Page 66 of The Housekeeper's Secret

I’d hoped I could make it up to you, but when I saw you the next day, I realised that was impossible. You never said exactly what happened in the gamekeeper’s cottage, but you didn’t have to. I knew from the outset that you were too good for me, but I thought I could make myself worthy of you. All I did was drag you down. I compromised you, in every way.

Sorry isn’t adequate, but I need to say it anyway. I don’t have any right to comfort myself that you would forgive me—hell, I don’t even have any hope that you’ll read this—but dawn is only a few hours away and I want to confront my own conscience. I lost my faith a long time ago, but I have some superstitious need to confess my sins before meeting my maker, as I am very likely to do.

God knows, there are enough of them. I’m an ex-felon, after all. I wasn’t guilty of the crime they laid on me, but I have plenty more charges to my name—deception, dishonesty, breaking and entering, failing those I love. All of them pale into insignificance compared to what I did to you.

It’s not God’s forgiveness I want, Kate, it’s your understanding.

I loved you, but I betrayed you. I want you to at least know why.

Date unknown

Somewhere in France

‘I say—you, soldier! Stop, man!’

The voice seems to come from a great distance away and it penetrates the strange ringing in his ears. Jem turns. The figure approaching rapidly from behind him on the road is nothing more than a dark shadow against the glare of the sun. It has an aura of gold around it.

‘What on earth are you doing, man? Where’s your tunic?’

Jem looks down and feels a stutter of surprise. His shirt is stained with blood—properly soaked—though he appears to be standing upright and he has a feeling he’s been walking for a while.

‘I don’t know. Sir.’

‘What’s your name? What regiment are you with?’

Jem wants to answer. He can’t quite bring the figure into focus enough to see how many stripes he has on his shoulder, but you can tell from his tone he’s an officer, and if you ignore an officer, you get put on a charge. He opens his mouth, but the pain in his head makes him wince and the ground is suddenly tilting and the man (who is probably an officer) is getting farther away, the aura of gold around him becoming dazzling, too bright to look at.

It is a relief to realise he is lying down, though his mouth is full of dust.

He closes his eyes.

July 7th

Brighton

As the days go by the tone of the reports in the newspapers grows less triumphant, more sombre. After almost a week, the decisive success that seemed so certain on the first day has failed to materialise, though the convoys of wounded arrive with dreadful regularity at the station and guns go on and on, their muted boom rolling across the ocean, an incongruous backdrop to the golden July weather.

She is more used to the wounded now. There are so very many, and while all of their faces are dirty and exhausted, unshaven and seamed with pain, none of them are familiar. No one recognises her. After that first day, and the shock of going into the ward for the first time, the sheer number of men becomes perversely reassuring. She writes their stoic platitudes on postcards and sends them to addresses across the British Isles from Inverness to Ipswich, Cardiff to Carlisle and any number of towns, villages, and hamlets in between. But not Coldwell. Not Howden Bridge or Hatherford. Not yet.

‘What would you like me to write?’ she asks a Scots Guard, whose head is swathed in bandages, his right ear torn off by a bullet. His brown eyes stare out from his swaddled face, his pupils pinpricks from the morphine. They seem to look straight through her.

‘Dear Mother…’ he says eventually. ‘I wanted to let you know… I am… well…’

She puts it down. (Who is she to call out a lie?)

As she finishes the card and writes the address he mumbles, she notices Nurse Frankland hovering by the door. She gets up, promising to put the card in the post that afternoon.

‘Miss Simmons…’

Nurse Frankland is twitchy with urgency, glancing behind her to check if Sister Pinkney is on her tail.

‘What is it?’

She suspects a housekeeping crisis. Since Nurse Frankland discovered her background, she has furtively sought her help with bed making and dealing with soldiers’ soiled clothing (honestly, anything like that I’m just hopeless…) which will land them both in trouble if Sister Pinkney or Matron find out. But as she reaches the door Nurse Frankland takes her hand and holds it gently, drawing her aside. Her eyes—the same colour as her blue chambray uniform—are full of compassion.

‘I must be quick, but I wanted to let you know… I’ve just come from Rodney Ward. I think someone you know may have been brought in this morning.’

It’s a hot day. They are struggling to keep the wards cool as the sun streams through the house’s wide windows, but in that instant the heat seems to gather inside her, sweeping down through her body with an intense, searing flame.

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