Wild Wood (57 page)

“Where?” That mighty surge of sound is made of one word: “Charles!”

The small figure of a man, dwarfed by that immensity of stone, turns at the top of the steps and waves.

Janet gives a satisfied sigh. “Oh, isn’t he handsome? The press are so unfair to that poor man. Charles! Charles!” Waving enthusiastically, Janet’s got her face jammed against the viewing window. “Look! He’s turning this way!” She waves again. One hand among so many.

Jesse waves too. The actual king of England-to-be. And then she remembers. Part of her blood family has a history as long as the Windsors’. Longer, maybe. But Eva?
Where did you come from? Who were you? How did you just disappear?

Janet nudges Jesse. “You know, I heard a million people are here today. Doesn’t surprise me a bit.”

Jesse’s jerked back to the present. “No. A million? Amazing.” She stands protectively behind her mother, trying to make a bit of space for her. Janet’s such a tiny woman. Anyone looking at them both would never think they’re mother and daughter.
Big as a fridge, ridgy-didge.
But the taunt from school days doesn’t hurt anymore. She likes being tall. Mack’s taller.

“Rory’s sister?
What?
”

That had been a moment. It was after Mack had found her in the inner ward.

“Yes. It’s true. But do you want the best news?”
Poor man.
Stunned got nowhere near the right word.

“There’s more?”

Jesse’s heart had lifted, she had felt it physically. So the old saying was true. “Yes. There really is. You’re not my brother, Mack. Not full, not half, not even a bit. We are not related. Period.”

He had snorted. “I could have told you that.”

“Oh, really?”

“We don’t look a bit alike.” That amiable grin.

Jesse feels that urgent hand on her sleeve again. “Yes, Mum?”

“You’re not listening.” Janet’s jumping, yes, jumping up and down. “She’s here. Look!”

There she was indeed, as the crowd surged and craned and roared. A girl in a fairy tale, getting out of a glass coach, on her way to meet her prince.

“Oh! The dress, look at the dress.”

Jesse craned and angled with the rest of them. She wanted to see it. Something released in her heart. She was enjoying herself. Actually, really enjoying herself. Nothing would ever surprise her again, but fairy tales? What was all that about?

The small black-and-white TV brings the wedding into the kitchen at Hundredfield. Panning shots of the crowds in the cathedral, then a high point of view as the groom and his brothers walk into position at the high altar.

There’s a tight shot as Andrew sneaks a look toward the West Door and nods to Charles just as the picture goes to snow.

“No!” Alicia hurries to the dresser, fiddles with the rabbit ears. The picture settles. She edges back to the table, eyes fixed on every flicker.

“Hello. I’d forgotten it was today.”

Alicia startles. “Rory! How could you forget a thing like this?”

He’s standing just inside the back door. She didn’t hear him come down the stairs.

Surprised, she’s uncomfortable. So is he. “Come in. I can turn it off, if you like. I mean, what’s another wedding? Seen one, seen—”

“—them all.” He nods. “Yes. But why don’t we watch it together? We can pass it on to the grandchildren.”

Something complex passes across Alicia’s face. “Yes. Yes, please stay. That would be nice.”

With all the movement on the screen, all the noise, and Richard Burton’s voice-over of the action, it’s still curiously quiet in the kitchen at Hundredfield as Rory joins her at the table.

“Lovely girl, if a bit young.” Rory’s doing his best. He thinks Alicia doesn’t notice as he keeps glancing at her face.

“I know just what we need.” Alicia hurries out of the room. She calls out from the passage, “Where’s Mack, by the way?”

Rory stares at the little screen as if there’ll be questions about the dress. “With Mum. Been a rugged couple of days.”

“Knew we had a couple left.” Alicia’s returned with a very, very large bottle of Bollinger. “Nineteen fifty-six. Not exactly cold, but not too bad.”

Rory gets up. “Let me.”

“I’m sorry about Helen. She’s a proud woman. I suppose she did what she thought was best.” It’s a big admission, but for a moment, when she hands him the bottle, Alicia’s expression wobbles. “Glasses!” She hurries to the cabinet. A collection of less-than-grand odds and ends of crystal is on a shelf.

“I, Charles Philip Arthur George, take thee . . .”

Rory times the pop of the cork to the moment when the archbishop says, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

“Can you hear that? They’re all cheering! The whole of London!” Alicia turns to him with delight. “The whole world too. It’s
real, then. The fairy tale. Just like you said.” She’s trying to catch champagne as it foams from the neck of the bottle. “He looks a bit serious, though.”

“Wouldn’t you? Man’s just got married in front of the world. Can’t back out now.”

“Hello, hello. Anyone home?” The door bangs open as Mack tows Hugh Windhover into the kitchen.

“I thought you were with Mum?”

“I was.” Mack’s not commenting.

