Czytaj książkę: «The Forbidden Promise»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Lorna Cook

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1
Invermoray House, Scotland, end of August 1940

Sometimes it’s not the biggest lies, but the little white ones that bring about the most change. Although Constance couldn’t possibly have known that by pretending she had a migraine in order to escape the house, there would be such lasting consequences.

Constance sat on the edge of the large rock that jutted out over the loch and hitched her evening dress up in what her mother would call an unladylike fashion. She removed her satin shoes and peeled off her stockings, dipping her legs into the cool water, soothing her dance-sore feet. She needn’t be discreet; the edge of the loch was so far from the house that no one could possibly hear her, and given the strict blackout regime the housekeeper adhered to, no one could see her either.

Constance closed her eyes and then opened them almost immediately. Her migraine had been a fabrication, although the racket the band was making was exceedingly loud and growing louder the more enthusiastic both the players and the guests became. If she strained her ears now, she could hear them playing all the way from the loch. The need to escape her birthday party, to escape Henry, had engulfed her to the point she could think of no other way out but to lie.

Over the past few months she had found herself liking Henry. She had only known her brother Douglas’s friend a short while, spending time with him when the two men journeyed to Invermoray on rare days of leave. He was older than her by only a few years, and she had looked up to Henry, idolised him and found herself following her parents’ lead when they suggested he might be a good match. Henry had clearly liked her, or so she believed. Constance thought he would be different, not like the other suggestive and sometimes inappropriate men she’d met, of which there had not been that many, admittedly. But he had shocked her as they danced, as she nestled into him, enjoying the closeness. His hands had crept down her back until they were resting far too low, his fingertips grazing her bottom. She had become stiff, alert and then he had clutched her. It had taken all her courage to gently move his hands when she realised his behaviour was anything but romantic.

‘Henry?’ she had questioned, when he had pulled her closer again. He had smiled as if he’d done nothing wrong and she doubted herself. Was she being too prudish? The silver-grey silk ball gown clung to her skin as she danced, and she had caught Henry staring at her chest on more than one occasion. He had clearly found it a challenge to listen to her conversation, to drag his eyes up to meet hers. She had begun rambling, in order to cover her embarrassment, her growing sense of disappointment. When she had excused herself to powder her nose, uncertain as to what was happening and if she should allow it, he had cornered her, pulling her into the darkened orangery, which was unlit in case enemy aircraft should spot a light through the glass panes.

Constance knew men had needs and she wasn’t unworldly. She knew what those needs were and what part she’d be expected to play. While she’d been told that a girl should save herself for her husband, there were many girls at her Swiss school who had bragged joyously that they’d been up to far more than they should with the opposite sex. But as much as she thought she might eventually want it with Henry she wasn’t quite sure. Not yet. She didn’t want him to go off her but whatever was happening between them needed to permeate. Just a little longer. Just until she was sure.

‘You look beautiful tonight,’ he had said, his eyes raking her body.

And then he had kissed her, his lips crashing against hers, his hands holding her shoulders. She had tried to put her arms around his waist, her eyes wide open, uncertain if she was responding correctly, unfamiliar with how far she should let this go. His eyes were closed and he was slowly ushering her further into the deserted orangery, until she was up against an oversized hothouse palm her mother had been cultivating for the best part of a decade.

His whisky-soaked breath had coated her tongue as he kissed her harder and faster and she wasn’t sure if it was this, or the realisation her skirt was being lifted that made her suddenly rigid.

‘Henry!’ she chastised as she pushed free of his grasp. She attempted to laugh, to brush aside his behaviour.

‘Come here.’ Henry held out his hand. Tentatively she had taken it. Perhaps it was simply the party spirit and a little too much to drink that had motivated him into this small bout of madness. Maybe now he realised he had been pushing her a little too much and was relenting.

‘Haven’t you wanted this as long as I have?’ he asked, nuzzling her neck.

Disappointment flooded her. Had he noticed her reaction to him and simply disregarded it? She didn’t know what to say. Until this evening she had never seen this side of him and it had confused her.

‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. It was all happening too fast, and not at all like she’d ever imagined. ‘I’m not sure … like this … here …?’

‘There’s nobody about. We could find a dark corner; over there looks good. I’ll lay my jacket down for you so you don’t get cold on the tiles.’ The suggestion of chivalry was misplaced.

‘No, Henry, I don’t …’

‘If you don’t know what to do, I’ll show you. Now come on, lie down over here.’

‘No, Henry.’ She was firmer now. She finally knew what she wanted and it wasn’t this. ‘No.’

‘If you loved me …’ he said, incensed, letting his suggestion hang.

She knew in that very moment that she did not. Disappointment had engulfed her. How could it all end like this, so horribly?

Without another word she had turned and left Henry standing in the orangery, breaking into a run until she had found safety in numbers in the ballroom.

