Everything To Gain

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Yorkshire, March 1989

Spring had come early, much earlier than anyone here at Kilgram Chase had expected.

I had arrived from Connecticut toward the end of January to find everything covered in snow, and the first part of February had been bitter, with sleet, freezing rain, and intermittent snowstorms. But the weather had changed in the middle of the month. The rain and harsh winds had ceased unexpectedly; there had been a general softening, a warming much welcomed by everyone here, most especially the farmers.

Now, on this first Friday in March, the trees were bursting with tender green shoots and the first fluttering little leaves. Grass was beginning to sprout, and the borders at the edges of the lawns were alive with purple, yellow, and white crocuses and delicate, starlike snowdrops. Daffodils danced down near the pond and under the trees in the woods. Tall and graceful as they nodded in the light breeze, their brilliant yellow bonnets reflected the bright afternoon sun.

I stood at the mullioned window in the library, looking out toward the moors, thinking that perhaps I ought to take a walk later.

I had not been able to go out much since I had arrived almost five weeks ago. Within the first few days I had fallen sick, felled by a bad bout of flu, and I had spent over ten days in bed.

Diana, Parky, and Hilary had nursed me through it, done the best they could to make me better. But I had been a bad patient, not very cooperative at all; I had refused almost all of the medicines they had offered me and done little to speed my recovery, hoping to catch pneumonia and die. I had not. But then neither had I been very well; I was slow to get up on my feet and about. When I first arrived I had been exhausted and undernourished, and the aftermath of the flu virus left me feeling even weaker. This physical debilitation combined with my mental apathy to make me more listless and enervated than I had been at Indian Meadows.

Although I was here in Andrew's childhood home, I continued to face dreary empty days and sleepless nights, and that awful nothingness was ever-present.

Not even Diana could cheer me up very much when she came back to Yorkshire on the weekends, after working at her shop in London all week. How right my mother had been when she had told me that you don't leave your troubles behind you when you go to another place.

"Pain and heartache travel well," she had said to me the day she took me to Kennedy to catch my plane to London. And indeed they did.

Yet I did feel closer to Andrew here at Kilgram Chase, as I had believed I would. My memories of him and my children now came back to me unbidden, and their well-loved faces were clear, distinctive in my mind's eye once again. Very regularly my thoughts turned inward, and I was able to live with them within myself, in my imagination.

The days passed quietly, uneventfully. I did very little. I read occasionally, watched television; sometimes I listened to music, but for the most pan I sat in front of the fire in the library, lost in my own world, oblivious to everyone most of the time. Of course Diana made her presence felt when she was here and tried to rouse me from my lethargy. I really made an effort, tried to perk up, but I wasn't very successful. I had no one and nothing to live for. I simply existed. I had even lost the will to kill myself.

Now, moving away from the window, I crossed to the Fireplace and piled more logs on top of those already crackling and burning up the chimney. Then lifting the tray with the coffee things on it, I took it back to the kitchen.

Parky looked up as I came in and exclaimed, "Nay, Mrs. Mal, you needn't have bothered with that! I would have sent Hilary or Joe for it later."

"It's no trouble, Parky, and thank you, it was a lovely cup of coffee. Just what I needed."

"You didn't eat much lunch, Mrs. Mal," she said, her eyes filled with worry. "Picking at your food is no way to improve your health and get your strength up."

"I know. I do try, Parky. And what I did eat I really enjoyed. The grilled plaice and chips were delicious."

She went on rolling out the pastry on the big slab of marble, saying, "It's a right bonny afternoon. Too bonny to stay cooped up in that there library, if you don't mind me saying so. You should get out, have a good blow on the moors. It'll do you good, that it will, Mrs. Mal."

"I was just thinking about taking a walk, actually, Parky."

She smiled at me, nodded her approval, and continued. "Mrs. Keswick will be arriving a bit earlier than usual this weekend. About four-thirty, or thereabouts. In time for tea," she said.

"That's nice," I answered. "Parky, can I ask you something?"

"Of course you can, Mrs. Mal."

"I've been wondering why you and Joe and Hilary and the gardeners call me that? For ten years I've been Mrs. Andrew to you all. But since I came back in January, it's been Mrs. Mal. Why?"

She stared at me, flushing slightly and looking discomfited. "It's just that… that… well, we didn't want to upset you further," she began haltingly. "We thought that to keep mentioning Mr. Andrew's name would be… well, painful."

"No, Parky," I interrupted softly. "It wouldn't. I am Mrs. Andrew, and I really would prefer you to keep on calling me that."

"I'm sorry if we've upset you," she said, sounding concerned. "We'd never do anything to hurt you. We were only trying to be mindful of your feelings."

"I know you were, and honestly, I do appreciate that, and I am grateful to you for the kindness you've shown me these last few weeks."

"You were in such a bad way when you got here, and we didn't want to distress you anymore than you already were. We felt we had to be careful. It was like… like walking on eggs."

"I'm sorry, Parky."

"Oh, there's no need to apologize, Mrs. Mal, I mean Mrs. Andrew. We understand. We loved Mr. Andrew and the wee bairns-" Her mouth began to tremble and her eyes filled, but she took a deep breath and finished. "Such a tragedy, so hard to live with…"

"Yes, it is." I coughed behind my hand, trying to control myself. I knew I might easily break down if I didn't keep a tight grip on my emotions. My grief was never very far below the surface.

Parky said quietly, almost to herself, "Like my own child, he was," and then she put down the rolling pin and hurried into the adjoining pantry. "Got to find that big pie dish for the steak-and-kidney pie," she called to me in a muffled voice without looking around.

"I shall go for a walk," I said, and went out of the kitchen swiftly, knowing it was wiser to leave her by herself to recoup. Otherwise we'd both be in a flood of tears.

I headed in the direction of the mudroom. Once there, I took off my penny loafers, pulled a pair of Wellingtons on over my jeans, and struggled into one of Diana's old harbours. Wrapping a scarf around my head, I went outside.

It was a clear day, crisp but not really cold, and there was the lightest of breezes rustling through the trees, making the new leaves flutter and dance. I dug my hands into the pockets of the barbour and struck out toward the pond down near the woods. Behind the pond there was a narrow path, which the gardeners had cut through the dense mass of trees some years ago, and this led up to the lower moors.

The grounds were deserted, I noticed as I walked.

Usually Ben and Wilf were somewhere or other, digging, planting, and pruning, or burning leaves. This afternoon they were nowhere in sight.

But by the time I got closer to the pond, I saw Wilf pushing a wheelbarrow along the path that led from the orchard up to the house. When we drew level with each other, he stopped and touched his cap. "Afternoon, Mrs. Mal."

"Hello, Wilf."

"You're not going up on yon moors?"

"Yes, I was thinking about it," I answered.

"Aye, no, don't be doing that." He turned his head, shaded his eyes with his hand, and peered toward the hills silhouetted against the distant horizon.

"B'ain't wise. Weather's right dicey up on yon moors this time o'year. Sunny for a bit, like now, but then t'clouds roll in and t'rain comes down in torrents. Blows in from yon North Sea, it does that."

"Thanks for telling me, Wilf," I murmured and hurried on down the path, thinking what an old fool he was, gormless, as Andrew had always said. It was as clear as a bell today; the sky was blue and without a single cloud.

But something about his words must have registered at the back of my mind, because in the end I avoided the moors. It was such a long, steep climb, anyway. Instead, I went for a more leisurely walk through the woods, and a half hour later I came back and circled the pond, before taking the wide stone path that cut through the lawns. I had been out long enough today. I already felt tired. Obviously I was out of shape and still quite weak.

As I approached the house, I saw Hilary coming toward me, waving and beckoning.

I increased my pace, and when we met in the middle of the stone path, she said, "There's a phone call for you, Mrs. Andrew. From New York. It's Mr. Nelson."

"Thanks, Hilary."

Together we went around the side of the house to the back door, and as we hurried in, I said to her, "Would you tell him I'll be there in a moment, please. I just want to get my Wellies off."

"Yes, Mrs. Andrew," she answered, disappearing down the back hallway.

A few seconds later I was picking up the phone on the long refectory table in the library. "Hello, David, how are you?"

"Good, Mal, and you?"

"I've finally recovered from the flu. There's nothing wrong, is there? My mother's all right, isn't she?"

