The Undoing of Violet Claybourne: A Novel

by Emily Critchley

Genres: Women's Fiction; Suspense; Gothic

Synopsis

"Artful, gothic-tinged...an immersive, chilling treat for suspense fans." ―Publishers Weekly

For fans of Sarah Penner and The Foundling comes a slow-burn gothic mystery following Gillian, a young girl enthralled by the enigmatic Claybourne sisters, their house at Thornleigh Hall, and the tragedy that binds them together for good.

To become a Claybourne girl, she'll have to betray one first.

1938. Gillian Larking, lonely and away at boarding school, is used to going unnoticed. But then she meets Violet Claybourne, her vibrant roommate who takes Gilly under her wing. Violet is unlike anyone Gilly has ever met, and she regales Gilly with tales of her grand family estate and her two elegant sisters. Gilly is soon entranced by stories of the Claybournes, so when Violet invites Gilly to meet her family at Thornleigh Hall, she can't believe her luck.

But Gilly soon finds that behind the grand façade of Thornleigh Hall, darkness lurks.

Dazzled by the crumbling manor and Violet's enigmatic sisters, Gilly settles into the estate. But when a horrible accident strikes on the grounds, she is ensnared in a web of the sisters' making, forced to make a choice that will change the course of her life forever. Because the Claybournes girls know how to keep secrets, even at the cost of one of their own.

With ensnaring prose and layers of friendship, privilege, mental health, and more, The Undoing of Violet Claybourne is a poignant book club read with characters you won't soon forget.

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Release date: March 4, 2025

Publisher: Sourcebooks Landmark

Print pages: 400

Sample

1

1999

Sixty years and I haven’t returned. Not once. Not until today.

The National Trust café is not particularly busy for a Saturday in March. I sip my tea and pick at a piece of lemon poppy seed cake. From here I can see the park. A few of the ornamental trees have gone, but the landscape is the same: the slope of the mount that leads down to the lake, the copse, and the beech woods beyond. I look away. Apparently they have Easter egg hunts in the woods now.

Last June my husband died, and I am now finally in the process of having a clear out. It’s a new phase, Mum, one of my daughters said helpfully.

There was a box up on top of the wardrobe in the spare bedroom. Nestled among a handful of loose photographs, postcards, and an old instruction manual for a Hoover I haven’t owned for over forty years, I came across a tiny, faded-green school diary with Heathcomb, Autumn term, 1938, printed on the front, along with the school crest.

How had it survived? I wondered.

I noticed my initials, in pencil, on the top corner of the front inside page: G. F. Larking. I hadn’t written much else in the diary. It was mostly full of the printed text that outlined the term’s activities: Tuesday 13th September, Pianoforte recital; Thursday 6th October, Upper School Debate; Monday 14th October, Prep B excused for Choral Society.

As I flicked through the diary, the only words of any interest were those I had written on Tuesday 20th December, the first day of the Christmas holidays. Thornleigh Hall.

I’d quickly closed the diary and returned it to the box.

But then, this morning, I found myself driving to North Oxfordshire. Parking in the car park (once a field belonging to the tenant farmer) and entering through the large oak, iron-studded doors. I paid an entrance fee and was given a guidebook. I wandered the rooms, avoiding the smiling, enthusiastic volunteers.

Looking around Thornleigh Hall, I felt suspended in time. Here I was, an old woman in sensible shoes clutching a guidebook, and yet there in the dining room was Emmeline drinking her morning coffee, Lord Claybourne reading his paper, Lady Claybourne complaining about her eggs, Violet tucking in to toast and black currant jam. And there was Laura in the library, her stockinged feet up on the sofa arm, leafing through a magazine. “Oh, hello, Gilly,” she said, seeing me standing there. “I wondered where you’d got to.”

I moved from room to room, pressing my nails into my guidebook. I watched the other visitors with their backpacks and cameras. Babies strapped to the chests of men. Mothers gripping the hands of small children. Look at that clock, darling, isn’t it beautiful?

