The Property of a Gentleman: One House. Many secrets.

by Catherine Gaskin

  I was conscious of two things as I followed: that Gerald had said all Robert Birkett’s mistresses had been beautiful, and that the great white dog that had appeared like a phantom in front of the car at the birch copse, the dog that Gerald had not seen, belonged to the family of these great hounds.

  CHAPTER 2

  I

  It was grandeur, and the beginning of decay. We sat in the library, and Gerald had his Martini exactly as he liked it – the Condesa was expert at that – and my heart ached over the ominously dark stain of damp in the plaster over one corner of the huge room. Save for the fireplace wall, and the great oblong windowed alcove, it was lined with mahogany bookcases, with faceted glass fronts. They had been built in place, probably some time in the middle nineteenth century, and behind the glass was the dull gleam of gold-stamped bindings. Under the windows were great monsters of ugly iron radiators, which gave out a faint heat. The velvet curtains above them were crimson, faded to a pinkish white in the folds; the covers of the chairs and sofas were thin to the point of shredding, the flowered patterns of fifty years ago all faded to a uniform greyness. I was not part of the conversation; Gerald was explaining how we had happened to come over the mountain instead of through Kesmere. I roamed the room, glass in hand, now, at last with the drive over, a Martini like Gerald’s. There was a single tall prunus vase on top of one section of the bookcases, and I was trying to look at it closer, but the room was lighted only by two sconces on the fireplace wall, and two rather ordinary, cheap standard lamps; the vase was lost high in the shadows. I moved slowly back to my chair, walking the perimeter of the room, and seeing, with a sense of sickening disappointment, that under the corner where the stain of damp was, the books in the cases also were marked with the tell-tale stain; pale vellum bindings bore the same horrible mark. I wondered if they would survive handling. But that was not to be tested, not now. Lord Askew must have watched my progress. ‘They’re all locked, I’m afraid. I must ask where the keys are.’ Then he shrugged. ‘Perhaps no one knows any more.’

  A lifting of Gerald’s eyebrows told me to mind my own business. But of course, this was our business. The room held more than books. Despite its size, it was crowded. Interspaced between the decaying sofas and armchairs with the creaking springs, arranged with no eye to displaying them to advantage, were some of the most beautiful single pieces of furniture I had ever seen. Mainly French, I thought – Louis XIV and Louis XV – marquetry tables, writing tables and bureaux plats, even two magnificent bow-fronted commodes, placed awkwardly back-to-back, a delicate little tricoteuse mounted with porcelain plaques shoved, almost cheek-by-jowl with a tall brass-mounted secretaire whose marquetry work was like a song in wood. They all stood about, like pieces in some phantasy furniture shop, unrelated, none with space to show itself off, a collector’s dream, a guardian’s nightmare when one remembered the fatal combination of the invading damp, and the big iron radiators. The sale of almost any one of them, I guessed, would have brought the money to find and fix the place where the damp seeped through the wall, or the weak spot in the roof where half a slate could be missing, or copper or lead peeling back. Under our feet, and as slight cushioning for the great dogs who lay about, were rugs, most of them Persian, but the big main one before the fire, and the one, I thought, in imminent danger of the spluttering, careless sparks, was surely Aubusson. Everywhere my eyes moved there was beauty. A matched pair of mirrors with carved wood and gilt oval frames, some carved wood gilt chairs with rough string tied across them so that no one should inadvertently sit on them. The damask covering on the seats was aged and splitting. Altogether it was a room to send one wild with the thought of seeing its treasures displayed in the salerooms of Hardy’s – a sale that would, I judged, make the category of Highly Important in the catalogues, and bring buyers from all over the world. I began to be impatient. What else was there in this house? And why had no one ever known that these pieces were here? Great collections were not made in the dark, or with dealers being ignorant of them. But then, given Gerald’s story of the kind of family Askew was sprung from, given the location and isolation of this hidden valley at the top end of England, what might not have come to it unknown and unmarked? Hardy’s itself had not begun keeping their own day books in a serious and detailed fashion until about 1820. All this could have been the result of some quick buying when the stream of French émigrées flowed over to England to escape the Revolution, selling what they had to, holding on to what they could until poverty forced the sale. I knew that as long as forty years after the Revolution, articles in the Hardy’s day books recorded some sales under the simple designation of “The Property of a French Nobleman”. I wondered if any bill of sale existed for what I saw about me. But whoever had purchased these beautiful things had done so through no one single agent, or Hardy’s, and the rest of the art world would know something of their existence. I began to realise even more fully the implications of Askew’s invitation to Gerald, his own return to this house he had not entered since the end of the war. The thought was enough to bring the heat of excitement to my cheeks, and to drive out the fatigue. I returned now to my seat near the fire, more anxious to listen to the talk.