"Yes, she is, and everything's fine. She worries about you, of course, and keeps talking about coming over to see you. She wants us to take a trip to England, if you're planning on staying in Yorkshire for a while."

"Why don't you come? Is that the reason you're calling, David?"

"No, it isn't. I have some news for you, Mal."

I caught the change in his voice, the tension. My chest tightened. I gripped the receiver harder as I said, "From DeMarco?"

"Yes. There's been a break in the case. He just called me about fifteen minutes ago. Luckily, I wasn't in court today."

"Have they caught the killer? The gunman?" I asked in a tight voice.

"No, but they will, and very soon, Mal. This is what happened. Twenty-four hours ago, Johnson and DeMarco arrested a small-time narcotics dealer who operates in that neighborhood. Those arches under the elevated train tracks are part of his territory. Anyway, he's trying to strike a deal, to plea-bargain. He says he knows who shot Andrew and the children. Four local youths who hang out together, one of whom has talked about it. He's given their names and addresses to DeMarco, and he and Johnson hope to take them into custody today, bring them into the Twenty-fifth Precinct for questioning immediately. DeMarco's got a strong feeling that those unidentified fingerprints found on Andrew's Mercedes will match up with theirs. He's banking on it."

My legs suddenly felt weak, and I sat down heavily on the cut-velvet chair. I could hardly speak, but finally I managed to say, "If the fingerprints do match, what happens then?"

"The perpetrators will be taken down to Central Booking in Police Plaza and booked on charges of murder in the second degree. And all four of them will be booked, Mal, you see-"

"I thought there was only one gunman?" I cut in.

"That's what DeMarco believes, yes. But a person doesn't have to pull the trigger to be booked or found guilty of murder. Just being there, just standing there when the crime is committed, is enough to convict," David explained. "It's called acting in concert. If there's enough evidence, within seventy-two hours they'll go in front of a grand jury in criminal court downtown. And if they're indicted in the grand jury hearing, they'll go on trial."

"When would that be?"

"I'm not sure. It could take several months. Not only to get on the docket, but the assistant district attorney will want to be sure he has every scrap of evidence he can get, that he has a watertight case. DeMarco and Johnson will have to work their butts off on this one, and they will, I've no doubt. The prosecutor wants a guilty verdict, not an acquittal, and so do they."

"And if the youths are found guilty?"

"There's no death penalty in New York Slate, Mal. They'll get twenty-five or thirty years to life. No parole."

"I see. Could they-" I paused, took a deep breath, and asked, "Could they get off?"

"No way. DeMarco and Johnson are convinced they've struck pay dirt with the drug dealer, that they'll turn up all the evidence they need for a conviction."

"I hope so."

"They will. It's a personal crusade with them, especially DeMarco. Also, I know the judicial system inside out, and the judge will go for the maximum, trust me on this. The killers will never see daylight again; they'll never get out."

"Should I call DeMarco, David? What do you think?"

"You don't have to, Mal. He asked me to pass the news on to you. Anyway, I doubt that you'd get him right now. He's on the investigation full blast. Now that he's got this lead, he wants results fast. He wants to put these… animals away. He wants them under lock and key. Today."

"I understand. And thank you, David, for everything."

"I'm always here for you, Mal. Give Diana my best."

"I will. Oh, does Morn know about the break in the case?"

"Yes. I told her before I called you. She sends her love."

"Give her mine."

"I'll be in touch as soon as I have more information from DeMarco."

"When you speak to him, thank him for me."

"I will, honey. Bye."

"Bye, David."

After we hung up I sat with my hand resting on the phone, pondering everything David had told me. I felt nothing, only emptiness inside. Knowing the killers of my family were about to be arrested did not relieve my pain and grief. And it would not bring them back.

Gazing out of the mullioned window, I drifted with my thoughts for a while. But at one moment the sky darkened, and I lifted my eyes. The garden was still filled with sunlight, but on the moors the blue sky had turned, was curdled and gray. Ominous dark clouds were blowing in, and up there it had started to rain, just as old Wilf had predicted. Shivering involuntarily, feeling suddenly cold, I walked over to the fire and sat down on the sofa to get warm. And to wait for Diana.

I must have fallen asleep, for I woke up with a start when I heard her voice. She was coming into the library with Hilary in her wake carrying the tea tray.

"Hello, darling," Diana said, hurrying forward. "Are you feeling a bit better today?"

I would never feel better. But I nodded; it was the easiest thing to do.

She bent over me, kissed me on my cheek, and then went and stood with her back to the fire, as she often did, just as Andrew had done. Saying nothing, she surveyed me for a few moments. As soon as Hilary had put the tea tray down and departed, she said, "What is it, Mal? You look as if you have something to tell me."

"I do," I replied. "David called me a short while ago. There's been a break in the case at last."

"Tell me all about it!" she exclaimed. She came and sat down next to me on the sofa.

Her eyes did not leave my face as I recounted my entire conversation with David.

When I finished, her reaction was the same as mine had been. "Thank God," she said quietly. "But it won't bring my son and my grandchildren back to life…" Her voice wavered slightly, and she took a moment to regain her composure, then she added, "But at least we know that justice will be done, and that those responsible will be punished."

"It's small comfort," I murmured. "But it's better than knowing they are free."

"And that they might kill again," Diana said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

"I have to go to Paris on Wednesday," Diana said. "Why don't you come to London with me tomorrow? And then we'll go to Paris together. I think it would do you good, Mal."

Diana and I were sitting in the library on Sunday morning, reading the newspapers. Or rather, she was reading; I was merely glancing through them.

Looking up, I shook my head. "I don't think so. I'm still feeling a bit debilitated after the flu."

Diana stared at me for the longest moment, and then she said, "Nonsense, Mal, you're much better, and you have been for the last week. Your problem is your mental apathy."

Startled by her brisk, matter-of-fact tone as well as her words, I recoiled slightly, then said, "Maybe you're right."

"I know I am," she replied and put down her newspaper. Leaning forward, focusing every ounce of her attention on me, she continued, "Mal, you can't go on like this."

I returned her steady gaze, but I remained silent.

"What are you going to do? Sit on that sofa in this library for the rest of your life? Is that your plan?"

"I have no plans," I said.

"But you do have a choice. Actually, you have three choices. You can sit around forever, as you're doing now, letting your life drift away from you. You can kill yourself, which I know you've contemplated more than once, from the things you've said to me. Or you can pull yourself together, pick up the pieces and go on from here."

"Go where?" I muttered. "I just don't… don't know… what to do… what to do with myself," I began hesitantly, at a loss in more ways than one.

Diana sat studying me, her eyes full of love, her expression sympathetic, as it always was. Her voice was caring when she murmured softly, "I know only too well what you've lost-those you loved with all your heart, those most precious and dear to you. But as hard as it may seem, you must begin again. That is your only choice, Mal darling. Trust me, it is. God knows, you've nothing to lose, you've already lost it all, but you do have everything to gain."

"I do?"

"Yes. Your life, for one thing, a new life. You must try, darling, not only for yourself, but for me."

I sighed and looked away, and then I felt the tears rising to flood my eyes. "I can't," I whispered, fighting the tears, the pain, and the grief. "I'm weighted down. My sorrow is unendurable, Diana."

"I know, I know. I'm suffering too…" Diana could not finish her sentence. Her voice choked up, and she came and sat next to me on the sofa. Taking my hand in hers, she held on to it tightly and said finally, "Andrew wouldn't want to see you like this, Mal. He always said you were the strongest woman he'd ever known, other than me."

"I can't live without him. I don't want to live without him and the twins."

"You're going to have to," Diana said in a voice that was low, suddenly quite stern. "You've got to stop feeling sorry for yourself, right now. Do you think you're the only woman who has ever lost loved ones? Lost a family? What about me? I've lost my son, my only child, and my grandchildren, and before that I lost a husband when I was still a young woman. And what about your mother? She is as grief-stricken and heartbroken as we are."

