I worried, sometimes, that I’d inherited that trait, only without using it to write the kind of books that won awards.
Nathaniel flicked through the book with a chuckle. “Caro’s still a little young for some stories.”
Watching him reread his own words, I remembered something that had been bothering me. “Why didn’t you tell me that you had a new assistant?”
Nathaniel looked up. “Edward? Didn’t I?” He shrugged. “No idea. I suppose that I was always more interested in what you were up to, whenever you called.”
Which was very unlike my grandfather. Nathaniel always wanted to talk about the trials and tribulations of life at Rosewood; a new assistant would normally be prime fodder.
Suddenly, I wondered what other secrets he’d been keeping, what else I’d missed. Staying in touch with Rosewood only by phone or the odd email with Dad, I’d been left out of all the day-to-day events, the little things that tied the family together – and excluded me. I’d called home, once a week on a Sunday, and spoken with Mum and Dad, with Caro, and Therese, sometimes, if she was there. Occasionally I’d shared a few words with Isabelle, too, but not often. That, at least, made more sense now. Whatever Ellie had told her about what happened, it had been enough to dig a rift between me and my grandmother that couldn’t be crossed by phone.
I’d never spoken to Ellie, of course.
Nathaniel had tended to call me, erratically, as he thought of it. Sometimes we’d talk for hours, others just for a few moments. But I’d never felt that gulf between us that I’d felt with Isabelle, or even the slight distance that had grown between me and my parents, by virtue of the miles separating us, if nothing else. I’d thought my relationship with Nathaniel was unchanging and unchangeable.
But he hadn’t told me about Edward. Why? What else had he kept from me? What else had I been left out of, by being away?
And would I ever be able to catch up?
Nathaniel reached out and selected another of the storybooks he’d written for me – the one he’d presented to me on my tenth birthday, whispering in my ear that the Forest Maiden of the title was really me. I’d held that secret close to my heart all year, I remembered, waiting for my next story. They were all about me, really, I came to realise, much later.
“How many of these did I write for you?” he asked, flicking through the pages.
“One a year until my twenty-first birthday.” Just five years ago. At the bottom of the pile was the board book he’d created for my first birthday, full of brightly coloured pictures of things you might find around Rosewood, each with a little rhyme after them.
“I always hoped you’d start writing your own,” he said, still staring at the words on the page. “You had such an imagination… I always thought you’d be a writer.”
“I am,” I said, amazed. Even when I’d signed up for my creative writing course, he’d never said that it was a good idea, never asked to see my coursework.
“I suppose,” he said, putting down the book and picking up the next one in the pile. “But it’s not really using your imagination, is it.”
“You never said anything.” My throat was suddenly tight at the idea that I hadn’t lived up to my grandfather’s dreams for me, even if I hadn’t known what they were. “I never thought…”
He looked up at me then, and smiled, his pale blue eyes soft. “Well, you had to choose your own path, after all.” He dropped the book back onto the pile. “I always told myself that there was time. Plenty of time for you to find your own way.”
Creaking to his feet, he bent down and kissed the top of my head. “You’ll get there,” he whispered, before turning and leaving, pulling the door shut behind him as I sat and blinked away my tears.
I emerged from the attic at mid-morning, by which time the rest of the house was busy running errands for Isabelle. I, however, had more important things to attend to.
If I wanted to belong at Rosewood again, to be a part of family life once more, there was only one place for me to start: with my sister. I needed to know who knew our secrets, and who might forgive me, even if Ellie couldn’t. I needed to know if I really could come home again. Even if that answer hurt.
“Have you seen Ellie?” I asked Mum, when I stumbled across her tying ribbons on menus in the kitchen. She was dressed in a long, tie-dye skirt and bright pink T-shirt that contrasted starkly with the elegant cream and gold menus.
Mum looked up sharply. She might look the woo-woo hippy part, but when it mattered her edge was knife-keen. “I’m not sure now’s the right time, sweetheart. Your sister’s very busy today.”
“I just want to talk to her about something,” I said, wondering again how much everyone at Rosewood knew about the situation.
Mum sighed, a proper world-weary parental sigh. “Why don’t you and I have some tea, eh?” And, without waiting for a reply, she stood and crossed the kitchen, flicking the kettle switch and reaching for the cups and saucers. Resigned, I took a seat at the kitchen table and examined the menus.
