by Kelly Doust
‘It is her, isn’t it?’ Sylvie breathed out, aware of how fast her heart was beating. ‘It was what she was wearing that first caught my eye. I thought I recognised it, and then when I looked properly . . .’
She looked closely at the photograph again. Yes, she was definitely right. Rose was wearing the same tweed vest she’d been pictured in at the flower show, in the photo with Lady Clarissa Hardcastle. Sylvie had noticed it because she’d loved the cut, it was so unusual, so chic and fitted, and classically English. It was definitely her. Rose Dearlove. Her great-great-grandmother.
She looked up at her mother with shining eyes. ‘But what does this mean? Did she fake her own death? It all seems a bit extreme, doesn’t it? Why on earth would she do that? And—’ Her breath caught in her throat. ‘My God, does Lizzie know?’
Wendy raised both her eyebrows questioningly and they stared at each other, silent, each of them wondering how the old woman would react to the news.
‘Oh, darling,’ Wendy shook her head. ‘I think it might be too much for her. Don’t you?’
Sylvie felt like she’d been dashed with cold water, but she knew her mother was right. Was it even worth trying to piece this puzzle together, she wondered, when there was a very real chance of it terribly upsetting Lizzie? But the mystery felt too great – they had to solve it if they could. Who knew what Lizzie remembered, and what she would say to lead them to the truth? Sylvie set her jaw with determination. Somehow, there seemed no other alternative.
‘Darling, how are you feeling?’
Wendy was fussing around Lizzie’s bed, fluffing up the pillows and running her hand over the old lady’s brow, which looked so white and clammy in the ballroom’s dim light.
Lizzie’s rheumy eyes flickered from Wendy to Sylvie, slightly narrowing. ‘Rubbish. Leave me alone,’ she snapped.
Sylvie winced at Lizzie’s rudeness, but Wendy only sighed. She caught Sylvie’s eye and shook her head slightly, and Sylvie reflected that Lizzie had deteriorated even in the short time since she’d arrived home.
‘Lizzie, darling, we just wanted to ask you something,’ Wendy said, motioning to Sylvie to come closer.
Biting the inside of her cheek nervously, Sylvie wondered how they dare raise it with her – it seemed such an awful thing to bring up.
‘We were just, well, we came across something . . . Lizzie, have you seen this photograph before?’
Gently helping her great-grandmother to sit up a little, Sylvie propped the Telford biography in Lizzie’s lap and opened it to the relevant page.
‘No. But that’s Barty. Dear man, I did love him.’ Lizzie smiled tremulously, squinting at the page.
‘Yes, but we were wondering, Lizzie,’ said Wendy, leaning over with the other article in her hands, ready to present it to her, ‘not just about Barty, but about this other woman here. Do you recognise her perhaps?’ she asked, looking to Sylvie for encouragement.
As she watched Lizzie take in their faces and then look down at the page, Sylvie thought she detected a faint flicker of something in her great-grandmother’s expression, but it was quickly replaced by a frown.
‘No,’ she said curtly, shaking her head. ‘Some socialite, I expect, or one of Barty’s fancies. He was a fairy of course, God love him, but he always did attract the ladies . . .’
‘Are you sure?’ pressed Wendy, leaning in closer, watching Lizzie’s face. ‘This woman here, you don’t recognise her? Don’t you think she looks like . . .?’ Wendy held out the article, lifting it closer to Lizzie’s gaze.
‘Oh, for God’s sake! Why are you bothering me?’ Lizzie snapped irritably. ‘Get out. Get out,’ she howled, rolling over in bed and letting out a moan. Her back was faced towards them. Sylvie could see the large bandage through the thin nightdress Lizzie wore, and the pronounced bump of her spine, so thin and frail beneath it.
‘I’m sorry, Lizzie. We’ll leave you to rest,’ Wendy said, motioning with her head that she and Sylvie should leave.
Wendy closed the door quietly behind them, shaking her head. ‘She might be a little out of it from all the drugs, I suppose . . . Maybe we can try later. But that was . . .’
