About the Author

TERRY LYNN THOMAS grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, which explains her love of foggy beaches and Gothic mysteries. When her husband promised to buy Terry a horse and the time to write if she moved to Mississippi with him, she jumped at the chance. Although she had written several novels and screenplays prior to 2006, after she relocated to the South she set out to write in earnest and has never looked back.

Terry Lynn writes the Sarah Bennett Mysteries, set on the California coast during the 1940s, which feature a misunderstood medium in love with a spy. The Drowned Woman is a recipient of the IndieBRAG Medallion. She also writes the Cat Carlisle Mysteries, set in Britain during World War II. The first book in this series, The Silent Woman, came out in April 2018 and has since become a USA Today bestseller. When she’s not writing, you can find Terry Lynn riding her horse, walking in the woods with her dogs, or visiting old cemeteries in search of story ideas.

PRAISE FOR TERRY LYNN THOMAS

‘I flew through the pages of this well-crafted historical thriller’

‘I am hooked on historical fiction, especially women in World War II. This book includes all the intrigue of espionage, secrets, German paperwork – and of course, murder. It was just what I was looking for!’

‘The Silent Woman will keep you turning pages long into the night, and eagerly awaiting the next instalment of Catherine Carlisle’s story’

‘I highly recommend this book to both lovers of historical fiction and those that have an interest in pre-war Europe as a whole’

‘This one is a page turner. Couldn’t put it down! I highly recommend this book, and I can’t wait until the next one’

‘You are transported to another time and lifestyle in such a way you feel you have lived it’

‘Will certainly read the next book with these characters’

‘I thoroughly enjoyed this historical novel’

Also by Terry Lynn Thomas

The Cat Carlisle Series

The Silent Woman

The Family Secret

The Sarah Bennett series

The Spirit of Grace

The House of Secrets

The Drowned Woman

House of Lies
TERRY LYNN THOMAS

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Terry Lynn Thomas

Terry Lynn Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © March 2020 ISBN: 9780008328870

Version: 2020-02-13

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for Terry Lynn Thomas

Also by Terry Lynn Thomas

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

This book is dedicated to all the brave souls who made the ultimate sacrifice so we didn’t have to. #NeverForget

Prologue

Rivenby, October 1941

The waxing moonlight dappled the path as Cat crept along the trail leading to Thomas’s house. Leaves crunched beneath her feet, and her breath curled like dragon fire into the cold night air. The moon, although not yet full, was bright and crisp and stunningly beautiful. Tipping her head back, she allowed herself to get lost in the night sky for a moment, allowed her mind to envision an England not at war, an England with plenty of ham and oranges and unlimited butter and sugar. She said a silent prayer for those who were fighting and dying at this very minute, for those who would never see another moon again. Shivering, she continued on the path, stepping right into Thomas Charles’s arms.

‘Pay attention,’ he whispered in her ear as he pulled her close to him. ‘You never know who might be prowling in the woods at night.’

‘I was just looking at the moon,’ she said.

‘Soon we won’t have to meet in the woods under the dark of night,’ Thomas said.

‘I rather like these clandestine trysts. It’s exciting.’

He laughed and took her hand. ‘Where shall we walk tonight?’

‘Back to your house? I’m freezing.’

They walked through the woods, comfortable in the silence.

‘You’re very good at this, you know,’ Cat said.

‘At what?’

‘Creeping soundlessly through the woods.’ She pulled him to a stop. ‘You don’t make any noise. Do you miss the excitement?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The excitement of spying. Of participating in the war. I know you enjoy working at the constabulary, and god knows DCI Kent is glad to have you. But it’s not the same as your old life, is it? I just wondered if you missed the cloak and dagger intrigue and wished you were spying in France or someplace more exciting than Rivenby.’

‘No. I’m finished with all that.’ He put his hands on her shoulders. The moonlight danced across the planes of his cheeks. A slight wind ruffled his hair, which he wore longer than was fashionable. ‘I worry about our friends and find myself thinking of Jacque and Emile.’

‘Maybe they got out safely,’ Cat said. She thought of the kind French couple who had so graciously hosted them while they were working on their last book. Cat knew full well Thomas’s book writing was a guise for the real undercover work he did. He had offered her a job – and the accompanying much-needed sense of purpose – just when her life was at its lowest. The work had saved her.

So many people opened their homes, their family archives and their libraries to Cat and Thomas. They had maintained those relationships until the war broke out, when by necessity they had rushed back to England. Some people had managed to stay in touch, and Thomas, by virtue of his connections, was able to help where he could, connecting this person with that person, who would in turn provide an exit visa or funds where needed. But as the war raged on and communication became more difficult, Cat and Thomas were left to speculate as to the safety of their friends. They wondered and worried, helpless to do anything from their remote village in Northern England. Cat knew Thomas felt guilty at his inability to do much for the war effort, but a serious injury had left him sidelined, at least for now. She suspected at some point he would get involved. How could he not?

Six months ago, Thomas and Cat had agreed to assist Stephen Templeton – a historian who had devoted his life to smuggling artefacts out of the destructive reach of the Reich – by safekeeping various religious relics, documents and other items. They reasoned since Rivenby was tucked away in the northern reaches of England, the relics could be safely stored without too much worry. Thomas’s house was secure, so he had readily agreed to help where he could.

‘When will the chalice be here?’ Cat asked.

‘Not quite sure,’ Thomas said.

‘It’s rather exciting, isn’t it? Us keeping a medieval relic stolen from a castle in France.’

‘Not a castle, love. A small family chapel which is now occupied by the Nazis,’ Thomas said.

‘You don’t think anyone will try to steal it, do you?’

‘Unlikely. It will be well protected in the safe. I owe Stephen Templeton a favour, so I’m happy to do this for him.’ Thomas pulled Cat close to him just as the outline of his house appeared in shadowy relief against the night sky.

They walked arm in arm up to the front door, careful not to wake Beck and the missus as they crept up the stairs to Thomas’s bedroom.

Chapter 1

Scotland, October 1941

Hugh Bettencourt thought how much easier his life would be if his wife was no longer a part of it. He stopped buttoning his pristine white shirt as he imagined his fingers wrapped around Margaret’s lily-white throat, squeezing until the life faded from her beautiful face. Passive by nature, on the rare occasions when Hugh’s pent-up anger broke through his otherwise calm mien, it was quickly tamped down by centuries of good breeding. Bettencourts did not show emotion. It was simply not done. There would be no murdering Margaret. Not today. Not ever. Hugh had cast his lot with her when he had married her.

‘Coward,’ he said out loud, his voice full of disgust. The sorry state of his relations with his wife paled when compared to the tricky situation with his finances. To make matters worse, his mother had finagled a weekend invitation to the party. Now she waited for him, ready to scold and issue ultimatums. He and Margaret, his errant wife, had been commanded to come to Hugh’s mother’s suite for a little chat.

He turned away from the window, with its stunning view of the Scottish Highlands, and finished buttoning his shirt. While he buttoned the gold cufflinks, which had belonged to his father and his grandfather before him, Hugh forced his thoughts to his current situation. Surely his mother would see that Margaret’s relentless need for money had brought about his financial situation. When she laid eyes on Margaret, Lady Rosalind would realise just how out of control her daughter-in-law had become. As if the overdraft didn’t speak for itself. Hugh wondered if his wife was taking drugs, opium or even heroin. He remembered horror stories of fellow soldiers becoming addicted, and knew that drug use was fashionable in some circles.

Hugh wanted a divorce. It would be so much easier if he had his mother’s backing. If he couldn’t divorce Margaret, he could at least lock her up in an asylum. He laughed out loud at that thought, taking pleasure in the image of Margaret being carted away, kicking and screaming all the while.

Hugh put on his dinner jacket, remembering the days when he had a valet to tend to his dressing and ironing, remembering when he didn’t have to worry about his own meals. What he wouldn’t give for a simple life, with a simple wife who loved him. Alas, that was not to be. Hugh girded himself for battle. Time to face Lady Rosalind.

The sun slipped down into the cold Scottish night as he made his way down the corridor to the suite of rooms that the Shorehams provided for his mother. Lady Rosalind Thackery Bettencourt required a corner suite, with plenty of firewood and comfortable arrangements for her own maid, the elderly Bettina, who should have retired long ago. Hugh paused outside his mother’s door, took a deep breath and knocked gently.

‘Come.’ There was no mistaking the icy intention in his mother’s tone.

Hugh pushed open the door and stepped inside. For a moment, he was taken aback by the spacious splendour. Although he had spent summers at the Shorehams’ house as a child and had been a guest more than once over the years, never had he stayed in this particular room, which, if his recollection served, had belonged to Martin’s parents while they were alive. A good three times the size of Hugh’s tiny room, this suite was warmed by a blazing fire with chairs arranged around it, thick rugs, newer curtains and a high four-poster bed with two eiderdowns on top. His mother moved towards him, her beringed hands extended, a forced smile on her face.

