Play & Book Excerpts
The Woman in the Lake
(Graydon House)
© 2019 by Nicola Cornick
In the drawing room the differences were even more marked. There was a fire burning fiercely in the grate even though here the shutters were thrown back and the room was in full sunlight. It was so hot and airless that Fen felt the sweat spring on the back of her neck and trickle uncomfortably beneath her collar. The whole house was as quiet as a sepulcher. It was uncanny.
Over the high back of one chair, shimmering in the light with a soft, golden glow was the most beautiful dress Fen had ever seen. She stared at it. It felt almost impossible to tear her gaze away. She did not even realize that she had started to move towards it; her hand was on the material and it felt soft as clouds, lighter than air, a trail of silver and gold spangled with stars.
“Pound? Where the hell are you, man?”
Fen had not seen the figure sitting before the window, almost hidden by the high curved back of a wing chair. She jumped at the crack of his voice and spun around. He was fair, florid, dressed in a wig and badly fitting jacket with some sort of scarf wound carelessly about his neck and a waistcoat flapping open. He looked bad-tempered and drunk. Fen was only thirteen, but she knew an alcoholic when she saw one. She could smell the fumes on him from where she was standing. Nevertheless she opened her mouth to apologize. He was probably a reenactor or some sort or a room steward, although really it didn’t seem appropriate to have drunks in costume wandering about the place.
“I got lost—” Quick, facile lies came easily to Fen; they were her survival tactics. But the drunk wasn’t looking at her, more over her shoulder towards doorway.
“Pound!” the man roared. “Damn you, get in here now and pour me more wine!”
There was a bottle on the table, Fen saw, cruelly placed either by accident or design just out of his reach. He lurched forward and almost fell from the chair, clutching at the sides to steady himself. She saw his face clearly then, the vicious lines drawn deep about the mouth, the pain and frustration and anger in the eyes. Panic seized her. She wondered if she had unwittingly stumbled into some sort of performance put on for the visitors. Yet that didn’t feel right. There was no audience apart from her and the intensity of the man’s fury and desolation seemed all too visceral. She needed to get out of there.
“Take me…”
The golden gown seemed to call to her. She felt the allure of it and was helpless to resist. The impulse was so strong and so sudden that she reacted instinctively. She grabbed the gown and ran, fumbling to push it into her rucksack, her feet slipping and sliding on the wooden floor. She was panting, her heart thumping, and she stopped only when she burst through the doorway into the hall and saw the startled faces of staff and visitors turned in her direction.
“Fenella Brightwell?”
A woman with iron-gray hair and an iron demeanor, a museum piece herself, marched up to her.
“Yes,” Fen said. Her mind was still grappling with what she had seen, with the violence and the anger. Were they making a film? How embarrassing if she had accidentally wandered on to the set mid-performance. She would never live that down. Everyone would be laughing at her. No doubt the iron woman was about to tell her off.
“We’ve been looking for you everywhere,” the woman said. Her gray eyes snapped with irritation. “The rest of your group have gone back to the coach. If you run, you might catch them.”
“What? Oh, thank you.” Fen dragged her mind from the scene in the drawing room and the old man. There had been something pathetic about his impotent desperation.
“Excuse me,” she said, very politely, “but is there some sort of film being made in the drawing room? Only there was an old man sitting in a chair by the window and I thought—”
“It’s forbidden to sit on the furniture,” the woman said. “How many times do I have to tell people?” And she stalked off towards the drawing room.
Fen hoisted her rucksack on to her shoulder and went outside. It was a relief to be out in the fresh air. There had been something smothering about the room and its occupant, brimful of his anger and misery.
She started to walk up the wide gravel path through the woods. She had no intention of running all the way back to the car park. The coach wouldn’t go without her. The teachers would get into too much trouble if they did.
She looked back at the house. There were visitors milling around in the drawing room. She could see them through the glass of the sash windows. The chair looking out over the gardens was empty. It was odd that the drunk had disappeared, but perhaps the iron-gray woman had thrown him out already. He was probably homeless or something. She had more pressing things to think about anyway, such as the need for a plausible excuse for where she had been so that the teachers didn’t get cross with her.
“You got locked in the lavatory!” Miss French said, eyes lighting up with amusement, as Fen clambered aboard the coach and made her apologies. “Oh, Fenella! Only you!”
Even harassed Miss Littlejohn relaxed into a smile. Mr. Cash didn’t; he looked hot and annoyed and had been searching the gardens for her. He didn’t look as though he believed her either, but Fen didn’t care.
“I looked for you everywhere,” Jessie whispered, as Fen slid into the seat next to her. “How did you get out?”
“They had to break the door in,” Fen said. “The lock had jammed. They sent for a carpenter.” She smiled. “He was cute.”
“Fen was rescued by a cute carpenter,” Jessie said, giggling, to Kesia, who was sitting across the aisle. Word went around the coach. Soon everyone was hanging over the back of the seats or crowding the aisle, wanting to know what her rescuer had looked like.
“Sit down, girls,” Mr. Cash snapped. “You’re a health and safety hazard.”
There was more giggling at that.
Over the high back of one chair, shimmering in the light with a soft, golden glow was the most beautiful dress Fen had ever seen. She stared at it. It felt almost impossible to tear her gaze away. She did not even realize that she had started to move towards it; her hand was on the material and it felt soft as clouds, lighter than air, a trail of silver and gold spangled with stars.
