Three Graces

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ Carys suddenly exclaimed. ‘I’ve just remembered. I saw a poster in Bellwood’s Books as I drove by - Marissa Dahling is coming to Carminster to promote her latest novel, Escape From Paradise. It’s the next Rosa Cavallini novel in the series.’

  ‘Another book after this one?’

  ‘Yes. She’s writing a series of five, I believe.’

  ‘That’s the best news I’ve had in a long time. We won’t want for anything to read for the foreseeable future.’ Aunt Violet’s pretty face creased into happy wrinkles.

  ‘And she’ll be at Bellwood’s tomorrow night. She’ll be doing a reading and a signing and I thought we could go along.’

  For a moment, Aunt Violet looked dumbstruck. ‘But I haven’t left the house for four years,’ she said in a small, matter-of-fact voice.

  Carys wasn’t deterred. ‘Then it’s about time that you did.’

  When Carys returned to Amberley, it was mid-afternoon. There were still great hoards of tourists milling about the place but she managed to sneak in the private entrance just as somebody shouted, ‘Over there! It’s her!’

  There was a big pile of messages waiting for her on her desk which showed that Mrs Franklin had turned up some time after she’d left.

  “Vivo rang. Want exclusive interview.”

  “Cuthland Life would be interested in a four-page article with photographs.”

  “The Mirror called. Wants quote for feature: Aristocrats or Aristocrap?”

  “Reddings Coaches wants to book two parties a week after a surge of interest!”

  “A Mr Forsyth from Pennington Bridge called. Said you mustn’t let the press get you down and that you’re doing a marvellous job.”

  Carys smiled. At least there were some sweet people left in the world.

  She fended for herself for the rest of the day, answering the phone and being as polite as was possible with journalists who tried to snare interesting quotations from her.

  By the time evening came round, she was exhausted and felt that she’d achieved very little. The Montella exhibition was moving along well and her guidebook for the ghost tour was in production but the day had bled away, leaving very little time to gather her thoughts.

  ‘I must say,’ a disembodied voice said from the armchair by the fireplace, ‘it has been quite an exceptional day.’

  Carys couldn’t help laughing as Georgiana settled slowly into partial solidification. ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘Those photographs of you really weren’t all that bad, you know.’

  ‘You’ve seen them?’

  ‘Of course I have. It is my job to keep up-to-date with everything.’

  Carys frowned in puzzlement. ‘I looked like a fishwife.’

  ‘You did not! You look-’Georgiana paused, her nearly translucent face tipped gently sideways in contemplation, ‘you looked like a true lady of the country.’

  ‘That’s what I was afraid of.’

  ‘I do not think any woman is ever truly satisfied with her image. There is always a little something which could be improved upon. A line, a little blemish, the curve of the lips.’

  ‘I guess you’re right.’ Carys nodded slowly. ‘Although your portrait in the Montella Room is perfect, don’t you think?’

  Georgiana sighed. ‘As near to perfection as I will ever get.’ And then she gave a smile, a beautiful enigmatic smile.

  ‘What is it?’ Carys asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Georgiana said but the smile, if anything, had grown.

  ‘What are you hiding?’

  ‘I assure you, I am hiding nothing. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because you’ve got a strange look in your eyes and I want to know what it is,’ Carys said. And then something occurred to her. ‘You’ve got something to tell me, haven’t you?’ She peered closer at Georgiana. ‘And it’s something to do with your portrait, isn’t it?’

  Georgiana’s pretty mouth gaped open and her eyes sparkled merrily with mischief. ‘Whatever gives you that impression?’ she said quite innocently.

  ‘Is that what you’ve come back to tell me?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Lara Claridge said you’d probably have something to tell me.’

  ‘Are you still harping on about what that woman said?’

  ‘But you do have something to tell me, don’t you?’

  Georgiana’s face softened again. ‘I may have.’ And then she vanished in a blue mist leaving nothing behind but a faint echo of laughter. How wonderful to be able to do that whenever the fancy took her. Carys wished she could vanish into thin air when the going got tough. How easy that would make life.

