Cecilia’s mouth is tight, waiting for the next blow.
‘No.’ Odette smooths over her mistake. ‘I see you’ll wish to be the horse. You would never tolerate me riding anyone else.’
At this, Cecilia goes pink and swats Odette on the knee – the tension is broken. ‘Stop it. Do you not want to do it?’
Odette considers. ‘You’re right. It could be a lot of fun.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘Of course I am. We should do it as soon as we can.’
‘Tomorrow, then,’ agrees Cecilia. ‘After all, we hardly need prepare.’
Odette laughs again.
How much easier it is to hide inside this fantasy.
That is what her mother’s money will buy her: a way to make the fantasy real.
A flat with Cecilia. The means to live as she chooses.
If only her mother does not ruin it.
If only Claudine’s arrival means nothing.
Then, perhaps.
Perhaps.
6
Cecilia
THE MORNING SUN COMESearly and golden through the open curtains of Odette’s window, picking out flashes of Lydia’s chestnut in her hair. Cecilia lies beside her, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps, like a worshipper at the adoration of the cross.
Not for the first time, she wishes she had any of Lydia’s skill. If she knew how, she would capture Odette on paper or canvas, freeze her in place to keep her forever. It is so hard to love a living being. There is always change. Always the unknown. The harder Cecilia grasps, the more Odette seems to shift and retreat.
There – a soft tap at the door, and the maid comes in, waking Odette. She makes no remark on Cecilia’s presence. It is not so unusual to share a bed for warmth or company, and Cecilia is glad of how obtuse everyone seems. If she takes Odette’s arm, kisses her cheek, sleeps in her bed, they will only ever begood friends.
As they wash and dress, they talk through the day ahead. Odette is doubtful of Lydia’s resolve, but Cecilia sees no other way but to hold her hand steady and make this promise come true. There is, at least to her mind, a practical way to do this. Keep Lydia painting. Keep her focused. And when Eddie Rutherford and the other guests arrive, encourage the show.
There are complications, of course.
She has not told Odette about what she overheard between her mother and Claudine yesterday, and she feels a worm for concealing it.
‘What will you do about Claudine?’ she asks Odette as she plaits the length of her hair and wraps it around her crown.
‘Endure, I suppose. I can ask Father how long she intends to stay. Surely it will not be so long.’
Cecilia passes the brush over her own hair. Claudine is a mystery that bothers her more than she would like. She cannot shake the look of panic on her mother’s face. That scrap of paper –Penel. For Penelope, surely. Of course this secret had to do with her mother, that much was clear. But what sort of secret? What could be so awful that it frightened a woman like her mother?
She cannot allow this matter to disrupt their escape. Let her go back into her own mousehole and see what she can find. If Claudine wants to wield secrets like power, then maybe Cecilia can pull them out into the light and strip them of it.
There is no need to worry Odette about something they will soon leave behind.
But she mustmakesure.
Everyone is at breakfast when they arrive in the small room off the main hall; it is one of the oldest parts of the house and here crooked wood panelling turns even the summer day dark and the flags beneath temper the heat. Uncle George is hidden behindThe Times, Aunt Lydia beside him, cutting up fruit with a penknife. Cecilia’s mother sits opposite, scraping butter thinly across her toast, and Claudine guards a cup of hot water and lemon. It is only Leo who has a plate full of everything from the sideboard: kedgeree next to cold lamb chops from last night’s dinner, a boiled egg and three slices of toast and a pot of jam set directly before him.