The Light Within Us

Book 0: The Spindrift Trilogy

by Charlotte Betts

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

'Moving, heart-warming and beautifully woven' Kate Furnivall

From the award-winning author of The Apothecary's Daughter comes a beautifully evocative, family drama set at the turn of the century and perfect for fans of Santa Montefiore, Lucinda Riley and Elizabeth Jane Howard's Cazalet Chronicles.

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1891. Spindrift House, Cornwall.

Talented painter Edith Fairchild is poised to begin a life of newlywed bliss and artistic creation with her charming husband Benedict. He recently inherited Spindrift House near Port Isaac and Edith is inspired by the glorious Cornish light and the wonderful setting overlooking the sea. But then happiness turns to heartbreak. In great distress, Edith turns to an artist friend for comfort and after a bitterly-regretted moment of madness she finds herself pregnant with his child.

Too ashamed to reveal her secret, Edith devotes herself to her art. Joined at Spindrift House by her friends - Clarissa, Dora and Pascal - together they turn the house into a budding artists' community. But despite their dreams of an idyllic way of life creating beauty by the sea, it becomes clear that all is not perfect within their tight-knit community, and that the weight of their secrets could threaten to tear apart their paradise forever . . .

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Why do readers love Charlotte Betts?

'Romantic, engaging and hugely satisfying' Katie Fforde

'A highly-recommended novel of love, tragedy and the power of art' Daily Mail

'A highly compelling, engrossing read' Discovering Diamonds

'Beautifully written, engaging and heartwarming the perfect read for the summer!' Book Club Mumma

'Evocative, enthralling and enjoyable . . . The Light Within Us touches the heart and lifts the spirit' Bookish Jottings

'Poignant, compelling and extensively researched . . . I cannot wait to find out what happens next to these characters' Sarah's Vignettes

'A delightful historical saga which is so beautifully woven together that from the very start I was enchanted' Jaffa Reads Too

'Rich in detail, full of passion this is a delightful and fascinating read' Book Literati

Release date: March 5, 2020

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 400

Sample

September 1891

Spindrift House, Cornwall

In the darkest hours of the night, a storm thunders inland from the sea, carrying with it the sharp tang of salt and seaweed. It howls over the rocks and buffets the Bronze Age standing stone on the cliffs. Blustering across the grounds of Spindrift House, it batters the slate-roofed outbuildings and slams the garden gate against the wall. Russet leaves whirl through the air, twisting and turning like a flock of migrating birds, and the branches of the great copper beech dance wildly in the tempest, reaching out in the dark to scrape and tap the farmhouse’s windows.

The stone house creaks and groans in its sleep, bracing itself against the storm. Wind moans down the chimneys, rekindling the embers in the hearths. Whistling through the attic windows, it flurries down the staircase, sighs along the passages and mingles with distant echoes of the tears and laughter of people long gone.

Upstairs, widowed Hester Tremayne, who has lived at Spindrift House for over four decades, is dreaming of happier times.

The wind of change is blowing through the house. Dark times may be coming but Spindrift House is reawakening, waiting for the light.



The harsh cry of a seagull scattered Hester’s dream.

She lay with her eyes shut, clinging to her memory of a golden sunset over a murmuring sea, the touch of his hand in hers and the sand gritty beneath their feet. She caught her breath on a sob, aching to hear his voice again. That perfect day had been half her lifetime ago. Thirty-five years since they were young together: skimming stones across the shining sea, laughing as they ran through the waves. There had been so much shared laughter over the years and the sheer joy of their love had sustained them against all difficulties.

A sudden gust rattled the window, dashing it with rain as hard as pebbles. Hester eased herself out of bed to draw the curtains, her heartbeat skipping irregularly as it often did nowadays. Great black clouds raced across the lowering sky and the sea sounded angry, roaring as it smashed against the rocks in the cove below. She stared at the handsome mansion up on the headland. Cliff House. The house where her beloved Jago’s body now lay, waiting to be conveyed to the churchyard at St Endellion.

