The Girl in the Picture. Kerry Barrett

he have a temper, your husband?’ he asked, pushing gently on her lower belly. Frances winced but said nothing. Shame flooded her.

      ‘You must be more careful,’ the doctor said. ‘He’s a busy man. An important man. Don’t anger him.’

      And with that, Frances knew she was alone. Which was why she’d come up with her plan. As soon as she’d realized she was expecting again she knew she had to get away. Edwin had gone from regarding her with a kind of benign disinterest when they were first married to vicious contempt and she knew if he realized she was pregnant – and desperate to be a mother – he’d punish her. As far as she knew he had no strong feelings either way about becoming a father but if he realized motherhood would make Frances happy, he’d take it away from her. Just to be cruel.

      She was keeping money aside, squirrelling it away from the housekeeping and hiding it under a loose floorboard she’d found in her dressing room when they moved in. She’d been saving for years, if truth be told. She’d started putting some coins away almost as soon as she and Edwin had married. She knew from the start what sort of man he was, but her father was determined to see them wed and Frances couldn’t disagree.

      Since her father’s death, and since Edwin took over the family law firm started by Frances’s grandfather – the one he’d always had his eye on and the one, Frances thought, that had sealed her fate as his bride before he’d even met her – he’d felt no need to keep his true nature hidden any longer.

      When they’d moved and she realized her nausea each morning was because she was pregnant again, she’d started working out a proper plan. As much as she wanted this baby fiercely, she felt the same passionate determination that Edwin would never know his son or daughter. She needed to get away – and that was what was driving her now. She thought she’d stay as long as she could, loosening her corset as much as she was able before her condition was obvious, and then she’d act. It was good to have everything in place before she went, because she couldn’t afford for anything to go wrong.

      After talking to some of the people in the village, she’d decided what to do; though it seemed drastic she wanted to be sure Edwin couldn’t – or wouldn’t – try to find her. So, she planned to take some clothes to the beach and leave them by the rocks. Maybe throw a hat into the waves and hope it washed up in the right place, or snag a piece of a gown onto a sharp stone. There was a nasty current in the sea, which had claimed the lives of many people over the years – she could easily be washed into the water as others had before. If she were lucky, she’d just become one more sad story of an unfortunate walker.

      She planned to hide her suitcase behind the rocks in advance, and after setting the scene carefully, she’d change into simple clothes, the clothes of a maid or a governess, tuck her hair into a hat, and walk to the station. She was unremarkable in looks; she knew that. Plain, her grandmother had always said. Years ago, that made her think she was worthless, but now she thought the fact that no one glanced at her twice could save her life.

      Once she was on the train, she’d change again, in case anyone remembered her cloak or hat, simple as they were. And she’d travel as far as she could afford. North, of course – you couldn’t go south from Sussex and stay in England, and she couldn’t speak French. She hadn’t thought much further than that yet. All she cared about was getting away from here.

      She went out on to the landing and looked down at the beach once more. Edwin was sitting closer to the girl now, and as she watched, he put his hand over hers. Frances allowed herself a brief fantasy where Edwin ran away with this girl and let her, Frances, be. But she knew that would never happen.

      A shaft of sunlight lit up the girl’s face and Frances realized she was even younger than she’d thought. Eighteen perhaps. No older. The same age Frances had been when Edwin had pursued her. Perhaps it was the baby in her belly making her feel this way, but she suddenly felt a wave of fierce maternal protectiveness towards this girl with her loose skirts and messy red hair. She couldn’t – wouldn’t – let Edwin hurt her as well.

Chapter 7

      Present day

      Ella

      As it turned out, the mere whiff of a mystery was all it took to help me start feeling at home in Sussex. Even a whole twenty-four hours without furniture (‘satnav,’ said the removal men vaguely when Ben quizzed them about where they’d been) didn’t bother me too much, unless you counted the crick in my neck from sleeping on the floor.

      While the removal guys unpacked everything, I played in the garden with the boys, mentally checking for hidden dangers. It didn’t take me long to find one. At the bottom of our garden was a gate, which led on to a sandy path. The path snaked along the top of the cliff a short way, then plunged steeply down to the beach. I stood and looked with an appraising eye. The fence at the end of our garden was sturdy enough but the wooden gate was shut with only a latch. A latch that could easily be opened by a small, curious boy.

      ‘Padlock,’ I said, clapping my hands. ‘Come on, boys. Let’s go and explore the village.’

      Heron Green wasn’t a large village, but it was well equipped. We passed one pub and I knew there was another, at the far end near the boys’ school. There was a small Tesco, a little bakery with a café area, a newsagent and – thankfully – a hardware shop. Outside there was a selection of brushes and brooms hanging up, and lots of different-sized dustbins.

      ‘Let’s try here,’ I said to the boys, taking Stan’s hand.

      Inside it was bright and cheery with well-ordered shelves and several customers browsing. I looked round and decided I’d be much better off going straight to the counter, where an older man stood chatting to a slightly younger man who was buying a huge bag of nails. The older man had greying hair, and he wore a checked shirt with a pair of glasses in the top pocket – even though he had another pair perched on the end of his nose. He reminded me so much of my dad that my heart ached for a moment.

      ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ he asked Oscar, leaning over the counter.

      I flashed him a smile and watched as my son put on his most serious face.

      ‘We need a padlock for the gate at the bottom of the garden,’ he said. ‘To stop me and Stan being monkeys and going to the beach without Mummy.’

      The man nodded. ‘Very sensible,’ he said. He reached behind him and took a lock from the shelf. ‘This is what you need, young man. It’s £9.99.’

      He held out his hand and Oscar looked alarmed. ‘Mummy does the paying,’ he said.

      I laughed. ‘I certainly do.’

      The man rang the purchase into the till, and the younger man, who was still choosing between bags of nails, looked at me.

      ‘Just moved into the cliff house?’ he asked.

      I nodded, handing the shopkeeper a ten-pound note.

      ‘Think so,’ I said. ‘It’s the house on the cliff, anyway. We just call it number 10.’

      He smiled. ‘How do you find it?’

      ‘It’s great,’ I said. ‘Perfect.’

      The shopkeeper handed me my receipt and gave Oscar the penny change.

      ‘Me too,’ said Stan.

      The man grinned, opened the till again, and gave him a penny too.

      ‘Fanks,’ said Stan in his best North London accent.

      ‘But?’ said the younger man, exchanging a look with the shopkeeper.

      I turned my attention back to him, blinking in surprise. ‘But?’

      ‘It sounded like there was a but coming,’ he said. ‘Perfect, but …’

      I wondered how long these men had lived in the village and if they knew anything about the history of our house.