‘Hugh, thank you for honouring me with your presence.’ They went through the motions of air-kissing each other’s cheeks. His mother was tall and had a patrician nose, piercing blue eyes and a no-nonsense manner that either put you off or made you love her. Hugh had always loved her. Lady Rosalind had rallied around Hugh when his brother James had died and he was forced to take on the mantle of his family responsibility, a job for which Hugh was ill-suited. And heaven knew, Lady Rosalind had done her best to forge a relationship with Margaret. A wave of sadness washed over him. What a disappointment he had been to his family.

‘Where’s Margaret?’

Hugh sighed. ‘I haven’t seen her all day.’ In truth, Hugh and Margaret had probably spent a total of two nights together in the past six months. Margaret always had a string of lovers, who were beguiled by Margaret’s beauty and undeniable sexual prowess in the beginning. As time wore on and the men realised the woman they had so desired was unhinged and possibly on drugs, they sent her packing. When Margaret threw the inevitable tantrum and threatened to tell wives of the affair, a generous cheque and a bauble of fine jewellery would quiet her. At this time, Margaret would then slink home and try to seduce Hugh with promises of renewed devotion. For years he had believed her, had taken her back each time she crawled home, full of false remorse. Things would be good between them until Margaret got bored again, until she found a new lover to please her. Then Hugh would be left alone, stupidly wondering how he allowed himself to be played like a piano and hating himself for it.

‘Hugh? Are you listening to me? I said go find her. I must speak to you both at once,’ Lady Rosalind said.

Just then Margaret stepped into the room in a cloud of perfume and alcohol, wearing a backless, form-fitting blue dress better suited for a jazz club than an elegant dinner in a country house. What was she thinking?

‘Where’ve you been?’ Hugh snapped.

‘Stop it, Hugh. I’m not going to be called to heel like an obedient herding dog. I’m here and I’m only three minutes late.’ She walked towards Hugh’s mother. ‘Lady Rosalind. You’re looking well.’

‘Nonsense. I’m looking every second of my years, thanks to you two.’ She turned her attention to Hugh. ‘Were you going to tell me you dipped into the money your father left you? You know full well the terms of your father’s will. That money was to provide you an income for life. You can’t just spend your capital, Hugh.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Hugh saw Margaret fidget with her necklace, a diamond and sapphire affair that he had never seen before.

‘What are you talking about, mother? I know there’s an overdraft, but I certainly don’t know anything about using Father’s money.’ A recollection of a morning last August popped into his mind. He had met Margaret coming out of the bank. She had been in such a hurry she almost didn’t see him. When he’d called her name, she had jumped, startled at his sudden appearance, and had surprised him with kind words and an invitation to lunch. Her actions were so out of character, he should have been suspicious. Now he saw the error of his ways in not demanding an explanation – for there was no reason in the world for Margaret to visit Hugh’s banker. He turned on her and snapped, ‘What have you done?’

‘Don’t you dare take that tone with me,’ Margaret shouted. Hugh flinched, wondering if anyone else in the household was eavesdropping on this very embarrassing family row.

Before Hugh could fire back, Lady Rosalind interrupted. ‘She forged your name, Hugh.’ Lady Rosalind sat down and beckoned to the two chairs across from her. Hugh and Margaret remained standing. ‘She spent what you had and then some. When the bank wouldn’t extend the overdraft, she forged your name and accessed the money your father left you. I’m not going to ask what she’s done with the money.’ She ran her eyes over Margaret’s body, before she stared hard at Margaret’s face. ‘Are you on drugs?’

‘How dare you,’ Margaret hissed. But she hesitated before she spoke, and Hugh noticed the startled flicker of shame. ‘You’ve no business involving yourself in our marriage, Lady Rosalind. You go too far.’

‘Since I’m supporting you both financially, I’ve every right.’

Lady Rosalind sat back and surveyed Hugh and Margaret like they were errant schoolchildren. A cramp of fear formed in Hugh’s belly, as a sense of impending doom curled around him. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. He hadn’t felt like this since the war, when he had spent months in the trenches waiting to die.

Lady Rosalind addressed Margaret. ‘I hired an inquiry agent. I’ve been having you followed for months, Margaret. I am fully aware of your licentious ways, the men, the drugs, the parties. It seems your husband is unable to control you. I, on the other hand, am not so easily thwarted.’

‘I’m leaving. I don’t care what you’ve done or who you’ve hired. You’ve no right to speak to me that way.’ Margaret turned and headed to the door.

‘I could prosecute.’ Lady Rosalind’s words hung in the air.

Margaret stopped and slowly turned around to face Hugh’s mother.

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

Lady Rosalind plastered a condescending smile on her face.

‘Of course I would. Surely you know how vindictive I can be, Margaret. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to see you held accountable for your immorality and criminal activity. After all, forgery is a crime. Lucky for you both, I’m feeling generous. I have an alternative proposition for both of you.’ Once again, she beckoned to the chairs across from her. ‘Now sit.’

Margaret turned on Hugh, fury flashing in her eyes. ‘Are you ever going to stand up to her? Don’t you ever get tired of being beaten down by Mummy?’

Defeated, Hugh sat down.

‘You’re both headed for trouble so deep I’m afraid even I won’t be able to get you out.’ Lady Rosalind sat back, crossed her legs and studied Hugh and Margaret with that inscrutable look that had brought stronger men than Hugh to their knees. ‘I know you rarely live together, and that Margaret is off doing god knows what with her friends while you stay at the flat in Edinburgh. I know that your creditors are tired of lending you money, and that Margaret has committed an offence that could land her in prison.’

‘Mother, what are you trying to say? Get to the point,’ Hugh said.

‘Thank you, darling,’ Margaret said. She reached for Hugh’s hand, but he pushed it away. The gesture wasn’t lost on Lady Rosalind.

‘Very well. Let’s not beat around the bush. Hugh has done a miserable job at managing our family’s finances. If it weren’t for Mr Williams and his expertise in these matters, we would likely be ruined. As of now, Hugh is no longer at the helm, for lack of a better word. Mr Williams is going to manage the Bettencourt interests, with my close supervision, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Margaret said.

Lady Rosalind continued. ‘In addition to paying your overdraft, I will give you both a very generous allowance.’

‘And what do we do in return?’ Margaret gave words to Hugh’s thoughts.

‘Simple. You will move to the family home and live as husband and wife. You, Margaret, will act like the wife of a Bettencourt. No more parties, no more leaving your husband alone for months on end.’ She turned towards Hugh. ‘And you, my son, will get your life and your house in order.’

‘And if we say no?’ Hugh asked.

‘I’ll give you a stipend for rent and food, but as for any other money, you’ll be on your own. Margaret will have to rely on your charity. That’s my offer.’

Hugh stood, relieved at the lifeline his mother had tossed him. He wanted out of the marriage and would be grateful for his stipend, but he clung to his last shred of dignity as he faced his mother. ‘Thank you. I’ll think about it.’ He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Margaret and his mother staring after him.

Taking the servants’ staircase, he went out the back door and walked the familiar trail around the Shorehams’ house, through the rose garden, the kitchen garden and back towards the front door. The cold night air knocked some sense into him. There was a small cottage near his mother’s house. His old nanny had lived there until her death a year ago. It stood empty now. He could fix it up and live there. Maybe grow vegetables, settle down to a simple life free of Margaret.

A blast of warm air greeted him as he entered through the front door and followed the murmur of voices and the sound of ice cubes against crystal glasses. Pausing for a moment, he stood in the doorway of Martin Shoreham’s drawing room, surveying the well-heeled crowd, knowing there would be no more fancy drinks parties or opulent dinners. Hugh would be a social outcast. He didn’t care. God, he was tired. Tired of his mother, of Margaret, of trying to cope with responsibilities he was so clearly unable to handle.

The Shorehams’ house had been full of guests since Friday. The weekend thus far had consisted of fine meals, good wine and bracing outdoor activities during the day. October was Hugh’s favourite time to be in Scotland. In another two months, the region would be covered with snow. Those who remained would be housebound. Here, in the bosom of his old friends, the war, the threat of bombs and the rationing seemed a long way away. For a moment, he wondered how Martin managed to ply his guests with a never-ending run of food and wine, even sweet desserts – just when sugar and everything else seemed to be at a premium. As far as he knew, no one had been asked for their ration card. He certainly hadn’t.

Margaret had joined the party in Hugh’s absence. She stood in the corner with Hugh’s childhood friend and their host for the weekend, Martin Shoreham. Her dark hair fell in tresses down her back, still thick and full despite her age. Through the diligent use of expensive make-ups and potions, her skin retained the glow of someone twenty years younger. There was no denying, when Margaret Bettencourt walked in a room all heads turned. Hugh had been beguiled by her from the very beginning, but their twenty-four-year marriage had been more than tumultuous. It had started out reckless and full of gay weekends, dances, parties and ski trips to Switzerland. Now he could barely stand to look at her as she leaned towards Martin, giggled, and whispered something in his ear. What the devil was she up to?