  The firelight lovingly played over the carved wood of the great mantel, reached to touch the smooth oval of the Condesa’s face, the outstretched forms of the great dogs, one on each side of Lord Askew’s chair, the others as close to him as the spaces between the furniture permitted – at its full length outstretched, each dog could have measured seven feet. They seemed extraordinarily content, as if in the presence of their master, and yet Askew had returned only a week ago. Surely this great pack must belong to the house; no one could have travelled the world with them. I mused on it as the talk went on about me – places, Rapallo, Marbella, Ocho Rios, Gstaad – friends recalled, acquaintances mentioned. I wasn’t part of the talk, but I didn’t mind. Suddenly, like the dogs, I felt content just to be here.

  It was strange then to see the Condesa shiver and lean farther towards the fire. Of course the filmy dress was not suitable for this house; but whoever brought clothes sensible enough for unheated English houses? Askew also had noticed the gesture, and he was on his feet at once, laying more split logs on the fire. He was smiling at her faintly, that only half-committed smile of his, as he spoke.

  ‘My poor Carlota – it seems a long way from the sun, doesn’t it?’

  He said nothing more, but she seemed warmed by his words. The look which passed between them was its own communication. She was about forty, I guessed, but she had all the smooth grooming of the international beauty whose age is difficult to tell. She had to love him, I thought, or she wouldn’t be here with him – away from the sun.

  The door opened then, and a man stood there, not advancing farther into the room. ‘Mrs Tolson wishes to tell you, my lord, that the rooms are ready. She’s put the young lady in the Spanish Woman’s room.’

  I glanced at the Condesa, wondering if this was some kind of insolent gibe offered to her, not able to believe that such a thing could be said to her in Askew’s presence, or that her own dignity could have permitted it. But neither reacted with any sign of outrage – she was even indifferent, as if it mattered not at all to her where I slept. Evidently the Spanish woman referred to was not she, and all of them understood that.

  ‘Has she, indeed?’ Askew said. His brow knitted for a moment as he considered it. ‘Not the cosiest place, is it?’

  The man half shrugged. He didn’t look in the least like a servant. He was tall and very powerfully built, with a mass of dark hair thickly frosted with grey. His big shoulders were stooped and his arms hung forward. He wore flannel trousers and a tweed jacket, and it was difficult to see his eyes behind the heavy pebble glasses; he had a long, dark, rather melancholy face, a face closed against the coming of strangers. I judged that he was a few years older than the Earl, but he seemed rocklike and monumental by contrast.

  ‘Can’t be helped, my lord,’ he answered. ‘
It’s the driest – at short notice. It’s reasonably close to the bathroom Mr Stanton will use. It hasn’t got water laid on, but there wasn’t any possibility of getting hot water to any of the other rooms – at short notice,’ he tacked on again. His brief glance at me was accusing; I had caused trouble. I was not the expected driver, for whom they had probably prepared a much more comfortable room in the servants’ quarters. ‘At any rate, I’ve got the fires going, and there’s three hot water bottles in the bed. Be comfortable enough, I should say. It stays quite dry, that room. I’ve put the young lady’s bag there – and Mr Stanton’s is in his room. Anything else, my lord?’

  It was the most curious mixture of familiarity and deference. That he was the man in charge of this establishment there was no doubt; that he respected the presence of the titular owner was not questioned either. It was almost the relationship of a tutor to his pupil, patient but not willing to suffer fools gladly.

