Three Graces

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘I was hoping to talk to you sometime. I thought you might like to come over - see the place - that sort of thing. I mean, we’re practically neighbours.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we are.’

  ‘Silly not to be friends, don’t you think. What are you doing tomorrow? Would ten o’clock be all right?’

  ‘Well, I-’ Carys blinked.

  ‘We could get to know each other - swap notes and stuff. No use listening to the rubbish our husbands come out with, is it?’

  Carys frowned. She knew that there was some hostility between Richard and Roland Buckley-Stewart but she hadn’t yet managed to get to the bottom of it.

  ‘I’ll be able to give you some advice on running that home of yours too,’ Valerie added. ‘I dare say you don’t know where to start. Am I right?’

  Carys couldn’t help smiling. ‘I could do with a few pointers, yes.’

  ‘Then, that’s settled. I’ll see you tomorrow. Park outside the main entrance and explain who you are to old Tweedy on the door. She’ll give you directions. Goodbye.’ And she rang off.

  Carys laughed. How extraordinary.

  It wasn’t until they were in bed that Carys broached the subject.

  ‘Richard?’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘What exactly is it between you and Roland Buckley-Stewart?’

  ‘God! Do you have to mention his name in the sanctuary of our bedroom?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, thinking that wasn’t the best of responses. ‘I just want to try and understand. I was thinking of going over there-’

  ‘I don’t want you getting involved with them, Carys, okay? It’s no coincidence that we nickname their place Bastard Hall. The only reason you have to go over there is to suss out how they’re managing to stay afloat, okay?’

  ‘And I’ve already done that,’ she said, remembering the embarrassing dark glasses and large hat she’d worn as she’d poked around their house, grounds and shop in order to steal ideas.

  ‘We’ll stay on our side of the border and they’ll stay on theirs, okay?’

  Carys nodded, deciding to keep quiet about her ten o’clock appointment the next day.

  Chapter 16

  Sliding into her Marlva Prima the next morning, Carys breathed a sigh of relief. It felt a long time since she’d driven her own car and just been herself. She started down the driveway, under the green corridor of summer trees which dappled the road, and left the estate, pulling out onto the main road which would take her over the moors and into Eastmoreland. She couldn’t help feeling a little excited. She was rather looking forward to her trip to Barston Hall. Her last visit, which had also been her first, had been a disaster in her eyes. She’d been so self-conscious of her role as spy that she hadn’t allowed herself the pleasure of actually enjoying her visit. But she wouldn’t make that mistake today. As nervous as she was at meeting Valerie Buckley-Stewart, she wasn’t going to let that get in the way of spoiling her trip.

  The moors were a shocking purple under the early morning sun and Carys wound her window down to inhale the peaty air. It was glorious up here. She’d have to bring the dogs up on a walk one of these days now that she was quite sure that they wouldn’t run away from her.

  Her car bounced along the bumpy road across the border into Eastmoreland. It looked simply perfect under its brilliant blue sky; its moor stretching to the horizon and its forest blazing green.

  Barston Hall was set deep in a valley not far from the border and Carys slowed her car to take the bends in the road. It was all well sign-posted - something Amberley could certainly benefit from, she thought, making a mental note to mention it at the next estate meeting - and she found the main entrance without any problems.

  It wasn’t long before she caught her first glimpse of the hall. Whilst Amberley was all golden turrets and mullioned windows, Barston Hall was white Georgian elegance: simple, uncluttered and symmetrical. It was beautiful - the kind of grand house that one expected to host a Viennese ball or a romantic masquerade. It was a long sleek building with enormous sash windows and great columns at the main entrance.

  Carys parked her car as per instructions and headed for the front door which was also the main route into the house for the tourists who were already up and about. Amberley Court didn’t open its doors until eleven o’clock and Carys was beginning to wonder if they were missing out to Barston on that score too.

  Seeing an elderly lady on the door with a clipper at the ready for her ticket, Carys thought it best to introduce herself. ‘Mrs Tweedy?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You’re Mrs Tweedy?’ Carys tried again.