Taking a deep breath, she added, "And what about the millions of other people in the world who have had to survive the loss of their families? You only have to think about the survivors of the Holocaust-those who lost husbands and wives and children and mothers and fathers in the death camps, to realize we are not alone. Loss of loved ones is part of life, I'm sorry to say. It's terrible, so difficult to accept-"

Diana could not continue speaking. Her emotions got the better of her, and she began to weep, but after only a moment or two she said through her tears, "There isn't a day goes by that I don't think about him, think about my Andrew, and about little Lissa and Jamie. And my heart never stops aching. But I know I can't give in, that I mustn't. And so I try to keep myself together, the best way I can. Mal, listen to me. You can't throw your life away. You have to try, just as I try."

The tears trickled down her cheeks, and she looked at me helplessly. I put my arms around her and held her close to me. And I wept with her.

Her words had found their mark, had touched the core of me, and I realized with a small shock how badly I had behaved; I had thought only of myself.

"I've been so selfish, Diana," I said at last. "Very selfish. You're right, I've only thought about my feelings, about my loss, my pain, not yours or Mom's."

"I didn't mean to sound harsh, darling," she murmured, extricating herself from me, sitting up on the sofa and drying her cheeks. "I was only trying to make you see… see things a little more clearly."

I didn't say anything for a few minutes, then glancing at Diana, I asked quietly, "What did you mean when you said I had everything to gain?"

"I told you, your life, primarily. But that also means your health, your well-being, your sanity. You're only thirty-three, Mal, still so very young, and I simply won't allow you to become a vegetable, a blob sitting around doing nothing except mourning and feeling sorry for yourself. It's vital that you mourn, yes. We must do that, we must get the grief out. But I can't, I won't permit you to throw your future away."

"Do I have a future, Diana?"

"Oh, yes, you do. Of course you do. That's another thing you have to gain. Your future. But you must reach out, grab life with both hands and start all over again. It will be the hardest thing you've ever had to do, the most painful, even, but it will be worth it, I promise you that."

"I don't know what to do. How would I begin again?" I asked, my mind starting to work in a more positive way for the first time since Andrew's death.

"First, I think you have to get yourself completely fit physically. You're far too thin, for one thing. You must start eating properly, and walking and exercising, so that you regain your strength, that vigor and energy of yours which I've always admired. And then you must think of the kind of job you'd like to find. You must work, not only because you need to earn money, but because you must keep yourself busy."

"I wouldn't know where to start." I bit my lip and shook my head. "I realize I have to begin to support myself, and very quickly. I can't let my mother and Dad go on helping me. But I don't have any idea what I could do. Or what I'm capable of doing, for that matter."

"You wrote advertising copy once," Diana reminded me.

"That was a long time ago, and I'm not sure how good I was, even if Andrew did say I was brilliant. Besides, I don't think I'd enjoy working in an office, and I know can't live in New York. So we can forget Madison Avenue."

"You could live in London," she suggested, eyeing me intently. "I'd like that. You're all I have left, Mal, the only family I have."

I nodded. "I know, Diana, and you're very much a part of me, part of my life. It's a possibility, living in London, I mean. I suppose I could always sell Indian Meadows."

"What's happening with the apartment? You haven't said anything lately about Sarah's cousin and her plans."

"Vera wants to buy it, and she's agreed to the price my mother asked. But she hasn't gone before the board yet, the board of the cooperative. I think she's supposed to be interviewed by them this coming week. I'm not worried though, Diana; I know she'll pass."

"Getting back to a job for you, if you stay in London, you might consider working with me at the shop. You do love antiques, and you know a lot about them. I could certainly use your expertise. And your obvious talents as a decorator."

When I said nothing, Diana sat back, stared at me for a few seconds, and then reached out and took my hand in hers. "I'd like you to become my partner, Mal."

"Oh, that's so generous of you! Thank you, Diana. I'm not sure. Can I think about it?"

"Yes. Take your time." She half smiled and then reached out, touched my cheek. "You're like my daughter. No, you are my daughter. And I love you."

"I love you, too, Diana. You're very special to me."

"I started to say I could use your talents as an interior designer. You're awfully good at decorating, and I have a lot of clients who don't just want to buy antiques from me. They also want me to put together whole rooms for them. Whole houses, in fact."

"I do enjoy decorating, but I'm not sure I'd want to do it for other people," I said. "But it is a possibility, I guess."

"We could always have a trial run. We've nothing to lose."

"What do you mean?"

"There's no good reason why you shouldn't stay on in London for a few months. You could work at the shop, travel with me to France on buying trips, even make trips on your own. Then you could spend weekends up here with me. It's always lovely at Kilgram Chase in the summer months. At the end of the summer you could go back to Connecticut, if you wanted to, if that's what you decided was best for you."

"There's nobody like you, Diana, you're so kind, so loving." I leaned my head against the cushions and closed my eyes. A small sigh escaped me.

She said softly, "I won't press you anymore, but do think seriously about it, Mal. And remember, it would please me enormously to have you as my partner."

That night when I went to bed, I lay awake for a long time, watching the light from the fire flickering across the ceiling and the walls.

Here in this room that had once been his as a boy, Andrew was always close to me. And tonight I felt his presence more acutely than ever. It was as if he stood at the foot of the bed, keeping watch over me.

I talked to him, asked him what I should do, and it seemed to me that he was telling me to stay here with his mother at Kilgram Chase. If that was what he wanted me to do, then I would do it. Here in Yorkshire I was far away from New York and the terrible violence that had claimed my family. I felt safe here, just as I felt safe in London. Yes, perhaps it would be best to stay in England, best to start my new life here.

I turned this thought over and over in my mind until I finally fell asleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Diana had gone off to London en route to Paris, and I was alone at Kilgram Chase once more.

The library had become my sanctuary in the last few weeks, and now as I sat here on Monday morning, glancing at the newspapers and drinking a cup of coffee, I thought of the things Diana had said to me over the weekend.

She had been right, had spoken only truths.

I had acknowledged this to her and to myself. Self-delusion was not one of my faults. Nonetheless, I knew already that it was going to be hard for me to come to grips with my grief, that it would take me a long time to get it totally under control. The pain inside me was relentless, never seemed to diminish; my sorrow was overwhelming; my loneliness filled me with desolation.

The memory of the terrible violence that had taken my family from me and changed my life forever would always be there in my heart. That was a given. But I would try to make a new start. Somehow. I had promised Diana I would; I owed it to her and to myself. And that, at least, would be some sort of a beginning.

I still did not know what I was going to do with the rest of my life, where I was going to live or how I would earn a living. The first thing I had to do was pull myself up out of my despair, rise above it if I could. I was not sure how to do this.

Earlier this morning it had occurred to me that I ought to find something to focus on, if only for a short while, something to take my mind off my troubles, take me out of myself. Going back to my painting, as Sarah had suggested before I left Indian Meadows, did not particularly interest me now, and therefore, it was not a solution.

However, there was one thing that had fascinated me when I was here at Kilgram Chase last November, and that was the diary I had found in this very room. I realized, as I thought of it again, that the seventeenth-century Lettice Keswick still intrigued me. And I could not help wondering, as I had last year, whether or not there was another volume, perhaps even volumes of her writings somewhere in this house.

The diary had no monetary value as far as I knew, and certainly it had nothing to do with my earning a living. On the other hand, looking for another volume, a continuation of the first book, would give me something to focus on. And that in itself would be a step in the right direction.

I would do it. I would start a search. It would keep me busy until I had worked out some sort of plan for my future, bleak though this seemed at the moment.

The library steps were at the other side of the room, and I dragged them over to the fireplace, deciding to look at all the books in this area first. After all, Clarissa's copy and the original had been found on one of the shelves here.

I had just started to mount the steps when there was a tap on the door; Hilary came in for the coffee tray.

"Do you remember those diaries your father and I found last year, Hilary?" I asked, peering down at her.

"Yes, I do, Mrs. Andrew. Quite a find they were. Mrs. Keswick showed them to the vicar. Very impressed, he was."

I nodded. "I thought at the time that there might be more of them, but I never did get around to doing a search before I left. So I've decided to start one today."

"My father and I have already done that, Mrs. Andrew," Hilary explained quickly. "You see, Mrs. Keswick thought the same as you, that there might be another one knocking around, and anyway, she wanted all the books dusted, so we've been working the entire library section by section for some time."

"Oh," I said, feeling a small stab of disappointment. "And you found nothing?"

"No, I'm afraid we didn't. Not so far, anyway. We haven't done the two walls on either side of the fireplace yet, where you're standing. And not that one down there." She nodded in the direction of the end wall with its door leading out into the corridor.

