Constance stares at her dumbly. Percy looks from one sister to another, also speechless.
‘Do you mean that you tried to take your life?’
‘I did not see it that way, sister.’
‘What other way shall we see it, then?’ Percy asks with a raised voice.
‘I wanted to be with them, all of them.’ A tired sigh deflates her.
‘And what of us? What of me? Of Rafe? And Percy, and all the Fitzgeralds that are alive and well?’ Constance demands.
‘I am sorry. I was wrong and terribly selfish.’
In the silence that follows, Lawless House groans as if under the strain of Verity’s confession. The fire pops and the windows rattle against a wind that accosts an early winter night. Verity turns her chair to face them more directly.
‘There are unspeakable things that we must now face, sister,’ Verity says.
‘Perhaps I should leave you two to …’ Percy begins.
‘No, Percy. Please, stay. You must hear the rest. We need someone we can trust wholeheartedly,’
‘Who came to your rescue? How?’ Constance asks.
‘God,’ she answers.
‘God?’ Percy repeats, confused.
‘God lifted me from that blackness.’
Verity stands and continues, ‘I am in full possession of my senses. I will relate to you exactly what happened, the entire truth, and you may judge for yourselves.’
She tells them she should be dead, that no normal person could have survived the arms of the Thames twice. When she describes how long she was under water and how forcefully it overcame her, both of her listeners shrink with the horror of it and neither can repress their anguish.
‘So you see, it was, it is, a miracle. God has brought me back from the dead.’
Another silence.
Then Constance stands and retrieves one of Rafe’s halo paintings from where it hangs over the writing desk.
‘No, Verity. God has nothing to do with this. It is the boy.’
‘What?’ Verity and Percy ask in unison.
‘I never believed it until now. I am … I am terrified,’ Constance whispers.
‘Oh, sister. What are you thinking?’ Verity asks.
‘It is completely irrational, but it also makes sense in some bizarre way. Think of it. Why does Rafe need such stringent protection? Why is it that Clovis Fowler, her servant, and I assume, Mr Fowler and his apprentice have survived their ordeals? Especially Mr Fowler and his noose! And the long sleep, it is not a normal thing, Verity. It is to do with the boy. Think of the way in which Clovis Fowler interrogated me about Rafe’s fever. And Benedikt! There is a reason he devotes every hour to Rafe. Oh, heaven knows there are gaping holes and an immense number of unanswered questions, but …’
‘Wait, wait. Hold right there, Constance,’ Percy interrupts.
‘Percy, we must confide in you now. We have not told you the entire story. You must promise us that you will never betray us.’
‘Dear God, what have you done?’
‘Nothing. Not a thing, except loved a child as if he were our own.’
They speak late into the night. They weigh the fantastical against the practical. Verity makes her view clear that even if the miracle is down to Rafe, it is the will of God and His power that makes Rafe special. Constance is not as certain.
Percy is so shaken that they send him home to his worrying wife and sleeping children. But he goes solid, and forever loyal and protective of the sisters, as the Fitzgerald family has always vowed to be.
‘It is good that he knows. We will need him,’ Verity says.
Constance draws a sharp breath. ‘Did you think of me even once, Verity, before you threw yourself into the river? she asks.
‘I was possessed of an overpowering desire, Constance. If I allowed myself even a moment’s thought of you, I would not have been able to do it.’
Constance sighs. ‘It will take me some time to forgive you.’
‘I know.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
1846
Spring comes late this year. In March the temperature in Hyde Park drops to below freezing. The trees’ green-pointed buds are frozen beneath ice caplets. The haze over London is so dark and thick that travel is suddenly impossible. After the murk clears, heavy snow falls for two days, and after the snow comes a great frost. By the end of March, a bustling, wildly active scene is erected on the banks of the frozen Serpentine.
The lake area is noisy with barkers, music, sledges, children playing and drunks singing. Food is roasting and commerce is at its peak. Fires dot the area and offer warmth that many people cannot afford at home. Thousands of spectators marvel at the scene on the frozen Serpentine.
Chinese lanterns in red, blue, green and yellow throw splashes of vivid colour onto the ice. There are but a few short hours left of the daylight and this fact brings everyone onto the ice at once. The sisters had avoided the Serpentine entirely until Percy had persuaded them to join him, endeavouring to relieve them of their anxious fear of returning to the scene where the unthinkable had occurred.
Now that Percy is safely on his way home, the sisters are more relaxed in their wanderings. They stop for a piece of steaming gingerbread, not at all concerned that their gloves become sticky and soiled.
‘It seems all of London is here today,’ Constance says.
‘Oh sister, look who comes. It is too late to avoid him.’
‘Mrs Fitzgerald?’
Marland Unger’s ears are red-tipped from the cold, yet he perspires from a long skating session. A little breathless, his broad smile turns strange when he takes the sisters in at close range.
‘Marland, how well you look,’ Constance says.
But Marland cannot coax his smile back, try as he might to pluck it from wherever it hides.
‘The canals are frozen too are they not?’ Verity asks.
He stares at them unable to look away. The power of speech fails him.
‘I just remarked that it seems all of London is here today,’ Constance perseveres, clutching her lavender cape more tightly.
Marland tips the corner of his flat cap.
‘Good day to you both,’ he mumbles, and skates