As for me, I felt like a traveler returning to a faraway land, only to find it a pale shadow of what it once was. I was reminded of a time in my life that was both full of possibility and fraught with the anxieties of the very

young. Thornleigh Hall—my visit in the winter of 1938 and the events that followed—had been the marker that forever divided my life. After Thornleigh, there was simply a before and an after.

In the café, I finish my cake, then set my fork down. On the table in front of me is a cut daffodil in a single stem vase, and I admire its bright resilience. I never got to see the park in spring. The daffodils. No doubt there will be bluebells in the woods soon too. Sitting alone at my table, I can hear gentle chatter, the clinking of teacups, the whir of a coffee machine. Feeling better, a little less discombobulated, I refill my teacup. Perhaps I was only in need of sustenance.

The waitress walks past me, carrying tea and cake to another table. With her rare combination of blond hair and brown eyes, she reminds me of Laura. She looks so young, but then I suppose we were all young then.

Laura.

I can still picture her, the last time I saw her in 1943, walking up the steps to the house in Richmond, fumbling for her key with a shaky hand. She’d turned and given me a small wave.

Three weeks later she was dead.

Laura’s death made all the papers. Countess’s sister involved in fatal accident. Society girl’s tragic death.

She had picked a spot along the coast from Brighton after driving all the way down from London. Petrol was still rationed then. She must have been saving it up. It was the end of the summer—the grassy cliff tops were sprinkled with white sea campion, pink thrift, wild garlic, and daisies. The blue water sparkled under the bright afternoon sun.

Lines like “grief-stricken” and “recently widowed” appeared in the papers, although no publication went as far as to say Laura had taken her own life. Laura’s brother-in-law, Viscount Cadwallander, was well-connected, and things may have been hushed up. I read the statement Emmeline had given to the Sunday papers: Laura must have lost control of the car; she was driving too fast. The road should be better signposted.

Despite the statement though, there was much speculation around Laura’s “accident,” especially after the testimony of the family who had been picnicking on the cliff top. I read their account of how Laura sped past them, her gloved hands gripping the wheel, her scarf flapping behind her in the breeze, her mouth set in a grim, determined line (or perhaps

 this is how I imagine it, anyway). She turned sharply off the road. The engine roared. The picnickers, their boiled eggs suspended halfway to their mouths, shielded their children’s eyes as the car sailed over the edge.

Poor Laura.

Like the picnickers, I was in no doubt that Laura’s death had been intentional. I knew something of her state of mind, especially after the day we’d left Wynscott. I should have kept a closer eye on her.

No invitation to the funeral arrived, and I have to say I was glad. I could just see Emmeline, her dark hair—so different from Laura’s blond—sculpted tastefully into a low chignon at the nape of her neck. She’d be wearing a black two-piece, gloves, and a tasteful pillbox, greeting the mourners with a steady hand as the first autumn leaves blew across the churchyard.

I wanted to remember Laura in my own way. Dancing to her jazz records in the tower bedroom, striding across the park in her Wellingtons, smoking a cigarette by the drawing-room window in the blue dusk of a winter afternoon.

How had it come to this? I’d wondered.

Now, in the café, I glance at my handbag and the pieces of paper folded inside.

Of course, it wasn’t only the discovery of my school diary that had brought me back to Thornleigh Hall today. It was the letter I’d received from Henry.

I had glanced, a few days ago, at those opening lines: Dear Mrs. McCune (my married name), I am writing to you at the request of my aunt, Violet Claybourne. This is a somewhat tricky letter to write—

I had dropped the letter, as if scalding hot, onto my kitchen table, then picked it up, stuffing it back in the envelope and hiding it behind the fruit bowl where I’d left it festering beside the browning bananas for several days. But then today, on my way out of the door, I’d put it in my handbag, slipped it among the throat sweets, pocket tissues, and my spare driving

glasses. Perhaps, I thought, when I get to Thornleigh, I’ll know what to do with it.

I take the envelope out of my handbag and stare at it for a moment or two.

“Can I take that?”

I look up, startled, to find the young Laura-like waitress, gesturing to my empty plate.