Hugh stepped into the room as Martin’s wife, Hermione, weaved her way through the crowd. Martin, Hermione and Hugh had been friends since childhood. Although he and Martin had jokingly vied for Hermione’s love, there was no denying Martin and Hermione were made for each other. They had married young and still treated each other with love, affection, a deep friendship. Hugh had always been envious of their solid marriage and their easy way with each other, especially in light of his own marriage, which had been its own special hell. God, how he wanted out.

Hermione’s eyes found Hugh. She waved as she walked towards him. The years had not been as kind to Hermione as they had to Margaret. Smile lines had formed around her eyes. Her skin had a weathered look to it, from hours spent riding horses and golfing. Her waist had thickened, and she was a wee bit too plump through the hips. But Hermione still had her beautiful blonde hair – the silver that laced through it only added to its shimmering beauty – which she now wore piled high on her head. Physical attributes aside, all one had to do was look into Hermione’s eyes to see the innate kindness there. She was the woman to turn to in times of trouble, the solid foundation to be leaned on. Hugh couldn’t count how many times he had come running to Hermione when Margaret had been gallivanting in London with her friends, doing god only knew what.

They met at the drinks trolley. Filling two crystal glasses with ice and pouring just the right amount of Scotch, he handed one to Hermione just as she reached him. She took it and raised her glass to him in a silent toast.

‘Another successful house party,’ Hugh said.

Hermione gave him a tired smile as she wove her free arm through his. ‘We’ve just about depleted the wine cellar. We’ve made a deal with the butcher. Every three months he gets a case of our fine claret, and we in turn get fresh beef. I don’t know how long the arrangement will continue. When the wine’s gone, we’ll be eating tinned beans like everyone else. I’m afraid this will be the last party for us.’

The two of them stood shoulder to shoulder surveying the crowd. Hugh was grateful for the weekend house party; at least he knew he and Margaret would be fed, have a roof over their head and a bed to sleep in. Despite his utter failure as a husband, he still felt responsible to provide Margaret these basic necessities.

Tongues loosened and the laughter got louder as more alcohol was consumed. The lights had been dimmed and silver candelabras had been placed strategically around the room, casting the guests in warm flickering light, their voices hushed by the thick carpets and opulent velvet curtains. For a moment, Hugh pretended that the world was right again. That there was no war. No threat of invasion. But even those thoughts couldn’t overcome the feeling of ruination that settled over him. Hugh’s eyes lit on Margaret and Martin, who were still engaged in conversation. Margaret leaned over to Martin, talking to him in that certain way of hers, gesturing with her hands. Margaret had a knack for making you feel like you were the only person in the world. That was her special charm, the facet of her personality that allowed her to manipulate so completely. Margaret was doing all of the talking, while Martin stood by, his expression running the gamut of attentive, serious, concerned, and – finally – upset. When he wobbled on his feet, placing a hand against the wall as though to steady himself, Hugh became concerned. But Martin recovered, his waxy pale cheeks mottling red with anger. He said something to Margaret before he turned and left the room. Ever relentless, Margaret hurried after him.

Hugh set down his glass and started after Martin, but Hermione placed a hand on his arm.

‘Wait. I need to talk to you.’

He turned to face her, startled by the look of concern in her eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m worried about you. You’ve been skulking around this house, hardly speaking to anyone and avoiding your wife. I know you and Margaret have drifted apart over the years. God knows, she’s got the energy of a twenty-year-old – just being around her exhausts me. But there’s more to it. What’s going on, Hugh? Margaret’s been hell for leather to get Martin alone since you two arrived. He’s been avoiding her – until now. Something’s wrong, dear friend. I can see it in your eyes.’ She turned away from Hugh, tactfully giving him time to compose himself as she freshened their drinks. Handing Hugh his glass, she asked, ‘What’s happened?’

‘Between my mother and my wife, I’m at my wits’ end. Turns out my wife has managed to saddle me with a monumental overdraft. When the bank wouldn’t give her any more money, she forged my name and helped herself to a chunk of my capital.’

‘Dear god,’ Hermione said.

‘Oh, it gets worse. You see, I’m so out of touch with Margaret, I had no idea of the forgery. Would you like to know how I found out?’ Hugh didn’t wait for a response. ‘My mother told me. Seems she’d hired an investigator to keep an eye on Margaret.’ Hugh downed his drink. ‘Just now, Mother sat us both down and issued an ultimatum. We’re to move home and behave like a normal married couple.’

‘And if you don’t?’ Hermione asked.

‘I’m to receive a stipend to live on and will otherwise be disinherited. And you know what, Hermione? I don’t care. I am going to divorce my wife and retire to Nanny’s cottage. God knows, I’m ready to live a quiet life.’ Hugh sighed. ‘Just saying those words gives me relief.’

‘You poor dear,’ Hermione said.

‘How’s Martin? I haven’t had a moment alone with him all week.’

‘I’m not sure. He’s been distant of late, but I assume he’s worried about the business and the war, like we all are. We don’t talk like we used to.’ She sighed. ‘But we’ve been married a long time and things can’t stay perfect forever.’

Across the room, the Shorehams’ housekeeper beckoned Hermione with a wave.

Hermione set her drink down. ‘If you’ll excuse me. It seems I’m needed.’ She turned to face Hugh. ‘If there’s anything I can do for you, I hope you’ll ask. You’re a dear friend, and Martin and I will always help you. You’d do the same if the circumstances were reversed.’

After giving Hugh’s arm a reassuring squeeze, Hermione hurried off to speak to the housekeeper, leaving Hugh alone to wallow in his problems.

***

Alex Bradshaw, also known as Bradley Alexander, Jeffrey Bradford and Ford Jefferson, was born the fourth son of an alcoholic wastrel who squandered his family fortune and beat his children until they systematically left home. An intelligent young man who had a knack for all things mechanical, Alex had suffered a bout of scarlet fever when he was fourteen, which left him homebound and bedridden for nearly a year. During this time he taught himself locksmithing from a book he found in his father’s vast and underused library. Practising on every lock in the house, including the various safes scattered around his family home, Alex soon became a master safecracker. When he was eighteen, he started sneaking into other fine homes near his own, practising on the safes and lockboxes of his neighbours. By the time he was twenty-two, there wasn’t a lock he couldn’t tame.

On this October morning, he woke just as the autumn sun shone through his window. His bedsit, on the top floor of a luxury Edinburgh hotel, was just big enough to hold a bed, a desk and a comfortable chair. A small kitchen area provided a kettle for his tea and room to store a tin of biscuits. He smiled as he put the kettle on. Last night’s job couldn’t have gone better.

A small velvet bag lay on the table beside his bed. He dumped the contents – a strand of pearls, a diamond brooch and a dozen loose stones – on the forest-green counterpane, pleased at the size and quality of the goods he had stolen. The loose diamonds would be easy to sell. It would be days, maybe weeks, before Vanessa Trevelyan realised her precious jewels were no longer in residence. He thought of her as he went through his morning ablutions – imperious, bossy and condescending to all who crossed her path. Alex didn’t begrudge the woman her shortcomings. After all, no one was perfect. But she was greedy and cruel, a terrible combination for someone in a position of power.

Alex had stumbled across Vanessa Trevelyan quite by accident, hearing her name mentioned at a cocktail party months before. A quick investigation revealed Vanessa’s husband had died with considerable wealth. A generous man by nature, he had left respectable legacies to his loyal servants, along with an even larger chunk of his money to Saint Agnus’s Orphanage. Vanessa Trevelyan had been outraged by her husband’s generosity and had threatened to contest his will, claiming her husband was not in a fit state of mind to leave so much money to the servants. Word of this got out, and after said servants received their money, they left en masse, leaving Vanessa Trevelyan a huge house to run and no one to help her do so. After trying without success to hire help from the closest village, she went straight to Saint Agnus and offered to care for two sweetly disposed sisters, whose parents tragically died in a car accident. Saint Agnus, always short of funds and grateful for two fewer mouths to feed during this time of rationing, took Vanessa Trevelyan up on her offer. In reality, the girls were no more than slaves. No schooling was provided for them. Alex heard, but hadn’t been able to verify, that the girls shared an attic bedroom and were often sent to bed hungry.

He picked up one of the diamonds and held it up to the morning light, where it glistened and glimmered and seemed to grow hot in his hand. Lady Trevelyan would most certainly not be happy when she discovered her diamonds had been stolen. He smiled. If only I could be there when she discovers her loss. Now all he had to do was arrange for money to be transferred for the care of the orphans. Maybe a legacy from a long-lost relative? The sisters would receive enough money for an education and room and board. Neither of them would be treated poorly again. Not if Alex had any say in the matter. Timmer Ashcourt, Alex’s trusted friend and man of business would see to it.

***

Two hours later, with the diamonds properly disposed of, money in pocket, and assurance the girls would be extricated from Vanessa Trevelyan’s care as soon as possible, Alex had ordered breakfast at his favourite café and was just settling in to read the morning paper when an over-dressed gentleman in a camel-hair coat, silk scarf and leather gloves sat down across from him. The waitress hurried over with a smile on her face.