  She tried to think back to what Mr Morris had said about the portrait the day when he’d paid a visit to Amberley to make arrangements for the exhibition at The Bretton Gallery in Carminster. It had been built in 1850 by the sixth Duke of Cuthland who had taken the Grand Tour a little too far and found himself in possession of far more paintings and sculptures than could be reasonably displayed at Amberley. He had bequeathed them to the county, leaving a sum of money to erect a museum in his family’s honour. It was a beautiful place with marble floors and sweeping staircases, richly painted walls and enormous windows looking out on the gardens. From time to time, the museum would show the Montella paintings as a nod to its connection to the Bretton family.

  Carys had accompanied Mr Morris around Amberley as they had chosen half a dozen paintings which would form the backbone of the exhibition. There was Leo Montella’s famous Family Triptych showing three generations of Bretton men. There was the sweet portrait of Catherine: Georgiana’s second daughter, holding a posy of wild flowers. There was the handsome portrait of James, Georgiana’s husband whom, she’d assured Carys, wasn’t half as handsome as the artist had portrayed. ‘He had the meanest of eyes and a nose the size of a marrow.’ And then there were three paintings of Georgiana.

  ‘Aren’t three rather too many for one exhibition?’ Carys had asked.

  Mr Morris had shaken his head. ‘Not when they are the best.’

  One of them hung in the Music Room and showed Georgiana sitting in a pretty chair by the window, a lute lying supine on a table behind her. It wasn’t a particularly striking painting but there was a peace about it: an aura of calm which caught the eye and stilled the mind.

  ‘It’s the first portrait of Georgiana by Montella,’ Mr Morris pointed out. ‘But the later works are of more interest.’

  They’d then gone to the Montella Room where there were four further portraits of Georgiana.

  ‘These are the two I’m most interested in.’ He pointed to Carys’s favourite of Georgiana wearing her beautiful blue dress, holding the red rose. ‘Stunning,’ he said. Painting perfection. And this one.’ He pointed to a smaller, more intimate portrait of Georgiana with one of her sons.

  ‘I’ve never really looked at this one before,’ Carys confessed, looking at Mr Morris who was peering over his glasses to study the portrait.

  ‘There is something very intriguing about it.’

  ‘What?’ Carys asked.

  ‘The expression on her face. Look.’

  Carys looked. It was typical Georgiana - with a pretty, knowing smile and a naughty light dancing in her eyes. ‘Isn’t it just like the others?’

  Mr Morris shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t think so. Look at her hands.’

  Carys looked again. Little William was standing in front of his mother and her arms were draped over his shoulders. ‘I’m not sure I can see -’

  ‘The palms are open.’

  ‘Yes,’ Carys said, looking yet again. ‘They are.’

  ‘Shouldn’t her hands be holding her son?’

  ‘Why?’ Carys clearly wasn’t reading the portrait at all and was about to enquire further when Mr Morris’s mobile rang.

  She walked around the room until he had finished and then he apologised, saying he had to run but that he’d be in touch very soon.

  She
escorted him out and they chatted amiably.

  ‘I always get excited about Montella,’ he confessed. ‘He painted his best work for the Brettons. Of course, he painted for many other great families of the time: the Churchills, the Russells, the Spencers, but one has the feeling that he was happiest here with the Brettons.’

  Carys watched Mr Morris as he got into a rather ancient Volvo and drove down the driveway, dwelling on his words. He was happiest here with the Brettons. and Georgiana had certainly looked happy in Leo Montella’s portraits of her.

  Turning quickly, she headed back to the Montella Room and looked at the portraits once again. The smile, the eyes, the hands. And Georgiana’s naughty little laugh when Carys had mentioned the painting. It was so obvious. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

  Georgiana and Leo Montella had been in love!

