back from behind the counter, a glass of water clutched in one paw. “He could be in the films! Quite unlike the other young fellows we see around here. A jack-of-all-trades, from what I gather, he travels all over taking work where it's offered. He's been labouring for Mr Nicolson at the apple orchard over the summer.” She leaned close enough that Eleanor could smell the oily day cream on her skin. “He's living in an old caravan on the river, just like a gypsy. You can tell by looking at him, can't you, that he's probably got some of the blood. That skin! Those eyes!”

Eleanor smiled thinly, disdaining the other woman's excitable manner, her taste for gossip, and yet unconscionably eager to hear more. Oh, but she was the worst kind of hypocrite!

“Not a gentleman, exactly,” the other woman was saying, “but fine manners and a lovely way about him. I'm going to miss his visits.”

Miss them? “Oh?”

“That's what he was in for just now, to let me know he won't be needing letter collection anymore. His contract with Mr Nicolson is expiring and he's moving on next week. He left no forwarding address, more's the pity. Quite the man of mystery. I said to him, ‘But what if post arrives and I've nowhere to send it on to?' and do you know what he replied?”

“I can't imagine.”

“He told me that all the people he cared to hear from would know where to write to him, and the rest he could do without.”

* * *

There was no forgetting him after that. Miss Kempling had given Eleanor just enough information to fuel her interest and she found herself thinking of him often over the next few weeks. Mr Munro. The name had insinuated itself into her mind and came to her at the oddest times. When she was visiting Anthony in his study, when she was watching the girls on the lawn, when she lay down to sleep and the night-birds started crying on the lake. He was like a song that got stuck in one's head and couldn't be escaped. She remembered the warmth of his voice, the way he'd looked at her as if the two of them were in on a private joke, how she'd felt when his hand brushed hers on the train, as if it were fate and the two of them were always destined to meet.

She knew such thoughts weren't safe and she knew that they were wrong. The illicit frisson accompanying them told her that. She was shocked by herself, and dismayed; Eleanor had never imagined she'd be capable of attraction to anyone but Anthony and it felt sullying in some way to find herself in this position. She assured herself that it was a temporary state of affairs, an aberration; that she would forget this other man soon enough; that in the meantime her thoughts were her own and no one else need ever know. The man himself had moved on weeks ago, and he'd left no forwarding address. There was no real risk. Why shouldn't she take out a pleasant memory now and again, what harm was there in that? And so she continued to remember, sometimes even to invent. Mr Munro. That easy smile of his, the pull she'd felt when he looked at her, what might have happened had she said instead, “Why, yes, I remember you. We've met before.”

* * *

But of course there is always a risk when the heart allows a breach, no matter how small or harmless it might seem. The next occasion on which Eleanor needed to take the girls away from Loeanneth was a glorious morning, the first after weeks of drizzling rain, and the last thing she felt like doing was lacing herself into one of her formal dresses to make the trip into town. And so, she decided, they would have a picnic instead.

Mrs Stevenson packed them a lunch and they set off down the path between the laurel hedges, circumnavigating the lake until they reached the stream that ran along the bottom of the garden. Edwina, never one to be willingly left behind, panted fervently beside them. She was a lovely dog, loyal and faithful to them all, but particularly fond of Eleanor. They'd bonded, the pair of them, over the incident with Anthony when Edwina was just a puppy. The dear old girl had arthritis in her joints now, but refused to let it stop her, accompanying her mistress wherever she went.

The weather was exceptional, and perhaps because they'd been cooped up for days they walked further than they otherwise might have. Eleanor swore later to herself that she hadn't taken them to the edge of Mr Nicolson's orchard on purpose. Indeed, it was Clementine who'd led the way, running ahead, her arms outstretched, and Deborah who'd finally pointed to the flat, grassy spot beneath the willow on the water's edge and said, “Oh, do let's sit there, it's perfect!” Eleanor knew where they were, of course, and endured a small flutter of embarrassment as the fantasies she'd harboured over the past month came rushing back to her. But before she could demur, suggest they move their picnic further upstream or across another meadow, the blanket was out and the two older girls lolling on it. Alice was frowning at her notebook, biting her lip as she willed her pen to keep up with her tumbling thoughts, and Eleanor had to accept, with a sigh, that there'd be no moving on from here. And really, there was no good reason to go elsewhere. That man, Mr Munro—her cheeks flushed even as she thought his name—had moved on weeks before. It was only her guilty conscience that baulked at the idea of sitting in this particular field on this particular farm.

