Looking up the line of waiting people, Jane thought there must be at least five hundred, maybe more. If half were full-paying adults, they’d make enough to cover the rope. Out of little acorns great oaks grow, she thought, repeating one of Kitto’s maxims, and the absence of her husband made her throat swell and close. Don’t cry now. Not now.
“Come along, Jane, take your place,” Clarissa nagged.
Feeling the crib sheet in her pocket, Jane made her way up to the grand salon, where the bloodied standard hung.
On the landing halfway up the Great Staircase, Clarissa took her position. To avoid any strain on her grandmother’s voice, Arabella, self-appointed technical adviser, had set up an old karaoke machine with a microphone. Clarissa looked down into the motley crowd below: a woman trying to get a double buggy up a small stone step; a little boy running his mucky fingers along the edge of the marble hall table; an oriental couple (Japanese or maybe Korean) dressed in identical grey plastic mackintoshes and matching ankle-high wellington boots; two gum-chewing bleach-blondes in their mid-twenties with stocky swains who thought “house opening” meant a new pub. Arabella bounded up the stairs, turned on the karaoke machine and handed the mike to her grandmother.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” Clarissa stopped. Her voice caught and she was surprised by the tremor of emotion fluttering in her heart. It couldn’t be nerves, she thought. She had made many speeches in her day—at the WI, local fetes, opening the new hospital in Truro, announcing the winner of the Trelawney dog and flower show, and supporting her husband when he tried (and lost three elections in a row) to become a local MP. She cleared her throat and looked down at the floor. She noticed out of the corner of her eye that her audience, sensing a minor disaster, was paying attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Clarissa repeated, “welcome to my family’s home.” Her voice sounded strong and surprisingly young. Her heart rose. Once again she was being looked at and listened to. Glancing down at the assembled crowd, she smiled graciously.
“There has been a Trelawney on this site since 1073. The history of the family is about custom and continuity, about evolution, not revolution. Some might blame us for being snobby and out of touch—let them. I am proud for upholding standards, for keeping the flame of my forebears alive.”
She pointed to a huge flagstone. “If you look down there, that was the first stone laid by Enyon de Lawney in 1086. Imagine how many footsteps have worn it away. In the first one hundred years, the family slept with its animals. Cows, sheep and horses were an early form of central heating. As my husband’s forebears accrued a fortune, they enlarged the house. Some of you might recognise those magnificent Gothic-style pillars and round-headed arches to my left. They were almost certainly built by the same stoneworkers who transformed Durham Cathedral at the end of the thirteenth century. A century passed and more money accrued: if you look upwards at the remarkable hammer-beam ceiling, it will certainly remind you of Henry VIII’s hall at Hampton Court—he copied us. To my right, those huge windows, three storeys high, which lead onto the knot garden, were designed by Robert Smythson, who later in the sixteenth century created Hardwick Hall for Elizabeth, Countess of Shrewsbury. The interior, a fine example of British baroque, was remodelled by Inigo Jones, who put in the Minstrels’ Gallery. The family were, you won’t be surprised to hear, loyal to the Crown, and after Jones had worked on buildings for Charles I and James I, my husband’s ancestors decided to employ the royal architect. Perhaps, though I haven’t thought of it before, this is where the term ‘keeping up with the Joneses’ originated from.”
Clarissa laughed at her little joke and looked down at her audience; to her horror each and every one looked bored. A few stared blankly around, one or two checked their watches, the children lay on the floor or were being forcibly restrained by their parents. A couple had actually wandered off in a different direction. A spotty youth was texting on his phone. At first, Clarissa was deeply irritated, but this was followed by an uncommon emotion: fear. If she couldn’t interest these people in the house, who could? And then what would happen? They’d all be turfed out. Trelawney would crumble into dust. Clarissa knew she had to inspire and infect them with love for this wonderful building. If she didn’t, her whole life would be declared void and pointless.
“Come closer,” she called to the Japanese tourists and the woman with the double buggy. “I was eighteen when I first set eyes on Trelawney. It was 1947; the war had recently ended. I had spent five years on a remote estate in Scotland, sent there with my sister and a nanny for safekeeping during the bombing. My marriage was to all intents and purposes arranged; the season had stopped during the war and there were no opportunities to meet young men. The good ones were away, fighting. I met my husband once at a small cocktail party in London; the next time was at our wedding in Claridge’s. There was no honeymoon in those days; we were still on rationing. Our wedding cake was tiny, since there wasn’t enough sugar, let alone ground almonds to make marzipan.”
A girl of about twelve put up her hand. “No sweets?”
“Goodness, no. That explains why no one was fat.”
“Did you meet Hitler?” another child asked.
“No, but my husband’s Cousin Unity knew him well and her sister the Duchess of Devonshire had tea with him.”
“Really? We’re doing him in history,” a boy called out.
“Apparently he had a very common brown apartment and nasty little napkins with ‘A. H.’ embroidered on them.” Clarissa beamed. She was happy to share important historical insights.
“What did you think when you first saw the house?” the lady with the buggy asked.
