ambled quite companionably through the long grass that was alive with the buzzing of bees and chirping of crickets, until the river flowed before us.
‘It is so good to see you again, Stella,’ Gerald said, glancing down at me. ‘In a strange way, it seems like only yesterday.’
I smiled, plucking a stem of grass for want of something to do with my trembling hands. I knew exactly what he meant. In just a few hours, the years had fallen away, until only that easy familiarity we enjoyed as children remained. It set my heart beating a little faster.
‘Did you see that?’ he exclaimed. Seeing my puzzlement, he grabbed my hand and led me closer to the river edge. ‘Look! There!’
I followed his finger just in time to see a bolt of blue shoot into the brown depths, only to appear again seconds later.
‘A kingfisher!’ I declared with delight. ‘Why, I don’t think I’ve ever seen one before!’
The plump bird rested on a low hanging branch, preening.
We sank down to a crouch to observe it. I was somewhat distracted by how natural it was, for my hand to be in his, and by how comfortable it felt to be beside him once again.
‘It’s reputed to be the first bird to have flown from Noah’s Ark.’ He kept his voice low, eager not to disturb the exquisite creature. ‘Myth has it, it got its colouring that day, from the blue sky on its back, and the orange setting sun on its breast. Its Greek name is halcyon. They see it as a symbol of peace and prosperity … and love.’ He looked at me and smiled.
‘It’s beautiful.’
We both gasped as in a flash of colour, the little bird was gone, darting off down the river. We rose from our haunches. Gerald’s hand continued to clasp mine.
‘I’m glad we saw it together,’ he said.
‘Oh, here you are. Fancy abandoning me in this heat!’
We swiftly dropped hands and turned to see Aunt Irene standing a little way behind us, cooling herself with a lace fan. ‘Sadly, my dears, I think it is time to draw this blissful day to an end, if I am to get Stella back to her parents as promised. Do come and help me pack the picnic basket. I think there’s a drop of wine left in one of the bottles – it would be such a shame to waste it.’
With faces flushed from more than just the heat of the day, Gerald and I led the way back to the picnic blanket. My heart felt heavy at the prospect of our imminent separation. Aunt Irene, in contrast, seemed more gay than ever, as she directed our clearing up, a sly smile creeping across her lips and her sharp eyes observing our every interaction.
It wasn’t long before we were back at the car, with the basket stowed and us saying our farewells. Aunt Irene kissed her godson fondly and promised to visit again soon, before ducking into the back seat, leaving me on the pavement, waiting to say goodbye. I was rather thrilled when Gerald bent to kiss my cheek, catching my fingers in his hand as he did so.
‘May I be terribly forward and ask whether I might write to you?’ he said.
My heart seemed to explode as I tried to control the unladylike grin that burst across my face.
‘Oh! I would like that very much.’
His return smile was instant. He squeezed my fingers. ‘Good. I think we have a lot of lost time to make up for.’
I felt six inches taller as I climbed into the back seat next to my godmother. We both turned to wave out of the rear window as the car pulled away and as Aunt Irene settled back for the journey home, she made no attempt to hide her approving smile, nor her brief nod of satisfaction, as her eyes twinkled with glee.
‘Halcyon days indeed.’ I withdrew my fingers from the glass, my heart aching. Halcyon days the like of which I would never enjoy again. My throat burnt with contained tears as I bit my lip and turned away from the kingfisher, silently cursing him for his betrayal.
I was shaking by the time I slid back into my chair, battling to control the unruly sway of my emotions. I snatched up my pen, determined to divert myself with industry, and quickly dashed off a greeting to a Sister I had worked with in France. I paused, my nib resting on the paper, as I remembered how kind she had been on that awful final day. My grip tightened on the pen. I was barely aware of the force I was exerting, when the fine tip broke under the pressure.
‘Oh Stella! How careless of you!’ Madeleine chided, having heard the snap of the metal, but her tone changed in an instant as she looked up to see my mounting distress. ‘Stella? What is it?’
I shook my head, breathing deeply to suppress a deluge of tears. ‘I’m sorry … I’m being silly … lost in unhelpful thoughts.’
‘Oh Stella …’ Madeleine rested her hand on my arm.
I patted it reassuringly before clearing my throat. ‘Well, that was rather silly of me. Where might I find a new nib?’
Clearly sensing my desire to move on, Madeleine got up in pursuit of a replacement. She rifled through a set of desk drawers, and the writing box on the window sill, but without reward.
‘I do know that mother-in-law has spare nibs in her bureau in the morning room – shall I go and look for you?’ she asked.
Keen to have a moment to myself, I assured her I was happy to go. She told me where they were to be found and with a concerned smile, sent me on my way. I closed the door behind me and paused while I afforded myself time to come to terms with the past. Only when my doldrums were banished, and I felt sufficiently restored, did I set off towards the morning room, ready to face the world once again.
I knocked lightly when I reached the door. On receiving no answer, I gingerly turned the brass handle. I was most relieved to find the room unoccupied.
I had seen it only once before, little more than a cursory glance on Madeleine’s whistle-stop tour that first day. In stark contrast to the rest of Greyswick, it was a pretty room, painted a vibrant buttercup yellow, and was perfectly positioned to enjoy the sun which streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows now the storm had abated. Great cut-glass bowls of pot pourri embellished the other window sills, leaving the hint of a faded summer in the air. The armchairs cosily arranged around the fireplace were covered in chintz, and the shelf of the mantelpiece was draped in velvet as if from a bygone era, and it crossed my mind that the décor may have been unchanged since Lady Brightwell first took occupancy of the house.
I took a moment to examine the abundance of silver picture frames placed about the room. They contained sepia images of largely unfamiliar faces, though some bore sufficient resemblance to Lady Brightwell to suggest a familial connection. There were some pleasantly candid photographs of Hector and Madeleine, as well as the lady herself – there was even a rather charming one of Miss Scott – but I noted with some curiosity there were none of Sir Arthur. He didn’t even figure in the ensemble shots taken at house parties and Christmases past. It smacked of a purposeful omission, as if a concerted attempt had been made to erase his presence, but before I could ponder further on this apparent slight, I found myself drawn to the commanding painting that hung above the mantelpiece.
It was a stunning portrait, skilfully done, and though the years may have aged her, it was instantly recognisable as a young Lady Brightwell.
She was standing in profile at a large fireplace, the fingertips of her right hand just visible as they rested on the broad marble mantel. There was a gilt-framed mirror hanging above it, and though the suggestion was a desire to see her reflection had brought her to that spot, her face was angled away from the glass – Lady Brightwell herself was looking directly at the artist. She was dressed in an exquisite red evening gown, the sharp lines of her shoulder blades just visible above the buttoned back that clung to her torso, pulling into a minuscule waist before rucking up in elaborate folds over a bustle and tumbling in waves to pool on the floor. Her chestnut brown hair, threaded with strands of gold, had been gathered up with diamond-headed pins until it overflowed, covering her neck with a cascade of curls. But it was the expression