Shadows in the Moonlight

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Mrs James Pengower departs in her carriage, attended by Mr Bray. ‘How kind he is to always escort my mother-in-law home,’ says Cordelia, standing on the doorstep and watching the carriage make its way slowly down the drive. ‘Mr Bray lives close by, you see, and Mrs Pengower only a short distance from him on the edge of the estate. He is such a gentleman, always insisting on looking after her. Truly, she relies on him in her widowhood, and he is as solicitous to her as a son.’

‘What was her husband like?’ I ask, interested to know more about Cavill’s father.

Cordelia slides her eyes about to make sure we are not being overheard. ‘Mr James Pengower was not an easy man,’ she tells me in a low voice. ‘He commanded respect and won it. His workers and tenants held him in high regard, but he was unforgiving when any of them stepped out of line. He was particularly hard on his sons, and his wife. Poor Mrs Pengower was cowed. I do believe her widowhood has been a relief. She was as quiet and meek as a rabbit when he was alive. Since his death, she has transformed into a lively parrot.’

‘She is certainly vivacious,’ I agree. Then I take a chance. ‘I think you were very brave standing up for the gypsies.’

I hold my breath, aware that I might have overstepped the mark. But Cordelia looks at me and gives me a grateful smile.

‘My husband and I disagree on many things, as you will discover.’ She sighs and turns her eyes away. ‘But I have my allies. Mr Cavill and Mr Bray are of the same mind as me, and, being men, their voices carry more weight than mine.’

I would like to disagree with her, but she is a woman of her time, and it’s very much a man’s world. ‘Nevertheless, you were brave and fierce. I admire you for speaking your mind.’

When she turns to look at me again, I notice her eyes are shining once more and her cheeks are pink. She takes a deep breath. ‘It is my duty to stand at my husband’s side and support him in all his endeavours, but there are some things I cannot condone because they go against my nature, and my beliefs.’

‘I think you will discover they go against mine too,’ I say, but I can’t explain that I come from a culture that is, on the whole, more inclusive and tolerant of other people’s differences than hers.

She smiles and rallies. ‘Thank you, Miss Swift. It is nice to know that I have an ally in you, too.’

We leave the men smoking in the library and retire for the night. I follow Cordelia into the hall. It’s still light. The sun has sunk behind the trees, but a beguiling pink dusk has settled over the gardens, and I’m gripped suddenly by a yearning to walk in it. Cordelia smiles wistfully when I tell her. ‘I love the night,’ she declares with longing. ‘The silence, the stillness, the peace. Sometimes I find it stifling in the house. One is never alone, you see. Never.’ I sense frustration in the pause that follows, as she sighs heavily and drops her shoulders. The eyes that gaze at me seem to yearn for understanding. ‘From time to time I need so very much to be alone. Away from Mr Pengower and the servants. Away, even, from my children. My soul cries out for seclusion. Therefore, I take myself off and sit on the bench in the vegetable garden. It is tranquil there with only the owls for company and the moon and stars above. In those solitary moments I feel close to God. To that wonderful source of love and might. God gives me strength and I feel restored.’

I imagine she needs strength being married to Mr Pengower. ‘I need time to myself as well,’ I reply. ‘There are many corners here where one can be sure to find solitude.’

‘But take care not to come in too late,’ she warns. ‘Mr Pengower is a stickler for locking the doors and closing all the windows before he retires. He is concerned for our safety and the security of the house. In fact, I would go as far to say that he is quite paranoid about it. If you get locked out in the garden, you will have to sleep there and wait for Symons to let you in in the morning. My husband and Symons are the only two people who have keys.’ I wonder why she doesn’t have a set of keys of her own, but I don’t know her well enough to ask. She makes her way up the stairs, her silk gown trailing down the steps behind her. I leave by the back door, mindful not to stay out too long.

As I set off across the lawn, I wonder about Mr Pengower locking all the windows and doors before going to bed. Whoever takes Felix in just over week’s time has to get him out of the house. If Mr Pengower and Mr Symons are the only two people with keys, it begs the question, do either of those men have something to do with the child’s disappearance? But then, the police investigating the case would have asked themselves the same question and come to the conclusion that they did not. Therefore, there must be more that I haven’t discovered yet.

A stillness as soft as down bewitches the estate. The birds have settled in the branches and gone quiet. The lawns and borders are sinking into slumber. Their lines are blurred in the roseate light, their colours muted. It’s too beautiful and my heart aches with longing. I’ve been here but two days, yet I feel as if it’s been weeks.

