Wild Wood (43 page)

“Second time today, Mack. Careful.” She can hardly speak for shaking.

“What?”

“You’re holding me up again.”

“I’ll carry you.”

“You’ll do your back in.” Not much of a joke.

“I don’t think so. Good practice. Training starts soon.” Mack’s making conversation as he puts an arm under Jesse’s knees and slings the other around her back.

The muscles remember when he scoops her up—all these years of rugby—and he starts the walk to the car; it’s easier than he thought.

He hitches her higher, finds a rhythm, as Jesse leans into his shoulder.

The sound of the river recedes and all he hears is her breath. And his.

Jesse slowly closes her eyes. She’s cold and she wants to curl up and never wake again. But something’s digging into her chest and she remembers—and is glad. She still has it. It’s wedged inside the sling. . . .

38

T
HE ESTATE
office is a mess. Alicia knows it is, but she’s not about to start tidying now—she’d be at it for days and days.
And
, she absolutely does not want to breathe in all those mold spores and dust. She’s got enough problems.

It’s impossible not to replay that moment. Rory’s shock when she put her hands on his face. His expression. The gentle way he took her hands away and—

Stop!

Alicia will
not
let herself go there. She might feel sick, and she might feel like crying, but she cannot avoid what must be done right here, right now.

She slumps into a chair. Leather-bound account books stare at her—one for each month of the year, for every year—and they’re all around the walls, neatly labeled in a number of different hands. From where she’s sitting at her father’s old desk, she can see the accounts from more than a hundred years.

Too much information! And the problem is, she knows it’s all useless. She’s been through this lot too many times.

But you might have missed something.

Alicia pulls the pile from the last five years closer.

Go on!
She opens the ledger for the previous year. Flipping through the pages, her hand touches the word
December
. The month before her father died.

Here it is, all neatly written down.

The debits (too many), the credits (too few), the bottom line.

The bottom line. Disastrous.

Alicia sits back. She knows this story so well, all the mistakes her father made. Leasing the land and trying to keep up with repairs from the money that came in; not enough, never nearly enough.

She closes the ledger with a snap, gets up, goes looking.

That’s
where she put it. Alicia picks up a brochure and folds it out. She remembers why she hid it. She’d been so horrified she’d actually rung—actually had a conversation with the National Trust about gifting Hundredfield—that she’d put it “away” so she wouldn’t have to see it again.

But there it is, wedged into one of the bookshelves between
Husbandry for the Practical Farmer
and the classic
Herbal Handbook for Farm and Stable
.

A car’s crossing the bridge as she picks up the phone. It’s Mack; Alicia knows the sound of the old MG. That must mean Jesse’s coming back. Is that a good thing?

“Hello? . . . Thank you. Lady Alicia Donne here.” She so rarely uses her title, but it’s useful sometimes. “Yes, I’d like to speak to”—she peers at the brochure—“Dr. Elizabeth Humboldt, if I can? She might remember me. We spoke a few weeks ago and she sent me some information. . . . Yes, I’ll wait.”

Unseeing, Alicia stares out the window. It’s a beautiful day now. The rain’s held off at least.

“Dr. Humboldt, hello. . . . Yes, Alicia Donne. You do remember? . . . Excellent.” Alicia sits down at the desk, spreads out the brochure. “Sorry not to have been in touch, things got busy. . . . Yes. You know how it is.”

“What were you thinking?” Rory, furious, skewers Mack with a glance.

Mack’s walking Jesse slowly into the great hall. Their clothes drip on the tiles. She’s shivering. He says quietly, “This was all I had.” He pulls the rug more tightly around Jesse. He’s slung his jacket over her shoulders as well.

“Look at her. Jesus!” Rory hurries to a ground-floor bathroom.

“It’s okay, Jesse. You’ll be warm soon.”

The girl sits gratefully with Mack’s help. Unselfconsciously she leans into his shoulder and closes her eyes. She’s so tired. Just wants to sleep.

Rory’s back. He’s got a bundle of towels, throws a couple to Mack. “I’ll put these around you, Jesse, then we’ll get you into a hot bath.”

She nods, white-faced.

Rory strips off the jacket and the sodden rug. He hesitates. “What happened?”

Holding the girl, Mack just shakes his head. “Later.”

“What do you mean, later?”

“Just what I said.” Mack’s tone is even.

Alicia’s head appears around the estate-office door. Her eyes widen.

Rory takes control. “Can you run a bath for Jesse, please? A hot one?”

“Of course.” Alicia hurries to the great staircase. “Bring her up.” Her eyes are red. The others don’t notice.

One on either side, the brothers help Jesse stand. Mack says gently, “Take your time. Absolutely no hurry at all.”

Rory picks up on the tenderness. His expression changes. “That’s right, Jesse. One foot after the other, that’s all you need to do.”

When they get Jesse upstairs, Mack can’t help staring at Alicia. “What happened to you?”

Alicia ducks her head. “Bring Jesse into the bathroom, please. I’ll take it from there.”

“Are you sure? I can help.”

“I’m certain, Mack.” It takes real effort, but Alicia’s back to cool as she shuts them outside.

