Book People

Chapter Seventeen

I am sorry, darling H. I cannot come tomorrow. Perhaps another day?

C

KATE

Sebastian is waiting for me outside the door of Wychtree Crafts the next day. I’ve been successfully not thinking of him all day and his presence makes my traitorous little heart leap inside my chest.

I feel as if I’m always cataloguing what he’s wearing, but I can’t help it. I notice these things. Today he’s in a plain white shirt and plain black trousers. He should look like a waiter or something, but he doesn’t. He’s ascetic as a monk and it suits him. There’s nothing to distract from his perfect bone structure and the white makes his eyes glow blue as cornflowers.

My God. I’m sixteen again and mooning over the captain of the school rugby team. It’s ridiculous and I need to stop.

I smile at him, bright and unbothered. ‘Hi,’ I say.

He nods. ‘Miss Jones.’

Miss Jones. What crap. I want to tell him he can call me Kate, the world won’t blow up or anything, but I can’t be bothered having that discussion today. Not when I’m about to meet someone who might have known my grandmother, so all I do is gesture at the door. ‘Shall we?’

He pushes it open for me and I step inside.

It’s a homey, cosy little shop. Full of hand-knitted jumpers, baby blankets, quilts of all shapes and sizes, pottery, carvings, rugs, assorted souvenirs and a small case of locally made jewellery.

Mrs Bennet presides behind the counter and she’s chatting to a customer as Sebastian follows me inside and the door closes. This current awkwardness in front of someone else from the village is too much for me, so I ignore him and wander amongst the shelves while we wait for her customer to leave.

It’s especially awkward after Aisling texted me this morning, informing me that Sebastian had been seen leaving my shop in the early hours of the morning a few days earlier and that now the village is rife with rumour.

In fact, I thought I caught a gleam in Mrs Abbot’s eye this morning when she came in to view the latest romance titles, not to mention some significant side-eye from the mums’ morning tea group this morning.

Gossip doesn’t bother me, as a rule, and I don’t particularly care that someone saw Sebastian – they can think what they like. But Sebastian will care, I already know that. It’s not fair, since he was the one who started it with that kiss, but still. He’s lived here his whole life and he’s already done his utmost to distance himself from the village. Gossip will make him want to put even more distance between himself and everyone else now.

The customer leaves and Sebastian approaches the counter, so I gird my loins and follow him.

Mrs Bennet is in her late seventies, still sharp as a tack, and her eyesight’s perfect – which is why she reigns supreme re the dartboard. Her iron-grey hair is cut in a severe bob, she wears bright red lipstick, and her nails have the most beautiful French manicure. She looks after herself, does Mrs Bennet.

She eyes us as we come to the counter. ‘Sebastian,’ she says, in measured tones. ‘And . . . Kate.’

Sebastian gives her a cool smile. ‘Mrs Bennet. You’re looking well this afternoon. Is that a new lipstick I see?’

Much to my surprise, Mrs Bennet blushes like a schoolgirl. ‘Why, yes, it is.’

‘It looks fantastic on you.’ He’s not effusive, yet his attention is wholly on her, as if he can’t think of anything else he’d rather be doing than talking to her, and, well, all I can think is that the man is downright charming when he wants to be.

I feel as if I’m watching a master flirt in action as stone-faced Mrs Bennet positively melts under his regard. I don’t know her well, since Mrs Bennet doesn’t read. She knits and sews and crochets instead, so I don’t have that much to do with her. Though I have more than a few of her items in my kitchen cupboards; I love a pretty mug.

‘Why thank you, Sebastian,’ she says, fluttering a little. ‘The girl in Boots said it flattered my complexion, but I wasn’t sure.’

‘Rest assured, Mrs Bennet, it is, indeed, very flattering.’ He leans a hip against the counter. ‘So, I’m here on a little mission and I wonder if you could possibly help us.’

‘Oh yes?’ She doesn’t look at me, only him. ‘What help do you need?’

‘Miss Jones has been here in the village a couple of months now and she’d very much like to find out more about her family.’

‘Oh, she does, does she?’ Mrs Bennet finally looks at me, dark eyes sharp, then back at him. ‘I heard a rumour about you two, you know.’

Sebastian raises an imperious brow while I try not to blush, as it’s not as if I’m a simpering virgin. ‘It was just one night,’ I say, before he can stick his oar in, because there’s no point in denying it. ‘No big deal.’