"All right. I'll continue looking here, Hilary."

"And I'll come back and help you if you like, Mrs. Andrew," she said. "I'll just take the tray to the kitchen, I won't be a minute."

"Thanks, I'd really appreciate the help," I said, going higher on the library steps, peering at the leather-bound volumes in front of me. Once I'd read every title, I pulled a couple of books out and felt behind them, hoping for hidden treasures.

Within minutes Hilary returned with Joe, who was carrying the tall ladder he used for cleaning the chandeliers.

"It'll be right grand if we find another diary, Mrs. Andrew," Joe said as he propped the ladder against the end wall. "Mrs. Keswick'll be ever so chuffed if we do."

"So will I, Joe," I said, adding, "By the way, I'm not dusting any of these. Do you think perhaps I should?"

"Aye, no, don't worry about that!" Joe exclaimed. "Hilary can give the books a bit of a flick with the feather duster later. Hilary," he turned to his daughter and said, "Run back t'kitchen, like a good lass, and bring the small step-ladder. That way you can follow on behind Mrs. Andrew and dust them there books once she's looked at them."

I was about to protest, but then I remembered how obstinate he could be and decided I'd better not interfere. I continued reading titles and poking around on the shelves, as did Joe and eventually Hilary in other parts of the library.

When Parky appeared at one point to announce that my lunch was ready, I was completely taken aback. I glanced at my watch and saw to my astonishment that it was exactly one o'clock. How quickly the time had flown this morning.

We had a fruitless afternoon, came up empty-handed, and both Joe and Hilary had long faces. Their disappointment was quite evident. It struck me that for some unknown reason they had expected me to find something truly special, even if it wasn't another volume of Lettice's diaries.

"Never mind," I said, as we abandoned the search for the day. "Maybe we'll be luckier tomorrow. I fully intend to keep going, to investigate every shelf you two haven't already tackled."

"And we'll help you, Mrs. Andrew," Hilary said. "It's a challenge."

"Aye, it is that," Joe added over his shoulder, going out with the ladder.

That evening Diana called me from London, as she usually did, and I told her what I'd been doing all day.

"I was so intent on finding another Lettice diary, I forgot about the time," I said. "Not only that, I even met with Parky's favor today."

Diana chuckled softly at the other end of the phone. "Don't tell me. You actually ate something, is that why she was pleased?"

"Yes. I managed a small plate of cottage pie. Parky was flabbergasted. To tell you the truth, Diana, so was I."

"I'm glad you've started to eat again, however small the plate. It's a start, and you need to build yourself up. I'm relieved that you took my words to heart. I must admit, I worried driving back to London this morning, worried that I'd been too strong with you, but I needed to get through to you."

"Tough love," I replied.

"Is that what you call it?"

"Yes, and Mom says it's the best kind of love when somebody's in trouble and needs help."

"I'm here for you, Mal, with tough love and whatever else you need."

"I know, and I'm here for you. We have to support each other now, get each other through this-"

"We will, darling."

We chatted for a few minutes longer about other things; Diana told me she would be staying at the Crillon in Paris, then gave me the number. After saying good night, we hung up. But within minutes Diana called me back.

"I've just thought of something, another place for you to look for the diaries, or rather, a copy by the Victorian Clarissa, who was so intent on preserving things for the future."

"You mean a place other than the library?" I asked.

"The attics in the west wing," Diana explained. "There are several steamer trunks up there. They've got torn old labels on them, you know, labels from steamship lines, such as the P & O and Cunard. Anyway, in those trunks are all sorts of items from the Victorian era. My mother-in-law showed them to me years ago, just after Michael and I were married. She said they'd been packed up by one of the Keswick wives years before her time, at the turn of the century, in fact. Perhaps it was Clarissa who put those things in the trunks."

"And you think she might have included the diaries, if they exist, in amongst them?" I said.

"There's that possibility. In any case, it's worth looking, don't you think?"

"I certainly do," I said. "And thanks for calling back."

"Good night, Mal."

"Night, Diana."

"Look at this embroidery, it's exquisite, Mrs. Andrew," Hilary said, glancing up at me.

She was kneeling on the attic floor in front of one of the old trunks, and she handed me a claret-colored velvet cushion covered in beads. It was obviously Victorian.

I examined the work, surprised that the cushion and the beading were in such good condition after these many years. One entire side was covered with claret bugle beads, with gray, black, white, and silver beads used for the design. This was a combination of roses and leaves, bordered by delicate ferns around the edge. In the center of the cushion, white beads had been worked to form three words.

"Amor vincit omnia," I read out loud. "Latin. It's quite a well-known phrase. I think it means 'love conquers all.'" Staring at Hilary, I lifted a brow questioningly.

"Don't look at me like that, Mrs. Andrew," she exclaimed with a laugh. "I never studied Latin. Mrs. Keswick would know what it means, though, she took Latin at Oxford University. At least, I think she did."

"Yes, she did," I concurred.

Bending over the trunk, Hilary pulled out another cushion, this one larger and cut from olive-green velvet. Silver, gold, and bronze beads formed the background; white beads made a pattern of calla lilies, with green beads for the stems. Once again there was a Latin phrase at the bottom, worked in green beads.

I took the cushion from Hilary and read, "Nunc scio quid sit Amor. I'm afraid I don't know this phrase at all, but again, it has something to do with love."

"Yes," Hilary agreed, plunging her hands into the treasure trove. She pulled out two more cushions, both Victorian, heavily embroidered with beads and bearing Latin phrases.

As she showed them to me, I shook my head. "I can't tell you what they say, but let's take them downstairs. Mrs. Keswick will be interested in seeing them when she gets back from Paris."

"I can't believe she's forgotten how beautiful they are," Hilary murmured. "What I mean is, you told me she'd seen them years ago. You'd think she'd want to have them out. On the sofas and chairs, I mean."

"Yes. But then perhaps she has forgotten, Hilary, just as you said. After all, it was quite a long time ago when she was shown them. Forty years, as a matter of fact."

"Look at this, Mrs. Andrew!"

Hilary now passed me the most beautiful piece of black lace, cut in a large square, edged with jet beads, and encrusted with black bugle beads.

I held it up to look at it in the lamplight.

"What do you think it is?" Hilary asked me. "A mantilla? Like Spanish women used to wear?"

"I don't know. I don't think so, though, it's not quite long enough for a mantilla. But you're right, it's gorgeous. Is there much else in there?"

"Just old linens at the bottom of the trunk."

Hilary began to lift out this collection of items, which had been carefully folded years ago, and handed them to me one by one. Then she pushed herself up on her feet. "This trunk's empty now, Mrs. Andrew."

Together we examined the folded white linens, discovered several Victorian nightgowns made of cotton, half a dozen hand-embroidered pillowcases, and six matching, hand-embroidered sheets.

"Mrs. Keswick can probably make use of these antique linen sheets and pillowcases," Hilary announced. "In the two guest rooms. But I don't know what she'll do with the nightgowns. They're a bit old-fashioned." As she spoke Hilary held one of them against herself. "It smells of mothballs," she muttered and made a face.

For the remainder of the week, Hilary and I spent most of our afternoons poking about in the attics of Kilgram Chase.

There were quite a lot of them located in the four wings of the house, and we ventured into all of them. I had never been up in the eaves before, and I was fascinated by these vast spaces and all that they contained.

Aside from the Victorian steamer trunks in the west-wing attics, we found a variety of other trunks, huge cardboard boxes, and many wooden tea chests stored at the top of the house.

Inside them we discovered a wealth of lovely old things, from more beaded cushions, needlepoint samplers, and a big selection of old linens to china, glass, and all manner of Victoriana: tortoiseshell stud boxes, mother-of-pearl calling-card cases, papier-mâché trays, decorative boxes, and tea caddies.

But no books. No diaries by Lettice Keswick. No copies by Andrew's Victorian ancestor, Clarissa.

On Friday afternoon, Hilary and I were in the north east attic above the library when I stumbled on an old leather trunk. Not quite as large as the other ones we had come across, it was decorated with brass nailheads, now badly discolored, and looked very ancient.

"This might prove to be interesting," I said to Hilary. "But wouldn't you know, it's locked."

