‘So you didn’t start the fire?’
‘Of course not.’ She glares at me. ‘I was still stupid enough to cling to the hope that I might live at Rosemont Hall. I loved that house. I’d never do anything to harm it.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I was up all night,’ she continues. ‘I didn’t want to believe that it was all over, and if it was, I didn’t want to let Henry off that easily. I wanted to confront him – make him tell me to my face that he no longer loved me and wanted me to go away. But just before dawn, someone knocked on our door. My sister answered. I heard the words: “constable”, “fire”, and “a few questions”. Sir George had stitched me up.’
‘It’s criminal!’ I say.
‘It was convenient. There was nothing I could do. I had to think of the baby – I couldn’t go to jail for something I didn’t do.’
‘Of course not. And the lighter that the surveyor found – that was the one you gave Henry?’
‘Yes.’ She shrugs. ‘All those years and suddenly it shows up. Along with you.’ She stops talking and stares into her empty tea cup. ‘Anyway – that’s it. I left.’
Tears of indignation well up in my eyes. She must have felt so lost in those terrible days after the fire: all alone on a slow boat to America, holed up in steerage with a fatherless baby in her belly and grief in her heart. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.
She looks up at me, the steel back in her face. ‘The rest is history…’ she makes a sweeping gesture with her hand. ‘And now, Amy Wood, you know it.’ She begins to lever herself out of the chair with her cane. Captain – I’d almost forgotten he was there – jumps to his feet and crouches behind her, growling in his throat.
‘But that’s not the end of the story, is it, Mrs Bradford?’ I say. ‘You came back to England, all those years later. Why did you do that?’
With a tetchy sigh, she sits back down in the chair. Captain lies at her feet, eyeing me like I might be lunch.
‘I came back because this is where I belong. But I waited too long. Henry was an old man.’
‘What happened between the two of you?’
‘She’d had her claws into him for all those years. Arabella. She hated Rosemont Hall – thought it was too big, too draughty, too empty – the two of them knocking about like old bones. She didn’t care if it fell to ruin. It’s no wonder that he suffered a stroke.’
‘But when you saw him, didn’t he mention the letters that he wrote? Did he ask you why you never responded?’
She shakes her head. ‘It wasn’t like that. By the time I returned, he barely even knew me. I guess…’ her bold voice waivers for a second, ‘that I must have changed too. I wasn’t “Annie” anymore – not the one that he still had in his mind.’
‘You were apart for a long time.’ I bow my head, thinking how empty and hollow those years must have been.
‘Yes,’ she muses. ‘A lifetime.’
‘But he did leave the house to Jack and Flora.’
‘And do you think he did that out of the goodness of his heart?’ She lets out a brittle laugh.
‘No, but…’ I hold my breath, recalling Jack’s suspicions of blackmail.
‘He extracted his price, believe me.’
‘And what was that?’
‘That Arabella never be told about my daughter, of course. And that I stick around until Arabella died and look after her.’
‘So that’s why you did it?’
‘Can you think of any other reason?’
‘Yes.’ I smile wistfully. ‘Because Rosemont Hall is your home.’
She raises a bristly eyebrow but says nothing.
‘You had to come back, didn’t you? Despite the terrible thing that happened to you, you came back here. Henry loved you – his letters prove that. He didn’t think you set that fire. He wanted you to live with him – at Rosemont Hall. But it couldn’t be. Sir George hurt him too. Hurt everyone, from the sounds of it.’
‘So?’
‘So you braved the humiliation and the upheaval. The thousands of miles and all the years. You did what you had to do in order to come back to Rosemont Hall. Its heart resonates with yours. You can’t just let it go.’
‘Well it’s not my choice, is it?’ Her tone is sarcastic, but her eyes are shiny and moist.
‘I think you need to tell them your story – Jack, Flora, your daughter. You deserve to have them know the truth, and they deserve to know. Yours was the great love story of Rosemont Hall.’
‘They’re not interested,’ she says. ‘It’s ancient history.’
