A Stolen Life
Your mother wanted you to meet your sister.
The solicitor handed Jane an envelope. For a long moment, Jane hesitated before accepting it. On her way here to this office tucked away off a quiet London street, shed expected something elsejust a simple legal formality, a signature to claim her inheritance.
But the idea she had a sistershed never heard a word about this before. The questions swarmed in her mind like bees: Was this sister born before her mother married? Did her father know? Why had her mother never spoken of her?
Janes hands shook as she lifted the envelope. Inside there was only an address, deep in rural Cornwall, and a nameFaith.
So, Jane asked, her voice tight, I have to go to She frowned at the unfamiliar Cornish village written in cramped handwriting.
Its up to you, the solicitor replied with a shrug.
Jane left and travelled straight to her fathers flat in South London. They hadnt seen each other since her mothers funeral, and before that, at her university graduation. When her parents divorced, Jane had stayed with her mother, and things with her dad had soured further. It wasnt as if theyd ever been closehe had always seemed to expect too much, found fault in everything. Jane had never felt loved by him.
A sister? he bristled. Id have known. When we married, your mother was only eighteen.
Jane knew. But perhaps her mother had disappeared somewhere for a time. Or perhaps
Then why did she leave this for me?
He threw his hands up, anger flickering in his eyes as always. I have no idea! She never mentioned
Jane couldnt quite bring herself to say, sister.
Nothing! Dont fill your head with nonsense! he snapped.
Jane got nothing else from him. But she sensed he was hiding something.
I have to go, she decided.
As a child, Jane had always wished she had a sister. Shed envied her friends with older siblings, snatching lipstick or splintered advice; or younger ones, with whom you could invent games. But her own mother had been older when shed had Janeand had never had another child. Why had she waited until she was thirty-two to become a mother, when the wedding had happened at eighteen?
What rubbish, Jane! Nick burst out later, exasperated.
Theyd been dating for three years. Jane had vainly waited for a proposal; Nick always offered excusesmoney troubles, doubts that marriage mattered at all.
I have to find out, she replied, quietly resolute. If I have a sister
If you did, your mother would have told you! You know she had memory problems, after that accident, he argued.
Her mother had been in a crashdrunk at the wheel. Nick might be right. Still, Jane had to find out.
Im going anyway. Please dont be cross.
Nick was cross anyway. Like her father. Perhaps, Jane thought, that was why shed chosen himbecause they were so much alike.
Two days on the train, watching the green and gold of the English countryside flicker past. Jane wondered if the girlif she even was a girl anymorewas still living in that remote Cornish village. Surely shed moved on by now.
She took the rattling bus for the last stretch. By journeys end, Jane was exhausted, ready to agree with her father and Nick that this was all foolishnessespecially when the bus broke down halfway. Stranded on the quiet verge, everyone started phoning friends, scrambling for lifts. Jane attached herself to a friendly grandmother, hoping for a spot in her ride.
She was lucky. The grandmothers grandson soon arriveda ginger-haired, cheerful lad named Tom. He eyed Jane with a cheeky grin and offered her the front seat.
Do you smoke? he asked with a wink.
Jane lied. No.
Well then, I wont either.
She waited before asking, Do you know Faith? I wanted to meet her.
Tom didnt hide his surprise. His face drained of colour.
And what dyou want with her?
I just wanted to say hello.
Too late for that, he answered, voice darkening. And dont ask Mrs Evansnot about Faith.
Mrs Evans?
Her gran. Faith died in a fire three years ago. The old lady hasnt been the same since. Youre not coming to be her apprentice, are you?
Apprentice?
You look the type. But she doesnt take anyone on any more.
And what did she teach?
He laughed, the sound echoing off the hedgerows. Healing. Bit of an old village witch, really.
You knew Faith well?
We were neighbours. I helped around her place. Firewood, that sort of stuff.
What was Faith like?
He frowned. Odd. Hardly spoke. Something went wrong at birth, I think. But her gran adored her.
How old was she when?
Twenty-one.
Jane felt a chill run down her spine. Twenty-oneand Faith would be twenty-four now. Jane herself was twenty-four. How could she be her sister?
But she had to know the truth.
Will you introduce me to Mrs Evans?
Thought you werent after an apprenticeship! Tom grinned.
Mrs Evans, when Jane met her, was blind. Jane, for all her city polish, was nervous; shed never met someone who couldnt see. Remembering Toms advice, Jane didnt mention Faith.
