Butterfly Island Read online

  ALSO BY CORINA BOMANN

  The Moonlit Garden

  Storm Rose

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2012 Corina Bomann & Ullstein Buchverlag GmbH

  Translation copyright © 2017 Alison Layland

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published as Die Schmetterlingsinsel by Ullstein Buchverlag GmbH in Germany in 2012. Translated from German by Alison Layland. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2017.

  Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477819951

  ISBN-10: 1477819959

  Cover design by M.S. Corley

  Contents

  Start Reading

  Prologue

  BOOK ONE The Secret

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  BOOK TWO The Butterfly Island

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  February 15th, 1888

  Dearest Grace,

  I don’t know whether you have forgiven me yet. I can only assume you haven’t. But I simply have to write to you nevertheless.

  In my mind’s eye, you’re sitting at the window of your room, looking out over the mist-shrouded park and struggling to come to terms with the way things have turned out. I don’t blame you, and I can only say that I’m sorry from the bottom of my heart.

  Things have changed here since you’ve been away. I miss you so much! Papa does, too, even though he’d never admit it. He vanishes for hours on end in his study, refusing to speak to anyone. Mother is afraid he’s going to seed. (You know how she can exaggerate!)

  As for her, she’s immersed herself in a frenzy of activity, organising a party to lift Papa’s spirits. In truth, she only wants to know how far-reaching the effects of the scandal are.

  Maybe you’re smiling bitterly at this, if you’re reading this letter at all and haven’t consigned it to the flames of the fire. I hope with all my heart that you will give me a chance because I have news for you that may give you hope.

  Shortly after you left, he appeared outside my window and told me that he would be coming to find you soon. As a pledge of his intention, he gave me something that I should keep for you, since he no longer has a proper house.

  I’m sure he’ll come like a fairy-tale hero and whisk you away from the old ruin, and you’ll both live happily ever after.

  Dear sister, I promise that I will always be there for you and yours, whatever happens. Should you fall on hard times, my door will be open for you—I owe it to you all.

  Yours most affectionately,

  Victoria

  Prologue

  Tremayne House, 1945

  The young woman arrived at the manor house on a rainy October afternoon. Mist shrouded the park, making the weeping willows, their branches shedding tears of rain, appear more inconsolable than ever. Wind-blown autumn leaves were strewn across the once well-tended paths, littering lawns that had not been mowed for an eternity.

  Ignoring the tense, emaciated face of her reflection, the stranger peered through a pane of the front door. She had rung the bell twice, but there was no one to be seen, although the people inside the house could clearly be heard. Their frenzied activity kept them from answering the door.

  After pressing the bell a third time in vain, she was about to turn and leave when she heard footsteps, closely followed by the appearance of a woman in a maid’s uniform in the doorway. She wore a name badge announcing her as “Linda.” With a stern eye she inspected the newcomer, who looked like many women on whom the war had taken its toll. Matted hair, pale cheeks, and blue shadows under her eyes were evidence of hunger and deprivation. Large work shoes, a few sizes too big for her, gaped at the sides.

  The slight swell of her belly showed beneath her dirty clothes and tattered trench coat.

  “Sorry, we’re full,” Linda muttered coolly.

  On hearing this, the pale figure handed her a worn, dirt-smeared envelope.

  “Please will you give this to the lady of the house?” Her words sounded wooden; she was not used to speaking English.

  There was a determination in her request that did not befit someone who had come to terms with a life on the streets. Linda looked critically at the stranger, who did not withdraw her request, but instead returned the maid’s gaze with a certain defiance until Linda eventually accepted the envelope.

  “One moment, please.”

  One moment stretched to many, but the woman remained standing outside the door as though turned to stone. She did not shuffle from one foot to the other, nor did she sit down, even though the low stone banister gave her the opportunity. She merely stroked her stomach gently, cherishing the valuable treasure it concealed. The child growing inside her was worth every hardship, all the humiliation, she had to suffer.

  Instead of the maid, two women appeared, one who seemed to be around fifty with light-brown hair, and another of about the newcomer’s own age with strawberry-blonde hair. Although the war had also demanded sacrifices of them, they seemed to be faring relatively well, judging by their healthy complexions and rounded features.

  “Are you Beatrice? Beatrice Jungblut?”

  The woman nodded. “Yes. Helena’s daughter. You’re the Stanwicks, I believe?”

  “I’m Daphne Stanwick, and this is my daughter, Emily Woodhouse,” the older of the two women replied. Her daughter was the spitting image of her.

  Beatrice nodded awkwardly, sensing she was unwelcome here. She had no other options. She was not worried about her own life, since she had recently been exposed to danger so many times that death had lost its terror for her. But the child should have the opportunity to see the sun and enjoy the peace that had reigned for a few months now.

  The ladies of the house exchanged meaningful glances. Daphne asked, “Where’s Helena?”