“It was raining so hard that all I could see was the car windscreen wipers. Just as well, for if I had realised how large it was, I might have run away. I remember coming into this hall and all the servants, thirty-two in total, were lined up in uniform waiting to curtsy or bow to their new Countess.”
“What did they all do? I’d love to have thirty-two servants,” someone said.
“It was lovely having help, but also like running a small and inefficient business. There were constant rows, people coming and going, the cooks were extremely temperamental.”
“My nan was your lady’s maid,” a middle-aged woman said.
“What was her name?”
“Sarah.”
“Sarah what?”
“Dawson.”
“Oh, Dawson—of course I remember her.” Clarissa looked at the woman keenly. Dawson was one of the maids her husband had got pregnant. “Was your father or mother her firstborn?”
“My father was number three.”
Clarissa felt mightily relieved. She hated meeting Enyon’s illegitimate progeny.
“When I arrived,” she continued, “there were two men whose job was just to fill up the log baskets, one to brush our top hats; there were clock winders and under-butlers.”
She came down from the stair landing and walked over to a huge wooden chest. “Who’s feeling strong? If we lift up that lid there’ll be many treasures inside.” A fit-looking lad tried and failed. His father stepped forward to help him. In the end it took three to heave up the heavy oak lid studded with metal spikes.
“My husband could do that on his own,” Clarissa said proudly. “He was one of the strongest men in the whole county.” She bent down and looked inside. “Let’s play lucky dip. Who wants to pull something out?”
The Japanese tourists edged their way to the front and gingerly reached into the dark interior. The man took out a red wooden ball; the woman chose a wooden box full of counters.
“Who knows what these are?” Clarissa asked.
She was met with blank faces.
“This is a croquet ball—to be played on the front lawns with long mallets, metal hoops and small holes. Pull out something else.” She waited until a little girl ope
ned a box with brightly coloured circles inside. “These discs are for baccarat, a game introduced to Cornwall by Queen Victoria’s son, the then Prince of Wales. It was made illegal, because so many aristocrats lost all their worldly possessions on the gaming table. The 22nd Viscount gambled away an estate the size of Wales in one evening.” There was a gasp from the crowd.
“Gran, Gran?” Arabella fought her way to the front. “You have to finish your talk now; the next group is waiting to come in.”
Clarissa looked crestfallen. “We are just getting going.” Her audience nodded.
“You can come back tomorrow or next weekend,” Arabella said.
“Yes, do come back—it was such fun meeting you all,” Clarissa added graciously.
Arabella steered the visitors up the Great Staircase and into the main ballroom where Jane stood waiting beneath the bloodied standard. She had changed at the last minute into clean trousers, but had not realised that the waistband, now several sizes too big, was in danger of falling down to her ankles. Unable to find a belt small enough, she had tied a piece of orange baling twine around her middle to keep it up.
Jane waited for the crowd in front of her to settle. She wished her nerves would do the same.
“Good afternoon. I am Jane, Countess Trelawney, and this flag, known as the Bosworth Standard, was a memento from the Battle of Bosworth in…” She froze; she simply couldn’t remember if it was 1485 or 1585. Or was it 1464 or 1525? It could even be 1920, for all she knew. She tried to quell the sense of rising panic. Clearing her throat, she started again. “This bloodied standard is supposed to be smeared with Richard III’s blood when he was killed at the Battle of Bosworth.” All facts flew from her head and she tried to remember what and who Richard had been fighting. She took out Blaze’s notes but the figures refused to come into focus. The crowd began to fidget and two of the children splintered off from the group. A pair of Japanese tourists looked at each other in bemusement. A woman with a buggy bent down to wipe snot from her child’s nose. Jane opened her mouth to speak, but the words seemed to stick somewhere between her brain and her throat. Beads of sweat formed on her neck and temples. Members of the audience talked amongst themselves.
“You might well ask what the Trelawney family were doing at Bosworth.” A male voice from the back of the room rang out loud and clear.
Jane, startled, looked up.
“To know the history of my family is to understand the history of England. Since the first dwelling was built on this site in 1086, the Trelawneys have involved themselves in the key moments of our island story.” The crowd turned to look behind them. Standing in the doorway was Kitto.
“Let me through, please,” he said and, working his way through their midst, went straight up to Jane and stood next to her, his shoulder touching hers. “Most powerful families hang on to power and wealth for a few generations—ours is unusual, we have survived for twenty-six. Why? By cleverly and ruthlessly backing the winning side, even if it meant switching loyalties at appropriate moments. Take this episode—Everard Trelawney supported Richard III for 700 of his 777-day reign; but, seeing the tide turning, he switched and fought for Henry Tudor who became Henry VII.”
“How do we know it’s his blood?” someone asked.
“For over five centuries this was what the family believed. We have never had it DNA-tested, but maybe we should. Perhaps, with science’s extraordinary advances, we’ll be able to re-create Richard.”
“Bosworth is nowhere near here,” another voice piped up.
“You are absolutely right but, although there was no Great Western Rail, no M4 or M5, the family did manage to get out a bit.” There was a titter in the crowd. Kitto felt a tiny splash of water on the back of his hand. Looking down, he saw Jane’s head was bent and, from the quiver of her shoulders, assumed she was crying. He whispered into her ear. “Are you OK—do you need to get out of here?”
