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PROLOGUE
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JANUARY
Garnet
Constancy
Fidelity Patience
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1
Grace runs through the dark woods; in the silence, her white
breath plumes, streams behind her. The fresh snow is lumi
nous in the moonlight and stars glitter above the trees, a field
of diamonds. Her boots skid as she breaks through the trees
and reaches the frozen road, chill twigs cracking beneath her
swift feet. She gathers up the hem of her blue silk evening
gown and glances behind her, her platinum hair blowing in
the wind, a skein of silver. She has a few minutes, if that, when
she can be sure all the villagers are indoors, when prying eyes
turn away from net curtains to parties or the television and
people sing Auld Lang Syne.
Twelve rings of the bell, counting down.
At the gate she pauses, gasping in the cold air. She rests her
gloved hand against the stone sign, traces the familiar letters:
The Old Rectory. Across the road, snow has drifted against the
stiff box hedge of Mrs Millers thatched cottage. It is dark, the
curtains tightly drawn for once. The house reminds Grace of
a bristling hedgehog, turned in on itself, its low, beady win
dows watching everything that goes on in the village.
Grace turns to the treelined Rectory driveway and walks,
keeping to the shadows. She pulls up the hood of her velvet
cape, breathes in the reassuring smell of her perfume, Opium,
warm vanilla and patchouli. The house lies ahead, its elegant
windows glinting blue in the moonlight, fringed by dark leaf
less trees, steady as the gaze of a woman sure of her beauty. It
is waiting for her. When her family moved to Hampshire and
she first saw this house, it made her think of the homes she
had drawn as a little child square and constant, safe. She
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had dropped them home, but they were locked out. We could
sleep in the playhouse, he said. Harrys staying with her
mates for the night. It could be fun . . .
Are you mad? she said. Sam pulled his Swiss army knife
from his pocket, the porch light glinting on the blade. Be
careful.
Dont worry. He turned to her, his green eyes calm, un
readable beneath his blonde fringe. He went to the nearest
window and slid the blade between the rattling sashes, edging
the latch free. In a few seconds he was in and opening the
back door for her.
Where did you learn to do that?
You dont want to know.
Grace flicked on the kitchen light. If its that easy we should
get better locks.
Whod dare to break in? he said, wrapping her in his arms.
Nothing can touch us here.
Grace stands looking at the back door. Nothing can touch us.
Even then, she was unsure. She flinches, aware that shes
been lost in the past again. She searches in her coat pocket for
Sams knife. It is one of the talismans she takes everywhere
with her. She checks the time on his Omega watch. Five min
utes to twelve. The first window she tries is latched too firmly,
and the next. Sam, she says, under her breath, I need your
help. Grace starts at the sound of people heading to the pub
in the square, a snatch of Youre The One That I Want on the
jukebox as the door opens, a chorus of laughter and singing:
ooooooh. Theres not much time. She strides over to the next
window and forces the knife up, jamming the blade hard
against the latch. Her fingers are stiff with cold, but she feels
it give. Thank you, she whispers and slides up the window.
Her footsteps echo on the boards through the house. She
can hardly bear to look around her. She had never wanted to
come here again. Grace wills herself not to look at the kitchen
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doorpost, at the marks they made for Harry as she grew, at the
faint blue lines for herself, and just above her, Sam, at Harrys
scrawled marks for Jagger the dog. She forces herself on
through the hall, remembers standing at the door just before
Christmas as her father Teds van lurched out of the driveway
with the last of the boxes, pulling to one side to make way for
the dark Cortina. The banks agent was businesslike as she
handed over a set of keys, and she walked away without a
backward glance, amazed at how quickly a life can fall apart.
At the door to the living room, she hesitates, afraid now to
enter. Half of her expects everything still to be in place, the
deep red velvet sofa, twin pools of lamplight spilling over the
sheepskin rugs by the fire. Do it, she thinks, willing herself
forward. The door swings open to empty space, a cloak of
moonlight laid out beneath her feet on the bare floor. Grace
hurries across to the fireplace and drags the firedogs clear.
She squats down and pulls a small torch from her pocket,
twisting it on. Placing it between her teeth, she squeezes her
self into the chimney breast, feeling with her fingers for the
loose brick above the stone arch. There. Gripping the knife, she
hacks away at the wall, working the brick free. She squints,
dust filling her lungs, smarting her eyes. The brick thuds to
the ground and she reaches in, feels for the small wooden box
with her fingertips. I was right. Its gone. The first church bell
rings. Twelve, eleven . . .
Grace replaces the brick and eases herself out of the hearth.
Who could have taken them? Headlights flare up against the far
wall and she sees the lights waver as the car slips on the snowy
drive. Oh God, oh God, she thinks, turning, running to the hall.