  ‘My name is Ursula Carstairs,’ the lady said somewhat indignantly.

  ‘Oh, my mistake, do forgive me,’ Carys said, at once noticing that she was dressed head to toe in tweed - despite the warm weather.

  Carys cleared her throat and tried again, telling herself that a duchess would never get flustered. ‘I’m Carys Cuthland - here to see the countess.’

  ‘I see,’ Mrs Tweedy said, weighing her up with obvious disapproval. ‘Then you’ll be wanting the office. Follow the main route and then turn left at the end of the dining room. It’s the first door on the right.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Carys said and she was no sooner in the dining room than a booming voice greeted her.

  ‘Carys? Darling. Welcome.’

  Several tourists turned round and watched as Valerie Buckley-Stewart danced across the room in stiletto heels to air kiss her special visitor.

  ‘Perfect timing, my dear,’ she enthused and Carys smiled into a pair of bright eyes, taking in the immaculately golden coiffured hair which looked like something out of Dynasty. She was wearing a stunning suit in lavender - the sort that could only be from London as no boutique in Carminster sold anything quite so beautifully tailored. Her whole look, in fact, was that of a very stylish headmistress and yet she only looked to be in her mid-forties.

  Carys suddenly felt very under-dressed in her white blouse and floral print skirt.

  ‘Did old Tweedy give you the once-over?’

  Carys grinned. ‘Yes, rather.’

  ‘Never misses a trick that one,’ Valerie said, leading Carys out of the dining room and unhooking a rope which blocked off a corridor from the tourists.

  Carys took one last look at the room. ‘The flowers are so lovely,’ she said, nodding towards the grand display on the dining room table.

  ‘All from our own gardens,’ Valerie said. ‘It’s all in the details, you see. Flowers breathe life into a room. Photographs too. People love to see family photographs. Doesn’t matter if the kids are ugly as sin, they love to look at people’s private things. I always make sure I dot a few silly holiday snaps around the house. People think they come to these houses to see the famous paintings and the antiques but, really, they come to see if they can spot a half-eaten sandwich left on a plate or a dented cushion that makes it look like the chair’s occupant has only just left the room. They need to know it’s a home.’

  Carys nodded. It was all so fascinating. She hadn’t been at Barston for more than five minutes and she was already learning so much.

  ‘This way,’ Valerie said, opening a door into a gorgeous sitting room in dazzling white. ‘My room. No public allowed in here. And no children and no dogs.’

  ‘What about husbands?’ Carys smiled.

  ‘If I ever saw mine, it would be a miracle,’ she said, motioning to a chair.

  Carys sat down. ‘I know what you mean. I sometimes wonder if I really got married at all.’

  ‘These men are married to their houses. You’d better learn that early on or you’ll end up being much aggrieved. Us wives come in a very poor second, I’m afraid. No use griping about it, though. There are a lot of benefits, it has to be said. I remember visiting this place when I was a teenager on a school trip. We had to write a report about it for homework but I wrote an account of what it would be like to live in a house like this.’ Valerie glanced aro
und the room with a wry little smile on her face. ‘Thought it would be floating round the rooms all day in long gowns, carrying armfuls of lilies and drinking tea from china cups.’

  Carys nodded. ‘I was introduced to my office yesterday.’

  ‘Poor girl. They’ve sprung that on you early. I had a good couple of years before Roly took over the running of this place. Needed it too to find my way around.’

  ‘I got lost on the way to the kitchen on my first day,’ Carys confided. ‘But I did find the most glorious rooms en route.’

  ‘Ah, yes, you’ll never stop discovering things. Amberley’s much larger than this place. It will take you years to get to know all the rooms and discover each one’s personality.’

  Carys smiled. She knew that and yet it was a comfort to hear somebody else tell her.

  ‘I love your coat of arms,’ she said, nodding towards the ornate fireplace and the crest above it. ‘What’s the motto?’

