Chapter Thirty One

Eccleshall, 1907

D r Cooper welcomes Hester into his surgery, bidding her sit on a plain wooden chair beneath the window. Cool morning sunshine lightens the cheerful green of the open curtains and reflects on the dust free surfaces of medical certificates and hunting prints which adorn the distempered yellow walls. The air smells of tobacco and vinegar. Hester sits, resting her small canvas bag on her lap.

The doctor is not far past his middle years, with brown hair greying at the temples and kept firmly in place with macassar oil. He wears a checked suit and gazes benevolently through rimless spectacles at Hester from above a high collar, the stiffness of which is offset by a thin loose necktie. Hester is comfortable with his air of professional kindliness.

Rather than return to his leather seat behind his neatly organised desk, Dr Cooper takes a chair opposite Hester.

‘You are here to identify Adam?’ He places his palms flat on his knees.

‘Adam?’

‘Of course, my apologies, Mrs Appleby. You would know him by his real name.’ He tips his head to the side. ‘Mr Aaron Appleby. Am I correct?’

Hester’s pulse skips at Aaron’s name from the lips of a stranger. She wants to cry out, yes, yes! Instead, she presses her hands together and clings to her caution. She will not allow her yearning hope to overwhelm her. She promised herself. ‘We shall see,’ she says tightly, ‘if the gentleman is indeed my missing husband.’

‘Ah yes, a wise head.’ Dr Cooper walks to his desk, where he opens a silver cigarette case and selects one of the contents. He puts it between his lips, pats his pockets before withdrawing an elegant silver-striped Vesta case, and with quick, assured motions, pulls out a short match, strikes it on the bottom of the case and lights the cigarette. Fresh tobacco scents the warm air. The doctor smokes, staring through the window. The clop of horses’ hooves, the rumble of carriage wheels, the shouts of hawkers seep past the thin glass.

‘Adam – apologies, Mr Appleby – has been under my regular care these last ten years.’ Dr Cooper faces Hester. ‘It may ease you, Madam, if I tell you he is content, happy, and is rarely troubled by the loss of his former life, whatever it may have been.’

The old bitterness, the emotion Hester has battled all the years she believed she and the girls were abandoned, stirs in her stomach. She swallows it down. This is not Aaron’s fault, which lies with the injury. As Dr Cooper says, she should be glad he has not – is not – suffering. Yet, there must be a touch of curiosity?

The doctor taps ash into an ashtray which matches the Vesta case. He seats himself behind his desk and peers at Hester over his rimless spectacles, assessing her capacity to comprehend his words.

‘Thank you for the assurance,’ Hester says. ‘It is indeed a comfort.’ To Aaron, less so to herself.

The doctor tips his head in approval. ‘And I believe you have been made aware, Madam, of the possible dangers of an abrupt return of memory for those afflicted as Adam is?’

No attempt to correct the name this time. Hester lets it pass. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Thank you for the knowledge, and I can assure you I’m prepared to do, or not do, what is in my husband’s best interests.’ She pauses, remembers her self-imposed vow of selflessness, and of prudence. ‘Should this man be my husband.’ Please let it be Aaron.

Apparently satisfied Hester will do no harm, Dr Cooper provides her with a slip of paper with an address on the outskirts of Eccleshall – a farm, he tells her, Castle Farm – where she is expected.

‘I’ve given instructions on what to do.’ He opens the surgery door and bids her a successful journey.

***

The pony trap turns into a long drive bordered by beech trees, their gold and red leaves wreathed in a light, sun-drenched mist which has risen since Hester left the doctor’s surgery. The driver halts at the top of the gravelled carriage circle. Hester gazes at a substantial farm house, more like a small manor house, with tall windows either side of a heavy black door. Ivy snakes up the walls to the wide gables. White smoke from numerous chimney pots either end of the house melds into the mist.

