Chapter 8 #2
Claudine shakes her off. ‘No. I will have this finished now. I will not allow a spoilt child to dictate the way we live. Odette owes us all an apology for making a misery out of what should be a joyous time.’
Odette is not looking at Claudine as she speaks. Over her shoulder is a flash of white, the outline of a figure moving from the darkness.
The room is dimly lit, only the glow of the fire and an oil lamp placed on the desk holding back the winter gloom. But it is enough to see the face drift into shape, the line of a nose, the too-familiar mouth, eyes all drained of colour.
Lydia’s ghost steps forwards, the soft tap of bare feet against the floor.
No one else seems to notice.
Of course.
This is a gift just for her.
Like a shadow double, her mother stands behind Claudine, a pale echo, a restless spirit.
Her mother has not left her. Odette could cry.
Her mother is here.
Odette pinches her thighs through her skirts, clenches her toes inside her shoes, forcing herself back to life.
This is her house.
She must be brave.
Claudine will not win. Even if Odette destroys herself in the eyes of her family, her friends, she will take this woman down.
‘You killed her, didn’t you?’
The silence is thunderous.
‘What did you say?’ whispers Cecilia.
Leo’s face twists in anger. ‘For God’s sake, will you stop this. You’re not doing yourself any favours, Odette. Everyone is sick of you.’
Odette ignores him and looks straight at Claudine.
‘You burnt the memorial because there was evidence in it you wished to hide. I think you were so tired of her. More tired of her than any of us could have realised. She was not an easy woman – I know that well – and she was your sister. You endured having her for a sister longer than any of us knew her. Of course you ran out of patience, fell to jealousy. Because it was jealousy, wasn’t it?
She was the talented one. She married well.
She had the life in London you wanted for yourself.
And now here you are – you have taken it from her. ’
‘How dare you – how dare you! George – stop her. Shut your mouth.’
Claudine lunges towards her, but Odette dances back, grabs Cecilia by the wrist and pulls her to the bed, pushing her down onto it. The rest of the group is frozen in confusion and horror.
‘What an affront it must have been to be asked to nurse her. This terrible sister who had taken everything you felt rightly yours.’
‘Lies – slander!’
‘That last night, you were all alone with her.’ Odette takes up a position beside Cecilia, who now lies prone, like Lydia once did. Odette cannot meet her eye. ‘You saw her in the bed, and you saw your chance to be rid of her.’
Lydia’s hungry spirit comes closer, milky eyes grown wider. ‘Yes. Yes, my girl. Just like that.’
Odette is shaking with fear, hysterics. She cannot stop herself now, even if she wanted to – she is too caught up in the truth that pours through like a conduit.
‘Stop it – stop it, you mad, hateful girl. These are your own lunatic inventions!’ cries Claudine.
‘What did you do? Did you dose her morphine too high? Did you feed her poison from the start? Or were you so full of spite and jealousy that you smothered her when she was too weak to fight you? It would be easy, just like this.’
Odette snatches up a pillow and presses it down over Cecilia’s face.
Penelope screams.
At once, Leo and George are at her elbow, trying to pull her away from Cecilia, but Odette knows she must make a full performance – they must see clearly what it is that Claudine has done.
Claudine must be forced to witness her own cruel and base wickedness.
Surely this will break her; surely this will force the confession from her lips.
Beneath her hands, Cecilia struggles, scratches at Odette’s wrists in real panic. Odette does not know if she is strong enough to continue, but then she feels her mother’s cold arms around her, pressing down alongside her.
A voice against her ear. ‘You are mine. You will not leave me. You will not leave me alone in the cold and the dark.’
And Odette will not. She will not fail her mother again.
‘Get off her, you lunatic.’ Leo hooks an arm around her waist and, like he is executing some rugby tackle at school, hauls her away so that they fall to the floor, panting.
Cecilia lurches up, knocking the pillow from her red face, cheeks wet with tears; Penelope is at her side, close to hysterics.
George watches in horror, frozen in place.
Hungrily, hopefully, Odette looks around for Claudine. What has she said? Why are they not all looking at her?
Claudine has backed right up to the doorway, framed in light from behind, but it is enough to see her expression, stricken.
Odette smiles at her, giddy and sick. ‘Was it not just like that?’ she asks.
‘You will regret this,’ is all Claudine says before she turns on her heel and flees.
Odette drifts away – the noise of too many voices, hands shaking her, all drowning out her thoughts. She is exhausted, euphoric, miserable, broken. Her face is wet; she is crying.
All she seems to do these days is cry.
Dimly, she is aware of Cecilia being helped away, of a heated exchange between Leo and George.
And then the door slams.
She is alone.
Except – she is not.
Lydia strokes her hair, hands cold as the winter ponds on the Heath.
‘You are doing so well, my girl.’
Odette nuzzles into the touch.
‘Keep going.’