She needed to be as far away from Henry as possible, to think. And so she had lied. A migraine so painful she thought her head would explode. Her mother had baulked at the picture Constance had drawn in front of their guests and excused her daughter – it was almost midnight, and guests would be leaving soon. But instead of running to her bedroom Constance ran into the cool night air, past the fountain, skirting the ornamental garden and down towards the loch in the distance where she had always found her own haven of peace and calm. No guests would brave the dark journey down to the water’s edge for fear they would trip to their deaths in the blackout and miss out on the Champagne her parents were doling out from their carefully hoarded supply in the cellars under the house. She was entirely alone.

Dangling her feet into the cool water, Constance looked back through the darkness to where she could just about make out the outline of the baronial mansion. Inside were fifty or so of her mother and father’s closest friends, and barely any of her own, still celebrating Constance’s birthday with little regard for her absence and even less for the war outside Invermoray House.

It was no longer the faint noise of the band playing, but rather another sound that suddenly caught her attention, causing her to look skyward. A smattering of low grey cloud hid something she sensed was looming closer in the dark night sky.

It took Constance a few seconds to understand she was listening to the sound of a Spitfire engine. But far from its usual smooth whir, it sputtered and whined as if gasping for breath. She saw its outline against the darkness of the sky above and the black mass of forest on the horizon as the plane dropped from the sky. Its engine went almost completely silent before it juddered to life and then died again, the propellers slowing to a complete stop. And Constance realised the pilot must still be inside, trying to restart the engine instead of doing the sensible thing and parachuting himself to safety. Perhaps in the blackout he had no idea how close to the ground he was.

As the plane sank even further, Constance knew it was going to crash and she scrambled to her feet, moving quickly over the jutting rock in case the plane should bank suddenly towards her. But it did not.

The Spitfire came level with her before hitting the water at such a horrific angle, Constance was sure one of its wings had been ripped clean away, sending spray high into the air. Instinctively she turned away to avoid the large splashes. After the loss of its wing the plane spun and tumbled on the water until Constance didn’t know which way round it was. Where was the pilot? It took only a few seconds for the weight of water to fill the vessel before the plane gurgled and disappeared below the surface; the water smothering it entirely as if it had never been there at all. There was no sign of the pilot. No noise of him swimming to safety in the darkness. The false tide from the crash lapped strongly against the rock.

She stood shaking, her eyes wide, her breaths coming in quick succession, her hands still tightly clutching her shoes and stockings. Constance knew she had to do something, but her body refused her call to action. She was rooted to the spot, staring across the water at where the plane had been. She was torn. If she ran back to the house for help there would be no time. If she did not do something, he would be dead within minutes, if not already. She had to save the pilot.

Forcing herself to move, Constance clambered down the rock and into the water, cutting her leg on a sharp edge as she did so. She couldn’t feel the pain, or the blood as it trickled down her ankle mixing with the water; so intense was her need to reach the stricken pilot, who she imagined hopelessly fighting with his safety belts and the hatch above. Her silk evening dress clung to her legs as she strode as quickly as she could through the water in the direction of where the plane had sunk from view.

Inside the house the grandfather clock in the entrance hall struck midnight, and the band played on to revellers unaware of the events outside. Congratulations were passed to Constance at the close of her twenty-first birthday. Such a shame she had felt unwell. Perhaps too much Champagne had taken its toll. Her bed was the best place for her. Shortly the band would finish, guests dispersing – their carefully saved petrol coupons taking them the distance to their homes and neighbouring estates – and then the housekeeper would begin the ritual of closing Invermoray House down for the night.

As the water reached Constance’s waist she pushed her feet off from the pebbled loch-bed and let go of her shoes and stockings, so that they drifted away behind her as she swam further into the darkness.

CHAPTER 2
Scotland, August 2020

Kate should never have said no to the offer of a satnav for the hire car. There had even been a promotional discount at the car rental desk at the airport but she had, somewhat smugly, waved her mobile phone at the clerk and explained she had a free GPS app already installed.

But her signal had dropped out long ago and with the countryside becoming even wilder she reasoned her phone data wasn’t about to return anytime soon. Kate pulled the little hatchback over by the side of the road and looked around for any sign of life. Any kind of sign at all would have been nice. She couldn’t remember how far she’d gone down the long B road before she had glanced at her phone and found the app unresponsive. How long had it been like that? The last village she’d passed had been at least ten minutes ago and she couldn’t even remember what it had been called.

As the sun dipped in the sky, she spread the map out across the bonnet and scanned it for something familiar. Thank God someone at the car rental office had placed one in the glove compartment. She would be arriving much later than she’d said she would. It would be the worst kind of first impression, turning up for her new live-in job as night was falling. There was no way Kate was going to find her way in the dark so she was just going to have to keep heading down the road in the hope it would lead her to civilisation where she could get some sort of data reception on her phone. You don’t get this sort of nonsense in London, she thought. Although London was the last place she wanted to be right then. She glanced up and down the desolate road. She’d wanted peace and quiet. But maybe not this quiet.