Hester alights, gathering her courage around her along with her travelling coat. Her mouth is dry, nausea roils in her stomach. Her heart thumps so hard she is certain the pony trap driver must hear.

She has left her carpetbag at the Royal Oak, planning to stay overnight. Whether she stays longer depends on what awaits her here. She has promised to send Ellen and Rose, who are with Catherine in Shiphaven, a telegram with her news. One way or the other. Hester sucks in a breath and strides to the door with feigned confidence.

Before she can knock, the door swings open. Hester startles, her confidence wavering. A tall, slim, elegant woman in her thirties is framed in the doorway. She wears a grey woollen skirt topped by a red-and-white striped linen shirt with leg-of-mutton sleeves and trimmed with a shiny green satin bow at the neck. The bow reflects the colour of her eyes, which burn into Hester’s face from pale, faintly freckled skin below a tall sweep of auburn hair.

Hester is grateful at least for Catherine’s borrowed hat. As for the rest, she squirms in her plain brown skirt, creased cream blouse, and plainer coat, a peahen in the presence of a peacock, albeit female.

‘Mrs Appleby?’ the woman says. Her tone is far from welcoming.

Hester forces her legs to step forward, affirms the title with a short yes and holds out her hand. The woman takes it with a firm grip, an introduction, ‘Miss Judith Parry,’ and an invitation to step inside.

When Hester does so, Miss Parry leads her along a flowery runner covering a gleaming wooden-floored hall, and into a parlour. The scent of lily-of-the valley trails her.

‘Sit, sit,’ Miss Parry says.

Hester’s hesitant poise is further undermined by the splendour of the room. A fire burns in a wide iron grate framed by a marble fireplace, and the warmed musky scent of white chrysanthemums sprouting from a giant vase on a mahogany table overcomes Miss Parry’s gentler lily-of-the-valley. A green velvet chaise longue and a maroon Chesterfield face each other across a rich Turkish rug burdened by an intricately carved low table. The swagged, richly patterned curtains fall heavily either side of the white paned windows, revealing deep sills cluttered with ornaments and photographs in elaborate frames.

It is a room for entertaining, for women in wide hats and lace morning gowns gossiping over tea and cake.

Catherine would both love and immediately feel at home here. Mindful of her hostess’s curious eyes on her, Hester chooses a seat on the chaise longue which has space enough for her, rather than the Chesterfield with its landslide of tapestried and satin cushions.

Miss Parry tugs at an embroidered bellpull, and a distant tinkling is followed by swift footsteps. When tea has been ordered, Miss Parry twists her fingers, lines creasing her pale brow. As if a decision has been made, she darts to a sideboard dredged in chinaware. Pulling at a drawer, which sticks and has to be tugged more firmly, she yanks out a photograph in a silver frame. Hester’s heartbeat quickens. She is close.

Clasping the frame to her chest, Miss Parry gives Hester the same intense stare she gave her on the doorstep. Hester gazes back, her parched throat constricting her breathing. Her fingers itch to snatch the photograph from the woman’s protective grip. To know. She needs to know.

With a short exhalation, Miss Parry strides to Hester. She delays further, not immediately handing her the photograph. Hester pushes her shaking hands into her lap.

‘This is a portrait,’ Miss Parry says stiffly, ‘we had taken not long after Adam … not long after … after he came to us … after he saved me … and Jasper – the pony …’ She chews her lip.

Miss Parry was the driver of the pony cart? Comprehension burns Hester’s soul. She turns her head aside, seeking solace in the gentle crackle of the fire. Whoever’s image resides in the silver frame, Miss Parry gave her heart to her rescuer and has not reclaimed it in the passing years. Her hesitancy, her gruffness are warnings. She will be unwilling, and hurt, to be parted from him.

Hester will not grapple with this painful awkwardness until she is certain. She holds out her hand, which has steadied. ‘May I?’