‘It’s not ancient history. It’s their history! The house is part of you, and it’s part of them too. Like it or not.’
She stands up, leaning against her cane, her hand quavering with the strain of her years. Captain gets to his shaggy feet, standing loyally by her side.
‘You’re a dark horse, Amy Wood, that’s for sure. You clearly read too many novels, but your heart is in the right place.’ She sighs. ‘But for me, it was never about the house. It was Henry that I loved – I was no gold-digger; or home-wrecker neither. And in the end, it was no great love story, was it? Henry made his choice all those years ago. All I did was make sure that he did the right thing and left the house to his true heirs – the flesh and blood that he never knew he had.’
‘I understand.’
‘And in return, it seemed right that I respected his last wish that someone take care of Arabella. By then, we were just two old ladies. We drank sherry, played backgammon, watched Countdown, and saw who could do the crossword the quickest. What came before hardly mattered. We were content enough together.’ A tear dribbles down her cheek. ‘I miss her.’
I reach out and give her gnarled hand a squeeze.
Smiling sadly, she squeezes my hand back and then withdraws. ‘I said much the same to Jack when he came to give me the letters. He spouted some drivel about how he was finally starting to understand how I felt about Rosemont Hall.’
‘Jack said that?’
‘He never would have realised it on his own. I think someone opened his eyes.’ She chuckles. ‘Now, I wonder who that could have been?’
Her blue eyes meet mine. She knows about Jack and me.
‘Um, right,’ I mutter, my cheeks glowing pink.
‘I told him that I’m settling in to the cottage, thank you very much. I have a comfortable chair in front of a cosy inglenook fireplace; a reading lamp with a green glass shade; a brass bed with a handmade quilt; and an Aga that actually works.’
‘It sounds lovely.’
‘And she has a TV with Sky,’ she adds proudly.
‘Great.’ I smile.
‘Though… I can hear Gwen snoring through the wall.…’
‘Oh – well, here…’ I dig into my handbag and find a new box of earplugs I bought. I set it on the table in front of her. She looks down at it warily, then picks up the box and puts it in the pocket of her bulky cardigan.
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you stop by for a cuppa sometime?’ As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she looks surprised she said them.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’d like that.’
‘I can always use someone handy with a dust rag to help reach the high shelves.’
‘Sure!’ I grin.
She turns to leave, manoeuvring herself around the bits of paper on the floor.
‘And what about the letters?’ I say.
‘Keep them,’ she says with a wave of her hand. ‘Shove them in an attic, burn them, or read them out at my funeral. Or use them to write your history book. Send me a copy when it’s done – if I’m still alive.’
‘But don’t you want to know how Henry felt about you in his own words?’
Her toothless laugh seems almost sad. ‘Henry Windham is dead and gone. And the house, well…’
She shrugs. The huge dog slinks behind her as she clomps across the room and out the door. Her words hang in the air like restless spirits.
And the house, well
...
- Part Five -
There is a spot, ’mid barren hills,
Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.
The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight's dome;
But what on earth is half so dear–
So longed for–as the hearth of home?
~ Emily Brontë – ‘A little while a little while’
- 42 -
I feel once again like I’ve failed at something important, though, in truth, I don’t know what more I could have done. I pick up the scattered letters and put them back in the bag. Mrs Bradford’s story has shaken me to the core. It’s tragic that ‘the girl in the pink dress’ lived her whole life regretting a failed romance. Is it my fate to do the same?
After paying the bill, I say goodbye to Gwen and leave the café. The next day I go to work, and the day after that. With each day that goes by, I feel like I’m holding my breath.
A few days after my chat with Mrs Bradford, I’m putting concealer under my eyes in the disabled loo after a sleepless night, when my phone rings.
It’s Jack. It’s the first time he’s called me since he left England to return to the States. Just hearing his: ‘Hello? Amy, is that you?’ on the other end of the line turns my knees to jelly. But the connection isn’t great, and he sounds as far away as he actually is.