Kate folded the map up as best as she could, but it was a poor effort and she’d managed to fold creases where there hadn’t been any a few seconds ago. She started the engine and drove, holding her phone in one hand, and somewhat dangerously glancing down, hitting refresh on the app every few minutes. There was still no joy. She needed to restart her phone in a last-ditch effort. She glanced down, holding the off button an interminably long amount of time until it gave the chance to swipe to confirm that yes, she really did want to turn the phone off.

As Kate glanced back up she screamed. A man was standing at the side of the road facing her, his mouth open with horror as she drove towards him. What was he doing in the road? He lifted his hands up to shield his face. At the very last second Kate dropped her phone, turned the wheel quickly to swerve away from him and stamped her foot down on the brake. The car skidded across the road into the path of oncoming traffic – or it would have done, if there had been any other vehicles on the stretch of inhospitable countryside road. Instead the rental car came to a stop at an angle that left the bonnet facing a row of tall pine trees at the side of the road.

She couldn’t move. Her knuckles were white; her fingernails dug into her palms where she’d tightened her grip around the wheel. Kate forced herself to look in the rear-view mirror to see if the man was still alive. He wasn’t there. She hadn’t hit him. Or had she? She wasn’t sure of anything.

‘Oh my God. Where is he?’ With shaking hands Kate unfurled her fingers from the wheel and unclicked the seatbelt. She went to open the door but the trouble was taken from her hands as the man yanked it open and stared angrily down at her.

She sat back in shock. His jaw was clenched and he appeared to be struggling to speak.

‘Thank God, you’re alive.’ Her voice was shaky, her heart still thudding hard.

He stood back and gave her room to get out of the car. ‘No thanks to you.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Kate climbed out and stood in front of him, her legs wobbly.

‘You almost killed me.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Are you hurt?’

‘No,’ he snapped. And then added as an afterthought: ‘Are you?’

‘No. I’m fine.’

The stranger looked past her and into the car at the crumpled map on the passenger seat. Kate watched him, hoping he was calming down. He looked about her age, late twenties with brown hair and brown eyes. He was dressed head to toe in running gear, with streaks of neon yellow banded around his wrists and legs. She should have seen him given this get-up, only she’d been distracted by—

‘Were you on your phone?’ He looked directly at her, unblinking. ‘Were you texting while driving?’

‘I … No … Of course not.’

He climbed into the car, knelt on the seat and bent to retrieve the phone.

‘Hey, what are you doing?’ she asked.

He stabbed at it a few times, but the phone was mercifully off.

‘I could have sworn …’ He trailed off and then reluctantly handed her the phone.

‘You need to move your car. It’s dangerous positioned like that.’ He was glancing up and down the empty road.

Kate nodded but didn’t move, concerned she’d just broken the law, almost killing someone at the same time.

‘Can you do it or do you want me to?’ He looked at her as if she was an idiot.

‘I … you … I can do it. I don’t mind.’

He raised an eyebrow and gave her a look that proved he was in no doubt she was a fool.

‘You don’t mind? Well that’s just …’ He shook his head in disbelief, stepping back and folding his arms. Kate was in no condition to drive but she got back in and managed to straighten the car and pull it slightly off the road, onto the gravel by the side. She switched her hazard lights on given that she was still on the wrong side of the road. And then she wasn’t really sure what to do. The man was still standing there. Surely this was the point where both of them would leave and go about the rest of their evenings, but he seemed to be watching her expectantly.

Kate got back out of the car and stood awkwardly by the open door. She’d never been in a road accident before, not that this really was a road accident, but the look he was giving her made her think that if she drove on he’d have the police chasing her within minutes.

‘So, what happens now?’ she ventured.

‘What do you mean?’ He looked baffled.

‘Do we … um … do we exchange details?’

He narrowed his eyes again. ‘Why would we do that?’

Kate felt about two feet tall. ‘I’m not sure,’ was all she could say quietly. She was eager to be back in the car – so shaken she wasn’t sure she could drive if she was really honest with herself but it was better than standing here with him.

‘We don’t need to do anything,’ he said.

‘OK,’ Kate agreed.

His arms were still folded.

She started to apologise again but he cut her off. He glanced pointedly at his phone, strapped to a band on his wrist.

‘Chalk it up to experience.’ He put his headphones in his ears, fiddled with his phone, turned and continued jogging away.

Kate watched his retreating figure and when he rounded the bend she slumped against the car and exhaled loudly, relieved he was gone. Chalk it up to experience? How sanctimonious. What did he even mean by that? Regardless, she was thankful he wasn’t pressing charges and that she’d never have to see him again. Kate looked back down the road to where he’d turned out of sight.

‘What a bastard.’

She could have cried. What was she even doing here?

CHAPTER 3

Kate climbed back into the car and grabbed her handbag from where it had fallen into the passenger footwell. She took out her small bundle of good luck cards and reread her favourite, from her best friend Jenny. On the front was a picture of Kate holding an empty Champagne bottle upside down towards her mouth. She was pulling a stupid, but happy expression. It was only a few months old, but remembering the celebrations from the day she’d been promoted to senior PR manager still made her smile.

