That night, before bed, I take the bundle of letters out and flip through them again. The top few are between Henry and his father, mostly discussing Henry’s time at university, and his career plans (or lack thereof). Sir George’s final letter to his son has a distinct undercurrent of disappointment in it. He talks of his distress at having to sell off his art collection, and about how he’s put some plans in place for Henry. I remember how my mum called up Mrs Harvey next door to get me the details of my current job. Presumably Sir George had similar (if probably more illustrious) strings to pull.
Then there’s the letters between ‘H’ and ‘A’. The ones in the bundle all seem to be written in the lead-up to the ball that was held for Henry’s 21st birthday – the night of the fire, according to Mrs Bradford. The writing is sentimental and old-fashioned – two people expressing undying love for each other, worrying about whether or not their romance will be accepted by Henry’s father.
Given the fragile relationship between Henry and his father, it seems somewhat odd that Sir George would organise a ball for Henry’s birthday, especially given their reduced financial circumstances. Henry surmises that it’s down to his father wanting to ‘bridge the gap’ between them. One of the letters even states that his father was arranging for Henry’s portrait to be painted. But if it ever was painted, then it’s not in the house.
The letters between ‘H’ and ‘A’ end abruptly – after the engagement was announced, perhaps there was no longer any reason to send each other quaint little love notes. Their happy ending was signed, sealed and delivered.
Or was it? I flip to the last letter, which I’ve placed on its own in a plastic wallet. It’s only a fragment of paper; half of it has been burned away. I read the part that remains:
Darling A—
God forgive me, but I have been such a fool. He means to ruin our plans – but I won’t let him. We must play along with this little charade for tonight, but tomorrow—
The rest of the letter is lost, with only a thin brown edge of ash remaining. What did Henry mean? From the looks of things, it must have been the last letter between them before the ball. The ball that went out in a blaze – literally. What happened between Henry writing this letter to Arabella, and their subsequent engagement and marriage? He must have spoken to his father, stood up to him, and somehow talked him around. Perhaps Henry burned the letter himself so that Arabella wouldn’t be upset at how strongly his father objected to their plans. But if Henry or someone else meant to burn it, then why is it part of the bundle at all?
And what about the fire? Was it just an unfortunate coincidence that it happened just as Henry and Arabella were finally able to reveal their love to the world? I put the letters back in my drawer, trying to imagine myself at the ball, as described by Mrs Bradford. The mirrors reflecting the candlelight; the stars visible through the glass ceiling. The scent of roses; the interwoven melodies of a string quartet; liveried waiters serving champagne. A couple dancing together, eyes only for each other. But what of the aftermath? The rising flames blacken my fantasy to a cinder. Whatever the truth is, I can only find it by returning to Rosemont Hall.
- 15 -
On Friday afternoon, I gather together all my papers and research and double-check that I have the keys to Rosemont Hall for the Saturday viewing. I’ve rehearsed my sales pitch over and over in my head, and I feel ready. This is my big chance to find a sympathetic buyer, and instead of being nervous, I’m quite excited – especially about going to the house early for a nose around.
But at a quarter to five, Mr Bowen-Knowles throws a spanner in the works. He summons me into his office, gives my outfit (cranberry wrap dress from Jigsaw with low V-front) the once-over, and informs me that he has not one, but two additional Saturday viewings for me to do: a cottage near Shepton Mallet, and a semi- in Glastonbury.
‘Great,’ I lie, quickly doing the maths. Even if everything goes smoothly with the first two viewings, I’ll still have to rush to make the two o’clock at Rosemont Hall.
‘And Amy, I hope these viewings go well, because – you’ve been here over a month and haven’t made a sale yet.’ He wrinkles his nose and gives a short laugh.
It’s obviously his idea of an off-hand little joke, but all the same, anger surges in my chest. It isn’t just that Jonathan and Patricia have been sitting on their arses nearly the whole time I’ve been here, but the fact that everyone in the office knows that I should have got the credit for the Blundell sale.
