Page 4 of The Diary at the Last House Before the Sea

Clara found that rather patronising and snobby. But Geoffrey had exhibited a streak of snobbery for as long as she’d known him, which was all her life.

Julie, heavily pregnant with her, had been here, doing the washing up, when her waters broke – or so the family story went. And the labour progressed so quickly that Clara was almost born on the kitchen tiles.

The ambulance summoned by Geoffrey’s father – Edwin Brellasham – arrived in the nick of time, so Clara actually took her first breath in the local hospital. But she still felt an attachment to this old house that went beyond the ties her family had had to it for generations.

She had grown up here, in the cottage in the grounds, skinning her knees as she climbed trees, and playing hide and seek with River, and sometimes his older cousin, Bartie.

Her stomach flipped at the thought of Bartie – handsome Bartholomew – the first boy she’d ever fallen for.

‘There you are,’ said her mother, poking her head out of the kitchen door. Julie glanced at her watch and frowned. ‘You’re almost five minutes late.’ But after looking Clara up and down, she nodded approvingly. ‘That dress suits you. It brings out your colouring. Those shoes could do with a polish but I suppose they’re better than your trainers. Anyway, come on in. He’ll be here in an hour or so.’

Clara stepped into the large kitchen and carefully wiped her feet on the mat.

‘I can’t wait to see River again,’ said her mother, brushing a strand of greying hair from her face. ‘Aren’t you excited?’

Clara wrinkled her nose. She couldn’t deny that she was curious to see her childhood playmate again. But excited? No. So much had changed since they’d walked together in the manor grounds and hunted for shells at the cove: her grandmother and then her father had died; she’d moved away from the house she’d always called home and come back again; she’d grown up.

Yet, in some ways, nothing had changed at all. Not here at the manor where time seemed to stand still. Her mother was still housekeeping for Geoffrey, the grandfather clock in the hall continued to mark the passing of every minute, and the house stood as it had done for almost two hundred and fifty years. Its rooms elegant and quiet. Its secrets well hidden.

Clara walked softly through the rooms, on a mission from her mother to make sure that nothing was ‘amiss’.

Quite what might be amiss, Clara wasn’t sure. But, first, she inspected the formal drawing room and the smaller, more cosy parlour – their walls papered with chinoiserie depictions of oriental birds and flowers. Both rooms were immaculate, with marble fireplaces, squashy sofas, and polished walnut tables.

Then, she paused in the grand library to admire its impressive array of leather-bound books, all neatly stored on shelving that stretched from floor to ceiling.

A comfortable armchair had been placed next to the window that looked out over the gardens, towards the cove, and Clara rearranged the cushion – more for something to do, rather than because it needed adjusting.

Geoffrey would often sit here in the mornings, staring through the window and drinking tea. Clara often wondered if he was remembering his son playing out there, before he left for Australia.

No one knew because Geoffrey rarely mentioned River, and there were few photos of him in the house. If he missed his son, he kept it to himself – Geoffrey’s thoughts and emotions were a closed book.

‘He must be lonely in that big old house on his own,’ her mother would say over the dinner table. ‘But he’s an aristocrat and they don’t have feelings like we do.’

Which was bonkers, Clara had realised, even from a young age. Of course the rich and privileged had feelings. The difference was they kept them well hidden behind stiff upper lips.

Time was ticking on so Clara walked up the thickly carpeted stairs to the first and second floors, to inspect the bedrooms.

Each room looked immaculate and, happy that all was as it should be, Clara paused on the second-floor landing. She often stopped here to study the portrait that hung next to the door to the third floor of the manor.

The large portrait, done in oils, showed a striking woman in a beautiful yellow dress: Audrey Brellasham. Her blonde hair was pulled into an elegant bun, and at her throat lay the intricate diamond necklace that had disappeared with her so long ago. The necklace that, rumour had it, was gifted to a long-ago Brellasham by Queen Victoria herself.

Audrey was only twenty-four years old when she died, but the painting made her look older. Clara tilted her head, taking in the faint blush on Audrey’s cheeks and the creamy glow of her skin. She was pictured sitting in the library, with a book on the table next to her – Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier – and another one on her lap, Palmer’s Grand Dictionary of the English Language.

Clara pictured the many hundreds of books in the manor’s library and frowned. Rebecca was amongst Clara’s favourite novels and she could imagine it being one of Audrey’s, too. However, a dictionary was a curious choice to be for ever immortalised in oil, especially as Audrey’s hand was almost cradling the leather-bound volume.

The dictionary had always seemed out of place to Clara, along with the sadness on the face of the woman staring out at her from the gilt frame.

She took a step closer to study the woman’s blue eyes that the artist had flecked with gold. Audrey was a beautiful woman, yet she looked troubled.

Why was that? Clara wondered – as she always did whenever she stopped to stare at the portrait. Audrey seemingly had everything: a devoted husband, Edwin; a stepson, Geoffrey; and such a wonderful house. Her life had appeared perfect, and yet she’d walked into a stormy sea on a September evening, fully clothed.

Audrey must have known that she would not survive. That she would never again walk upstairs to the suite of rooms she and her husband shared on the third floor of this house. The suite of rooms that had been closed off ever since the tragedy.

Clara glanced at the door that led upstairs and looked over her shoulder before trying the handle. As always, it was locked. No one ever went up there, except for Glenda, the cleaner, who would not be drawn on what lay above Clara’s head.

Even Julie, the manor’s housekeeper for decades, had never been up to the third floor, and she seemed reluctant to say anything about it.

Once, following incessant questioning from Clara, she’d told her: ‘Your gran was housekeeper at the time of the tragedy and told me that Edwin, Audrey’s husband, couldn’t bear to go up there after losing his wife. So he blocked off the whole floor and Geoffrey has respected his wishes. It’s never been used since.’

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