‘Hmm.’ Mrs Jean Bennet is disapproving. ‘So casual, you young people. We were more careful about it in our day.’

‘Your day?’ Sebastian asks. ‘You mean the “swinging sixties”?’

Mrs Bennet’s stern expression relaxes. ‘I said we were careful, child. I never said we didn’t have sex. We did. A lot.’

I don’t quite know what to say to this, but Sebastian only shrugs. ‘As I was saying, Miss Jones wants to find out about the Joneses. Her mother took her away from Wychtree when she was very young, and never returned.’ He pauses and gives her another full blast of his total attention. ‘I think you were friends with Rose Jones, weren’t you?’

A rush of excitement goes through me. She was my grandmother’s friend? I had no idea.

Mrs Bennet nods. ‘Yes, I was. We went to school together. All that.’

‘Mum never talked about her,’ I say. ‘So I never knew her.’

‘No, well, she wouldn’t,’ Mrs Bennet says. ‘Rose was a difficult woman. She was unfailingly loyal but she had her opinions, and woe betide anyone who got on the wrong side of her. Fierce, that one.’

‘How interesting,’ Sebastian murmurs, glancing at me. ‘Seems that might run in the family.’

I ignore him and lean forward, fascinated. ‘Do you know what happened between her and Mum? Mum would only say that she left Wychtree because we weren’t welcome here.’

Mrs Bennet looks at me carefully. ‘You’ve the look of her. Blonde hair and grey eyes. Pretty. Rose was like that too. Very suspicious of men. Didn’t like them.’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘Her father was a bad ’un. Used to beat her mother.’ She shakes her head. ‘Terrible stuff. Rose was very protective of her mother. Was a stickler for propriety too. Though she wasn’t above breaking the rules herself. That’s how she fell pregnant with your mum.’

Shock pulses down my spine, and along with it comes a sudden rush of anger. No wonder Rose didn’t like men, not if her father was abusive. ‘Mum never talked about my grandfather either. Or my dad.’

‘Not surprised. No one knew who your grandfather was, though there was plenty of speculation. Rose tried to protect your mother from going down the same path she did, but Rebecca was a free spirit. Headstrong. Very much like Rose in her own way – that’s why they butted heads so badly.’

‘Hmm,’ Sebastian says.

I try to ignore his tall figure next to me, but it’s difficult because he’s standing far too close and I’m all too aware of him. He also smells delicious, which doesn’t help.

‘Did Rose ever talk to you about my grandfather?’ I ask.

Mrs Bennet shakes her head. ‘Not one word. Was the big scandal in the village at the time.’

‘What about my great-grandmother? What happened to her?’

‘Kate,’ Mrs Bennet says. ‘Her name was Kate. Like you.’

I blink. I had no idea. None at all. ‘Seriously?’

‘Yes. Poor woman. She had a terrible husband and then her teashop closed not long after Rose was born.’

‘She had a teashop?’

‘Oh, yes. You inherited that building, didn’t you?’

‘I did. Mum left it to me. But . . . she never said anything about a teashop.’

‘The shop was Kate’s initially. That’s where her teashop was.’

This is all news to me. Mum had said she’d inherited the building, but that was as much as she’d ever said about it. I’d assumed she’d inherited it from Rose, but I’d never imagined that it had actually been in our family for longer than that.

‘What happened to her shop?’ I ask. It’s not lost on me that Kate the First had been a business owner, and now so am I.

Mrs Bennet sighs. ‘I don’t know much. I was only a little ’un. But there was a lot of talk at the time. Her husband made her close it down just before the war started. A woman running a business on her own was unusual back then and her husband didn’t like it. He turned it into a newsagent’s.’

Instantly, I’m outraged on Kate’s behalf. ‘What? That’s appalling!’

Mrs Bennet shrugs with the kind of calm that people only get after living a long time and seeing everything. ‘It was what it was. Anyway, her husband died in a car accident – good riddance to bad rubbish, I say – and she lived quietly here until Rose was around twenty-one. Then she – Kate – ran away.’

I blink, not sure if I’ve heard her correctly. ‘She ran away?’

Beside me, Sebastian has gone very still.

‘No one knows what happened to her,’ Mrs Bennet says. ‘Rose went to the police, and there was an investigation, but all the trails went cold. Kate was declared legally dead in the early seventies.’

