to put an end to it. If she allowed things to continue, they would both overstep the boundaries and it would bring nothing but misfortune to them all.
If she wanted her son back—and oh, how she longed for him—then her only choice was to return to her husband. She knew there was no way that John would let her take Teddy and leave him. In any case, no court would agree to it, not with her history, and, she reluctantly admitted, he deserved better than that.
Silent tears soaked her pillow as the first light of a new day began to dawn.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
London, Spring 2018
Hampstead was a sea of cherry blossoms and as Rachel wound her way from the station up along the edge of the Heath and toward the High Street she stopped to admire the delicate pompoms, many of which had showered the pavement like confetti. After just a short time on St. Mary’s, the crowds and the noise and the dirt of the Underground came as a shock to her, and she was happy to be out of the crush and closer to nature again, even if it was bounded by buildings. The suburb was a tangle of brick houses set on a series of undulating hills and she enjoyed the uphill tramp to Esther’s house.
She stopped and checked the map on her phone again and worked out that she was only a few streets away from her destination. In fact, Well Walk was just around the corner. Curious, she detoured to see it for herself.
Frogmore didn’t look much different from the Google image that she’d found: tall and solid, with a series of square-paned windows at the front. The tree in the garden was also a cherry, adrift with blossoms. A panel of buzzers was fixed to the left of the front wall: the house had been turned into flats. She wondered exactly how long ago Esther had moved out.
She had emailed the copy of the photo she had found at Embers to Eve, asking at the same time if she might come to visit, telling her that she was going to be in town later in the week. Checking her watch, she saw that it was just after two o’clock, the time that Eve had suggested in her reply. Taking one last look at Frogmore, she began to walk in the direction of Esther’s present home.
The house was narrow and part of a terrace, but still imposing, with a spiked black-painted front fence and windowboxes overflowing with scarlet geraniums. She let herself in the gate and lifted the heavy iron ring of the doorknocker. The sound of it banging on the metal echoed in the quiet street.
“You must be Rachel,” said the girl who answered the door. She was slim, with long fair hair and a healthy, rosy complexion completely at odds with those of every other Londoner Rachel had so far encountered. Her eyes were an arresting gray-violet. She was dressed in an old pair of jeans, a pale pink sweater, and embroidered leather slippers, and a tiny diamond twinkled on one side of her nose. “Eve.” She held out her hand for Rachel to shake.
“Thank you for seeing me. I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience,” said Rachel, grasping her hand.
“I’m terribly sorry,” said Eve, “but Grams had a bit of a turn last night and she’s not up to visitors just at the moment.”
“Oh.” Rachel was disappointed. She had been excited at the possibility of finding out who had written the love letters, and what had happened all those years ago. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She might be better, perhaps later next week . . . ,” Eve offered.
Rachel shook her head. “I’m only up for a few days, while I see my supervisor. I suppose I should give you these.” She fumbled in her daypack and brought out the book and the photograph. The letters were still tucked inside the book. “The book has her name in it as well.” Rachel hadn’t yet mentioned the letters to Eve, thought that possibly Esther Durrant might want to see them first, indeed might even want to keep them to herself.
“Thanks. I’m helping her write a memoir at the moment, so this might come in useful,” said Eve, looking at the photo. “She was beautiful when she was young, wasn’t she?” Eve turned the picture toward Rachel and pointed to the young woman on the left of the frame.
“Did you show it to