Chapter 10
Odette
ODETTE WAKES EARLY.
There doesn’t seem much point in sleeping anymore.
She does not dream – or, she thinks she doesn’t, but she wakes clammy and sick, twitching at sudden noises and with a need to scrub herself all over in the ice water left from yesterday on the washstand.
She heard Penelope and Leo take Cecilia home very late last night.
No maid has come to replace it with fresh, hot water, nor to stoke the fire.
They have been forbidden to, she supposes – Claudine marking out her territory within the house and placing Odette outside of it.
She may be present, but she is not welcome.
Or perhaps it is a punishment.
She deserves it, she thinks.
Her mother isn’t here.
It is strange, how this apparition has gone from a horror to a comfort. Easier to bear, maybe, now she has accepted her fate. She will never escape her mother. Whether she is here or not, she carries her mother inside her, in her mind and her heart.
She dresses in black: black stockings, black petticoats, black bombazine skirt and black bodice, black jet at her throat and ears, and pins her hair up in a simple style, then sits at her writing desk.
The drawer hangs loose from where it was wrenched open last night, pitifully empty.
She has not unpacked most of her things from Cambridge: the desk is bare save an empty inkpot, a pad of blotting paper.
Through the window, she can see past the leafless trees to Cecilia’s room in the Gate House.
Odette leans forwards, straining to see her.
If she could just catch one glimpse of Cecilia, it would be like a light breaking through cloud, like a benediction.
It is empty. The light is out.
Cecilia has abandoned her.
It is only right, after what she did.
And it is safe. It is better this way.
There is no way out now, only through.
A knock on her door interrupts her thoughts.
It is her father.
He does not come inside, only stands on the threshold, dressed formally. ‘Good. You’re up. Come along.’
Odette rises from the desk. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Herne House. Don’t pack a bag, we will have your things sent on. We must go at once. I don’t think anyone here will want to see you.’
It is a worse blow than he seems to acknowledge, and Odette follows him meekly downstairs and out of the house. She feels sick. What will he say to her? He is so remote and serious that it makes him alien, forbidding.
He walks down the street in great strides that she must hurry to match, steering them towards the station. It is a flat, grey day, cold enough to pinch at her nose and fingertips.
Her father must be angry at her – but she feels a flare of injustice at the thought. Why should he be angry? Why does he not take her side? Surely he must see that Claudine’s behaviour is extreme? Why can he not see the guilt writ so plain?
At the station, he waits for a train heading into the city, then finds a compartment in which they can be alone.
The seats are upholstered in stiff fabric that has gone dark with dust and dirt, and the foot heaters give off a smell of burning metal.
They sit in silence as the guard slams the door and the train slowly pulls out of the station.
It is an agony. Will he say something?
They roll along the tracks, between high-sided brick embankments, the dawn light flickering between buildings.
Odette feels alive with anticipation. She wants desperately for him to see her, to see what is happening, to defend her. Surely he will – surely he will remember that his duty is to his daughter and not his new wife.
‘This is too much,’ he says, after a great deal of thought. ‘It must stop now.’
‘I agree,’ says Odette quickly. ‘I am beside myself that Claudine destroyed my memorial of Mother – it is too cruel.’
He does not meet her gaze. ‘Yes. Well. Claudine and I don’t see eye to eye on that.’
‘Don’t see eye to eye? What is there to disagree on! If you don’t believe me that she was destroying the evidence of what she did, then it could only have been from cruelty and how could you excuse that?’
‘We can all do hurtful things in the heat of the moment. Claudine has suffered greatly in her life,’ he says, ‘and she has learnt to survive through attack.’
‘And so I must stomach it?’
George shifts uncomfortably. ‘You take it all so seriously. A little grace would go a long way.’
‘And you will do anything for an easy life,’ snaps Odette.
‘I don’t see what reason she would have to destroy it other than guilt.
She had a hand in Mother’s death, it is so clear.
Why can none of you see it? Mother only became so sick after Claudine arrived.
She knows I know the truth, so she comes for me too. ’
Odette pushes. ‘She’s guilty. I saw it on her face. Father, listen to me.’
He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Is that what this has all been about? A . . . delusion about your mother’s death?’
‘You saw Claudine last night – you saw it as clearly as I did. I know you must have. She knows she has done something wrong.’
George sighs. ‘Yes, she might feel guilty that she failed her sister in the end. She nursed her through her last days, and that takes a toll on anyone. You assume too much and give little generosity towards others.’
Odette is hot with offence. ‘Because you have all been so generous towards me? As though I did not also nurse my mother through the end of her life? You make me a problem to be tidied away.’
‘That is not fair.’
