And when Jack phones me from the airport and asks me if everything is ready for the grand opening, I can honestly say that barring any surprises, it is.
The morning of the grand opening dawns bright and crisp. Dad’s wisteria casts a purple glow outside my bedroom window and all the birds in the garden are chattering that summer’s almost here. I dress in old clothes in case I have to muck in with any last-minute jobs, but I have a new dress (red silk sheath with matching heels and fancy hat) in a plastic bag to take with me. Mum cooks me breakfast and I give her and Dad a kiss (and a 15-minute fully interactional walk-through of the map to Rosemont Hall – my dad is rubbish with directions), and then I’m off.
Even a year on, when I drive through the freshly painted iron gates and glimpse Rosemont Hall from a distance, I still get the same electric thrill as the first time I saw it. Only now, instead of a sad and forbidding edifice riddled with dry rot and unhappy secrets, to me it seems transformed – just as I am. The brickwork on the outside has been thoroughly cleaned and repointed, and the nymphs now frolic in a playful spray of water in the fountain. The hedges have been trimmed, and the beds replanted with roses and bee-friendly flowers.
I park at the edge of the widened gravel area – the temporary parking area until the new car park is completed out of view of the house. I get out of the car and savour the silence, the sunlight, and the feeling that I’m in the place where I belong.
I enter the house and spend the next few hours handling some last-minute mini-disasters that require my attention: scones from the ‘Cup o’ Comfort’ that didn’t rise; two temp waitresses who haven’t turned up; a power failure in the posh Portaloos; a loose paving stone by the front door.
I deal with each of them in turn, and manage to sneak off and change into my dress just before the camera crew of Country House Rescue arrives. Over the last year, the new presenter has helped me perfect the business plan for Rosemont Hall and the show has generated nationwide publicity for the newest local tourist attraction.
I leave the crew to set up and give the volunteer guides a final briefing. I talk them through the draft historical guide to the house that I’ve written, and show them the glass cases where the Windham letters and the artist’s sketchbook have been preserved. When that’s finished, I relax for a few minutes and sample all the food in the marquee.
It’s not long before the office staff of Tetherington Bowen Knowles (minus Claire, but including Mrs Harvey’s niece, Sally, with a rosy-faced toddler tucked in a pram) arrives. Alistair Bowen-Knowles greets me with a handshake and a brief glance down at my chest. Jonathan sniffs and commandeers a roving waitress with a tray full of champagne flutes. As he passes them around, I reflect for a moment on how much I owe to my beloved former work colleagues. Without their indifference to that long-ago telephone call from Mr Kendall, I wouldn’t be where I am today. When everyone has a glass, I raise mine and propose a toast: ‘Here’s to estate agents,’ I say, ‘and to finding our clients the perfect homes.’
‘Hear hear.’
We clink our glasses together and I feel a little twinge of nostalgia. But it only lasts a second. Alistair Bowen-Knowles, Jonathan, and Patricia all are off to schmooze some of my former clients that have come for the occasion: Ronan and Crystal (the latter resplendent in a hot pink mini-dress and matching fishnets); Mr Patel; Mary and Fred Blundell. The band starts playing, and more and more people arrive: the Wakefields (who have found a lovely little cottage only about a mile away); and then, my parents. Mum gushes to anyone who will listen about how the restoration of Rosemont Hall is all down to me.
‘Thanks, Mum, but really, it wasn’t just me,’ I say. ‘Lots of people helped out.’
‘Nonsense,’ she says. ‘Credit where credit is due. And make sure that boyfriend of yours takes you out for a nice dinner later.’ She winks at Dad. ‘We were hoping to have the bungalow to ourselves for tonight.’
‘Oh, I’ll definitely be very late,’ I say, hiding a shudder. Now that the renovations are over, I really need to get back to searching for a flat…
A little later, Claire arrives with Raj and her son in tow. ‘Well, well…’ she gives me a hug, ‘I’m starting to see why you fell for this place. It really is quite something.’
