The Proposal

by Tasmina Perry

  She walked slowly around the ground floor of Stapleford, taking in the grandeur – the red drawing room with its crimson velvet drapes and painted ceiling, the library stacked floor to ceiling with leather-bound books – and watching the party guests mingling: the ladies in their fine gowns and the flashing jewels that probably only came out of their safe deposit box one night a year; the gentlemen in their dark suits and their red cheeks; all of them laughing, smiling, seemingly comfortable in this world. Had any of them done things like Clarissa had? Had their fathers or mothers? Was all this smug, easy wealth founded on self-interest and evil? After all, unlike Daniel’s family – one generation of public school and they thought they were the House of Windsor – this was real old money, proper wealth, founded on exploitation and quite possibly corruption. Maybe Clarissa wasn’t alone; perhaps that was what it took to live this way.

  Amy was just passing through the vast entrance hall when she saw her, and her heart jumped. She had demonised Clarissa Carlyle over the last few days, imagined her as some sinister Disney version of a wicked queen; even in the society-pages snaps she’d pulled up on the internet, Clarissa seemed to have a slightly evil gleam in her eye. But in the flesh she was nothing like that. She was just an ordinary woman. Or rather, an ordinary woman who had lived her life in extraordinary luxury. She certainly had that poise, that regal air as she walked towards Amy, helped by her long taffeta dress and the diamonds around her neck. Her bone structure was less fine than Georgia’s, but the family resemblance was clear.

  Oh God, do I really want to do this? thought Amy, wondering for a moment whether she should just walk past, perhaps leave it until the next day. Or the day after that.

  ‘Hello. You’re Will’s new friend, I hear,’ said Clarissa, stopping in front of her.

  Oh hell.

  ‘Yes,’ stammered Amy. ‘I suppose I am.’

  The old woman held out a hand and Amy took a moment to study her. Georgia had revealed that Clarissa had been a secretary at Vogue in her younger days, and that love of fashion certainly shone through now. Looking at the exquisite beadwork and tailoring of her gown, Amy was certain it must be couture.

  ‘Clarissa Carlyle. I’m Will’s aunt.’

  ‘Amy Carrell.’

  ‘Oh, you’re American?’ said Clarissa. ‘How delightful. I was so glad to hear he had a new – what do you call it these days? – partner, is it? He’s such a lovely boy.’

  Amy didn’t think she would achieve much by correcting the old woman, so she just smiled.

  ‘What are you doing wandering around on your own like this?’ Clarissa asked in her cut-glass accent.

  ‘I think Will’s seen this house a million times before. I didn’t want to bore him asking for a guided tour.’

  ‘Our family never tires of showing off the house. It’s quite special. Will tells me you’re a dancer. Did you meet through the theatre? What was Will’s latest project? The one at the Royal Court?’

  The Royal Court? thought Amy. Who’s been hiding his light under a bushel?

  ‘No, we met through a mutual acquaintance,’ she said, knowing that this was her moment. ‘A member of your family. Georgia Hamilton.’

  Clarissa’s face did not move; there was no change in her expression at all – and to Amy, that was more telling than a sneer.

  ‘Georgia?’ she said evenly. ‘How is she?’

  Did she really care? Was she genuinely curious about the cousin she hadn’t seen, barring that glance on Regent Street, in fifty years? She must have thought of Georgia from time to time – how could she not, given the traumatic circumstances of their rift? Or had she really learnt to live with it, to put people and inconvenient events from her mind?

  ‘She’s not too well actually,’ said Amy. ‘In fact she doesn’t think she has very long to live.’

  Now that got a reaction. Clarissa looked as if she had been slapped; her face drained of colour apart from two pink dots in the centre of her cheeks.

  ‘Can’t they do anything?’

  Amy shook her head.

  ‘Apparently not – although she’s not in any pain, and she’s still able to walk and look after herself.’

  ‘That’s something at least,’ Clarissa said, looking down at the floor.