“Kia,” she said, as we waited for the kettle to boil. Then she sighed, a sure sign we were getting to the important stuff. “I don’t know what happened between you and your sister, and I’m not sure that I really want to. I can make certain assumptions, and one of those is that Greg’s involved somehow.”
I sat very still, and very quiet, privately hoping that if I didn’t say anything, she might forget that I was there and wander off to annoy someone else.
But she went on. “Whatever happened, it was two years ago. And while I do sincerely hope that you and Ellie will make up, of course I do…”
“She’s not showing any signs of forgiveness,” I finished for her.
Mum sighed again. “Exactly.” Picking up a ginger cookie, she placed it on a saucer and put it in front of me. “And perhaps it’s not a good idea to force it. You know Ellie; she has to come to her own decisions, when she’s ready to make them. I think you have to let this happen in its own time.”
“You’re saying I just have to wait.” Which was pretty much the last thing I wanted to do. I’d let it fester for two years, after all. How much more time could I reasonably spend avoiding it?
The secret my sister and I were keeping had kept me away from my home, my family, for too long already.
“I think so, yes.” She leant forward and patted my hand, before pouring a splash of hot water into the pot to warm it. Her voice returned to its normal, bright and bubbly tone, as she said, “But that means you have time to tell me all about this Duncan, instead, doesn’t it?”
I mentally revised my list of ‘last things I want to do’ to include ‘discussing my casual lover with my mother.’
“Look, Mum, really, I get what you’re saying. But like you said, everyone’s very busy today – all hands on deck for the party, and all. And I did promise I’d help.” I shoved the ginger cookie in my mouth. “Thanks for the biscuit!” I said around it, and hurried back into the hallway and closed the door before she could object again. It was quite obvious that Mum was firmly on Ellie’s side – which wasn’t a surprise. That was the way it had always been: Mum and Ellie, me and Dad. Caro, on the other hand, was her own, complete, confident, perfect person with the loving support of all of us – the benefit of being the baby of the family.
I didn’t blame Mum for siding with Ellie. I just wished she understood that I was trying to make things better, not worse.
After some scouting around, I found Ellie in the Orangery, surrounded by sugared almonds and tiny cardboard handbags and top hats. She wore a dark pink skirt with a paler heart print all over, and a T-shirt in a matching rose shade. Her pale hands moved quickly, with efficient finesse, as she folded the table favours.
“Why don’t I help you with that?” I asked from the doorway. Ellie looked up, her heart-shaped face full of surprise that quickly turned to doubt. “It’ll be much quicker with two of us, and I’m sure you’ve got lots of other things to be getting on with.”
&nbs
p; Before she could object, I dropped into the wicker chair opposite her and prepared to assemble.
“You take handbags,” Ellie said pushing a pile towards me. She still looked suspicious, and she wouldn’t meet my eyes, letting her hair fall in her face instead. “I’ll take top hats.”
I waited until we’d reached some sort of a rhythm, until our hands were folding bags and hats on autopilot, and the stick-on ribbons were no longer sticking to everything but the favours, before I broached the subject I wanted to discuss. Even then, I thought it best to come at it from an angle.
“Why on earth does Isabelle want table favours, anyway?” I poured exactly four sugared almonds into my current cardboard handbag, folded the top to seal it, then reached for the tiny gold bow to stick on the top. “She does realise this isn’t an actual wedding, right?”
“Maybe she feels she missed out,” Ellie said, not looking up from her cream cardboard top hat. “You know, eloping and everything. She never got a proper wedding.”
“We didn’t have to go through all this for their ruby wedding,” I grumbled, as a sugared almond escaped my grasp and fell down the side of the seat cushions. I recovered it, and rubbed it against my jeans to get rid of the fluff, before dropping it into the bag. It wasn’t as though anyone actually ate the things, anyway.
“But fifty years, that’s really something.” Ellie added another perfect top hat to the box, and reached for the next one. “It makes sense that they want to celebrate.”
“I bet you and Greg will be doing this in forty-eight years’ time,” I said, trying to sound excited at the prospect. “The big party, I mean, here at Rosewood, with table favours and fruit cake.”