The Woman In The Lake: Can she escape the shadows of the past?

Chapter 5

Isabella

Lydiard Park, Summer 1763

The clock on the stables was striking quarter past the hour of one as my carriage rattled into the coach yard at Lydiard Park. After so many miles the sudden cessation of noise and movement was shocking. The silence was loud, the stillness made me feel sick.

There was no light outside and no welcome. Not that I was expecting one. I had not sent ahead to warn the servants of our arrival. There had been no time.

The carriage swayed as the coachman jumped down. I wondered if he were as stiff as I, tired, filthy and bad tempered from travelling through the night. He had certainly driven like a man in a rage, sparing us nothing, which had made the journey all the more uncomfortable.

Constance stirred in her seat but she did not wake. Poor child, at the last change of horses she had looked so pale and hollow-eyed from exhaustion that I thought she might faint with the effort of carrying a cup of broth for me, and I made her drink it herself.

I pushed the window down. ‘Farrant! Drive around to the front. Do you expect me to walk?’

I heard him swear. I had suffered the coachman and groom’s snide disrespect all the way from London. How quickly the servants picked up on the mood of their master and acted accordingly. They all knew about Eustace’s treatment of me and so they thought that gave them licence to behave with insolence. But I was a Duke’s daughter; I knew how to deal with impertinent servants.

‘Ma’am—’ Tarrant’s surly response was interrupted as a wavering light appeared, a lantern held in the hand of a very young ostler who scuffed his way across the cobbles, yawning and rubbing his eyes. Behind him I saw the shadow of a cat slink away.

‘What’s to do?’ His Wiltshire burr was so thick I could scarcely make out the words. ‘Who calls at this time of night?’

‘It is my Lady Gerard.’ The coachman was peremptory, using my authority to bolster his own now it suited him. ‘Look sharp, lad, and send someone to wake the house, and fetch more men to help with the horses.’

‘There’s no one here but me.’ The poor lad sounded panicked, as though he did not know what to do first. I took pity on him, leaning from the window.

‘Farrant, open this door. I can announce myself at the house.’ Turning, I shook Constance awake gently. Her shoulder felt brittle beneath my hand and she turned her head against the velvet cushions of the seat as though for comfort.

‘Come, Constance,’ I said. ‘You are home.’

She opened sleep-dazed dark eyes and looked at me, waking suddenly, despite the care I had taken not to startle her.

‘Home? Lydiard? Oh, madam!’

She scrambled up and thrust the door wide, jumping down before the groom had stirred to come and help us. I smiled wryly to think that one of us at least was pleased to be here.

I had not been to Lydiard since the first year of my marriage. I had been happy enough then, although perhaps not as happy as I should have been as a new bride. Marriage had not been at all as I had imagined.

‘What on earth were you thinking, Bella?’ my sister Betty had asked bluntly when my betrothal was announced. ‘Were you drunk? Everyone says you must have been to accept Eustace Gerard.’

It was true that Eustace had proposed to me at Vauxhall Spring Gardens but I had been quite sober that night. It had been a whim, an impulse, I suppose. He had offered escape, or so I had thought, and I had been bored with my pattern card life as a young lady of the ton and had grasped after something different. In those days Eustace had made me laugh. He made no such efforts to amuse a wife. I drew my cloak a little closer about me. For all that this was July the air was chill and fresh out here in the country. It had a different quality to London.

The lad from the stables had run on ahead to raise the house whilst the groom and coachman dealt with the horses. By the time that Constance and I reached the door, there was a lantern flaring in the hall and Pound, the steward, was shrugging on his jacket and hurrying towards us, cross and flustered. His shirt flapped loose and his hair stood up at the back.

‘My lady!’ His gaze darted to my face and registered my bruises with the mere flick of an eyelid before he resorted to his true grievance. ‘We did not expect you! If you had told us—’

I raised a hand to stem the flow of reproach. I was too weary to hear him out. ‘It is of no consequence. All I require is my usual room made up and some hot water and a little food…’

He looked appalled. Such simple matters seemed impossible to achieve. For the first time I looked about the hall and saw what the darkness and lamplight had concealed: the cobwebs and dust, the filthy drapes. There was a smell of stale air and old candle wax. It was cold. Probably there were rats.