‘Oh my God,’ I murmur. ‘No trace was ever found?’

‘No. But back in the sixties it was easier to disappear, not as easy now.’ She glances at Sebastian. ‘It wasn’t like your great-granddad. It was very clear he drowned.’

Sebastian’s expression is impossible to read. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Of course.’

I’m more interested in Rose and Kate, though. Especially Rose, maybe because I identify with her situation too much. ‘Poor Rose. She was left without her mum so young. That must have been terrible.’

Mrs Bennet nods. ‘It traumatised her, I think. Then there was the palaver with her getting pregnant, and the village gossip when she made it clear she was going to keep the baby.’

I lean my elbows on the counter. ‘Did you know who the father was? Did she tell you?’

‘No. Rose wouldn’t say a word. But she had plenty to say when Rebecca got pregnant with you. Some young Australian working at the Arms, apparently. Took off when he found out about you. Rose kept insisting that you should be given up for adoption, but Rebecca wouldn’t hear of it.’ She sighs. ‘I told Rose that being so stubborn wasn’t going to earn her any favours with Becca, but she wouldn’t listen to me. When Becca left, I didn’t want to say “I told you so”, but . . .’

So, my father was some unknown man who took off. Then Rose wanted to give me up for adoption. I can understand her reasons for it – Mum was young and on her own, and then there were also Rose’s own experiences as a single mum, especially in a time when such things were a terrible scandal – yet a dull pain aches inside me all the same.

Mum left Wychtree because of me. My father also left Wychtree because of me. My grandmother ruined her relationship with her daughter because of me. And Mum had a small, narrow life because of me.

It’s you. You’re the problem.

The voice in my head sounds like Jasper’s, and conscious of Sebastian’s gaze, I try to ignore both him and it as I force myself to give Mrs Bennet a smile. ‘Well, thank you,’ I say. ‘That’s extremely helpful.’

Mrs Bennet gives me a narrow look. ‘When Rose died, she left me a box of her things. It’s not much. She didn’t keep a lot. But seems like you should have it.’

The dull ache vanishes at this news, and excitement fills me. ‘Seriously? Oh, yes, absolutely! I’d love to have it.’

‘Okay. Wait here.’ She disappears into her back room, leaving Sebastian and me standing at the counter.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says quietly. He doesn’t say anything else, so I’m not sure what he’s sorry about, but it’s clear he knows I’m upset. So maybe it’s everything he’s sorry about.

My great-grandmother disappearing.

My grandmother having my mother to an unknown man.

My mother also having me to an unknown man and then refusing to give me up.

The history of these women, their stories that are lost, all because there’s no one left to tell them. No one except me, and I don’t know anything, because no one told me.

I feel cheated in some way and I can’t look at him, can’t acknowledge he’s even spoken, otherwise a dam might break in me and all the grief that I’ve been consciously pushing aside since I came to Wychtree might come rushing out and swamp me.

Luckily, at that moment Mrs Bennet comes back with a small cardboard shoe box and hands it to me. ‘There you are. I should have given it to you weeks ago, but I forgot it was there until now.’ Her habitually stern expression gives way into a smile. ‘I think Rose would have liked you. She and your mother should have made up, let bygones be bygones. No point holding on to grudges, is my feeling.’

My throat is tight as I clutch the old box and I feel an uprush of warmth towards her. ‘Yes, I so agree. Look, I’d love to sit down with you and talk some more about my grandmother. Would that be okay?’

‘Of course, dear. That would be lovely. You let me know, hmm?’

I nod, thank her profusely, then without a further word turn and walk out of the shop. I can sense Sebastian behind me, so once we’re out on the footpath, I turn to face him. I feel oddly protective of the box and I only want to open it in the safety of Portable Magic.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘That was very kind of you to come with me.’

His blue gaze scans my face and I know my emotions are plastered all over it. It makes me feel vulnerable, so before he can answer, I turn away. ‘I’d better get back to the shop,’ I say.

‘What about the festival?’ he asks. ‘We were going to look at the programme.’

‘Tomorrow,’ I say over my shoulder, and don’t wait for a reply.

I don’t look back as I carry my box into Portable Magic. I should have been more gracious to him than that, but I just don’t have it in me.

The ‘Back in ten minutes’ sign is still up and I’ve been gone longer than ten minutes, but I don’t take it down.

