Dressing the Dearloves

by Kelly Doust

  Nick cleared his throat. ‘Lady Tarlington. This is the friend I was telling you about – Sylvie,’ he said, finally introducing them.

  ‘Oh! Gosh, hello,’ Sylvie said, rising to shake hands with her host, a bit embarrassed that she’d got the wrong end of the stick.

  ‘It’s Rebecca. And yes, I gathered that, Nicholas. Well – what do you think, young lady?’

  ‘I think it’s gorgeous,’ Sylvie said, nodding enthusiastically. ‘What a beautiful home.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Rebecca beamed. ‘That’s in no small part thanks to your friend here.’

  Nick shook his head, ‘She’s just joking. It’s all your doing, Rebecca . . . Well, as I said, I wanted Sylvie to meet you so she could see the place and what you’ve achieved here. This is Sylvie Dearlove.’

  ‘Of course. Well, let me see . . . This is the original settee, which was owned by my family as long ago as the late 1600s but was sold off by my father in the early 1950s to save the estate. Someone at the National Trust found it in an auction house catalogue and purchased it back for us. We haven’t found everything yet, but we’re still on the case. The National Trust has done a lot to help us locate everything again.’

  Sylvie looked over at Nick, confused. ‘Sorry – I’m not sure I follow.’

  ‘Nick said you were interested in discussing an estate grant.’

  ‘Really? I, um—’

  ‘I thought you might be able to persuade Sylvie to consider the idea,’ Nick jumped in. ‘Because they’ve received an offer from a developer, and they’re just wondering what to do about it.’

  ‘Persuade her, eh?’ Rebecca said sharply, planting her beady eyes on Nick. ‘Men always think they can persuade people.’ She turned her attention to Sylvie. ‘Dearlove, is it? From Bledesford Manor, I take it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sylvie, looking over at Nick.

  The old woman laughed. Curiously hawk-like, her expression seemed to soften at the mention of Bledesford.

  ‘I knew your great-grandmother quite well, when we were young girls,’ said Lady Tarlington. ‘She was a bit older than me, and I used to play with Victoria mostly . . . terribly sad, what happened to her during the war. What’s young Gigi up to these days, eh? Still chasing rock stars?’

  ‘Not any more, no. Her latest husband – number four – was a yoga instructor from California.’

  Rebecca chuckled. ‘Of course he was, dear – probably teaches Tantric as well, does he? That girl always had a healthier libido than a bloody field rabbit!’

  Sylvie burst out laughing. ‘She’s back in England now, living with my parents and Lizzie.’

  ‘Elizabeth. Gosh, how is she? I can’t believe she’s still alive . . . Always so proper, Lizzie Dearlove. I read that book of hers on manners – at least, I threw it across the room.’ She grinned wickedly. ‘One’s reputation is one’s lifeblood: cultivating it can take an aeon to achieve, and moments to destroy . . . guard yours with everything in your arsenal . . . Hogwash! Who cares what people think? I certainly don’t. By your ninth decade, you tend to worry about more important things – like euthanasia, and will they ever make it legal?’ The old lady let out a loud honk, slapping her knee with mirth.

  Sylvie knew that she should feel affronted on Lizzie’s behalf, but there was something so matter-of-fact in Lady Tarlington’s manner, that being offended seemed wholly pointless.

  ‘Ah – why don’t you tell me about the grant?’ Sylvie asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Well, Nick told me you were thinking of applying for the National Trust Grant for Properties of Interest. But I take it you don’t know what that is, then?’

  ‘Me? No.’ Sylvie shook her head.

  ‘He knows.’ Lady Tarlington raised an eyebrow at Nick. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t told you already.’

  ‘Rebecca, stop being cheeky,’ Nick interjected. ‘I was hoping you might be able to explain the process, and what it’s been like for you. The Dearloves’ offer comes with some fairly worrying caveats, so I wanted Sylvie to realise there might be other options.’

  The old woman tsk-tsked good-naturedly. ‘Well it was jolly difficult, but well worth it. Fifteen years ago we could barely rub two pennies together. We had great gaping holes in the walls, so it was freezing. Jilly got pneumonia that year, and we were living almost completely off the produce we grew ourselves, apart from the odd sheep when the farmer next door felt sorry for us. It was ghastly.’