‘Amy,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner. I wanted to have some news first.’
‘Yes?’ I breathe in sharply.
‘You won’t believe this. Or actually… what am I saying? You of all people will believe it.’
‘Can you speak a bit louder?’ I cup my hand around the earpiece.
‘You were right! Damn it, Amy, it’s a Rembrandt. An honest-to-God real Rembrandt. Called “Orientale”.’ Jack pronounces it ‘Ori-ENT-al. ‘The expert has been working round the clock. He’s done all kinds of tests and research on its provenance. There’s absolutely no doubt.’
I hold the phone away from my ear. I wait for the flood of happy vindication to sweep over me.
It doesn’t come. Instead, I feel an intense regret, like Rosemont Hall has finally given up its last secret. The final thread in the tapestry is complete. But the end is already starting to unravel.
‘It’s amazing, Amy…’ Jack is saying. ‘You really did find buried treasure – a lost Rembrandt! And to think I doubted you. We haven’t known each other long, but already, I’ve learned that when you say something…’
I love you! The words scream out inside my head as the thing I want to say but I can’t. If I’ve learned one thing from Mrs Bradford, it’s that words – whether written on paper or said over a telephone line – don’t make a difference when it truly matters. ‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘so I need to talk to Gran – see what she wants to do with it. It needs a bit of cleaning and restoration, but once that’s done it will be worth a lot of money.’
‘That’s wonderful, Jack,’ I hear myself saying. ‘I’m so pleased that it’s been found. It would have been so tragic if a great work of art really was lost.’
Tell him! You have to tell him.
‘I’m going to suggest that she donate it to a museum,’ Jack continues. ‘Maybe the Tate Britain or the National Gallery. It should be given back to the public. Don’t you agree?’
‘Yes.’ I swallow hard. ‘I do. That’s surely the best result. Then everyone can enjoy it.’ My voice catches.
There’s a pause. ‘Amy? Are you all right? You sound a bit strange.’
‘No, Jack, I’m just overwhelmed by the news. And... everything really.’
‘Okay,’ he says, giving the tiniest of hesitations. ‘Anyway, I’m just on my way to a meeting now, but I wanted you to be the first to know. You’re incorrigible, Amy Wood. Incorrigible, and amazing.’
‘So are you, Jack,’ I manage. ‘And thanks for telling me...’
‘Amy?’
I press the hang-up button with my thumb as the tears begin to roll fast and furiously down my face. ‘I love you,’ I whisper into the dead line.
- 43 -
I half-expect something miraculous to happen – like a curse has somehow been lifted from Rosemont Hall. Mrs Bradford has found out the truth about her lost love, a valuable painting has been recovered. After our conversation, Jack emailed me with the name of the expert in case I wanted to speak to him myself. I make a note of the number, but I don’t call. Even days later, I still find it difficult to make sense of everything that’s happened – or, in reality, not happened.
Because Rosemont Hall is still going to be sold to Hexagon. Jack still lives in America. I haven’t told him how I feel because what’s the point? I’m still living in my parents’ bungalow, working at Tetherington Bowen Knowles, hardly any closer to my original goal of getting my own flat, or going back to teaching. All I have to show for my experience is the memories – and the story that I’ve uncovered.
Which is why one evening after work, I begin writing everything down. I start with the strange premonition I had from the first phone call with Mr Kendall about Rosemont Hall. That somehow, my life would never be the same.
I go on to describe my first impressions of the house: its beauty and grandeur, my sadness that it’s become a white (well, grey and decaying) elephant, and most of all, the strange connection I’ve felt with the house and its history.
I also begin writing Maryanne Bradford’s story down, as much word for word as I can. I transcribe the letters I found and put everything in order so that the story they tell – the schemes, the deceptions and misconceptions, and ultimately the hopes that were never realised – are preserved. I couldn’t save Rosemont Hall, but I can make sure that the truth comes to light. Surely Mrs Bradford – and the other unsung, undocumented women of Rosemont Hall – deserves no less.