Rory calls out, “Jesse should have some hot sweet tea. I’ll bring it up.”

The room has filled with steam when Alicia turns off the taps. “Let’s get you in. Why don’t I help with your clothes?”

Jesse’s sitting on a stool beside the bath. Her expression is drained, her eyes blank. “I’m so sorry, Alicia. That’s all I ever seem to say.”

Alicia strips off the towels. “Top next. Left arm first.”

Like a child, Jesse does as she’s told as Alicia pulls the sleeve down and extracts her arm. “Sling side next.”

Jesse’s too tired to express an opinion. All of this feels like some complicated dream. Another one.

“Here we go.” But the busy hands stop.

Jesse remembers what’s next to her chest inside the sling.

Water spurts into the kettle from the tap. “What was Jesse like before the accident?” Rory takes it to the Aga. His face is drawn.

Mack says nothing. He’s wearing a pair of Rory’s jeans and a shirt. The shirt, in particular, strains across the chest and shoulders.

“Mack, we have to talk. I’m trying to find out if Jesse tried to kill herself.”

Mack opens his mouth. And closes it again. “I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

Mack flares. “She was upset.” Folding his arms, he leans back on the sink.

Rory get mugs from the cabinet. “After you went to Jedburgh?”

A reluctant nod.

“What caused that?”

“You should ask Jesse.” Mack’s mouth is clamped in a stubborn line.

The mugs bang down on the table. “Help me, Mack. Please.” Rory’s eyes are haunted. The tension amps down a bit. “Look, head injuries are tricky; maybe I’ve misjudged Jesse’s situation.” The kettle’s starting to burble and spit. Rory takes it off the hob.

“Meaning?”

“Jesse may be more unstable, or fragile, than I thought.” Rory makes the tea. His movements are jerky.
He
brought Jesse to Hundredfield. If the stress of confronting something she does not understand has primed her for a breakdown and a nearly successful suicide attempt, that’s his responsibility. “Can you get a tray?” He takes milk from the fridge, pours it into a jug.

“You’re slopping it.” Mack swabs around Rory, pulls a tray from a cupboard near the sink. “You’re asking me about Jesse’s own very, very personal business. That’s a conversation you should have with her.”

Rory carries the mugs to the tray. Puts them down carefully. “She might try again. Would-be suicides often do.” He’s trying not to sensationalize.

That stops Mack.

There’s a pause, and Rory says, “So, can you describe exactly what happened? Please, Mack. Try not to leave anything out.”

Mack sits on a sharp response. “I was at the car—beside the road, where we’d parked—and when she didn’t come back, I started to worry.”

“Did you think it odd she wanted to go for a walk?”

“She might have needed to find a tree, and . . .”

“That aside, was there any other reason that—”

Mack prickles. “What do you mean ‘
that
aside’? It’s a normal thing to do.” He fields Rory’s glance. “Okay. Yes, I was concerned about . . . about how Jesse was feeling.”

“Why?”

Mack pauses. “She’d had a shock.”

“At Jedburgh?”

A nod. “Jesse found out—ah—some aspects, shall we say, of her actual birth.”

“And?”

“Not good.” Mack shakes his head with feeling. “And then, when we left, well, she had hallucinations. Vivid, three-D, the full catastrophe: sound and fury and I don’t know what else. And she spun right out. I persuaded her to get in the car because—honestly?—I thought she’d be better off at Hundredfield. Her suitcase is still in the trunk, by the way. When I picked her up this morning, she said she thought it was time to move on. Something about overstaying her welcome.”

Rory absorbs that. “But you still thought she should talk to me?”

Mack hesitates. “Yes.”

“Go on.”

“I couldn’t see her when I got to the river. And I just had a feeling, you know? So I looked over the bank into the pool, and there she was, under the water.” Mack swallows. “You think people drown facedown, but Jesse was looking up. Her expression was really peaceful. Happy.” Mack rubs his eyes vigorously. “I thought she was already dead. The rest you know. CPR, she revived, and I brought her back. I have no idea how long she’d really been under there.”

Rory says absently, “She’s a lucky girl.”

“You said you don’t believe in luck.”

“Just a turn of phrase.” Rory hands Mack the tray.

Propped on pillows, Jesse’s sitting up in bed in a pair of Alicia’s flannel pajamas. She’s trying not to think. Not about her mother, not about the woman under the water, not about drowning.

Not about the missing child.

Just outside, she hears a murmured conversation. Alicia’s talking
to Rory. Jesse can hear Mack too. The voices rise and fall. Mack’s not happy. She hears her name mentioned as Alicia brings the tray into the room and closes the door. Four teaspoons of sugar are dropped into the mug of tea and stirred. “Energy, Jess. You need it.”

Jesse stares at the surface of the liquid as it settles. If she says anything, anything at all, Alicia will think she’s nuts because she sure as hell does. Her gaze transfers to the towel-wrapped lump on her knees.

Alicia leans forward. “Just a sip.” She guides the mug to the girl’s mouth. “It’s hot.”

Jesse does as she’s asked. She hesitates—as if tea were an unfamiliar thing. Another sip, and she gives the mug back.