“Oh, yes,” I say. “Thank you.”

The girl smiles, sweeps up my plate, and I reach for my tea, tepid now. I glance again out of the window, across the park, to the dark glitter of the lake and the woods beyond. I can see us there in our Christmas dresses, Laura clutching her flask, Violet in her woolen hat, Emmeline bending down to untie the boat from the landing stage.

The past, of course, is a different place, a place inhabited by people who would be completely at sea should they find themselves here today. We were different people back then, products of our time—and of our circumstances.

But that is no excuse.

I realize my memories of that winter, through never being summoned to the forefront of my mind, are hazy and out of focus, mere impressions, as when my daughters were small and liked to rub their crayons over paper, revealing the ghost of the leaf below. When I think of the Christmas of 1938, what comes to mind is the sound of the dinner gong, the shine of the silverware, the rustle of Emmeline’s dress as she swept up the central staircase. Jazz music drifting through drafty, shut-up rooms, scarlet-clad figures galloping across snowy fields, and Violet sprawled star-shaped across her bed. “How good it is to be home, Gilly.”

But these are nothing more than scrambled snapshots, a slideshow of disordered images on a fuzzy projector screen. If I am to remember, to truly remember, I must go back to the very beginning. I must remember not only the glamour, the decadence, and the sense of wanting so desperately to belong that I felt in the company of the Claybourne sisters, but also the darker side of our story, what really happened during that winter break, and the events that led me to flee my life as I knew it. Only then will I know what to do with the letter. 

2

1938

Violet Claybourne was my roommate, and that’s why we became friends.

I was a quiet, bookish sort of girl, of average height, mousy brown hair, hazel eyes. Prone to freckles. At school, I longed more than anything to fit in, but so often found myself on the margins. There were girls I would sit with on the long wooden lunch benches in the dining hall, those I would gravitate toward at break time where we stood in small gossipy groups sharing our news and opinions, trying not to let ourselves down. But until Violet came along, there was no one I could really call a true friend.

Violet arrived on a sunny September afternoon. The trees outside yellowing. That familiar nip of autumn already in the air. It was the first day of a new term, and the beginning of my sixth year at Heathcomb.

Violet dragged her suitcase into our tiny dorm room, then stopped, clearly surprised to see me, as if she had been expecting the room to be unoccupied.

“We’re roommates,” I explained.

Dropping the suitcase she grinned and stuck out her hand, still gloved in red cashmere, a startling adornment to Heathcomb’s dowdy uniform. An inch or so taller than me, she had green eyes and thick, wavy brown hair.

“Violet Claybourne.”

“Gillian Larking.”

“I like Tuesdays, purple, and Atropa Belladonna,” she said, whipping off her gloves.

I stared at her. “At-rop—”

“A tall bushy plant belonging to the nightshade family.” She flung her suitcase onto the bed. “Highly poisonous.” She turned to me, her hands on her hips. “So we’re to share a room, are we?”

I nodded. “We’re in the same form. Form B.”

“How original,” said Violet dryly. She glanced around the small, bare space. “Well,” she said, “if we’re stuck together we may as well stick together. Do you want cake?”

She opened her suitcase and produced half a yellow sponge cake, wrapped in brown paper and secured with a ribbon.

“Mrs. Frith—that’s our cook—insisted I take it with me,” Violet said, unwrapping a cake knife from a checkered handkerchief. “Mother doesn’t like us eating cake. She takes these slimming pills the doctor gives her. They affect her nerves. She’s terrified we’re all going to get fat and no one will want to marry us. Sounds like a reason to eat more, if you ask me.”

“We’re not supposed to bring food in.” I stared at the cake with its rich cream filling.

Violet grinned at me. “Well, we’ll just have to hide the evidence then, won’t we?” She sliced a great chunk, then licked the cream from her fingers. “Here. Have this bit. And don’t worry, I’ve just washed my hands in the bathroom three times, so you won’t get any germs.”

I furrowed my brow. 

“Right.”

