A Place of Secrets (8 page)

Why do we always argue about something? Jude thought, bemused. How did we get onto politics? She sighed and changed tack.

“Going back to the folly. Has Gran ever talked about it to you?”

“No, why? What did she say to you?”

“Something about someone she met in the forest there as a child.”

Claire tasted the risotto, frowned,
and added a dollop of butter. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“Where’s the gamekeeper’s cottage? Any idea?”

“That? You must have passed it on the road from the Hall. On the left just before you go up the hill. I know who lives there. It’s Euan, actually, the man who made those pictures.”

“The house at the bottom of the hill.” That was what the man by the folly said. Well, there could be
other houses, but she hadn’t noticed any. “That might have been him I met,” she said. “Euan. I think he was the man at the folly. Big? Curly dark hair. Quite suntanned.”

“It sounds like Euan,” went on Claire, regarding her sister with a watchful expression.

“But he’s not the landowner, is he? The man who made the doll’s house? Really?”

“I don’t know what land he owns, but it’s definitely Euan
who lives in Gamekeeper’s Cottage, and he definitely looks how you’ve described. He’s become great friends with Summer. He came to the shop with the pictures at half-term, when Summer happened to be there. He had Darcey with him. She’s in Summer’s class. Summer’s been over to play there. And once he took them out for the day. I invited him around here for supper to say thank you, and then last
week he turned up out of the blue with the doll’s house. He had made one for Darcey apparently, and Summer was cheeky enough to ask for one, too. You know how persuasive she can be. He’s a really nice guy.”

“Is he?” Jude said doubtfully, thinking of her argument with him.

“Yes. He probably didn’t like you accusing him of stuff.”

“I did have a reason … I was shocked, that’s all. Oh hell, have
I made a fool of myself?”

“I expect he’ll forgive you.”

Claire seemed very supportive of Euan. Jude smiled and said, “So, married, is he?”

“No, divorced, I think. But don’t go thinking anything,” Claire said, prickly as a chestnut burr. Close as one, too.

Jude put up her hands in mock defense. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said.

* * *

It was a long time since there had been a man in
Claire’s life. “I’m too independent. I frighten them off,” she’d confessed a year or two ago after a couple of glasses of wine. Her relationships had often been short and fiery. Jude had seen her go in too deep, too quickly with a man and then, before you knew it, she would be practically throwing saucepans at him, and he’d be on his way. In all honesty, no one knew who Summer’s father was. Claire
had always refused to tell.

“That pop singer she met at the arts center,” was their mother’s belief, though Claire had never admitted it, but Jude thought she could be right. Jon, was his name. He’d had a mop of curly yellow hair and Summer’s large, dreamy blue eyes. Claire brought him to Christmas lunch at their mother’s because he’d fallen out with his dad. It was the first Christmas since
the girls’ father had died, and they were finding it difficult enough to be jolly as it was. Jon had arrived late and Claire hardly spoke to him the whole time; he kept going outside to smoke odd-smelling roll-ups and then he’d left early. “Without even saying a proper thank you,” Valerie whispered angrily to Jude and Mark that evening over the washing-up. Valerie and Claire had a row about it and
Claire had stomped up to bed and slammed the door, as she used to when she was fifteen. “You can never say anything to her without her flying off the handle,” Valerie said bitterly.

After that Christmas, Jon made no further appearance, and a few weeks later, when Jude rang her sister and asked tentatively about him she said, “Oh, him,” dismissively. It was a couple of months after this that she
announced with a kind of grim delight that she was pregnant.

Having Summer made Claire suddenly grow up.

“How do you think Summer is?” Claire asked her now as she placed plates in the oven to warm. Jude couldn’t see her face, but she heard a note of anxiety under her casual tone. She didn’t think it an overstatement to say that Claire would die for Summer.

Once the baby came, it was plain to
all that Claire had discovered a purpose in life. She’d given up her job at the vintage-clothes stall on the market and started up her own business with her friend Linda; she had saved for a deposit and bought this dear little house, which she’d decorated so beautifully. “Summer seems her usual happy self to me,” Jude replied.

