The Whispering House
the
whispering
house
ELIZABETH BROOKS
With love for my husband, Chris
CONTENTS
Part One
Freya: August–September 2014
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part Two
Stella: October 2009
Freya: September–October 2014
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part Three
Stella: October 2009
Freya: October–November 2014
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Stella: October 2009
Freya: January 2015
Acknowledgments
Reader’s Guide
PART ONE
FREYA
August–September 2014
1
I’d never have set eyes on the place if my cousin hadn’t held his wedding reception on the grounds. His fiancée had grown up locally, and once she’d discovered it was possible to hire a canopy in the gardens at Byrne Hall, nothing else would do. You can’t blame her. Objectively speaking, it was an idyllic spot for a wedding reception: all those lush, towering trees, the garden in full-scented flower, and the sea spread out below the cliffs like a sheet of hammered gold. If I were the kind of woman who fantasised about getting married, I’d want a wedding like that.
“You look lovely,” my father said, studying our reflections in the pond. “A real picture.”
“A picture of what, though?” I was doing my best to make light of the whole thing. “A picture of misery?”
But Dad wasn’t going to fall in with my tone. “You look very nice,” he insisted gravely.
One of the bride’s hearty uncles had told me off for having a long face—that was all. It wasn’t a big deal. “Cheer up, love,” he’d said, as we were queuing for drinks. “You’re meant to be a bridesmaid, not an undertaker’s mute.”
I don’t think he was trying to be horrible. He clapped me on the shoulder as he said it, and handed me a glass of prosecco, but Dad had overheard and steered me away, and we’d ended up here, by the pond. It wasn’t the nicest part of the garden, which is probably why it was deserted. The water flickered with midges and smelled of mud, and there was a stone fountain in the middle—a fat boy blowing on a conch shell—that had gone all black and mossy, and looked as if it hadn’t functioned in years.
“Bastard,” said my father, and I laughed despite everything, because he wasn’t one for profanities, not even mild ones. He was too scholarly sounding and well-spoken to carry it off. I took his arm and gave it a squeeze, but he still wouldn’t smile, so I decided to stop trying and accept that this day was a write-off as far as we two were concerned. I watched our silhouettes waver over the water, brownish green against the glaring sky. My dress, an “A-line, scoop-neck, floor-length chiffon bridesmaid’s gown in Pale Sage,” had looked so airy in the bridal catalogue, but I wasn’t keen on the real thing. Not on me, anyway. It seemed heavier now than it had this morning, and the skirt was damp and wilting round my legs.