‘I thought you’d like to know, by the way,’ he adds with a little smirk, ‘Fred Blundell was arrested two days ago for smuggling stolen artwork into the UK. The only property he’ll be buying is an eight by ten cell in Wormwood Scrubs.’
‘Oh no!’ The moral high ground liquidates under my feet. ‘Poor Fred and Mary – they seemed so nice. And keen.’
‘Just as well,’ he says. ‘The vendors have decided to remarket the Bristol penthouse – since the Blundells offered the asking price, they think they can get 3.5 in the new year.’
‘Oh.’ I hang my head. His eyes follow me as I turn away. I can’t face him; there’s nothing to say. I’m officially back to square one.
‘Amy,’ he says as my hand is on the door knob.
‘Yes?’
‘Here are the keys for tomorrow.’ He holds out two envelopes and client intake forms. I force myself to meet his eyes as I take them.
‘And Amy…’
‘Yes.’
‘Good luck.’
Biting my lip, I leave his office.
*
The Blundell incident is a setback (and, I acknowledge, more for them than for me) but I’m determined to bounce back – and I have a plan. First, I bow out of tentative arrangements to go to the pub with Claire. Then I ring Mum and tell her not to expect me for dinner. After work, I creep along in the Bath rush-hour traffic, but instead of turning towards home, I take a detour: to Rosemont Hall.
Rain pelts against the windscreen as I drive slowly through the gates and up the long drive, the trees skeletal in the beam of the headlights. At the top of the low hill, my heart begins to speed up in anticipation of seeing the dark silhouette of the chimneys against the sky.
Instead, the house is ablaze with light.
I slam on the brakes, imagining for a second that the house is on fire. It takes me a second to realise that it’s just the lights on inside the house, glowing yellow out of the large symmetrical windows. Someone is inside. Which means that I should turn around and go home. But what if Mrs Bradford is wreaking havoc in advance of tomorrow’s viewing? What if she or her huge dog, Captain, goes on a rampage inside?
I pull up in front of the house. A Mercedes that I’ve never seen before is parked outside. Surely Mrs Bradford wouldn’t drive a fancy car (and she looks too old to drive at all). Mr Kendall drives a Beamer so that leaves… who?
As I get out of the car, the cold rain lashes my face. I run across the gravel forecourt and shelter beneath the door architrave. I ring the bell – if necessary I can pretend to be lost. Inside, there’s a faint echo of chimes.
I wait. No one comes.
I ring the bell again.
It’s all very odd. I could leave, but what if something really is wrong? As I’m about to peek inside the front windows, the door creaks open.
‘Oh!’ My hand flies to my mouth and I stifle a scream.
- 16 -
It’s her – the woman in the painting!
The orange rectangle of light inside the door frames her face as she stares at me with those huge blue eyes that I would recognise anywhere. She’s even wearing dusty pink – though as reality begins to dawn, I see that it’s a cashmere cardigan rather than a silk gown. Her auburn hair falls loosely around her face but in a long bob rather than curls. Her pink bow-shaped mouth, outlined with dark lip liner, is gaping open at my shocked reaction. I squint like I’m trying to recognise a long-lost friend. It can’t really be her, so it can only be—
‘Ms Flora?
’ I say.
‘Who are you?’
Her voice is nasal and American and immediately I know that I’ve guessed right: she’s one of the two heirs of Rosemont Hall. The one who’s come over to strip it bare while her brother, Mr Jack, does a deal with the devil.
‘Hi,’ I say with a smile. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was in the neighbourhood so I thought I would pop around and—’
She puts her hands on her hips. ‘And you are?’
‘I’m Amy Wood, the estate agent.’ I make a half-hearted attempt to fluff my wet hair, and hold out my hand. She doesn’t take it. I realise that in my windblown, rain-battered state, I must look more like a tramp than a competent professional. ‘Someone is coming around tomorrow to view the house,’ I say, trying to salvage my dignity. ‘If that’s okay with you, that is. I dropped by to make sure everything is in order.’