"I've got this kitchen knife with me," Hilary answered. "Let me try to prise it open." She came and knelt with me in front of the trunk. She worked away at the lock but was unable to get it to open.

"What about a hairpin?" I suggested. "That sometimes works."

"I don't have one. Do you, Mrs. Andrew?" she asked, looking at my pile of red hair upswept onto the top of my head.

"No, I'm using combs today," I explained. "But there are some pins in my bedroom, I'll rush down and get them."

"Wait a sec. I'll have a go with one of these old keys we found the other day," Hilary replied, pulling a diverse collection of small, very ancient keys out of her apron pocket.'

Selecting one at random, she tried to push it into the lock; it did not fit. After trying a number of others, she finally found one that slid into the lock with ease.

"This just might work," she muttered to herself, twisting the key and jiggling it around. It took a few seconds, and then there was a distinct, if slight, click.

"I think I've done it!" she cried with a triumphant look at me.

"Go on, then, open it," I said.

She lifted the lid, and together we looked inside.

"Books!" I exclaimed, bending over the edge of the leather trunk.

"I'm not going to touch them, Mrs. Andrew; they might be very valuable. I wouldn't want to go and damage one."

"I know what you mean, Hilary." I began to nod to myself as I added, "Maybe we've struck gold."

And we had, as it happened.

The first book I put my hands on turned out to be a treasure indeed, although at first glance it looked like nothing of much importance. Bound in black leather, worn, and torn a bit on the spine, it had a frontispiece written in a hand I instantly recognized. There was no mistaking that elegant, feathery, seventeenth-century script.

Lettice Keswick Her Garden Book, the frontispiece said, and as I turned the pages, I caught my breath in surprise and delight.

Lettice had written a charming little book about the gardens at Kilgram Chase, her gardens: She told how she had planned and designed them, what she had planted, and why. But most important, the book was beautifully illustrated with watercolors and drawings by Lettice herself. In this it resembled the original diary we had come across last November, but there were many more illustrations in this particular book.

Hilary also exclaimed about its beauty when I showed it to her, and she went as far as to say it was better than the diary.

I did not agree. But there was no doubt that Lettice's illustrations of flowers, trees, shrubs, and plants were superb, as were her actual plans of the various gardens.

Investigating the trunk further, I pulled out four other old books, hoping against hope that they were all Lettice's work.

One was bound in purple leather, and it looked a little less scratched and used than the others. I discovered, on opening it, that it was a volume of Victorian recipes. All were written out in Clarissa's wonderful copperplate handwriting, which I had so admired before. There was no doubt in my mind that it was of her own compilation and that it reflected her own tastes in the culinary art.

There was also a cookbook by the prolific Lettice, and this contained all kinds of seventeenth-century recipes, along with household tips and advice on the use of herbs for medicines.

But it was the last two books which thrilled me the most. One was Lettice Keswick's diary for the year 1663; the other was Clarissa's careful copy of it, again written out painstakingly in her unmistakable copperplate. I could hardly wait to read it.

"It's been worth all the hard work this week, Hilary," I said, struggling to my feet and bending down to pick up the books. "These are very special."

"What will Mrs. Keswick do with them, do you think?" she asked, a quizzical expression settling on her face.

"I'm not sure. Probably nothing in the end, because I don't know what she could do, Hilary, to tell you the truth. But they're nice to have, aren't they?"

"Yes. Maybe she'll put them on display, you know, in a glass case, like they do with old books in libraries," Hilary murmured, sounding thoughtful all of a sudden. "Mrs. Keswick has the garden fête for the church every summer. Maybe people could pay something extra to come into the house and see the books. Proceeds to go to the church, of course."

"That's a good idea, Hilary. Clever of you."

Looking pleased at my compliment, she went on more confidently, "There're a lot of people around here would be interested to get a tour of this house, too, but Mrs. Keswick will never open it to the public."

I didn't say anything.

Hilary said, "Well, she wouldn't, would she?"

"I don't know. I'd have to ask her," I said.

After I had had my cup of tea, which Parky usually brought to me at about four-thirty, I went back and sat at the refectory table in front of the soaring, mullioned window. It was a clear, sunny afternoon, and anyway, the light was always good on this side of the library.

I had just begun to read Lattice's diary, which she had started in January of 1663, when the loud shrilling of the telephone made me jump slightly.

Automatically, I reached for it and picked up the receiver.

"Kilgram Chase," I said.

There was the sound of static, and then I heard David's voice saying, "Mal, is that you?"

"Yes, it is," I said and found myself clutching the phone all that much tighter. "Do you have news?"

"DeMarco's done it!" he exclaimed. "He and Johnson arrested the four youths over the weekend. I didn't call you earlier, because I was waiting for further developments, and-"

"Did they do it?" I cut in, my voice rising an octave.

"Yes. DeMarco and Johnson are positive the four of them are the perpetrators. Two sets of fingerprints from the car match those of two of the youths. Another was in possession of the gun, the nine-millimeter semiautomatic. It went to ballistics, and the report is conclusive: It is the gun that was used."

"So they'll go before a grand jury?"

"They have already. DeMarco and Johnson moved with great speed, on Monday. The hearing was yesterday, and the grand jury has voted to indict them on charges of murder in the second degree. They'll be going to trial."

"When will that be?" I asked.

"DeMarco's not sure. The prosecutor has to prepare the case, as I explained to you last week. Bail was denied, naturally. And all four currently are in jail. Which is where they'll spend the rest of their lives. They're not going to get off, I can assure you of that."

"Was it…" I stopped and took a deep breath. "Was it like Detective DeMarco said… was it an attempted carjacking, David?"

"Yes, it was. Gone wrong, of course."

"Did DeMarco tell you why… why Andrew and the twins were shot?" I asked, my voice so low it was barely audible.

"He told me that two of the youths were hopped up. Doped up, Mal, full of drugs. They'd apparently been smoking crack cocaine, and one of them just went wild for no reason at all. Just started to fire the gun wildly…"

"Oh, God, oh, God, David," I whispered. I could hardly speak.

"I know, I know, honey," he answered, his voice loving and as sympathetic as it always was. "Are you all right?"

I couldn't respond. I sat there in the library, gripping the phone, my knuckles white and my eyes staring blindly into space.

"Mal, are you there?"

I swallowed hard. "I'm here." I took another deep breath. "Thanks for calling, David. I'll be in touch."

"Take care of yourself, Mal. We'll phone you on Sunday. Bye."

I hung up without saying another word and went out of the library. Crossing the hall, my body hunched over and my arms wrapped around myself, I made it to the staircase without anyone seeing me.

Grabbing hold of the bannister, I dragged myself upstairs, slowly lifting one foot after the other. They felt as heavy as lead.

Once I was inside my bedroom, I fell onto the bed and pulled the comforter over me. I had begun to shake, and I couldn't stop. Reaching for a pillow, I buried my face in it, wanting to stifle the sound of my dry, wracking sobs.

My husband and my babies had died needlessly, for nothing, for no reason at all.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Yorkshire, May 1989

Up here on the wild, untenanted moors it was a truly pretty day. The sunlit air was soft, balmy, and the vast expanse of sky was cerulean blue, scattered with wispy white clouds.

The air was pure, and I breathed deeply as I walked along the path that had led me from the woods of Kilgram Chase, across the adjoining field, and up onto the lower reaches of the moors.

At one moment I looked up and caught my breath, as always awed by the high-flung fells that soared above me like giant cliffs. They dwarfed everything below, made the floor of the valley and the pastoral green dales seem so much gentler.

I would not go up to the fells today; distances were deceptive in these hills, and they were much farther away than they appeared. In any case, it was too difficult a trek.

But it did not take me long to reach my destination. This was the spot that Andrew had loved from his childhood, and where he had often brought me in the past. It was a stretch of moorland above Kilgram Chase, under the shadows of the great Ragland Fell, up near Dern Ghyll. It was a deep ravine, with an extraordinary waterfall cascading down over its sheer drops and rough-hewn stones.

I had discovered long ago that I was never very far away from the sound of running water on these moors. They were seamed with tinkling little becks and larger streams, and waterfalls that came effortlessly tumbling down over the rocks and crags in the most unexpected places.

