The Caretakers Page 10

  But it’s Deirdre that Tessa’s eyes are drawn to. She’s gone still. In a span of seconds, the elder of the sisters has managed to fold and put away whatever emotions Tessa’s statement might have brought tumbling down. Even her earlier irritation at finding an uninvited visitor is hidden quickly behind bolted doors.

  “My goodness, how lovely,” Kitty says. “Dee, this is baby Imogene’s daughter. Imagine that.”

  Deirdre cuts a glance at Kitty, but her eyes come back to Tessa soon enough. She considers the interloper while carefully guarding her thoughts, perhaps searching Tessa’s face for some resemblance to the family she would have known as a girl.

  Tessa fights an urge to look away, forcing herself to meet the woman’s gaze head-on. “My mother died. We buried her yesterday,” she says quietly.

  “Oh dear.” Kitty visibly deflates at the news. “I am so very sorry, Tessa. You’ve lost your mam. Oh, you poor, poor thing.”

  She didn’t say the words to elicit sympathy, but Kitty closes the gap between them and pulls Tessa into a hug. It’s oddly comforting, and Tessa returns the embrace, breathing in Kitty’s citrus scent. Her eyes find Deirdre over Kitty’s shoulder. She hasn’t moved a muscle.

  Kitty pulls back, though she keeps Tessa’s arm tucked in hers.

  Tessa fumbles. Where to start? “My sister and I had no idea about this place. Mom never told us.”

  “You have a sister?” Kitty asks, brightening a little again. “How lovely. There’s that, at least.” She pats Tessa’s hand and glances back at Deirdre. “Baby Imogene had daughters, Dee. Imagine that.”

  The light is fading fast. Tessa catches a flicker of something pass across the older woman’s expression, but it’s gone before she can identify it.

  “I assume you have questions, then,” Deirdre says. She’s grasped the crux of the situation quickly and completely.

  “Yes.” Tessa can hear the relief in her own voice.

  Deirdre nods, then straightens her spine. “We’ll do our best to answer those,” she says. “But not tonight. Come back tomorrow at a civilized time and you’ll have what you’re after.”

  The woman appears resolute. Defiant almost, and Tessa realizes suddenly how this all must seem. The threat she could potentially pose.

  Tessa nods. It’s getting late, and Deirdre looks older than she did only moments ago.

  “Of course,” she says.

  Content with that, Kitty gives Tessa’s shoulders a final squeeze and a small, conspiratorial smile before joining her sister again. The women turn to make their way back toward their home, hidden out of sight in the woods. Tessa walks slowly to her car and places her hand on the door handle.

  But she can’t let them go without attempting to put their minds at ease.

  “I mean you no harm,” she calls to their retreating backs.

  Deirdre stops and turns, leaning her weight against the cane. Kitty watches the exchange with curiosity and no sign of concern.

  “No one ever does,” Deirdre says. “But that rarely changes anything. Good night, Tessa.”

  20

  KITTY

  The muffled hoot of an owl keeps Kitty company as she nurses the warm cup of milk in the darkness of the front porch. The owl joins her nightly ritual often, and she misses him when he’s gone.

  Tonight, Aiden has joined her too.

  “I think you’ll like her,” Kitty says. He’s been more quiet than usual after hearing about their visitor and her impending return. “There’s nothing to worry about. Really.”

  Aiden shifts in his seat, but it’s too dark to see his expression.

  “I’m not worried for me, Kitty,” he says softly. “Just don’t want the woman to feel uncomfortable, that’s all.”

  “Well, that’s silly. Why in the world—”

  “There are reasons, as you know very well, so don’t play dumb.”

  She pauses, considers her words, then plunges ahead all the same. “Denny, no one blames you. That was only ever in your fool head.”

  He gives a dry chuckle. “You’re a fine one to talk, Kitty cat. There were plenty who did, whether you want to admit it or not. Probably a few old-timers left who still do, for that matter.”

  “Pshh. Then you’re not the only fool left around here. Gossip and idle tongues, that’s all there was to it. There was never any doubt who did it. You and Dee think I was too young to know then and I’m too old to remember now, but you’re wrong on both counts.”