She wondered how she’d find the strength to go on. Her fingers shook as she twisted her thin plait of white hair into a knot but she resisted the urge to creep into bed and bury herself under the eiderdown. When she was dressed, she stiffened her spine and went downstairs to the warmth of the farmhouse kitchen.

Mrs Gloyne, her ancient housekeeper, lifted the teapot off the range, the swollen joints of her fingers trembling under the strain. ‘I’ll warrant you’ll need a good brew to get you through today, Mrs Tremayne. Sit you down.’ She poured the tea, strong and bracing, into Hester’s rose-patterned cup.

‘Sit with me awhile?’ said Hester.

Mrs Gloyne lifted the teapot again, filled a plain white cup and sat at the opposite end of the table. ‘Shall you go?’ she asked.

‘I’ve changed my mind a dozen times,’ said Hester.

‘You’ll regret it if you don’t.’

‘I daresay.’

Mrs Gloyne drained her cup. ‘Best get on. I’ve a fruitcake to bake before your nephew comes tomorrow. And I’ll make chicken soup. You don’t want to catch a chill.’



The rain had thinned to a fine drizzle by the time Hester arrived at the churchyard. The sexton was laying lengths of sacking around the freshly dug grave in a vain attempt to conceal the mud. Hester waited to one side of the church, back ramrod-straight. Her mind whirled with memories of Jago; their first breathtaking kiss, their passionate arguments and the love that had lit them from within, right to the end. Bowing her head, she bit the insides of her cheeks, staving off tears. Once she wept, she’d never stop.

The mourners began to arrive and then came the grinding of carriage wheels. Hester peered out from beneath the brim of her bonnet to see a pair of jet black horses drawing up by the gate. The hearse was glass-sided and her stomach clenched when she saw the velvet-draped coffin within. How could her Jago, once so full of vigour, now lie cold and still inside that narrow box?

She pressed her back to the wall while the pall-bearers hoisted the coffin onto their shoulders. Jago’s wife, Morwenna Penrose, heavily veiled and leaning on her son’s arm, took her place behind the coffin and headed the procession into the church.

Fighting back nausea, Hester waited behind a yew tree. After what felt like an eternity, the mourners came out of the church and gathered around the grave. The wind snatched away the vicar’s words but she watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. First Morwenna and then her son threw a handful of soil into the grave. And then it was over. Hugh and his mother led the funeral party towards the waiting carriages.

The wind whisked Hester’s silk scarf up into the air and she reached out to catch it as Jago’s widow walked by. Morwenna lifted a corner of her black crepe veil and stared directly at her. The malevolence in her glare made Hester quake.

Once the carriages had rolled away, Hester hurried to the graveside, her heart thudding. Opening her reticule, she withdrew a crimson rose plucked from the gazebo at Spindrift House where she and Jago had often sat. Inhaling its rich fragrance, she kissed the velvet petals, then dropped it onto the coffin. ‘Goodbye, my love,’ she whispered.

The sexton, spade in hand, walked towards her. ‘Has the funeral finished, Missus?’

Hester gave the crimson rose a last, lingering look. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it’s finished.’



By the following morning the stormy weather had blown itself out. The air was warm and moist when Hester climbed down the rocky steps to Tregarrick Cove. They were too steep for her these days and the effort made her breathless. She meandered along the sand but Jago would never come here with her again and she couldn’t bear the thought. Stumbling down to the water’s edge, she wanted to scream and rage and tear her hair. The sky was overcast and sullen, while the sea, a threatening steel grey, rumbled its discontent and slapped choppy waves onto the rocks. How long, she wondered, would it take to drown if she walked into the water? Perhaps not long, if she didn’t fight it.

Abruptly, she turned her back on the siren-song of the waves and walked unsteadily towards the steps.



Hester had composed herself by the time Benedict arrived. Her favourite nephew was tall and broad-shouldered; he filled the spacious drawing room with his amiable presence.

‘Dear Aunt Hester!’ He enfolded her in a hug and planted a smacking kiss on her cheek. Her drooping spirits lifted a little. ‘Father and Mother send their best wishes,’ he said. Too restless to sit, he rested one elbow on the great stone mantelpiece while he chattered about the family.

