But when I looked, the hiding space was empty, except for a half full bottle of whisky and an envelope with my name on it.
For a moment, I hoped it might be some final instructions from Nathaniel, sent from beyond the grave. But then I realised – the handwriting on the front wasn’t his.
It was Ellie’s.
I took the envelope and replaced it with my hurriedly sealed one. Then I stared at my name, written in Ellie’s neat, precise hand. Whatever it said…I wasn’t sure I was ready to read it. Not when we’d just managed to find our way to a sort of truce. I couldn’t do anything that might unsettle that, not now.
I pushed it back into the hidey-hole and replaced the floorboard. Straightening up, I put my hands on my hips and stared around the study. If the information I needed wasn’t there, then where was it? There was a journal or at least a diary with extensive notes for every single year since Nathaniel turned eighteen – except for 1968, the year he and Isabelle moved to Rosewood. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Had he destroyed it? Or had Isabelle found it?
And, most importantly, what did it say?
I crossed the room to the large, heavy oak bookcase, situated between the door and the comfy chair where Nathaniel liked to do his reading. Running my fingers across the spines of his novels, I stopped at Going Home, and pulled it out. It was the book I’d been reading, the day Nathaniel called and invited me home for the Golden Wedding. I flicked through the pages, soaking in my grandfather’s words once more, searching for…something.
Glancing at the clock, I knew it was past time for me to go to bed. But somehow, it seemed easier to curl up in Nathaniel’s comfy chair and lose myself in Agnes and Grace’s story again. If he hadn’t left the answers I needed in his journals, I couldn’t help but think Nathaniel might have left them in his fiction. He always claimed not to write about his life, but anyone who’d met him knew it wasn’t true. Every single word he wrote said something about him, his life, his beliefs and thoughts. And even if they didn’t solve the mystery of Matthew’s death, perhaps they could tell me something else – what he believed about me. What I needed to do next, what he wanted for me in this world, what my truths were, from the man who knew me best.
At that realisation, I paused, my finger on the page. I was reading the wrong book. Going Home had been published in 1980, ten years before I was even born. If I wanted the truth, I needed to read his last book. Nathaniel once told me that the completion of one book was what led him to start the next – that as soon as the last words were down, he realised what he should have been writing about all along, and that was what spurred him to begin a new book, to try and say all the things he’d failed to in the last one.
I needed the book he’d written just before he decided to write his memoirs. Somewhere in those pages there had to be an explanation, a reason for his decision to publish the family secrets now. Something that would help me decide whether to go ahead with the project.
Rushing back to the bookcase, I replaced Going Home and pulled out the newest, shiniest hardback on the shelf: On A Summer’s Night. The story of two sisters, stuck together in some crumbling seaside cottage, both in love with the same – married – man. The book had received middling reviews, I remembered vaguely. I’d only read it once, the day it came out, but it was too soon after leaving Rosewood, and too close to the bone, for me to take it in properly.
Now, I raced through the pages searching for something else – yet all I found was more of myself. The sisters weren’t me and Ellie, not really. But there were flickers of familiarity spread through the book, enough to prick my conscience and distract me from my search.
“What are you reading?” Edward’s voice from the door made me jump.
I held up the book. “Searching for the truth in fiction for a change.”
Edward perched on the arm of my chair. “You think the family secrets are in there?”
“Probably not,” I admitted. “But I think I’ve had enough secrets for one day, anyway.”
“How did it go with your mum?”
“Better than I’d expected.” I leant my head against his side, and felt the warmth of him through his shirt. In moments like this, the quiet, private ones, I knew exactly what I wanted for my future. The rest of the time…I couldn’t even admit that to myself. “She told us everything.”
“And?”
“Ellie is Dad’s daughter too,” I said. Then I remembered my promise. “But…we can’t include this story in the memoirs if we go ahead with them.”
He froze beside me. “Why? Because she’s ashamed? She shouldn’t be.”
I shook my head. “It’s not that. I think she’s honestly glad to have the truth out in the open.” Would it be that easy with Isabelle? Whatever her secret was, once it was out, would it all be over? “But she’s scared that her husband might come after her. Might sue, or try to discredit her – and the memoirs by association, I suppose.”
“He clearly wasn’t the most stable of men. I can understand why she’d be afraid. But Saskia…the truth is the truth. The past is a series of facts. We can’t pick and choose which ones we include.”
“I’m not going to do anything to put my mum at risk,” I said firmly, and he sighed.
“No, of course not. And I’d never want you to.”
“So we’re at an impasse?” Would all my relationships be like this from now on? A series of negotiations, truces and deals, that never let me truly relax?
“So we’ll wait and see what happens. Let me do some digging, before we make a final decision.” I didn’t know quite what that meant, but I was too tired to argue with him. Edward’s fingers stroked through my hair, soothing and making me sleepy. I yawned, and he plucked the book from my fingers. “Save the rest of this for tomorrow. Come on.”
Standing, he held out a hand to pull me to my feet. I took it, stumbling forward as I got up. Edward caught me, his arms around my waist in a moment, and suddenly I was pressed against him, so close I could feel his breath on my cheek.
“Kia…” he whispered, and I shook my head. I was done with words for today.
Stretching up on tiptoes, I pressed a kiss to his lips, long and soft. A promise, more than anything. And then I stepped back.
“Goodnight, Edward,” I said. And then, taking the book from his hand once more, I walked out and down the corridor to the Yellow Room, my heart singing the whole way.
I didn’t read any more that night, but I still managed to oversleep. In the end, I was woken up by my dad knocking on the door with a cup of tea for me.
“Your mum f
illed me in on last night,” he said, putting the mug on my bedside table, and perching on the edge of my bed. “I’m not surprised you’re all so tired.”
I gave a small smile. “It wasn’t quite how I was expecting my day to go when I woke up yesterday.”
“Well then,” Dad said, “who knows what might happen today.” He paused. “Are we okay? You have to know…we never wanted to lie to you. It just never seemed like quite the right time to tell.”
“I can understand that.” So many secrets, so many lies, at Rosewood. Would there ever be a good time to spill them all?
I placed my hand over Dad’s and squeezed. “We’re fine,” I assured him.
“I’m glad. Now, come down to breakfast when you’re ready. I’ve made chocolate croissants.” Then, with a kiss on the top of my head and a pat of my hand, he stood, and headed for the door.
“Dad?” I called after him, and he paused in the doorway. “Thank you. For everything. I hate to think… I’m just so glad Mum had you.”
“So am I,” he said, with a warm smile. “Besides, you’d all have starved if you’d been left to survive on your mother’s cooking.”
And then he was gone, before I could point out that without him, none of us would even exist. And Mum might have been trapped in a violent marriage for good.
I shuddered, and threw off the thought. I’d far rather think about last night’s kiss, or even the memoirs. But actually, I lay back against the pillow and contemplated what I wanted to do with my day. After chocolate croissants, obviously.
Firstly, I decided I wanted a day off. A week of wading through Nathaniel’s handwriting and inefficient filing was enough to make anyone need a break.
Secondly, I had something I wanted Edward to see. I’d shared it with Caro already, after all.