Page 49 of The Diary at the Last House Before the Sea

She’d cracked the code! Violet had written a note to Audrey, telling her there would be a boat waiting for her. Clara had an urge to rush up to the manor house and find River, but she didn’t yet have enough to tell him. Because if Audrey did go into the sea in the hope of reaching a boat that stormy night – a boat Violet had helped her arrange – the most pressing question of all remained: why?

Clara began to decipher the numerals that littered Audrey’s diary and soon she had her answer. Audrey was frightened of her husband’s explosive temper and the physical abuse he had begun to mete out.

At first, references to his abusive behaviour were infrequent and brief: More bruises to hide, she wrote in March; he hit me again, in April. But she began to elaborate as the year went on and his behaviour seemingly escalated: In May, Not allowed to leave manor on my own or speak alone with house staff, and, three days later: I feel like a prisoner. I am so unhappy.

Poor Audrey. Clara continued deciphering the cries for help of a woman whose privileged, comfortable life had not been what it seemed. Even being openly honest in her own diary had felt impossible, and she’d been compelled to outline the truth about Edwin in code. No wonder she’d been overjoyed when he’d allowed a ball at the manor. The dance would have brought joy and company into her home. But what had happened to spark her flight so soon after the dance was over?

As Clara carried on deciphering the numbers with the help of the dictionary, Audrey’s secrets continued to reveal themselves.

Two days after the fateful ball, the bottom of one diary page was covered in scrawled numerals: Jealous. Held me around throat and promised to kill me. I believe him. No one will believe me. I am alone.

Clara paused, feeling overwhelming sorrow for Audrey, who had suffered such abuse and fear. But fortunately she’d been wrong in thinking that she was alone. Violet, Clara’s grandmother, had been on her side and had sent her the coded note which offered her a way out.

Turning the pages, Clara reached Tuesday, September the seventeenth, the fateful day that Audrey had disappeared. There was another line of numbers scrawled across the centre of the paper. But these, when decoded, made no sense at all: Can a flower bloom in the snow? Only time will tell.

Clara gave up trying to work out its meaning and closed the diary, her mind buzzing with what she’d just learned.

People assumed that Audrey had wanted to end her life that night she’d walked into the sea, and they were right. But it was only her life as Edwin’s wife that she’d been so desperate to bring to a close. She planned to swim to the boat organised for her by Violet, but did she make it that night or did the sea claim her?

Clara slid off the bed and walked to her window. Tonight the sea was calm and lit by a full moon, but it still looked foreboding, with depths riven by currents and scattered with sharp rocks. And the headland, where a boat had been waiting, was a long way from the cove.

How good a swimmer was Audrey? Clara wondered. And how had she and Violet become so close that her grandmother had aided her escape?

Clara watched as moonlight cast a silvery sheen over the waves. She knew now why Audrey had chosen to walk into the sea at that time on that particular night. But, after finding out about Edwin’s abuse and the planned escape, one huge question remained: did Audrey live or die?

22

RIVER

It was a long time since he’d been alone with his father. River tried to remember the last time the two of them had talked in private as he approached Geoffrey, who was sitting on a bench in his beloved garden.

It must be three years ago, when his father had made a brief stop in Sydney while chasing some business deal in New Zealand. They’d met in a hotel bar near the airport and had talked for a couple of awkward hours about nothing in particular – Geoffrey’s flight, the weather, the increasing cost of maintaining Brellasham Manor.

River remembered asking after Clara and Mrs N and being told that they were keeping well. That was all, ‘keeping well’, and his father could elaborate no further. People’s emotional lives were lost on Geoffrey, including his own.

Tonight, he was sitting still as a statue, staring at the beds of bright begonias and delicate campanula that were edged with ornamental trees which had been expertly pruned. Everything in this garden was ordered and symmetrical, which was completely unlike real life, thought River. The ensuing conversation would be proof enough of that.

He swallowed and sat down on the bench. Geoffrey, staring into the distance, glanced round and frowned at his unexpected visitor.

‘Oh, it’s you. I thought you were Bartie, coming back. Is something wrong? Has his developer contact got cold feet at the thought of taking on such a huge project?’

‘Probably not, but I have no idea. I’m not here on Bartie’s behalf. I just thought it would be nice to have a chat.’

Surprise – or was it panic? – flickered across his father’s face. ‘If you like.’

‘So, how are you feeling?’ River asked, before mentally kicking himself.

What sort of inane opening enquiry was that to a man who never discussed his emotions? Clara would have rolled her eyes. And he felt sure that Bartie had initiated a much more appropriate conversation when he’d been sitting here.

‘I’m feeling the same as I was this morning,’ said Geoffrey, patently not intending to make this conversation any easier.

‘The garden’s beautiful,’ said River, trying a more neutral opening and already regretting giving his father another chance to be a halfway decent parent.

‘It’s always a riot of colour at this time of year, and very peaceful.’

‘Is that why you like to sit here? Because of the peace?’

Geoffrey sniffed. ‘Probably.’

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