Mother had been a nervous wreck all week. That was typical. She wasn’t a natural hostess, but the Midsummer party was the deShiel family’s great tradition and Mother had been enormously fond of her father, Henri, so the event was held annually in his memory. Mother always got herself into a spin—it was constitutional—but this year she was worse than usual.
“I know you’re here, Alice. Deborah saw you only moments ago.”
Deborah: big sister, chief exemplar, prime menace. Alice gritted her teeth. As if it weren’t enough having the famed and feted Eleanor Edevane for a mother, wasn’t it just her luck to follow an older sister who was almost as perfect? Beautiful, clever, engaged to be married to the catch of the Season . . . Thank God for Clementine, who came after, and was such a curious scrap of a girl that even Alice couldn’t help but seem vaguely normal by comparison.
As Mother stormed down the hall, Edwina padding behind her, Alice cracked the window ajar and let the warm breeze, fragrant with fresh-cut grass and salt from the sea, bathe her face. Edwina was the only person (and she was a golden retriever, after all, not really a person) who could stand Mother when she was like this. Even poor Daddy had escaped to the attic hours before, no doubt enjoying the quiet good company of his great work of natural history. The problem was that Eleanor Edevane was a perfectionist and every detail of the Midsummer party had to meet her exacting standards. Although she’d kept the fact hidden beneath a veneer of stubborn indifference, it had bothered Alice for a long time that she fell so far short of her mother’s expectations. She’d looked in the mirror and despaired of her too-tall body, her unobliging mouse-brown hair, her preference for the company of made-up people over real ones.
But not anymore. Alice smiled as Ben hoisted another log onto what was fast becoming a towering pyre. She might not be charming like Deborah, and she’d certainly never been immortalised, like Mother had, as the subject of a much-loved children’s book, but it didn’t matter. She was something else entirely. “You’re a storyteller, Alice Edevane,” Ben had told her late one afternoon, as the river tripped coolly by and the pigeons came home to roost. “I’ve never met a person with such a clever imagination, such good ideas.” His voice had been gentle and his gaze intense; Alice had seen herself then through his eyes and she’d liked what she saw.
Mother’s voice flew past the bathroom door, something further about flowers, before disappearing around a corner. “Yes, Mother dearest,” Alice muttered, with delicious condescension. “No need to get your knickers all in a tangle.” There was a glorious sacrilege in acknowledging the fact of Eleanor Edevane’s underwear and Alice had to clamp her lips to keep from laughing.
With a final glance towards the lake Alice left the bathroom, tiptoeing quickly along the hall to her bedroom to liberate the precious folder from beneath her mattress. Managing not to trip in her haste on a tatty patch of the red Baluch carpet runner Great-grandfather Horace had sent back from his adventures in the Middle East, Alice took the stairs two by two, seized a basket from the middle of the hall table, and leapt outside into the brand-new day.
* * *
And it had to be said the weather was perfect. Alice couldn’t help humming to herself as she made her way along the flag-stone path. The basket was almost half filled and she hadn’t even been near the wildflower meadows yet; the prettiest blooms grew there, the unexpected ones as opposed to the usual tame, showy suspects, but Alice had been biding her time. She’d spent the morning avoiding her mother, waiting until Mr Harris took his lunch break so she could catch Ben alone.
The last time she saw him he’d said he had something for her and Alice had laughed. He’d offered her that half-smile of his then, the one that made her weak at the knees, and asked, “What’s so funny?” And Alice had drawn herself up to her full height and told him it just so happened she had something to give him, too.
She stopped behind the largest yew tree at the end of the stone path. It had been neatly hedged for the party, its leaves tight and freshly cut, and Alice peered around it. Ben was still out on the island, and Mr Harris was all the way down at the far end of the lake helping his son Adam ready logs to be boated across. Poor Adam. Alice watched as he scratched behind his ear. He’d been the pride of his family once, according to Mrs Stevenson, strong and strapping and bright, until a flying piece of shrapnel at Passchendaele lodged in the side of his head and left him simple. War was a dreadful thing, the cook liked to opine, pounding her rolling pin into a blameless lump of dough on the kitchen table, “taking a boy like that, so full o’ promise, chewing ’im up and spitting ’im out a dull broken version of his old self.”