I walk through the arboretum and find myself thinking about Cavill. Men are not like him where I come from. Indeed, we are novelties to each other. I know I shouldn’t yearn for him – that he is not my mission and I must not allow myself to be distracted by thoughts of a romance. But I find him irresistible. I find the way he makes me feel – irresistible. I like who I am when I’m with him. I realise now that my past love affairs were pale imitations of what love should be. The feelings Cavill is arousing in me are surprisingly strong, and I’m bewildered by them. Are they more intense because I know a romance is impossible? Because I know I can’t have him? Or am I really connecting with him on a deeper level? Am I forgetting myself? I fear I’m being swallowed into this reality, living the dream – and gradually getting lost in it.

As I stroll over the grass I remember the wise words of the woman who taught me how to control my gift, Avril Merivale. She was a brilliant psychic medium I met at the College of Psychic Studies after I left university. She recognised my potential and, over time, nurtured it, giving me private guidance sessions in her flat in Earl’s Court. Astral projection possession, she explained, was an ancient practice, like astral travelling and other paranormal experiences, but the technique was lost, along with many esoteric mysteries known by the ancients. Human beings simply forgot how to do it. She was excited to discover that I came into the world doing it naturally, and I was grateful to have found someone who understood. She lent me an ancient book, translated from Sanskrit and given to her many years before by a guru she trained with in India. It was the only book I ever read that spoke about what I called timesliding. I was excited to discover that I was not the first to experience this. I wasn’t so very different, after all. Just fortunate, perhaps.

She told me, ‘Anything is possible, Pixie. It’s not about what you’re allowed and not allowed to do, but about what you deem acceptable and appropriate. Your gift comes with great responsibility. You can choose to create havoc, or you can choose the highest good. It’s up to you. It is always up to you.’ I remember Avril’s advice now and realise that I must not allow myself to get lost in the dream. It’s not my dream, after all; this is Hermione Swift’s life and I’m just passing through – it’s not my place to fall in love.

I wander on, through an archway in the yew hedge and on up a winding path that leads through an ornamental stumpery. The stumps are adorned with spikey ferns and soft mosses and wildflowers that have seeded themselves and flourished. The air grows damp, the shadows deepen. I spy a stone folly nestled in a leafy corner, hidden away as if it doesn’t want to be found. It’s a classical building with a triangular pediment and pillars. A whimsy, a delight, built long before the current Mrs Pengower added her creative touches to the gardens. Curious, I walk towards it.

I hear a peal of laughter coming from inside. Quickly, I retreat into the ferns, and hide. Another peal of laughter disturbs the quiet. The low voice of a man follows, and then feverish whispering. She is wanting to leave; he is persuading her to stay. They are playing a game. I lie in wait.

It’s getting dark and dew is settling upon the grass. An owl hoots in the woods, a pigeon is disturbed and flies out of a tree, its clumsy wings flapping loudly. A figure emerges from the folly. It’s John Snathe. He looks from left to right, checking that there’s no one about. Then he gestures to the woman. Gwen emerges timidly, smoothing down her dress, making sure that the buttons are fastened on her blouse. They kiss. He grabs her around the waist, holding her against him. She pulls away. He pulls her back and buries his face in her neck. She giggles and wriggles free. There’s an urgency in her movements. She must be keen to get back to the house before the doors are locked. He’s more reckless; after all, who’s going to catch them out here at this time of night?

Eventually, they go their separate ways. He back to the stable block, she towards the house. I wait until they’ve gone and then I, too, make my way back and sneak up to my bedroom. As I climb the stairs, I can hear the low murmur of Mr Pengower and Cavill’s voices. They’re still talking. They’ve moved to the library. The smell of cigar smoke wafts out and fills the hall.

I lie in bed and focus on the job I’m here to do. I try not to think about Cavill. Yet, every time I turn my mind to Felix and Cordelia and my mission, Cavill invades the picture until he takes it over, pushing them out so it’s only him I see as I close my eyes and drift off to sleep.

The following day, I resume my lessons with Robert. I join Gwen and Felix at lunchtime. Gwen is cross because Felix has sneaked ‘yet again’. He’s told his mother that she fell asleep while he was playing and that he had to wake her up. As a consequence, Cordelia scolded her for her lack of vigilance. ‘He tells his mama everything,’ she complains, rolling her eyes. Felix, who’s on his chair, tucking into his food with a fox’s enthusiasm, looks bashful.