  ‘In fact, we have just been to New York together,’ said Amy.

  ‘New York?’

  ‘Yes, it was something Georgia was desperate to do. I finally found out that she wanted to go there because New York was where she had planned to go on her honeymoon with her fiancé.’

  Clarissa frowned.

  ‘Yes, I heard she had been married.’

  ‘Not that fiancé,’ said Amy. She looked straight at Clarissa. ‘I mean Edward.’

  The old woman shook her head.

  ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t seen Georgia in many years. Do I know Edward?’

  ‘Yes, Clarissa, Edward Carlyle. Your husband’s brother. You might remember him. He’s the one you accused of rape.’

  Amy had heard the expression ‘her face hardened’, but she had never understood it properly until that moment. Clarissa’s features looked as if they had been carved from stone.

  ‘I believe you have confused me with someone else,’ she said in clipped, even tones. If she had been disconcerted, wrong-footed by Amy’s unexpected mention of Georgia, it disappeared in an instant and she was once again the lady of the house, the formidable grande dame.

  Come on, Amy, don’t give in now, she said to herself. She thought of Georgia falling in her flat, the flowers scattering across the carpet; she thought of the story she had told and the look of unhealed pain on her face when she had spoken of Edward, her love, and the fate that had befallen him.

  ‘No, Clarissa,’ she said, meeting the older woman’s gaze, ‘I don’t think I have confused you with anyone else. You do remember Edward, I take it? The man whose life you destroyed? The man who – because of your accusations – was banished to Singapore and his death?’

  ‘I am well aware of the tragedy, young lady. This is my family. I am simply denying your very unpleasant insinuations.’

  ‘Oh, they’re more than insinuations,’ said Amy. ‘They are facts.’

  ‘Facts?’ Clarissa barked harshly. ‘Says who? Georgia? There are no facts here, only slanderous lies, lies that I will vigorously contest if need be. Do not underestimate me, Miss Carrell.’

  Amy shook her head.

  ‘I don’t want you to take me to court, Lady Carlyle. I just want you to tell me the truth. Finally admit what happened that night in 1958. Nothing will change. Not after all these years. You won’t lose your house, your precious title. Even if you don’t want to do it for Georgia or for Edward, do it for yourself. That’s what you’re good at. Looking after number one. Do it now, while you still can. Clear your conscience before it’s too late.’

  ‘How dare you come here, into my house, with these accusations. Georgia’s accusations.’

  ‘Oh no, Georgia has no idea I’m here. She has more dignity than to accuse you of anything. I am here because I saw what your scheme did to her. It broke her in half,’ said Amy, her anger rising. ‘She wasn’t interested in all this. She didn’t care about the house or the title or the money. She only wanted Edward. She loved Edward.’

  ‘So did I,’ snapped Clarissa, then stopped, a look of shock on her face, as if she had been tricked into saying something she hadn’t even admitted to herself.

  ‘You? You loved Edward?’

  Clarissa’s lips formed a thin line.

  ‘This conversation is over.’

  Amy stepped forward.

  ‘No, no it’s not. If you loved Edward, then why did you . . .?’

  Amy was aware that someone was standing behind her before she heard the cough. She turned to see a tall, thin elderly gentleman standing there. His face was pale and he looked shocked. She could tell that he had heard everything.

  ‘Clarissa, m’dear?’ he said. ‘Is everything all right?’

  �
��Everything is fine, Christopher,’ she said crisply. ‘I believe this young lady was just leaving.’

  Amy felt the older couple’s eyes meet.

  ‘Do we need security?’ he asked, his voice even and firm.

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ said Amy, holding Clarissa’s gaze. ‘Lady Carlyle is correct. I was about to leave. Thank you very much for a wonderful evening.’

  She looked at Clarissa’s husband.

  ‘And I’ll be sure to give your regards to Georgia Hamilton,’ she added, then turned and walked out of the front door.