The one blessing, according to Mrs Stevenson, was that Adam himself seemed not to notice the change, seemed almost lightened by it. “That’s not the norm,” she always added, lest she betray the deep Scottish pessimism at her core. “There’s plenty more come back with all the laughter hollowed out of ’em.” It was Daddy who’d insisted on employing Adam on the estate. “He’s got a job here for life,” she’d overheard him saying to Mr Harris, his voice reedy with the strength of his feeling. “I’ve told you that before. As long as he needs it, there’s a place here for young Adam.”
Alice became aware of a soft whirring near her left ear, the faintest breath of wind against her cheek. She glanced sideways at the dragonfly hovering in her peripheral vision. It was a rare one, a yellow-winged darter, and she felt a surge of old excitement. She pictured Daddy in his study, hiding from Mother in her Midsummer state. If Alice were quick she could catch the darter and run it upstairs for his collection, bask in the pleasure she knew the gift would bring, and feel herself elevated in her father’s esteem, the way she had as a little girl, when the privilege of being the chosen one, permitted inside the dusty room of science books and white gloves and glass display cabinets, was enough to make her overlook the horror of the shining silver pins.
But of course there wasn’t time to go now. Why, even in considering it she was falling victim to distraction. Alice frowned. Time had a funny way of losing shape when her mind got busy on a matter. She checked her watch. Almost ten past twelve. Twenty more minutes and the head gardener would retreat to his shed as he did each day for his cheese and piccalilli sandwich and contemplation of the racing pages. He was a man of habits and Alice, for one, respected that.
Forgetting the dragonfly, she crossed the path at a clip and made her furtive way around the lake, avoiding the lawn and the band of groundsmen sweeping near the elaborate fireworks contraption, keeping to the shadows until she reached the Sunken Garden. She sat on the sun-warmed steps of the old fountain and set the basket beside her. It was the perfect vantage point, she decided; the nearby hawthorn hedge provided ample cover, while small gaps in its foliage permitted a fine view of the new jetty.
While she waited to catch Ben alone, Alice watched a pair of rooks tumbling together in the sea-blue sky above. Her gaze fell to the house where men on ladders were weaving huge wreaths of greenery along the brick façade and a couple of housemaids were busy attaching delicate paper lanterns to fine strings beneath the eaves. The sun had lit up the top row of leadlight windows and the family home, polished to within an inch of its life, was sparkling like a bejewelled old dame, dressed for her annual opera outing.
A great swelling wave of affection came suddenly upon Alice. For as long as she could remember, she’d been aware that the house and the gardens of Loeanneth lived and breathed for her in a way they didn’t for her sisters. While London was a lure to Deborah, Alice was never happier, never quite as much herself, as she was here; sitting on the edge of the stream, toes dangling in the slow current; lying in bed before the dawn, listening to the busy family of swifts who’d built their nest above her window; winding her way around the lake, notebook always tucked beneath her arm.
She had been seven years old when she realised that one day she would grow up and that grown-ups didn’t, in the usual order of t
hings, continue to live in their parents’ home. She’d felt a great chasm of existential dread open up inside her then, and had taken to engraving her name whenever and wherever she could: in the hard English oak of the morning-room window frames, the filmy grouting between the gunroom tiles, the Strawberry Thief wallpaper in the entrance hall, as if by such small acts she might somehow tie herself to the place in a tangible and enduring way. Alice had gone without pudding for the entire summer when Mother discovered this particular expression of affection, a punishment she could have borne but for the injustice of being cast as a wanton vandal. “I thought you of all people would have more respect for the house,” her mother had hissed, white with fury. “That a child of mine could behave with such careless disregard, be the author of such a cruel and thoughtless prank!” The shame Alice had felt, the heartbreak, at hearing herself described in such a way, at having the results of her passionate need for possession reduced to a general mischief, had been profound.
