The Hidden Years Read Online Free PDF Page B

decorating it had carved in the wood the faces of her childhood
pets. A lot of care had gone into its design and execution; to anyone
else the bed would have been a gift of great love, but she had seen it
merely as the execution of what her mother conceived to be her duty.
Her
daughter was eighteen and of age, and therefore she must have a gift
commensurate with such an occasion.
    In the adjoining bathroom, with its plain white suite and
dignified Edwardian appearance, Sage washed her hands and checked her
make-up. Her lipstick needed renewing, and her hair brushing.
    She smiled mirthlessly at herself as she did
so… Still putting off the evil hour… why? What
was there after all to fear… to reveal…? She
already knew the story of her mother's life as
everyone
locally knew it. It was as blameless and praiseworthy as that of any
saint.
    Her mother had come to this house as a young bride, with a
husband already seriously ill, his health destroyed by the war. They
had met when her mother worked as a nursing aide, fallen in love and
married and come to live here at Cottingdean, the estate her father had
inherited from a cousin.
    Everyone knew her mother had arrived here when she was
eighteen to discover that the estate her husband had drawn for her in
such glowing colours—the colours of his own
childhood—had become a derelict eyesore.
    Everyone knew how her mother had worked to restore it to
what it had once been. How she had had the foresight and the drive to
start the selective breeding programme with the estate's small flock of
sheep that was to produce the very special fleece of high-quality wool.
    But how her mother had had the vision to know that there
would come a time when such wool was in high demand, how she had had
the vision to persuade her husband to allow her to experiment with the
production of that wool, let alone the run-down mill, Sage realised she
had no idea, and with that knowledge came the first stirrings of
curiosity.
    Everyone knew of the prosperity her mother had brought to
the village, of the new life she had breathed into Cottingdean.
Everyone knew of the joys and sorrows of her life; of the way she had
fought to keep her husband alive, of the cherished son she had borne
and lost, of the recalcitrant and troublesome daughter she was
herself…
    No, there were no real secrets in her mother's life. No
reason why she herself should experience this tension… this
dread… this fear almost that made her so reluctant to walk
into the library and unlock the desk.
    And yet it had to be done. She had given her word, her
promise. Sighing faintly, Sage went back downstairs. She hesitated
outside the library door for a second and then lifted the latch and
went in.
    The fire was burning brightly in the grate and someone,
Jenny, no doubt, had thoughtfully brought in a fresh tray of coffee.
    As she closed the door behind her, Sage remembered how as
a child this room had been out of bounds to her. It had been her
father's sanctuary; from here he had been able to sit in his wheelchair
and look out across the gardens.
    He and her mother had spent their evenings in
here… Stop it, Sage told herself. You're not here to dwell
on the past. You're here to read about it.
    She surprised herself by the momentary hope that the key
would refuse to unlock the drawers, but, of course, it did. They were
heavy and old, and slid surprisingly easily on their wooden runners. A
faint musty scent of herbs and her mother's perfume drifted up towards
her as she opened them.
    She could see the diaries now; far more of them than she
had imagined, all of them methodically numbered and dated, as though
her mother had always known that there would come a time, as though she
had deliberately planned…
    But
why
! Sage wondered as she
reached tensely into the drawer and removed the first diary.
    She found her hands were shaking as she opened it, the
words blurring as she tried to focus on them. She didn't want to do
this… could not do