Inside the card wasn’t the usual ‘Good Luck’ message. Instead it said, ‘From drunken dare to worst nightmare. Knock ’em dead.’

Oh God, the dare. What had Kate been thinking, coming here on a whim and a dare? She couldn’t lay all the blame at Jenny’s door. It hadn’t been Jenny’s fault that Kate had quite simply had enough. If she had to turn up to promote any more bar openings with mediocre guest lists full of Z-list models and footballers’ wives treating her like dirt she would have screamed. What was it about the almost famous that made them think they could talk to her and her colleagues like they were skivvies? And then when one had accused her of flirting with her husband. Well, the fallout from that had been unbearable. She knew why she was here if she really stopped to think about it. She needed to rebuild her reputation, away from the claustrophobic glare of London, her office, her colleagues, everyone who knew the awful situation she’d got herself in that night. The shame of the accusation was what had driven her here, as far away as she could possibly get. After the indignity and humiliation of the formal warning she’d received at work the next day, Jenny had drunkenly applied online for two jobs for her.

‘You’ve always said you wanted to travel more,’ Jenny had slurred, loading up a jobs website on her laptop. ‘From Land’s End to John o’Groats. I dare you. Where do you fancy?’

‘Anywhere, anywhere, just fill the bloody forms in, attach my CV and hit send. It could be in Timbuktu for all I care. As long as I never have to deal with some reality TV contestant falling out of a bar drunk and into the lens of their own pre-organised waiting paparazzi, then it can be anywhere you like,’ Kate had declared.

Jenny had hit send, they’d clinked glasses and Kate had forgotten all about it. Until a week later when a rejection email from a hotel in Cornwall had fallen into Kate’s inbox. Apparently she didn’t have enough experience promoting regional food and had not even made it through to the interview stage. She felt a slight pang of regret over the loss of a job she hadn’t even known existed until that very moment. And it had set her thinking: maybe a change of scenery was the very thing she needed. No more awful bars. No celebrity hangouts. A chance to start afresh with her reputation intact.

And so when the second job application had proven fruitful and the owner of Invermoray House in Scotland interviewed Kate via an hour-long phone call and offered her the job at the end of it, she had jumped up and down for a full two minutes in joy.

‘Not much in the way of visitors,’ she had told Kate. ‘Which we’re hoping you can help with of course, dear. We’re very out of the way up here.’

‘Sounds perfect.’ Kate had felt triumphant, knowing soon she’d be away from run-of-the-mill PR assignments. And it wasn’t as if she had a relationship to tie her down. She’d been single for about a year and very happy about it. ‘I accept.’

But now it was a different story. Lost and in the fading light, Kate had never felt so alone.

By the time she eventually found it, her satnav back up and running, Invermoray House was bathed in twilight. Kate drove down the long driveway and onto the large gravel sweep in front of the house. Her eyebrows rose involuntarily as she took in the grandeur of the building, marvelling at the way it was downplayed as a house when it was more a castle. As she pulled up, the car headlights gave the baronial building a warm yellow glow.

Kate barely had time to drag her suitcases from the boot before the large wooden front door was pulled open and a lady in her mid-sixties walked towards her.

‘Can I help you?’ She had kind, smiling eyes and bob-length straight brown hair.

Kate recognised her voice. ‘I’m sorry I’m so late. You must be Mrs Langley-McLay?’

‘Yes, my dear.’ She gave Kate’s suitcases the once-over. ‘You aren’t Kate, are you?’

Kate nodded and Mrs Langley-McLay’s eyebrows knitted together.

‘Then you aren’t late at all, my dear. You’re a day early.’

Kate’s face fell. ‘What? I can’t be.’

The woman laughed. ‘We said we’d start tomorrow, so I assumed you would arrive tomorrow.’

‘Oh, I just thought …’ Kate’s voice trailed away.

‘Well.’ Mrs Langley-McLay moved forward to help Kate with her cases. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being keen. You take that other case and we’ll see you inside. You must need a cup of tea and a sit-down after such a long journey. And then we’ll see you to your room. Or perhaps you’d like a gin and tonic instead of tea? I was going to have one before dinner.’

‘That would be lovely, Mrs Langley-Mc—’

‘Oh, call me Liz, or else it’s such a mouthful.’ Liz placed Kate’s suitcase by the bottom of the ornately carved mahogany stairs and indicated Kate should do the same with the other one.

Liz led her through the black and white tiled hallway, the roaring fire crackling away comfortingly in the large stone fireplace. Despite the fact it was mid-summer there was a nip in the air as dusk settled. Liz slowed down and peeked into the doorway of a room.

‘Oh good, he’s not here,’ she mumbled to herself.

‘Who isn’t?’ Kate asked as she followed Liz into the library. It was perhaps the grandest room Kate had ever seen. Rows and rows of leather-bound books lined tall shelves that stretched to the ceiling. A wooden ladder on wheels was positioned up against the shelves and for a moment she had a childish urge to leap onto it and slide around the room.