  The rocking chair creaks beneath her as Kitty shifts it faster. She can sense his surprise when he turns to stare at her, even if she can’t read his expression.

  “What exactly do you remember, Kitty?” Aiden asks slowly.

  “Enough,” she tells him. “Enough to know that Lawrence Pynchon was not a good man.”

  A choked sound comes from behind them, and Kitty turns to find her sister standing in the doorway clutching a shawl around her shoulders. Deirdre’s white nightgown faintly glows in the moonlight, and her face is nearly as pale.

  “Don’t you say his name, Kitty. Not in this house.”

  Deirdre’s voice is hoarse. Kitty wants nothing more than to take the words and stuff them right back into her mouth. She’d eat them raw and choke on their bitterness if she could erase the hurt on her sister’s face.

  “I’m sorry, Dee,” she says, and struggles to rise from the chair, but her old bones betray her and she’s not fast enough. Deirdre backs away, into the safety of the cottage and away from the conversation she’s stumbled into. She waves her hand in front of her face, as if a wasp is buzzing around her.

  “No,” she says, cutting off whatever comfort Kitty might try to give. “No, just . . . please. Don’t ever say that name.”

  She turns and hurries back toward her small bedroom, gone in a flurry of nightdress.

  “I’ve upset her,” Kitty says. She’s always doing that. Lately, it seems she does nothing else but state the obvious and upset her sister.

  “She’ll be all right.” But there’s a trace of concern in Aiden’s voice that contradicts his words. “You know how she is. Dee shut the door on those days a long time ago, and she doesn’t like it when someone jimmies the lock.”

  Kitty shifts uncomfortably, biting the inside of her lip.

  “Does she know?” Aiden asks. She’s never been good at hiding her thoughts from him. “That you still see them?”

  Kitty shakes her head. “No. It upsets her too much. After last time . . . I try not to bring it up anymore.”

  Mam saw ghosts too. Kitty remembers, even if Deirdre won’t admit it. The conversations with someone unseen while she worked in the garden. Sometimes they made her cry, but Mam was the one who taught Kitty there was nothing to fear from the dead.

  “The dead are at peace now, Kitty cat,” she said. “It’s the living who struggle.”

  “Tomorrow won’t be easy for her.”

  “That’s why I think you should be here,” Kitty says, urging him again to stay and meet Tessa.

  Aiden shoves his hands deep in his pockets and blows out a breath. “I doubt that would help. It’ll just bring up more questions. We don’t know how much this woman knows or what her plans might be. You heard Dee. She thinks I ought to make myself scarce.”

  “But why is it up to her?” Kitty presses. “She’s not our mother.”

  “Ach, maybe not, but she was always a bossy one, wasn’t she, lass.” The honeyed brogue of their youth gets a smile out of her, if a small one.

  But it’s also a sign he’s done with the subject. The dark silhouette of his form rises and moves to stand at the edge of the porch. It’ll do no good to say anything else. Aiden lives by his own inscrutable rules.

  “I believe I’ll take a walk,” he says, as if the thought has only just occurred to him. Kitty rolls her eyes and mouths the words along with him as he finishes his pronouncement. “Night air does a body good.”

  “Be careful out there, please,” she says shortly. And, again, wonders why s
he bothers. It’s not as if he’s going to set out to not be careful, and only her admonishment will keep him safe.

  “Always,” Aiden replies jauntily, as he always does.

  She sighs and watches him go. The walls of the cottage never hold him for long. It’s been this way since he returned to them a few years ago, home at last from his travels.

  He doesn’t speak about the years he spent away, and she doesn’t ask, but she wonders sometimes about the things he must have seen and done.

  If she could peek at the ledger of Aiden’s life, would the sum equal a good man?

  Kitty has her opinion, of course, but sometimes she worries she’s too close to see the truth of the ones she loves. She wouldn’t be the first to suffer that kind of blindness.

  And now Imogene’s daughter. Not a ghost, but a living, breathing relic of an ancient past. The baby that was never wanted grew up and had babies of her own.

  “You were right, Mam,” she whispers into the wind, recalling another dark night a long time ago.