‘Strange,’ Sylvie said quietly, avoiding her mother’s gaze. She loved her great-grandmother with all her heart, she truly did, and she couldn’t bear the thought of hurting her, but she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Lizzie knew exactly what they were asking her, and was avoiding their questions.
‘Wow – I knew it, just knew it! I had the sense that something wasn’t quite right. The way she and Barty were so close but he barely mentioned her death in any of his letters and his diaries. This photo is exactly what I was looking for – proof – but I never could find out anything more about Rose, and the death certificate in France seemed like a dead end. It’s amazing that you’ve proved it’s true. My God, what a story!’ Rufus was babbling excitedly on the other end of the line, so overjoyed to hear of their discovery that Sylvie couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm.
‘Here, have you got a pen? There’s Lady Clarissa’s carer – remember? You could try her as well. She never got back to me, but she might well respond to you.’
He gave Sylvie a number to call, with a dialling code for Dover. After her conversation with Rufus, she dialled the number several times, but it just rang out. Sylvie decided to search online. There was precious little information to be gleaned there, beyond what Rufus had already shared, so she decided to go back to the local historical society and ask Pam if she knew anything about Lady Clarissa Hardcastle.
Taking Tabs, who was down for the weekend, with her, they spent an hour browsing through the files, and once Pam had helped them make a new batch of photocopies for their research, they decamped, at Tabs’s insistence, to the local café.
‘We need refreshments,’ she said. ‘This research is making me thirsty – and hungry, and that flourless orange cake looks genius.’
‘It says here that after her husband died, Lady Clarissa moved down to Dover,’ Sylvie said, pointing at a line in an article. They had the pages spread out on the table, poring over them and comparing notes. ‘She never had children of her own, but wanted to be closer to her goddaughter, this says . . . Is that her carer, do you think, or someone else?’
‘Maybe . . . Ooh, look!’ Tabs cried, thoroughly enjoying herself. ‘Rose and she were obviously close. Says here they hosted lots of functions together, and raised a fortune for children orphaned during the Depression. Not to mention all the work she did for soldiers with shellshock.’
The more she read about Rose and Lady Clarissa, and their many good works, the smaller Sylvie felt. The two women were both so saintly. No wonder everyone loved them – particularly Rose, who was beautiful as well. Lady Clarissa had something of the equine about her with her long face, and reading between the lines, it appeared she often shocked the good people of the county with her ‘artistic ways’ and flamboyant sense of style, but to Sylvie’s critical eyes she was always amazingly turned out. She had quite the fabulous taste in clothes, Sylvie thought, digging into her bag for her notebook to dash off a quick drawing of a hunting jacket inspired by the one that Lady Clarissa was wearing in the photograph she had in front of her.
By comparison, what had she ever done that was good or important herself, besides faffing about with fashion? She was only a few years younger than Rose was when she disappeared, and what had she to show for it? Her great-great-grandmother had been a remarkable woman, just like Clarissa and Birdie, but Sylvie’s meagre accomplishments would only fade as the years went by. She would make no lasting impact at all.
‘Let me see,’ nudged Tabs, and Sylvie passed her the notebook. Tabs nodded approvingly. ‘I like it – this would go so well with those Kate Hepburn-style wide-legged pants – you know, the ones I showed you yesterday?’
As soon as Tabs had arrived at Bledesford, she’d been full of fidgety excitement, and as soon as was polite had taken Sylvie off to her bedroom to look at a sheaf
of patterns she’d made up based on Sylvie’s recent, tentative drawings inspired by the clothes in the attic.
‘You’ve still got it, pet. Did I tell you how utterly gorgeous these are?’ Tabs asked, pointing at the illustrations.
Sylvie’s cheeks pinked with pleasure, and she felt suddenly shy. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. Like you don’t already know.’ Tabs made a clucking noise. ‘So look, I followed your drawings to the pen stroke, but I added a few little things in here and there. See that tulip shape you came up with for the skirt? Well, I’ve broken it up with some chunky pockets. I thought that would make it more flattering and architectural, when it’s finally constructed, but still with that fifties look. What do you think?’