  “She died in an air raid, like my husband,” the woman replied.

  “What happened to you?” Emily asked. She frowned in consternation at her mother, whose expression remained inscrutable.

  “I found a place to hide.” She placed her hands on her belly protectively. “My mother told me that if something happened to her I should turn to you.”

  The two women looked at one another again.

  “Do you have papers to prove your identity?” Daphne asked.

  Beatrice shook her head. “They were destroyed by fire when we were shot at by low-flying aircraft.”

  That’s it, she thought. Now they’ll send me away. Why on earth should they trust me, after all? It’s all meaningless; the letter I’ve given them is nothing more than an emp
ty promise that’s long since been forgotten.

  “Well, you’d better come in for now, and we can talk.”

  The pregnant woman was met by the smell of carbolic soap and death as she followed the two ladies of the house down a long corridor. There was obviously insufficient medication and disinfectant to deal with festering wounds.

  “We’ve had a makeshift hospital here in the house for a good three years now,” Emily explained, clearly attempting to fill the awkward silence. “The rooms are all bursting at the seams. Please don’t take offence at Linda for wanting to send you away. We’ve been overrun with starving people returning from the war.”

  Beatrice gazed down in embarrassment at her dirty shoes.

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “We’re managing,” Emily said kindly, and laid a hand on Beatrice’s shoulder. “You’ve come to the right place here.”

  These words made Beatrice feel dizzy. Was there really a right place for her and her child? The place she had called home was a ruin, sunk in a mire of blood.

  Although the kitchen was large, there was an obvious lack of space, as every spare inch of the floor was covered with chests, cupboards, and other furniture.

  “Dreadful conditions, but you get used to it.” Daphne sighed as she took three teacups from a shelf. “I used to have staff to do this, but the war takes away not only one’s freedom, but also all one’s privileges. Now we eat at the same table as our servants, who don’t actually work for us any more.”

  Beatrice remembered vaguely that her own family had also once employed a maid. The memory of her house, her room, and the clothes she had once worn had been so thickly overlaid with the suffering she had experienced that she could scarcely recall what her life had been like back then, before the madness took over.

  “Who was the woman who came to the door?” Beatrice asked as she sank slowly on to the chair that was offered to her.

  “Linda is my maid, but only wears her uniform for form’s sake, since she’s needed in the hospital. My daughter and I also help out there to the best of our ability.”

  Daphne lowered her gaze to Beatrice’s stomach.

  “I could help, too,” Beatrice offered, but her aunt shook her head.

  “You’d be best off helping in the kitchen, not with the sick. You’d be at risk of losing your baby if you came into contact with any kind of germs.”

  The unreasonably sharp tone in her voice made Beatrice shrink back from her as her doubts returned. The fact that she’s allowed you to sit with them in a kitchen full of clutter in no way means that you’re accepted as part of the family.

  Daphne was about to speak further, but was interrupted as the kettle on the stove emitted a piercing whistle. She got up and made a pot of tea. The leafy scent had a calming effect on Beatrice. She had always found it soothing, and in the refugee camp where she had found herself after crossing the Oder, the smell of tea reminded her of home. For a moment she felt as though she could wish herself back home, in her grandmother Grace’s rose garden and the small greenhouse where she had tried to cultivate exotic flowers. Her grandmother would sometimes sit in there for hours, absently gazing at a frangipani bush with a small piece of paper in her hand that her mother had always claimed was a horoscope.

  “This is a wretched Assam, but unfortunately it’s all we have.” Daphne’s voice tore Beatrice from her thoughts. A teacup was placed in front of her. The discoloration from the tea had brought out the fine cracks in the glaze, like veins running down the inside of the cup.

  Assam, Darjeeling, Ceylon. In her mind’s eye she saw the neat labels on the containers in her grandmother’s kitchen. She had lovingly inscribed the letters on squares of paper and decorated them with little vignettes showing stylised tea leaves and flowers. They would now all be reduced to rubble, just like the sea captain’s house on the Baltic coast, the garden, and the greenhouse.

  The women sat over their tea in silence, each sunk in her own thoughts. Daphne seemed to be staring into space as though she were looking for something, while Emily was lost in contemplation of Beatrice, who pretended not to see her as she was engrossed in her memories of her grandmother.

  It’s strange that she’s the one I’m seeing now, not Mother, Beatrice thought as she traced the lines on the imagined face, allowing her gaze to fall on the fiery-red hair that was her Scottish inheritance, and contemplated the white skin that was inclined to freckles. How envious she had been as a little girl of her bright, radiant grandmother! Her mother, Helena, and she herself were darker in complexion, with black hair and almond-shaped eyes, which Grandmother had said they got from her husband’s family. Sadly, Beatrice’s grandfather, the sea captain, had died before she was born.

