Violet meant when she spoke to Lady Clementine of ‘that despicable business’? Had people known? Had scandal erupted in Saffron twenty-two years ago when a local woman was sent from the manor in disgrace, pregnant by the son of her mistress?
But if so, why had Lady Violet welcomed me onto her staff? Surely I’d have served as unwelcome reminder of what had gone before?
Unless my employment was some sort of recompense. The price for Mother’s silence. Was that why Mother had been so sure, so certain, a position would be found for me at Riverton?
And then, quite simply, I knew. The fish swam into full sunlight, its scales glistening brightly. How had I not seen it before? Mother’s bitterness, Mr Frederick’s failure ever to remarry. It all made sense. He had loved Mother too. That’s why he had come to the funeral. That’s why he watched me so strangely: as if he’d seen a ghost. Had been glad to lose me from Riverton, had told Hannah he didn’t need me there.
‘Gracie, I wonder…’ Alfred took my hand.
Hannah. I was struck again by realisation.
I gasped. It explained so much: the feeling of solidarity-sisterly, surely?-we shared.
Alfred’s hands tightened on mine, stopped me from falling. ‘There now, Gracie,’ he said, smiling nervously. ‘Don’t go getting faint on me.’
My legs buckled: I felt as if I’d broken into a million tiny particles, was falling like sand from a bucket.
Did Hannah know? Was that why she’d insisted I accompany her to London? Had turned to me when she felt deserted on all other fronts? Had begged me never to leave her? Had made me promise?
‘Grace?’ said Alfred, arm supporting me. ‘Are you all right?’
I nodded, tried to speak. Couldn’t.
‘Good,’ said Alfred. ‘Because I haven’t said all I mean to quite yet. Though I have a feeling you’ve guessed.’
Guessed? About Mother and Frederick? About Hannah? No: Alfred had been talking. What about? His new business, his friend from the war…
‘Gracie,’ said Alfred, bringing my hands together between us. He smiled at me, swallowed. ‘Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’
A flash of consciousness. I blinked. Couldn’t answer. Thoughts, feelings, rushed through me. Alfred had asked me to marry him. Alfred, who I adored, was standing before me, face frozen in the previous moment, waiting for me to answer. My tongue formed words but my lips would not oblige.
‘Grace?’ said Alfred, eyes wide with apprehension.
I felt myself smile, heard myself begin to laugh. I couldn’t seem to stop. I was weeping too, cold, damp tears on my cheeks. It was hysteria, I suppose: so much had happened in the past few moments, too much to take in. The shock of realising my relationship to Mr Frederick, to Hannah. The surprise and delight of Alfred’s proposal.
‘Gracie?’ Alfred was watching me uncertainly. ‘Does that mean you’d like to? To marry me, I mean?’
To marry him. Me. It was my secret dream, yet now it was happening I found myself hopelessly unprepared. I had long since put such fancy down to youth. Stopped imagining it might ever really come about. That anyone would ask me. That Alfred would ask me.
Somehow, I nodded, managed to stop myself from laughing. Heard myself say: ‘Yes.’ Little more than a whisper. I closed my eyes, my head swirled. A little louder: ‘Yes.’
Alfred whooped and I opened my eyes. He was grinning, relief seeming to lighten him. A man and woman walking down the other street turned to look at us and Alfred called out to them, ‘She said yes!’ And then he turned back to me, rubbed his lips together, trying to stop smiling so that he could speak. He gripped my upper arms. He was trembling. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’
I nodded again, smiled. So much was happening.
‘Grace,’ he said softly. ‘I was wondering… Would it be all right for me to kiss you?’
I must have said yes for next I knew he had lifted a hand to support my head, leaned toward me, made contact. The strange, pleasant foreignness of Alfred’s lips on mine. Cold, soft, secret.
Time seemed to slow.
He withdrew. Grinned at me, so young, so fine-looking in the deep twilight.
Then he linked his arm through mine, the first time he had ever done so, and we started down the street. We didn’t speak, just walked silently, together. Where his arm crossed mine, pressed the cotton of my shirt against my skin, I shivered. Its warmth, its weight, a promise.
Alfred stroked my wrist with his gloved fingers and I thrilled. My senses were acute: as if someone had removed a layer of skin, enabling me to feel more deeply, more freely. I leaned a little closer. To think that in the space of a day so much had changed. I had gleaned Mother’s secret, realised the nature of my bond to Hannah, Alfred had asked me to marry him. I almost told him then, my deductions about Mother and Mr Frederick, but the words died on my lips. There would be plenty of time later. The idea was still so new: I wanted to savour Mother’s secret a little longer. And I wanted to savour my own happiness. So I remained silent and we continued to walk, arms linked, down Mother’s street.
Precious, perfect moments that I have replayed countless times throughout my life. Sometimes, in my mind, we reach the house. We go inside and drink a toast to our health, are married soon after. And we live happily the rest of our days until we both reach a great age.
But that is not what happened, as well you know.
Rewind. Replay. We were halfway along the street, outside Mr Connelly’s house-maudlin Irish flute music on the breeze-when Alfred said, ‘You can give notice as soon as you get back to London.’
I glanced sharply at him. ‘Notice?’
‘To Mrs Luxton.’ He smiled at me. ‘You won’t need to be dressing her any longer once we’re married. We’ll move to Ipswich straight after. You can work with me, if you like. On the books. Or you could take in stitching, if you prefer?’
Give notice? Leave Hannah? ‘But Alfred,’ I said simply, ‘I can’t leave my position.’
‘Of course you can,’ he said. Bemusement tugged at his smile. ‘I am.’
‘But it’s different…’ I grasped at words of explanation, words that would make him understand. ‘I’m a lady’s maid. Hannah needs me.’
‘She doesn’t need
I wanted to explain to him. That Hannah would find another maid, certainly, but that I was more than a maid. That we were bonded. Tied. Since the day in the nursery when we were both fourteen, when I’d wondered what it might be like to have a sister. When I’d lied to Miss Prince for Hannah, so instinctively it had frightened me.
That I had made her a promise. When she begged me not to leave I’d given her my word.
That we were sisters. Secret sisters.
‘Besides,’ he said. ‘We’ll be living in Ipswich. You can hardly keep up work in London, can you?’ He patted my arm good-naturedly.