Jane didn’t trust herself to speak—the bubble of anger building up inside her chest had become so large that she had to fight for breath. How dare her husband presume that she needed his help, how dare he take over her presentation without permission? Kitto, oblivious, carried on with his talk.
“If you look over here,” Kitto said, pointing to a wall covered with family portraits, “you’ll get some idea of the many generations.” Above him, placed like peeling postage stamps blackened by time and woodsmoke, hung his ancestors. Even the frames, ornate and once covered in gold leaf, had lost their sheen. The earliest portrait, of the 11th Earl, was a two-dimensional depiction of a warty man in heavy red velvet robes. He looked out as if surprised by their attention, his right eyebrow arched, a sneer on his lips. The 11th Earl reminded Kitto of his own father and, thinking back to the day of the burial, he shivered slightly. He spoke more quickly; all he wanted was to talk to his wife, to reassure her, to tell her how he’d missed her. That morning he’d woken up and felt quite differently. A fug had lifted and his head had cleared. His only thought was to get back to Jane, to Trelawney and his family, and beg their forgiveness.
“I wonder how many of you know where your grandparents are buried, let alone your great-grandparents or their parents?” The crowd before him shrugged and tried to think that far back.
“I have no hope of forgetting my past. Each and every one of my forebears has been painted at least once. Their remains are in the burial ground on the top of the escarpment a few miles from here.”
“So no escape?” someone called out.
Kitto shook his head ruefully. “It can feel like a heavy burden indeed. As if all those eyes are trained on me.”
“Why’s the lady so red in the face?” a little boy asked, pointing at Jane.
“She gets terrible hay fever,” Kitto said. Jane clenched and unclenched her fingers.
“Now, look up at the lady and gentleman in the middle.” He pointed to a woman in an elaborate silk dress, low-cut and off the shoulder. While her bosom was barely covered, her arms were encased in an explosion of white taffeta and around her neck was a huge diamond hung on a simple velvet ribbon. “That is the 17th Viscountess Trelawney, my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother. In her day, she was a famous actress and a mistress of King Charles II. She was a commoner, the daughter of a fishmonger from Essex, so it caused a huge scandal when my ancestor decided to make her his wife. I’m sure you agree, she was a beauty. Underneath is inscribed ‘No man breathing can have more love for you than myself.’ She died out hunting and he buried her with that enormous diamond around her neck. As you can imagine, there have been times when the family was tempted to dig up the body, but my ancestor foresaw those problems and only he and the gravedigger knew where she was interred.”
As Kitto spoke, he felt Jane’s breathing steady. Looking at the crowd before him, he saw with relief that they were listening to his every word. “The ugly old bat on his other side was his second wife, the daughter of a wealthy businessman, hence a more successful financial alliance, though apparently loveless despite the fact that eight children came of it.”
“Hello, Dad.” Arabella appeared. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
The crowd looked bemused.
“Family joke,” Kitto explained. “We always greet each other like this.”
“No one tells me anything.” Arabella looked both angry and tearful.
“Is it time for the group to move on?” Jane found her voice.
Arabella nodded.
“Would you show them where to go, please, darling,” Jane asked.
Arabella hesitated but, seeing her mother’s expression, turned reluctantly to the visitors. “Please follow me to the library where my Aunt Blaze will tell you about another aspect of the family’s history.” Shooting a look at her parents, she led the way out of the ballroom.
When everyone had gone, Kitto looked at Jane. “I have been the most absolute fool
and rotter. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am.”
Jane gazed up into his earnest face. She saw that his hair had streaks of grey and there were new lines around his eyes and mouth. He was noticeably thinner. None of this or his apology made any difference; Jane pulsated with fury.
“You can’t just waltz out one minute and canter back in the next. Life doesn’t work like that,” she said, walking towards the door. Kitto, unused to seeing his wife angry, struggled for something to say.
“Jane, Jane, wait, please,” he pleaded. Jane stood still, but didn’t turn around to face him. Kitto looked at his wife’s back: at her limp, slightly dirty hair, her trousers bunched about the ankles. Clearing his throat, he said, “I can’t do the business of life without you. You are my rock, my friend, my love. I’m so sorry that it’s taken me this long to realise what I had and what I hope and pray I haven’t lost.”
Jane listened to these words, the ones she had wanted to hear for so long—perhaps their whole marriage—but the sentiments hardened rather than melted her resolve. The silly fool; his absence had set her free—she could manage perfectly well without him. For the last twenty years her greatest fear had been him leaving; and she had clung to him, squeezing the oxygen out of their love. His absence had achieved the opposite of everything she’d feared. The last months had made her realise how strong and capable she actually was.
From her silence, Kitto understood it was too late. “I’ll go. This is your home. Indeed, seeing everything today—what you have managed—is humbling. I would never have thought of doing this or got it together. You’ve given the old place a purpose.” He walked past her towards the door and the staircase beyond, hoping she’d call him back, but Jane didn’t move; there was nothing to say.
As Kitto went down the stairs, Arabella ran after him. “Dad, stop, what’s going on?”
House of Trelawney Page 31