  ‘So, what happened?’ Sylvie asked, wondering who Jilly was. Rebecca’s daughter, perhaps. ‘How did you get the National Trust interested?’

  ‘We were just about ready to chuck it all in and put the place up for sale, when a fellow stopped in one day and told us about the grants. I thought he was a trespasser – he was yomping across the fields, bold as you like – but Jilly made me hear him out. He said he thought it was a shame that one of the county’s nicest houses was falling into ruin, and put us in touch with a local representative. The ball started rolling from there. The rest, as they say, is history.’

  ‘Nowadays, the Tarlington estate has more than eighty thousand visitors a year, and they only open to the public for six months of the year,’ said Nick, turning towards Sylvie.

  ‘Really? Why only half the year?’

  ‘Because of this,’ said Rebecca, leading them over towards the window, which faced out over the house’s ‘backyard’ and down into the valley beyond.

  Sylvie fell silent. Poplar trees, standing to attention and perfectly manicured, reached down and away into the valley. Squat bushes in neat little trimmed quadrants sat curling about in elaborate patterns, which were beautifully visible from this vantage point up high above. It was just like a mini Versailles, she thought; one of the most beautiful gardens she’d ever seen. Rosebushes, poppies and violets proudly displaying blowsy, multicoloured petals framed a fountain bubbling with crystal-clear water, and further towards the horizon there were verdant green hills and an orchard, laid out like an artist’s rendering. There was not another house in sight.

  It was all so beautiful, her breath caught in her throat. If only the Bledesford gardens had had similar care and attention paid to them over the past few decades, they would look like this, better, even.

  ‘Now we’re part of the National Trust’s garden tour, spring’s our busiest time, but I don’t mind hosting the occasional event out of season – they’ve done so much to get us back on our feet. We even had Jazz in the Vines last autumn. See? They’re over there.’ Rebecca pointed to a small vineyard planted off to the left.

  ‘The wine’s not worth the bottles it’s stored in – they’re so young, you see, and we only planted our first grapes a few years ago – but the concerts have a good atmosphere. Plus, I’m told that with global warming, we might well be producing wines like the Australians before long! Jilly and I like to get involved in the festivities. They made me master of ceremonies last year. I must say, I did enjoy it.

  ‘Next year, we’re talking about having a Festival of Ideas,’ continued Rebecca, nodding happily. ‘My parents would turn in their graves, letting in a bunch of “raving lefties and socialists”, but I can’t help thinking it’s a good way of dragging us into the twenty-first century. They didn’t much like having a lesbian for a daughter either, so bugger them!’

  So that’s who Jilly was, Sylvie thought. It couldn’t have been easy for Rebecca Tarlington, growing up in such a conservative environment.

  Lady Tarlington looked thoughtful. ‘Your great-grandmother would hate what we’ve done here, I’m sure. Such a stickler for correctness, that woman. Terribly aggravating. Our parents were friends, and I remember going to Bledesford for a party once, and Lizzie being terribly smug and superior with me, as her house was so much grander than ours. But I felt sorry for her, especially after I saw what her father was like . . . Very cross, all the time, and horrible to her mother. I saw him once give Rose a tremendous slap, right across the face, when she dared to stand up to him in an argument. He thought
no one was watching. Archibald Dearlove always was a bit of a bastard, my father used to say, not that he was much better. Bloody chauvinists. Thank God the times have changed. Your Nick here’s a bit of an improvement.’

  Nick laughed and Lady Tarlington stopped abruptly.

  ‘I’m sorry. Oh heavens, I’m being indiscreet again. Just ignore me, my dear. But I would encourage you strongly to apply for the grant. It could change your life – it certainly changed ours.’

  ‘Well, thank you for your time, Lady Tarl— Rebecca,’ Sylvie said, moving away towards the door. ‘You’ve given me a lot to think about.’

  ‘I remember what it was like,’ Lady Tarlington said, warmly pressing her hand. ‘The anxiety, the worry, and then filling out all those bloody application forms. It’s quite overwhelming at first. But feel free to call me if you’d like to discuss things further. I have some experience with the National Trust, and I might be able to give you a few pointers. And give my regards to old Elizabeth, won’t you? And tell that gorgeous grandmother of yours that I told her to behave!’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Sylvie as she and Nick prepared to leave. ‘Although I don’t suppose it will do much good! Thank you so much.’

