Soon, it was the summer, and the pages were filled with the move to Rosewood, the fresh start, away from London. And then, Isabelle’s plans for the party:
As if we haven’t had enough of the damn things in London. But if Isabelle wants a party…I imagine we shall be partying.
My hands shook as I turned the page, but even as my eyes scanned over the words, I knew something was wrong. This wasn’t the Nathaniel I’d grown used to reading through his diaries. It was as if it were written by another person. I blinked, and started again.
The day of the party arrived, and Isabelle spent all day preparing for it, while I was writing.
Why were those words familiar? Too familiar?
Suddenly, it came to me. Because this was the story Nathaniel had told me, the last time we had sat in this tree house together. This wasn’t a journal entry; it was a story. The words sounded wrong because this wasn’t Nathaniel, my grandfather, talking. This was Nathaniel Drury, celebrated author. This was fiction, not truth.
Or was it?
He must have been hiding the box up here when I found him, the day of the Golden Wedding. Perhaps he’d even been rereading the entry from the party, before the big announcement. That was why he’d chosen that story to tell me, and why the words were so familiar. I’d heard this story before.
But in the version Nathaniel had told me, Matthew was alone when he died. I had a feeling that might be different in these pages.
I read on, swallowing down my apprehension as he talked about the party, the guests, the booze, the outfits. Until finally, we approached the end, and the tone changed again.
And at that moment, the world split in two. What happened next could have been either of the following – or neither.
I blinked. What on earth did that mean?
It became clear soon enough – and I almost wished it hadn’t.
Perhaps I walked in on them: Therese’s beau and my wife, kissing. Perhaps the champagne and the fury got the better of me. Perhaps I pushed him, and laughed as I watched the blood spill from his skull, and the life leave him.
I shuddered at the image. The laughing, I was sure, was Nathaniel overdramatising, making a better story. But what about the first part? Had Isabelle been having an affair with Matthew? Had Nathaniel really discovered them, and pushed him?
I couldn’t be sure. Because directly below it, read:
Or…
Perhaps she did it. Perhaps he threatened to tell her husband, her sister-in-law, everyone. Perhaps the fear of scandal, of losing the life she’d grown accustomed to… Perhaps that was motive enough. Perhaps fear made her push him, made her gasp with horror the moment she realised what she’d done.
Either way, Matthew Robertson was still dead.
I sat back, staring blankly ahead at the wall of the tree house as I processed these new stories. Outside, the sun crept up over the woods, sending a shaft of light through the window. Edward would be awake soon. I didn’t have long to try and make sense of it all.
I had three versions of the story now: the one Nathaniel had told me himself, and the two in the journal. One with him as the murderer, one with Isabelle. Were any of them true? Was Nathaniel just telling a good story?
There was something about that last version, though. A memory. I’d heard it somewhere before. No, not heard. Read.
And suddenly I knew exactly where.
Switching off my torch, and tucking the journal into my pocket, I swung down onto the ladder and raced back for the house. I knew what I was looking for now. And I knew exactly what questions I needed to ask.
“Did you really sneak out of my bed this morning to read your grandfather’s book?” Edward leant against the door frame of the Yellow Room, and I looked up from the last page of On A Summer’s Night, tears in my eyes.
“I needed to finish it.” And now that I had, I was more sure than ever which version of the story was the truth.
I’d been wrong. The sisters in On A Summer’s Night weren’t ever Ellie and me. They were Therese and Isabelle. And that story – of two women fighting over the same man, until one of them pushed him to his death down a cliff face – that was what had made Nathaniel so determined to write his memoirs. Even if I still couldn’t be sure if he’d ever intended to include the truth about Matthew Robertson’s death in them. He’d never written it down before – except possibly as fiction.
“And now you have?” Edward raised an eyebrow, watching me with a cool gaze, and I knew he suspected already. “Have you suddenly learned the truth about whatever secrets your family are hiding?”