  ‘Nil illegitimi carborundum.’

  Carys frowned. It sounded familiar.

  ‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down!’ Valerie explained.

  ‘No!’

  Valerie laughed and clapped her hands in delight at Carys’s gullibility. ‘No. But it should be. The bastards being the ancestors, of course. It should be every family motto, don’t you think? Unfortunately, ours is some tosh about lighting the way for the future! Who on earth comes up with such extraordinary rubbish? What’s yours?’

  ‘Something about guarding the earth.’

  ‘How dreary.’

  The door to the living room opened and a young woman entered carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.

  ‘Lovely. Thank you, Charlotte. Quick drink and dunk and then I’ll give you a tour, all right?’

  Carys had assumed correctly. Barston Hall was as beautiful and as elegantly put together on the inside as it was on the outside. Each room was a neat symphony of sophistication. There were no tatty curtains or threadbare rugs like at Amberley. Barston had obviously had a lot of money thrown at it because it positively gleamed and glowed with health and vitality.

  ‘Of course, it was all a terrible mess when we first moved in,’ Valerie assured her as if aware of Carys’s thoughts. ‘Taken years and years to restore it but worthwhile, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Carys enthused.

  Valerie led the way through the rooms at a great pace. ‘And now,’ she said, ‘the crème de la crème.’

  Carys’s mouth dropped open as they entered the Great Hall. It was a perfect fondant of a room with ice-pink walls, great plaster friezes and enormous chandeliers hanging from a ceiling that was wedding-cake white. It was full of tourists who were gaping at its splendours and little girls demanding that their bedrooms at home be decorated just like it. It was a perfect Cinderella ballroom.

  ‘Amberley doesn’t have anything like this,’ Carys confessed.

  ‘Nonsense. This is all show. I think it’s quite gaudy myself. I much prefer your wonderful long gallery.’

  ‘You do?’

  Valerie nodded. ‘But don’t tell darling Roly. He’d shoot me for being so disloyal. So,’ Valerie said, clapping her hands together and giving Carys an eyeful of her plum-coloured nails, ‘that’s the house.’

  ‘It’s magnificent,’ Carys sighed.

  They walked across the room and Valerie opened a door on which hung a notice that read, Do not open this door. This led into a dark corridor at the end of which was another door. Valerie produced a large key and opened it and they were at once greeted by birdsong and the prettiest walled garden Carys had ever seen. It was filled with honeysuckle and roses and the smell was heavenly. There was a beautifully romantic white swing with lacy cushions and white metal seats and a small round table.

  ‘This is my other secret hideaway,’ Valerie confessed. ‘I only show very special guests my garden.’

  Carys felt sure that she must use that line on every single one of her guests but she smiled and blushed politely.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Carys didn’t know what else to say. Her whole visit to Barston Hall had her in raptures and she seemed only capable of the most inane words of praise.

  ‘Now,’ she said as they sat down at the round table, ‘tell me how you’re settling into life at Amberley.’

  ‘Well,’ Carys said, puffing out her cheeks and wondering where to begin. ‘I’m just beginning to realise how big a job it is.’

  Valerie smiled. ‘Nobody warns you, do they? It’s most wicked.’

  ‘And nobody seems to be there to tell me what to do either.’

  ‘You have to find that out for yourself, I’m afraid. It’s a role that no two people ever do the same but I’m sure you’ll fall into a routine sooner or later. Let’s hope it’s sooner. But, tell me, do you really have a ghost?’

  Carys felt the colour draining away from her face. Had Valerie heard of Lara Claridge’s visit?

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This Blue Lady I keep hearing about. Don’t be coy!’ Valerie said, leaning forward, her eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘You’ve been living there for some time now. Have you seen her at all?’

  Carys felt flustered. She didn’t know what to say. ‘Well, no,’ she said at last because that was the truth - she hadn’t seen her.

  ‘Oh, what a shame,’ Valerie said with a frown. ‘We have Albertine, of course.’

  ‘A ghost? You have a ghost?’