Throughout his childhood, he’d exasperated his father, Hester’s youngest brother, not only with his lack of intellectual rigour but by the way he cheerfully flitted from one interest to another. Schooled in Truro, Benedict had frequently spent his holidays with Hester. She finally captured his attention by sharing with him her love of painting and now he was studying at the Slade School of Art.

‘And what were you doing this summer that meant you had no time to visit me?’ said Hester.

‘There were so many invitations to balls and parties, I barely spent an evening alone.’

‘I imagine a young man such as yourself would be very popular.’

‘I’ve never lacked for dancing partners,’ he said, a gleam in his hazel eyes. His expression grew serious. ‘But there’s a girl who’s different from the others. One morning I was outside the Slade when a hansom cab hurtled through a puddle, splashing me with mud …’

‘How unpleasant!’

‘It would have been, if a vision of loveliness with ebony hair and the most glorious green eyes hadn’t offered me her handkerchief.’

‘Does this paragon have a name?’

‘Edith Hammond, a fellow student. Father once told me there are two kinds of girl: one for fun and the other for marriage. Aunt Hester, I’m going to marry Edith.’ Benedict raked his fingers through his curls. ‘I went to see her father but he sent me away with a flea in my ear, insisting I wait until I’m earning enough to support her.’

‘Quite right, too!’

Benedict groaned. ‘But how long will that be? I shan’t graduate until next summer.’

‘All the more incentive for you to work hard and start earning.’

‘But Edith’s such a prize, some other fellow will snap her up before then.’

‘She’ll wait for you, if she loves you enough.’ It wasn’t the time to tell him she’d left him everything she owned, including Woodland Cottage. Much as Hester loved her nephew, his mother had spoiled him. He must learn patience and self-discipline.

Benedict was on his second slice of Mrs Gloyne’s fruitcake when Hester told him that it might be his last visit to Spindrift House. He stared at her. ‘But why? My happiest childhood memories are of this house.’

‘I doubt I’ll be able to extend my tenancy. My landlord has died,’ Hester said, attempting to steady her voice.

‘Jago Penrose? Oh, Lord! I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Benedict. ‘I liked him. I remember him looking at my sketchbook and helping me when I couldn’t get the perspective right.’

Hester nodded. ‘He was an architect so he knew about perspective. He built Cliff House and then rented this one to your Uncle Cador and me.’ She closed her eyes, remembering how, newly married, she’d fallen under the welcoming spell of Spindrift House at first sight: the stone walls clad in Virginia creeper, the stately copper beech and the hydrangeas bordering the lawn that undulated down towards the sea. But more than anything, the moment she went inside and walked through the rambling, sunlit rooms freshened by sea breezes, she’d known it was destined to be home to her. Widowed young, she’d stayed on, finding comfort within the sheltering walls of Spindrift House.

‘I believe Jago’s widow will wish her son to reside here, now Hugh’s family is growing,’ Hester said.

‘But you can’t leave!’

She glanced at the panelled walls, the bookcases crammed with her favourite books, the seascapes she and Jago had painted, and on the mantelpiece the china dogs he’d brought her from Truro. These things were impossibly dear to her but she couldn’t take them all with her. ‘There’s a little cottage in the woods where I might go.’ She blinked back the hot tears that stung her eyelids.

Benedict hurried over to hug her. ‘I thought you looked glum. I wish you’d told me earlier, instead of letting me rattle on.’

She clung to him. ‘It’s been a shock to lose my old friend. I wish to sit quietly for a while. Why don’t you go and unpack?’

After he’d gone upstairs, she leaned back in her armchair and stared out of the window at the lush green fields, the huge Cornish sky and wide expanse of sea. She’d bought Woodland Cottage years ago, as a secret bolt hole where she and Jago could snatch a few precious hours together whenever they could, but of necessity it had been secluded and there were no views. Overwhelmed with heartache, she closed her eyes.