‘Not to worry. Not for the moment. Now, let’s fix ourselves a drink, shall we? Dutch courage and all that.’

Kate wondered why on earth Liz needed Dutch courage, but Liz changed the subject, asking about Kate’s journey before launching into work matters.

‘We’ve needed someone like you for quite some time.’ Liz moved over to a drinks trolley and lifted the lid of the ice container. She plunked several pieces into two cut-glass tumblers. ‘We’re in a complete state, as I explained on the phone, so you’ll be a bit of a jack of all trades while we get started.’ She gestured for Kate to sit on one of two red velvet Knole sofas and she did so on the one nearest Liz, her back to the door. The sofas were worn, with horsehair sticking through, and the rope that bound the back together had once been gold but was now utterly frayed. It was a stark contrast to the leather volumes and the oversized wooden desk positioned near the French windows, which although old looked as good as new.

‘Now there is a teensy issue with you arriving early. But it’s nothing I can’t factor in I’m sure. Only he might fly off the handle at first but his bark is far worse than his bite.’

Kate blinked as Liz handed her a drink. ‘Your husband?’

‘Heavens, no. My poor husband passed away a year ago. No, my son. But don’t worry, because I’m sure he’ll come round to it.’

‘Your son?’

Liz nodded and sat on the opposite sofa. Suspecting Liz wasn’t going to offer more information, Kate probed further.

‘Come round to what?’

‘To you, of course.’

‘Me? What about me? Me being a day early?’

Liz chuckled, but it was a nervous laugh and her eyes darted to the hallway as they both heard the front door bang shut.

‘To you being here at all.’

Kate stiffened as Liz continued. ‘You see, I hadn’t quite had a chance to tell him that I’d hired you. I was rather hoping to do it tonight, over dinner.’ Footsteps sounded on the tiled hallway floor, getting closer to the library. Liz sped up. ‘We were in desperate need of help and he flat-out refused to entertain thoughts of hiring someone. Says we can’t afford it, which is piffle. You’re an investment, of course. But he will rather blow a gasket at you being here. Terrible manners. Well … you’ll see.’

Kate heard the footsteps stop.

‘Thought I could hear voices,’ a man’s voice sounded from the doorway to the library.

Kate froze.

Liz spoke. ‘James, I’d like to introduce you to Kate.’

Kate stood and turned slowly towards the newcomer. Before she’d even seen him, she just knew who he was. As Kate faced him, a polite but nervous smile on her face, she watched recognition pass over his expression before his smile slipped. His hand, outstretched to shake hers, dropped.

‘Kate is here to—’ Liz started.

‘Finish me off?’ James interrupted her.

Liz looked between the two of them, clearly confused. Kate wanted to die.

‘We’ve met,’ James continued. ‘About an hour ago. I think it’s fair to say Kate can’t drive.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Kate spluttered. ‘You were on the wrong side of the road. You were in the road.’

‘I bloody wasn’t in the road. And pedestrians are supposed to face oncoming traffic.’

She was silenced.

‘And you were texting,’ James finished for good measure.

‘I wasn’t texting.’ Kate was earnest.

‘Oh Christ,’ James flared up again. ‘Is that why you’re here? Did you follow me? To see where I live? Hoping to get some kind of payout, accusing me of … what … exactly? Well, I warn you we haven’t got two pennies to rub together, so don’t bother.’

‘James.’ His mother put her hand on his arm to silence him. ‘Enough please. Kate is not here about that. Kate is here because we have employed her. I have employed her.’

James turned slowly and looked at his mother. ‘You have done what?’ His voice was dark, but Kate was relieved to find Liz maintaining her son’s gaze, clearly used to holding her own in a standoff.

‘I think this is best discussed outside, don’t you?’ The question was clearly rhetorical as Liz walked purposefully from the room. James looked at Kate and she smiled weakly with embarrassment. He shook his head in disbelief and followed his mother from the room, closing the door to the library behind him.

Kate’s whole body was stiff. She couldn’t believe it. She’d been hired, although not on a contract admittedly. She’d sub-let her flat to her brother, for Christ’s sake. She couldn’t go back to London now, tail between her legs on day one of her new job. What if James overruled Liz and sent her packing, which he was clearly about to try? Where would she go at this time of night? There was a pub down the road. Maybe they had rooms, although out here in the middle of nowhere Kate doubted there was need for a pub with rooms to rent. She slumped back down awkwardly on the overstuffed sofa and tried not to listen to the muffled argument on the other side of the door.

The phrases she could pick out were in James’s thunderous tones. ‘No money … can’t afford her … don’t need any help … can do it on my own.’