  As they walked back through the corridors, Sylvie felt Nick’s eyes on her, but he didn’t speak until they’d taken their leave of Lady Tarlington.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘Sorry, I should have warned you – she’s a bit of a bull at a gate, says whatever she’s thinking.’

  ‘I’m fine, it’s just . . . my head’s spinning. What she said about Archie, for a start.’ Sylvie stopped at the front door. ‘But . . . do you really think it’s possible? For Bledesford, I mean? Aren’t we too far gone already? My parents really need the money now . . . How long does the grant process take? Months? Years, even?’

  ‘I don’t know. We could look into the whole thing tomorrow, I just wanted to see what you thought,’ he said, closing the entrance door behind them. ‘You heard what Rebecca said – they were in the same situation not that long ago, and I think it only took them a few years to get everything up and running. I don’t know why I didn’t suggest it straight away, but you all seemed so determined to get rid of the place. It’s only recently that I’ve started to realise—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well,’ he hesitated. ‘That you might not all be so looking forward to it as much as I first thought.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sylvie looked puzzled.

  ‘Well, your mum was talking to me the other day about the place they’re thinking of moving to in Wells and she started crying. I felt awful for her.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Sylvie. ‘That’s terrible.’ She chewed at a fingernail. ‘Though the offer does mean they might be able to afford something better.’

  ‘Wendy says not. That all that money is going to be chewed up. Look, if you don’t mind me being honest, I don’t think Robin’s too keen on the idea either. Gigi certainly isn’t. And what about you?’ He turned to face her. ‘Do you really want to sell Bledesford? Are you really going back to New York, leaving your family and all this behind?’ He gestured to the green open spaces surrounding them. The sun was low on the horizon, and the fields shone with a warm glow. Sylvie felt a pang deep within herself at Nick’s words – he was right. It was just so beautiful here.

  ‘I— I don’t know what I’m going to do.’ Sylvie stammered. ‘Nick, this is all a bit sudden. I need some time to think. I didn’t think staying was a possibility, but now . . . I’m just not sure.’ Sylvie chewed at the inside of her cheek.

  ‘Look, just think about it, okay? Like Rebecca said, she’s got a lot of experience with the Trust, and I know a bit myself. You have to make Bledesford a viable option for them. With Rebecca, it’s the gardens. With Bledesford it could be a farm shop like ours, or tearooms or . . .’ He stopped for a moment, opened his mouth as if to say something more, then clearly decided against it. ‘Look, I don’t know, we’ll have to keep brainstorming. But I’m sure we could come up with something.’

  Sylvie’s business brain clicked into gear. Eighty thousand visitors. Ten pounds per entry ticket would make them almost a million pounds a year. Enough to keep up the place in repairs, and maybe even a bit extra for improvements. And that was just the start. What if they explored the café idea, or opened a function centre? But Lizzie would absolutely hate that . . .

  Sylvie walked around the side of the house to check out the gardens one more time, shielding her eyes from the sun. A small caravan was selling strawberries and cream off to the side and was just pulling down its shutters for the day. The young woman behind the counter waved Nick over, pushing two servings over the counter, heaped with generous amounts of whipped cream.

  ‘On the house,’ she winked, her lovely almond-shaped eyes settling on Nick for a second too long.

  ‘Thanks!’ he said, taking the two plates from her with a blinding smile, completely oblivious to the flirting. She couldn’t be more than eighteen, Sylvie thought crossly, frowning at the girl and turning away.

  Nick passed the second plate to Sylvie, who shook her head impatiently.

  ‘What?’ he asked, scooping strawberries into his mouth. ‘If you’re not going to eat them, I will.’

  ‘I don’t know if Lizzie – maybe Dad too – would cope with letting so many people into Bledesford. You know how funny they are about their privacy. And Lizzie’s so proud. There’s no way she’d agree to it.’

  ‘Okay, well . . .’ Nick said around a mouthful of strawberries. ‘Maybe we think of something else then. God, these are really good.’