‘That is only natural,’ I tell her. ‘It is not healthy for such a small child to have secrets from his mother.’

‘It wasn’t a secret,’ says Gwen. ‘Sometimes I find it hard to keep my eyes open, that’s all.’

‘You’re not getting enough sleep,’ I suggest, thinking about what I saw the evening before.

‘I’m not a good sleeper at the best of times.’

‘Have you tried warm milk and honey before bed?’ I’d recommend Xanax if I could.

‘No, miss,’ she replies.

‘It might help.’

‘My head is so full of things,’ she complains, but her eyes gleam.

‘What sort of things?’

‘Dreams, Miss Swift.’ She turns her gaze to the window and sighs longingly. ‘I have dreams, you know. But good things don’t happen to girls like me.’

‘What do you mean? What sort of girl are you?’

‘Not the lucky sort, miss.’ She shakes her head and sighs again. ‘I don’t want much. Just a husband and a child and a roof over my head. That’s not too much to ask for, is it?’

‘It’s not too much at all. Why do you think it will not be given to you?’

‘Because I fall for the wrong sort of man.’ She grins sheepishly and shifts in her chair. ‘I fall for the ones who don’t want what I want.’

‘Have you fallen for the wrong sort of man now?’ I ask, hoping to extract information and win her confidence.

She reddens. ‘Oh no, miss.’ Felix puts out his hand and she takes it. ‘Why would I want a man when I have a handsome little boy here who loves me?’ She smiles at him fondly. ‘You love me, don’t you, Felix?’

‘Yes,’ he replies.

‘See! I’m busy with Master Felix. I don’t have time for anyone else.’

That afternoon I ride out with Robert once again. I’m thrilled to see Cavill waiting for us in the stable yard. ‘Shall we show Miss Swift the town?’ he asks his nephew, and Robert nods enthusiastically. Grantly and John Snathe bring out the horses, saddled and ready, and we ride out together. As we’re setting off down the track, I glimpse Cordelia and Felix through the trees feeding the birds. It’s a tender sight, mother and son, hand in hand, bathed in the soft, dappled light of a summer’s afternoon. She’s wearing a straw hat and a pale blue dress, and her waist is tiny. She might be in a Monet painting. She looks down at her son and laughs. He gazes adoringly up at her. I smile with pleasure, wanting to forget the tragedy that lies only eight days away. The tragedy that will steal their happiness. Cordelia, distracted by the movement in her peripheral vision, lifts her eyes and sees us. She waves. We wave back and Cavill takes off his hat and flourishes it theatrically. Cordelia tells Felix to wave and the little boy puts up his hand and waves heartily. It’s a jolly scene, a jolly summer scene, and I’m charmed by it.

Our conversation flows easily. I feel as if Cavill and I have been friends for a long time. ‘Master Felix is adorable,’ I say. ‘Yesterday he was playing in a hollow tree, pretending to be a fox.’

Cavill chuckles. ‘He has got quite an imagination, that boy, and is fearless. He will climb to the top of a tree like a squirrel and swim in the lake like a duck without a moment’s hesitation. His mother is often baffled by him, for his brother is by nature more cautious.’

‘Perhaps he takes after his uncle with his thirst for adventure.’ I glance at Cavill and grin.

He nods, appreciating the compliment. ‘He might be a famous explorer one day, like Dr Livingstone.’

I wish I could agree with him. ‘Maybe you will be like Dr Livingstone,’ I say, diverting the conversation away from Felix’s future. But I know that Cavill doesn’t have a future, either.

Cavill is pleased with that idea. ‘I shall explore South America. There is much to discover there. Although, I doubt very much I will make such a name for myself as Dr Livingstone. Sufficient it will be to make a fortune. There is money to be made in railways and tramlines, agriculture and livestock, and I shall learn to play polo at the Hurlingham Club. Indeed, I shall very much enjoy riding out there. They say that the Argentines are the best horsemen in the world and their horses are of the highest quality.’

‘If your enthusiasm is anything to go by, I suspect you will make a great success of it.’

‘I hope you are right, Miss Swift.’ He turns his gaze to the countryside. To the shadows that pass over the land as the clouds move slowly in front of the sun. ‘I will miss St Sidwell.’

‘I can imagine. But the spice of life is in the diversity, is it not?’