  Mam is working by the fire, darning socks and mending clothes the children are constantly growing too big for. She sends the girls off to bed and tells them not to stay up too late giggling, but of course they do.

  Dee gives in first. She sleeps now, her mouth open, breath raspy, in the bed next to her, but Kitty’s mind is too busy to settle down.

  A hushed sound travels through the small cottage. A shuffling of feet and a murmur of voices find Kitty’s ears, then the rattle of a teakettle warming on the stove.

  Curious, Kitty slides from the bed. She’s quiet when she wants to be. Sneaky, Aiden calls her, though he says it with a wink and a laugh.

  She pushes the bedroom door open the slightest bit, just a crack, careful not to push too hard and give herself away. Kitty knows she’s eavesdropping, and she feels not the least bit bad about it. No one tells her anything. She’s proud of how good she’s gotten at listening at cracks in doors.

  She expects Aiden and Mam, hopes to hear what he’s been doing out so late with his friends, though she doubts he’ll share the interesting bits with his mother. Aiden’s world, full of boys and plans and futures she can only dream about, is a siren’s call she can’t resist.

  But it’s a woman’s voice that alternates with Mam’s, not Aiden’s after all. Kitty tamps her disappointment down, and focuses on the voices, straining to make out words.

  “. . . desperate, Mrs. Donnelly . . .”

  Kitty knows that voice, though she’s never heard Helena sound quite like this before. She . . . she’s pleading. But for what?

  A shiver of excitement courses through Kitty, and she leans forward, pushing the door a bit wider. A fraction of an inch. She doesn’t like Helena Cooke. None of them do, though Mam won’t hear a word against her.

  Whatever has brought her to the cottage, Kitty’s sure it’s meant to be a secret, and secret is her favorite word. A delicious word. One that sounds exactly like what it is. See-cret, she thinks, drawing it out in her head in a dramatic whisper.

  And she must have it.

  “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking, Mrs. Cooke,” Mam says. She’s using the voice she saves especially for her employers. Kitty hates that voice. It’s a small voice, one that makes Saoirse Donnelly less than what she is. A servant’s voice, one who knows her place.

  “. . . not sure how much more clear I can be. I’m begging you. I can’t have . . . simply not possible.”

  Their unexpected guest is growing agitated. The crack is wide enough now that Kitty can put one eye to the door and just make them out. Mrs. Cooke is leaning forward over the table, the one where they share meals and stories. She’s sitting in the chair usually reserved for Kitty.

  The affront makes Kitty cross, and she turns her ear again, leaning closer. She’s determined to discover what has Mrs. Cooke so upset.

  “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood, ma’am,” the housekeeper says. “I don’t have the knowledge or experience you’re asking for.” Saoirse Donnelly stops, and the silence that follows is deafening. Kitty holds her breath, willing them to say more.

  “And even if I did, I’m afraid I still wouldn’t help you.”

  Kitty’s eyes widen. That was Mam’s voice. Her real voice, the one that knows she’s not small, the one she never, ever uses with the Cookes.

  Kitty peeks again, fear and anticipation growing in equal measure.

  Mrs. Cooke backs sharply away from the table, and Mam leans forward.

  “Please, Mrs. Cooke. Try to understand. A child is a blessing. A gift from God. It’s natural to be fearful with your first pregnancy, but you mustn’t allow fear to overrule your good sense.”

  Pregnancy? Kitty feels a hollow pit open inside of her. Mrs. Cooke is going to have a baby? That isn’t the kind of secret she ever hoped to know. She would scrub the knowledge from her brain if she could.

  She’ll never go away if she has a baby, Kitty thinks. Never, ever.

  And, more than anything, she wants Helena Cooke to go away. Kitty wants everything back the way it was before this woman came to Fallbrook and tipped their lives on end.

  Things are different now. Peter has turned quiet as a mouse afraid even to squeak. Cora’s single-minded goal is to torture her new stepmother into submission. Ruby and Kitty were never close, but now Ruby is so busy molding herself into Helena’s idea of a proper young woman that she no longer has smiles or hugs even for Mam.

  But for all their faults, before Helena, they were a family.

  Now, Mam is nothing more than a servant.

