Nicola Upson - Angel with Two Faces

‘There was a time when I would have argued,’ Archie said. ‘Her kindness kept me sane when my parents died.’

‘I’m sure, but you were never as vulnerable as most of the people whose lives she shapes, for want of a better word – not even then, when you were grieving. And I’m not saying she does it maliciously. I’m sure she genuinely believes she’s doing good, but that only makes her more dangerous. I can’t tell you how relieved I was when William said he wanted to take charge of Loveday’s future. Morveth isn’t a good influence for someone like her.’

‘No, I agree,’ he said, and told her everything he’d learned from Jago Snipe about Christopher’s unofficial adoption and the tragic circumstances that made it possible. ‘There’s no doubt that it was Morveth’s idea to give the child to Jago,’ he finished gravely. ‘I need to go and see her first thing in the morning. Will you come with me?’

‘Me? Why? Won’t Ronnie’s constable go with you?’

Archie smiled. ‘No. I spoke to him earlier and he’ll be busy getting the search underway. I think you may be right about Christopher, but I’m not leaving anything to chance. I owe that much to Jago – or to Joseph Caplin, whichever way you want to look at it. And part of the conversation I need to have with Morveth is personal. We have to talk about my mother, and she made that your business by telling you what happened. I’d like you to be there. After today, I don’t entirely trust myself to behave well. Will you come?’

‘Of course,’ she said, getting up and putting the guard in front of the fire, much to Motley Penrose’s disgust, ‘and I’ll try to keep my dislike to myself.’

He kissed her goodnight and walked through to the hall, but stopped on the bottom step. ‘About Morwenna and that bloody poem,’ he said, looking back. ‘I only meant…’

She put her finger to her lips. ‘I know what you meant, Archie, and I overreacted. It’s actually a very good metaphor for what I do.’

‘Anyway, it was a long time ago. I’ve learned to live with it.’

He matched the lightness in her tone, but she sensed that they were both trying a little too hard. ‘What happened to her, by the way?’ she asked. ‘The Lady of Shalott, I mean – I don’t know the poem.’

‘She died,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘She walked away from her work to face the real world, and it killed her.’

‘I rest my case,’ Josephine said wryly, but could not fool herself that it was anything other than a hollow victory.

Chapter Nineteen

Loveday lay in bed and watched as the oblong of thatch which hung over her bedroom window began to define itself in the early morning light. She loved the stillness of this part of the day, before anyone else was awake, when she could pretend that she was alone in the world, free to make of it what she could, but this morning she was restless and the darkness seemed obstinately sluggish and slow to retreat. Softly, she slipped from the bed, reaching back under the covers to find the clothes that she had pulled in beside her to warm. She dressed carefully, taking time to make sure that the buttons on her cardigan were fastened correctly, then climbed on to a chair in front of her tiny mirror to make sure that the end result met with her approval. With a critical eye, she examined every inch of herself, square by reflected square, then sat back down on the bed to tie her laces. Impatiently, she spat on her hand and wiped a fleck of mud from her left shoe. If they found Christopher today, she wanted to look her best, to let him know what he was missing by running off and leaving her.

Avoiding the steps which creaked was second nature to her after years of furtive comings and goings, and she reached the bottom of the stairs as silently as if she had been carried by the draughts which persistently defied any attempts to block their entrance through the cottage windows. She shivered – whether from cold or excitement she could not say – and went over to the pantry, where she chose a bread roll, two apples and a large piece of cheese to see her through the day. She was on her way back over the flagstones to the door, when she realised that her luck had run out.

‘Where are you going?’ Reluctantly, Loveday turned round to face Morwenna. Her sister was at the bottom of the stairs and, as she stood there in the shadows, dressed in a long white nightshirt with her hair untidy and dark circles around her eyes, she reminded Loveday of a ghost, one of those lost, reckless women who haunted all her brother’s best stories. The similarity was so uncanny that she wanted to laugh, but something in Morwenna’s expression told her not to. If she wanted to get her way now that she had been discovered, she would have to be cleverer than that.

‘I’m going to look for Christopher with the others,’ she said, deciding that Morwenna could surely not object to something that involved everyone.

‘How do you know about that?’

‘I heard Mr Motley telling you when he came round yesterday. I think it’s a bit silly of them not to have asked me to help,’ she added, unable to prevent a note of petulance entering her voice. ‘I know all the secret places, after all, and I’m more likely to find him than anyone.’

‘But Loveday, you haven’t been well,’ Morwenna said in the exasperated tone that her little sister had grown so familiar with over the last few months. ‘Why don’t you go back to bed and read your book?’

‘I’ve finished it.’ Loveday looked sulkily at the floor. ‘You never want me to have any adventures of my own. Just because you’re stuck here all the time, you want me to be miserable with you. Well that’s just not fair.’

‘Oh, do what you like,’ Morwenna said, holding her hands up in defeat. ‘Why should I care, anyway?’

She turned and went back upstairs, and Loveday stood in the hall for a moment, confused. She had expected a longer battle, and was surprised to find that it irked her to have won so easily. Having settled into a relationship of confrontation with her older sister, she was disoriented by the sudden shift in power, and she had to fight an impulse to be contrary and stay in the cottage after all. She forgot it as soon as she was out in the garden, though. A delicate veil of mist hung low over the ground and, by the time she reached the gate, her legs were wet with dew from the unkempt lawn, but the freshness of the morning was exhilarating and the scent from the trees so strong that there scarcely seemed room for anything else in the world. She cut across the lane which led down to Christopher’s house, wondering if he would be back there by the end of the day, and ran down into the bluebell woods.

‘Loveday?’

The voice came from behind her and she stopped instantly, not daring to look back in case she had made a mistake. Then it was there again, and this time she was sure – no one else said her name with so much joy, not even Christopher. She turned and threw herself into Harry’s arms, almost knocking him over.

‘Steady,’ he laughed. ‘You’re not as little as you used to be.’

Loveday buried her face in his neck, taking in the rich, sweet smell of tobacco which always hung around Harry and talking unintelligibly all the time. Eventually, she lifted her face and looked intently at her brother. ‘You’re dirty,’ she said, grinning.

‘And you’re cheeky, but I still love you.’ He laughed, and ruffled her hair. ‘What sort of greeting is that after all this time? And where are you off to so early, anyway?’

‘To find Christopher,’ she said, and regretted her frankness the second she saw the cloud pass across Harry’s face. In her joy at seeing him again, she had quite forgotten how much the two people she cared most about disliked each other. ‘I’ve missed you,’ she said, matter-of-factly. ‘Everybody has, but me most of all. I looked everywhere for you. Where have you been?’