‘The Argentine Pampa is very flat. I shall miss the hills and cliffs and the sea. I shall miss the birds too.’ He looks wistful suddenly. ‘There will be different birds there, of course.’ He turns to me. ‘Would you like to paint with me tomorrow?’

‘I would love that,’ I reply. ‘With Master Robert, of course,’ I add hastily, aware that I must do my duty as the governess. I’m not here for me .

‘Naturally,’ Cavill returns. ‘We shall set up on the estuary and find some ducks to sketch.’ He looks at me and grins, and once again I feel that he’s looking straight through Hermione to me, Pixie, beneath. ‘You are not like other women,’ he says softly, narrowing his eyes and scrutinising me. ‘I cannot say what it is about you that is so different – your manner of speech, your intonation, the unusual way you look upon the world. But there is something undeniably different about you, and I like it. I like it very much.’

I drop my gaze into my hands and try to control the excitement rising inside me. The affection swelling in my heart. ‘And you are different to me, Mr Cavill,’ I reply. But unlike him, who struggles to define the difference and the reason for it, I am able to explain exactly why. Where I come from, women are emancipated, independent, outspoken, ambitious to succeed and able to do so, on their own terms. As much as I try to blend in to this time, I know I bring an air of the future with me. I can’t help it. It must infuse everything I do and say. In the same vein, perhaps many of the things I’m loving about Cavill are foreign to me too. He’s chivalrous and gallant, with beautiful manners seldom found in my post-feminist culture. I feel that he sees me, which is a contradiction, because I don’t look like myself. How can he see me when I look like Hermione? I don’t know, but I believe that he does.

We reach the town. I’m shocked by how poor it looks. How poor the people look. It’s far from the picturesque, quaint, charming English coastal town I expected. The small cottages are ramshackle, the squalid streets narrow and cobbled, the locals weatherworn and unwashed. Women sit in groups mending nets, their white aprons stained, their faces haggard, their hands rough from their labour. Men are scarce. I imagine they’re in their boats, fishing, or up at the tin mine. Filth-covered children play, their clothes ragged, their feet bare, their gaiety belying the true nature of their lives, which is hardship and deprivation. The difference between this place and St Sidwell Manor is stark. There’s no sheen of elegance, no glamour, no opulence, and little beauty. The sun shines upon the white walls of the cottages and floods the streets with jubilance, and that, certainly, endows the place with a certain bucolic charm, but, I imagine, on a drizzly day in winter, it must look miserable.

We dismount and Cavill tethers the horses to a post. Robert tells me excitedly of the time he came with his father to watch the fishing boats returning from their day out on the sea. ‘They had barrels full of fish,’ he says, skipping on ahead. ‘Papa bought some and we ate them for supper.’ We wander through the town. The people are wary, hostile even. They look us over. They recognise Cavill and greet him by name, but they don’t smile. I feel their stares sticking to me like barnacles as they try to work out who I am and what I am to Cavill. The children stop what they’re doing and stare at Robert. I imagine they must envy his fine clothes and shoes. I wonder what happens in winter when it snows. Do they wander barefooted then? ‘Why are they so unfriendly?’ I ask Cavill under my breath.

He leans in so that he won’t be overheard. ‘This is a mining town,’ he answers. ‘If my brother treated the men better and raised the standards of their living and working conditions, they would greet us with smiles. As it is, they resent us and everything we stand for. They have little when we have so much.’

‘Would they harm you, or your family?’ I ask, wondering whether this animosity might be to blame for Felix’s disappearance.

‘No,’ he says firmly. ‘They are all bark and no bite.’

I hope that he is right.

There is a commotion on the beach. Men and women are gathered there in a huddle. People are shouting. Cavill tells us to stay where we are, and he hurries off to find out what it’s all about. I try to see through the crowd but am unable to. I suspect something has been washed up on the sand. Robert is impatient and asks why he can’t go too. ‘Because it might be dangerous,’ I tell him. ‘If there’s a brawl, you don’t want to be caught up in it.’

‘But it’s an adventure, Miss Swift.’

I laugh. ‘An adventure that might end in tears.’

‘I’m going to be nine in four months,’ he reminds me.

‘Still too young, Master Robert.’ I glimpse through the mass of people then and spy a large mammal lying on the beach, half in the water, half on the sand. ‘It looks like a whale,’ I tell him, and I grimace at the sight of the poor creature beached and helpless.

‘A whale!’ he exclaims, jumping up and down. ‘What’s it doing?’