I want to learn from you, Jane said, voice barely above a whisper.
Mrs Evans approached, her hands gently tracing Janes hair, face, fingers. Jane fought her discomfort.
Very well, Mrs Evans finally said. You may stay.
Tom, lingering in the doorway, whistled. Lucky you!
Janes tiny attic room was simplea narrow bed, worn mattress perfumed with dried herbs, a single small window overlooking the garden. She slumped down, dropping her bag on the floor. Her phone had no messages, no missed calls. Even Nick hadnt texted.
Fine, she muttered to herself.
A moment later, Toms voice called, Mrs Evans says teas ready. Come along, city girl!
The herbal tea was bitter; Jane wrinkled her nose but forced it down. Mrs Evans sat opposite, her pale eyes seeming to gaze straight through the walls.
Well start tomorrow, she announced. Up at dawn. Theres work to be done.
What will you teach me? Jane asked hesitantly.
What the earth itself commands. Listening. Reading the plants. Seeing illness.
Tom grinned. Mind you do as she says, or shell thrash you with nettles for your memorys sake!
Stop frightening the girl, Mrs Evans chided, though with no real bite. Youll be chopping wood tomorrow, and clearing the root cellar.
All right, all right!
That night, Jane stepped out onto the porch. The village slept in deep darkness; only a scatter of distant lights broke the gloom. The air smelt of smoke, wet earth, and a tang of something unfamiliar, something herbal and wild. Her phone vibrated: Nick. “When are you coming back? End this idiocy.”
Jane replied: Im not coming back yet. Ive only just begun.
He answered instantly. What do you mean? What are you doing out there? I want you home.
Jane felt the old irritation thrum through her. She typed: Im not your wife yetI dont have to obey you.
This time the reply took longer. At last: And you never will be.
Staring at the screen, Jane waited for the pain, but felt only a gentle sense of reliefand a peculiar emptiness. She turned off her phone and looked up at a night sky crowded with more stars than shed ever seen in London.
Oi! Toms voice startled her.
He came from the shadows, arms full of logs. Why are you out here alone? he asked, stacking the wood against the wall.
What about you? Jane countered. Young, ableyou could live in the city.
Tried it, Tom shrugged. Lasted a year. Didnt suit. Out here, I know everyone, know every field, every track. Its home.
He handed her an appletart, juicy, nothing like the supermarket flavour.
Thank you, Jane murmured.
No worries. Off to bed with youMrs Evans wont like you dawdling in the morning.
True to her word, Mrs Evans woke her before dawn, pressing a basket into Janes hands, taking her own stick.
Come along.
They walked the dew-bright path through the fields. Mrs Evans moved with uncanny certainty for a blind woman, her stick tapping the path only now and then.
Stop, she commanded suddenly. Dyou see a flower with little yellow petals, leaves like feathers?
Jane glanced about. Yellow shone among the green.
I think so.
No think, child. Smell the leaves.
Jane pinched one, rolling it under her nose. The scent was sharp, bitter.
The first lesson lasted till noon. Mrs Evans made her touch, sniff, even taste (carefully) herb after herb. By dusk, Janes hands were tired, but all around she felt a quiet contentment and belonging she hadnt felt for years.
They came back to find Tom splitting logs shirtless in the sunlight, sweat shining on his back.
So, you survived! he called, waving his axe.
Just about, Jane replied, surprising herself with a smile.
Not so sulky as last night. Want to help?
Jane helped stack the chopped woodsoothing, unhurried work.
That night she lay awake, listening to the chorus of insects, the far-off bark of a dog, the hush of the Cornish night, feeling herself, for the first time in years, entirely in the right placeeven if it was only to find the truth.
Village life soon slipped into a gentle rhythm. Jane woke with the sun, drank herbal teas, wandered meadows filling baskets for her green apothecary. Her hands learned to tell coltsfoot from violet, to feel the trembling stem of St. Johns wort.
And in the strange peace after splitting with Nick, Jane felt only lightness. No pain as shed expected, only the relief of shrugging off a heavy, unwelcome burden.
And then there was Tom.
He turned up dailywith buckets of water, with hay for the goat, sometimes just with a joke and another apple. His hair was like copper in the sun, his freckles dark against his nose. Somehow, Jane found she could tell him almost anythingor nearly anything: her father, whod never loved her.