‘Can I get you some tea, sir?’

‘Only some privacy,’ the man growled. Once the waitress scurried away, the man turned his attention to Alex. ‘Mr Bradshaw?’

Alex recognised Michael Grenville immediately. A frisson of fear ran down his spine. Michael Grenville was a notorious criminal. A master of theft, murder, arson and any combination of the three, Michael Grenville had never been found guilty of a crime. Witnesses slated to testify against him often turned up dead. The last thing Alex needed was involvement with a man like Grenville.

Unsure how to proceed, Alex pretended to be annoyed and said, ‘Yes?’

‘Michael Grenville’s the name. I have a job for you.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’ve a well-paying job that demands a certain level of expertise.’

Alex feigned ignorance. ‘Forgive me, sir. You must have me confused for someone else.’

The man recited a detailed precis of every single thing Alex had stolen over the past year, including Lady Trevelyan’s diamonds, and even knew Alex had attended a dinner party at Martin Shoreham’s estate, accepting a last-minute invitation and turning it into a reconnaissance mission. The evening had been fruitful, and Alex had come away with some ideas for future jobs.

‘You steal from the rich and give generously to the poor. Lady Trevelyan won’t be happy when she discovers her diamonds are missing. Rather embarrassing for you if the police came and arrested you in front of all those fancy people.’ The man leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. ‘Do I have your attention now? Very good. Now listen closely.’

The job was rather straightforward: intercept a medieval relic, which had been smuggled out of France and was soon to be transported for safekeeping to a small village.

‘You’ll impersonate the assigned guard. After the chalice is safely stored, you’ll return to the house and extricate it.’

‘Why not take it during transport?’ Alex asked.

‘Because I want you to check out the house and see if there is anything else of value there.’

‘You are going to rob a house twice?’ He shook his head. Foolish mistake.

‘No. I am interested in the house’s occupant. No need to concern yourself with that. I’ll see you have appropriate credentials and explain how I want the job handled.’

‘I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job,’ Alex said.

‘You’ll do as I say and be paid well for it.’ Grenville reached into his coat pocket and put a picture of a middle-aged woman on the table between them. ‘I want you to be on the lookout for this woman while you’re in Rivenby.’

Alex took the picture and studied it. The woman had a thin face, with prominent cheekbones and full lips. She wore a dowdy hat, a frumpy jumper and a tweed skirt with an uneven hem. Her eyes had a beseeching look in them, as though she were trapped and trying to escape.

‘Who is she?’ Alex asked.

‘None of your business. Let’s just say I want to find her.’

It would be very easy for Alex to flee from Michael Grenville. He had connections in the underbelly of Edinburgh and London. He could easily placate the man and simply move on, with Michael Grenville none the wiser.

‘Don’t think about running away, Mr Bradshaw,’ Michael Grenville said. ‘If you run, I’ll find you. That’s a promise.’

‘How do I know I can trust you? You could be with the police.’

The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thick wad of notes. ‘There’s twice that much when the job is complete. Get to Rivenby and lie low. I’ll be in touch.’ Michael Grenville slid out from behind the table, pulled his hat down over his face and walked out the door.

Alex sat for a moment, disconcerted that someone actually knew about his past criminal history. Glancing around the room to make sure no one had been spying on their conversation, he tucked the envelope into his coat pocket.

***

Hugh awoke to a cold grey morning and the sound of rain pinging against his window. Resisting the urge to stay under the warm eiderdown, Hugh placed his feet on the cold floor and dressed hurriedly. Margaret hadn’t spoken to him at all the previous evening, and she hadn’t come to their bedroom, not that Hugh expected her. With any luck, she’d find a new lover to take care of her. If Lady Fate smiled on him, maybe he would never see Margaret again. It didn’t take him long to pack his holdall, as most of his belongings were at his mother’s house. In a few hours, he would be well away from Margaret. For the first time in their marriage, he was going to sneak off without a word and leave his wife wondering.

Shutting his holdall with a resolute snap, Hugh glanced around the room one more time to make sure he hadn’t left any personal belongings. Martin and Hermione would be upset with him for not saying goodbye, but Hugh needed to leave the Shorehams’ before his mother came knocking on his door, ready to enforce her own plans for Hugh. He was ready to walk out the door when Margaret burst into the room. A blood-red stain – probably wine – was splattered across her breast. Her rumpled dress hung unevenly around her ankles. The smell of yesterday’s drinks, another man’s cologne and sweat assaulted Hugh’s senses.

Margaret’s eyes darted over Hugh and around the room, coming to rest finally on Hugh’s closed holdall. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Having decided on taking up my mother’s offer, I’m off to scurry home with my tail between my legs and live a quiet life in a secluded cottage. You, dear wife, are officially free of me. I’ll have my solicitor contact you, so we can get divorced.’

‘Quiet secluded life? You? Good god, Hugh, you’ve no idea what it’s like to be without funds. Believe me, darling, you’ll hate it.’ She moved over to the mirror and fussed with her hair.

‘Will you never grow up?’

‘Me? Grow up? This from the man who is incapable of earning his way in the world. Face it, darling, you’ve done a horrid job of providing.’

He picked up his holdall and headed towards the door. ‘Good luck, Margaret.’

Margaret moved to block his way. ‘What about me?’

‘Surely you can get one of your lovers to take care of you. And so there’s no misunderstanding between us, if you ever forge my signature again, I shall prosecute.’

Margaret’s eyes showed fear for a second, but she recovered, secure in the knowledge there would be no legal proceedings. Neither Hugh nor Lady Rosalind would shame themselves with a court case. She walked over to Hugh and reached out to touch his face. He pushed her hand away.

‘Darling, I’ve actually solved all of our problems.’ She reached into the small evening bag she carried with her and pulled out a wad of notes, waving them in front of Hugh before she tucked them into his pocket. ‘Soon I’ll have more. That’s a promise.’

‘Where did you get that? My god, Margaret, what have you done?’ He took the money out of his pocket and thumbed through the wad of bills. Suspicious of Margaret and disgusted with his own momentary swell of greed, he thrust the money back at her.

She snatched it away and tucked it into her purse. ‘You don’t want it? Fine. I’m just trying to pay you back.’ Kicking off her shoes, she sat on the bed and rubbed her feet. ‘I’m trying to help you. Help us. Why don’t you trust me?’

‘Because you’ve been lying to me since the day I met you. And god knows I’ve suffered for it.’ He imagined Margaret having sex for money, no better than a common prostitute.

‘I assure you this money is rightfully mine. I’ve a plan to get us situated once and for all, far away from your mother. I’ve recently discovered I’m entitled to a bit of an inheritance. If you want a divorce, fine. I know I’ve put you through hell. I’m just asking that you wait a little while, so I can get some money to live on.’

‘Why do you need me for that? You seem able to navigate the world without me.’

Margaret looked at him, and for the briefest moment he saw the old Margaret, the beautiful young woman who had ignited his passion so long ago. But that Margaret was a figment of his overzealous imagination. It seemed he’d been waiting a lifetime for that particular side of Margaret to get a foothold in their marriage. It hadn’t, and the realisation that he had fallen in love with an affectation stung.

‘For security, I suppose. I’m a woman, alone.’ She looked at him beseechingly. ‘We don’t have to live together, but it will give me comfort to know you’re there if I need you.’

‘I thought you said your family was dead.’ Hugh stepped away from Margaret, as if putting distance between them would provide protection.

‘I have a brother. I haven’t seen him since I ran away. My childhood was horrid, actually. It’s something I don’t care to dwell on, that’s why I told you they were dead. I just vowed to be alone and forget them. In any event, my parents passed away and left me money. I intend to get it.’

Hugh thought Margaret could very well be lying, as he had learned ages ago that the truth changed according to whatever agenda she was manipulating. After years of marriage and thousands of lies, Hugh had learned the best course of action was to play along, as a confrontation would only prove fruitless.

‘Who is this brother? Where is he? Was there a will? You can’t just show up and demand money. There are legal things you need to do. For one thing, we should get a solicitor —’

‘I’ve arranged a solicitor and I have everything under control. I just need you to be available, Hugh. I don’t need you to ask questions or get involved. We don’t even need to live together. I’m asking you to be near, nothing more, until I get my money.’

‘No,’ Hugh said. ‘I’m finished. I’m going home.’ He adjusted the strap of his holdall on his shoulder. ‘This is goodbye, Margaret. Face it, we’ll be glad to get away from each other.’

‘Wait,’ she said, stamping her foot like a petulant child.

She moved close to him and fixed the top button of his shirt. Against his will, the heat of her aroused him, just as she knew it would. ‘We’ve had a good run, Hugh. I know you don’t love me anymore, but if we’re going to part ways, I’d like to do so as friends.’

Her kind words were so out of character, he should have been suspicious, should have known that she was just being nice to him because she had no lover waiting to provide for her. But her nearness, the physicality of her, evoked a response that took away his reason.