‘Surely,’ I said, my voice sharpening, ‘my lord pays you to maintain his house in an appropriate style even when he is not present?’

Pound’s face pursed up like a prune. ‘Had we known to expect you—’ he repeated.

‘You should always expect me. I do not have to give you notice of my whereabouts.’

‘No, my lady.’ His expression smoothed away into blandness but I knew that for all the outward show, he was annoyed. That, however, was not my concern.

Constance, looking from one of us to the other, stepped forward. ‘I can go to find some food and some hot water, milady,’ she said, ‘if Mr Pound can raise the housekeeper and see to your room.’

Constance was always the peacemaker. Probably Pound was some distant cousin of hers; she came from a village only a few miles distant and everyone in those parts was related to one another.

‘I’ll wait in the drawing room,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Constance.’

Pound’s gaze flickered between us, hard to read. He seemed surprised that I addressed Constance by her first name. It was not the custom but with a personal maid I always felt the need to be less formal. We were friends of a kind, after all. She dropped a curtsey and sped off towards the kitchen passage. Pound followed more slowly, adjusting his jacket and smoothing his hair for the housekeeper’s benefit if not for mine.

The drawing room was as unwelcoming as the hall. There was no light so I went back to the hall and took a branch of candles from the table by the door. From upstairs came the sound of voices raised in altercation. I had not met the Lydiard housekeeper and did not know her name but it seemed she had a fine pair of lungs even if she did not know how to keep house.

Pulling one of the covers off a chair I sat down and waited. Even with the candlelight the room looked sad and dark. Shrouded pictures of Eustace’s ancestors looked down their Gerard noses at me as though I, the daughter of a Duke, was not good enough to marry a mere Viscount. No light or warmth had penetrated here during the day and I thought I smelt damp plaster. The grand marble fireplace yawned cold and empty, full of the winter’s ashes. I wondered for a moment why I had come here, to the end of the world, and then I remembered. I remembered the golden gown, I remembered Eustace’s violence and I remembered that I planned to be revenged on him. Here, at Lydiard, I would settle the score.

Constance was the perfect accomplice. I knew she was Eustace’s spy. She had been from the moment he appointed her as my maid. They both thought I was unaware of it but I had known all along. It did not matter to me; she was useful in passing on the information I wished Eustace to receive and now I would use her to lure Eustace to Lydiard so that I could deal with him.

I think I must have fallen asleep where I sat, for when I woke, the candles had gone out and the room was full of darkness and silence. I felt cold, stiff and confused, my mind fogged with dreams. I stumbled to my feet, clumsily bumping into the corner of a table, reaching out to steady myself but touching nothing but thin air. Why had everyone left me alone in the dark? I felt both forlorn and furious at the same time.

A sliver of light showed in the corner of the room and I groped my way towards it. My fingers met the smooth panels of a door and the hard edge of the doorknob. I turned it and realised that I was in the little dressing room that lay in the north-east corner of the house, facing the church. Faint light fell through the window with its intricate painted diamond panes, suggesting that dawn was coming. I stood for a moment watching the strengthening light deepening the colours in the glass. I had loved that window from the first moment I had seen it. It had given me so many ideas for my drawing and painting; Eustace had laughingly said the room must become my studio.

But this was odd. If I was in the little dressing room then I could only have come through the door in the corner of the grand bedroom and not from the drawing room, where I had sat down and apparently fallen asleep… And now I looked about it, the room was much changed, painted in blue with a strange-looking desk all gold and black in the alcove, and on the walls were drawings, pastels and sketches in a hand I immediately recognised as my own.

Except that the pictures were unfamiliar, and their subjects and settings were completely unknown to me.

A long, cold shiver ran along my skin. I walked up to them to stare more closely. The room was as bright as day now but I had not noticed the change at once because I was too intent on the images on the wall. There was a charming pastel of a woman and a child holding hands and dancing, a drawing of three little rounded cupids sporting together and there, in the corner of the room, a pencil sketch of an elegant lady seated on a terrace with a little dog curled up on a cushion beside her.