Who saw her? She races down the moonlit corridor, her cape
and gown trailing behind her. Perhaps someone called the
police. Is it a crime to break into your own home? Its not your
home, not any more, she thinks, running through the kitchen
and scrambling through the window, sliding it silently down.
What do you think youre doing?
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the toast and the fireworks. I had to get Ben to help me. I
thought hed have his eyebrows off.
Happy New Year, darling, Ted says, kissing her on the
cheek.
Look at you, youre frozen, she says to Grace. What
on earth do you think you are doing, going off like that?
Someone changes the record, interrupting Perry Comos
magic moment, the needle scratching and bumping. Whos
changed the music? I want a relaxed, refined atmosphere this
year, not that disco rubbish. Cilla cranes her head, trying
to see through the crowd to the stereo. The opening bars of
Stayin Alive pulse across the room.
Dont fuss, Cilla, Ted says. Everyones having a good time.
Marvellous party, Edward, a man says as he squeezes by,
his index finger pointing at the ceiling, dipping in time to the
music. Cillas always the hostess with the mostess. His other
hand lingers on her waist.
She flushes and giggles. Do you think so? Youre too kind.
Have you tried the mini quiches?
Grace watches her mother, senses the desperation in her
question: do you think so? None of this has changed her at all.
She wants to prove shes still queen bee of Exford.
Ive been coping singlehanded, Cilla says once the man
has moved on. Her gaze scans the party. Ted, the vicar needs
refilling.
Of course, my love, he says, reaching for a bottle.
And Mrs Miller wanted a port and lemon.
Ted raises his eyebrows as he hands Grace a glass. Ill make
her a weak one. I think shes already cleaned us out of Baby
cham. Splash of fizz, love?
Thanks.
Not real shampoo this year, but youd never know, he says,
wrapping a linen napkin around the label as he walks away.
Grace reaches down as an old lurcher nudges her other
hand with his grizzled snout. She absentmindedly strokes
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his bony flank. Hello, Jagger. Have you been a good boy?
When is he ever? Cilla says under her breath. I caught him
with his head in the hostess trolley helping himself to the vol
auvents. The dog stares balefully up at her before loping off.
He clambers onto an emerald green sofa, circles once, twice,
and curls up in front of the fire. His gaze seems to say to her:
go on, I dare you. Tell me off in front of all these people.
What an adorable dog, Cilla. Is he yours? a woman asks,
taking a stick of cheese and pineapple from the tray.
Jagger, oh no. Hes Graces, for her sins. Cilla gives Grace
a quick kiss. Her mothers blonde hair has the consistency
of candyfloss pressed against her cheek, scented with Elnett
hairspray.
Sorry I missed the bells, Mum.
Never mind, she whispers. Theres always next year. Her
mothers face softens for a moment. I know its hard for you,
the first Christmas without Sam. She fusses at Graces hair,
pushing a strand behind her ear. Never let them see you
down. Her eyes dart, looking to see who is watching, who is
talking about them.
Them? Mum, I dont care what people think
Cilla purses her lips. Harrys tucked up in bed, finally. I
caught Ben giving her an advocaat and I thought it was time
she went up. Talk of the devil, she says, under her breath.
Ah, there you are, Grace. Ben shoulders his way through
the crowd. He catches the wounded expression on her face
as her mother walks away and puts his arm around Graces
shoulders, hugging her briefly to his side. Pay no attention.
Your mother could teach St Joan a thing or two about mar
tyrdom, he whispers in her ear. Are we all set? Ben smooths
down his grey curls, heading towards the conservatory, and
How Deep is Your Love begins to play. How appropriate.
A Good Sign, eh? He looks down at Grace for reassurance.
I havent been this nervous since the Normandy landings.
He adjusts his cravat, and squares his shoulders. Margot! he
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down her swirling thoughts, and takes the garnet back, clicks
it safely in the box. I thought twelve stones would bring us
luck, or protect us.
Like the breastplate of the high priest?
It seemed romantic at the time.
Margot takes Graces hand. You were worried, even
then?
Of course I was. But you know as well as I do, Sam loved the
Rectory his whole life. Every time we drove past that place he
told me that when he was growing up on the council estate it
was his dream house. I knew he was stretching himself but I
couldnt shatter his dream.
Developers never know when to stop, Margot says. Look
at Ben. Hes made and lost fortunes. More losses than gains,
lately. At least hes still got the antiques market. Grace could
hear the weariness in her voice. Sam reminded me of him.
Both charmers and chancers, always chasing the next dream,
thinking their luck is going to hold out forever.
The next song begins to play: More Than a Woman. Grace
remembers dancing with Sam to it at a disco in the village
hall the previous year. He was dressed in an immaculate white
threepiece suit. As they had walked back home, someone had
leaned out of a car and yelled, Who do you think you are,
mate? Tony Manero? A charmer, a chancer. Was he? Or is that
what he wanted everyone to think? Grace stares down at the box.