She must have dozed because she started when the doorbell jangled. Mrs Gloyne’s footsteps tapped along the passage and a moment later the drawing-room door burst open. Hugh Penrose, a fair, stocky figure, stood on the threshold, fists bunched.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Tremayne,’ said Mrs Gloyne, peering around him. ‘He pushed right past me.’

Hester stood up. ‘Thank you, Mrs Gloyne. It seems Mr Penrose has something urgent to say.’

‘Damn’ right I do!’ He stepped into the room, a muscle twitching visibly in one cheek. ‘My mother is in a state of such distress we’ve had to call the doctor. She might have had an apoplexy. It would have been your fault if she’d died!’

Hester’s pulse began to race. ‘Perhaps you should explain …’

He thrust his chin towards her. ‘That’s rich, coming from you! As if you didn’t know … Well then, I’ll explain, shall I?’

She stared at him, experiencing a terrible premonition.

‘But of course you must already know about Father’s new will,’ he said, through gritted teeth.

Heavy footsteps clattered down the stairs.

An ache blossomed in Hester’s jaw and she couldn’t catch her breath. ‘But I didn’t …’

‘Shut up! When the will was read, my poor mother fainted dead away. Now she’s had to tell me the truth, the painful truth she’s borne with great dignity and in complete silence for over thirty years.’ Hugh’s face was flushed an angry red.

Benedict strode into the room. ‘Aunt Hester?’

Hugh ignored him. ‘As if it wasn’t bad enough to discover you were my father’s whore, you persuaded him to leave you Spindrift House and a significant portion of his wealth, all of which should have been mine!’

A crushing pain in Hester’s chest made her sink down onto her armchair. ‘I didn’t ask him …’ Jago had said he wanted to leave Spindrift House to her but she’d utterly forbidden him to do so.

‘Don’t lie to me!’ shouted Hugh. He made a visible effort to compose himself. ‘Much as it sickens me, I’ve come to appeal to your better nature, if you have one. I’m asking you to forfeit my father’s bequest to you, in favour of my mother who has been so sinned against.’

‘I didn’t ask or want your father to …’

Hugh bent over her, hands planted either side of her on the arms of the chair. ‘You’re lying!’

‘You don’t understand,’ gasped Hester.

‘On the contrary, I understand perfectly.’

Benedict stepped forward. ‘Leave her alone, Penrose!’ ‘You’ve destroyed my family, you old bitch!’ Hugh’s voice rose. ‘You wheedled your way into Father’s affections for your own financial gain.’ His angry face was so close to Hester’s that spittle sprayed her cheeks. ‘You cheated Mother out of her husband’s love.’

‘I never intended …’

Hugh jabbed his forefinger at Hester. ‘I will make it my personal mission to have your name dragged through the mud at every possible opportunity,’ he said, his voice low and malevolent now.

‘Penrose, stop this!’ Benedict gripped Hugh’s arm and pulled him away.

He shook himself free and glared at Hester. ‘There won’t be a soul left in the neighbourhood who will pass the time of day with you, none of the shops will allow you credit and, by God, you’d better keep your doors locked at night.’

Frightened by the hatred in his eyes, she cowered away, her hands pressed to her ears.

‘How dare you terrify and insult an old lady?’ Benedict shouted.

Taking no notice of him, Hugh continued to harangue Hester. ‘You will visit my father’s lawyer tomorrow and return what is rightfully ours. And when you’ve done that,’ he sneered, ‘why don’t you take a walk into the sea and never come back?’

‘Enough!’ bellowed Benedict. ‘Get out of this house!’

Hugh pushed him against the wall. ‘It’s my house!’

Benedict barged Hugh with his shoulder. Grunting with the effort, the two men wrestled each other, knocking over a side table and sending a vase of roses crashing to the floor.

Benedict forced Hugh’s arm up behind his back, making him yell in pain. ‘It’s quite different now the boot’s on the other foot, isn’t it, Penrose?’ he said. ‘Aunt Hester, I’ll escort this piece of filth off the premises and then we shall report the matter to the police.’

‘It is I who will be reporting you!’ shouted Hugh. He struggled violently, lashing out and kicking Benedict’s shin.