There could be no mistake. I knew my own style and design as one does a hand so familiar that it is instinctive. I turned slowly to take them all in and saw a watercolour of a spray of flowers I had seen in a hedgerow in spring. I had taken a rough copy of them in my notebook and here they were in a painted panel, pale pink and white on blue, entwined with leaves, just as I had envisaged drawing them. There was china and porcelain adorned with the same sorts of patterns. And there, on the shiny black top of the desk, was a portrait framed in wood of a very pretty girl. It was signed with the initials I.A.C.B. I leaned closer to read the square piece of card beneath: ‘ A stipple engraving published by John Boydell in 1782 after Lady Isabella’s 1779 painting of her friend and cousin Lady Georgiana Cavendish.’

I sat down very abruptly in the little wicker chair by the desk.

We were in the year 1763.

I knew nothing of a John Boydell who published stipple engravings.

As for the china and porcelain, a lady might draw and paint but she did not produce designs for commercial use.

And my cousin was Lady Georgiana Spencer, not Lady Georgiana Cavendish and she was a sweet child of six years.

Then there was I.A.C.B., the artist who had drawn the portrait… I wrapped my arms about myself to drive away the cold that possessed me. Isabella, Ann and Charlotte were my names, and suddenly I knew with the insight of a soothsayer, a witch, that I was the artist. The Isabella whose work was displayed here inhabited my future…

‘My lady? Madam?’ It was Constance’s voice from beyond the doorway. I jumped like a startled cat. The light was fading again and the pale blue walls seemed to shimmer. I gripped the arm of the chair so that the wood scored my fingers. I needed the reassurance of the pain to convince me I was not in a dream.

Light wavered across the floor and then there was Constance, a branch of candles in her hand. ‘There you are,’ she said, sounding so surprised that the deference had gone from her voice. ‘Why would you sit in here in the dark?’

The room, revealed in the soft golden light, was the one that I knew. The window was the same and the beautiful plaster of the ceiling, but here too the furniture was now covered in cloth and there was nothing on the walls other than an oil of a rather angry-looking dog standing over the prone body of a dead hare. I remembered Eustace telling me that it was a favourite of his father’s.

Constance was still looking at me curiously but she had remembered her manners now. ‘There is food in the drawing room, ma’am,’ she said, ‘if you would care to come through. The water is heating and your chamber is almost ready. Mrs Lunt apologises for the delay and will present herself to you directly.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. I followed her out into the grand bedchamber, glancing back over my shoulder at the little dressing room. It had fallen into darkness.

I.A.C.B.… If this really were me then by the time the portrait was published I would have a different surname. I would be remarried. Eustace would be dead.

The thought gave me enormous pleasure. It warmed me, nurturing the flame of revenge that burned deep inside. I felt new life and energy course through my veins again, just as I had when I had held the golden gown. I decided that whilst I planned Eustace’s demise I would start to draw again.

‘I shall set up my easel in that room tomorrow,’ I said to Constance. ‘The light is perfect for my art. Please talk to Mrs Lunt to make sure it is clean and ready for me in the morning. There is much I need to do.’

Chapter 6

Fenella

Present Day

There was a parcel waiting for Fen on the walnut table in the hall when she arrived home from work on Monday. It was unexpected and she felt her heart contract with a little lurch of fear just as it always did when something unforeseen happened. It felt as though these days she had no protective layer. Everything had been stripped away when she had walked out on her past life and as yet she had not been able to reconstruct herself.

Since Friday night she had felt on edge anyway, jumping at shadows. She knew she must have imagined seeing Jake. He lived in Berlin these days, or so she had been told. Yet just the thought that she could summon up his ghost so easily, chilled her. She had spent the day trying to forget, immersed in work, the seminars and tutorials with her students, discussions on design ideas with colleagues, her research. The routine and familiarity had restored some of her equilibrium but term was ending and soon the college corridors would be echoing and empty through the long weeks of summer. She already felt lonely and vulnerable.

‘There’s a special delivery for you,’ her landlord said. He had come out of his own flat when he heard the main door open. He had a mop in his hand but Fen knew he had no intention of cleaning the tiled hall. For a start it was spotless, and secondly, he employed a whole team of cleaners to service the flats. It was part of the rental agreement.

‘It was lucky I was here to sign for it,’ he said. ‘Otherwise they would have taken it away again.’

