House of Trelawney

by Hannah Rothschild

  “Can you clear some space?” She pointed to the desk.

  Jane hurriedly piled some files on the floor.

  Blaze put down the three folders: green, red and blue. On the front, typed neatly on white stickers, were the headings “Past,” “Present” and “Future.” The last one was worryingly slim and contained, as far as Jane could see, only a few pieces of paper. She remained standing; it didn’t seem right to sit down without asking. It was her sister-in-law’s house now.

  “As you correctly summarised, this is one huge mess.”

  Jane nodded. “Could you give us a couple of weeks to find somewhere else? I don’t mind taking Clarissa. We’ve become used to each other.”

  Blaze looked at her in surprise. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I want to offer you a job.”

  “Job?” Jane wondered if she’d heard correctly.

  “The house needs a full-time live-in caretaker and manager. I’m offering you the position. The salary is £45,000 per annum plus health insurance and a contribution to a pension.”

  Jane slumped into a chair.

  “Before you accept, you should hear my plans.”

  Jane didn’t trust herself to speak without crying; her children would have a home, there’d be food on the table and, best of all, she thought guiltily, she wouldn’t have to lose her printing press.

  Blaze cleared her throat and opened the files. “I’ve been through the estate accounts, such as they are, past and present. In its simplest form, before any repairs, excluding food and any luxuries, your annual overhead has for some years been approximately £245,000. While in some ways this has been admirably parsimonious, it was also woefully short-sighted.”

  Jane tried to concentrate.

  “I have asked three building companies—two local and one national—to quote for putting the roof right, and the cheapest estimate is in excess of £25 million. There’s also the plumbing, rewiring, central heating and other factors to consider. All in all, we’d be looking at a capital investment of over £50 million spread over five years.”

  “There is, as you are aware, debt of over £1 million,” Jane said.

  “That’s been taken care of,” Blaze replied, thinking of Wolfe’s letter.

  “Taken care of? You paid it off?” Jane asked in amazement.

  Blaze shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Let’s just say a guardian angel.”

  “You are so kind.” Tears spilled out of Jane’s eyes.

  “Let’s go to the kitchen. It’s so cold in here I can’t concentrate.” Blaze hoped that a change of scene would help banish thoughts of Wolfe from her mind. Picking up her three files, she strode out of the room.

  The sound of her sister-in-law’s heels clack-clacking on the flagstones jolted Jane out of her stupor and she followed. It was Mrs. Sparrow’s day off and the kitchen table was covered in the remnants of the children’s breakfast: badly cut slices of bread and honey, unwashed pans, plates smeared with egg yolk and bacon rinds.

  “Kids,” Jane said apologetically. Taking a cloth, she wiped the end of the table and righted two chairs for them to sit on.

  Blaze continued with her theme.

  “In addition to repairs, there’s also the issue of inheritance tax.”

  Jane felt her spirits drop. “I thought about serving teas.”

  “You will be. And lunches. And breakfasts. We are going to sweat this asset.”

  “Sweat the asset?”

  “It’s about time the house contributed. To date it’s been a drain on income. Time for it to pay.” Blaze smiled and pushed across the folder labelled “Future.” “Have a look. I’ll make coffee.”

  Jane opened the file and flicked through a series of pages, but the numbers swam in front of her. Fix on the cream teas, she told herself.

  “I worked out that I could make a hundred scones for 20 pence each and sell them for £3,” she said, shoving the folder away.

  “That isn’t going to cover the cost of heating, is it?” Blaze asked. “Can I get back to the bigger picture?”

  Jane nodded.

  “To prevent the inheritance-tax liability arising and provide a public benefit, the house has to be open to the public for at least thirty-one days a year. The problem is how to get anyone to come to this part of Cornwall. There are five National Trust houses nearby with superior collections.”

  “None as beautiful or as old.”

