Page 78 of A Sky Painted Gold

“I saw you together,” I say. “I saw his face. He loves you.”

“Don’t.” Caitlin pulls away. “Don’t talk about that.”

“Why not?” I’m frustrated. “Someone has to. You won’t talk about it, Caitlin, not to me, not to anyone. No one here talks to each other. There are so many secrets.”

Her hands are curled up by her side now, and she paces, agitated. “You have no right to bring Freddy into this.” She sways a little here; just saying his name seems to untether her. “You’re supposed to be my friend. Those things are private.”

“I am your friend,” I say, shocked that she is lashing out like this. “And you can talk to me about this, you should talk to me about this. You can trust me.”

“I can’t talk to you.” Caitlin’s face is empty now. “I can’t talk to anyone. Don’t you understand? I’m Lady Caitlin Cardew. I have to do everything perfectly. I have to look perfect and I have to be bright and gay and throw the perfect party. Those are my jobs. I have to do them perfectly because otherwise none of this means anything. My father died and Robert and I are all that’s left. We have to keep things going as he would want them. I cannot run away and live in some fantasy. I cannot create that kind of scandal.” She is standing taller now, but her voice is hoarse with unshed tears. It hurts just to look at her. “I cannot do that to his memory,” she finishes.

“Caitlin,” I say, and I reach out my hand.

She shakes her head. “You think it’s so easy, Lou,” she says quietly. “You watch us and you write about us in your notebooks and you judge us, but we’re just doing the best we can.”

“Is that what you really think?” I feel a sob rising in my own throat. “I care about you, Caitlin. I care about what is happening to you. I just want you to be happy.”

“I told you once,” Caitlin says, “people can be unhappy anywhere. Now you know it’s really true.” With that she folds her arms around her waist and turns, walking back to the house.

I watch her go for a moment, and my heart is breaking. I feel small and brittle, as though a sturdy breeze could be enough to blow me away, splintered like dandelion seeds on the air. Finally, I turn and walk out on to the causeway. It is time to return to my real life.

This time, I don’t look back.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

After I leave the Cardew House in a daze I find my legs carrying me straight to Alice. She opens the door, clearly ready for round two of our fight, but after one look at my face she sends Jack packing instead and puts the kettle on. I fall into her arms and she holds me while I cry, terrible, hacking, red-faced tears, soothing me and stroking my hair away from my face. I tell her everything, all of it, even about leaving the dress on the beach while I swam (and there is a sharp intake of breath at this point), and she listens calmly, without interrupting, without judging. I tell her about Robert, about the way that he makes me feel, about the kiss, about the way that he looks at me sometimes. I tell her that I don’t understand the choices he is making, that I’m scared that he may not be the person I thought. That I feel like that house is running on some secret set of rules that I don’t understand.

I tell her about the way this summer swept me away into something new and exciting. I talk about my feeling of being adrift, of not knowing what I want to do. I confess to her all of my petty, jealous thoughts and how difficult I found it when she left. I tell her that I know I’m selfish, a monster, but that I don’t think her life is small … not at all. It’s my own life that feels mean and aimless and I don’t know what to do about it.

At the end of all of this Alice sits quietly, sipping her tea. “Well,” she says finally, “I wish you had talked to me about all of this sooner. I know it’s difficult now, but I think you have to realize that something good has come out of this whole experience.”

“Oh, really?” I sniffle. “And what’s that?”

“You saw something, Lou,” she says, leaning forward and squeezing my hand. “You saw something different this summer. Another way. You met people, you went out into the world. You didn’t just watch, you didn’t just follow. You were part of something.”

“I suppose,” I say, wrapping my arms tightly around my stomach as I sit in one of the battered armchairs.

“You went to London,” Alice says, “and you saw all those people, living their lives. You said yourself that the world is a lot bigger than Penlyn. Why are you so intent on keeping yourself here, on shrinking down trying to fit in when you can go anywhere you want?”

“You mean leave?” I say, dazed, and I let Alice’s words sink in. They feel like a balm. Could I ever be brave enough to do such a thing? To make my own way like that? To break away from everything and everyone I know?

“People move to London all the time.” Alice’s voice is soft.

“Not from Penlyn they don’t,” I point out hesitantly. “Especially not girls on their own.”

“No,” she says, and then that familiar dimple appears. “But there’s a first time for everything.”

“But what about Midge and Pa?” I ask. “What about you?”

“Lou, you have to stop worrying. You and I want different things. And that’s OK. They’re all good things, they’re just … different. There’s no one way to be. I’m not the mould you need to fit into. You have to live your own life, and I don’t understand why you would think that I don’t want that for you.”

I launch myself at her, throwing myself into her chair and hugging her tightly. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so, so sorry. I am an idiot.”

“You are,” she says simply. “Now stop squishing the baby.”

“Oh!” I leap back, but Alice is laughing. “Hey,” I say. “This is no laughing matter, that’s my little niece or nephew in there.”