Part 16
“Yes.”
“You can write. Do not explain. Do not mention the house. Do not ask her to understand.”
Beatrice stared at him. “What is left?”
“The truth.”
She looked down at the gardening book.
“I am sorry,” she said.
“Not to me.”
“No.”
She packed the book.
Poppy returned to Ashcombe Manor during the final week before the sale completed.
Sophie had delayed bringing her, afraid the child would connect the empty rooms with her story at dinner. Eventually, Poppy became more distressed by being excluded than she might have been by the truth.
She walked through the dining room holding Nathan’s hand.
The long table had been removed for auction. Pale rectangles marked the carpet where its legs had stood.
“Is this because I told?” she asked.
Nathan crouched beside her.
“No.”
“But it happened after.”
“Yes.”
Poppy frowned. “That means because.”
“Not always.”
She waited.
Nathan searched for words that did not ask a six-year-old to understand adult cowardice.
“Grandfather took something that did not belong to him,” he said. “Other grown-ups knew parts of it and did not tell the truth. The house is being sold so the money can be given back.”
“Did the red-ring man take it?”
“He helped hide it.”
“Did Aunt Celia?”
“No.”
“She hid the key.”
“For one night.”
“Did you?”
Nathan looked across the empty room.
“I hid from deciding what to do.”
Poppy considered that.
“Is that the same?”
“Not exactly.”
“Is it wrong?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“Are you and Aunt Celia still getting married?”
Nathan sat back on his heels.
“We don’t know.”
“Grown-ups don’t know many things.”
“No.”
“Children know more.”
“Sometimes.”
Poppy walked to the place where Celia’s chair had been.
“I knew about the red ring.”
“You did.”
“And Bernard knew.”
The stuffed rabbit hung beneath her arm.
“Naturally.”
Poppy smiled.
Sophie stood in the doorway, watching them.
Later, they went to the greenhouse. The steel compartment remained open and empty. Poppy peered inside.
“It’s smaller than I thought.”
“Most secrets are,” Sophie said.
Nathan looked at her.
She shrugged. “That sounded better before I said it.”
Poppy ran into the main greenhouse to inspect a tray of seedlings left by the gardener.
Sophie stayed beside Nathan.
“I found a flat,” she said.
“Where?”
“Near Poppy’s school. Tiny kitchen. No garden.”
“I can help.”
“I know.”
“With my own money.”
“I know that too.”
She leaned against the metal desk.
“I was angry because Celia could save us and didn’t.”
“She saved more than she was required to.”
“Yes.”
“You do not have to be grateful yet.”
“That is generous.”
“I learned from expensive solicitors.”
Sophie smiled.
“Do you think she’ll marry you?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What are you doing about it?”
“Trying to become someone she can answer honestly.”
“That sounds annoyingly healthy.”
“It feels awful.”
“Good.”
On the day the family left Ashcombe Manor, Beatrice walked through every room twice.
The buyers had agreed to retain five estate employees and honor the tenant leases. The rest received severance from the settlement fund Celia had negotiated.
Furniture went to storage, auction, or smaller houses. Richard’s portrait was wrapped in cloth and sent with Beatrice. She had considered leaving it but changed her mind.
Nathan did not object.
Celia arrived near noon with Imogen in a carrier against her chest.
It was her first time at the manor since leaving for London.
Beatrice saw her in the hall and stopped.
For several seconds, neither woman spoke.
Then Beatrice handed Celia an envelope.
“I wrote this,” she said. “Nathan told me not to explain.”
Celia glanced at him.
“I said not to ask for understanding.”
“That too,” Beatrice said.
Celia accepted the letter.
“I will read it later.”
“You need not answer.”
“I know.”
Beatrice looked at the baby.
“May I?”
Celia hesitated.
Then she adjusted the carrier so Beatrice could see Imogen’s face.
The baby slept with one fist beside her cheek.
“She has Nathan’s ears,” Beatrice said.
Celia looked at Nathan. “Unfortunately.”
Beatrice laughed.
The sound broke halfway through and became a sob. She covered her mouth.
Celia did not embrace her. She did not offer forgiveness. She stood close enough that Beatrice did not have to hide.
After Beatrice left, Nathan and Celia went into the empty dining room.
Sunlight fell across the faded carpet. Without the table, the room looked smaller and less important.
Celia walked to the place where she had sat on the night of the engagement dinner.
“I hated you here,” she said.
Nathan stood beside her. “For asking?”
“For believing fear gave you the right to ask.”
“Yes.”