  Chapter 24

  Carys stayed in her office until late in the evening, popping upstairs briefly to check on Cecily and Evelyn after dinner.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Nanny said. ‘I’ll put them to bed. I know you have a lot to do.’

  Carys didn’t confess that she wasn’t actually working in her study. She was there in the hope of Georgiana making an appearance and also in the hope of avoiding Richard. It seemed an age since his eruption over the newspaper that morning and his bad mood had probably abated by now but she didn’t want to risk it so she took the coward’s way out and hid.

  She sat at her desk for what seemed like hours without really accomplishing anything. She was thinking. Thinking of her new family and responsibilities, thinking of Natasha’s betrayal, and thinking of Georgiana. Where was she?

  Peering into the evening shadows round the bookcases, she half expected to see her materialising in her bright blue cloud. How she longed to confront her now she believed she knew her secret. But she obviously didn’t want to talk.

  Carys picked up the pile of phone messages from journalists who’d called earlier that day. What was she meant to do with them? Should she bin them or could she use the contacts for some good publicity for Amberley? Best not to take a chance, she thought, in case she messed up again, and yet she didn’t want to throw them away and so opened her top drawer.

  And frowned. For there, sitting neatly and tidily, as though it had never left, was Francesca’s diary. Carys turned round as if she might spot Francesca sneaking down the driveway. She felt very unnerved by the fact that her uncommunicative mother-in-law had managed to enter her office - several times now - without her knowing. What exactly was going on? It was becoming very clear that Francesca meant Carys to have the diary but why couldn’t she just hand it over herself in person?

  She opened the cover again to see if there was a note or something and, sure enough, there was a single sheet of cream writing paper neatly folded in half. Carys unfolded it and read the neat blue writing.

  ‘This is for you. Please keep it. F.’

  At least that was something, Carys thought. Not exactly warm or affectionate, rather distant and laced with mystery, but it was communication nevertheless. But why did she want her to have it? Was there some secret message in it like Mr Morris believed there was in the Montella portraits of Georgiana?

  Carys took it out of the drawer and promised she’d read it properly this time.

  And she did. There were some entries she’d already read before so she skimmed through those but there were others that were new and really rather startling.

  ‘I think it’s always hard to admit that you’re not the most important thing in the life of the person you love but I’ve come to realise that I come a very poor second to Amberley. H warned me about that before we got married but I didn’t believe him. How could anyone put a house before a human, I thought? Well, I know now. I hardly see him and, when I do, he’s so tired he can barely keep his eyes open let alone …’

  The entry ended but Carys could finish it herself because that was the position she was in now.

  She read on, and it was almost like having Francesca in the room with her, telling her, personally, of the years she’d spent as mistress of Amberley.

  ‘There are days when you dread waking up. There is always so much to do and your time is never your own. What will be waiting for me today? A leaking roof in a tenant’s cottage? A problem with a member of staff, or the shop, or the park? Would somebody have discovered that an antique was in dire need of repair or that something somewhere in the house had fallen or collapsed? I sometimes want to run away but, even in a house this size, you can’t run far. Somebody, somewhere knows where to find you and they usually come armed with a list of things to do!’

  Carys smiled. Yes, she knew exactly what Francesca meant. Is that why she’d wanted her to have the diary? Was it her way of saying, I know what you’re going through. Don’t worry. It’s perfectly normal.

  She closed the book. She’d read some more very soon but it was getting late now and, truth be told, she still didn’t like wandering around Amberley late at night even though she was already on first-name terms with its resident ghost.

  Switching the lamps off in her office and closing the door behind her, she began the slow walk to their private apartment. Her office, of course, was at the very end of a corridor which meant a long dark walk at this time of night as only a few essential lights were kept burning. Richard’s words, ‘our electricity bill is more than a lot of people’s annual wages’ rang in her ears and she hadn’t dared to challenge him. Instead, she had to brave the semi-darkness and the spooky shadows of Amberley.

