Snow Going Back

Chapter 12

TWELVE

After trudging back upstairs, Kate decided to call it a night. She blew her nose and sat down on the bed, reaching for the cold medicine and taking another swig of the potent syrup straight from the bottle. Something Eleanor would have been mortified to see her doing.

As she placed it back on the bedside table, Kate accidentally knocked her pen off the edge, and it rolled under the bed. With a tut, she kneeled down and lifted the frilly valance, peering into the darkness underneath. She squinted as her eyes adjusted, then her expression suddenly brightened. ‘Now that is exactly what I need.’

Kate picked up the pen, then pulled out the big box behind it. A box that was helpfully marked Cora’s Diaries. She crossed her legs and placed it in front of her, her tiredness forgotten, then she pulled off the lid and cast her eye over the contents. Inside were a number of diaries in varying shapes and sizes. Some were hardback, some leather. There were patterned ones and plain, old and new. An old worn diary right at the bottom caught her eye, and she picked it up, running her hand gently over the intricate pattern embossed on the soft leather. She paused as her thumb reached the initials in the corner: CD. If this was Cora’s, it had to have been from before she was married.

She opened the cover and saw that she was right. Just inside, in neat, old-fashioned cursive was the name Cora Dawson, alongside the year 1955.

Kate glanced back at the other diaries in the box. She needed a more recent one, to glean any information about Cora’s relationship with the three vultures now circling. But eying the diary in her hand, she hesitated, feeling strangely curious. After a few seconds of deliberation, she decided to indulge her curiosity and stood up, taking the diary with her into bed.

She shuffled down under the covers, propped herself half up with pillows and turned to the first page. The first few lines immediately caught her interest, and by the end of the first paragraph, Kate was fully engrossed.

1 January 1955

It is with a deeply troubled, painfully conflicted and yet thoroughly alive heart that I walk into this new year. I cannot bring myself to complain about my predicament, because that would mean I wish not to be in it. And that is something I could never wish. For to be without these troubles would also mean to be without the feeling that has awakened my soul from the dreamless sleepwalk it existed in before. The feeling that lights every dark corner of my being like a hundred flares all fired at once. The feeling we all think we know, until the moment we really do. The feeling of love.

I have never had reason to write with caution before, and I withhold nothing for myself now, for I am not ashamed of my feelings or opinions. But for the sake of another, whom I hope to protect should this fall into the wrong hands and be read by an unsympathetic party, I shall, from here on, refer to all outside of my household by one initial only.

Kate’s eyes sparkled with intrigue, and she turned the page.

We attended the party at the manor last night to see in the new year, and, as usual, W’s father spared no expense. It was a grand affair, with music and dancing and champagne. Mother disapproves of alcohol, so she did not partake in the drinking of the champagne, nor would she approve of me doing so. But after a particularly energetic dance with W, we retired to the library to cool down, and he brought along two glasses. I should perhaps have declined, but I decided that, as I only have one life, and as W is a good friend whom I trust to keep a secret, I would go ahead and try it. It turns out that it is rather delicious. I wouldn’t mind drinking it again, should the opportunity arise. I said as much to W, who said he would make sure that it did.

W must be William, Kate realised. She grinned at young Cora’s idea of rebellion. A glass of champagne among family friends was a far cry from the cheap beer on park benches that her generation had cut their teeth on as teenagers.

There was a sudden noise downstairs, a dull clang, that cut through her thoughts. Having grown up in an old house, Kate initially ignored it. Old houses made all sorts of noises.

The second sound made her pause. This time it was a bang, like something hard knocking onto something else. She turned to the door with a small frown. The third noise was a scrape, and this time Kate sat bolt upright, her face draining of colour. These weren’t just the sounds of old floorboards and pipes.

Someone was in the house .