We sat on the floor, eating our impromptu picnic. I kept a fearful eye on the door, praying Matron wouldn’t discover us. I wasn’t worried about spoiling my appetite for dinner; the food at Heathcomb was dreadful.

“Where have you come from?” I asked between mouthfuls.

Violet swallowed. “Come from?”

“Which school?”

“Oh, I’ve never been to school,” Violet replied dismissively. “We had governesses, tutors, you know. Not that they lasted long. Emmeline knew it all already. She started working her way through Father’s library when she was five.”

“Emmeline?”

“My sister,” Violet said, messily eating her cake. “I’ve got two of them. Emmeline—she’s the oldest. Almost twenty-three now. And then there’s Laura. She’s just turned eighteen.”

I tried not to show how impressed I was with Violet having older sisters. I was an only child. My mother had died during my birth and I had lived in Egypt until I was nine years old, before my father decided to send me to boarding school in England. He had since remarried and his wife had given birth to a little boy. I’d never met either of them. Although he wrote me short, termly letters, I got the impression my father didn’t want much to do with me and was preoccupied with his new family. I felt I had been a disgrace to him from the moment I was born. I had, after all, killed my mother. Even so, I knew my father was a cold and distant man. He had lost the ability to feel too deeply. First the war, then the death of the woman he loved. Something inside him had cracked like an egg, leaving a vacancy that could never quite be filled.

Being, in my mind, an only child, I could think of nothing better than to have sisters. I often wondered what it would be like to be a part of a larger family, to have siblings with whom you shared your intimate thoughts and secrets, and who would defend you to the last should you ever need defending. I imagined sisters gave a person an extra layer of protection against the world, and I longed for that protection. Life, for me, always felt a little too raw and sharp at the edges. Having sisters, I thought, would be like putting on another layer of much thicker skin.

“Laura’s still at home,” Violet went on. “But Emmeline’s at Oxford studying Classics.”

Once again, I was impressed. I knew of very few girls who had gone to university, and I 

hardly dared dream it might be something I could one day do myself. A teacher had suggested it could be a possibility for me, but I was unsure. I did well enough in school, but not exceptionally well, and I doubted my father would pay for me to stay on. I would have to ask him, which would require a carefully worded letter, and I hated asking my father for anything.

“Your sister must be very clever,” I murmured.

“Oh, she is,” replied Violet. “Too clever for her own good, Mummy says. And there was an awful row about Oxford. Mummy didn’t want her to go. She thought Emmeline would become too lofty and that no one would want to marry her. But Daddy said Emmeline could go if she wanted. He’s a soft touch, you see.” Violet smiled. “Anyway, Emmeline was always going to get her own way. She usually does.” She paused to pick a few stray cake crumbs from her dress. “What a nuisance it is we have to wear these itchy frocks. Do we have to keep them on all the time?”

“I’m afraid so,” I said. “Except for games, of course. Why? What do you go about in at home?”

Violet grinned. “Slacks—if I can get away with it. They’re much more practical. I’ve a lovely pair of brown ones. But Mummy is always trying to get me into a frock.” She laughed.

I smiled uncertainly, not knowing of any girls who preferred to wear slacks.

“You’ve got a lot of books,” Violet said, eyeing my night table.

“Only a few favorites,” I said. Piled up there was Jane Eyre, Great Expectations, and The Woman in White. I had been an avid reader since I was a child. Books had always been my companions, a way of escaping my dreary and very ordinary life—not any better in England than it had been in Egypt.

“Mummy says Emmeline’s nose is permanently stuck in a book and it will do her no good.”

“And your other sister—Laura—does she read?”

Violet frowned. “Laura reads Tatler. She loves the society pages.”

