“There is nothing in any of these boxes that Isabelle could legitimately object to us publishing,” I said instead, shoving the last box file off my lap and onto the nearest stack. “We’ve been through every single one of them.” I couldn’t even find the journal for the year they moved to Rosewood.
Edward shut the door behind him, and came to perch on the edge of Nathaniel’s desk. “What do you mean? Nothing?”
“Just what I say,” I said, impatiently. “She was quizzing me at dinner. Trying to find out what we’d discovered. But there’s nothing here that would justify that sort of concern.”
“Then what is it that’s missing?” Edward asked thoughtfully. “I see what you mean.”
We contemplated the untidy stack of boxes in silence. In my hurry to find what I was looking for, I hadn’t been quite so careful about ordering and dating things as we’d been so far. In fact, I’d go as far as to say I’d just tossed everything on the floor.
“If we ask her directly, you know she won’t tell us.” After all, she wouldn’t have been so desperate to get into the study and hide or burn the evidence if she was going to just give it up to the first person who asked.
“We need someone else,” Edward suggested. “Someone else who knows what she’s afraid of.”
And all of a sudden, Therese’s irrational fear that Isabelle would throw her out, that her sister-in-law had never liked her anyway, came back to me.
“I might have an idea,” I said. “But I need to do it alone. And not tonight. In the morning.” Therese had always been more of a lark than a night owl. If I quizzed her now she might throw me out just for holding up her bedtime.
Edward raised an eyebrow. “And you’ll tell me whatever you find out?”
I bit my lip. Would I? Or would it depend on what I found out?
“Saskia…”
“This is my family, Edward,” I snapped. “Am I going to tell Edward Hollis, biographer, seeker of truths and uncoverer of scandals, every secret I find out about my family, no matter how damaging? I don’t know.”
His face froze, slipping into a stiff mask that gave away none of his feelings. “I thought you might tell me. Your friend. Your…whatever we are.”
I glanced away. I’d hurt him, and I hadn’t even meant to. It seemed I couldn’t stop doing that.
“Let me see what I can find out first?” I asked, aiming for a conciliatory tone. “Then we can talk. See if it changes my feelings about going ahead with the project.”
“You mean, if you don’t like the truth, you won’t go ahead with the memoirs?”
“I’ll tell you first,” I promised, even though I wasn’t completely sure if it was the truth or not. “We can talk about it.”
“And if whatever secret Isabelle is afraid of getting out is big enough, dangerous enough, what then?” I hesitated, unsure of my answer, until he continued impatiently. “Come on, Saskia. This is my life, my work too. I deserve to know what’s happening with it.”
“And as soon as I do, you will,” I told him. “But right now… I don’t even know what she’s hiding.”
“The truth,” Edward said bluntly. “And whatever that is…that’s what Nathaniel wanted in his memoirs.”
“Even if it hurts everyone?” I shook my head. “He wouldn’t do that. But…maybe we can come up with something. A way to publish the memoirs without hurting anyone…”
“You mean, lie.” Edward stared down at me, his eyes dark and shadowed. “Spin a nice story that keeps everyone happy. That’s not what I’m here to do, Saskia. I’m not going to rewrite history for you.”
Of course he wouldn’t. It was all black and white, truth or fiction with Edward. “I’m not asking you to.” But only because I knew he’d say no.
Edward sighed, and reached out a hand to me. “Come on. If it has to wait until morning, we might as well go to bed. We can’t decide anything until we know the truth.” One more night, and then I was going to have to face whatever it was that had happened here, forty-eight years ago. The night Matthew Robertson died.
I hesitated for a moment. “Go to bed as in…together, or alone?” There had been too many changes and tides in our relationship for me to be entirely sure.
The corners of Edward’s mouth twitched up into a small smile. “Together. If you want.”
“I want,” I assured him, nodding furiously. “I just wasn’t sure…”
“If I was mad at you? Maybe. But for some reason, I’d still rather have you with me than be apart.” His grin widened as he tugged me closer. “You’ve got under my skin, Saskia Ryan.”