“And I hated myself for lying to Poppy.”
“She forgave you.”
“Children do that too quickly.”
“She remembers.”
“That is not the same as holding it against me.”
“No.”
Imogen stirred against Celia’s chest.
Nathan touched one tiny sock.
“The sale completes at four,” he said.
“I know.”
“I have rented a house in Oxford.”
Celia looked at him. “You rented it?”
“Yes.”
“Without asking me?”
“For myself.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“It has three bedrooms,” he admitted.
“Nathan.”
“One is very small.”
“That is not a defense.”
“I am not asking you to move in.”
“What are you asking?”
He took a key from his pocket.
It was new, silver, and attached to a plain paper tag supplied by the letting agent.
He held it out but did not place it in her hand.
“I would like you to see it,” he said. “The house. Not the key.”
Celia looked at the key anyway.
“No greenhouse?”
“A plastic shed.”
“Any hidden ledgers?”
“I checked badly, so possibly.”
She smiled.
Nathan lowered his hand.
“I am not proposing again.”
“Good.”
“I am not asking for an answer today.”
“Also good.”
“I want to try. Without the estate. Without your money. Without asking Imogen to make us a family before we decide whether we can be one.”
Celia’s smile faded, but not from fear.
“What does trying mean?”
“Separate finances. Counseling. No decisions about marriage for six months. You keep your flat. I keep the house. We share time with Imogen. We tell each other things before they become strategies.”
“That last one sounds difficult.”
“It is the main reason for counseling.”
Celia looked around the room.
“My mother would have hated this wallpaper,” she said.
Nathan followed her gaze. “So did my father.”
“That is the nicest thing I have heard about him.”
He laughed.
Imogen woke and began to fuss.
Celia lifted her from the carrier. Nathan waited until she nodded before taking the baby.
He settled Imogen against his shoulder and walked slowly across the empty room.
At four minutes before completion, the solicitor telephoned. Nathan answered, listened, and confirmed that the keys to Ashcombe Manor had been left with the agent.
When he ended the call, the house was no longer theirs.
No thunder sounded. No portrait fell. Outside, a removal van reversed with a repetitive electronic beep.
Celia stood beside the window.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
Nathan adjusted Imogen’s blanket.
“Relieved.”
“And?”
“Homeless.”
“You have a rented house.”
“It doesn’t know me yet.”
Celia considered that.
“Houses learn slowly,” she said.
They left through the front doors together.
Poppy was waiting on the gravel beside Sophie’s car. She wore her ivory dress from the engagement dinner, though it was now too short at the knees. One dusty-pink bow had come loose from her braid.
“You said I could hold the baby,” she reminded them.
Sophie said, “After you sit down.”
Poppy sat immediately on the lowest stone step.
Celia placed Imogen carefully in her arms while Sophie supported the baby’s head.
Poppy stared at her cousin.
“She is very small.”
“So were you,” Sophie said.
“I was bigger.”
“You were not.”
Poppy looked at Nathan. “Are you coming with Aunt Celia?”
“We are driving separately.”
“That is silly.”
“Sometimes separate cars are useful.”
“Are you getting married?”
Celia sat beside her.
“Not yet.”
“But later?”
“We don’t know.”
Poppy sighed.
Nathan sat on her other side.
The four adults and two children remained on the steps while the removal van pulled away. Beatrice’s car was already gone. The gravel bore pale marks where furniture crates had rested.
Poppy touched Imogen’s fist.
The baby’s fingers opened around one of hers.
“She likes me,” Poppy whispered.
“She does,” Celia said.
Poppy looked at Nathan. “Did telling the truth make everything bad?”
Nathan glanced at Celia.
Celia answered first.
“No. The bad things had already happened.”
“Then why did everyone get sad after?”
“Because we had to stop pretending they hadn’t.”
Poppy thought about that.
“Are things good now?”
Nathan looked at the manor, the empty windows, the auction labels still tied to two hall chairs, the woman beside him who had not promised to stay.
“Not all of them,” he said.
Poppy nodded as if this was a sensible answer.
Imogen tightened her hand around Poppy’s finger.
Celia took the new silver house key from Nathan’s palm and read the paper tag.
“I will come and see it,” she said.
Nathan did not ask when.
May you like
He stood, lifted Imogen from Poppy’s arms, and waited while Celia retied the dusty-pink bow at the end of the child’s braid.
Then they walked down the steps, leaving the old brass key, the burgundy ring, and the long candlelit table to the records of what had happened, carrying only the ordinary keys to the places they had not yet learned how to call home.