Eleanor unpacked the picnic basket and spread Mrs Stevenson's goodies across it. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the four of them ate ham sandwiches and Cox's Orange Pippins and far too much cake, washing it all down with fresh ginger beer. Edwina watched proceedings imploringly, snaffling up each small titbit as it came her way.

But really, the heat for October was uncanny! Eleanor undid the small pearl buttons at her wrist, rolling her sleeves back once, and then twice, so they sat in neat pleats. A somnolence had come over her after lunch, and she lay back on the blanket. Closing her eyes, she could hear the girls bickering lazily over the last slice of cake, but her attention drifted, sailing beyond them to pick out the
plink
of water as gleaming trout leapt in the stream, the thrum of hidden crickets on the rim of the woods, the warm rustling of leaves in the nearby orchard. Each sound was an exaggeration, as if a bewitching spell had been cast over this small patch of land, like something from a fairy tale, one of Mr Llewellyn's stories from her childhood. Eleanor sighed. The old man had been gone over a month now. He'd left, as he always did, when summer finished, seeking the warmer climes of Italy to soothe his restless legs and spirit. Eleanor missed him terribly. The winter months at Loeanneth were always the longer and colder for his absence, and she, personally, was stiffer without him, more contained. He was the only person who still looked at her and saw the slip of a girl with wild, tangled hair and a seemingly unquenchable spirit.

She fell asleep, aware, just, as she tipped over the cliff of consciousness, and dreamed she was a child. She was on her boat, its white sail full of breeze, and her father and Mr Llewellyn were waving from the shore. Her heart was full of happiness; she felt no uncertainty or fear. Light rippled off the water and the leaves glistened, but then, as she turned back to wave again, she realised she'd drifted further than she'd meant to, and the lake was no longer a shape she recognised, opening instead to spill away from the house and her family, and the current was strong, pulling her further from them, and the water was no longer still, the boat was rocking from side to side and she had to hold on tightly so as not to fall—

She woke abruptly and realised she was being shaken. “Mother! Wake up, Mother!”

“What is it?” It was no longer bright. Great, dark clouds were gathering in the west and the wind had picked up. Eleanor sat up quickly, glancing around to count her children. “Clementine?”

“She's fine. It's Edwina we're worried about. She ran off after a rabbit half an hour ago and hasn't come back, and now it's going to rain.”

“Half an hour—but how long have I been sleeping?” Eleanor checked her watch. It was almost three. “Which way did she go?”

Deborah pointed towards a distant copse and Eleanor stared, as if by scanning the trees with enough intent she might will Edwina into view.

The sky was mulberry. Eleanor could smell the coming storm, heat and moisture combined. It was going to rain, heavily and soon, but they couldn't just leave Edwina, not this far from home. She was old and partly blind, and with her joints as stiff as they were she wouldn't be able to get herself out of trouble.

“I'll go after her,” said Eleanor decisively, stacking the picnic items back into the basket. “She won't have gone too far.”

“Shall we wait?”

Eleanor considered briefly before shaking her head. “There's no point all of us getting wet. You take the others home. Make sure Clemmie stays out of the rain.”

After seeing off the girls with stern instructions not to dawdle, Eleanor started towards the copse. She called for Edwina, but the wind was strong and her words were whipped away. She walked quickly, stopping every so often to survey the horizon, to call and listen, but there came no bark of reply.

It was becoming very dark, very quickly, and with each minute that passed, Eleanor's anxiety grew. Edwina would be frightened, she knew. At home, when it rained, the old dog flew straight for her bed behind the curtain in the library, tail between her legs and paws over her eyes as she waited out the worst.

An enormous detonation of thunder filled the valley and Eleanor realised the storm clouds were right above her now. The last patch of light sky had been absorbed by the tumultuous gloom, and without hesitation, she climbed through the kissing gate and started across the next field. A great swirl of wind encircled her and lightning tore open the sky. As the first fat drops began to fall, Eleanor cupped her hands and called again, “Edwina!” but her voice was swept up into the storm and there came no reply.