‘Nothing. It doesn’t look like it’s moving,’ I tell him. I feel a wave of pity and hope that it’s dead. If it isn’t, I’m sure the locals will kill it and maybe even eat it.

Suddenly, the child runs off. I shout at him, horrified. My instincts are to give chase. He is my responsibility and if anything happens to him, I’ll be blamed. I lift my skirts and set off down the sand as fast as I can go. Robert is much too quick for me. I’m barely able to breathe in my corset. It wraps about my body, holding it in a vice. It’s hard to run across sand, even in trainers. In these boots I’m slow and ungainly. Robert disappears into the throng, which is getting restless. There’s a nasty strain of tension in the air. I sense there’s going to be a fight. I search frantically for Cavill. I see his hat for it rises above the heads of the other men. He’s tall, and his hat gives him an extra five inches, at least. I call his name. But he doesn’t hear me above the excited voices of the locals. I understand that they’re arguing over who gets to keep the whale. A woman cries, ‘If it be alive, for God’s sake, put it back in the water.’

I reach the throng and start to push my way through it. I feel an elbow in my stomach, another against my chest. My boots sink into the wet sand the closer I get to the sea. ‘Robert!’ I shout. ‘Robert!’

Just as I see Robert with his hand safely in Cavill’s, I’m knocked to the ground. A man falls on top of me. My instincts take over and I forget myself. ‘Get the fuck off me, you idiot!’ I cry out angrily, thumping the body with all my strength. I see the horrified expression on the face of the man as he takes in my foul language and, in haste, pushes himself up and hurries away as if I’ve bitten him. A fight breaks out. A woman screams. The gathering becomes a mob, heaving and swelling around me. I feel a kick to my stomach and am suddenly unable to breathe. I try to cry out again, but no sound comes, only a strangled hiss.

Then Robert is by my side. ‘Miss Swift! Miss Swift!’ He’s shouting. Cavill is shoving people out of the way, swearing at them, raising his voice and forgetting his manners. Then he’s lifting me up and carrying me away from the brawl. Robert has begun to cry. I can hear his sobs and feel sorry that he’s blaming himself. I want to reassure him that it doesn’t matter. That I’m not badly hurt, only bruised. But I’m winded and can barely breathe.

Cavill lays me on the sand. The noise of the crowd is distant now. He hastily unfastens the buttons on my bodice, but that gives little relief, for it’s the corset beneath that needs loosening. Bloody corset! I put a hand on his. He stares down at me in alarm. I blink up at him, catching my breath. ‘I’m all right,’ I tell him.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asks. I can see the panic in his eyes.

I take his arm and with his help, haul myself onto my feet. Robert is snivelling at my side. ‘It’s not your fault, Master Robert,’ I tell him. He gazes up at me with glassy eyes, apologetic, contrite. ‘You didn’t know there was going to be a fight.’

‘I’m afraid the locals are not welcoming to outsiders. They see them as a threat,’ says Cavill. He puts a hand around my waist. ‘Come, let us get you away from here. It is not safe.’

We walk slowly up the sand. One or two people who are making their way down in the direction of the drama glance at us, but they don’t stop. I put a hand on my stomach for I’ve received quite a punch.

A voice calls out behind us. ‘Mr Pengower!’ We stop and Cavill turns. An elderly man with fluffy grey whiskers and a face the colour of bull’s blood hurries up to us, holding out my hat. ‘The lady dropped this,’ he says. He gives a bow. If he’d heard my language he wouldn’t be calling me a lady! That thought amuses me as I nurse my aching shoulder.

Cavill takes the hat and thanks him. I touch my hair, which has come loose from its pins. I hadn’t even noticed the hat was missing. ‘What a sight I must be,’ I murmur and laugh, for if I don’t laugh, I shall cry.

‘You are a beautiful sight,’ Cavill reassures me quietly.

I’m suddenly keenly aware of my body pressed against his, of his hand holding me around my waist and of his face tantalisingly close to mine. I can hear his breath as we walk together towards the harbour. I can almost feel it brushing my cheek. I forget the pain in my stomach and the ache in my shoulder. I feel safe and protected and bask in the novelty of being cared for by this chivalrous, valiant man. I feel like a heroine in a historical romance and play up to it a little by pretending to be feeble. Then Robert’s voice pipes up.

‘You won’t tell Mama, will you?’ he says.