‘Thanks,’ Fen said. She hadn’t talked to him much in the six months she had been back in Swindon. She knew he was called Dave and that he shared his flat with a male partner and that he ran a small property empire from within the elegant Georgian building. That was about all, other than that he used the mop as an excuse to engage the tenants in conversation whenever he heard the door open.

‘It’s postmarked Norfolk,’ Dave said. He waited, clearly hoping for some information in return.

Fen glanced at the scrawled address which looked as though it had been written in a hurry by someone who couldn’t give a toss whether the parcel arrived at its destination or not. She thought it odd to send it special delivery if they couldn’t even be bothered with a proper postcode. Then she realised that it was Pepper’s writing, which explained everything. Pepper’s life was one long impatient scrawl.

‘It’s from my sister,’ she said.

‘Lives there, does she?’ Dave’s eyebrows waggled with excitement.

‘No,’ Fen said. ‘She’s clearing out my grandmother’s cottage in Hunstanton. Gran died a couple of months ago.’

‘Condolences.’ Dave rubbed vigorously at an imaginary spot on the coloured tiles. ‘I hope she had a good innings?’

‘She did, thanks,’ Fen said. It was hard to speak about Sarah without feeling a multitude of emotions, of which grief and regret were very close to the top of the list. Everything had gone wrong with their relationship. When Fen had reached sixteen she had headed out into the world like a bird freed from a cage. She had only wanted a bit of breathing space after the claustrophobic years of caring for Sarah but no one had understood. Her family had thought she was an ingrate. Sarah wrote her vitriolic letters accusing her of wilful cruelty. Even Pepper had called her selfish.

‘Really, darling,’ her mother had said plaintively, from an archaeological dig in Greece, ‘you’re throwing away all your future chances without a decent education. No one who leaves school at sixteen has a hope in hell of making anything of themselves. And what about your grandmother? Who’s supposed to care for her now you’ve gone? I’ve had to call in an army of carers and that is so expensive!’

Fen had felt bad about that, abandoning Sarah to flea markets and the bottle, but it had felt as though something might snap in her head if she didn’t get out. Jessie, knowing something was wrong even though Fen hadn’t spilled the details, had tried to persuade her to go to stay with them so that she could carry on at school, but Fen had needed to get right away, put some distance between her and Swindon for a while. Kesia had a cousin in London and Fen had gone to stay with her, got a job as a waitress and moved from job to job, rented flat to rented flat, until she had met Jake, an importer of luxury goods, and he had helped her get work as a secretary. It wasn’t what she wanted to do for ever but she had only been twenty and she had thought there would be plenty of time to decide on a proper future, and whatever her mother thought, there were plenty of opportunities…

She picked up the parcel, which was much lighter than she had expected from its size, and carried it up the stairs at the rear of the hall. Muted summer sunshine fell on her from the fanlight high above her head, mingling with drifting shadow. She had never lived in an old house before but found it pleasantly cool in the heat of these July days. She had been surprised to find how much she liked the Georgian style of Villet House, with its panelled hall and carved oak stairs. Her flat was on the first floor; two bedrooms, a spacious living area with a big bow window to the street at the front, a tiny kitchen and bathroom and a view out across the car parks and rooftops behind. It wasn’t the most attractive view in the world but if she craned her neck she could see the green haze of the trees in the park, the spire of Christ Church and the rows of houses leading down the hill into Swindon New Town.

She put the parcel down on her dining table and went into the kitchen to pour a glass of water. She felt hot and sticky from the walk home even though the college was only five minutes away. Her hair smelt of diesel fumes from the buses and it felt as though there was a layer of summer dust overlaying her skin. She needed a shower.

Halfway down the hall she realised that she had forgotten to put the chain on the door. It shocked her to be so careless. Vigilance was a habit with her. She fumbled for the links with fingers that shook and slid it into place.

The cold shower restored some of her calm. She knew she had changed since leaving Jake; she was much more wary, less open with people and, no matter how she tried, the lurking sense of unease was never far away. People spoke of starting a new life as though it were fresh and exciting. What they didn’t realise was that you could not shake off the past. It was in your head, sometimes, even in the marks on your body.