My dads in London, Tom said unexpectedly. Started a new family. Doesnt want me, I dont want him, either.
He said it simply, without self-pity. Jane glanced at his broad, strong hands, at his calm gaze.
I like it here more than I thought I would, she confessed.
He grinned. Thats because you belong. Anyone can see it.
A small, fragile something sparked between them from that day. Tom taught her to spot mushrooms from toadstools, cracked jokes when she shrieked at a frog. Once, caught in a sudden downpour as they picked cranberries by the marsh, they dashed to a nearby haystack, diving beneath its shelter, soaked but laughing.
“Your nose is red as a clowns,” Tom teased, brushing rain from her cheeks.
Better than your hairorange as a fox! Jane shot back, and their laughter suddenly faded to silence.
He leaned in, kissed hera shy, uncertain kiss. Jane kissed him back, the thunder of the rain and her own heart echoing overhead.
Their romance unfolded quietly in that village: a brush of hands over bread and cheese, a secret glance as Mrs Evans dispensed her wisdom, walks to the river under bruised twilight, learning the constellations, swapping storiesthe city already a distant, faded memory.
By July, Jane found herself humming as she and Mrs Evans wandered the fields. The old mirror in her room reflected a sun-bronzed face and bright, clear eyes. She waited for Tom every evening, listening for the gates clatter and his familiar, teasing shout: Come on, city girl!
Mrs Evans, for her part, seemed obliviousor perhaps just kept her silence. Her blind eyes often turned toward the young couple, and sometimes Jane saw something in her expression: sadness, maybe, or something deeper.
One afternoon, as they dried the last of the willowherb for tea, Mrs Evans was unexpectedly talkativemaybe a neighbours pie had loosened her tongue.
Tom was always kind, she said, sifting leaves, voice soft. He loved my Faith, oh yes. Looked after her like a sister at first then not quite a sister.
Jane froze. It was the first time Mrs Evans had spoken Faiths name aloud.
He was planning to marry her, you know, when she was better. Though shed always been poorly, my Faith such a pure soul. Tom even started building a house for her, out by the woods. Laid the foundation and all, and then
Jane remembered what Tom had said on her first day: Faith died in a fire, three years ago. But hed never said hed loved her. Never said he meant to marry her.
A cold numbness began to creep into Janes heart.
He never told me, Jane whispered.
Why should he? Mrs Evans said softly, blind face turned to her. It hurts him too much, even now. You remind me so much of Faith so, so much.
The old woman soon rambled on about the drying flowers, but Jane barely listened, her thoughts a rising flood. You remind me of Faith. He smiles again since you arrived. Understanding slammed into her: all Toms kindness, his laughter, his patienceit wasnt meant for her at all, it was meant for Faith. She was just a replacement.
Jane lay awake that night, replaying every word in her head. Tom built a house for Faith. Tom lost her in the fire. Then Jane arrivedFaiths mirror image, and he latched onto her, clinging to what hed lost.
How foolish shed been.
The next morning, Jane went outside. Tom was there, whistling, birch branch in hand.
Morning, Jane! he called. Look at thisflexible as
Is it true? Jane burst out, voice trembling. Did you love Faith? Why didnt you ever tell me?
Tom went white, as if struck.
I wont be her replacement, Tom.
He stared at her, pain and confusion clouding his eyes.
What are you talking about? Replacement? I
Mrs Evans said you only like me because I remind you of her. And I think shes right. How else do I explain it? You loved her. You planned to marry her. Then I come along, and
Faith was like a sister to me! Toms voice cracked, heated. Yes, I cared for her, yes I wanted to help. But I never loved hernot like that! She was a child inside. Sweet, broken. Who filled your head with rubbish?
Jane shrank back, each word landing like a blow. Mrs Evans. She said
Mrs Evans! Tom slammed his axe into the tree stump. Since Faith died, shes lived with only her memories. She hoped wedI think she wished it so, but it was never mine, never Faiths dream.
He stepped closer, hands trembling.
Im drawn to you because youre you. Because youre stubborn, fierce, because you try even when you make a muddle of it, because you see the world in a way I never could. Where on earth do you get replacement?
He turned away, rubbing his hands over his face.
If you believe I could do something so crueluse you to fill a gapthen theres nothing more to say.
He walked away. The garden gate banged behind him. Jane stood frozen, realising for the first time the full and terrible weight of what shed done. Shed believed Mrs Evans version of things without letting Tom explainwithout even asking.
