The Soldier's Dark Secret

And Eleanor too, his long-suffering sister-in-law. She would appreciate a course-by-course account of the meal, if he could only remember what it had consisted of. Opening the door and summoning what he hoped was a cheerful smile, Jack decided he’d just have to make it up as he went along.

* * *

Three days later, Celeste was in her studio, putting the final touches to her painting of the lake. The next painting, a view from the hill of the manor and the village, was already sketched out. She had been working long hours since returning from Hunter’s Reach, partly in an effort to stay out of Jack’s way, and partly in an attempt to stop thinking about that night. There was no doubt now in her mind that she would be a fool to wish for the impossible, but there were times, moments of weakness, when that was exactly what she did.

Jack’s distinctive tap on the door made her jump. One look at his expression made her heart plummet. ‘What is wrong?’

He put the tray he’d been carrying down and poured two glasses of cognac. ‘Sit down.’

‘Jack, what is it?’

He pulled a letter from his coat pocket and handed it to her. ‘This arrived in the post this morning. It’s from Rundell and Bridge. I’m so terribly sorry, Celeste, but it seems one part of the trail has gone completely cold.’

Her fingers shaking, she pulled out the contents and scanned it quickly. It was only after a second, more painstaking reading that the full import of the words sank in. She picked up the glass of cognac and took a large sip, coughing as the fiery spirit hit the back of her throat. ‘And so you are proved correct,’ she said to Jack, who was watching her anxiously. ‘Maman was indeed a gently bred English lady. “Blythe Elizabeth Wilmslow, only and much beloved child of the late...”’ Her lip trembled. She took another, more cautious sip of the cognac and picked up the letter again. ‘“The late Lord and Lady Wilmslow.” So my mother’s parents are both dead.’ Her fingers went to the locket, which had, according to the letter, been commissioned by them for her mother’s twenty-first birthday.

‘I’m very sorry.’

Celeste took another sip of brandy. A hot tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away. ‘I can’t think why I am— It’s not as if I knew them, these Wilmslow people.’

‘They were your maternal grandparents.’

‘No, they would never have acknowledged me—because I am illegitimate.’ She sniffed hard. ‘I always knew that. I don’t know why it’s harder to accept now that I have the names of these— My mother’s parents. Wilmslow. It is a very English name.’ Another tear trickled down her cheek. She scrubbed it with the edge of her painting smock. ‘It is stupid to feel sad for the death of people you don’t know. Especially since, unlike Maman, they did not die prematurely.’ She consulted the letter. ‘Only three years ago, my mother’s father passed away, and then two years ago, her mother. Yet not once did she mention them. Even though they were still alive and living here in England until very recently.’ She sniffed again. ‘Perhaps there is a family trait that encourages estrangement.’

‘Celeste, you know that’s not true.’ Jack took her glass from her and lifted her hand to the locket. ‘Your mother was “the only and much beloved child” it says in the letter. This extremely expensive piece of jewellery is proof of how much her parents loved her. And you must surely see that what is inside is proof of how much your own mother loved you.’

‘Despite all evidence to the contrary?’

Jack nodded. ‘Despite that.’

He put his arm around her shoulder. Celeste closed her eyes, enjoying the solid feel of him, letting her tears trickle through her closed lids. The cognac fumes were clouding her brain but something in the letter was nagging away at her. She jerked upright and scrabbled for it again. ‘It says here that the Wilmslows’ estate was inherited by a third cousin because Blythe Wilmslow died without issue. But when her parents died Maman was still alive. I can understand that they would not know about me, but why would they believe Maman dead?’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Alors, why can nothing be simple! Why cannot a question lead to an answer instead of more questions?’

She gazed at her completed painting of the lake. She was pleased with it. The light was just right. Late afternoon, the shadows playing on the water. And here, on the edge, was the hawthorn bush where she had hidden to watch Jack swimming that very first morning.

She turned back round. There he was, sprawled as usual, his long legs stretched out before him, no coat, no cravat, his hair rumpled. He looked tired. Only a few nights ago, she had lain in his arms. Only a few weeks, and she would be finished her commission and return to Paris. Without answers. Without Jack.

‘And so it ends,’ Celeste said, trying not to let her voice quiver. ‘As you said, the trail has run cold.’

‘There is another trail.’

‘The file? Why did you not say it had arrived?’