Twenty-nine
Mrs. Hutherson smiled at me above the rim of her flowered teacup. 'What do you think happened to them?' she asked.
'I don't know,' I answered, chewing my lower lip. 'I suppose I want to think they got away, lived happily ever after and all that.' I smiled faintly. 'The fairy tale again.'
It was becoming a familiar scene, the two of us facing each other across the scrubbed table in the kitchen of Crofton Hall, with the sunlight streaming in the windows and the kettle still steaming on the stove.
‘I went to the church this morning,' I continued, 'and checked the registers again. There's no record of a burial of either Rachel or Evan, or of any marriage between them. The marriage record of Rachel and Elias Webb still stands,' I pointed out. 'No one put a line through it, or anything.'
'They probably saw no need to,' Mrs. Hutherson explained. 'Elias died soon afterward. But there'—she caught herself, smiling—'I've gone and told you, and after I promised myself I wouldn't.'
'You wouldn't care to tell me what became of Evan and Rachel, then?'
'I would not.'
'It was quite a serious thing, in those days, wasn't it? Running away with another man. I expect they would have been hanged, if they'd been caught.'
She lifted the teapot, refusing to rise to the bait. 'Would you like another cup?'
'No, thank you.' I held a hand to my stomach. 'I'll be swimming as it is.'
'Have you told Geoffrey about this, yet?'
'No. I only saw him for a moment, just before noon, and he was heading out for his ride. He still doesn't remember anything. About Richard, I mean.'
It was an unnecessary comment on my part, but she nodded anyway. 'I know.'
'Will he ever remember?'
'Have another biscuit.' She passed me the plate.
'You're not going to answer that, are you? Right, then let's try this angle. Is there anything I can say or do that might help Geoff to remember?'
'Nothing.' She shook her head with regal certainty. 'You cannot force the pace of destiny, Julia.'
My smile was tight. 'No harm trying.'
'On the contrary, you might do a great deal of harm.' She put her head to one side and studied me closely. 'Do you mind if I make a suggestion?'
'Not at all.'
'You said before that you couldn't always control your experiences. That you sometimes went back without meaning to.'
'That's right.'
'Then I think it would be wise if you left your house for the next few days, went on holiday. Not that you're in any danger, mind, but Mariana's uncle was a brutal man, and Rachel's running away did not improve his temper. It might be painful—physically painful—for you to relive any episodes just now. You understand?'
I thought of Caroline's bruises, and her hollow, defeated eyes. 'Yes,' I said. 'I think I do.' 'You don't need to stay away long. Till Thursday, perhaps. Things ought to have settled down by then. Jabez Howard's rages never lasted long.'
I looked at her, curious. 'You seem to know a good deal about him.'
'As well I should,' she replied, calmly leveling her gaze on mine. 'Jabez Howard was my—'
The outside door swung open suddenly, and Vivien stuck her head around the doorjamb. 'Sorry to interrupt,' she said, without sounding in the least apologetic, 'but I've been looking everywhere for you, Julia. I desperately need your opinion on my outfit for this evening.'
Alfreda Hutherson smiled indulgently at her niece. 'What's on for this evening?'
'Never you mind,' Vivien told her, grinning. 'I just need to borrow Julia for a few minutes, that's all.'
'Won't my opinion do?'
'No, thanks.' Vivien's grin widened. 'I've seen your wardrobe. Besides, Julia's an artist. She has an eye for colors and lines and things.' She looked at me hopefully. 'Have you got a minute, or am I really interrupting something?'
'Nothing that won't keep,' Mrs. Hutherson answered for me, waving a dismissive hand. 'You'd better go with her, Julia. We can't have Vivien looking out of fashion, or clashing with the table linens. And don't let her wear anything black, it fades her out completely.'
'I don't own anything in black,' Vivien confided to me as we wended our way down the back lane to the Red Lion. 'Not anymore. I do occasionally listen to my aunt Freda, you know.' Smiling, she pushed open the gate that led to her private rooms at the rear of the pub.
Inside, Vivien dropped her keys on the kitchen counter and shook her head. 'Will you look at that, then,' she said, with a sweep of her hand. I looked. Iain lay stretched full-length on the carpet in her lounge, one arm crooked behind his head, ankles crossed, eyes closed. 'That's the problem with tradesmen these days,' she told me, amused. 'You turn your back for half a minute and they fall asleep on you.'
He looked quite different, in his sleep. Gone were the strong, impassive lines and angles of his face, and the stoic self-control that held them there. He looked younger, somehow. That was the dreamer's face, I told myself, the poet's face, and not the farmer's. But then he half opened one eye and looked back at us, and the impression vanished. 'I'm not sleeping,' he said. 'I'm just resting my eyes.'
'You're supposed to be fixing my sink, as I recall.'