Creaking floorboards drew Janes attention. Mrs Evans appeared at the doorway, her blind face turned to where Jane stood.
Well then, the old lady said quietly. Now you understand what words can do.
Why? The question fell from Jane, barely audible. Why did you tell me that, about Tom and Faith? Didnt you seedidnt you care what it would do?
Mrs Evans was silent for a long time. At last: I was frightened, she whispered. An old womans selfish fear. Id already lost one granddaughter. I didnt want to lose another. It was wronga terrible, foolish old sin.
Anger ebbed from Janes shoulders.
Im not taking anyone from you, Jane said at length, weary. I dont even know who I am here, or why Im here.
She looked at Mrs Evansat the haunted, creased face that somehow seemed smaller now.
I came because my mother left me this address. And a nameFaith. Said she was my sister.
The words hung heavy in the air. Mrs Evans did not flinch, nor did she seem surprised. She only nodded, slowly.
I know, the old woman murmured. I knew from the first, when I touched your hand, your hair
Jane stopped breathing.
You knew my mother?
Lydia? Yes, I knew her well. She came here oh, years ago. Rented that old cottage on the edge of the wood. Stayed three months. She came seeking cures.
Cures? Janes voice sounded strange to her ears. For what?
For griefchildlessness. Mrs Evans tone was flatter, empty, as if narrating a tragedy for the hundredth time. She was married, young, but they had no children. Heard stories about me and my herbs Came desperate. Eyes empty of hope.
Jane listened, trying not to blink. Her mother: so capable, so stronghere, young and lost.
And did you help?
Did I? Mrs Evans gave a brittle laugh. With herbs, teas, spells and thenthen it happened to me. My own daughter, Anne, had twins. Both girls. She was so weak afterdidnt survive.
Jane felt cold despite the sunlight.
I left themjust a minute, only to fetch water. I came back. One girl in the cradle. The other gone. And Lydia gone too.
The silence roared in Janes ears.
She took the child? My mother stole me?
Mrs Evans turned her wet, sightless eyes towards her. She did. Took the stronger onethe louder. Left Faiththe quiet, frail one. I raised them both: one in my dreams, one here.
Tears streamed down Mrs Evans cheeks, silent and shining.
Why did she tell me? Why leave me the address? Jane cried at last, tears coming fast. Does she want me to suffer? To know she
She wanted the truth out, Mrs Evans said. Maybe it was guilt eating at her, maybe she hoped for a reunion. I dont know.
Jane sobbed. She cried for her mothera mother whod been a thief. For her father, whod raised someone elses childand perhaps never truly loved her. For a sister shed never known. For herselfa girl ripped from one life and forced into another spun from lies.
At last the tears ebbed. Only silence, and a frozen, hollow calm remained.
What happens now? she croaked, wiping her eyes.
Now you live, Mrs Evans told her. You know the truth. The choice is yours. Stay with a grandmother you never knew, or go, and try to forget.
And Tom? Jane blurted, the question out before she could stop it.
Thats your decision too.
Jane stood, her legs unsteady.
I need to think, she whispered.
She wandered, not knowing where she was going, until she reached the riverthe sandy bend where she and Tom used to sit. She pulled her knees up to her chin and stared at the flowing water. Her life was a fiction; her identity built on someone elses pain. Her mothera stranger. Her fathera stranger. Homea lie.
A sound crunched the gravel behind her. Jane knew the footsteps.
Tom sat beside her.
I know everything now, Jane said, eyes on the river. Who I am. About my mother. About Faith.
He only nodded.
Mrs Evans told you?
Yes.
I guessed years ago. Didnt know how to tell you. What now?
I dont know.
They listened to the river.
Im not Faith, Jane said, finally. Not her. Im the girl who was stolen away. Raised in a world that wasnt mine. I dont know where I belong.
Tom exhaled, slow and deep.
When I first met you, I said you belonged here, he said. I knew it wasnt because you looked like Faith. It was because I felt it.
Will you forgive me? For what I said?
He reached out; Jane stared at those familiar, work-toughened hands, before placing her own in his. Warmth ran through her, chasing the last of the chill away.
Im staying, she said suddenly, surprising herself. Here. With Mrs Evans. With you. With this truth. Its my storyI want to finish it.
Tom only squeezed her hand, hard. And in that gesture, there was no need for words at all.