She exhaled loudly as she listened to James not handle the situation at all well. There was nothing she could do. She just had to await her fate. Kate looked around the walls at some surprisingly modern artwork and then spied a large book open on a table in front of one of the bookshelves. She wandered over, more for something to direct her nervous energy towards than out of any actual interest. It was an old Bible, the pages wafer thin beneath her fingers. She’d never been particularly religious and after reading the first few lines of the open page she gently closed the hefty book to look at its front cover. The title lettering had faded but she could tell it had once been gold. The black leather cover was crumbling in a few places, particularly the spine, its threads showing bare. She looked around – threadbare appeared to be a running theme in this room. Kate opened the cover slowly and carefully turned a few pages until she reached a page showing the Family Record. Trying to forget the argument outside, she became engrossed in what must be the Langley-McLay family Bible.

The names of the family members varied in colour, the ink of the earlier ones now faded sepia, the more recent names still black. The dates started in the early 1800s and the italic looped and swirled handwriting changed as each new family member’s name was recorded with his or her birth date.

Kate thought of the generations of children who had come and gone, grown old, married and moved away, gone to war and died, lived and inherited before passing it on to the next in line. She glanced at the second page of the Bible, as the dates moved into the First World War. One child was born soon after the war: Constance Amelia Rose McLay, born August 1919.

But what struck her about this name over all the others was the black fountain pen mark that had been scored through her entire name. Whoever had crossed her entry through had done so with such forceful intention that the nib had gone through several of the sheets underneath.

Kate’s first thought was that someone might have done this when Constance had died. But there was no date of death for anyone listed in the Bible – only births – and none of the other entries had been scored through.

Constance Amelia Rose McLay stood alone in having been deleted. Kate shuddered suddenly and looked around. She suddenly wished she was anywhere else but here. With Liz talking in clipped tones to her son outside the door Kate looked back down at the name.

She ran her finger slowly over the deep slice that the pen had made and wondered what kind of crime Constance McLay could possibly have committed that would see her name so meaningfully and forcefully removed from her family history.

CHAPTER 4
1940

The smacking sound the Spitfire had made as it crashed had been nothing compared to the dreadful gurgle that emanated from the water as it sucked the plane down into its inky depths. The whoosh had been sudden. And then there was nothing but the waves as they crashed around Constance, before the loch became eerily still.

Constance swam as fast as she could towards the middle of the loch, pausing to tread water and listen for a sound, any sound that might indicate the pilot was still alive. She pulled her dress up around her waist so she could kick her legs faster.

He was dead. He must be. He’d been under the water for far too long, surely. She wished the clouds would part, allowing the moon to cast some light on to the dark water.

She called out, even though it was hopeless. ‘Where are you?’

Constance pushed her wet brown hair back from her face in order to see, although it was too dark to get her bearings. Her painstakingly pinned hairstyle was now loose and in soaked tendrils down her face.

‘Where are you?’ she called again. Foolishly, she believed if she shouted loud enough she might be able to summon him from the cold depths.

From the darkness to her left the silence was broken. A loud splash sounded as he surfaced, suddenly, violently. He’d emerged but he was flailing, splashing and gasping desperately for air.

Constance yelled that she was coming to help. The pilot was some distance from her and she didn’t know if he could hear her. He appeared unable to reply, his gasps turning to coughs as he expelled water from his lungs.

She swam towards the noise, continuing to try to reassure him. As she swam into his view he swore, startled at her arrival. He appeared to be having a fight with himself.

‘Are you all right?’ Constance called. ‘Can you swim?’

‘Yes. No,’ he said between gasps. ‘Help. It’s drowning me.’ He was trying to undo his leather flight jacket and, in a panic, had his arms stuck in the wet material. Constance reached him and trod water as she wrestled the heavy flight jacket from him. As she held it in her arms the weight of it began to pull her down and she kicked with her legs to stay above the surface.

He started kicking off his waterlogged boots and saw her struggling with the jacket.

‘Let go!’ he shouted at her.

Constance hadn’t known why she’d still been holding the jacket but she released the leaden weight. Like his plane, it disappeared into the water.

His panic seemed to rise as he struggled with his boots. Constance tried soothing him. ‘Stay calm. The shoreline isn’t far,’ she said as she trod water. ‘You must swim for it.’

The pilot followed her as she swam. She could hear his harsh breathing and sporadic coughing as he struggled to swim with boots full of water. Constance’s love for swimming in the loch had worn off when she’d reached thirteen and Douglas had no longer been around as much to share in the fun. But she still knew the loch like the back of her hand. They were swimming away from the house, towards the far side of the wide loch where the wooden jetty jutted out. That shore was closer and after all the pilot had been through, Constance didn’t think he could swim all the way back in the direction from which she had come.

She slowed to swim alongside the exhausted man, ready to drag him along if he should give up. But he continued. He asked only once how far away the edge was and after a few minutes Constance felt pebbles and sharp stones beneath her bare feet.

She turned to take his hand, to pull him from the lake. Weak from his ordeal, he grabbed her hand willingly, stumbled at the shoreline and then lowered himself down, crawling on his hands and knees out of the water. He lay on his front, facing away from her, and breathed deeply.