Mum comes in from time to time bringing me cups of tea and plates of biscuits. She doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she’s happy to see me in my element – writing – rather than working at a stodgy old estate agency. I keep writing late into the night, and by the time my head starts to droop over the keyboard, I’ve got thousands of words. I go to bed feeling tired, and far from happy, but at least I’m moving forward.
The next day at work, and the next, I keep waiting. Something is going to happen – something…
Three things do happen, but not what I was expecting.
First, I get an instruction from a new client to market and sell another Bristol Docks flat. This one is a quarter the size of the penthouse, but when I visit it, it has the same feeling of light and space, plus a great view of the USS Great Britain. I return to the office feeling upbeat. The flat will surely sell itself, and maybe even prompt a bidding war.
I phone the photographer to arrange the photos for the particulars. No sooner have I hung up the phone when it rings again. It’s Mary Blundell. She tells me that Fred has been released (apparently, the Picasso was a forgery, so his sentence was reduced on appeal from art smuggling to failure to declare an item at customs). They’re in the market for a property. Their budget is now a modest £850,000 (the Picasso forgery was clearly worth something) – but that’s close to the asking price of the new Bristol flat. Within two hours, they’ve ‘found’ some extra cash, made an offer of the asking price, and the vendor has accepted. I’m over the moon! It just goes to show that there’s a right home for everyone, and I’m proud that I’ve helped them find it.
Even better, I calculate that once the Blundells complete on the flat and I’m paid my commission, I’ll have enough money for a down payment on a flat. A modest flat, small, and quaint, maybe with a few original features like a ceiling rose and a fireplace.
Just as I’ve started to check through the files to see if there’s anything like that coming to market, the second thing happens.
A call comes in on my mobile from a number I don’t recognise. It’
s the headmaster of the school in Edinburgh. They want to interview me for the teaching position. With everything that’s happened, I barely even remember sending in my application.
‘Your former advisor says that you’d fit in perfectly at our institution,’ the man says. ‘That you’re bright, and funny, and that you live every moment of the books that you teach.’
‘Um, thanks...’ I say, noting how different this conversation is from the one I had that fateful first day with Mr Bowen-Knowles. ‘I never wanted to leave teaching, but... I assume you know about “the situation”?’
‘You mean that you got sacked?’ He gives a hearty laugh. ‘I like a lass who stands up for her principles. Not that I approve of revenge via mobile phone—’
‘It was more like poor aim.’ Finally, after all these months since it happened, I manage a chuckle.
‘Anyway, we like strong women role models here. When can you come up for a proper interview?’
We settle on a day and time, and I thank the headmaster for considering me for the position. By the time I hang up the phone, my mind is awash with possibilities. I could have another new start, this time in cold, grey, historic Edinburgh. I could rent a flat in an elegant row house made of soot-stained stone, sew tartan curtains for the windows, buy some antique furniture off eBay and take a course in restoration. I could leave behind the world of ‘flexible accommodation’, ‘prime development opportunities’ and ‘exclusive recreational facilities’ and return to my true calling. I’d surround myself with like-minded colleagues with lilting accents, and I’d go back to reading, teaching, and ‘living’ the books I love. I’d work hard at being a positive role model for my students, taking it upon myself to ensure that each “lass” I teach can “stand up for her principles”. In my spare time, I’d hold little soirees for my new friends on Burns Night and Hogmanay. Eventually, maybe I’d meet someone.
Meet someone. That prospect makes me feel like I’ve severed a limb and am slowly bleeding to death.
As a distraction, I login to my personal email and look for the original message with the Edinburgh job description. Surely, I owe it to myself to give it a shot. At the very least, being back in academia should help me get my book published… that is assuming I can muster the will to finish it. Idly I skim over the new messages, deleting the huge amount of spam that has accumulated since I last checked the account. And near the bottom I see a message that’s like a chill wind from the past. The subject is ‘Hey Stranger’ and it’s from Simon.
Finding Home Page 30