Hester heard them go, scuffling and cursing their way along the passage, with Benedict eventually dragging Hugh outside. The front door crashed back on its hinges and bounced against the wall.

Mrs Gloyne hurried to Hester’s side, her toothless old mouth trembling with shock and outrage. ‘Thank goodness Mr Benedict was here. Look at you, bone-white and your lips all blue! Shall I fetch the smelling salts and a nip of brandy?’

Gradually, the pain in Hester’s chest eased but still she trembled.

Benedict returned, brushing his hands together. He gave Hester a grim smile. ‘He won’t bother you again.’

Hester wasn’t so sure.

Mrs Gloyne removed herself to the kitchen and Benedict refilled his aunt’s glass and poured a brandy for himself. ‘Well, aren’t you the dark horse, Aunt Hester?’ There was more than a hint of amusement and admiration in his voice.

Unable to look him in the eye, she rubbed at the pins and needles in her arm. Although her love affair with Jago had been secret, it had never felt sordid to them, only pure and beautiful. ‘It wasn’t how Hugh thought it was,’ she said. ‘I was already widowed and his parents lived separate lives before Jago and I became close. And I told Jago my husband had left me well provided for. I didn’t want the Penrose money.’

‘Well, Hugh doesn’t deserve any of it, not after the way he threatened you.’

‘He was such a sweet child, once.’ She remembered her delight on meeting him with Jago in the cove one day when he was small, a breeze ruffling the child’s fair hair and his face alive with excitement when he showed her a sea anemone in his long-handled fishing net.

‘You look done in, Aunt Hester,’ said Benedict. ‘I’ll help you upstairs to rest.’

She sighed. ‘Perhaps everything will look better tomorrow after I’ve seen the solicitor. I shall, of course, make sure Spindrift House is returned to the Penroses.’

Benedict supported her up the stairs but dizziness overwhelmed her and she clung to the banisters. She felt herself being lifted up in her nephew’s arms and leaned gratefully against his chest. He laid her upon the bed and tucked the eiderdown around her.

‘I’m worried about you,’ he said, an anxious frown on his forehead. ‘I’ll fetch the doctor.’

‘Don’t leave me,’ she said, her breath coming in harsh gasps. Turning her head on the pillow, her gaze sought out Jago’s watercolour of Tregarrick Cove that had hung on her bedroom wall for twenty-five years. How she loved that picture! The sea shimmered under a cerulean sky and a man and a woman watched a small boy with a fishing net peering into a rock pool exposed by the retreating sea.

‘I must fetch the doctor,’ said Benedict.

She was tired, so very tired, and all she wanted now was to sleep. ‘It’s too late, my dear,’ she whispered. She gazed again at the painting, remembering the smell of the seaweed glistening in the sun, the love in Jago’s eyes and the little boy’s excitement. How blissfully happy she had been on that day.

‘Aunt Hester?’

But the darkness was already crowding in and Jago was waiting for her. ‘I’m coming, my darling,’ she murmured.

And then there was only peace.

July 1892

Kensington

On the morning of her wedding, Edith stood in her nightgown before the looking glass, wondering what Benedict would look like, naked. Over the past three years she’d seen many naked men but none of them had been young and some had been positively peculiar. There had been that nameless sailor whose entire body was inked with writhing sea serpents and then there was the hunchback with the sad, beautiful eyes. Once she’d overcome the shock of so much nakedness, she saw those men only in terms of light and shade, their skin merely draping the muscles, bones and sinews beneath, while her charcoal raced over the paper to capture their images.

A naked Benedict, however, would be an entirely different matter from the artists’ models at the Slade. A foot taller than herself, well-built and with curly bronze-coloured hair, he’d only to look at Edith with laughter in his sleepy eyes to make her melt. From the first day she met him, he’d dazzled her. Showering her with compliments, flowers and small presents, he’d made her feel special and beautiful. Her family never made her feel like that. Mindful of her mama’s warnings, Edith hadn’t allowed him to take any liberties, apart from a few stolen kisses, but her self-control didn’t mean his presence left her unaffected. Her friend Clarissa had whispered that Edith’s new husband would expect her to remove her nightgown in the marital bed. Shocked, she hadn’t believed it, even though Clarissa assured her it was true.