Feeling quite warm after my walk, I took off my jacket, spread it on the ground, and sat down on it. I stared at the vast panorama stretching out before me; there was nothing but rolling moors sweeping down to the dales and the fields, for as far as the eye could see. No dwellings here. Except, of course, for Diana's house nestled against the trees directly below me.

After a short while, I lay down with my head on my jacket and closed my eyes. I enjoyed the peace up here; I was transported into another world.

There was no noise at all, except for the gentle sounds of nature. The faint buzzing of a bee, the scurry of rabbits rustling through the bilberry and bracken, the occasional bleat of a stray sheep, the trilling of the birds, and that ever-present rush of water dropping over the edge of Dern Ghyll close by.

Today was Thursday, the fourth of May.

My birthday.

I was thirty-four years old today.

I felt older, much older than my years, and scarred by the deaths of my children and my husband. Without them my life would never be the same, and sorrow was my constant companion.

But I no longer had the overwhelming urge to kill myself, and those terrible, debilitating depressions took hold of me less frequently these days. On the other hand, I had not solved the problem of earning a living or finding a job that I liked. I was at a loss, living in a kind of limbo.

I sighed and brushed a fly away from my cheek.

Lulled by the warmth and the sun on my face and bare arms, I felt suddenly drowsy. I drifted off, calmed by the peacefulness of this place.

Big drops of rain splashing on my face awakened me, and I sat up with a start, groaning out loud when I saw the darkening sky, the rain clouds gathering just above Ragland Fell.

In the distance there was the crack of thunder sounding off like cannon, and a sudden flash of bright white lightning lit up the sky. It ripped through the blackened clouds which had suddenly begun to burst.

A moment later I was already drenched by the most ferocious, slashing rain. Snatching up my jacket, I struggled into it and began to run down past Dern Ghyll, making for the winding path which would lead me back to Kilgram Chase.

In my haste I stumbled several times, and once I almost slipped, but somehow I managed to keep my balance. I went on running, pushing my wet hair away from my face, trying to keep up a steady pace. And I kept asking myself why I never heeded Wilf's warnings about the unpredictable weather up here.

Later, when Diana asked me what happened, I was unable to tell her because I had absolutely no idea how I came to fall. But fall I did. Without warning, I went sprawling at the top of an incline, and before I could check myself I was sliding and rolling down the side of the steep moorland.

I finally came to rest in a gully, and I lay there for a few minutes, gasping, catching my breath. I was winded and felt slightly battered after tumbling such a long way.

Struggling into a sitting position, I looped my wet hair behind my ears and tried to get up. Instantly, I felt the pain shooting from my ankle up my leg, and I sat down again. I realized I had either wrenched or sprained it; I didn't think it was broken. I slithered along the ground until I reached the rock formation at one side of the gully. Here I gripped a protruding rock, endeavoring to pull myself to my feet. I discovered I had difficulty standing, let alone walking.

Thunder and lightning had started raging again, and it seemed to me that the rain was much heavier than before. Uncertain what I ought to do, I decided it would be wisest to shelter here under the rocks until the storm abated. Only then would I try to make it back to Kilgram Chase.

The rocks offered me some protection because they formed an overhang. By crouching down, I was able to shuffle myself under this, where it was reasonably dry. I attempted to wring out my hair with my hands, and then I squeezed the bottom of my trousers. My loafers were wet through and covered in mud, as were the rest of my clothes.

Much to my dismay, the rain continued to come down in great streams; the thunder and lightning were a constant barrage and seemed never-ending. Shivering with cold, my teeth chattering, I pushed myself against the back wall of the rocks, praying that the weather would calm down as quickly as it had erupted.

But it did not, and it grew darker by the minute. Hardly any blue sky was visible now as the thunderheads came scudding in, whipped along by the wind, which had started to blow quite fiercely. From this spot I could just make out the trees bending and swaying in the fields below me.

I sat under the rocks for over two hours, shaking with cold, trying to keep myself calm. The light had grown much dimmer, and I was afraid I was going to be stranded up here in the dark. Even when the rain stopped, I knew I would not get very far hopping or limping my way back to the house.

Growing more stiff and cramped and numb, I twisted my body, stretched out my legs, and lay lengthwise. This was a bit more comfortable, but not much.

From time to time the rumbling clouds parted and I saw a sliver of gray sky. Then it changed unexpectedly, and a peculiar white light began to shimmer on the edge of the horizon, suffusing the dark clouds with an aureole of radiance.

The sky was looking strange, almost eerie, but it was nevertheless quite beautiful. The light grew brighter, sharper, and I held my breath. Eerie or not, it was magnificent.

As I lay staring at that brilliant sky, trying to still my worry, I heard his voice. Andrew's voice. Mal.

It was clear, very close, so close I pushed myself up swiftly and changed my position under the rocks. Again I heard my name.

Mal.

"I'm here," I answered, almost to myself.

Don't be afraid. You'll be all right. Listen to me now. You must be strong and brave. As long as you are alive you will carry the memory of me in your heart. I will live on in you. As Jamie and Lissa will live on in you. We are watching over you, Mal. But it's time for you to move on. Gather your strength. You must go on with your life. Go forward into the future.

"Andrew," I said, looking about me anxiously. "Are you there? Don't leave me, don't go away."

I am always with you, darling. Always. Remember that.

The thunder and lightning stopped.

I peered around again.

I was alone.

The rain ceased abruptly, without any warning. The bright light streaming out from behind the clouds was beginning to diminish and fade, and the stormy clouds were speeding away across the heavens. A fragment of blue appeared above me.

I closed my eyes, thinking.

Had Andrew spoken to me? Or was it all in my own head?

Was my imagination playing tricks again?

"She never paid me any mind, Mrs. Andrew didn't," Wilf grumbled. "I allus told her not to come up on these 'ere moors, Joe. I did that. Dangerous they are."

"Let's just try and find her," Joe said. "Stop yakking."

When I heard their voices nearby, I managed to push myself to my knees. "Help!" I shouted weakly. "Help! I'm down here! Joe! Wilf! Down in the hollow!"

"That's Mrs. Andrew calling us, Joe," Wilf cried excitedly. "She's tummeled in yon gully, I bet she has. Come on, Joe."

A fraction of a second later Wilf and Joe were peering down at me, relief spreading across their weather-beaten faces.

"Whatever's happened to you, Mrs. Andrew?" Joe cried, clambering down into the hollow.

"I fell, rolled down the moor, and ended up in here. I hurt my ankle," I explained, "I'm not sure how well I can walk, Joe. I think I can only hop or limp."

"Don't you worry, we'll have you back home in two shakes of a lamb's tail," Joe said. "Now, come along. Put this barbour on, it'll keep you warm. By gum, you're as white as a sheet, and you must be frozen. You're shaking like a leaf."

"I be warning you afore, Mrs. Andrew," Wilf said. "But you never paid me no mind."

"I'm sorry, Wilf, I should have listened. And you're right, the weather is unpredictable up here."

"It is, by gum. Many a poor soul's been lost on these moors, not found till it was too late. Dead as a doornail, they was," Wilf intoned in a dolorous voice.

"That's enough, Wilf," Joe said. "Now, Mrs. Andrew, just put one arm around my neck, and let's see if I can help you up out of this gully."

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Joe and Wilf half walked me, half carried me back to the house. We made slow progress because of my ankle; I felt ill, frozen through to my bones, and I had a raging headache. But at least it was no longer raining, and the wind had dropped considerably.

When we finally arrived at Kilgram Chase, Parky, Hilary, and her husband Ben were all waiting for us in the kitchen, their faces anxious.

"Oh, dear, Mrs. Andrew, what happened to you?" Parky cried. "Have you hurt yourself, then?"

"Sprained her ankle, she has," Joe answered.

"I'm all right, Parky," I reassured her, although I didn't feel it at this moment.

"Found her up near yon ghyll, we did, she'd tummeled in a gully," Wilf said. "And I-"

"It could have been worse," Hilary exclaimed, cutting him off sharply. Taking charge with sudden briskness, she went on, "There's no point standing around here nattering. Now, Mrs. Andrew, let's get you upstairs, get those wet clothes off you. A hot bath is what you need, and something hot inside you."

Hilary came to me, put her arm around my waist, and helped me across the kitchen.

"I'll ring up Dr. Gordon, ask him to come, shall I?" Ben said, looking at Hilary.

"Yes, you'd better," she replied.

