“So Clive grew up in Oxley Manor?” Sara asked. “He was part of the family?”
“I guess,” Puck said. “He probably had a room somewhere but I don’t know where. At the top, maybe.”
“And Bertie pulled him out of university after just two years and he had to run this place?” Sara asked.
“How he must have hated seeing the others return on the weekends,” Kate said.
Puck shrugged. “I don’t know.” She looked up. “Back then I saw everything through the eyes of a child. All I knew was that Clive was a horrible man. I had to keep secrets from him, lie to him, trick him, sneak and spy, and—”
They were staring at her.
“I think you should tell us everything,” Sara said. “And in context.”
Puck took a moment to think. “What I remember is that the others would arrive on Friday and—” she smiled in memory “—things would begin to happen. But there was one weekend...” She stopped.
“Tell us about it,” Sara said.
“It was when I saw Sean in the cemetery. And that was the day when I saw inside this house for the first time. Afterward, it became my own secret hideout. Or I thought it was.”
“Nicky must have known you liked it because he willed the place to you,” Jack said.
“He did. I thought no one knew where I hid from them all. But maybe it was only my mother who didn’t know.” Puck smiled. “But then, she knew very little about anything.” She leaned back in her chair. “It was about... Yes, a year before they disappeared.”
Seven
OXLEY MANOR
AUTUMN 1993
Puck sat in the big Oxley Manor kitchen with her mother. At fourteen, she was tall and thin and did her best not to call attention to herself.
“Really,” Mrs. Aiken said in the tone of dissatisfaction she always used with her daughter. “Couldn’t you at least sit up straight? You are so much like your father! I keep telling you that you need to make yourself useful around here. If you only knew what was actually going on! I worry that I may not have a job for long. And what about you? You have no real purpose here. You’ll be the first one thrown out.” She sighed at the futility of what she was saying. “Do something.”
Puck had just finished chopping four huge onions and her eyes were red and burning. She felt no need to reply to something she’d heard many times.
“Go tell Nicky that lunch won’t ready be until one thirty. I hope he’s not upset by it being late.” By the time she finished, Mrs. Aiken’s voice was a purr. She adored Nicky. The son she’d never had.
Grateful to get out of the kitchen, Puck slid off the stool, went into the long hall, then up the old stairs toward the drawing room. When she heard music, she stopped and leaned against the wall to listen. Nicky was in there with his friend Byon, who was playing the piano. It was a tune she’d never heard before. Byon was a talented musician and a writer of very clever plays. He was oh so creative and everyone liked him. Well, maybe not everyone.
The music stopped.
“That was beautiful,” Nicky said. “I especially like the chorus. What about the lyrics?”
“Haven’t made them up yet,” Byon said. “What do you think they should be?”
“About love, of course. What else is there?”
“A contract?”
Nicky didn’t laugh. “You haven’t heard from them about your play?”
“Nothing,” Byon said. “I think I should write another one. Something lighter and easier.”
“But I like the other one,” Nicky said. “Lovers who never get together.”
“People want a happy ending.”
“That’s so plebeian,” Nicky said. “Not at all like real life.”