‘God, Tabs – it’s gorgeous,’ Sylvie gasped. ‘You clever thing, you’ve made it so much better.’
‘Not really. The idea was all yours, I just embellished it a little. Hey, we make a good team, don’t we? I can’t believe we’ve never made anything together before now, can you?’
‘You always said you hated the high fashion stuff. “Nonsense”, I believe you called it. “Fake clothes for fake people.”’ Sylvie smiled, poking Tabs in the ribs.
‘Yes, that was a bit sanctimonious of me, wasn’t it? Especially now that I’m making the most real clothes of all!’ Tabs rolled her eyes and they both collapsed in a fit of giggles.
‘You know, maybe you should go down there?’ Tabs said now, looking up at Sylvie from the café table.
‘Down where?’
‘Dover! Go see if that carer woman, or her goddaughter, or whoever, still exists. She might know something.’ Tabs waved her fork at her. ‘God, this cake is to die for.’
‘It seems a long way when I don’t even know if she’s still alive. The poor woman must be, what, in her nineties almost?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘But maybe you’re right. I could look into it. If I call around, I’m sure somebody will have heard of her.’
The bell on the café door rang out as two more people came inside, clomping across the hard wooden floors in their chunky work boots.
‘Sylvie! Just the person I was looking for. Wendy said you might be here. Hi, Tabs.’
‘Hi, yourself.’
Nick and his mate Sam seemed to be taking up all the available space in the tiny teashop. Sylvie saw the cheeky twinkle in Tabs’s eye as she grinned up at Nick, and didn’t like it one bit.
‘Tabs, I was wondering if . . . Would you mind if I stole Sylvie away for a bit?’ he asked apologetically. ‘There’s someone I want her to meet, and I was hoping I could take her now?’ Nick raised a questioning brow.
‘Sure. By all means. How are you, Sam?’
‘Fine, yeah – you?’
‘Are you sure that’s okay with you, Tabs? You can drive the car home. I won’t be long. Will I?’ Sylvie asked Nick, double-checking.
‘Nope. Back in an hour or two, I reckon.’
‘Okay, great. Where are we off to then?’
‘It’s a surprise . . . Come with me.’
Tabs smiled, waving her out the door. ‘So, Sam, can I tempt you with some of this delicious cake?’
‘I asked you, where are we going?’
‘Don’t you trust me?’ Nick grinned.
They were in his pickup truck, but Nick still hadn’t told her where they were headed. She wished he’d explain, but wasn’t overly concerned. The car smelled of Nick – a musky, manly scent – and there was chilled music playing and warm air on her skin. The lovely breeze through the window ruffled her fringe, and Sylvie pushed it back behind her ears, feeling grateful for the gorgeous weather.
They’d been spending a lot of time together lately, even more so since Mark Rutherford had presented his offer. Nick was still helping to fix up Bledesford, and seemed to be there every other day, more or less. He’d urged them to keep the work on the estate going, at least until they made up their minds. The money was spent anyway – they might as well put it to good use.
‘You never know,’ he’d said. ‘Something else could happen, and you get another offer that’s even bigger than the first. Either way, it’s really starting to come together, isn’t it?’
He was right. The estate was looking bloody amazing – even she had to admit it – and she didn’t mind having him around all the time. Tabs had gasped when they’d driven through the gates on the way back from the station. ‘It’s looking gorgeous. Sylvie, you must be mad to want to sell this place!’
As Sylvie gazed out the window at the passing fields, she reflected on how much the impending sale was affecting her. It was odd, when all she’d ever thought was that her parents should do the sensible thing and move on. But being home at Bledesford for the past few months, surrounded by the beauty of the place, and the English countryside, she realised how much she’d missed it, and all of the little things she’d forgotten.
‘I don’t know what we’d do without you!’ Wendy had enthused yesterday, reaching up to pat Nick’s broad shoulders. ‘It’s been a breath of fresh air having you young ones around again. Now, can I get you something to eat? And are you sure your parents can spare you? You will say if not, won’t you, Nick?’
Nick had looked a little bemused by all the questions and had been opening his mouth to answer, when Gigi had swanned into the room, bracelets jangling, in an eye-watering turquoise get-up.