  “I’m not the one who needs convincing. All the other houses are, by and large, in good condition; they have been looked after. This one hasn’t and I can’t afford to put it right. I am wealthy, but not that wealthy.”

  Jane felt her spirits dive again.

  “Even if I had the money, I wouldn’t give it to you.” Blaze’s first concern was repaying Wolfe the £1 million. She had put her apartment on the market, but had not had one viewing. “My proposal should bring in hundreds of thousands of visitors, each paying £8, and employ many local people. It will take a few years to generate a full income, but at least Ambrose will inherit a viable business. With time, there’ll be enough money to gradually replace the roof, the wiring and install central heating. In the short term, I’ll set up a small foundation whose purpose will be solely to loan the house funds for basic repairs.”

  “Why would you do all this for us?”

  It was a question Blaze had asked herself many times over the last few weeks. Her father mainly, but also perhaps pity for her brother and sister-in-law and the challenge of overcoming impossible odds. There was another factor: the opportunity to return to Trelawney with her head held high.

  “Please read this.” Blaze pushed another piece of paper across the table. By the second paragraph, Jane burned with anger: Blaze’s idea was to open the house exactly as it was; Trelawney would stand as a cautionary tale of what happened to aristocrats who failed to work and overlooked the realities of change and progress. It would be a testament to an anachronistic and antiquated system, and visitors would be invited to see the degradation of a noble dream as well as its history. The decline and fall of the House of Trelawney would mirror the history of Britain; like the country, Trelawney was a shadow of its former self, a mere elegy and an effigy. Visitors would walk with wonder: viewing the sky through gaping holes in the roof, crunching fallen plaster underfoot, observing the inhabitants at rest and play. Anyone who felt moved to could contribute to a restoration fund.

  “Is this your idea of a joke?”

  Blaze looked surprised. “Of course not.”

  “You want to put me and my children and your own mother on display like animals in a zoo and parade our failings before the public?”

  “That’s not how it’s meant.” Blaze shifted uncomfortably in her seat, aware that her approach might seem insensitive.

  “That’s how it damn well looks.” Jane leaned across the table, propelling the sheet of paper back towards her sister-in-law. “I would prefer to starve and live on the streets than accept this.” She stood up and walked to the door.

  “Jane,” Blaze called. “Please wait.”

  Jane stopped but didn’t turn around.

  “The disintegration of the house began long before you arrived. Nothing has been spent on it since the 1900s when labour became expensive.”

  “Kitto inherited a going concern,” Jane said quietly.

  “A going concern. Going, not staying.”

  “I love this place; I have let it down.”

  “Trelawney is just a film set for our dreams and fantasies. Take away the script, the razzamatazz, the people or prestige, the power or money, and it’s just bricks and mortar.”

  “It’s more than a simple story,” Jane replied. “It’s a way of life. It’s where I live with my children.”

  “You call this a life?” Blaze
looked around the kitchen in amazement.

  “You ought to leave.” Jane clenched her fists so hard that the knuckles turned white.

  Blaze shoved her chair back and rose to her feet.

  “I’m going to offer Mum a room in my flat or sheltered accommodation. I will also look after Kitto. He needs psychiatric support, possibly primary residential care. I won’t throw you out of here—it’s your home. Do what you like with it until your son comes of age. I will inform the solicitors of my decision.” Taking up her briefcase, Blaze left the kitchen and walked towards her mother’s apartment.

  Opening the door to Clarissa’s rooms, she was hit by a wave of heat; there was a burning fire and three fan heaters. Bowls of freshly cut flowers sat on each surface, and the dining table was set for one, with two wine glasses, two knives and fork, and fine bone china.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Clarissa said, appearing from her bedroom. “I can’t believe how long it is since you’ve been. I might have died.” She let out a sniff.

  “Things have been tricky at work—you might have seen all the stuff on the news?” Blaze saw that the flat-screen TV had arrived.

  “Business and shares don’t affect us in Cornwall.” Clarissa went over to the chair nearest the fire and sat down.

