A deep, primal moan started in her empty belly and rose up through her raw throat and clenched jaw as she fought to haul her trembling muscles off the bed.
‘Harriet, you need to rest.’ A dim plea, ignored, irrelevant.
Where is my baby?
‘Harriet.’ Firmer now, as strong hands pressed her back against the pillow. ‘We understand this is difficult, but your father has explained the situation. The baby is safe and well. You must let us take care of them.’
Where is my baby?
Then the doctor, and a jab in her flailing arm, and her mind took her to another place.
Her baby was not in that place, either.
Where have you taken my baby?
* * *
Eight weeks later, the empty husk that was once Harriet Langford enrolled at Madam Bourton’s School for Young Ladies on the edge of the Peak District. For the first month, she drifted between classrooms, the dormitory and dining hall. Not that she managed to eat more than a measly mouthful or two. She found the best place to cry was in the bath, where she pressed aching cheeks onto her knees and, for a precious few minutes, allowed the pain to trickle out. She did the minimum amount of work needed to avoid getting into trouble in lessons, pretending to pay attention despite finding it impossible to care about century-old battles or trigonometry. The initial curiosity that a new face generated soon ebbed into lack of interest when she either deflected or outright ignored the other girls’ attempts to be friendly.
Having spent the past few years in survival mode, Harriet knew that all she needed to do was keep on getting up every morning and putting on the mask of neutrality. Turn up when she needed to be somewhere and find somewhere to be alone when she didn’t. Breathe. Eat. Lie awake at night, staring at the crack in the ceiling and praying that when she eventually slumped into sleep, she’d get a precious few moments to dream about her baby.
When her meek behaviour earned her the right to visit the local town on Saturdays, she spent them scouring the microfiche in the library, poring over old newspapers for reports on post office robberies, but there was nothing.
She swapped one of her necklaces for a stamp, sending a letter to the Hunters’ address explaining where she was. She didn’t mention the baby for fear that someone else in that crowded cottage would open it, but hopefully, Aidan would read it and know that she still loved him.
Would he come for her, even though their baby had gone? Or at least write back?
Still she waited.
Still nothing.
As the autumn faded into winter, she gradually learned to push the pain of her loss deep down inside her. She knew that it was the only way to survive.
Did she long for her baby? With an ache that seared through every nerve in her body.
Did she think about Aidan? Every day.
But she also began to think about painting again, in Madam Bourton’s incredible art rooms. When December arrived, she started spending time with the other girls on her corridor, listening to the top forty countdown on the radio as they decorated their bedrooms, backcombing each other’s hair into giant puffballs and flouncing into town to buy hot chocolates and flirt with the local boys.
Even better, she received a last-minute invitation to spend Christmas at her friend Camilla’s house in London. Here, she discovered that wine, weed and reckless spontaneity could dim the pain to a tolerable background hum. This blissful self-medication carried her through the rest of the school year, including final exams, then on to a fine art degree at art college in Canterbury.
That was when she met Peter.
25
It took me a moment to recognise Deirdre when I opened the front door on Thursday evening.
‘Wow.’
‘Kalani did it. I can’t pull off Lizzie’s badass look but wanted to show Hattie that I’m serious about the job. Is it okay, or has she made me ridiculous?’
‘Okay?’ I ushered her into the hallway. ‘You look incredible.’
Deirdre’s spray tan had mercifully faded, and the gold highlights added to her thick, wavy hair went perfectly with her outfit. She wore a loose-fitting jacket and trousers covered in Van Gogh sunflower print, with a cerise blouse and a pair of white trainers.
‘Is the bag too much?’ She held out a Hattie Hood satchel printed with squirrels. ‘If it comes across as grovelly, I’ll leave it here.’
‘Okay, so firstly, this is Hattie. She’s never going to mind someone flaunting her designs. And secondly, this is Hattie. One of your best friends. You’re going to have to seriously mess this up to not get the job that is basically already yours. Hattie’s number one priority right now is someone she can trust.’