Instead, I carry the box over to the counter and put it down. Take a breath. My pulse is very fast and I’m nervous for reasons I can’t pinpoint. This is some of my history in this box, a history I had no idea about, but I also know that, whatever is in here, it won’t be enough.

I never thought I’d be angry at my mother, but I feel an ember of it now, flickering in my heart. I know she didn’t want to give me up and I’m so grateful, yet her argument with Rose has meant here’s a whole side of my family I will never know. I wonder if she ever thought about that. I wonder if she ever thought that I might want to have a part in it, to have them in my life. Still, it’s not all her fault. I didn’t push for answers, because I got so caught up in my own life that I stopped asking questions. And now I’m here, and I’m nothing but questions, but it’s too late to ask them. Because she’s gone.

The past is important, though. Especially since we are all of us the sum of that past. We are the consequences of the choices our parents made and the choices their parents made and so on.

It matters. It gives context. It can show us who we are.

I’m not just the past, I know that, but I’m a person who loves books, who loves stories, and the story of my own family is important to me. In fact, I never realised how important until now.

I take the top off the box.

Inside there are postcards. Letters. A broken necklace. A silver ring. A small Bible. A lipstick. Some old, beaded bracelets. Newspaper clippings. A hospital tag with ‘Baby of Rose Jones’ on it.

I hold the tag, my throat tight. That baby was Mum, and Rose kept the tag all these years. The door that Mum had closed so firmly had been unlocked all this time and she’d just never opened it. Then again, neither had Rose.

Sighing, I pick up the newspaper clippings. They chronicle the disappearance of Kathryn Jones and how she vanished without a trace, and how long she’d been missing. Days. Weeks. Months. Years.

No wonder Rose was so difficult. That must have devastated her.

Finally, I pick up the letters and it’s curious, because the paper they’re written on is familiar, thin and crackling with age. Slowly, I open one and it’s the red ink that stands out.

Familiar red ink.

Rose, I’m sorry. I have to go. I can’t explain why but know that your existence is the only thing that has made my life bearable. You were the best thing to come out of my marriage. The only good thing. I want you to be happy. I want you to find love. I had it once and I threw it away because I did not have the courage. I do now.

Know that I will be safe. Know that I will be loved.

Know that I will be happy.

Your loving mother.

The red ink has run in several places as if someone had cried over it, and of course someone had cried over it. Rose.

My own throat gets painful and the dull ache in my chest returns.

I pull another letter out.

I am sorry, darling H. But I cannot write to you. He watches me constantly. I think he knows.

C

My eyes prickle; shock echoes through me.

I pick up the next one.

I love you. I never thought I would find someone I would feel so passionately about. I thought I would always be alone, always be trapped. Then you appeared and none of it mattered any more. You freed me. I wish I had met you five years ago.

C

I pick up another.

I always seem to be saying I’m sorry, but you must know that I am. I am a coward. I want to be with you so badly, but now I have her to think of. He might let me go, but never her, and I cannot leave her. I cannot come with you, no matter how much I want to. Please understand.

C

Tears fall down my cheeks. I know who she’s writing to. I know who C is now, and I probably should have guessed, but I didn’t.

I know you won’t ever see this note, not now, but I saw you leave. You were so handsome in your uniform. You were so much braver than I. Stay safe, Sebastian.

I will love you till the day I die.

Kate

It was her. C was Kate Jones, my great-grandmother. And she had an affair with Sebastian’s great-grandfather. And she wanted to leave her husband . . .

The tragedy of it hurts. I can almost feel the sorrow and the longing rise physically from the letters in my hand. He must have asked her to come away with him and she must have refused. That’s why the letters stopped. Not because she stopped writing them, but because she stopped sending them. He then went off to war and, when he came back, her teashop was closed and she had closed herself off from him.

There’s one last note in the box. I pick it up. This time the script is in dark blue and in Sebastian the First’s strong hand.

I am taking a risk doing this again and I know it. Send this back to me if you want to hear from me again. If not, I will never contact you again.

I still love you. I always will.

H

But she didn’t send it back. He never contacted her again.

I ache all over at the thought.

The missing notes are here and they’re not missing, not really. Because hers were never sent. And she kept one of his and never returned it.

A tear drips slowly down my nose and onto the blue ink that has already been stained by over-seventy-year-old tears.