Slowly, Edith loosed the ribbons of her nightgown, exposing her breasts. She believed they were a good shape. Although full, they didn’t sag like those of some of the models in the Life Class.

There was a tap at the door and, without waiting for permission, Mama swept into the room, followed by the maid carrying a breakfast tray set for two.

Edith hastily retied the ribbons at her neck. Heat flooded her face but her mother didn’t appear to have noticed.

‘Good morning, Edith.’

She pulled on her dressing gown as the maid set the breakfast things on the round rosewood table and discreetly left the room.

‘I wanted a word with you,’ said her mama, sitting down and spooning kedgeree onto Edith’s plate. ‘Are you still sure you wish to marry Benedict? You made such a fuss until Papa allowed you to attend the Slade that I imagined you’d want to follow your artistic ambitions for a while before becoming a wife. You must understand that in sickness and in health, until death parts you, marriage is for life. Once the wedding has taken place, there’s no going back. Ever.’

‘Of course I’m sure! I thought you liked my husband-to-be? Even Papa is happy with the match now that Benedict has his inheritance from his aunt.’

‘He’s charming and it’s a relief he’ll take you on. I’d been worried you were so set on painting you’d remain a spinster for evermore. Marrying another artist is probably the best outcome for you.’

‘I could never have married a man who didn’t understand that I must paint.’

Mama sighed. ‘I always expected my darling Amelia would marry first.’

Edith didn’t want to talk about her elder sister, not on her wedding day. A gifted pianist with the singing voice of an angel, Amelia had taken three years to die of consumption. Her memory haunted the house, leaving their mother still grieving eight years later, and it seemed impossible for Edith ever to live up to the level of perfection Amelia had acquired in Mama’s eyes. Benedict’s proposal had opened up the promise of a new life, one where Edith would be cherished and loved for herself. If she worked hard and achieved her dream of having a painting exhibited in the Royal Academy, perhaps then Mama would love her as much as she had her elder daughter.

‘Eat your kedgeree. We can’t have you fainting in church.’ Mama stared out of the window overlooking Bedford Gardens, her fingers restlessly tapping the table. She glanced at Edith and looked away again. ‘Normally I’d never dream of discussing such a delicate subject but, after my own honeymoon, I vowed that, if I had daughters of my own one day, I’d counsel them before the event, no matter how awkward it was.’

Edith put down her fork.

‘A bride may find her wedding night a little …’ Mama hesitated momentarily before continuing ‘… surprising.’

‘In what way?’

Edith’s mother twisted her wedding ring around her finger. ‘A bride must expect her husband to …’ Her cheeks became suffused with pink. ‘To touch her. Remember, there’s no shame in this. On the contrary, it’s her duty to do her husband’s bidding, however unusual his wishes may seem.’

‘I shall always do my duty to Benedict.’ Edith suppressed a shiver of longing as she imagined his eager kisses.

Mama rose to her feet, leaving her own breakfast untouched. ‘I’m glad we’ve had this chat. I shouldn’t have wanted you to imagine afterwards that some outrage had been committed upon your person.’

Edith frowned at this baffling statement and watched her mother close the door behind her. The bride ate her breakfast, including all the kedgeree. Her mother was quite right; it wouldn’t do to faint in church.



Tightly laced, Edith lifted her arms while Colette, Mama’s maid, tied her petticoat ribbons. Outside, the sun shone. She sighed, yearning to be at the church already with Benedict at her side. In a few hours’ time they would be properly alone for the first time. Imagining his embraces then, given without any need for restraint, made her feel quite overheated.

‘Miss Edith?’ Colette held out the cream silk wedding dress. She hooked together the mother-of-pearl buttons down the back of the bodice.

‘Et voilà!’ said the maid. ‘I will inform Mrs Hammond you are ready for the veil.’

Edith slipped her feet into new satin shoes and inspected herself in the mirror. The wide leg-of-mutton sleeves emphasised her narrow waist and the heavy silk of the bell-shaped skirt clung to her hips before it flared out into an elegant train at the back.