‘I’m asking you to trust me this one last time. Allow me to at least repay you some of the money I stole. After I do that, we’ll part ways, divorce and you’ll never have to see me again. Come with me while I get my inheritance.’ She ran her fingers over his lips.

He had to get away from her, before she pulled him in as she had done so many times before.

‘Where is your brother?’ He couldn’t stop himself. He bent close and nuzzled her neck.

She brushed his lips with hers before she stood on tiptoes and whispered in his ear. ‘I’m going to get the money to which I am entitled and make things right with you. But you will not get involved. Those are my conditions. You can come with me, do as I say, and recoup your losses. Or we can say goodbye today and you can step out of this home and into your life of dependence on Mummy for your stipend. My rules. Your choice.’

She kissed him, and in a brief moment of weakness, he let himself go. After all the betrayals, he still physically craved her.

‘I’ll go with you,’ he murmured into her hair. God help him, he loved her. And hated himself for it.

‘Very good.’ Margaret pushed away from him. ‘I’ll go and change. We’ll leave in an hour.’

Chapter 2

Cat Carlisle hurried home from Emmeline Hinch-Billings’s secretarial school, the large ledger tucked under her arm. Autumn was in the air, along with its accompanying chill. She was so proud of all that Emmeline had accomplished, training the young women who enrolled in courses as bookkeepers, secretaries and shorthand typists, and then securing them good jobs. At first Cat thought participating as a silent partner, with generous cash donations when necessary, would be fulfilling enough. When Emmeline Hinch-Billings needed a bookkeeper, Cat had taken over keeping the ledgers. Numbers didn’t lie, and Cat had soon discovered she enjoyed the satisfaction of balancing the books.

Try as she might, going over the ledgers in the tiny office at the school proved difficult today. A handful of the young women had received job offers in Scotland. Their excitement had been contagious, their success an inspiration to the new young women who hoped to acquire the skills necessary to earn a living. While encouraging, the thrum of excitement had proved a distraction, and Cat decided she’d be better off doing the books in the privacy of her office at home. The school had been in operation almost a year, and it was already turning a tidy profit, much to the surprise of the bankers who had refused to give Emmeline Hinch-Billings a loan. Cat had stepped in with the financial backing and was happy to have done so.

As she stepped from the lane onto the path that led to the front door of Saint Monica’s, Bede Turner was busy hanging linen pillowcases on the clothesline. When she saw Cat, she picked up her laundry basket and headed in her direction.

‘You’re finished early,’ Bede said.

‘Couldn’t concentrate at the school, too noisy. I thought I’d work here. How’s Mrs Grenville doing?’ Cat said.

‘Not good. She’s been in her room crying a good part of the day. I took her a tray with tea and toast about an hour ago. The poor woman’s scared to death. And her face is terribly bruised.’

‘Should I get her a doctor?’

‘Given her current state of mind, a female nurse would probably be better. She does need medical attention though, Miss Catherine.’ Bede shook her head. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing. These women have violent men in their lives who will eventually come looking for them. Have you given any thought as to what might happen when an angry husband shows up on our doorstep? You can’t protect these women alone. Can’t you at least ask Mr Charles—’

‘Bede, I don’t want to talk about this. No one is going to find the women we’re sheltering. Their batterers live in other counties far away.’

‘And what if they tell them where they are? What if they write to them out of guilt or misplaced loyalty? You don’t know what’s going on in their heads. Are you going to monitor the post every day?’ Bede pulled her jumper tighter around her stout body.

‘Why would they tell the men who battered them where they are?’

Bede gave Cat a knowing look. ‘Because they feel guilty about leaving. Because maybe they still love their husbands, despite the brutal treatment.’

‘But they’ve taken the first step towards freedom by coming here. Doesn’t that count for something?’

‘I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. We’d be better off with a man around here. That’s all I want to say about it. Oh, and that Lucy Bardwell still hasn’t done the breakfast dishes, even though it’s her turn. I did as you said and left them for her.’

Cat bit back her irritation. Lucy Bardwell had been nothing but trouble since she came to Saint Monica’s. She frequently missed her classes at Emmeline’s school and rarely did her chores, leaving the others to take on her share of the work. ‘Thanks, Bede. I’ll deal with Lucy.’

Bede nodded her approval and hurried back to the clothesline, her laundry basket resting on her hip. Cat watched her go, certain she was doing the right thing for these unfortunate women, despite Bede’s misgivings. Currently there were only two women in residence at Saint Monica’s. Elaina Masterson had shown up for her first day of secretarial training with a fresh scar down the side of her face. 22 years old and the daughter of a farmer, Elaina had married early at the encouragement of her parents, who were eager to have one less mouth to feed. It didn’t take long for Elaina to discover her husband’s violent side. Over the course of a few months, the beatings increased to a daily occurrence. Elaina had fled back to her parents, but her father had encouraged her to stay by her husband’s side and be a better wife. When she returned to her marital home, her husband, who was so drunk he couldn’t stand up straight, cut Elaina’s face with a knife. The next day after he’d left for work, Elaina took all the money she had, packed her meagre belongings and bought a one-way bus ticket to Rivenby, secure in the knowledge her husband would never find her there. She had taken a room in Miss Foster’s boarding house and immediately enrolled in secretarial school. Cat had taken one look at Elaina and knew she needed help.

Shortly after that, Jennie LaGrange had come along. Jennie kept her story to herself, but she was a kind soul, got on well with everyone in the household and didn’t shirk at doing her chores. Jennie and Elaina, along with the women who had come before them, had used the sanctuary of Saint Monica’s to recover from their brutal home life. Every day they grew mentally stronger. The courses at Emmeline’s school engaged their mind. Bede fed them well and gave them chores around the house, so they could feel useful.

Tomorrow Jennie and Elaina would move to Scotland, where good jobs and a new future awaited them. Lucy Bardwell and Alice Grenville were the newest arrivals. Lucy had been at Saint Monica’s for six weeks, while Alice Grenville had only arrived two days ago. Although Cat and Bede were both concerned about Alice, who was frightened of her own shadow, Cat believed with time she would heal and the promise of a fresh start would bolster her, like it had for Jennie and Elaina.

Cat stood inside the front door for a moment, savouring the quiet solitude. She carried her ledgers up the stairs, pausing before Alice Grenville’s room. She pressed her ear against the door, glad to hear the soft sounds of Alice’s snores. Thank god. The woman needs a good rest. Her mind was so preoccupied when she stepped into her own bedroom that it took her a moment to see Lucy Bardwell, who stood before the looking glass, dressed in one of Cat’s suits.

‘Oh!’ Lucy cried out.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Cat snapped at the same time. She tossed the ledgers on her writing desk and surveyed the clothes that lay scattered on her bed. ‘You’d best explain yourself.’

Lucy sat down on the chaise under the window, buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. Cat stood silently by, not taken in by Lucy’s dramatic display.

Cat handed her a handkerchief. ‘Here.’

‘Thank you,’ Lucy said. She dabbed her eyes and wiped her nose. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Carlisle. I know I shouldn’t have come in here.’

‘You’re right. You’ve no business going through other people’s things.’ Cat bit back her anger. ‘How do you expect anyone to feel safe here if we can’t trust each other?’

‘You can trust me!’ Lucy said. She jumped up and faced Cat, her cheeks pink with either rage or shame, Cat couldn’t tell which. ‘I haven’t had a new dress for as long as I can remember.’

‘Neither has anyone else,’ Cat said. ‘You’re not the only one affected by rationing.’

‘It’s not the rationing,’ Lucy said. ‘My brother thinks nice clothes are a waste of money. I’ve had to buy all my things second-hand.’ She ran her hand over the fabric of Cat’s suit. ‘The first thing I’m going to do when I start working is buy a new suit.’ She gave Cat a shy smile. ‘I mean brand new, as in never worn by anyone else.’

‘Lucy, why won’t you let me help you get your money? We could get you a solicitor, at least to look into it.’

‘Oh no. You mustn’t! Ambrose would be so angry.’ Her eyes had a frantic look Cat recognised all too well. ‘Please. Promise me you won’t speak to Ambrose. And I’m sorry I came in here. I know I shouldn’t have.’

‘Go and change into your own clothes. And when you’ve finished, there’s a sink full of dishes waiting for you.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Lucy said.

‘I don’t want to have to discuss missing chores with you again, Lucy. I mean it. Another mishap like this, and you’ll have to leave.’

Lucy nodded, not meeting Cat’s eyes as she grabbed her clothes and hurried out the door.

Cat sat down and tried to focus on her bookkeeping duties, but her mind kept wandering back to Lucy Bardwell. After finding a room in which to lodge, she had registered for school. Cat had noticed the dark-haired, outspoken woman right away, but had never thought she came from a difficult home, until she’d come to school one day with a black eye and a swollen lip. Emmeline and Cat had taken the young girl into a private room to find out what had happened to her.

‘It’s my brother,’ she’d said. ‘I went home to get some money out of my bank account. He got angry. Ambrose doesn’t believe women should manage their own money.’