But never mind that now. She stretched her legs out in front of her, lining up her toes, and sighed with deep contentment. It was in the past, water under the bridge, a childish fixation. Sunlight was everywhere, glittering gold off the bright green leaves of the garden. A blackcap, concealed within the foliage of a nearby willow, sang a sweet fanfare and a pair of mallards fought over a particularly juicy snail. The orchestra was rehearsing a dance number and music skimmed across the surface of the lake. How lucky they were to get a day like this one! After weeks of agonising, of studying the dawn, of consulting Those Who Ought to Know, the sun had risen, burning off any lingering cloud, just as it should on Midsummer’s Eve. The evening would be warm, the breeze light, the party as bewitching as it always was.
Alice had been aware of Midsummer Eve’s magic long before she was old enough to stay up for the party, back when Nanny Bruen would bring them downstairs, Alice and her two sisters in their finest dresses, and prod them into line for presentation to the guests. The party was still in its opening throes then, well-dressed adults behaving with stilted decorum as they waited for night’s fall; but later, when she was supposed to be asleep, Alice would listen for Nanny’s breaths to grow deep and slumbersome, and then she’d creep to the nursery window and kneel on a chair to watch the lanterns glowing like night-ripe fruit, the raging bonfire that appeared to float on the moon-silvered water, the enchanted world in which places and people were almost as she remembered them, but not quite.
And tonight she’d be among them; a night that was going to be extra special. Alice smiled, shivering lightly with anticipation. She checked her watch and then took out the folder she’d tucked inside the basket, opened it to reveal the precious cargo inside. The manuscript was one of two copies she’d painstakingly typed on the Remington portable, her latest effort and the culmination of a year’s work. There was a small error in the title where she’d accidentally hit a “u’ rather than a “y’, but other than that it was perfect. Ben wouldn’t mind; he’d be the first to tell her it was far more important to send the pristine copy to Victor Gollancz. When it was published he could have his very own first edition, she’d even sign it for him, right beneath the dedication.
Bye Baby Bunting: Alice read the title under her breath, enjoying the little shiver of mystery it still sent down her spine. She was very proud of the story; it was her best so far and she had high hopes for its publication. It was a murder mystery, a proper one. After studying the preface to Best Detective Stories, she’d sat down with her notebook and made a list of the rules according to Mr Ronald Knox. She’d realised her mistake in trying to marry two disparate genres, killed off Laura, and then started again from scratch, dreaming up, instead, a country house, a detective and a household full of worthy suspects. The puzzle had been the tricky bit, figuring out how to keep whodunit from her readers. That’s when she’d decided she needed a sounding board, a Watson to her Holmes, so to speak. Happily, she’d found him. She’d found more than that.
For B.M., partner in crime, accomplice in life
She ran her thumb over the dedication. Once the novel was published everyone would know about them, but Alice didn’t care. There was a part of her that couldn’t wait. So many times she’d almost blurted it out to Deborah, or even to Clemmie, so desperate was she to hear the words out loud, and she’d been dodging conversations with Mother, who harboured suspicions, Alice knew. But it was right, somehow, that they should find out when they read her published book.
Bye Baby Bunting had been born out of conversations with Ben; she couldn’t have done it without him, and now, having plucked their thoughts from the air and put them down as words on paper, she’d taken something intangible, a mere possibility, and made it real. Alice couldn’t help but feel that by giving him his copy she was making the promise that stretched unspoken between them more real, too. Promises were important in the Edevane family. It was something they’d learned from Mother, the adage drummed into them from as soon as they could talk: a promise should never be made that one wasn’t prepared to keep.
Voices sounded on the other side of the hawthorn hedge and instinctively Alice snatched up the manuscript, hugging it to her. She listened, alert, and then hurried to the hedge, peering through a small diamond-shaped gap in the leaves. Ben was no longer out on the island and the boat was back at the jetty, but Alice found the three men together near the remaining pile of logs. She watched as Ben drank from his tin canteen, the knot in his throat that moved as he swallowed, the shadow of stubble along his jawline, the curl of dark hair that reached his collar. Perspiration had left a damp patch on his shirt and Alice’s throat caught; she loved his smell, it was so earthy and real.