  Lord Askew gestured with his glass. ‘Nothing, Tolson, nothing. You’ve managed very well, as always. Thank you.’

  The man stepped back and closed the door without another word.

  ‘That was George Tolson. You’ll get used to him – Cumberland independence and all. The place couldn’t have held together without him all these years. He’s seen to everything. Steward and handyman and bookkeeper all in one. It’s a nuisance for him that I’ve come back. Mind you, he believes I never should have left. But my coming this way ... it makes problems. More fires, more hot water, an attempt to push some real heat through the radiators. And, of course, we have to eat, as well. He’s never been a butler, though he’s trying his best now. He was brought up in this house ...’ Askew paused, and in that small instant I saw his eyes scan the room, and seem to go beyond it to the whole house, the lake, the surrounding fells and dales.

  ‘There must have been Tolsons here as long as there have been Birketts. Two of his sons have tenancies of land within this valley, two more have farms at Thirldale, just beyond the gates. That’s about the area of the original estate. It was much bigger once, but we’ve sold off a lot ... I’d like it if the entail would allow me to sell to the Tolsons, because of anyone, they’ve deserved to farm their own land.’ He nodded, as if reinforcing his own words. ‘The Tolsons – they’re strong men, all of them, intelligent and competent. Tough, if you like, as farmers in this area have to be. I wish I could say I’d served any one thing as well as Tolson has served this house, but that wouldn’t be the truth. He and his brother Edward were just a few years ahead of me. My father sensed the good material he had under his hands, and he saw that they both got to the Grammar School in Kesmere. Edward went on to become a solicitor – my father got him articled to a London firm. He made more than a success of it. Handled all the estate business until he died about two years ago – that, and a lot more important things. But George Tolson never had any idea of leaving Thirlbeck. This was his home. He’s become quite a patriarch over the years – I swear he must have chosen all the wives for his sons. If he did, he showed eminently good sense. They’re a clannish lot, but then, there are a lot of them and they like to hang together. Between them, with their tenancies of the estate, and the way they’ve worked together, they’ve kept this valley just about totally closed off from the world. That’s the way my father wanted it though, that’s the way he trained Tolson. I’ve sometimes thought how much better it would have been for my father and Thirlbeck if Tolson had been his son. Things seldom work out that way, do they ...?’ He brought his lips together in a wry smile, something that switched the subject off.

  ‘Now, Carlota, my love, would you be kind and mix another Martini? I’m no good at it, Gerald – too heavy with the vermouth, Carlota says. How can she know when she never drinks them herself? Well, we could all stand a topping up. And then I’ll take you upstairs.’

  She did it with those graceful, almost indolent movements. The chill sharpness of the fresh drink stung my palate, and renewed the sense of warmth that I had experienced before in this strange room. I was oddly at ease, relaxed, almost drowsy. I watched the fire, and the shadowed parts of the room seemed to grow darker; the voices of the others were low-toned, blending sometimes with the gusts of wind that blew down the long funnel of the valley. One of the great hounds licked a muddied paw; all of them seemed to doze, and yet I sensed that they were alert to every movement, and were waiting for the second that Askew would rise. I watched the firelight heighten the colours of the rug, and I looked at my suntanned hand holding the glass; I dreamed of Mexico and the magnificence of the landscape in that high, clear air. Suddenly, with a choking sense of loss, I wished Vanessa were here.

  And then the noises began – a heavy clanging as if metal doors had closed shut. Both Gerald and I straightened, and glanced at Askew.

  He gestured to dismiss the sound. ‘That will be Tolson closing the shutters. He’s contrived to have metal shutters put on all the windows of the rooms on this floor. Part of his idea of security. One of his sons is a very handy mechanic as well as a farmer – knows about tractors and electrical things. I told Tolson that Ted could have made a fortune just fixing things for people – as things go these days. But he farms, and helps to take care of the place, and the shutters were his idea. I think he actually fitted them himself. Very few strangers have ever been in this house – in the valley – since I went away. The Tolsons are almost self-sufficient. George Tolson’s grandchildren are helping run the farms now – some of the boys have left, of course. Not enough farming land to go around. One of the granddaughters lives here in the house, and the others, the daughters-in-law, and the girls who are old enough, have come in to help out since we arrived. Of course it would have been impossible to keep a staff here all these years. So long as this house has to be taken care of, I’m grateful to the Tolsons – all of them. I let Tolson do as he pleases. Nothing has ever gone seriously wrong yet. Carlota thinks – ’