I hand her a glass of champagne. ‘It is,’ I say, smiling broadly.
‘And how are you coming on with the book?’ During the last year, Claire has indulged me by reading some of my draft chapters. Her honest, no-holds barred, Earth-to-Amy comments have sometimes stung a little, but I’ve come to accept that – just occasionally – I need help getting my head out of the clouds.
‘It’s good – I think. I sent it off to three agents last week. Fingers crossed and all that.’
Rolling her eyes, she gives me a quick hug. ‘I’m sure it’s better than good, Amy. Remember, you just have to believe it here.’ She taps her chest. ‘You deserve good things.’
‘Thanks Claire, but there is one important thing missing.’ I make a point of checking my watch. Everything seems to be going to plan, but secretly, I’m worried. Jack’s flight was due to arrive at Heathrow at 6:55 a.m. It’s nearly 2 p.m. and there’s still no sign of him.
‘You mean the dashing hero?’ Claire shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t worry. It’s his house – he’s sure to be here.’
I don’t bother to correct her – the house belongs to the trust, and to all the people of this fine land. Jack Faraday, however, still has a right to live here under the charter documents, and a suite of as yet unrestored rooms on the first floor has been allocated to him. Mrs Bradford also has the right to a room in the house, but so far, she’s decided to stay on with Gwen. I visit her at least once a week for a ‘cuppa’ (and to dust the high shelves), and she comes and goes from the main house as she pleases. She’s been teaching me how to bake scones and also how to sew cushions and curtains. She’s also an invaluable source of information about how the house looked back in the day. Sure, she talks to herself, and sometimes has two-sided arguments with Arabella; she’s tried to run more than one workman off the project; and Captain, her humongous St Bernard, just adores sleeping in the canopy bed on the first floor, rumpling the blankets and chewing old books (in fact, he was the culprit all along). But those things aside, I think we’ve earned the right to call each other friends. And who knows… I’m keeping my fingers crossed that, someday, we might even be family.
As I’m dealing with a minor crisis of a spilled glass of red wine on a freshly polished parquet floor, I spot her hovering around the bar with Captain slobbering at her feet. She’s cackling to the bartender, who keeps refilling her glass with an amber colour liquid. Although it’s not on the bar menu, I’m pretty sure it’s whisky.
She catches my eye and waves her cane at me. ‘Amy Wood,’ she half-shrieks. ‘Poking your nose into anything and everything, as usual, I see.’ Her smile is crooked but warm. ‘Sit down, have a drink. Enjoy yourself!’
‘Thanks.’ I take the drink she hands me and we clink glasses. But in truth, I’m too on edge to relax or enjoy myself. Jack still hasn’t arrived. It’s increasingly difficult to keep smiling and making small talk. The band is playing swing tunes and people are dancing. One or two guests begin to leave.
‘Now off with you,’ she says. ‘And keep your chin up. If a thing is meant to be, then it will be.’ She gives my hand a squeeze and turns back to the bartender. I weave my way through the crowd, hoping, by some miracle, what’s ‘meant to be’ is that I’ll spot Jack. I don’t. Instead, I see Mr Kendall. He waves at me with the programme of events in his hand and I walk over to him.
‘It’s amazing what you’ve done here, Amy,’ he says, beaming. ‘You’ve saved the place single-handedly. It’s going to be a real success now, I can tell.’
‘Not single-handedly.’ I blush. ‘Jack and Mrs Bradford’s money helped a lot.’
‘Yes, but it took more than money. It took the right person – someone to perform a genuine labour of love. From the start, it’s like
you belonged here, just as much as any marble floor or fancy fireplace. You’re a proud feature of the house, Amy.’ He smiles. ‘And certainly… original.’
‘Well—’ I grab a glass of champagne (only my second of the day) from a tray, ‘thanks a lot for saying that. I just wish—’
Maybe the bubbly goes down the wrong way, or maybe the emotions of the day have finally taken their toll. But suddenly, I’m sputtering and fighting back tears.