  Valerie looked shifty for a moment, ‘Well, between you and me - no - not really. But saying you do really brings in the public in droves. Nothing they like better. I’d think about getting one if I were you.’

  Carys bit her lip. This was a very odd conversation. ‘And - er - how long have you had this ghost?’

  Valerie smiled a small, secretive smile. ‘Ever since we found out the cost of the roof repairs.’

  Carys gazed at her in wide-eyed wonder for a moment until Valerie burst out laughing and Carys could do nothing but join in.

  ‘Seriously,’ she said, ‘I’d think of doing something daft - something really crazy. It’s the only way for these old houses to survive. And always make a habit of walking through your house carrying something homely like a cup of tea or a ball of wool and knitting needles. Tourists love that. They love being able to identify the owners, and don’t be a bit surprised if they ask you to sign their guidebooks. You’ll find you become quite a celebrity. It’s all marvellous fun.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ve got what it takes,’ Carys said, thinking about the time she’d played angel number two in her primary school nativity play and had walked onto the stage and fallen flat on her face, squashing her halo and showing a pair of floral knickers to an hysterical audience.

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ Valerie said. ‘No, really - you will. You’ll be serving in the gift shop and giving guided tours before you know it.’

  ‘Richard’s already said I should give tours.’

  ‘And he’s quite right. It’s the best way to get to know the house.’

  ‘But that’s what I’m worried about. I don’t really know the house yet.’

  ‘Well, who’s to know that?’

  ‘The public,’ Carys said.

  ‘Rot! They won’t know if a chair is walnut or mahogany and nobody really gives a damn about dates. All they’ll be interested in is what you’re wearing, how you survive winter and whom, down the centuries, squandered the family money. And affairs. You must find out about affairs and the like. You know the sort of thing: illegitimate children, mistresses dying in poverty. Dear Roly thinks it’s terribly immoral to recount such things but he hasn’t once told any of the staff to stop. There was even an article in last week’s Vivo. Did you see it? The Bastards of Barston Hall!’

  Carys smiled.

  ‘Not very original. I think half the county refer to us that way but our head count soared that weekend and we’ve taken several bookings for private parties too. Can’t beat a bit of negative publicity.’

  Just
then, the secret door into the garden opened and a portly gentleman strode in sporting a startling red and white polka-dotted eye-patch.

  ‘Roly, darling. What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Nice to see you too,’ he grumbled, his dark moustache twitching miserably as he bent to kiss his wife on the cheek.

  Carys had been warned about the appearance of Roland Buckley-Stewart. He had, it was reported, got a little too friendly with one of his Amazonian parrots which he kept and bred in a huge aviary at Barston. Ever since, he’d sported an assortment of gaudy eye-patches.

  ‘Darling, this is Carys Cuthland. Richard’s wife.’

  ‘Yes,’ Roland said, extending a hand. ‘We were at your wedding,’ he said. ‘You didn’t say hello to us.’

  ‘I’m so dreadfully sorry,’ Carys said, somewhat taken aback by his honesty.

  ‘Darling, don’t be a bore. You know how busy brides are and she’s saying hello now.’

  ‘Sent you to spy on us, has he?’

  Carys flushed from head to toe.

  ‘Roly, what an accusation!’

  But the look he gave Carys with his one eye seemed to betray his knowledge. Did he know? Had they caught her in disguise on a security camera?

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past that husband of yours.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Roly. What an idea.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Roland said, dismissing his previous accusation, ‘need your advice on a matter.’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’ Valerie asked.

  ‘No, not unless you want a disaster on your hands.’

  ‘Oh,’ Valerie looked apologetically at Carys.

  ‘Please, don’t worry. I’ve got to get back, anyway.’

  ‘You’re such a sweetie,’ Valerie said, leaning forward and squeezing Carys’s arm. ‘We’ll do this another time, though?’

  Carys nodded. ‘And you must come to Amberley - er - both of you.’

  Roland guffawed loudly. ‘That’ll be the day.’