  “I wish you were right,” Blaze said, thinking about the queues of anxious savers she had seen on the news outside one of Acorn’s branches in Launceston.

  “Poppycock.”

  Blaze changed the subject. “Are things a bit more comfortable now?” She was hoping for a tiny thank-you or at least an acknowledgement of her generosity.

  “I don’t like the carers.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re foreign.”

  “Is that so wrong?”

  “I have to explain things all the time. The other day I asked for Gentleman’s Relish on toast and a bottle of Berry Brothers Good Ordinary Claret. The woman had no idea what I was talking about.”

  “Those are slightly arcane requests.” Blaze suppressed a smile.

  “You said they were highly trained.”

  “They are qualified caregivers.”

  “I want a new one.”

  “You’re on your eleventh person. It’s not that easy to get people to come to this part of the world.”

  “What about a local girl?”

  “We advertised and no one answered. They don’t want this kind of work.” Blaze fought to keep the exasperation out of her voice. “I want you to come to London.”

  Clarissa leaned over and poked the fire hard. “I hate London; a noisy, smelly place.”

  “I can organise proper care there—with English people—and you can live in my flat.”

  “What is a flat?” Clarissa asked, looking perplexed.

  “It’s—oh, never mind.” In the small butler’s pantry off the drawing room, Blaze could see a pretty young woman heating up some lunch for her mother.

  “I only like living somewhere surrounded by my own land. Looking at other people’s property would make one feel ill. The answer is resolutely and absolutely no.”

  The carer came out of the pantry holding a steaming bowl of soup. “Ladyship, like lunch?” she said in a thick Polish accent.

  “Magda, how many times do I have to tell you: ‘Luncheon is served, Your Ladyship,’ ” Clarissa corrected her.

  “Lady Luncheon served,” Magda said sweetly.

  Clarissa turned to Blaze. “Do you see what I mean? It’s too much.” Then she turned to Magda. “My name is not Lady Luncheon, nor is it Lady Dinner or Lady Bedtime or Lady Pills.”

  Magda smiled, put the bowl on the table and asked Blaze, “Soup?” Blaze shook her head and, looking at her mother, enquired, “What does it matter if she gets your name right or the correct title?”

  Clarissa drew herself up tall. “I may be the only one left who flies the flag of standards, but fly it I will.” She went over to the long mahogany table and sat down. Blaze sat next to her.

  “I worry that you’ll get lonely here.”

  “Life without your father is exceedingly dull. I turn round to say something to him and realise he isn’t there.” Clarissa gulped hard. “Then I remember he never will be. I can’t tell you how odd that feels after sixty years.”

  Blaze reached a consoling hand towards her mother but it was ignored. Clarissa blinked several times and then raised a spoonful of soup to her lips. “Is she trying to burn my mouth? Magda, Magda, too hot.” Magda came out of the pantry again.

  “What’s wrong, Lady?”

  “The soup is too hot.”

  “You want chill soup?”

  “I want soup I can drink without a fatal injury.” Clarissa pushed the bowl away.

  “It will cool,” Blaze said.

  “I’m too near death to wait for soup to cool. I could go at any moment.”

  Magda took the soup bowl back to the pantry. Blaze heard the fridge open and the sounds of an ice cube being popped out of a plastic holder followed by a splash. Seconds later Magda appeared with a melting cube sitting in the middle of the soup. This time there was no sweet smile, just a look of resignation. Turning around, she went back to her kitchen.

  Clarissa regarded the ice cube with disdain.

  “She was on the wrong side in the war,” she said in a stage whisper.

  “She’s Polish, not German,” Blaze countered.

  “She was one of the Poles who tried to murder your father and did for my brothers.”

  “She would not have been alive.”

  “You want to leave me with a murderess.” Clarissa’s lip trembled. “All alone in this forsaken place without your father.”

  Blaze felt exhausted. “Come back to London with me, please.”