"I'm okay, honestly I am," I interjected. "I'm just cold. Very cold. A bath will do the trick."

"I think the doctor had better look at your ankle. Best to be on the safe side," Joe said as we went out into the corridor.

I heard Parky say, "I'll put the kettle on."

And then Joe replying, "Nay, Mother, what yon lass needs is a shot of good scotch whiskey, not tea."

Hilary tightened her grip on me as we started up the stairs. "Can you make it all right?" she asked worriedly.

I nodded.

Once we were in my bedroom, she went to run me a bath.

I stripped off my muddy clothes, threw them on the floor, and put on a dressing gown. I limped into the bathroom.

Hilary looked around as I came in and said, "Shall I put some of these Epsom salts in the bath? They're good for aches and pains."

"Yes, that's a good idea," I answered, sitting down on the bathroom stool.

"I'll be back in a few minutes with the tea and the whiskey," Hilary said, walking over to the door. "I'll leave it in the bedroom for you. Oh, and I'll put a bottle of aspirin on the tray."

"Thanks, Hilary. Thanks for everything."

"You're welcome," she murmured and closed the door behind her.

I sat soaking in the hot tub for a long time, enjoying the heat of the water, feeling myself thawing out. The Epsom salts did help my bruised body and my ankle; and even though this was badly sprained, I was now certain it was not broken.

But it was quite obvious that I had had a lucky escape.

When I had gone for a walk earlier this afternoon, I hadn't told anyone where I was going, and it was only by chance that I had seen Wilf in the orchard as I had walked past. He had waved. I had waved back, and then I had gone on down the path into the woods. When the storm had started and I had not returned, he must have been the one to sound the alarm. I experienced a stab of guilt as I thought of the way Andrew and I had always characterized him as stupid-gormless, as Andrew said.

Andrew.

I closed my eyes, concentrating, picturing my husband in my mind's eye.

Had he really spoken to me this afternoon? Freezing cold, in pain from my ankle, frightened that I might not be found before nightfall, that I might easily be lost on the moors, might I not have simply imagined it? Might I not have conjured him up for comfort?

I did not know. Just as I did not know whether I had dreamed that Lissa had slept in my arms all those months ago at Indian Meadows.

Was there such a thing as an afterlife? Certainly religions have preached for thousands of years that there is. And if there is an afterlife, then there must be ghosts, spirits of the dead who come back to this physical plane for a reason. To comfort and calm those loved ones left behind grieving? To show themselves as guardian angels?

Suddenly I remembered a book I had seen the other day in the library. It was about angels and ghosts; I had leafed through it quickly. Later I would look at it again.

"You've been very lucky, Mrs. Keswick," Dr. Gordon said, putting his stethoscope away in his bag. "Very lucky indeed."

"I realize that," I responded. "I could have broken something, not just sprained my ankle."

"Very true. But what I meant is, you're fortunate you're not suffering from hypothermia. You were out in that wretched storm for over two hours, and one's body temperature drops very quickly with that kind of exposure to the elements. And when hypothermia does occur, a person can be in serious trouble."

"But Mrs. Andrew is all right, isn't she?" Hilary asked, her concern apparent.

"Yes, she's fine." He glanced from Hilary back to me. "Your temperature is normal, and you don't seem to have suffered too much damage. Even the sprain is not that serious. A couple of days, you'll be all right. But do be sure to keep that ankle of yours bandaged."

"I will, Doctor, and thank you for coming over."

"I was glad to pop in, and if you have any problems at all, please don't hesitate to ring me."

"I will. Thanks, Dr. Gordon."

"Good-bye, Mrs. Keswick."

"Bye."

Hilary jumped up.

"I'll see you out, Doctor," she said and hurried after him. Turning back to look at me from the doorway, she asked, "Do you need me for anything else, Mrs. Andrew? Shall I come back and help you get dressed?"

"Thanks, Hilary, that's sweet of you, but I can manage."

Left alone, I took off my robe, put on a pair of gray flannels, a russet-colored silk shirt, and a matching wool jacket. Sitting down on the bench at the bottom of the bed, I pulled on a pair of white wool socks and slipped my feet into a pair of suede moccasins.

Picking up the walking stick Parky had brought upstairs for me, I hobbled out of my bedroom, went along the hall and down the staircase, taking steps very carefully, walking sideways.

The library had become my favorite room at Kilgram Chase these past four months, and knowing this, Joe had turned on the lamps and started the fire earlier, whilst I had been with the doctor.

Even though it was May, the great stone house could be chilly at night, especially this room, with its high-flung ceiling and over scaled proportions. The fire blazing up the chimney and the warm glow of the lamps gave it a cheerful ambience on this rainy evening.

Once I had found the book about angels and ghosts, I went over to the fireplace and sat down in the wing chair. I would look at it whilst I waited for Diana. She was driving up from London tonight instead of tomorrow, so that she could spend the evening with me; she did not want me to be alone for my birthday. She was due in about an hour, and I was glad she was coming.

A memory of my last birthday insinuated itself into my mind, and I couldn't help recalling how happy it had been. My mother had given an early dinner at her apartment, and Lissa and Jamie had come with me and Andrew and Sarah. There had been champagne first and a cake after dinner, and the twins had sung "Happy Birthday" to me. Andrew had given me maybe pearl earrings; the twins had painted their own special cards for me and saved up all year to buy me a pretty silk scarf.

My throat tightened, and I felt the tears sting my eyes as the memories came rushing back. I pushed them aside, took hold of myself, leaned back in the chair, and closed my eyes. Eventually the pain of yearning for them passed.

I began to leaf through the book about angels and ghosts, and I soon found the section I was looking for, the references I wanted.

I read that angels were considered to be messengers of the divine, that they only ever brought good news and aid to those in need of it. People who had seen them said they were filled with goodness and warmth and were surrounded by light, that frequently they were vividly and brilliantly colored, and that a special kind of radiance emanated from them.

Other people interviewed for the book said that when they had seen an angel, or several angels together, they had felt themselves filling with joy, bursting with happiness; some said they had filled with sudden laughter.

The section on ghosts came next, and I read that they were the spirits of the dead, and always took their own form when they materialized. The idea that ghosts did exist was apparently found in every country and culture, and that in general most people agreed on how they actually looked. They were misty, cloudy, transparent, and floating.

Usually, ghosts came to help their loved ones, according to the book. They brought messages of hope and love and frequently materialized in order to tell us that everything was all right. Seemingly, ghosts were attached to the physical world, our world, by their longing for those they had left behind.

The book said there were also bad ghosts, evil spirits who could do harm and who sometimes took demonic possession of a person. I began to read about the Roman Catholic church's attitude toward evil spirits, and the exorcisms which were performed by priests. I found this a bit frightening and closed the book. I did not want to know about evil spirits. I had experienced enough evil to last me a lifetime.

After returning the book to its place on the shelf, I went and sat in front of the mullioned window, staring out at the moors. They were a peculiar blue-black color at this twilight hour, rain-swept and formidable, and a shiver ran through me as I thought of being out on them in this weather tonight.

And yet, curiously, I had been close to Andrew up there this afternoon in the storm, closer than ever, and at one moment I had felt his presence most acutely.

Was this because he had always loved storms? Because he had wanted to go out in them when he was a boy, had wanted to become at one with his ancestors riding out to fight their enemies?

I smiled inwardly, thinking of him with such love. My heart was full of him. Unexpectedly, I experienced a feeling of great calmness. It was flowing through me, suffusing my entire being; it was the kind of calmness I had forgotten existed.

I sat there for a long time, looking out the window, thinking about Andrew's words to me today. My birthday. Had he spoken to me because it was my birthday?

I sighed to myself. I was still not sure what had happened out there this afternoon, whether his voice had been real or simply inside me, conjured up because of my yearning for him.

"Here's to you, darling," Diana said, touching her glass of white wine to mine. "I'm glad you're here. I'm glad we can spend your birthday together."

"So am I, Diana."

Placing her goblet on the coffee table, she picked up the small gift-wrapped package she had brought into the library with her a few minutes ago. Handing it to me with a smile, she said, "This is for you, and it comes with all of my love."

"Thank you," I answered, taking it from her and unwrapping it. The small black leather box I held in my hands was worn, a bit rubbed on one side, and when I opened it, I let out a little gasp. Lying on the black velvet was an antique cameo, one of the most exquisite I had ever seen. "It's beautiful, Diana, thank you so much."

