proper friends, people who understood what it was like to have a spectacularly messed-up childhood lived out under very bright public lights. Dudley genuinely appreciated that and had stood by her through it all. That counted for a lot.
Smiling, she took the phone from Kat’s outstretched hand. It would be so good to talk to Dudley. He’d cajole her out of her nervousness. He could always make her feel better.
‘Hi, Duds,’ she said. ‘Have you rung to wish me luck?’
‘Lizzie.’ Dudley didn’t wait for her to finish. ‘Thank God you’re there. She’s dead, Lizzie! I’ve only just heard. I don’t know what to do…’ He sounded dazed, his voice so broken and confused that Lizzie barely recognised it. She felt a lurch of fear. This did not sound like the Dudley she knew, the irreverent, impetuous, fun-loving companion who could tease her out of any bad mood.
‘Dudley?’ she said sharply. ‘What’s happened? What do you mean? Who’s dead?’
‘Shit,’ Dudley said. ‘Haven’t you seen it online? Are you locked in a cellar somewhere, for God’s sake? I told you. It’s Amelia. She’s dead!’
Amelia. Lizzie’s mind locked onto the name. Amelia was Dudley’s soon-to-be-ex-wife, whose existence Lizzie so frequently – and so conveniently – forgot. The churning sickness in her stomach intensified. How could Amelia be dead? She was only twenty-eight years old. Had there been an accident, a car crash, like the one that had taken Lizzie’s mother? For a terrifying second the present slipped away and Lizzie felt as though she was four years old again, watching through the bannisters as the police came to break the news to her father.
Sunlight, dust motes dancing in the air, the smell of whisky pervading the house, the radio chattering in the kitchen, the old battered panda clutched in her hand, her father, shielding his eyes so no one could read his expression, the ring of a lie in his voice as he expressed his grief…
‘Lizzie?’ Dudley’s urgent voice broke through the memory.
Lizzie tried to pull her thoughts together, to focus. ‘What happened?’ she repeated. ‘How… How did she die? Were you there?’
Dudley’s voice was frayed, high pitched. ‘No! It was nothing to do with me! I don’t know anything about it.’ He stopped again. Lizzie waited, aware of the fear building inside her, of a sense of impending doom, of dark shadows gathering. For a moment all she could hear was the rising sound of the crowd in the marquee, all she could feel was the heat trapped beneath the canvas, pressing down on her, making her light-headed. She steadied herself with one hand on the back of Kat’s chair and realised that she was shaking.
‘Amelia’s dead, Lizzie,’ Dudley repeated, and he sounded so lost that Lizzie felt the huge horrible weight of sickness settle hard in her stomach. ‘She fell down the stairs at Oakhangar Hall and broke her neck.’
Chapter 4
Amy: Stansfield Manor, Norfolk, April 1550
Throughout my childhood, whenever I had needed wise counsel, I had sought out my half-brother Arthur. He had always been the one to cajole me out of ill temper or soothe my tears when my mother and I disagreed. She and I were close; she taught me everything from how to run a large household to how to make herbal ointments, but she was brisk and too busy for my tantrums. My sister Anna and I scrapped like cats; John was a studious boy who grew into a distant young man. There was only Arthur who had the patience for me.
That day I found him in the stables. This was no surprise; he was seldom anywhere but on the farm. Our father had tried to educate him as a gentleman for he was his elder son, illegitimate or not, but whilst Arthur had done well enough at Oxford, he had shown no desire to enter either the law or the church. It seemed he had no ambition. Father did not understand that, though when Arthur expressed a wish to run Father’s estates, he did not demur and respected Arthur for his skills, particularly with the animals.
I sat on a bale of straw, inhaling the scent of warm horses, hay and hot oil from the lantern, listening to the chink of the rope in the metal ring as the mare shifted beneath the curry comb. Arthur talked to her as he worked, soft words, affectionate, soothing, moving the comb in efficient circles over her coat. She seemed to like it, nudging him when he stopped for a