  ‘Hey, Nick, do you think we could swing by Wells on the way back?’

  ‘Sure. Why?’

  ‘I was just wondering about the place Mum and Dad are moving to. I haven’t seen it yet, but you know where it is, right?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s near the hospital. I can take you there if you like.’ Nick shoved the disposable plates in a bin, and Sylvie reached up to wipe away an errant dob of cream from the side of his mouth.

  ‘Yes please.’

  Nick grinned, clapping his hands together. ‘All right, then! Let’s go.’

  27

  Lizzie: Somerset, 1928

  Lady Clarissa and Rose were strolling lazily arm in arm through the gardens in the late afternoon, talking idly and admiring the flowers, Lizzie trailing along behind. They seemed unaware she was there, and that made Lizzie cross.

  ‘Mama, look what I—’ she started.

  ‘In a minute, Lizzie, darling,’ Rose said, without turning her head. ‘I’m talking with Lady Clarissa.’

  ‘He’s quite the flirt, but Barty is smitten with him,’ Lady Clarissa continued. ‘He says he’s going to hold a reception in his honour.’

  Rose grimaced. ‘Oh dear, you know his affairs never end well,’ she said, then stopped by the greenhouse. ‘Oh, Henry, you’re here . . .’

  ‘Of course. For you, Mrs Dearlove.’ Henry proffered her mother a perfect, freshly cut bloom, heavy with scent. ‘A new flower, for new beginnings.’ Rose took it with a smile and held it up to her nose, and Lizzie noticed that her mother’s face wore a strangely open, unguarded expression – and that made her even crosser.

  ‘Perfect,’ Rose murmured, her eyes slanting up towards the tall, handsome gardener.

  It was only two days after the midsummer ball and Lizzie was pleased to notice that everything was almost back to normal. Servants had tidied up all evidence of people and parties (there had been quite a lot of it, with some guests staying until this morning, Lady Clarissa included) and, apart from a few divots in the freshly mown lawn carved out by high heels, there were no other clues to indicate the festivities that had taken place at Bledesford over the past few days. Her parents didn’t seem to have enjoyed the ball. No indeed, they had been quite chilly with each other, barely talking over the last day or so.

  Standing now in the shadows cast by the greenhouse, Lizzie averted her gaze from her mother and the garde
ner, who seemed to be standing much too close together. Lady Clarissa was slightly off to one side, apparently absorbed by the view down to the lake, but Lizzie thought she had a stiff, watchful quality about her.

  Staring down at the freshly picked four-leaf clover she’d found, Lizzie crushed it in her hand. She no longer felt like sharing it with them. As Henry’s and Rose’s heads bent together in quiet conversation, she turned away. Her footsteps went unnoticed.

  Henry had been working at Bledesford for the past year now. He’d showed up one day in early spring and, Lizzie thought resentfully, he’d been buzzing about Mother like an insect ever since. It was in answer to an advertisement they’d run in The Times; Mr Figgins, their head gardener, was retiring.

  Lizzie, Rose and Victoria had come upon Henry while they were taking their daily walk. Lizzie caught the surprise in her mother’s voice.

  ‘Henry! Why— What are you doing here?’

  ‘Figgins employed me. I’m going to be taking over from him.’ He was watching her mother, Lizzie realised, a little like her father’s gun dogs watched him when they were out shooting.

  ‘And who’s this?’ he asked suddenly, dropping to his knees. ‘The young lady of the house, I presume? Hello.’ He smiled at Lizzie. It felt like the sun had come out from behind a cloud. Lizzie basked in its warmth and decided that she quite liked him.

  ‘I’m the new gardener,’ he told her. ‘Well, old-new . . . I used to work here when you were small, Miss Elizabeth, so you might not remember me. I’m Henry,’ he said, ruffling her hair.

  Just then, Victoria peeked out from behind Rose’s skirts. Henry’s face was the picture of surprise.

  ‘And who might you be?’ he asked, squatting down beside her.

  ‘Tori,’ whispered her sister sweetly, curling into their mother’s side, her face half-hidden. Henry chucked her under the chin.

  ‘She’s just like you, Ro— Lady Dearlove,’ he said, then looked up at her mother with an oddly adoring expression. ‘Beautiful.’