Exhausted, not from the swim but from panic, Constance fell down next to him. It was only as she sat still that she realised how cold she was and she began shivering. She hugged her bare arms but it was of little use whilst she was in wet clothes. The pilot turned to look at her, wide-eyed with shock, and then looked around at his surroundings. She could barely see his face in the darkness. His wet hair fell partly over his eyes, which were now trained on her face.

When he finally got his breath back he asked, ‘Where in God’s name did you spring from?’

Constance raised her hand and pointed across the water. ‘The house. But I was already down by the loch.’

He nodded and looked to where she pointed. But Invermoray House, in blackout and so far away, was indiscernible. ‘Were you on your own?’

‘By the water, yes.’ She shivered.

‘You’re cold,’ he said as he forced himself onto his hands and knees again and then turned slowly into a sitting position.

‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘I suppose I am.’

‘We must get dry,’ Constance said as she stood. The thin fabric of her dress clung to her wet skin. Goose bumps covered her.

‘Where? To the house?’ he asked. ‘I’m not going back in that water to reach it.’

‘It’s too long to walk round,’ she said between shivers. She thought as quickly as she could. ‘There’s an estate cottage that’s empty. And it’s closer. If you can walk for only a few minutes, it’s just inside the tree line.’ She pointed to where spruce trees loomed high.

‘It’s empty?’ he asked, a flicker of something like relief on his face. ‘No one lives there?’

Constance nodded.

‘All right. If you’re sure. But first …’ He wrestled each of his boots off and tipped out water before he stood and scooped the boots into his arms. His thick pilot’s uniform clung to him and as they walked Constance wondered what on earth the pair of them must look like.

After a minute or two he asked, ‘How much further is this cottage?’

‘Not far.’ Constance hoped she hadn’t veered off course. She’d never been out to the unused ghillie’s cottage in the dark before. There’d never been the need.

In the darkness of the forest the cottage appeared, looming suddenly. Constance tried the door but it was locked. ‘Oh no,’ she cried. ‘I hadn’t thought.’

The pilot leaned against the cottage wall and put his head back against it. His eyes were closed. ‘Look under the mat.’

Constance stepped off the front mat and lifted it. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said as she retrieved the key. ‘How did you know?’

‘Honest people always put their keys under the mat.’ His face was tipped up. Above them the clouds parted and the moon finally shone, bathing the pilot in light.

For the first time since she’d set eyes on him she was able to see fully what he looked like. He had a strong jawline and he was handsome. Not like a film star, although she’d not been to see too many films recently up here since the war started. They were miles from anything exciting like that. But he was handsome in the sense that if she’d spotted him walking through the village, she knew she’d have glanced at him more than once.

His eyes had opened and he was watching her. A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘Are you going to open the door?’

Embarrassed, Constance fumbled with the lock and turned the handle. As they entered, a strong smell of damp hit them. The cottage had been shut up for about nine months, since the ghillie, like all the other male staff of fighting age, had joined the war effort. The ghillie’s home, the only estate cottage not situated in the local village, had been closed up ever since and was awaiting his return.

Constance sought out a paraffin lamp on a low table and fiddled with it.

‘Don’t,’ the pilot said sharply.

‘Why ever not?’

‘The blackout,’ he replied. He was right. Constance realised the blackout blinds weren’t in place and as the clouds moved aside, the moon filtered through the windows. ‘Leave it,’ he continued. ‘For now. We need to get our wet things off before we freeze to death.’

He dropped his boots to the floor. They clunked heavily but Constance’s eyes weren’t drawn down. Instead she looked at him in horror as he pulled his blazer off and dropped that to the floor before starting on his wet shirt. He had undone at least two buttons, exposing his chest, before Constance pulled her gaze away.

‘Hurry up,’ he commanded. ‘Take your dress off. Do you want to get ill?’

‘You can’t possibly expect me to remove my dress in front of you.’ She couldn’t keep the horror from her voice.

‘I’ll turn my back,’ he offered. ‘I’ve just crashed into a bloody great lake. I’m in absolutely no condition to think about that sort of thing.’

Constance blushed that he should even mention it. After Henry’s nightmarish behaviour in the orangery, she was petrified it might happen again, here, with this pilot. She was buttoned in so tight she was unable to free herself from her dress anyway. She was sure the silk was shrinking tight against her body thanks to the water. The buttons at the back were plentiful and started at the nape of her neck and ran down the dress until they reached the top of her bottom.

He had turned his back and must have been aware she wasn’t moving as he said, ‘Are you watching me undress?’ in an amused voice.

‘No! I need your help.’

He turned, rolled his shirt up and dropped it on the floor. She’d seen her brother Douglas’s friends without their shirts plenty of times as they swam in the loch over the years but here, in this dark room with this man, it felt different. It was too private. He looked different to any of her brother’s friends – stronger, taller … just different.

When she didn’t speak he asked, ‘What do you need help with?’

Constance had momentarily forgotten about the buttons. She turned and he began unbuttoning her wet dress, his hands moving gently down her skin until he finished. The room felt still and Constance was aware only of his hands as they moved.