‘It is true. You have all decided me mad, but I think I am the only sane one here. You want me to bite my tongue, and I will not. Why must I swallow my pain to be more palatable for everyone else? You are all allowed your pain and your weaknesses, to nurture and coddle yourselves as victims. Why is my pain intolerable? Why am I expected to eat all the sin myself?’
George says nothing. He has become distant again, and of all things, is winding his pocket watch, as though her misery is an apt backdrop to his chores.
Does he mean to hurt her? Or is it that she overwhelms him, and he must vacate himself in whatever way he can?
His detachment frightens her, and stokes her fury.
‘Are you quite done?’ he asks, tucking the watch away.
‘No. I have a question for you. How could you forget Mother so quickly?’
There it is: the plain truth of it, the wound she nurses in her heart.
At last, something cuts through. He recoils.
‘I do not forget her.’
‘Forgive me my mistake, your wedding nuptials were so distracting I did not notice your grief.’
Yes, she is cruel, maybe they are all correct and she is a monster. But she no longer cares. Let her be the Devil, let her be mad, she will suffer and die either way.
‘Did you ever love Mother?’
George’s mouth trembles. ‘Of course I did. In my way.’
Ah. And what way was that?
‘You judge so quickly, but you love different people for different reasons.’
‘You did not love her as you love Claudine.’
He gives an almost helpless shrug. ‘Claudine is a force of nature. Once she has fixed upon something it is pointless to try to stop her.’
‘And she fixed upon you.’
‘I know you do not believe me, but I truly hoped that one day you could be happy for my happiness. I have done my best to be a good father to you, but when you have your own children you will understand that it is not a straight-forward thing.’
She is sour all through, sick with bitterness. ‘Is it being a good father to throw your only child out to suit yourself?’
It is hurt for hurt’s sake. She does not know what she wants him to do with this, only that she cannot bear it all being buried within her. She must get it out, and onto anyone who will take it.
‘Odette,’ he says, half a warning, but can find no further words.
Nor can Odette. She is worn through. What else can she say to make anyone listen?
The train rattles into a tunnel, and they are cocooned in the dark with only the gas lamp. The window becomes a mirror of their mirthless faces.
No one is going to listen.
Claudine could confess before them all, and still no one would listen to a word.
The train draws into the station, and the conductor proceeds along the platform, bellowing all change.
Their compartment door is yanked open, and the chaotic noise blares in on them.
George has not said where they are going, so she follows him, curled around her own pain like it’s a fragile thing cradled in her arms.
The platform is narrow and overfull, passengers waiting for a delayed train on the line opposite, their own train disgorging more people than should be possible. They are buffeted and pushed by the tides, until they are trapped in a slow-moving crush for the stairs.
George seems to have drawn back into himself, gathering himself up, standing a little taller, straighter. Perhaps she has made it easy for him now, to do what dirty work is needed.
‘We have agreed that it is better if you do not stay in London.’
‘You mean to keep me at Herne House?’
‘No. We have arranged for you to spend time at a spa town in Austria.’
‘A spa town,’ Odette repeats.
‘For a rest cure. I am told it is an exceptional place and has brought many young women into better health. You will stay in Suffolk for a few days while we make the necessary arrangements, then you will be escorted to the Continent. Claudine has found a well-regarded ladies’ companion to accompany you. ’
In the distance, the chug of an oncoming train grows louder, the first billow of steam rolling beneath the station awning.
She is struck then by the understanding that, without her mother, there is nothing holding her family together anymore.
She has no family, no home. Perhaps it was always an illusion, a staged scene they all took their places in, but now the canvas has been destroyed, the paints spilt.
Her father knew this, and he has taken off his costume and walked away.
There is only Odette left, in some cheap costume jewellery, stiff with pain from holding her position.
For nothing.
For nothing.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees something move, a flash of lavender silk embroidered with white lilies.
Lydia’s shawl, stolen by Claudine.
Claudine.
At once, Odette’s sorrow turns to fury – how dare Claudine follow them? This is unbearable, for her to witness Odette’s humiliation, her powerlessness.
She spins around amid the crowd, causing a ripple of movement around her.
But it is not Claudine.
It is Penelope, in the purple shawl. She stumbles back reflexively, recoiling from Odette, her face contorted with shock and guilt. Was she spying on them? Had Claudine sent her?
They are so close to the platform edge.
Odette did not realise how close.
Nor did Penelope.
The train bores into the station, thunderous and heavy on the tracks.
The crowd surges, but Penelope is unsteady on her feet, buffeted, with nowhere else to go.
It is the work of a moment. The slightest of missteps.
There is no ground beneath her feet.
Odette is frozen in horror.
Penelope goes over the platform edge just as the train hits her head-on.