Luck? Well, the stones didnt work for us.
Darling, theres always the brooch, you know. Margots
index finger runs along the edge of the diamond wing near
her collarbone. That charming fellow at the Antiques Road
show said
But its all you have from your mother.
Its yours if you need it. Margot glances across the room at
Cilla. In fact, now is as good a time as any. Would you pass me
my bag? Grace leans over and gives her a supple black leather
tote. Margot lifts out a battered blue Bouchet et Fils jewellery
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case and it tumbles from her lap to the floor. Oh dear, how
clumsy, would you mind?
Why did you bring the case with you? Grace kneels,
reaching for it. Gogo, were you planning this all along? You
mustnt.
Fairs fair. She takes the case from Grace. You are making
a ring for me, I am giving you what will be yours one day
anyway. I know my daughter will be annoyed that I gave it to
you rather than her, but Priscilla would only bring it out on
high days and holidays to impress the WI.
Gogo, you are terrible.
We are alike, you and I. Margot lifts Graces chin, gazes
at her. Be patient. Youve been through too much these last
months, but we are survivors. Youll get back on your feet,
darling. Remember? What do I always say?
Fall down seven times, stand up eight. Graces smile crum
ples as she looks at her; she holds back her tears, her throat
tight. How, Gogo? How? When I wake up in the morning,
sometimes I forget what has happened, and then it all comes
flooding back and I can hardly get out of bed. How am I going
to get back on my feet?
You have Harry to fight for.
Graces brow furrows. I should have listened to my gut
instinct. I knew Sams company was going to pull us, and my
business, under. What kind of mother am I?
A damn good one, and dont you ever let anyone make you
feel any different. Margot glances at Cillas back and turns
her steady violet gaze on Grace. You took a risk. Sometimes in
life, you win. Sometimes, you learn. And you move on. Always.
Always keep moving forward, darling.
I dont know how Im going to support us. We cant camp
out with Mum and Dad forever. Ive lost everything Sam, the
house, my business. I lost . . . Graces face is anguished, she
cant finish the sentence. I cant even work. The bank took
all my equipment, the stock. She takes a deep breath and
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forces a smile. The birthstones were the last gems I had, and
someones even taken them.
If Id known hed put the house and your shop up
Gogo, dont start. Its my fault. I knew the chance I was
taking, and there are people in a worse state than us. Who? She
thinks. Who do we know thats in a worse state? She looks down
at her hands. Never do anything by half, Grace, thats what Sam
always said. If youre going to lose, you might as well lose everything.
Stop me, please. She looks up at her grandmother, her eyes
bright. I cant bear selfpity. She stands, and smooths down
her silk dress. The fabric ripples beneath her fingertips like
water.
You can start again, with the brooch. Margot unclips it
and places it in the box. Sell it. I want to help.
I know, Gogo. But I want to do it by myself.
Good for you. I told you, darling, when you insisted on
marrying: never allow your destiny to rest in anothers hands.
You told me to never trust a man.
Did I? Margots eyes gleam as she reaches for a Sobranie
Black Russian. Grace picks up an onyx table lighter from the
mantelpiece and lights the cigarette for her. Margot settles
back in the chair and exhales. It comes to the same thing. You
should have listened. Be the captain of your own ship, Grace.
Sams dead. The simple truth is you have to make a new life
for yourself and Harriet.
Grace flinches at her grandmothers directness, cannot
return her steady gaze. She straightens the diamond wing
brooch in the jewellery case, and runs her finger around the
empty velvet crescent opposite. You can see where the tiara
would have sat
Grace, Margot insists.
I wonder what happened to the rest of it.
I have no idea. Margots expression softens.
They were such clever designs. Grace feels around the
velvet case, finding a seam at the centre. Tiaras were for high
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2
Fraser Stratton lay on the floor of his study with his feet raised
up against the wall. His ankles were crossed, the wide legs of
his ochrecoloured cords hanging loose, revealing a glimpse
of smooth, tanned shins and purple socks above the edge of
his suede Lobb Hilo boots. His right foot tapped in time to
the music hissing from the black headphones clamped over
his collarlength grey hair. The white fur coat he was wear
ing spilled around him like a hearth rug. An Afghan hound
with platinum blonde hair lay beside him, her dark snout
resting on his stomach. Scattered around them were scores of
manuscript pages, crammed with spidery handwriting, some
lifting in the draught from the old French windows, which
rattled in the wind, snow drifting up against them. Fraser
turned his head, searching for the pencil that he had thrown
down in disgust a moment before, and the firelight glinted on
the garnet earrings dangling from his lobes.
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