I had magazines too, but I didn’t admit this to Violet. The magazines were my guilty secret. I bought them (along with Fry’s chocolate bars) from the village shop using the small allowance my father sent me, stuffing them up my pinafore and then carrying them furtively back to my room. The magazines featured true romance stories with titles like “A Night Too Long” and “The Test of Love,” along with fashion and beauty tips. Although I enjoyed the stories about breathless, aching

women caught in the arms of unsuitable men, what I really loved were the advertisements: glamorous models in red lipstick, telling me that the right face cream, pair of silk stockings, or a Camel cigarette could change my life. I believed in them. I would gaze at my favorite models over and over, scrutinizing their faces, the sharpness of their cheekbones, the thickness of their eyelashes, their coy smiles. I sat in front of the mirror holding my hair up to my chin, imagining what I might look like without my pigtails and freckles, with my lips painted and my cheeks rouged.

I swallowed another mouthful of cake. It really was delicious. “What about you then?” I asked. “Do you like books?”

Violet reached into her suitcase and produced an extremely tatty copy of Peter Pan and Wendy. “It’s my favorite,” she announced. “We went to see the play at the theater in London.” She waved the book at me. “After I read it, I knew that no book could ever be as good, so I stick to this one. I must have read it a hundred times.”

Before I could comment, Violet had moved over to the window and was throwing it open, letting in a chilly blast. She stuck her head out, peered upward, then turned to look at me.

“I wanted to ask you, Gilly,” (no one had ever called me Gilly) “how do we get up on the roof? I was looking at it from the drive when Higgins was fetching my things from the car. You’d be able to see the whole grounds from up there. It must be a splendid view.”

“It is possible to get up there,” I said, pleased to be given the opportunity to tell Violet something I knew. “There’s a staircase at the end of the fifth-floor corridor. But of course we wouldn’t be allowed.”

Violet looked surprised. “Whyever not?”

“We just wouldn’t be.”

“At least show me the staircase,” she said, grabbing hold of my arm. “Show me now.”

“I really don’t think we should,” I said. “We’re supposed to be in our rooms. Settling in.”

“I only want to see the staircase. And you’re meant to be showing me around, aren’t you?”

***

The hallways and stairwells were busy with girls arriving, hugging each other, expressing joy or dismay over their new rooms. Violet, I noticed, kept close to me. She seemed alarmed by the cacophony of excited girls.

“Gosh, it’s loud,” she said, her eyes darting from left to right. “In my house people creep about the place and keep to their own quarters. My mother would never stand for any of this screeching.”

“It’s because they’ve just arrived,” I told her. “Matron will soon quiet them down.”

We continued to weave our way through the throng and up to the much quieter fifth-floor.

“Shh,” I said, placing a finger over my lips. “Some of the teachers have their rooms up here. I doubt anyone is in now, but still…”

Violet nodded, but as soon as we reached the little staircase she let out a squeak of enthusiasm. Before I could stop her, she was leaping up the stairs two at a time.

“Violet, no!” I said, panicking.

It was too late. She was at the top of the stairs, rattling the door handle. To my surprise the door opened and she disappeared.

“Violet!” I called after her. “You mustn’t!”

I ran up the stairs and out onto the roof. Violet was standing next to a chimney stack, her face to the sun, the breeze lifting her hair. “Isn’t it marvelous, Gilly? I told you it would be.”

I stopped and looked around me, amazed at how much sky there was. I could see the chapel, the tennis courts, and the playing field that stretched to the trees.

Violet walked to the edge and put her hands on the low lip of the wall.

“Be careful,” I said.

She turned and grinned at me. “Are you always such a worrywart?”

“We must go back,” I said, ignoring her. “We’ll get into an awful lot of trouble if we’re caught up here.”

Violet sighed. “If we really must. But we should come up here again, Gilly. Just think: at night we could see the stars.”

I shook my head. Clearly Violet had no idea what punishments would be bestowed on us if we were caught out of our rooms at night, let alone on the roof.

“It’s the perfect place for Elvore,” said Violet.

“Elvore?”

“A magical land. Full of enchanted forests and castles and dragons. I go there often with my sisters.”

Before I could reply, a stern voice called out from somewhere behind us. “Hello? Hello? Is there someone out here?”

Startled, Violet and I immediately ducked down behind a chimney stack.

“A teacher?” Violet whispered.

I nodded, my heart in my mouth.