It was too hot to eat. She was meeting some colleagues from work in the wine bar on Wood Street at eight and knew she should at least have a salad or something small before she had anything to drink. Not that she was likely to say something she shouldn’t but there was always a chance she might forget which story she was telling today, who she was… She never talked about her real past, not with those people who had not known her before. She did not know any of them well enough to trust them and she didn’t want to talk about it anyway; why rake it all up, dissect it again, see the shock and pity in people’s eyes? It had been hard enough with family and friends at the time:

‘But we all thought Jake was so charming,’ they had wailed as a chorus and the look in their eyes had so often suggested that she must have been at fault and that it was her judgement that in some way was suspect…

As she tossed some basil, mozzarella, sliced tomatoes and avocado into a bowl and sloshed in some olive oil, Fen caught sight of the parcel, still sitting on the table, waiting. She realised she didn’t want to open it. She had no idea what her sister could have sent her since Sarah had cut Fen out of her will and left most of her money to charity. Pepper had been furious at having the burden of sorting through all of Sarah’s accumulated stuff – trash, she had called it – when she wasn’t even getting much of a legacy for her trouble.

‘It’s all right for you,’ Pepper had said crossly. ‘If Gran hadn’t moved nearer to us, I wouldn’t have got lumbered with all of this.’

‘Hunstanton isn’t near Lincoln,’ Fen said.

‘Mother thinks it is,’ Pepper said bitterly. ‘She told me I was the one who was closest and I should do the house clearance. And I can’t just throw it all away, Fen. You know what Gran was like. There might actually be something valuable in amongst all the rubbish.’

‘Well, God forbid you should miss that and give it to charity by accident,’ Fen had said and Pepper had put the phone down on her. Happy families, Fen thought. With a sigh, she put the salad bowl down carefully on the counter, wiped her hands down her jeans, and went through the arch into the living room.

She needed scissors to open the parcel. Pepper had sealed it up so thoroughly that there seemed no way in. She inserted the blade beneath the brown sticky tape and cut into the cardboard. She felt a whisper of something soft and light against the blade and stopped immediately, feeling a flash of some emotion that felt oddly like panic.

The lid of the box lifted away to reveal layers of tissue paper with a neat cut sliced through them. On top was a piece of thick, cream-colour writing paper, folded in half, covered with Sarah’s imperious handwriting. It felt very odd to see it now, her grandmother speaking to her from beyond the grave when she had barely spoken to her at all in the last twelve years of her life.

Fenella,

This is yours. Do with it what you think best but be aware of the danger.

The note was unsigned.

Fen’s heart started to race. She knew at once what ‘this’ was.

Carefully, and with hands that shook, she unfolded the rustling layers of tissue paper. A faint smell came from the box – lavender, conjuring up the memory of her grandmother’s garden in the summer, the sun on hot stone, and mothballs, a pungent smell she had always hated. Her fingers brushed something soft and smooth, silk, aged and pale yet still retaining the shimmer of gold.

A sensation shot through her, recognition and dread and a strange sort of excitement.

The golden gown came free of its wrappings with a whisper of sound that was like the past stirring. It felt as though it sighed, shivering in Fen’s hands. Unconsciously, she held it close to her heart in exactly the same way she had done in her bedroom fourteen years before.

She had had no idea that her grandmother had known about the golden gown. When she had left Swindon she had abandoned it in the bottom of her wardrobe underneath her sports kit and her hockey stick. It felt like something she had outgrown along with her childhood. She needed to leave it behind and move on.

She wondered if Sarah had found the gown when she had packed up to move back to her native Norfolk. It was odd that she had said nothing at the time, but then they had not really been on speaking terms.

Fen picked up her grandmother’s note again, frowning a little.

This is yours. Do with it what you think best but be aware of the danger.

What on earth had Sarah meant by that?

Fen knew all about danger. She had an intimate, atavistic relationship with it that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. The memory of terror stalked her. She only needed to close her eyes to see each episode unfurl like a film reel. She would be running, tripping in her haste to escape, her heart pounding. Then Jake would catch her. She could feel his grip on her arm, the wrench of her bones as he hauled her back against him and held her close.

‘I love you,’ he had kept repeating, as though that were a charm that warded off all evil. ‘I love you so much. I will always love you.’

She never wanted to hear those words again.