I look down at his anxious face. His big grey eyes are red from crying. ‘What is there to tell, Master Robert? There was a beached whale on the sand, and we went to look. That is all. There is no drama.’ I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘You were very gallant coming to my rescue,’ I tell him. ‘If it wasn’t for you, I might have been trampled.’

‘But I shouldn’t have run off,’ he says quietly.

‘No, you shouldn’t. I’m sure you will not do that again.’

‘Papa would have lost his temper,’ he adds.

‘There is no point in losing one’s temper,’ says Cavill. ‘Sometimes, one’s own remorse is the best teacher.’

I smile across at him. ‘Wise words, indeed,’ I say. ‘And thank you , Mr Cavill.’

He doesn’t remove his hand from my waist even though I’m more than capable of walking by myself now. In order that it doesn’t appear improper should anyone witness it, I feign a limp.

We walk to the harbour wall and Cavill suggests I sit there in the sunshine for a moment to compose myself. I do as he suggests and set about fastening the buttons on my bodice and tidying up my hair. He holds my hat while I repair the damage, and brushes it with his hand to get rid of the sand. Robert, feeling better now, stands on the wall and watches the commotion, which is far enough away to be of no threat to us. ‘Is it dead, Uncle?’

‘I believe it is, Robert,’ says Cavill regretfully.

‘Was it alive when it got washed up?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Did they kill it?’

‘I am not sure.’

‘Maybe it died of fright,’ says the child.

‘I don’t think they last very long out of the water,’ says Cavill.

‘Poor thing.’ I sigh.

‘Will they eat it?’ Robert asks.

‘If they’re hungry enough, I dare say they will eat anything.’

‘Those gypsies are a rotten lot,’ Robert says, echoing his father once again.

‘Don’t be hard on them, Master Robert,’ I interject. ‘Perhaps they didn’t start the fight, and besides, maybe they’re desperate with hunger and saw the whale as an opportunity to feed themselves and their families. It is unwise to judge when you know nothing about the situation.’

‘Very true, Miss Swift,’ says Cavill. ‘It is also unwise to write off all gypsies as rotten. I’m sure the majority of them are decent people. They simply choose to live outside society. People should be permitted the freedom to be themselves.’

I press my ribs to check that nothing is broken, but it’s hard to feel them beneath the bones of my corset. Bones that, ironically, must once have belonged to a whale.

Cavill’s eyes settle on me with concern. ‘You are sure you are not hurt, Miss Swift? You need not be brave in front of me and Robert.’

I chuckle. ‘I suffered blows to my stomach and chest, but nothing serious. I simply feel a little bruised.’

‘Poor Miss Swift,’ says Robert with feeling.

Cavill smiles sympathetically. ‘Come, let us get you back home where you can rest. A cup of sweet tea, or something stronger, will put you right.’ I could really do with some ibuprofen or paracetamol, but I won’t find anything like that in their medicine cupboard.

We walk back to where the horses are waiting for us, and Cavill lifts me onto the saddle. There’s an intimacy between us now that wasn’t there before, and an affection. I know that neither of us will mention what took place to Mr Pengower and Cordelia. The three of us are bound by a secret. It’s delicious to share it with Cavill, to have something that is ours.

That evening, my presence is not required at dinner. Mr Pengower and Cordelia have guests and I’m left to eat alone in my sitting room. It’s just as well, for the bruises are tender and I don’t feel like dressing up. I long for some painkillers or a vodka shot, or two, to dull the aches. But there’s nothing besides a glass of hot milk and honey that Rose brought up. That won’t do any good at all. I stand by the window and watch the sunset turn the light golden. I know it’s foolish to indulge in what can only be a dream. I’ll wake up and when I do, I won’t be able to bring Cavill with me.

Yet I still have eight nights before the 29th of June. How will I resist him?

I gaze upon the trees, their tips are alight with the final rays of the dying day. It’s a beautiful sight, and my heart floods with longing. But I drag myself out of my reverie. I must stay focused and not get distracted by fantasies that are purely selfish. I remind myself why I am here and push Cavill to the back of my mind.

My thoughts turn to the folly, and John and Gwen within it. What if Gwen is with John the night of Felix’s disappearance, and because of that the thief is able to enter the house and steal him away? But that doesn’t feel right. Mr Pengower and Symons ensure that all doors and windows are locked every night before they go to bed, so how would the villain get in and then make off with the boy without breaking a window or knocking down a door?

It’s a compelling mystery and I’m consumed by it. How does the villain get into the house? Unless they are already inside …