‘You again,’ she said, putting on the kettle, grinning. ‘My, my. You’ve been spending an awful lot of time here lately. Not that I’m complaining,’ she said and winked, ‘though you should keep your shirt on if you don’t want an old lady like me eyeing you up.’
Nick laughed, a tinge of red on his cheekbones. ‘I’ll keep that in mind, thanks, Gigi.’
Robin looked up from the paper he was reading at the kitchen table. ‘Ah, Nicholas! Good to see you. I don’t suppose you mind helping me move those couple of pieces I was telling you about?’
‘God, leave him alone, will you?’ Sylvie had cried. ‘Come on,’ she’d said, pulling Nick’s sleeve and dragging him out of the room so she could have him all to herself.
‘Here we are,’ said Nick finally, pulling up outside a set of open, freshly painted gates not unlike Bledesford’s. He indicated left. The road ahead was newly laid bitumen, a step up from the gravel drive they’d settled for at home. Driving in, Sylvie caught the rolling views of the estate, which gradually revealed itself as they curled to the top of a hill. The landscaped gardens were lovely and lush, unusually laid out as well.
‘Is this your work?’ she asked, shooting Nick a sideways look.
He smiled but said nothing.
Sylvie turned in her seat to admire a stand of pretty rosebushes, and a row of silver birches lining the expansive drive.
Nick pointed out a flock of geese, flying overhead. ‘The welcoming committee.’
Finally, they came up the rise, passing through a long, tree-lined corridor. And there it was, all of a sudden: a stately home with pretty white colonnades and limestone façade. Georgian or older, perhaps as old as Bledesford. Driving up to the turning circle and taking a sharp right, Nick wound around to the back, past the signs, before they came to an official-looking parking lot. He drove into a spot and turned off the engine.
‘Well. This is it.’
A few other cars were still in the parking area, despite it being late afternoon. A couple with two small children were in the process of piling back into their SUV, laughing and trying to coax two massive golden retrievers into the boot. The children looked so happy. Shutting the door behind the dogs, the father leaned over to kiss his wife. A shiver went through her, watching them – Sylvie couldn’t ever imagine feeling that settled or . . . normal, somehow. It was like an impossible dream.
She hopped out of the truck, looking around. It was just like a life-size dollhouse, Sylvie thought, smiling. As with Bledesford, the stone had been recently cleaned and the windows were sparkling, reflecting white clouds scudding across t
he sky in the gentle wind.
A welcome sign pointing visitors towards a door was mounted on one of the carpark railings.
As they crunched up the path, Sylvie heard birdsong and saw an attractive flowering creeper trailing up over the summer house at the far end, past a croquet lawn and a small pond.
Nick stopped suddenly, pressing a button beside an entrance door.
‘You must be wondering why I brought you here,’ he said as they waited.
‘Just a bit.’
‘I wanted to introduce you to someone. A client of mine. I think you might be interested in what she has to say.’
Sylvie was about to ask Nick what he meant, but before she had the chance, the door in front of them opened. A woman with steely grey hair and wearing a dusty green apron poked her head outside.
‘Nick! Good to see you. Come on in.’
Sylvie followed Nick and the old lady through the private entrance and past a series of wide, light-filled rooms. Sylvie thought the housekeeper looked remarkably agile for her age – probably eighty or thereabouts. She must have been serving the family who owned this place for decades.
As the woman led them through the wide halls, pointing out objets d’art and paintings along the way, Sylvie glimpsed inside the majestically appointed rooms and admired the décor. The house must be a few hundred years old, but its furnishings were tasteful and sympathetic, some of them modern, and others looking like they’d been here since the house was first built. Tapestries – either in their original mint condition or lovingly restored, it was hard to tell – hung from the high-ceilinged walls, and the whole place had a freshly painted look about it.
Finally they came to a stop outside a huge parlour room, the old woman stepping aside to urge them in.
‘Go on, girl,’ she said, indicating a spot where Sylvie could sit down.
Sylvie expected her to leave now, but the old woman followed them in and sat down on a chair opposite.