  “You can stay here for today, at least,” Daphne decided, apparently returning her wandering thoughts to the present. “You can sleep in my daughter’s room. Emily will sleep with me tonight.”

  “But—” Emily began.

  “No buts. Our guest will have a room to herself.” Daphne’s sharp glance put an end to the discussion. “Go upstairs and show Beatrice to the room. Then you can make everything ready for her. I’ll go back to the hospital.”

  Daphne rose and strode swiftly out of the kitchen. The two young women regarded one another shyly.

  “I’m sorry about what happened to your mother and your husband,” Emily said at last, gently laying a hand on Beatrice’s dirt-encrusted fingers. “It’s always difficult to lose people you love.”

  “Did you lose someone in the war, too?” Beatrice asked. Emily looked perfectly healthy and content to her, but her smile froze as the question hung in the air.

  “Yes, I did,” she replied, staring into her teacup with a strained expression. “My child.”

  “Did they die in an attack?” Beatrice had heard about the Blitz in London.

  Emily shook her head. “A miscarriage in the fifth month. My husband had just been called up to the front. I don’t even know if he’s still alive. He probably believes that our child can walk by now.”

  And she’s got sympathy to spare for me? Beatrice wondered. The cross she has to bear is just as heavy.

  “But let’s talk about that some other time.” Emily got up from the table and forced the memory back with a bitter smile. “Come on, I’ll show you to your room. It’s lovely, and would have been quite big enough for us both, but if Mother wants me to listen to her snoring . . .”

  Emily led her down a labyrinth of corridors, past a former ballroom that was now crammed with rows of beds and mattresses laid out on the floor, then up a staircase. The upper corridors were heaped with chests and furniture that had been cleared from the other rooms. As Beatrice brushed lightly against one of the chests with her arm, she heard a soft clinking of glass or crystal. All these things, packed away and set aside, were waiting, just like the people, for peace to return.

  “Here we are.” Emily opened a wide double door on to a room that was warm and fairly cheerful. The floral pattern on the wallpaper had faded, but it was still obvious what a beautiful room this had once been. On the floor beneath the high windows were pictures leaning with their backs turned to the room, their frames shimmering gold in the sunlight.

  Beatrice was most impressed by the bed. She had never before seen a bed as wide and heavy as this one, which took up most of the room. The clothes Emily wore most often hung from the backs of two chairs, since the wardrobe, its doors gaping slightly open, was stuffed full of other things.

  “If you like, I can give you a dress,” Emily offered. “The one you’re wearing is beyond repair, however much you try to patch it.”

  “Thank you, I . . .”

  “Come over here!” Emily began to open drawers. Inside were various items of clothing, from underwear to blouses and skirts, sweaters and scarves. “Which of these would you like?”

  “I . . .”

  “Don’t be shy!”

  “But I don’t even know if I’ll be allowed to stay. Your mother . . .
”

  “Oh, Mummy will soon give in, I promise you.” Emily fished out a light-pink blouse with a sailor’s collar and delicate embroidery. “I think this one will suit you better than it does me. I don’t even know why I’ve kept it—just look at my hair. Red and pink, what a clash.”

  Before Beatrice could protest, Emily was holding the garment up to her chest. “I knew it! With your dark hair and golden skin, this colour suits you so much better than me.”

  “But what about my belly?” Beatrice objected. “I won’t be able to fit into it in a few weeks.”

  “I’ll have knitted you a sweater by then. In any case, you’re so much daintier than I am. I look like an elephant beside you!”

  The two women looked at one another, and then broke out into laughter.

  Emily wouldn’t rest until she had searched out a skirt and a cardigan, as well as underwear and socks. “I’ll get hold of some new shoes for you, too. We’re about to make a collection for charity; if there’s a suitable pair I’ll keep them back for you.” She went to the door. “I’ll let you get some rest now.”

  Suddenly overcome by all this kindness, Beatrice sank down on the bed. The soft mattress yielded gently beneath her, and a scent of lavender wafted up from the sheets. Beatrice stretched out and for the first time enjoyed a feeling of safety, even though she still wasn’t certain how long she would be able to stay.

  When Emily returned to check on her, Beatrice’s eyes were already closed. She didn’t even notice her enter the room.

  During the night, Beatrice awoke in terror from a dreadful nightmare. She had once again relived the scene of being separated from her mother and husband, of almost getting trampled in the terrible crush before a stranger’s hands pulled her up and dragged her into the undergrowth as the planes roared overhead. She had watched helplessly as bullets rained down on the line of refugees, as her mother and her husband, who had not been called up to the front because of his asthma, had vanished beneath a mountain of corpses.

  Imagining that she was still in the American refugee camp, she sat up, but felt the warmth and saw the glow of the fire in the hearth. All was quiet beyond the tall windows. A nearly full moon was trying to penetrate the veil of mist and rain-threatening clouds.