‘What?’ Mr Kendall looks concerned.
‘I just wish Jack were here. He was supposed to be here at noon. I don’t know what happened.’
‘Ah,’ Mr Kendall says. ‘Jack.’ He sighs.
‘What? Is something the matter?’
‘Well, you know Jack…’ he raises an eyebrow, ‘—he’s always full of surprises.’
Something in his manner sets off a cascade of panic in my chest. ‘You mean he’s not coming?’ I can barely swallow, but somehow manage to drink down the glass of champagne. ‘All this— and he’s not coming?’
Mr Kendall shakes his head. ‘I believe he was detained. That’s all I know. But anyway, you’ve still got to attend to the business at hand.’ He points to something on the programme of events. ‘It’s 2 p.m. According to this, it’s time for you to give your speech.’
He takes me by the arm and steers me up towards the podium. He’s right – it’s my job to get up on stage and thank everyone for coming, but I just can’t do it – not right this second. I—
It’s too late. The band stops playing and the dance floor begins to clear. I’m standing there at the edge of a vast space with Mr Kendall at my arm.
‘No,’ I whisper, ‘I need a minute.’
Mr Kendall squeezes my arm. ‘Come on Amy, this is your moment.’
I know he’s right. I step forward and tap the microphone.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I say. Everyone looks up at me and my nerves vanish. I feel a warm flush of pride, knowing that I belong up here. I can do this.
‘I’d like to welcome you all to the grand opening of Rosemont Hall and thank you so much for coming today.’ I scan the faces of friends and strangers alike, and can’t keep from smiling. ‘For those of you who don’t know the whole story, let me just say that a little over a year ago, Rosemont Hall was a house in peril – no offense to any golfers in the room.’
I enjoy the laughter that filters through the crowd.
‘But after a lot of hard work, put in by a number of dedicated people, I honestly think that we’ve achieved the best possible result for this national treasure.’
My estate agent friends give a little cheer. And then suddenly, my mind goes blank. Jack should be here. The next part of my prepared speech is about him.
‘And, umm… anyway, if I tried to thank everyone that made today possible, we wouldn’t have time for any more drinking or dancing,’ I say. ‘But rest assured, each and every one of you are playing your part in the ongoing story of Rosemont Hall. Especially…’ my voice falters. I sense Mr Kendall take a step closer to my side for moral support—
And at that moment, the door flaps at the back of the marquee part and Jack steps through. His smile is devastating as Mr Kendall gestures him to the front.
And then he’s there – at my side. My knees go weak with joy.
‘I don’t want to steal your thunder,’ he whispers in my ear. ‘But I’d like to say a few words. Is that okay?’
I nod, my hand trembling as I pass him the microphone.
He gives it a tap and then begins to speak. ‘For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Jack Faraday. While some people may say I’ve got no right to be here…’ he winks at his grandmother, Mrs Bradford, who downs a shot of whisky and clacks her dentures in response, ‘…sometimes, things turn out a little differently than one might expect.’
There’s a smattering of laughter and murmuring in the crowd.
‘A year ago, I would have done just about anything to get shot of this place. To me it was a decaying white elephant on the wrong side of the Atlantic from everything I knew. Whether it became a golf course or just crumbled to dust was all the same to me. But then, like Saul on the road to Damascus, someone opened my eyes. Someone with a passion for history and heritage, who was willing to fight for the things that matter. Someone who cares not just about houses, but about people too. Someone who is the heart and vision behind the new Rosemont Hall. Ladies and gentlemen, please raise your glasses to Amy Wood.’
‘Hear hear!’ There’s a general hum in the crowd and the clinking of glasses. Jack takes my hand and smiles at me. I feel warm all over – a cosy sort of warmth like my heart has curled up in front of a fireplace. But just then, Jack lets go of my hand and taps the microphone again. The crowd goes quiet.
‘But there’s one additional piece of business that I’d like to settle while Amy’s up here in front of you all,’ he says.