  Crossing the hallway and the family entrance, she caught sight of the cloistered courtyard. It was the oldest part of the house and held a spectral beauty at night, its arches and tracery casting phantom-like shadows on the grass. Then, it was through the pretty Yellow Drawing Room where she switched another lamp off before continuing her journey. Two more public rooms were passed through and then she took a narrow staircase which was softly carpeted, leading to a long landing where a vast collection of porcelain was kept. Carys loved examining the tiny teacups and pretty plates and thought it such a shame that they were hidden away in a part of the house where the tourists couldn’t see them but Richard had assured her that they were a small part of the Amberley collection which went on regular walkabout - touring the museums up and down the country. And, indeed, with her involvement in the Montella exhibition, she was beginning to learn that nothing stayed at Amberley for long.

  After the porcelain passageway, she turned into another corridor which stretched along the front of the house with long views out towards the woods and the hills during the daytime. Now, there was nothing but blackness to greet her.

  Finally, after approximately a quarter of a mile, she sneaked up a creaky staircase to their private apartments. The girls had been in bed for hours and she had a feeling that Richard probably had been too.

  Carys opened their bedroom door slowly and, sure enough, Richard was in bed. He’d left her bedside lamp on but looked as if he’d been asleep for hours. She washed and undressed, shivering in the chilly room even though it was still summer. She was secretly dreading her first winter at Amberley, convinced she’d be wearing a coat, hat and boots indoors. Just the other day, she’d been wearing two layers of fleece and had been in danger of electrocution from the static when she got undressed.

  ‘Richard?’ she whispered as she got into bed.

  ‘Hmmmm?’

  She dared to snake her arms around him and he felt so warm and good. She kissed his shoulder.

  ‘You asleep?’

  ‘Doing my best,’ he muttered.

  Carys bit her lip. ‘Am I forgiven?’ she whispered.

  There was a pause: an awful, gut-wrenching pause, which made her wonder if she’d have to pack her bags, return to her town house and denounce her title of duchess.

  ‘As long as it doesn’t happen again,’ Richard said at last, squeezing her hand and sinking his head further into his pillow.

  ‘It won’t,’ Carys
said. ‘I promise.’

  Carys got up extra early the next morning. So early, in fact, that she surprised Richard by accompanying him to his estate office and giving herself a quick tour.

  ‘I just want to see where you spend most of your time,’ she explained when he kept looking at her quizzically but she went and blew it when she attempted to tidy his desk and he threw her out.

  ‘Don’t forget, I’m out tonight,’ she said.

  ‘Out?’

  ‘With your Aunt Violet. I told you. We’re having a girls’ night out.’

  Richard looked perplexed, shook his head, and then shut the office door on her.

  So, it was back to her own office where she managed to make a good deal of progress with a stack of post, organised the final stages of the transportation for the Montella exhibition and set up several meetings with estate tenants in the hope of getting to know everyone and find out how she could progress in the future. A thoroughly exhausting, fulfilling day.

  After eating tea with Cecily and Evie in which Cecily had managed only two words: ‘No’ - twice - Carys took a shower and changed into a pretty summer dress in forest green and wrapped a gold fringed shawl around her in lieu of a coat.

  Great Aunt Violet had been rummaging through her wardrobe too and looked stunningly pretty in a floral blouse and cherry red skirt. Tiny diamante droplets swung from her ears and her eyes sparkled with joy.

  ‘I can’t remember the last time I had an evening out,’ she said as Carys helped her down the stairs. Carys hadn’t realised just how frail Aunt Vi was. Her limbs were as delicate as new branches and her failing eyesight made her almost completely reliant on Carys.

  ‘Just a few more steps. Nearly there,’ Carys encouraged. ‘You’re doing brilliantly.’

  ‘Should have moved years ago,’ Aunt Violet mumbled as she proceeded. ‘But an old person’s bungalow wouldn’t have my view, would it?’

  ‘It certainly wouldn’t.’

  ‘I do love this old house but I’m afraid it doesn’t love me any more’