  “Now you’re trying to take me away from my home.” Clarissa had recovered her composure and adopted her most imperious expression. “I will not be moved.” She raised the soup spoon to her lips and took a sip. “Now it’s too cold.” She put the spoon down and pushed the bowl away. “I worry about Jane; she has let herself go. You must have a word with her, darling, or when Kitto comes back from his holiday he won’t recognise her.”

  Blaze looked at her mother. Did she think her son was on holiday or had she invented this fiction to protect herself from reality?

  “Don’t you think it’s about time you found a husband?” When things became difficult, Clarissa used Blaze’s marital status as a weapon.

  “Not this again, Mum.”

  “You might find a nice widower. The Plantagenet-Parker girl nabbed a grieving marquess when we thought she was far too long in the tooth and broad of girth to find anyone.”

  Blaze stood up. She knew exactly where this conversation was going.

  “You can’t handle the truth, can you?” her mother taunted.

  I am a husk of a woman, childless and sad, Blaze said to herself.

  “You are childless and sad,” Clarissa said, holding out her cheek for her daughter to kiss. “What is a woman without a man?”

  Still a woman, Blaze said under her breath.

  “A husk, a mere husk.”

  Though Blaze had been expecting this, her mother’s words stung.

  “Magda, Magda, see Lady Blaze out, please,” Clarissa called.

  “I can see myself out,” Blaze said, picking up her coat and briefcase.

  “I’m trying to train the girl. It’s for her own good.”

  Magda came out of the pantry, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

  “All I ask, Blaze, is that you find me one, just one, decent member of staff.” Clarissa looked hard at Magda.

  “You want resignation?” Magda asked.

  “You see, you see.” Clarissa’s voice rose. “They are so temperamental.”

  “Magda, please don’t go,” Blaze sai
d. “You are doing a brilliant job. My mother is in mourning and not herself.”

  “I am entirely myself. Who else would I be? The man in the moon?” Clarissa retorted.

  Blaze leaned down and kissed her mother. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Clarissa looked forlorn. “Do you have to go, darling?”

  “Things are difficult at work.”

  “Please don’t stay away too long. I am bound to die. Next week, if I’m lucky.”

  You’ll outlive all of us, Blaze said to herself and, pushing the door open, stepped out into the courtyard. As she headed towards her car, she caught a glimpse of Jane bent over the sink, scrubbing something. Blaze walked past the window and down the cobbled path. She was glad that Jane and her mother had been so difficult; it made the unlikeliness of a return to Trelawney easier to bear. Without her sister-in-law’s involvement, her idea to open the house to the public would never work. Let them all live there and manage the decay. Blaze would send enough money for them to get by.

  18

  The Festive Season

  SUNDAY 14TH DECEMBER 2008

  For as long as anyone could remember, the Earls of Trelawney had held an annual New Year’s Eve party in the Great Hall. In days of plenty, up to seventy-five guests stayed in the house while several hundred billeted in nearby stately homes. It often took an hour to disgorge all the guests from their carriages and footmen had to run up and down the waiting line with hot-water bottles and mulled wine to stave off boredom and cold. To justify the journey, the Earls put on a terrific show: there were minstrels, acrobats and orchestras; the finest chefs were brought over from Paris and the best wine from Bordeaux. At the start of the twentieth century, dance bands were flown in from America. As the money ran out, the bands became a record player; wine came from a box; the guest list was pruned; and dinner became peanuts and crisps.

  Jane longed to cancel, but pride spurred her on and she was determined not to be the first Countess to break the tradition. The main problem was who to ask—she dreaded the gossip and endless questions about the whereabouts of her husband. In the end, she resolved to put on a bit of a show. Between Blaze’s modest stipend, Tuffy’s rent and the children’s odd jobs, she had saved enough money to hire some large speakers (her budget didn’t stretch to a local band), two kegs of beer and some crates of wine from the local cash and carry. Mrs. Sparrow helped her bake pasties and tarts.