Rising, I went over to the sofa and kissed her on the cheek, and then I pinned the cameo onto the lapel of my jacket.

"My mother-in-law gave it to me years ago, for one of my birthdays," Diana explained. "I thought it was a nice idea to pass it on to you, since it's a Keswick heirloom."

"You're always so thoughtful, so loving," I murmured, going back to the chair and sitting down. "You spoil me."

"There's something else I want to talk to you about," Diana went on. "And now is as good a time as any."

She sounded suddenly rather serious, and I looked at her questioningly. "Yes, of course."

"It's about this house, Mal."

"What do you mean?"

"You're my heir now…" She paused for a moment, and I saw the emotion crossing her face. But she recovered herself immediately. "My only heir, and I just wanted you to know that I have had my will redrawn. I've left Kilgram Chase to you, and everything else I own, actually."

"Oh, Diana, I don't know what to say… thank you, of course…" I was at a sudden loss and couldn't find the right words to express myself.

Diana said, "You're young, Mal, only thirty-four today, and much of your life is still ahead of you. And one day I'm sure you'll remarry, perhaps even have children again, and I like to think of you being here with them."

I gaped at her. I was aghast. "No!" I exclaimed. "I won't remarry-"

"You don't know what's going to happen," she said, interrupting me. "I know how you feel at this moment, and perhaps I was wrong to bring the subject up tonight. So I'm not going to continue this conversation. Certainly not now. However, I do want to say one thing, and it is this, Mal darling. You must go on. We must all go on. Life is for the living, you know."

I had a strange affinity with Lettice Keswick.

I felt curiously drawn to her, and yet she had been an ancestor not of mine, but of Andrew's. Nonetheless, I did feel oddly close to this seventeenth-century Yorkshire-woman, dead now for several hundred years though she had been.

I had grown to know Lettice through her writing-those two diaries covering two years of her life in Stuart England, her cookbook full of recipes for food and wine, and her enchanting, illustrated garden book.

As I sat in the library at Kilgram Chase this morning, leafing through those various books again, I could not help thinking that Lettice had been a lot like me, in many ways. A homemaker, a cook, a gardener, a painter, a woman interested in furnishings and all those things which made a home beautiful. And she had been a devoted mother and an adoring wife, just as I had.

Basically that was my problem. I had not known anything else after college; certainly a few months in an ad agency didn't count. And without my husband and my children, I had no focus, no purpose. Certainly I had nothing to do, and that was not good, not good at all, as Diana kept pointing out. A job was essential.

But what kind of job?

That old question came back to nag me, as it had for some months.

Sighing under my breath, feeling suddenly impatient with myself, even irritated, I pushed back my chair and went outside. I also felt the need for some air before lunch.

I found my steps were leading me toward the walled rose garden, always a favorite spot of mine. But perhaps more so of late, since I knew it had been designed almost three hundred years ago by Lettice. It was exactly the same today as it had been then.

Opening the oak door which led into the garden, I walked down the three steps and stood looking around for a moment or two. It was not a large garden, but it had a special kind of charm, due in no small measure to its ancient stone walls and paths covered with moss and chamomile, two sundials, and various wooden garden seats placed here and there.

Lettice's design was simplicity itself, but that was the reason it worked. There were hedges of shrub roses, ramblers climbing the ancient walls, rectangular beds of floribundas, and circular beds of hybrid tea roses. My favorites were the Old-Fashioned roses, a variety raised before the twentieth century; I liked to think these resembled the roses planted by Lettice so long ago.

It was late May, and since most of the roses currently planted bloomed in June, the garden was not as beautiful or as colorful as it would be then and through the rest of the summer. But because the walls gave the garden shelter and the sun shone on it in the afternoons, a few of the June roses were already starting to flower.

I sat down on one of the garden seats, my mind still focused on a job. I had no idea what I could do or what I wanted to do. I had decided weeks ago that I did not want to work in an office, and of course that limited my choices.

Last weekend, when my father and Gwenny had come to stay with us, he had been in favor of my going to work with Diana at her antique shop in London. And she herself was all for it, was waiting for an answer, in fact.

"You should be with people, Mallory," my father had said. "That's why a shop's ideal. And in this instance, it's the perfect shop for you, loving antiques and art the way you do." Gwenny and Diana had agreed, and all three of them had tried to talk me into the partnership she had so generously offered.

I thought about this idea one more time, assessing the pros and cons. Perhaps they were right. I did care about antique furniture, objects of art and paintings, and I had quite a wide knowledge of them. Though I didn't want to decorate for people, I wouldn't mind selling things to them. Actually, the thought of being in a shop appealed tome.

Except…

Except what?

I wasn't sure exactly what it was that was making me balk.

Then it hit me. I had a moment of truth, of such extraordinary clarity of vision I was momentarily stunned.

I didn't want to work in Diana's shop or become her partner because I didn't want to stay in England.

I wanted to go home.

Home to Indian Meadows. My home. The place Andrew and I had so lovingly made ours. I missed it. I was homesick. I needed to be there in order to get on with my life.

Everybody had been telling me I must do that, but I hadn't been able to make a move. I had been stationary, marking time here, because England was the wrong place for me at this juncture of my life. I loved it; I would always come back to Yorkshire. But now I must move on. Immediately.

I must go home. Whatever my life was going to be, I suddenly knew that I wanted to, no, must live it in Connecticut, in that old house. I needed to be in its lovely cool rooms, to be close to my old apple tree and my barns. I longed to see the horses in the long meadow, the mallards on the pond. I wanted to be with Nora and Eric and Anna.

Indian Meadows was mine. Andrew and I had created it together, made it what it was. I felt right there, at ease. I had fled Indian Meadows in January in search of Andrew. But I no longer had to look for him here in his childhood home. He was with me always, inside my heart, part of me, just as Jamie and Lissa were part of me. And would be for as long as I lived, for all the days of my life.

But if I were to keep my Connecticut homestead, I had to earn a living.

I could open my own shop. Right there at Indian Meadows.

This thought took me by surprise.

I pondered it, realized at once that it was not a bad idea at all. Except that there were innumerable antique shops in the area, stretching from New Milford and New Preston all the way up to Sharon.

But it didn't have to be an antique shop, did it?

No. What kind of shop, then?

A shop for women like me. Or rather, women who were married with children, the way I had been once. Homemakers. Mommies. Besotted wives, I could sell them all of the things I knew about, from the days when I was a wife and mother: kitchenware, cooking utensils, and baking tins; beautiful pottery for beautiful tables; herbs and spices, jams and jellies; potpourri, fancy soaps, and beeswax candles. All of these things women had loved since Lettice Keswick's time.

Lettice Keswick. Now there was a name to conjure with. I could call it Lettice Keswick's Kitchen. That had a nice ring to it. No, I preferred Indian Meadows. Why not keep that name? It had always meant a lot to us. It was the name of the house, but there was no reason why it shouldn't also be the name of the shop.

My shop.

My very own shop. Indian Meadows. A Country Experience.

That also had a nice ring to it. But why was it a country experience? It would only be a shop, after all. But it could be an experience if something special happened there. It could be a cafe as well. A small, cafe in the center of the shop, serving coffee, tea, cold drinks, soups, small snacks, and quiche.

A country shop and cafe in an old red barn in the foothills of the Berkshires, the northwestern highlands of Connecticut. God's own country, Andrew and I had always called it.

Nora and Anna could help me run it. They'd enjoy it; certainly they'd enjoy making the extra money. And perhaps Eric could be a part of it; after all, things were not very good at the lumberyard, Nora had written to tell me. She had also said she missed cooking for me. Well, she could make jams and jellies, chutneys and spreads to her heart's content. There were enough recipes in Lettice's cookbook to keep her busy. That was it. Our own label. Lettice Keswick's Kitchen.

I experienced such a rush of excitement I could hardly contain myself. All kinds of ideas were rushing into my head, ideas for other labels, other lines of products. There might even be a catalogue one day.

A catalogue. My God, what a great idea that was.

I jumped to my feet and glanced around the rose garden.

Thank you, Lettice Keswick, I thought. Thank you. For there was no question in my mind that Lettice had had a hand in this.