  She texted Will as soon as she got outside: ‘Just met Clarissa, been ejected. Out front. Help!’ His Jeep was gone, and with a sinking feeling she wondered if he had been kicked out as well and had simply bolted and left her there.

  She shivered and wrapped her arms around her Ralph Lauren dress, wondering if she was going to have to sleep out here and would be found dead from hypothermia in the morning. Her dress was lovely, but it wasn’t doing much to keep the cold out, that was for sure.

  ‘Hey.’

  Amy almost jumped in the air and whirled around.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s me,’ laughed Will, approaching from the opposite direction. He was holding up a set of keys. ‘My dad sorted out the keys for the gardener’s cottage. Apparently it’s empty; he said we can have it. I’ve already moved the car.’

  ‘Should we not just drive home before they send the bloodhounds out to get me?’

  ‘I’ve had a couple of glasses of champagne. I’d better not drive for at least another few hours. Don’t worry, I don’t bite.’

  ‘I trust you,’ she said, her teeth chattering. ‘But hurry up and sober up, for Chrissake. I don’t want to be hanging around here any longer than I have to.’

  It was just a few minutes’ walk to the gardener’s cottage. Will opened the door, turned on a small lamp and went to light a fire whilst Amy made coffee.

  ‘Black. No milk, sorry,’ she said, handing him a mug.

  ‘So are you going to tell me what happened? Warts and all?’

  ‘I knew I should have gone in there with a plan. I just started accusing her, and needless to say it didn’t go down too well.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Not much. Admitted that she loved Edward, though. I caught her right off guard. Christopher was standing behind me too. I’ve probably caused a whole heap more trouble.’

  ‘Or maybe you’ve just set the wheels in motion.’

  Will took off his dinner jacket and put it on a chair.

  ‘Just because things don’t happen immediately doesn’t mean to say they won’t happen. I’ve told my dad about Georgia’s story, and I can tell he believes it. At least believes it might be true. We’re going to speak to them both tomorrow. Clarissa and Christopher.’

  ‘No, don’t,’ said Amy softly. ‘It’s out there now. You don’t want more family fighting.’

  He took a sip of coffee and looked at her.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, taking a step towards her. ‘Thanks for everything you’ve done.’

  As she nodded, noise exploded around them – the sound of a thousand firecrackers – and bright red and white light flooded into the room.

  ‘The fireworks.’

  ‘Let’s go and look.’

  The cottage was on a small hill looking down over the grounds. They went outside and as Amy watched the sparks of light explode in the sky above the house, she nudged Will.

  ‘I have an idea.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘You know Edward’s buried around here somewhere. In the graveyard of the local church. We should find out when the gruesome twosome are off to Antigua and bring Georgia here.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. Maybe we can go and see her tomorrow and put it to her. We can pick a day and I can drive us over here.’

  ‘Speaking of which, how are you feeling?’

  ‘You know, I think I’ll be all right to drive home in twenty minutes,’ he said as the fireworks faded.

  ‘Let’s stay out here. Just for a little while.’

  ‘Okay.’ He sank to the grass and crossed his legs in front of him. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what would you do if this was your last year on earth?’

  ‘That’s a bit of a depressing thought,’ she said, turning to look at him.

  ‘In a way. Or you could look at it as though you were putting your life into sharp focus. What do you want to do? What’s important to you? How do you really want to spend your days?’

  ‘Big questions.’

  ‘Big night,’ he replied.

  ‘I want to set up a children’s ballet company this year.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ he said with interest. ‘What does that involve?’

  ‘Ballets for kids. Fun ones. Happy ones.’

  ‘How far have you got with it?’

  ‘Oh, not very. It’s just an idea. It was something Georgia was encouraging me with.’

  ‘Need any help with a script? I’ve directed a few things too.’

  ‘You’d help me?’ she frowned.

  ‘I’d like to.’

  ‘Payback for Georgia?’ she asked.