The frame is thrust towards her like a knife attack. Hester recoils, keeps her hand outstretched. Before the photograph reaches her grasp, she sees it is Aaron. She takes the frame, holds his image in both hands.

Her husband is upright beside a tall urn filled with ferns, dressed for riding – not clothes Hester is familiar with, more stylish – and carries a crop. A dog rests on its haunches at his feet. Both man and dog stare directly into the camera.

‘Well?’ Miss Parry has remained standing before Hester. Her hands are entwined at her waist, the knuckles white, her voice taut, begging Hester to deny.

‘This is Aaron Appleby,’ Hester says. She summons the courage which carried her to the front door, keeping her tone formal when she adds, ‘My husband.’

The gusty sigh which Miss Parry emits suggests she has been holding her breath since the moment she was informed of Hester’s visit. She leaves the frame with Hester and sits heavily on the Chesterfield. The cushions slide from her as if they desire no part in what is to come.

Hester wants to ask where Aaron is, what has he been doing these past ten years, where does he live, and, most importantly, can she see him, even if he must not see her?

The same young maid who answered the bellpull summons comes in with a tray which she places on the low table.

‘Thank you, Enid.’ Miss Parry dismisses the girl who dips a shallow curtsy and leaves.

‘Where is he?’ Hester says.

‘Out riding.’ Miss Parry pulls herself from the Chesterfield and strides to the tea things. ‘Lemon? Sugar? Milk?’ She hurls the mundane questions like gravel at a window, but when she has the answers she delivers a great outpouring, detailing the whole story from the thunderous crackle which caused her pony to bolt to ‘Adam … sorry, Aaron’s …’ heroic rescue and disastrous fall.

‘There was nothing on him, or in his scant luggage, bar the note to you mentioning daughters, from which we surmised he was married.’ Bitterness bruises the statement.

Hester sips hot tea while a cold well opens inside her. Does Aaron share this devotion?

‘We asked at the local hotels, in case they might recognise him.’ She raises her eyes to the ceiling. ‘It was like he’d fallen from the heavens.’

An angel. Hester is certain Aaron would dislike the comparison.

‘You say, we.’ Hester has lost her taste for tea despite the dryness which persists in her mouth.

‘My mother and I.’ Miss Parry glances to the ceiling. ‘Before she fell ill. These days she’s confined to her bed much of the time. Adam … Aaron – oh, I will never be used to that name! Adam,’ she says with a defiant glare, ‘encourages her to come sit by the fire from time to time, and in the summer she spent warm afternoons in the garden.’

‘Aaron has skills in healing,’ Hester says. ‘With people and also animals.’

‘Indeed, yes.’ Miss Parry’s hostility softens as she contemplates her Adam’s gifts. ‘Many farmers and gentry hereabouts call on him when their animals are ill.’ She tosses Hester a frown. ‘They will miss him.’

Hester smooths her travel-crumpled skirt and refuses to acknowledge this. Miss him? Can this woman with her possessive eyes and tongue begin to comprehend what missing him means? Aaron’s gold-flecked dark eyes, the gentle touch of his long fingers … The sound of his voice reading to the girls, or telling a tale of a horse refusing to eat, or whispering his love into Hester’s willing ear … His and Ellen’s bent dark heads either side of Rose’s gold as he taught the girls their letters, or placing sprays of lacy leaves and white flowers before them to explain the differences between hemlock and cow parsley.

Hester had believed the ache of missed love dulled by time. The wrongness of her belief is brought home by the pain which slices her chest, edges honed as thinly murderous as any hunting blade. She stands, lays the photograph in the open dresser drawer with shaking hands.

‘Dr Cooper,’ Hester says, ‘is adamant I may not simply appear to …’ The white-lined grief of Miss Parry’s face causes Hester to change her mind about using the term ‘my husband’. ‘… to Aaron.’ She sits on the chaise longue, clasps her hands on her lap.

Now Hester must put her trust where it is in mortal danger of being broken. She has no choice if Aaron is to be kept safe, if her vow of selflessness is to hold.