‘Oh?’ She raises a perfectly waxed eyebrow.
‘Mr Kendall didn’t seem to know when you were coming – he thought in a few weeks. So when I saw the lights on, I was afraid that Mrs Bradford, the housekeeper, might be making mischief. But I won’t disturb you if you’re busy. I can just leave…?’
The woman in the doorway stares at me with her striking eyes as if unable to decide if I’m friend or foe. Had it not been cold and rainy, I might not have cared which way she leaned. But as it is, I’d like to come inside out of the rain.
Warily, she opens the door. ‘I guess you can come in, Ms Wood.’
‘Please – call me Amy.’
Shivering, I step inside the hallway. It’s just as cold inside the house as out. A little puddle of water forms at my feet on the grimy marble floor. The woman stands there, and neither of us seem to know what to say.
‘I’m Flora MacArthur,’ she says finally. ‘Just call me Flora – I hate all that “Ms Flora” stuff the lawyer uses.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
The awkward moment lasts until finally she directs me into the library. I follow her, noticing that she’s placed little round pink stickers on some of the furniture and old books.
There’s a bitter chill in the room – she’s propped the window open with a pile of books.
‘I’m selecting things to go to the special auction at Christie’s,’ she explains. ‘Before my brother gets here.’
‘Oh, is Mr Jack coming here too?’ I stifle a grimace. He’s probably planning a meeting with Hexagon to dispose of the property – like a modern-day Mr Jasper in The Mystery of Edwin Drood who secretly wishes to ravish his ward. I have no desire to meet him in person. But as I look around at all the pink stickers, I realise that maybe I’ve been handed a chance on a dusty silver platter.
‘I’m sure you and your brother must both be thrilled to have inherited this house,’ I fib. ‘It’s such an amazing place. A truly unique architectural gem. It will be lovely once there’s a family to live here again and appreciate it. I’m so glad you’ve decided to let us market it rather than selling it to developers…’ I purse my lips into an exaggerated cringe, ‘…who will only strip away its character, carve it up, and ruin it.’
She frowns and I fear I’ve gone too far. ‘Didn’t the lawyer tell you?’ she says. ‘The house needs to be sold quickly. The taxes on it are outrageous. And as for who buys it – well – frankly I couldn't care less as long as we get a good price. My brother’s in touch with someone who wants to build a golf course or something. He says they sound serious. Fingers and toes crossed that they make an offer.’
I try to reconcile this cold, money-grubbing woman with the young woman in the portrait. Looking closely, Flora is older than I thought when she first answered the door. Faint wrinkles crease her eyes, and her face and neck are late-30s-thin. She’s old enough that she ought to be able to appreciate exactly what she’s got, but clearly she doesn’t – nor does her brother. Aren’t Americans, of all people, supposed to be gaga over classic English houses? Lucky me to have found the two bad apples in the barrel!
‘Besides,’ she says, ‘I think the house is hideous. So big and clunky. And cold. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to live here. I’m here to sell the furniture and Jack can deal with the rest.’ She sticks a pink sticker on an antique mantel clock.
‘The house may not be to everyone’s taste,’ I say through my teeth, ‘but a developer will always try to undercut you – I’ve heard that the golf course people have another possible site on the other side of Little Botheringford. But if you find the right private buyer – well…’ I shrug theatrically, ‘there are some people who will pay a big premium to get their hands on a place like this. Like the people I’m seeing tomorrow, for example.’
I’m talking knee-deep rubbish, that’s for sure. But Flora looks interested.
‘What do you mean?’
I give up all pretence of the truth. ‘In England, you see, it’s all about class. People will often pay over the odds for a status symbol, even if the house is big and cold. Loads of people will be interested – politicians, pop stars, actors – I read somewhere that Johnny Depp bought a house near here. Practically a neighbour.’
Flora’s jaw creeps down.