I kissed him, hoping it covered the surge of relief I felt at his words.
I was already an outcast at Rosewood. I couldn’t bear to be an outcast to Edward, too.
Chapter Twelve
And at that moment, the world split in two. What happened next could have been either of the following – or neither.
From the journal of Nathaniel Drury, 1968
I’m not sure what woke me. It could have been the breeze from Edward’s open window, or the buzz of the insects in the night. It might have been Edward himself, shifting in the bed beside me, an unfamiliar presence. It could just have been sleeping in a new room, one I’d never slept in during all my long summers in Rosewood.
Or maybe it was the sudden realisation of what I’d really seen in the tree house that afternoon.
Either way, at four a.m. the next morning, I was wide awake. And I knew, with an unshakeable certainty, exactly where I had to go and what I’d find when I got there.
It was still dark, as I crept out from under the sheets, careful not to disturb Edward. I dressed quickly, silently, in yesterday’s clothes, then opened the bedroom door a millimetre at a time to stop it creaking. It shut behind me with a tiny click, and I waited a moment to listen for any movement inside. Nothing.
Letting out a long breath, I padded barefoot across the landing, down the stairs. Someone had left a light on in the kitchen, and the pale yellow glow echoed the moonlight still illuminating the world through the windows. Rosewood was eerie in the not quite darkness, but I knew my way so well I’d have made it without any light at all.
I paused in the kitchen to grab a torch from the drawer, shoved on some shoes and a jacket from by the back door, and headed out for the woods.
Climbing the ladder to the tree house with a torch in hand wasn’t the easiest, but I was motivated, and made it up without too much trouble. Inside, the scent of the wood mingled with the last, lingering traces of Nathaniel’s years of smoking up there. I shone the torchlight into the corner where I’d seen the box, relieved to see it exactly as we’d left it the previous afternoon. Caro obviously hadn’t had a chance to visit yesterday.
Kneeling, the wooden floor cold and hard through my jeans, I pulled the box into my lap. I’d been distracted yesterday, assuming it was Caroline’s, that she’d squirrelled away Nathaniel’s pipe along with some of her other treasures. But looking now, it was clear that this treasure trove belonged to Nathaniel himself – the pipe, the tiger’s eye that he’d carried as a good luck charm for years, a postcard of Dylan Thomas with a quote from Under Milk Wood, a scattering of yellow rose petals…and the notebook.
I lifted the palm-sized black notebook from the box, my heart racing as I opened the cover, hoping I knew what I was going to find. And I was right. There, on the front page, inked in perfect black penmanship, were the numbers I’d been searching for. 1968.
It was smaller than the other diaries and journals he’d left behind, or I’d have recognised it sooner. Of course, so would Edward, so perhaps it was best I hadn’t.
Here, in my hands, was the truth. The answer to all the questions I’d been asking. The secret Isabelle had been fighting so hard to protect.
I was almost too afraid to read it.
But I had to, and quick – before Edward woke and found me gone and started asking questions – or jumping to the right conclusions. So I settled down in the corner of th
e tree house, turned my torch onto the pages, and started to read.
I skimmed through the earlier months; I knew from the newspaper clipping that the party had happened in August, the same as the Golden Wedding. Still, I kept an eye out for Matthew’s name, pausing when it appeared in conjunction with a party in London in the spring – and a visit from Therese.
Therese seemed overly taken with a young nothing from one of the papers. Matthew something. Probably just looking for a new angle on the usual story: me.
It was comforting to see that Nathaniel’s narcissistic streak wasn’t something that had come later in life, anyway. I skipped forward a few pages, passing over ruminations on the book he’d been writing that, at any other time, would have fascinated me. I’d read them later. Right now, I needed facts.
Another visit from that Robertson fellow. Have made it clear to Therese that I Do Not Approve.