“It’s just a story,” I said, my mouth dry. If I was right – if Isabelle really had killed Matthew – I couldn’t let on. Nathaniel had never said for sure. There wasn’t a truth to include in the memoirs – yet. But once I knew…if Edward found out, he’d want to include it. “Just fiction.”
“Nathaniel always said there was truth in fiction. If you knew where to look.” Edward pulled something from his pocket, and my heart stopped for a moment. “I finally realised that there was one more place the missing information might be hiding,” he said, pulling the newspaper clippings I’d hidden so carefully under the floorboard from the envelope in his hand. “I remembered seeing Nathaniel emerge from under his desk with a bottle of whisky one night, when we’d been working late. No sign of the journal, but I did find these. And this.” He held up the clippings, then tossed the second envelope, the one with my name on it, onto the dressing table.
“What do they say?” I asked, hoping my nerves weren’t making my voice tremble too badly.
He met my gaze. “I think you know. Don’t you?”
I looked away. “Edward. I—”
“You found these clippings and realised that this could be a huge scandal. So you hid it from me. Right?”
“That’s not… Nathaniel told me a story. About a death here at Rosewood. But it was just a story. And I wanted to know for sure if it was true before I talked to you about it. That’s all.”
“Saskia.” Disappointment laced his words. “For once just be honest, with yourself, if no one else. No more stories. Just tell me the truth.”
“Fine! I knew that there had been a suspicious death here and I was afraid. Afraid that Nathaniel might know more about it than he should.”
“You were afraid Nathaniel killed the man. Why? Did Isabelle have an affair with him?”
“I…think so. But I don’t know for sure. And…I don’t think Nathaniel did it. Really, I don’t.” I looked up at him so he could see I was telling the truth. “I found the journal. Just this morning. See for yourself.” I handed it to him, open at the page with the two endings, and watched as his eyes scanned the text.
His mouth tightened as he closed the journal. “You think it’s just another story?”
“I don’t know what it is.” I took a breath. “But does it matter? Nathaniel never left any notes about the death, and he hid this journal somewhere you’d never find it – in the tree house. So why should we include it at all?”
“Because the death of Matthew Robertson is public record.”
He held up the newspaper clipping as evidence. “If we leave it out, we’re hiding something. We’re not telling the full story. We’re lying.”
“But we’re not! Nobody knows for sure what happened that night! We could just write that. Tell the story Nathaniel told me, where Matthew fell and died alone. Show the police report.”
“You’re doing it again.” Edward crossed the room, staring out of the window at the Rose Garden as he spoke. His words were measured, reasonable – but there was a tightness behind them that told me I’d stepped over some invisible line in his mind. “Rewriting events to suit your story. Ignoring the facts to tell the tale that makes you – or your family – look good.”
“That’s not fair. Why does everything have to be black and white with you? Truth or lie, and nothing in between?”
“Because it is!” Edward spun round from the window. “Whatever happened that night, it’s a fact. A truth. You can’t change that just because it doesn’t suit the story you want to tell. That’s not how biography works. And that’s exactly why you should have told me. This isn’t just your project – it’s ours. I’ve given up more than a year of my life for it. I deserved your honesty, not another story.”
“I would have told you!” I yelled back. Why was he being so unreasonable about this? “You just didn’t give me a chance.”
He shook his head. “It’s not just the memoirs, Saskia. I don’t want to live in a novelisation of my own life, written by you, to suit you. I’ve done that once already – lived with a woman who was the star of her own story, twisting facts and events to make herself the heroine, choosing true love over everything. I won’t do that again. My life is my autobiography, the way I’d write it – honest, unflinching, even when it hurts.”
“So what are you saying?” My skin felt too tight for my body, hot and uncomfortable. “That there’s no place for me in it?”
He met my gaze. “I’m saying that if you want to be a part of my life, you have to stop playing make-believe, Saskia. Especially with people’s hearts.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out another envelope, handing it to me. “The truth matters, Saskia. But it has to be the whole truth.”