Cat had immediately offered Lucy Bardwell a place in her home and a scholarship for school, thinking Lucy could save her money for her future. But Lucy hadn’t saved her money. When she didn’t show up at school one day, Cat and Bede Turner became worried her brother had found her and taken her away against her will. They had been in the process of formulating a plan to rescue her, when Lucy returned home, laden with shopping bags.

‘Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick about you,’ Cat had said.

‘I took the day to do some shopping.’

Cat had opened her mouth to chastise Lucy about being reckless with money, but the girl had interrupted her.

‘I only have one suit,’ Lucy had said. At least she’d had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I don’t have anything to wear when I clean it, so I bought another one. Second-hand, mind you.’ Lucy had given them a wan smile and hurried out of the room.

‘I don’t trust that girl one bit,’ Bede had said.

Now Cat stared at the ledger before her. She agreed with Bede. Lucy Bardwell couldn’t be trusted. More importantly, Cat’s intuition said that Lucy was hiding something. Cat would have to find out what that something was.

Chapter 3

Hugh never said goodbye to his mother, nor had he thanked Martin and Hermione for their hospitality. Instead he had left his mother a note, slipping it under her door and creeping away like a thief in the night The note explained Hugh had decided to go away and sort things out, that he didn’t see a future with Margaret, and as such, he would be taking the proffered stipend. Writing the words had caused him shame, but there was nothing to be done about it. He had lived his life in James’s shadow. Why had he thought that would change once his beloved brother had died? If anything, James’s death had thrown Hugh’s shortcomings into stark relief.

And here he was, forty-eight years old and dependent on his mummy for bread money. He’d write Martin a letter explaining everything once he and Margaret were settled. They’d arrived in Much Killham in the early afternoon, after an awkward train ride. Although the day had started out with passion, their lovemaking had quickly turned mechanical and void of emotion. It hadn’t taken long for Hugh to realise that Margaret was manipulating him with sex, as she had done hundreds of times in the past. When he pushed her away, feeling used once again, she had become angry with him, deliberately finding fault, while her behaviour escalated by the second.

When she’d started yelling, Hugh had hurried out of the house, opting to walk to the train station alone. During the journey, Margaret was too full of indignation to do anything other than sulk. As such, they barely spoke. For the first time in their marriage Hugh didn’t try to fill the silence with senseless babble. Instead, he stared out the window and planned a life free of Margaret’s never-ending schemes.

They were the only two people disembarking in Much Killham. Bitter cold wind whipped around them as they stood on the platform, while the train chugged away.

‘Oh, I hate this place,’ Margaret said.

Hugh surveyed the lush green surroundings, savouring the clean wind, while Margaret gave the attendant instructions about their trunks.

‘There’s no taxi available. We’ll have to walk,’ Margaret said.

‘It’s a perfect day for it,’ Hugh said.

She gave him a surly look. ‘Oh, do be quiet, Hugh. Save your country gentleman nonsense. It’s cold. I am not wearing proper shoes. If you hadn’t been in such a hurry the estate agent could have met us here and I wouldn’t have to spend another minute in this freezing wind.’

Hugh ignored her. He had studied a map of the area on the train and knew their cottage wasn’t too far. In another time he would have offered to go on ahead and find a taxi for his wife, as any gentleman would do. But he was tired of his wife and equally tired of being a gentleman.

‘We should stop at the shop for some provisions,’ Hugh said.

‘Do whatever you want,’ Margaret said, waving him away in a familiar dismissive gesture.

‘Very well. You go to the cottage. I’ll walk to the high street and arrange something to cook for dinner.’

‘Surely you don’t expect me to put on an apron and act like a housewife. I’ll starve first.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Hugh had turned and headed to the grocer’s on the corner, leaving Margaret to fend for herself.

Half an hour later, he stood in the lane and surveyed the grey stone cottage with mullioned windows that would be his home. The cottage was small, with two bedrooms upstairs, the kitchen and a small living area downstairs. The cottage hadn’t been occupied, it seemed, for quite some time. The front garden was overgrown, and so was the walkway that led to the faded front door.

‘What an eyesore,’ Hugh said out loud.

The cottage next door was well maintained. Fashioned out of the same grey stone as Hugh’s cottage, this house had a front door and window frames painted a glossy black. The garden around the house was weed-free and well mulched. Six apple trees loaded with red fruit lined the back of the house. A medium-sized barn and chicken coop were tucked into a corner. The place was charming, unpretentious, a perfect example of a small yet contained country cottage.

A woman who Hugh guessed to be in her early fifties had stepped out of the front door. Hugh watched as she stepped into a pair of wellies and hurried towards him, an unbelieving smile on her face.

‘Hugh Bettencourt?’ Her voice held a question now. And as she came nearer, memories came flooding back. Vera. Vera Mills. Could it be? Hugh smiled and set his groceries down. He hurried over to her, but stopped when he got close.

‘Is it you?’ She beamed at him.

Her brown eyes still held the same warmth. How long had it been since they had seen each other? How long had it been since he had broken her heart? What would have happened if he had stood up to his mother and married Vera?

‘Vera,’ he said.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve taken the cottage?’ Time stopped for a moment. Vera Mills smiled at him, that wide smile filled with simple and unadorned kindness, that smile that opened up her face. Hugh felt the warmth radiating from her and accepted it with gratitude, realising just how churlish and cold he had become over the years. In Vera’s presence he suddenly saw himself clearly and realised that his relationship with Margaret had pulled his bad qualities to the surface and frozen them in place. Remorse and regret flooded through him. Vera must have sensed it, for she put a warm hand on his arm.

‘Let’s don’t have any regrets, Hugh. Nothing to be done about them.’ She took her hand back and stepped away. ‘Am I to assume that stylish brunette is your wife?’

‘Not for long,’ Hugh blurted out. ‘We’re divorcing.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ Vera said. Her eyes travelled to his shopping bag. ‘Do you have enough provisions? I know the shops are short on everything. Let me know if you need me to help you with registering for your ration card. And you’ll probably need firewood—’ She laughed. ‘Forgive me. I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of getting yourself sorted.’

‘Actually, I’ve no idea where anything is, so perhaps tomorrow you could tell me where to go?’

‘I’d be happy to help. Come by for a cup of tea and we can get caught up.’

Before she turned to walk away, she said, ‘I’m glad you’re here. Glad we’ll be neighbours.’

He watched her walk back to her house, resisting the urge to run after her. There were so many things he wanted to ask her, so many things he wanted to say. Turning back to his own front door, he saw a curtain flutter in one of the upstairs rooms. Margaret had witnessed his conversation. Hugh didn’t give a damn.

***

That night, Hugh dreamed of Vera Mills. He dreamed of a time when he and Vera were young and life was full of promise. Dressing hurriedly, he lit the fire and put the kettle on. A sheet of paper lay on the kitchen table. Hugh started a list of the things they needed. Secretly he hoped for a glimpse of Vera. Should he go knock on her door? Take her up on her offer of help? After he poured himself a cup of tea, he moved to the window and watched Vera’s house, wondering about her life. He had yet to see a man around her house. Had she married? Did she have children?

Doing a quick calculation, he realised that he hadn’t seen Vera in close to twenty-six years. They had met one summer when Hermione and Martin had gone to the sea, leaving Hugh on his own. On a whim, he had gone to a dance by himself, and had found Vera sitting alone while the music played. She was spending the summer with some distant relations who lived in Hugh’s village. Since she hadn’t known anyone, she was glad of Hugh’s company. Reluctantly, she allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. After that dance, they spent the entire evening sitting outside, talking and getting to know each other, unaware that the party had ended and the band had packed away their instruments and left. They would have talked all night had the host and hostess – an embarrassed expression on their faces – not reminded them that it was two-thirty in the morning. After that, they were together every day. They rode bikes, went swimming, shared their favourite books and music. That summer, his heart was full. He had met the woman he would marry.

Lady Rosalind had been touring the United States while Hugh was busy courting Vera Mills. Had she been home to witness her son’s new girlfriend, she would have made quick work of the situation. As it was, she had to find out about Hugh and Vera through the church gossip mill. Lady Rosalind had liked Vera, or at least she had made a pretence of welcoming Vera into the Bettencourt home. But when Hugh asked for his aunt’s ring, so he could propose, Lady Rosalind put her foot down, packed Hugh off to the family business in Edinburgh and promised to find him a more suitable wife. Vera took it all in her stride. Hugh had suffered mightily, but he didn’t dare defy his mother. His only regret was that he and Vera never had a proper goodbye. Lady Rosalind had seen to that.

***

Hugh had been lucky enough to find firewood in one of the outbuildings. He had built a fire and had just put the kettle on when Vera knocked on the door, carrying a roasted chicken, complete with potatoes and garden vegetables, a bountiful meal in these times of rationing. Hugh had been delighted. Margaret had been terse and standoffish. She hadn’t even said thank you. After Vera had left, Margaret had complained that women of Vera’s ilk left her bored and in need of a drink.