‘And then there are the foreign buyers: Japanese, Arabs, Russians,’ I add. ‘They’re always looking for something unique and aspirational. Of course, you could make a quick quid – buck, I mean – by letting Hexagon take it off your hands for a song if they think you’re desperate to sell.’ I shake my head and tsk. ‘But you’d be leaving heaps of money on the table.’
‘That’s not what the lawyer says. He says that it needs too much work for anyone to buy it as a home.’
‘I expect his fee for the estate administration is the same either way.’
‘Hmmm.’ Flora looks around at the room as if seeing it for the first time. ‘How much time would it take – to get all that money for it?’
‘It’s hard to say. The market for country properties is improving a lot. Originally, we’d arranged with Mr Kendall to market it for three months. I’ve got several interested parties. But a special place like this – it won’t sell overnight.’
‘Hmmm.’
I decide to push my luck.
‘In fact, you might want to wait a bit before clearing everything out. The furniture and artwork might help sell the place – it’s the little touches that might tempt the right buyer.’ I secretly hope that the girl in the portrait appreciates my efforts to save her home. ‘Though I’m all for you clearing out the clutter,’ I hasten to add.
She purses her lips. I know I’ve got her.
‘I suppose we could hold off until March,’ she says, ‘as long as some of the furniture is sold. And as long as my brother doesn’t get some ridiculous notion of playing Lord of the Manor before it sells.’
Lord of the Manor. From the little I know about her brother, Jack, that doesn’t seem very likely.
‘When is he coming over?’ I ask nonchalantly.
‘Who knows?’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Jack’s in computers. He works in Silicon Valley and teaches up-and-coming tech geeks at Stanford. He’s always working on some amazing gadget or another. Or meeting with investors, or shareholders, or helping out some charity. I have no idea when he’s going to find time to come over here.’
I consider this new information about Mr Jack. He must be pretty savvy to teach at one of the top universities in America. I reimagine him: skinny with receding hair and pasty skin, wearing a turtleneck sweater, a blazer and cowboy boots. And little wire-rimmed glasses like Bill Gates. He’ll drive a convertible accessorised with a lithesome blonde undergrad, and they’ll spend their weekends living the California dream: playing eighteen holes at a seaside golf course with the university trustees. It’s no wonder that a falling-down old house in England holds no appeal for him. Hopefully he won’t bother to come over here at all.
‘I can see that all of this must be very inconvenient,’ I say.
‘Inconvenient?’ She sniffs. ‘It’s a great big pain in the rear. The sooner
we’ve offloaded this place, the better.’
I give her my best smile. ‘I’m sure it will all work out. Just give me a chance to do my job. I won’t let you down.’
‘Why do you care so much?’
‘It’s my job to get the best price for my clients. But beyond that…’ I hesitate – she may not understand, but it seems important to put it into words. ‘I feel that the house is special. I used to teach English literature. It reminds me of all the old houses in the books I love. Books like Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Rebecca.’ I find myself blushing. ‘They may be romantic, but they’re classics too.’
Flora wrinkles her nose. ‘I think we had to read some of those in high school. They were really boring.’
‘I know they’re old-fashioned. But the houses are characters just as much as the people. They have personality, and history. It would be a shame if Rosemont Hall was lost to posterity just because something had to be done quickly.’
Her blue eyes narrow.
‘And the women in those stories dealt with great obstacles. I think it would be fascinating to learn about the real people who lived here – like the girl in the painting on the landing. You look a bit like her.’
‘I do?’
‘Yes, haven’t you seen it?’
She shakes her head. I gesture for her to follow, hoping I’m doing the right thing. I’m sure that when she sees the portrait, it will be like looking in a mirror. She follows me up to the landing at the top of the stairs.
‘Just here.’
I stand aside to give her space. She cocks her head, stares at the picture for a few seconds, and finally, looks at me. ‘I don’t see any resemblance,’ she says.
Finding Home Page 13