“She is, most of the time,” Claire said, opening the fridge. “That’s
what’s so strange. If the bad dreams are because of stress, then she certainly doesn’t show it in other ways.”

“When did the dreams start?” Jude asked.

“About a month ago,” Claire explained. “At half-term. Not every night. About one in three, though.”

“Do you know, they sound rather like the ones I used to have when I was little.”

“Really? I’d almost forgotten about those,” her sister said.
“That’s why I asked to move into my own bedroom. You, moaning and groaning in your sleep. When did they stop?”

Jude shrugged. “I don’t remember. I suppose I grew out of them.” She didn’t mention the one she’d had recently; it seemed to be a one-off.

“Perhaps it’s a normal phase with Summer, then.”

The thought seemed to reassure Claire.

“Will you allow me to lay the table?” asked Jude.

“Yes,
of course. There’s a cloth in the top drawer. Pass me that bowl of broccoli, will you? Can you call Summer?”

* * *

“Mum rang last night,” Claire said, when they sat down to eat. “Finally. It’s incredibly hot out there, apparently. I mean really hot, nearly a hundred. The air-conditioning isn’t working and the builders have bungled the plumbing, so they’re staying with friends while Douglas
sorts it out.”

“Poor Mum,” said Jude.

“Lucky Mum,” Claire replied sardonically. “Remember, she has good old Douglas.”

Jude grinned. After years of helpless widowhood, their mother took up Latin American dancing and met a new life partner. Douglas Hopkirk, retired actuary, was in some ways like their father—calm, practical, reassuring. “But he’s so dull,” Jude remembered Claire complaining to
her after they’d first been introduced to him. “Nobody these days dresses like David Niven or says ‘Righto’ and drinks Cinzano. No wonder his wife went off.”

“After thirty years of marriage,” Jude had replied. “He must have had something going for him. He’s very nice, actually. As long as you don’t ask him about golf. He can bore for England about handicaps.”

“Or his tortoises. He went on to
me half the evening about his wretched tortoises,” Claire had added with feeling.

“What have they done with the tortoises?” Jude wondered now. “Can you take them on a plane?”

“They’re with his daughter, but he’s planning to get them to Spain somehow and breed from them. I already know more than anyone would ever want to know about their mating habits, thank you.”

“What do the tortoises do?”
asked Summer, who’d been picking the mushrooms out of her risotto and piling them on a spare tablespoon.

“They, er, have to try quite hard to make baby tortoises,” Jude said quickly.

“Harder than people?”

“Sometimes it’s hard with people,” she said, with feeling.

“Auntie Jude, if you want a baby you need a man to be a daddy.” Summer was too young to remember Mark.

“Eat up your risotto, Summer,”
Claire murmured.

“Yes, I do, Summer. But it’s not that easy finding one,” Jude replied.

Summer regarded her with a serious expression, then said, “I wish I could find one for you.”

“Thank you. That’s very sweet.” Jude and Claire exchanged glances of suppressed amusement.

Claire, gathering up the plates, remarked to her daughter, “If you develop a matchmaking talent, sweetheart, you’ll always
be able to earn your living.”

* * *

After supper Jude spent an hour on her laptop, studying the depressing monthly figures Inigo had e-mailed her and writing reassuring messages to the head of department. She promised to come into the office early on Monday and explained excitedly about the Starbrough collection.

When she’d finished, which she reckoned would be early afternoon, since it
would be Saturday and Claire would be at the shop, she’d collect Summer from her friend’s house and take her somewhere. The beach was the most popular idea, if the weather held.

She was just about to close down her laptop when she remembered Cecelia, whose help she needed with the astronomical instruments. She found the address and opened a new e-mail.

Hi, Cecelia,

I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch. I wonder where you are now—Cambridge, still? It would be great to meet and catch up, but I also need to ask your professional advice. When would be a good time? I’m going on holiday at the end of next week, but if there’s the tiniest chance you’re about before then that would be fantastic. Dinner one evening or a drink?

Much love,

Jude

Jude awoke, disoriented, in pitch darkness. The
moaning that had woken her came again. Summer. Jude pushed herself up dizzily from the mattress and stumbled over in the direction of the noise. Now she could pick out her niece’s face in the moonlight that leached under the curtains. Summer’s eyes were closed but her expression was anguished. “
Maman, Maman
,” she whispered, “where are you?
Maman!”
The last word was louder. She stirred and woke
with a cry.