Hugh sighed. Tossing the last two logs onto the embers, Hugh moved to the kitchen sink, washed his hands and started to prepare breakfast. He had just pulled the frying pan out when Margaret came into the room wearing shoes made for walking and carrying a holdall and the large handbag she used for travel.

‘I hope you’re not cooking for me,’ she said. ‘You know I don’t usually eat in the morning.’

‘Very well. I’ll just eat your share.’ Deliberately keeping his back to her, Hugh cracked two eggs into the frying pan, sliced two pieces of bread from the loaf Vera had brought over yesterday, and put them under the grill. He refilled his tea, not bothering to ask Margaret if she wanted some. Margaret could take care of herself as far as Hugh was concerned.

‘You’re leaving?’ He nodded at the holdall.

‘I’m off to deal with my brother. I’ve found a place to live near his home, so we don’t need to be under the same roof. And you can wipe that self-satisfied smile off your face. I saw the way you looked at the matron next door. Childhood sweetheart? You nearly swooned over the food she brought. Really, Hugh. Sometimes I think you are one of the most foolish men I’ve ever met. Surely you don’t fancy her.’ Margaret poured herself tea.

Hugh ignored her.

‘Things are going along as planned. Take solace in that. With any luck, I’ll have some money and we should be free of each other within a couple of weeks.’ She moved next to him at the sink. For a brief moment they stood close to each other, gazing out the window. Smoke curled from Vera’s chimney. Hugh imagined her kitchen, warm and smelling of apples and baking bread. Vera, busy working on some project, humming under her breath. A wave of longing washed over him, for Vera and for the welcome hearth and home she represented.

‘You’re maudlin, Hugh. I’m leaving. I’ll write if I need you.’

‘No,’ he said, turning on Margaret, angry at being treated like a puppet. ‘I’m going to stay here for one month. Then I’m going to Scotland. I’m not going to chase you down to say goodbye.’

With a sly smile on her face that told Hugh she didn’t believe him, Margaret grabbed her handbag and hurried out of the house. Once she had gone and the house had fallen silent, save the fire as it crackled in the grate, Hugh sighed with relief. Life was so much easier when Margaret wasn’t around. As for going to Scotland, that was a lie. Hugh wouldn’t be going anywhere. Not as long as Vera was next door.

Chapter 4

Lucy Bardwell slipped into the cover of the woods behind Saint Monica’s before the sun rose. Careful not to catch Mrs Carlisle’s fine blue suit on the brambles, she stepped over a patch of nettles and headed towards the trail that led to the bus stop. Lucy had lingered as Mrs Carlisle tucked the suit back into her wardrobe, where Lucy knew it would be promptly forgotten. That night no one had to ask Lucy to wash up the dinner dishes. When everyone was listening to the wireless, she had sneaked back up to Cat’s bedroom and stolen the suit, not feeling the least bit guilty for her transgression. In fact, she felt certain Mrs Carlisle wouldn’t even notice the suit was missing. Honestly, Lucy had never seen so many beautiful clothes in one place, all of them made of fine fabric, cut in classic styles that would remain fashionable for years. She glanced down at the skirt and the silk stockings on her long legs – also stolen from Mrs Carlisle’s room – and admired what she saw.

When she reached the wide trail, she slipped off her wellies and donned her good city shoes. Tucking the boots behind a shrub, she made a mental note of where she had hidden them for easy retrieval later. She pulled a mirror out of her pocket, checked her lipstick and fiddled with her hat. Once certain she looked her best, she slipped on her grey leather gloves, and hurried to the bus stop before she changed her mind. She didn’t think about her actions, didn’t question if she was making a mistake, until she had boarded the bus and paid her fare, the gesture a commitment in its own right.

The minute she handed her coins to the driver, doubt settled in. Her love trysts had been conducted in secret, often at a hotel room that Lucy paid for with her own money. She had been so wrapped up in her own life, her schooling, her responsibilities at Saint Monica’s and the dance parties that she went to every Wednesday night, she hadn’t given much thought to her lover. In Lucy’s mind, the secretive nature of their relationship had been her doing. But as she thought over the past few months, she wondered why her lover hadn’t been more insistent about spending time with her. He’d never asked about her family or her situation. So preoccupied had she been with her own life, she hadn’t given his life, and how he spent his time when he was away from her, much thought.

He loved her. He would love their baby. Surely he would do the right thing and marry her. They could find a nice house, maybe get a nanny to help. Life was so much easier with someone to share its burdens. Lucy wanted to stay active and busy after the baby was born. Often after having a child, a woman would let herself go. Lucy refused to be one of those women. She would be a devoted mother, but she vowed to put just as much effort into being a good wife. When her husband came home at the end of his workday, he would find Lucy waiting for him, looking pretty.

The bus lurched. Waves of nausea interrupted her domestic fantasy. Her stomach rumbled. She took a small piece of bread out of her handbag and ate it slowly. After she forced herself to eat every last bite of it, she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, waiting for her stomach to settle. The uncertainty of her situation had been eating away at her since she’d missed her monthly course and ultimately discovered she was pregnant. Once she had explained about the baby, and once plans were made, the knot of tension would fade. Cat Carlisle – in her overzealous need to rescue women in need – would probably be disappointed in Lucy. Lucy liked Cat, admired her and wanted to be like her, but circumstances had changed. Lucy needed a husband, needed a father for the baby she carried. Lucy couldn’t worry about Cat Carlisle’s approval. Not now. She had other things to tend to.

Thank god she wasn’t alone. Their baby would be well loved and cared for. That was all that mattered. Wasn’t it? Doubt and insecurity crept into a corner of Lucy’s mind, threatening to take control. She needed her lover’s tender care right now. Tears welled in her eyes.

Thirty minutes later, the bus pulled to a stop before a large village green. Lucy stood for a moment, taking in the gently curving road, the row of businesses, followed by flats. Deciding it wouldn’t do for her to show up feeling peckish, she looked for a café. A cup of tea and a spot of breakfast would serve her well. Nestled between a dressmaker and a clock repair shop, Tea and Biscuits held – by Lucy’s count – ten tables covered in blue-and-white checked cloths. A white-haired woman wearing an apron moved nimbly between the tables, taking away dirty dishes and returning from the kitchen with plates filled with breakfast. The smell of the food took Lucy by surprise. Dizzy all of a sudden, she sought a place to sit as her stomach roiled.

‘Are you quite all right, dear? You look a bit pale.’ The white-haired lady wiped off an empty table and pulled a chair out for Lucy. ‘Please, sit down. I’ll get you some tea, love. You just sit and rest.’

Lucy’s childhood had been a bumpy one. A boating accident had killed her parents when Lucy was just 13 years old. Consequently, she had grown up craving the influence of a mother figure. Her brother, bless his heart, had tried his best to see Lucy got an education and learned comportment. There had been various women over the years – usually women who were rich and beautiful – whom Lucy had tried to emulate. As such, she never really had a well-developed sense of self. When she saw Cat Carlisle at the school, impeccably dressed and so very sophisticated, she knew in an instant she wanted to be like her. Although Lucy had never been a terribly good student, she was an astute observer and had made a practice of studying Cat Carlisle’s ways. Before long, she had started to mimic Cat’s voice and her sophisticated manners.

When Lucy had met her lover, she had pretended to be as sophisticated as Cat. Her acting was successful. Her lover thought he had found someone well-to-do, educated and influential. Men were so gullible at times. Lucy had giggled about it afterwards, and had joked with her friends about how easy it was to convince the poor sod she was an heiress. The charade had been carried off without a glimmer of guilt on Lucy’s part. She imitated Cat Carlisle, pretending to be something far beyond her station in life. It only stood to reason she would attract a lover of that same ilk. Now she had to tell the truth. And she and her lover would need to marry.

She asked herself, What would Cat Carlisle do? And when the kindly woman brought her tea, she said, ‘Thank you,’ with an affected upper-class accent, removed her gloves and waited for the woman to pour for her.

The tea, along with a plate of toast and eggs, went down well and gave Lucy strength.

After thanking the woman who had been so kind to her, Lucy set out, relieved things were going as planned.

A group of boys were playing some sort of a game with sticks and rubbish bin lids. One of the boys – clearly the leader if size were any indication – stood before the group and raised his stick, holding it like a sword. ‘We’ve got dragons to slay, mates. Who’s game?’ Off they ran, shouting warrior cries, chasing their imaginary dragons. Lucy smiled as she walked past them up the lane, following the instructions given to her by the lady in the café. If she had a little boy, she hoped he would have an imagination and a gang of lads to play with.

Lucy had found her lover’s address after snooping through his wallet when he was in the shower. Later she had looked the address up on a map and memorised the directions, writing them down and then repeating them over and over in her head, until she knew them backwards and forwards. Turning down a narrow, wooded lane, she saw three cottages on either side of the street, situated far enough away from the road to provide ample privacy. All were made of the same grey stones and had a myriad of hedges and green lawn surrounding them. All the houses were well maintained, but her lover’s stood out. Several beds of rich dark soil were on the far side of the yard. Lucy recognised rows of cabbages, and a few other plants and shrubs. An old oak tree, its leaves an autumn burst of oranges and reds, was laden with acorns. As Lucy approached, two squirrels shimmied up the trunk. Gathering her courage, she stood at the end of the path and braced herself. This conversation was not going to be an easy one.