  His words were stopped by more sounds of shutters being closed, a hollow ringing sound that echoed across the hall. Askew rose, and the dogs all scrambled to their feet. It was like seeing an army come alive. He had evidently decided against telling us what the Condesa thought on the subject of Tolson and his family.

  ‘Shall we go up, then? Take your drinks, if you like. Helps to keep the chill out.’ Then he looked down at the Condesa. ‘You stay, my love – no need to leave the fire. I won’t be long.’

  She stretched her slender body in the big chair, and the shining black hair fell forward catching the light of the fire. There was an incredibly sensuous quality to the movement. ‘Yes, I’ll stay. But will you pour me a whisky before you go, Roberto – please?’

  She accepted it from his hand with a lazy, charming smile, and then her eyes went back at once to the fire, as if it were a substitute sun to which she was drawn.

  As we went into the hall we heard another set of shutters clanging with its unmistakable metallic ring.

  II

  Gerald and Askew went ahead of me – talking, and I was taking my time, quite deliberately. At the landing where the two arms of the staircase branched, they waited for me.

  ‘Mostly sixteenth century – except for the pele tower, which might go back to the twelfth. From the top of Great Birkeld up there you can see to the Scottish Border. In the old days they used to keep watch up there for Border raiders. From the church tower at Kesmere, you can just see the top of the pele tower here, if you know where to look – they used to light a beacon if the raiders were sighted. It gave the town a little more time to prepare, and from Kesmere the beacon lights would be passed all along the valleys so that the cattle could be rounded up into safety. Some of the townspeople used to come out here to the pele tower for protection. Very feudal. The Birketts exploited their power in every way possible, I’m afraid. The title dates from Elizabeth’s time, and the first Earl built this house – more fitting, I suppose he thought it, for a nobleman, than sharing the accommodation with the cattle.’ He gestured to the hall below us.
‘They messed up parts of it trying to introduce modern conveniences about fifty years ago – electricity, and bathrooms, and the heating, which never really has worked. But it’s better than outright freezing. But when something goes wrong – and that happens constantly – there’s a devil of a job fixing it because they didn’t leave any plans of what they did. No one knows exactly where the drains go, and all that sort of thing. If you try to repair a wall, you may find the ceiling about to come down on you, or else you’ve blundered into the flue of the chimney of the next room, which has got an unaccountable bend in it. I’m afraid the whole place needs a complete overhaul – but won’t be done in my time. If it is ever done ...’

  ‘What will happen to it?’ I couldn’t help saying it. We looked down on this hall of a beauty to match the exterior of the house, and upward to the sculptured ceiling which I now could see more clearly, and I couldn’t bear the tone of detachment in Askew’s voice, as if he cared not at all what happened to it.

  He shrugged now. ‘I expect it will fall down. It will fall down when there isn’t enough money to keep it together and when the Tolsons’ ingenuity and energy is exhausted. Who knows – perhaps the National Trust will take it. I haven’t offered it, and I don’t know that there’s enough money to endow it, or that I care to spend that much money on it. Perhaps you can end up giving too much to a mere building. Well, it doesn’t concern me very much. Shall we go on?’

  I felt myself almost hating him as he led the way up the rest of the stairs, and to the room that Gerald would occupy. He had treasure all about him, the building itself as well as the pieces of furniture we had already seen, and he didn’t care. I hated his lack of interest, lack of caring. Had the blood gone thin and cold in those veins – was he truly as weary as he looked, too weary to make any effort to save his great inheritance? I didn’t even try to think of what Gerald had told me about him, the tragedies of his life connected with this place, the gallantry he had shown during the war. He didn’t deserve what he had inherited; he hadn’t won it, or earned it, and so it gave back nothing to him.