Jude sat on the edge of the bed, stroking Summer’s hair and whispering, “It’s all right, it’s all right, darling. It’s only a dream. You’re all right. Auntie Jude’s here.”

“Mummy,” Summer cried out. “Mummy.” Her face was pale and clammy.

“Mummy’s asleep, darling.”

“No, I’m here,” whispered Claire, pushing open the door. Light from the landing fell across Summer’s bed. Jude stood
out of the way, feeling rather unnecessary as Claire comforted her daughter.

“I was frightened, Mummy. You weren’t there. I couldn’t find you,” the little girl sobbed.

“Don’t worry, darling. You’re awake now and I’m here. It was just a nasty old dream. It’s gone now.”

After a while Summer grew peaceful and her eyelids fluttered and closed.

The women watched her for a while, then Claire pulled
the duvet around her daughter and stood up.

“I’d take her into my own bed,” she whispered to Jude, “but then neither of us sleeps. She’s awfully wriggly.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” promised Jude and they both went back to bed.

Jude lay awake for what seemed like hours. It was the same dream that she’d had, she was sure of it. Her heart quickened as she remembered. “
Maman!
”
Maman
, the French
word. Running in the dark, tripping and falling into leaf mold, bruised, terrified, alone. Often as a child she’d woken to find her father there—not her mother—and was relieved to feel his comforting arms around her before he settled her down to sleep once more. Poor Summer. What could have set this off? Could a dream run in a family? It seemed unlikely, but what other explanation could there be?

She lay listening to Summer’s gentle breathing, worrying and worrying, until the first birds began to sing and she finally drifted back into sleep.

The next morning, when Jude turned into the drive to Starbrough Hall, she found herself following a Mercedes sports car that flashed silver in the sun. She parked next to it on the forecourt just as an elegant blonde woman got out of the driver’s side. Could this be Alexia, Robert’s wife? she wondered as she locked her car door, but a quick glance revealed the inside of the Mercedes
to be pristine and there were no child seats. The woman said a cool “Hi” and they agreed that it was another beautiful day. She didn’t seem to know about the front door not being used, and Jude, though not confident of the way herself, suggested she follow her under the arch.

Jude knew most of the personnel at Christie’s and Sotheby’s, and she certainly didn’t recognize this ice maiden, but she
couldn’t stop herself checking. “Excuse me asking, but you’ve not come to look at the library, have you?” She was profoundly relieved when the woman looked puzzled.

“The library? Why?” She didn’t volunteer the nature of her business so Jude didn’t elaborate.

“Never mind. Just an idea I had.”

Jude knocked on the back door. When Robert opened it the two setters bounced out, barking enthusiastically.
Jude petted them, but the other woman backed away in alarm, so he called the animals in and shut them in a utility room.

“Come in, ladies.” He introduced Jude to the other woman, Marcia Vane, rather stiffly, then led them through to the hall. There he showed Marcia into what looked like an office and suggested Jude make her way along to the library.

“My mother’s waiting for you there,” he said.
“I’m so sorry to be tied up again. Ms. Vane rang half an hour ago and asked if she could call in.”

“That’s fine,” said Jude, “honestly,” and she walked into the library, pleased to find Chantal pouring coffee. She felt she needed a gallon after her broken night. This morning Claire had studied her daughter anxiously, but Summer had seemed her usual cheerful self, busy packing a pink rucksack
with fashion-doll paraphernalia to take to her friend’s house.

“What excellent timing,” Chantal said warmly. “I’m so sorry that it’s just me again.”

“Oh that’s really all right,” said Jude. “I’m used to being left on my own altogether, so I’m very lucky that you’re looking after me so well.”

“That wretched woman. Nine o’clock on a Saturday morning. Does she have no life of her own?”

“Pardon
me?”

“That Marcia person.”

“Who is she?”

“John Farrell’s lawyer—the man who’s bought the woodland.”

“John. His name’s John?” Definitely not Euan, then. So what was Euan doing up at the folly? Trespassing like herself, possibly.