  ‘I want to help you,’ he said simply.

  She started to laugh softly.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘I thought you hated me.’

  ‘Well, I don’t make these offers to every girl,’ he smiled and stood up. ‘Do you want some more coffee?’

  ‘If it’s the night of big questions, we’d better stock up.’

  He brushed some grass off his trousers, and as he looked at her, she could see a sudden crack in his relaxed confidence.

  ‘Tomorrow. After we go and see Georgia, do you want to go for some dinner?’

  He smiled shyly in the darkness and she felt something pop and fizz inside her.

  ‘I’d like that very much.’ She nodded, trying hard not to beam.

  ‘Keep my seat warm,’ he grinned as he went back inside the cottage.

  She put her hand on the spot where he had just been and smiled. A new year, a new start.

  ‘I will.’

  Georgia poured herself a cognac, wondering what she should do for the rest of the afternoon. She usually went to her good friends Sally and Gianni Adami’s for their rumbustious annual New Year’s Day lunch. Since Frederick McDonald and André Bauer had retired to Salzburg five years earlier, Sally and Gianni were the only people she regularly saw from the debutante scene, a scene she had deliberately tried to distance herself from after everything that had happened. Although they were bound together by so many old and emotional memories, some of which she didn’t want to remember, Sally and Gianni were enormous fun and it was impossible to stay away from them. Besides, Georgia was godmother to their eldest son, Lucas, who, quite terrifyingly, was in his fifties now – a lawyer by trade and a father himself to four beautiful children. She remembered him as such a tiny little thing, born in Venice, where Sally and Gianni had lived for many years before they returned to London. Just that morning she had dug out an old photo album and looked at some faded old pictures of them all together at the Lido, in St Mark’s Square, on the Bridge of Sighs. Georgia had spent many happy holidays in Venice. Her old friend had been right when she said the oranges were like footballs, and travelling around by gondola – the handsome gondoliers, the candy-striped poles sticking out of the water, the canals that shimmered green in the sunshine – was pure magic.

  She glanced at her watch, wondering if it was too late to make the lunch after all. Gianni had promised it would be a particularly lavish affair this year, and had threatened to make his famous limoncello cocktails to celebrate the recent sale of his nationwide chain of Italian restaurants to a private equity firm. Sally hadn’t understood why Georgia had declined this year’s invitation. Then again, her old friend didn’t know quite how ill Georgia was. And the New York trip had certainly taken it out of her.

  But at least her Manhattan adventure had been everything she ha
d hoped it would be. As good as it could be, anyway, going with someone she had never met before, someone who was not the person she was supposed to have experienced the delights of New York with for the first time.

  Young Amy Carrell had been delightful company, but it had been hard on the trip not to think about what it would have been like with Edward at her side. On Christmas Day morning, whilst Amy had still been at her parents’, Georgia had enjoyed taking a long walk on her own around Central Park, imagining them together.

  Of course, she could remember exactly what Edward looked like. She only had a few photographs of him, but she had looked at them so many times she could never forget. What was harder was remembering the less tangible things about him. His smell, the way he walked, the way he tossed a quip into the air, the way he smiled at her and made her feel as if she were ten feet tall. Fifty years did that to you – it rubbed away the edges until the memories were so faint, it was hard to believe they even existed.

  She had been thinking a lot about death lately. It was hard not to when your body was surrendering to it. She had been furious that she had allowed herself to become emotional in front of Amy. She was a sweet girl and it wasn’t fair to burden her with problems that certainly weren’t her own. But returning from New York – her trip of a lifetime – had reminded Georgia that she was ready for the end of her life.

  Her death was an inevitability that she knew would come sooner rather than later. Her doctor had told her two weeks ago that she might survive another twelve months. That was the real reason why she had refused the invitation to the Adamis’ lunch. This was probably her last New Year’s Day, and she wanted to spend it quietly with her memories and her thoughts.