She gave a violent shudder and came back to the room and the bright sunshine and the golden gown. How could it be dangerous? It was just a piece of old silk and lace.

Pepper had not bothered to enclose a covering note so there was no explanation. Nor was there anything else from Sarah, no words of endearment, no mention of any regrets her grandmother might have had about their estrangement. The initial breach between them had never healed and when Fen had divorced Jake the year before, it had worsened.

‘You always were selfish,’ her grandmother had snapped. ‘That poor boy. After all he’s been through! He stood by you. He didn’t press charges when he could have done. How could you do this to him, Fenella?’

‘You don’t understand,’ Fen had said. ‘It wasn’t like that.’ She had repeated the words so often but no one was listening. No one wanted to hear. Sarah had always liked Jake. Everyone did.

‘Darling,’ Fen’s mother had said vaguely from a research conference in Tanzania, ‘you know what Sarah’s like. She’ll fall out with someone else in the family soon and you’ll be reinstated.’ But it had never happened. The estrangement had frozen into a permanent separation and now Sarah was dead and the only word from her was the gown and a warning. Fen felt the familiar mixture of misery and frustration possess her. She had loved Sarah. She had wanted them to be reconciled. This gesture only made her feel worse, and she wondered whether Sarah had done it deliberately to upset and challenge her.

Her phone rang and Fen reached automatically to answer it.

‘Hey.’ It was Jessie’s voice, warm, happy and all loved up. Fen felt a stirring of envy. Jessie and Dev were the proof that not all relationships were waking nightmares.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘How was Paris? Did you have a good time?’

‘Lovely,’ Jessie said. ‘Crêpes and croissants in Montmartre, silhouettes down by the Seine, theatres, museums…’ She sounded dreamy. ‘What about you? How did it go in London?’

‘We missed you,’ Fen said truthfully, ‘but it was a nice evening.’ And I met your brother on the train home. She felt a pang of regret mingled with awkwardness. She had already decided not to tell Jessie about her encounter with Hamish. ‘Least said, soonest mended’ had been one of Sarah’s maxims, although in this particular instance, it was more a case of say nothing and hope for the best.

‘I heard you had fun,’ Jessie said. ‘Kes said it was just like the old days and that you looked amazing.’

‘I do still scrub up all right,’ Fen said lightly.

‘Come round for a cup of tea on Sunday and tell me all about it,’ Jessie said. ‘Dev’s away.’ Fen heard the tiny ripple of hesitation in her voice. All her closest friends were always ridiculously careful not to talk too much about their partners in front of her, after what had happened with Jake. Fen loved them for their thoughtfulness but wished they would treat her like a normal person.

‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘You can tell me about Paris; I’ve never been. So where’s Dev working this week?’

‘Sydney,’ Jessie said, ‘stopping off in Singapore on the way back.’

‘Tough job,’ Fen said. ‘Couldn’t you have gone there for your anniversary instead of Paris?’

‘I do have work of my own to do,’ Jessie said primly. ‘Never mind the cup of tea – come for lunch on Sunday. That’ll give us chance for a proper catch-up.’

‘Thanks,’ Fen said. ‘That will be lovely. I’ll see you then.’ She pressed the button to end the call and her phone pinged again with an incoming text. It was Lucie from work; they were already in the bar and thinking of moving out of town to a country pub as it was such a hot evening. Where was she?

Fen ate the tomato and mozzarella salad slowly, knowing they would wait for her. She made friends easily, always had. She’d only been back in Swindon for six months and yet already she was at the core of this particular group. She knew how to integrate. It was a talent she had learned young: to be all things to all people. Her work colleagues weren’t true friends in the sense that Jessie and Kesia were but they were good enough company.

She folded the golden gown up with the tissue paper and put it back in the box. The material felt a little stiff, as though movement were unfamiliar to it after so many years locked away.

Do with it what you think best…

The best thing to do would be to take the gown back to Lydiard Park. Fen hadn’t been to Lydiard for years but she assumed the museum was still there and she could stroll in and hand it over, explaining vaguely that she had found it amongst her grandmother’s effects and understood that it had some connection to the house. She didn’t need to tell anyone what had really happened all those years ago and that she had stolen it when she was a teenager.