Mr Harris gathered up his tool bag and issued some parting instructions, to which Ben gave a nod, the hint of a smile. Alice smiled with him, taking in the dimple in his left cheek, his strong shoulders, his exposed forearm glistening beneath the fierce sun. As she watched he straightened, a noise in the distance having caught his attention. She followed his gaze as it left Mr Harris and settled on something in the wild gardens beyond.
Visible, just, in the tangle of foxtail lilies and verbena, Alice spotted a small figure making his way, jouncy and intrepid, towards the house. Theo. The glimpse of her baby brother broadened Alice’s smile; the large black shadow hovering behind, however, doused it. She understood now why Ben was frowning; she felt the same way about Nanny Bruen. She didn’t like her one bit, but then one tended not to develop fond feelings for people with despotic dispositions. Why the sweet, pretty Nanny Rose had been fired was anyone’s guess. She’d obviously adored Theo, doted on him in fact, and there wasn’t anyone who didn’t like her. Even Daddy had been seen chatting with her in the garden while Theo tripped after the ducks, and Daddy was a very discerning judge of character.
Something had got up Mother’s nose, though. Two weeks ago, Alice had seen her arguing with Nanny Rose, an exchange of heated whispers outside the nursery. The disagreement had been something to do with Theo, but vexingly Alice had been too far away to hear precisely what was said. The next thing anyone knew, Nanny Rose was gone and Nanny Bruen had been dusted off for duty. Alice had thought they’d seen the last of the ancient battleaxe with her whiskery chin and bottle of castor oil. Indeed, she’d always felt a certain jot of personal pride, having overheard Grandmother deShiel commenting that it was unruly Alice who had broken the last of the old nanny’s spirit. But now, here she was, back again, more crotchety than ever.
Alice was still lamenting the loss of Nanny Rose, when she realised she was no longer alone on her side of the hedge. A twig snapped behind her and she straightened abruptly, swinging around.
“Mr Llewellyn!” Alice exclaimed, when she saw the hunched figure standing there, an easel under one arm, a large sketch block clutched awkwardly to his other side. “You frightened me.”
“Sorry, Alice, dear. It would appear I don’t know my own stealth. I was hoping we might have a little chat.” r />
“Now, Mr Llewellyn?” Despite her affection for the old man, she fought a wave of frustration. He didn’t seem to understand that the days of Alice sitting with him while he sketched, of bobbing downstream together in the rowing boat, of her confessing all her childish secrets as they hunted fairies were gone. He’d been important to her once, there was no denying that; a treasured friend when she was small and a mentor when she was first getting started with her writing. Many times she’d run to present him with the small childish stories she’d scribbled in a fit of inspiration and he’d made a great show of providing earnest critique. But now, at sixteen, she had other interests, things she couldn’t share with him. “I’m rather busy, you see.”
His gaze drifted towards the hole in the hedge and Alice felt her cheeks glow with sudden warmth.
“I’m keeping an eye on party preparations,” she said quickly, and when Mr Llewellyn smiled in a way that suggested he knew precisely whom she’d been watching and why, she added, “I’ve been gathering flowers for Mother.”
He glanced at her discarded basket, the blooms wilting now in the midday heat.
“A task I really should be getting on with.”
“Of course,” he said with a nod, “and I wouldn’t normally dream of interrupting while you’re so busy helping. But there’s something rather important I need to talk to you about.”
Alice glanced back at the hedge. “I’m afraid I really can’t spare the time.”
Mr Llewellyn seemed unusually disappointed and it occurred to Alice that he’d been quite flat lately. Not moping exactly, but distracted and sad. The buttons of his satin vest were done up crookedly, she noticed, and the scarf around his neck was tatty. She felt a sudden wave of sympathy and nodded towards his sketch block, an attempt to make amends. “It’s very good.” It was, too. She hadn’t known him to draw Theo before and the likeness was exceptional, the lingering hint of babyhood in his round cheeks and full lips, the wide trusting eyes. Dear Mr Llewellyn had always been able to see the best in all of them. “Shall we meet after tea, perhaps?” she suggested with an encouraging smile. “Sometime before the party?”