The door closed with a bang. Neither of us moved. We sat there, waiting until we were sure the coast was clear.

“Do you think they’ve gone?” Violet asked.

“Yes, I should think so.”

“That was close, wasn’t it?”

“Come on,” I said. “We’d really better go back now.” I returned to the door but when I tried it, I couldn’t get it open.

“Violet,” I called to her in dismay. “The door is stuck. Come and help me.”

Violet bounded over and rattled the handle. “Gosh, do you think it’s possible that teacher—whoever they were—might have locked the door and taken the key?”

I looked at Violet, the horrible realization settling in my stomach.

“I think we’re probably locked out, Gilly,” Violet said.

I could feel the panic rising in my throat. “No,” I said. “We can’t be.” I pushed my body against the solid door, but it didn’t budge. I tried the handle again. Nothing.

“Yup, we’re definitely locked out,” said Violet cheerfully. “They’ll have to send someone to rescue us.”

I could feel my eyelids pricking and, not wanting Violet to see, I turned away. “No one will know we’re even up here,” I managed to say. “We might not even be missed until they do the head count at lights-out.”

“Then we will get to see the stars,” said Violet.

“You don’t understand… We’ll be punished. Maybe even expelled.”

“Well, that’s all right,” said Violet, pouting. “I never even wanted to come to this stupid school in the first place. I already miss Fee Fee.”

“Who’s Fee Fee?”

“My pet rabbit.”

I put my face in my hands. It was too much. To be stuck up here. To get into this kind

of trouble on the first day of the new school year. Even if we weren’t expelled, we’d be laughed at by the other girls for weeks. The thought of being excluded sent a cold shiver of fear up my spine. If I was going to support myself after leaving Heathcomb, I needed to finish school, to complete my exams. It wasn’t that the thought of staying on appealed to me; I despised school. But still, I knew I needed options. “Marry well” had always been Aunt Ada’s advice, but I wasn’t sure this was something I could rely on.

Violet, sensing my distress, touched my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Gilly,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to…”

I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and took a few shaky breaths. Violet was still looking at me.

“I’ll make it all right, Gilly. I promise. Please don’t be upset.”

“You can’t,” I said. “It’s done now.”

Violet walked briskly to the edge of the roof. “We’ll call for help,” she said, peering over the edge. “When we see someone.”

My heart was heavy. I thought of us waving and shouting like victims of a sinking ship. I imagined the door opening, Miss Tankard’s stony face. I think you had both better come with me, girls.

Violet was still leaning over the edge of the roof.

“Please,” I said, sniffing. “Be careful.”

“Look,” said Violet. “There’s a window open just below us. See?”

I went and peered cautiously over. A few feet below us was a window. Below it, a thick concrete ledge. The window was open.

“The fifth-floor lavatories,” I said glumly.

“I think we could get down,” said Violet.

I looked at her in disbelief. There was no way I was climbing over the edge of the roof and dropping onto a windowsill. If we slipped, we would certainly fall to our deaths.

“I’m sure we could do it,” said Violet. “We just need to hang on to the drainpipe. Once we’re on the ledge, we’ll be fine.”

I looked at her, aghast.

“And we’ll easily get through the window. We’re hardly heifers, are we?”

Violet had a foot up on the low lip of the wall. She began to tuck her pinafore dress into her knickers.

“Violet, please. It’s too

 dangerous.”

Before I had a chance to say anything else, she’d hopped over the edge.

I let out a cry of alarm, then leaned over, half expecting to see her crushed body lying on the gravel below. But there she was, clinging to the drainpipe.

As I watched, she shimmied down until she reached the deep sill. I could hardly bear to look as she transferred her grip, one hand at a time, from the drainpipe to the top of the window.

She managed to get a leg through, then sort of slithered in, feet first. Her face appeared a moment later, beaming up at me. “I told you it would be easy, Gilly. Come on.”

I shook my head.

Violet sighed. “I’ll have to fetch a teacher then. Tell them you’re locked out.”

I shut my eyes. This couldn’t be happening. I’d be known as a troublemaker for the rest of the school year. ...