  “Do not presume to lecture me, Mrs. Donnelly,” Helena says in her sharpest lady-of-the-manor voice. She no longer bothers to keep her voice down, and pushes away from the table in a flurry of outrage.

  “No, ma’am,” Mam says quietly, but Kitty doubts Mrs. Cooke hears her. She marches to the door, her nose held impossibly high, then turns back to remind Mam of her place. As if she could forget. As if any of them could forget.

  “You will not speak of this, Mrs. Donnelly,” Helena Cooke says. “Not unless you wish to find yourself tossed out on the street. Do I make myself clear?”

  Mam nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

  With a slam of the door, Mrs. Cooke is gone.

  But she isn’t. Not really. Helena Cooke’s presence reverberates inside the only two waking souls within the cottage. She’ll never be gone.

  With one last look at Mam, who has slumped down into a chair at the kitchen table, Kitty pads slowly back to the bed where Deirdre sleeps, blithely unaware, and slides beneath the covers next to her.

  Kitty shivers and lets Dee’s warmth soak into her skin, but it’s not enough to soothe the worry that’s awakened in her.

  More than seven decades have passed since that night. With stars now winking overhead, Kitty rocks and listens to the owl call to her from the tops of the trees.

  As it turned out, Mrs. Cooke didn’t go anywhere. It was Cora who was exiled from Fallbrook. Cora, who refused to give her stepmother a moment’s peace, no matter how much Mam tried to persuade her. How Deirdre had cried the day her friend was sent away.

  And before Cora returned, there was a new daughter. Baby Imogene. A daughter who survived to have daughters of her own. Imagine that.

  “You were right, Mam,” Kitty whispers again. “Children are a blessing.”

  21

  TESSA

  The big house, Kitty called it. The murder house.

  Fallbrook.

  Whatever name it goes by, the house, what’s left of it, and its elderly caretakers have made an impression on Tessa. She drives back to the bed-and-breakfast on autopilot, replaying the sights and sounds, the feel of the place, in her mind.

  Questions stack up, and Tessa recognizes the familiar tingle of obsession that comes at the beginning of any new project. She’s itching to get to work with her laptop, to ferret out whatever information can be found about the Cooke family, their lives and their deaths.

  It’s a
coping mechanism, a crutch to avoid reality. Easy enough to recognize, but harder to convince herself it’s a bad thing. Especially when she made a career out of channeling her obsessions.

  But this isn’t a story. This is personal.

  All the best stories are is the whisper that flits through her mind. Tessa pushes that away. She’s not making a film. Those days are done. Possibly for good. After Oliver . . . She shakes her head. Where would she find the nerve?

  Tessa turns into the drive for the converted Georgian, and all thoughts of escape vanish like a soap bubble. As if she’s conjured the very thing she’s running from, she’s greeted by an SUV marked with the distinctive brown-and-black logo of the Bonham Police Department.

  No.

  Tessa’s muscles tighten, and the cold, heavy weight of dread settles on her limbs. She sits in the driver’s seat of the unmoving car, staring.

  No.

  What a fool she was, to think she could outrun this. To think, for one second, that a little bit of distance was all it would take to shield her from the man waiting inside.

  How did he find her?

  Even as the thought occurs to her, she has her answer.

  Margot.

  She texted her sister the address after she booked the room at Bracknell Lodge, for no other reason than to keep open that delicate line of communication. It was shut down for so long that Tessa can’t let it go now.

  I could just turn the car around. Drive away, farther this time, faster.

  But the thought is fleeting, chased away by the memory of her sister’s words. “You’re being completely irrational.”

  Tessa puts the car in park. There’s no point in running anymore. Margot insisted she needed to face this. Now she’s forcing her to.

  She makes her way to the door.

  The trio of people gathered in the front room fall silent when Tessa enters. Mrs. Coburn, seated in a green brocade wing chair, sits back and folds her arms primly as she stares icy daggers in Tessa’s direction.

  A second woman, one Tessa’s never met, is seated on the edge of the sofa, dressed in nondescript slacks and a white blouse with a badge hooked to her belt. The woman glances up from the small notebook open in her hand and looks Tessa over, her expression giving away nothing.