I look at him quizzically. We’ve both said our pieces, and I’m anxious to leave the stage.
‘When I first met Amy, she thought I was going to tear Rosemont Hall apart brick by brick – and she hated me for it.’ He winks at me and my insides liquefy.
‘In fact, ever since then, I’ve given her a lot of reasons to be annoyed with me, infuriated, and generally pissed off,’ he grins, ‘– not least of which because I was very late today.’
The crowd chuckles when I nod my head.
‘But just like Amy’s been preparing for this day, I’d like to assure her that I was delayed due to some preparations of my own.’
Someone (Dad!) whistles.
‘Because apparently, some jewellers in London don’t open until eleven o’clock.’
Everyone including me gasps as he takes out a small velvet box. ‘So, in spite of all the water under the bridge, Amy, I hope that you can still find it in your heart to love me, even half as much as I love you.’
He opens the box – there’s a ring of pink and blue sapphires surrounded by diamonds and seed pearls in a Victorian setting. My hands tremble as he slips it on my finger. ‘It’s not a family heirloom,’ he says. ‘But I hope that someday it will be. Amy Wood – will you marry me?’
And there, right there in front of my guests, the staff, my parents, my former co-workers, Mrs Bradford, the TV cameras, God and everyone, I grab him by the collar and kiss him silly.
He’s laughing as we finally come up for air. ‘So what do you say?’ he points the microphone in my direction. ‘Has Rosemont Hall got its love story? And have you got your happy ending?’
‘Yes!’ My heart is bursting with joy. ‘Oh yes.’
And the crowd cheers as Jack leads me off stage and out the back of the marquee. The band starts up again and I can’t feel the ground beneath my feet as we walk across the lawn to the front of the house. And I still can’t speak as he waves goodbye to the visitors behind us, and takes me by the hand into the house. He leads me through a door marked ‘Private’ and up the back stairs; laughing and stealing kisses. And in that moment, overwhelmed by love and desire; I know that I’ve been given such an incredible gift.
I’ll be coming here again. I’ll be coming… home.
THE END
~
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Author's Note and Acknowledgements
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Author’s Note and Acknowledgements
Rosemont Hall is a fictional house, but there are thousands of historic houses that have been lost or are in peril in the UK. For more information about country houses at risk and an archive of these lost treasures, please see Matthew Beckett’s excellent blog and website: thecountryseat.org.uk. Other invaluable resources include the National Trust, the Landmark Trust, and English Heritage, whose many employees and volunteers wo
rk tirelessly to preserve our heritage and make it part of our future.
This book was inspired by my family’s three-year long quest to find our perfect home, which took in a 100-mile radius of London and made us the bane of numerous estate agents – I very much applaud the spirit and positivity of estate agents everywhere who, day in and day out, deal with people like us, and the ups and downs of matching people and property. Any mistakes I’ve made in describing such a difficult job are purely my own.
There are many people who have helped and supported me to ensure that Finding Home ‘found a home’. I loved writing this book – which is a good thing, since it took me over six years. In 2012, the opening chapters were short-listed in the ‘Undiscovered’ Competition at Novelicious.com, and it was this tiny kernel of success that helped keep me going through the long, dark night of a writer trying to get published.
I hope you’ll forgive me a little ‘Oscar’ moment as I have many people to thank. First, my writing group: Ronan Winters, Chris King, David Speakman, Francisco Gochez and my dear friend Lucy Beresford. We’ve been going for ten years now (in various incarnations), and we’ve laughed, argued, cried, and drank a lot of red wine. Second, I’d like to thank my agent, Anna Power, for sticking with me through ups and downs, and introducing me to the amazing Caroline Ridding and her team at Aria (Head of Zeus) who had a vision for the novel, and the courage to back an unknown horse.
Next, it goes without saying – which is why it’s so important to say it! – thank you to my family – the unsung heroes. Living with a writer means tolerating an entire cast of ‘imaginary friends’ that you haven’t met and can’t interact with. I know I’d struggle to do it! Your love and support mean everything.
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