As her unbuttoned dress gaped at the back he moved gallantly away and she became aware of the room again. The cottage had been left as if the ghillie had simply popped out for a few minutes. Other than the presence of damp and dust, items of furniture, ornaments and books had been left in the places that they had presumably sat for the past few years. From the back of a battered armchair the pilot pulled a tartan blanket and handed it to her.

Constance wriggled out of her dress as she wrapped the blanket around her. Her wet underwear was uncomfortable and she realised she was going to have to shake that off as well if she was going to warm up. Although it was August, the air was cold inside the stone cottage.

‘I’ll light a fire,’ the pilot said. He moved around the room, fixing the stiff fabric wood-framed blackout blinds into place.

‘You’re still wearing your wet trousers,’ Constance said. ‘Look upstairs. The ghillie might have left some clothes behind.’

The pilot nodded and assembled the fire in the grate, forming a tripod out of a few logs of wood and balling up some newspaper from the basket, throwing it into the middle. He found matches in a pot on the mantel above, struck one against the wall and started a small fire in the grate.

‘Warm yourself up while I find us some things,’ he instructed.

Constance sat on the thinning rug by the fire and pulled the blanket tight around herself. The fire worked its magic and she stretched her bare legs out in front of her, wriggling her toes as the heat from the flames licked them gently. She marvelled at how she could be in the middle of her birthday party and then, only an hour later, soaked to the skin and alone in a cottage with an RAF officer whose plane had crashed into her loch. After a few minutes the pilot came downstairs wearing a pair of dry trousers and a thick blue woollen pullover.

‘They smell of mothballs but they’re dry,’ he said as he stood next to her, offering her a pair of men’s trousers and a thick white jumper that he’d found. He held out his hand and she grasped it as she stood. She said her thanks, took the clothes and went upstairs to put the trousers and shirt on. She rolled the waistband of the trousers over a few times but they were far too big and she kept her hand on them as she descended the staircase for fear they might drop to the floor.

Constance sat back down in front of the fire and tucked her wet hair behind her ears. The pilot sat next to her, the firelight casting him in an orange glow.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

She told him. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Matthew.’

‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘I watched you crash; it was awful. It must have been so frightening for you. I thought you must surely be dead.’

When he replied his voice was quiet. ‘I thought I was going to die. I couldn’t see a bloody thing. I kept trying to restart the engine but I knew it was no good. In hindsight I should have thrown open the hatch and bailed out much earlier on but I thought, one more turn of the engine should do it, she’ll start up on one more turn. Goes against everything I was ever taught, given the old thing had been completely shot up. It’s nothing short of a miracle she glided like she did. Full of bullet holes. I had no idea I was landing on water. If the moon had been out I’d have seen. Bit of a shock when I bounced and the cockpit started filling up.’

Constance exhaled. ‘I can imagine.’

‘Can you?’ Matthew enquired, his eyebrows raised. ‘Ever been shot at by the enemy, falling down to the ground with no idea where the ground actually is?’

She felt chastised. ‘No.’ She was quiet.

A log shifted in the grate sending sparks high up the chimney.

‘Sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I should be thanking you. Instead I’m being abominably rude.’

‘It’s all right,’ Constance replied.

‘No. No it’s not. My mother would turn in her grave if she knew how easily my manners had failed me.’

Constance smiled. She wanted to say it was all right again. Why couldn’t she think of anything else to say?

They sat in silence for a few minutes, both focused on the fire that lit the otherwise darkened room. She wondered if anyone would be missing her back at the house and whether the pilot was in any condition to trudge through the forest in the middle of the night. Perhaps, given his ordeal, it would be best to wait until morning before they set off so no one caught her in men’s clothing.

‘What will you do?’ he asked, pulling her from her thoughts.

‘Do? About what?’ Constance turned to look at him.

‘About me?’ Matthew looked at her. In the light of the fire she could see his eyes were a pale green. She’d never seen eyes that shade before. They shone brightly and contrasted curiously against his dark brown hair.

‘Well I rather thought, if you preferred, we should sit it out here and you could rest for a while and then in the morning—’

‘Constance, can I trust you?’ he interrupted her.

She swallowed as he said her name. ‘Yes, I think so.’

Matthew laughed. ‘Well if you don’t know, then how do I?’

‘Yes, yes you can trust me.’

‘I need you to help me,’ he said. ‘I need you to … hide me. Just for a short while, I swear to you. Just long enough for them to think I’m dead. Will you do that?’

Constance’s mouth dropped open. He had been so brave. He had been shot down and now, clearly, he was addled by his trauma.

‘Who do you want to think you’re dead?’ she squeaked in disbelief.

‘All of them. The whole bloody lot of them.’

‘But …’ she started. ‘Your squadron? You don’t want me to telephone someone, have them pick you up, have them look after you?’

‘No, I do not,’ he said. ‘Tonight is the last night I participate in this god-awful war. And if I have to pretend I’m dead in order to achieve that then so be it.’