Her mind returned to the box in the spare room. She closed the window to keep the squirrel out, then went to open it. There was only one thing inside: a faded green scrapbook. It was thick with flowers and leaves pressed between its pages. On the front the title was written in large looped handwriting: Rainbows and Roses. Miranda knelt on the floor and flicked through it. It was a diary of poems, recollections and essays, clearly something that was not meant to have been left behind, nor seen by the eyes of a stranger. The mystery intrigued her. The writing was feminine. The paper smelled sweet, like cut grass in early spring. She sat back against the wall and turned to the first page where four sentences stood alone, heavy with sorrow.
I thought the days would assuage my longing, but they only fan the fire and make me yearn for you more. With all my body and all my soul. I shall grow old loving you and one day I shall die loving you. For now I live on the memory of you here in our cottage. It is all I have left.
VII
Every rainbow I see reminds me of you
Hartington House
October 1979
Ava Lightly’s voice could be heard from deep within the herbaceous border. Although she was obscured by dead lupins and the large viburnum she was busily cutting back, her enthusiastic singing stirred the crisp morning air and sent the dogs into an excited frolic on the grass. Ava was dressed in purple dungarees and a short-sleeved T-shirt, her streaky blond hair roughly secured on the top of her head with a pencil. Her hands were rough from gardening, her nails short and ragged, yet her cheeks glowed with health and her pale green eyes sparkled like a spring meadow in rain. She was happiest outside, whatever the weather, and rarely felt the cold although she was a slender woman with no fat to insulate her. She was often seen with bare arms in midwinter when everyone else was wrapped up in gloves and hats and heavy coats. At thirty-seven she retained the bloom of youth, borne of an inner contentment which shone through her skin as if her heart were made of sunshine. Her face was handsome rather than pretty, her features irregular: her nose a little too long and very straight, her mouth large and sensual, out of place on such a small face. Yet, if the features weren’t beautiful in isolation, they were made so by the sensitive, cheerful expression that held them together. Her eccentric nature made her compelling. No one loved her more than her husband, Phillip Lightly, and their three small children, Archie, Angus and Poppy.
“Hey, Shrub!” called her husband, striding across the lawn. Bernie, the fluffy Saint Bernard and Tarquin, the young Labrador, stopped rolling about on the grass and galloped up to him, crashing into his legs, almost knocking him to the ground. He patted them affectionately and shooed them away with a flick of his hand. He was fifteen years older than his wife, six feet four with a straight back and wide shoulders. His face was gentle and handsome, with a long nose, high cheekbones and a strong jawline. He spent most of the time in his study writing the definitive history of wine, or abroad, visiting vineyards. However, he wasn’t inclined to solitude as so many writers are. He enjoyed shooting parties and dinners that extended into the small hours of the morning, discussing history and politics over glasses of port and the odd cigar. He took pleasure from socializing with the people of Hartington after church on Sundays and invited the town to an annual wine and cheese party at the house in the summer. He was affable and well liked for his dry, English sense of humor which more often than not included clever puns whose meaning eluded the very audience he meant to entertain. Ava always laughed, even though she had heard them all before. With round glasses perched on an aristocratic nose, his fine bones and high forehead, Phillip Lightly cut a distinguished figure as he strode confidently towards the herbaceous border.
He waited awhile, enjoying his wife’s tuneful singing, then he called her again by the nickname he had given her in the early days of their courtship. “Shrub, darling!”
“Oh, hello there, you!” she replied, scrambling out. There were leaves caught in her hair and a smear of mud down one cheek. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
“You haven’t forgotten Jean-Paul, have you?” The surprise on her face confirmed that she had. He smiled indulgently. Ava was famously vague, her mind absorbed by the trees and flowers of her beloved garden. “Well,” he sighed, glancing at his watch. “He’ll be at the station in half an hour.”
“Oh God! I’d completely forgotten. I’ve done nothing about the cottage.”
“He’s young, he’ll be happy in a sleeping bag,” said Phillip, folding his arms against the cold. Despite his cashmere sweater and scarf, he was shivering. “Look, I’ll pick him up, but then it’s over to you, Shrub.”