Just as Lucy was about to step onto the pathway leading to the house, the front door of the cottage opened. Some unknown force made Lucy duck out of sight and move behind a box hedge. Peering between the branches, she watched as a woman stepped into the yard carrying a basket under arm. The woman’s hair had once been blonde, but was now laced through with silver strands of grey. She wore an old tattered apron over a boring tweed skirt and a linen shirt and jumper.

Lucy watched as the woman strode across the lawn to the chicken coop, right towards Lucy’s hiding place. She held her breath, as the knowing exploded in her belly, threatening a fresh wave of nausea. Oh, how she would have loved to explain away this woman’s presence, a housekeeper or a sister, living in her lover’s house. But there was no mistaking the thick gold band around the woman’s finger. The hot salty tears ran down Lucy’s cheeks. She didn’t bother about sopping them up with her handkerchief, didn’t spend a minute worrying about her make-up. Now she knew why her lover hadn’t insisted on knowing more about her. His distance had been deliberate. Her lover, it seemed, had secrets too.

Chapter 5

Once Margaret had left the house, Hugh felt like a dark cloud had floated by, leaving him in the cleansing sunlight. After spending the morning dealing with domestic chores, namely washing the dishes, ironing his shirts – he only scorched one – and sweeping the floors, he decided to spend the rest of the day working outdoors. Earlier, he had seen a pile of logs in the dilapidated shed on the property. If he could find an axe, he could attempt to split them for firewood. Grabbing his coat, he headed outside, but instead of heading to the shed, he headed to Vera’s. Her back door stood open, as if inviting him to call on her. Surely there was no harm in saying good morning.

He found Vera on her hands and knees, a bucket of bubbles near her and a brush in her hand. He watched for a moment as she worked industriously on the floor, scrubbing like a washerwoman.

‘Hello?’ She flinched when he called out, nearly knocking the bucket over. Jumping to her knees with a spry nimbleness that surprised him, she said, ‘Good morning. You’re up early.’

‘I like the mornings. I just wanted to thank you for the food last night. I’m afraid my wife wasn’t terribly hospitable.’

‘That’s all right. Maybe I shouldn’t have dropped over without an invitation.’

‘An invitation is hereby extended. You’re welcome anytime. What are you up to today? Other than housework.’

‘Almost finished scrubbing the kitchen floor, then I need to pick the rest of my apples.’

Hugh found himself staring at Vera’s lips as she spoke, remembering their stolen kisses so very long ago.

‘Would you like to help? I can make you lunch in exchange for labour. There are ladders and bags in the shed back there. I’ll be with you in just a second.’

It took them two hours to clean the apples off the tree. They worked side by side, enjoying the fresh air and the sounds of the birds. When the apples had been picked, they sat down to bowls of fresh vegetable soup and big cups of tea. They ate in companionable silence, until Vera brought apple pie to the table and cut them each a large piece.

‘I still love apples,’ Vera said.

‘I remember your father’s orchard.’

‘He liked you,’ Vera said.

‘Have you lived here long?’

Vera nodded. ‘This was my grandmother’s house. She left it to me when she passed.’

Hugh leaned back in his chair, appreciative of the home-cooked meal and Vera’s easygoing manner.

She tossed her napkin on the table and leaned back. ‘With the exception of that summer in Scotland when I met you, most of my holidays were spent here. I was grateful to inherit this place and have come to think of Much Killham as my home. My husband hates it here. Wants to move someplace warmer.’

‘Surely you’re not leaving.’

‘No. I’m staying put. But I don’t want to talk about George and me. Tell me about yourself, Hugh. Have you had a good life?’

Vera’s direct question took Hugh aback. Had he had a good life? She poured tea for them and fussed around the kitchen, giving him time to contemplate the years that had passed.

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I’ve been blessed with the things I need to survive, but my marriage is loveless, and as I sit here and think about your question, I realise that my life has never been my own. I’ve served, it seems, at the whim of my mother and my wife. Both of them have judged me, and both have found me wanting.’ He slapped his knee. ‘But I’m finished with them. And I’m vowing, Vera, with you as a witness, that I’m going to start living my life the way I want. Hang everyone else.’

He hadn’t realised that his words had moved her, until one lone tear spilled over onto her cheek. Without thinking, Hugh reached out and took her hand. They sat quietly for a moment, until Vera gently took her hand away and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.

‘Mine hasn’t been so good either,’ she said, her voice tremulous. She tucked the handkerchief into the sleeve of her blouse. ‘I also am in a loveless marriage. George and I grew up together, knew each other since we were bairns. I didn’t have the same passion with him that I had with you, but we married right before he signed up. I’ll never forget that day in 1915 when he left on the train. Or the day he came home, for that matter. He was different. So many of them were. Oh, god, the nightmares were horrible. But I stuck by him, hoping it would get better.’ She gave Hugh a wistful glance. ‘It never did.’

‘Vera, I’m so sorry,’ Hugh said.

‘Don’t be. It doesn’t matter.’

‘He’s a fool,’ Hugh said. ‘I’d give my eye teeth to have a wife like you.’

‘Thank you,’ Vera whispered. She turned to face him, her eyes soft, her face full of warmth and friendship. ‘Enough sentimentality. I’ve got some things for you to take home. If you could reach that basket for me.’ She nodded to a tall set of shelves against the wall. Hugh took down a basket and waited while Vera packed it full. She wrapped newspaper around glass jars of apple butter, added a cabbage, four eggs, two jars of peas and half a loaf of bread.

‘Thank you,’ Hugh said.

Vera laughed. ‘You’re the one who deserves thanks. I’d still be up on the ladder picking away if it weren’t for you. We’ll call it a trade,’ she said.

Surprised to see it was nearly three o’clock, Hugh thanked her again, took the basket, and headed back to his own empty cottage. The chill in the air reminded him of the firewood he would need to get through the evening. He hurried to the shed and got busy, chopping until his arms ached.

Hugh discovered the news of Martin Shoreham’s suicide quite by accident. It wasn’t until early evening, just as the sun went down, that Hugh unpacked Vera’s basket. He unwrapped the newspaper from the jars of apple butter and was so focused on putting things away, he nearly missed Martin’s picture. The photo was an old one, taken at Christmas about five years ago. The original photo had been of Martin, Hermione and their three boys. Hugh knew this because he had taken the picture himself. Curious, he flattened the paper and read the headline. ‘Prominent Industrialist Commits Suicide.’ He grabbed the counter, holding himself upright with a white-knuckled grip. The paper was a day old, which meant Martin had killed himself right after Hugh and Margaret had left.

Martin. Dead.

He opened his last bottle of good Scotch and took a long drink, right from the bottle, letting it numb the feeling of worry that had taken hold. What had Margaret and Martin been discussing so earnestly at the party? Whatever she said had distressed him. Had Martin given her that money? Taking the stairs two at a time, Hugh stood in the threshold of Margaret’s room.

He pulled her big trunk away from the wall and opened the lid, rifling through the clothing that wouldn’t fit in the wardrobe. Turning to the small writing desk, he opened the only drawer. There wasn’t anything there. He tried to push it shut, but something was caught. Taking the drawer out, he felt around until his fingers landed on a batch of what felt like crumpled papers, but was actually a regular-sized envelope. He tore a chunk of the corner while extricating the envelope from the drawer. Heart pounding, he took the envelope downstairs and sat down on the couch to read the letter written in Martin Shoreham’s familiar handwriting.

Margaret,

I see you’ve found my family. You know full well that if Hermione were to discover that I kept another woman and that we had children together, she would be destroyed. I also know that you’ve never been one to consider the feelings of others, especially when you stand to gain financially. If it weren’t for Hugh, I would take your letter to the police. Blackmail is a crime, but I would never subject Hugh to the embarrassment of your actions. You should be ashamed of yourself. Please know that I have no intention of giving you any more money. You know that I have a mistress. You know that we have a child. I have already paid you handsomely for your silence, but if you choose to disregard our agreement, you may proceed as you wish. But know this. If you ever come near me or my family again, I will report you to the police and use my not insignificant influence to see you ruined legally, financially and socially.

A bitter taste flooded Hugh’s mouth. He hurried to the sink and vomited there, heaving until he was empty. His thoughts turned to Hermione. If Hugh told her what Margaret had done, Martin’s betrayal would come to light. When it did, Hermione would be devastated. She would be forced to deal with the embarrassment, the anger and the betrayal on her own. There would be no chance to confront Martin, no chance for healing and forgiveness, no chance to honour all the years they had before Martin betrayed her.

What if he took the letter to the police and reported Margaret’s blackmail? Blackmail was a criminal offence, wasn’t it? But better judgement prevailed. No police. At least not now. He would deal with Margaret himself. The time for reckoning had come.

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