“Pound? Where the hell are you, man?”
Fen had not seen the figure sitting before the window, almost hidden by the high curved back of a wing chair. She jumped at the crack of his voice and spun around. He was fair, florid, dressed in a wig and badly fitting jacket with some sort of scarf wound carelessly about his neck and a waistcoat flapping open. He looked bad-tempered and drunk. Fen was only thirteen, but she knew an alcoholic when she saw one. She could smell the fumes on him from where she was standing. Nevertheless she opened her mouth to apologize. He was probably a reenactor or some sort or a room steward, although really it didn’t seem appropriate to have drunks in costume wandering about the place.
“I got lost—” Quick, facile lies came easily to Fen; they were her survival tactics. But the drunk wasn’t looking at her, more over her shoulder towards doorway.
“Pound!” the man roared. “Damn you, get in here now and pour me more wine!”
There was a bottle on the table, Fen saw, cruelly placed either by accident or design just out of his reach. He lurched forward and almost fell from the chair, clutching at the sides to steady himself. She saw his face clearly then, the vicious lines drawn deep about the mouth, the pain and frustration and anger in the eyes. Panic seized her. She wondered if she had unwittingly stumbled into some sort of performance put on for the visitors. Yet that didn’t feel right. There was no audience apart from her and the intensity of the man’s fury and desolation seemed all too visceral. She needed to get out of there.
“Take me…”
The golden gown seemed to call to her. She felt the allure of it and was helpless to resist. The impulse was so strong and so sudden that she reacted instinctively. She grabbed the gown and ran, fumbling to push it into her rucksack, her feet slipping and sliding on the wooden floor. She was panting, her heart thumping, and she stopped only when she burst through the doorway into the hall and saw the startled faces of staff and visitors turned in her direction.
“Fenella Brightwell?”
A woman with iron-gray hair and an iron demeanor, a museum piece herself, marched up to her.
“Yes,” Fen said. Her mind was still grappling with what she had seen, with the violence and the anger. Were they making a film? How embarrassing if she had accidentally wandered on to the set mid-performance. She would never live that down. Everyone would be laughing at her. No doubt the iron woman was about to tell her off.
“We’ve been looking for you everywhere,” the woman said. Her gray eyes snapped with irritation. “The rest of your group have gone back to the coach. If you run, you might catch them.”
“What? Oh, thank you.” Fen dragged her mind from the scene in the drawing room and the old man. There had been something pathetic about his impotent desperation.
“Excuse me,” she said, very politely, “but is there some sort of film being made in the drawing room? Only there was an old man sitting in a chair by the window and I thought—”
“It’s forbidden to sit on the furniture,” the woman said. “How many times do I have to tell people?” And she stalked off towards the drawing room.
Fen hoisted her rucksack on to her shoulder and went outside. It was a relief to be out in the fresh air. There had been something smothering about the room and its occupant, brimful of his anger and misery.
She started to walk up the wide gravel path through the woods. She had no intention of running all the way back to the car park. The coach wouldn’t go without her. The teachers would get into too much trouble if they did.
She looked back at the house. There were visitors milling around in the drawing room. She could see them through the glass of the sash windows. The chair looking out over the gardens was empty. It was odd that the drunk had disappeared, but perhaps the iron-gray woman had thrown him out already. He was probably homeless or something. She had more pressing things to think about anyway, such as the need for a plausible excuse for where she had been so that the teachers didn’t get cross with her.
“You got locked in the lavatory!” Miss French said, eyes lighting up with amusement, as Fen clambered aboard the coach and made her apologies. “Oh, Fenella! Only you!”
Even harassed Miss Littlejohn relaxed into a smile. Mr. Cash didn’t; he looked hot and annoyed and had been searching the gardens for her. He didn’t look as though he believed her either, but Fen didn’t care.
“I looked for you everywhere,” Jessie whispered, as Fen slid into the seat next to her. “How did you get out?”
“They had to break the door in,” Fen said. “The lock had jammed. They sent for a carpenter.” She smiled. “He was cute.”
“Fen was rescued by a cute carpenter,” Jessie said, giggling, to Kesia, who was sitting across the aisle. Word went around the coach. Soon everyone was hanging over the back of the seats or crowding the aisle, wanting to know what her rescuer had looked like.
“Sit down, girls,” Mr. Cash snapped. “You’re a health and safety hazard.”
There was more giggling at that.
Photo Credit: Andrew Cornick
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Nicola Cornick is a writer and historian who was born and brought up in northern England. She developed a passion for history at an early age and nurtured it through reading and watching BBC costume dramas with her grandmother. Nicola studied medieval history and graduated from London University with an honors degree. For many years, she worked in academia, until she gave it all up to be a full-time author. Later, she returned to college in Oxford to pursue a master’s degree in history.
Since the publication of her first Regency romance by Harlequin Mills & Boon in 1998, Nicola has become an international and award-winning bestseller. She now writes dual timeframe novels inspired by the history and legends of her local area. Nicola also works as a guide and historian for the National Trust at the beautiful seventeenth century hunting lodge, Ashdown House. She gives talks on various aspects of her historical research and is a former Wiltshire Libraries Writer in Residence and trustee of the Wantage Literary Festival. Nicola is the current chair of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and a member of the Society of Authors. |