‘It will be best if you talk to Aaron, tell him you have discovered his history.’ She delves into her canvas bag and pulls out a photograph of her own, this one unframed. ‘Our daughters, Aaron and myself,’ Hester says, ‘taken a year before he disappeared.’ This is a copy she had made by the photographer in Barnley, which allows her to give away the precious memento. ‘It might help his memory.’

She hands the frame to Miss Parry who takes it with a cursory, frowning glance at the family, together.

‘I’m staying at the Royal Oak,’ Hester says. ‘If you could write to me of the outcome of your conversation, we can move from there to restore my husband to his family. I would be very grateful.’

She ignores Miss Parry’s scowl and takes up her tea, grateful to at last quench her thirst.

***

He is back from his ride as the mist dissolves under the insistent touch of the autumn sun. As he passes the far side of the farmhouse, he catches sight of a wagon pulling away from the circle of the drive.

A dark-haired woman wearing a brown coat sits beside the driver. He sees her in profile, and at a distance, yet the glimpse is enough to have him pulling on the reins, stopping the eager trot of his horse to its stall.

His pulse quickens. A flicker of memory, of moonlight on water, white stars a filigree flung across a fire-flamed sky, dark hair whirling into the silvered darkness. A sense of deep joy.

And the glimmer is gone. He shakes his head to clear the mist which never dissipates under the warmth of the sun. The wagon crunches through the gravel and on to the long drive where the wheels slip on damp fallen leaves. With a flick of the reins, he allows his horse to continue around the corner of the house to the stable yard.

His afternoon is spent preparing infusions for Mrs Parry. The woman whom he owes a huge debt of gratitude is dying, and he will ensure her death is peaceful, as pain free as he can make possible. Judith busies herself in the greenhouse with her exotic plants, forever experimenting.

At dinner they talk about Mrs Parry and he broaches, as he has done in the past, the subject of the inappropriateness of him continuing to live in the farmhouse.

Judith shrugs. ‘Victorian rules no longer apply, my dear Adam.’ She waves her fork. ‘And I never did much care for reputation.’

‘Even so,’ he says, ‘I would be grateful if you came with me to the old manager’s cottage by the stables to work out how we could purpose it for a man with my few needs.’

‘If it makes you happy, we can do this.’

He doesn’t acknowledge her answer, distracted by the notion of the cottage, few needs … a worm wriggles in his brain, creating space to muse, to remember. He frowns in Judith’s direction. ‘There was a woman here today. I saw her leaving.’

Judith cuts her beef.

‘Who was she?’ he asks.

She lifts the forkful of food to her mouth, holds it there. ‘Ah,’ she says. ‘You did not recognise her?’

***

In her room at the Royal Oak, Hester lies sleepless in her bed. Light and a sulphur-tainted scent from the gas lamp in the street slide between the drawn curtains. It is not the fault of either she cannot rest.

She reaches up and touches the back of her neck where it lies on the pillow, feeling again the sense of eyes on her as she rode in the wagon leaving Castle Farm. A shiver chills her spine as it had at the time. She had twisted about, heart drumming, seeking the searcher, knowing it was Aaron, praying for his eyes to meet hers and damn Dr Cooper’s consequences.

Emptiness and the sedate clop of horse’s hooves from behind the house greeted her. He had seen her, and passed her by as if she was a stranger.

In the yellow-stained darkness of the lonely hotel room, the comprehension is as crushing, as painful, as a blow to her body.

She is a stranger. Her Aaron, the man who taught her the ways of the wise folk, listened to the whispers of the goddess, flew her to the stars, fathered Ellen and fought her enemy – that man no longer exists. A pale imitation dressed in fashionable clothes, living the pampered life of a gentleman and guarded by a woman desperate for his love, walks the earth in his stead.

Hester rolls over, pushes her head into the fresh linen of her pillow and weeps.