Hugh clears his throat. “Lady Alicia. You’re looking, ah”—it would be a lie to say she’s looking better. The black eyes are a rich green-purple now—“brighter than when I saw you last.”

“I am.” Alicia hands their visitor a glass. She lowers her voice. “Sorry to waste your time, Hugh, but I don’t think we’ll be selling. Circumstances have changed in the family.”

Rory, dispensing champagne, hears
family.
He smiles at his sister.

“I’m very pleased to hear it. Hundredfield should stay with the Donnes, Lady Alicia. That’s my honest opinion.” Hugh’s suddenly aware that the others are watching them. “And you haven’t wasted my time.”

She looks at him, surprised. “No?”

He takes a sip of the champagne. Smiles appreciatively. “No.”

“Oh, look. He’s going to kiss her.”

Standing behind the chair that Alicia’s sitting in, Hugh murmurs, “Sensible man.”

CODA

O
LITTLE TOWN
of Bethlehem,

How still we see thee lie.

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep . . .

The words of the carol float from the tinsel-decked radio as the old nun unfolds the sheet of paper.

Dear Sister
 . . .

She turns it over to see who’s written to her. A bold signature, but it’s readable. Jesse Marley. Sister Mary Joseph sighs. It’s always so nice to get letters, but she doesn’t know what more she can say to the girl.

I hope you don’t mind me writing to you. It’s a few months now since we saw each other, and a great deal has changed in my life. And since it’s so close to Christmas, I thought I’d just drop you this note to give you some news.

“Cup of tea, Sister?” The sentence is delivered directly into an ear.

The old lady jumps. “Julie! I can hear you perfectly well.”

“I know.” The volume is barely different. “But I like to be sure. Christmas cake to go with a cuppa?” The lumpish girl in the Santa hat pours dark brown tea into indestructible china. “That’s a treat. A letter.”

Sister Mary Joseph takes the tea, shakes her head at the cake. Julie. Loud
and
nosy.
Yes, we all have our crosses to bear.

“Julie, you forgot the sugar.” Mrs. Valentine, Sister Mary Joseph’s mah-jongg companion, claims the ward assistant’s attention.

“We can’t have that, can we? I’ll just go and get it.” Julie wields the tea trolley like a weapon on her way to the fake log fire. Numerous old ladies draw back as the wheels sweep past.

Once the trolley’s nosed back through the door, Sister Mary reads again.

Where to start. First of all, you might like to know that I’m now engaged to Mack. He sends his very best regards. We’re so happy, and planning to be married in spring next year when we can get all our family together in the one place; I think I said my parents live in Sydney?

Sister Mary smiles. They suit each other, this handsome pair. And they’ll have lovely children together; giants, but lovely all the same.

The other thing I wanted to let you know is that I’ll be moving to Newton Prior next year. (I’ve been staying at Hundredfield for the last few months.) Mack has a house there, and we’ve been having great fun painting and pulling out walls ahead of moving in together.

A tolerant chuckle from the old lady. After the wedding? Only perhaps.

However, and I hope I’m not being a nuisance if I ask you just once more, is there anything, anything at all, that you can remember after my birth mother died? Any detail will be helpful. Next year I’m planning to look for more information about the disappearance of her body, but I do need help.

The nun closes her eyes. Polite but persistent, is Jesse. But what can she say to the girl? What should she say?

The police regard this as what is called “a cold case.” That is, the file is not closed, but they have no plans to reopen it. But I don’t feel I can rest until I know more about where she might be buried or, indeed, anything at all I can find out about her. My adopted mum can’t tell me very much because, as you are aware, Eva couldn’t speak, though she did tell me, and I know this sounds odd, that the earl arrived at Hundredfield with her one day. He’d been out riding in the forest and found her there.

So, apart from the information you’ve been able to give me about my birth, there’s very little else. But one day I may have children. And I’d like them to know who Eva Green was, and what happened to her. I’m sure you can understand.

If you would like to write back to me, Hundredfield will find me until January, at least.

I hope you have a very happy Christmas.

Warm best wishes,

Jesse Marley

The old hands lie slack on the paper.
Christmas.
The word weaves like smoke through Sister Mary’s mind as sleep beckons. Something about Christmas. What is it?

Her eyes fly open. She remembers now. She’d been invited to Hundredfield, an Advent children’s party. Lady Elizabeth herself had sent the invitation, and that had caused a stir at Holly House. She’d met the countess, but only once or twice, and she wasn’t sure why she’d been invited.

But snow, there’d been a great deal of snow that Christmas, hadn’t there?

In the great hall at Hundredfield, a glass of sherry in her hand, Mary Joseph remembers staring out the window as that lacy veil began to fall. The countess had asked if she was enjoying herself, and if she was warm.

She’d said, “Thank you, Your Grace. I’m delighted to be here.” And she was.

Then the countess had said an odd thing. “I just wanted to thank you for your help this year. Such a delicate matter.”