Mama, wearing a vast hat adorned with feathers, entered the room with the veil laid over her outstretched arms. Even on Edith’s wedding day she’d chosen to wear lavender silk, half-mourning in memory of Amelia.

‘Grandmama’s Brussels lace veil,’ she said. ‘I’d always imagined darling Amelia would wear it next.’

The bitter disappointment in her voice made Edith feel second best again. It irked her even more since Amelia hadn’t always been as saint-like as Mama imagined.

Her mother arranged the veil over Edith’s dark hair and secured the coronet of wax orange blossoms with pearl-topped hatpins. She studied her through narrowed eyes before nodding approval.

Edith’s mouth was dry. She followed Mama along the passage and paused at the top of the stairs. Papa and Uncle Toby waited for them in the hall below.

Mama called down, ‘Edward!’

Papa and Uncle Toby looked up expectantly.

Mindful of her long train, Edith carefully descended the stairs.

‘Enchanting, my dear,’ said Papa, kissing her cheek. ‘The carriages are at the door,’ he said. ‘Shall we?’

The servants lined the hallway and bowed or bobbed as Papa led her outside. Mama set off with Uncle Toby in the first carriage, while Papa handed Edith into the second.

‘We’ll drive in the other direction, around Kensington Gardens,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t do to arrive early and make young Benedict think you’re overeager. Keep him on his toes!’ He reached for Edith’s hand. ‘Nervous? You’ll soon settle into the way of married life. Though I could wish Cornwall were a little closer. Still, I daresay you’ll write to your mama and let us know how you go on.’

Edith rarely spent any time alone with her father and lapsed into awkward silence, hardly knowing what to say to him. The Bayswater Road was teeming with carriages and their progress was slow. She gripped her bouquet of pink roses and white freesias and prayed they wouldn’t be late.

Her corset pinched and she felt nauseous; perhaps it hadn’t been sensible to eat Mama’s breakfast as well as her own. Staring out of the carriage window, Edith kept her gaze fixed on the park, watching the horses and the nannies wheeling perambulators. To take her mind off her nervousness, she imagined how she’d capture the scene in watercolour, concentrating on the vibrant shades of green and the patterns the sunlight made filtering past the park railings.

Before long they were drawing up outside St Mary Abbots. Clinging to her papa’s arm, Edith stepped down from the carriage.

Benedict’s little nieces, adorable in frilled dresses with pink sashes, waited by the church door with their governess. She chivvied her charges into position, one holding Edith’s train and the others ready to strew rose petals at her feet.

Edith’s knees trembled as an echo of Mama’s voice reverberated in her head: ‘Once the wedding has taken place, there’s no going back.’

The organ music swelled and Papa guided Edith out of the sunshine and into the shadowy cavern of the church. The air inside smelled of freesias, incense and mould. Faces turned to stare as they made stately progress down the nave and Edith glimpsed Clarissa, chic in sky blue, and dear Dora, her freckled face smiling encouragingly.

And then there was Benedict, standing before the altar painted with a kaleidoscope of cobalt and crimson from the light slanting through the stained glass. Tall and impossibly handsome, he was waiting for her. Edith’s momentary uncertainty evaporated like mist in the sun.



Later, she hardly remembered the ceremony at all, except for the scent of freesias and Benedict’s hazel eyes looking into hers as they made their responses.

Then they were in the carriage together with rose petals and rice on their shoulders.

Benedict pulled her against him and kissed her until she had to turn aside to catch her breath. ‘What a shame it’s such a short journey to Bedford Gardens,’ he murmured, his hand caressing her waist.

Edith straightened her coronet, her pulse skipping. This was the beginning of her new life. No more failing to live up to Amelia’s perfection. She’d spend the nights in her husband’s arms, whispering words of love, and during the days they’d paint, side-by-side. Wonderingly, she touched Benedict’s cheek. ‘I love you so much,’ she whispered.

He gave her a dazzling smile and kissed her nose.

The carriage halted outside Edith’s home in Bedford Garden. . .