Dressing the Dearloves

by Kelly Doust

  Well, that was a surprise, Sylvie thought afterwards as she lay under the twisted bedsheets, catching her breath.

  Sylvie twirled a lock of Nick’s blond hair between her fingertips, so different from her own dark wavy locks. She felt alive for a change, and full of possibility. Playfully, she reached over and bit him on the chest.

  ‘You know, I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet, because you were avoiding me – mean Sylvie,’ Nick said, smoothing her hair away from her face, ‘but I think I found something out about Bledesford that might help you with the grant application. Did you know that your gardens were originally designed by none other than Henry Ball?’

  ‘Who’s Henry Ball?’ Sylvie asked, pulling the bedsheet up around her breasts.

  ‘Who’s Henry Ball, she asks . . . Sylvie Dearlove, shame on you. Don’t you know nuffing?’ Nick flicked her arm and she grinned back at him. ‘Well, if you must know,’ he said, sitting up and propping his back against the headboard, ‘Henry Ball is one of the most famous landscape gardeners of the twentieth century. He designed and restored the gardens of loads of stately homes around the country – all the best ones – over a fifty- or sixty-year period. He worked for wealthy families from around the early twenties up until the late seventies, for most of his life. His work is amazing. Actually, he’s kind of my hero.’

  ‘Of course he is. And does anyone – apart from you – actually know who he is?’

  ‘Ah, Sylvie, ye of little faith . . . Loads of people worship him, I’ll have you know. There was a festival of his garden designs a few years back, with tours and talks and everything. You missed it because you were overseas, but it all started when news about his work made the national newspapers. It was on the front page of The Times. Some of his old plans were uncovered, and they revealed that he’d done a vast amount of work that people had mistakenly credited to other landscapists, or not picked up on over the years. As soon as word got out, the estate owners were swamped with requests for visits, and the owners ended up consulting various experts – including yours truly – to properly restore the gardens as Ball intended. I even helped set up the inaugural Ball Festival, which happened a couple of years ago. In fact, people are so interested in his work, it’s going through a renaissance at the moment . . . I think this might be the key to getting you that grant.’

  Sylvie was silent for a moment, her mind whirring.

  ‘Sorry – I’m digesting,’ she said, thinking of her other ideas for ventures and the presentation she’d recently prepared for the National Trust . . . It was such a hideously lengthy process and they were just at the beginning. But it couldn’t hurt to put forward this suggestion as well though, surely? The more options for keeping Bledesford in the red, the better.

  ‘Okay, tell me more. How did you find out about all this?’

  ‘Well, Henry had a style, you see – a signature, almost – that involved putting a rosebush at the apex of his work. And when I was last at Bledesford with you, working in the gardens, I realised your rosebush is in exactly that same spot. So I went back through the records – all the information about landscaping that I could find in the local lands office – and look what I found.’ Nick jumped out of bed, naked, and went over to the desk under his window. Sylvie admired the view. Opening his desk drawer and pulling out an A3-sized piece of paper, Nick turned around.

  ‘Put that away, will you? It’s very distracting.’

  ‘What, this? Oh.’ Nick grinned, putting down the paper and pulling on his boxer shorts.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘These are the blueprints. Of the very first garden Henry ever designed, purely by himself. Look at the stamp on the lower right-hand corner.’

  Sylvie dutifully leaned over. ‘Bledesford, Somerset County,’ she read.

  ‘You got it. And do you know what?’

  ‘No,’ Sylvie said. ‘What?’

  ‘If we include this in the grant application to the National Trust, I just don’t see how they could refuse you. The first design he ever completed – this is monumental.’ He sat back down on the edge of the bed, grinning at her.

  ‘You’re monumental,’ she said, reaching up to pull him down on top of her, loving the way his bulk covered her, almost drowning in him.

  The blueprints fluttered to the floor, momentarily forgotten.

  35

  Lizzie: London, 1941

  Lizzie cursed herself as she walked up the street, back towards home. She was too warm in her sable collar, and she was thirsty and irritable; she was dying, positively dying, for a cup of tea. She knew she shouldn’t have tortured herself, going down to see Bledesford, but she hadn’t been able to stay away. And, as she had feared, it had been a desperately disappointing experience. But she’d needed to see for herself just how bad it was, and what, if anything, might be salvaged of the estate after the war was over . . . if this bloody war ever ended, thought Lizzie bitterly to herself.

  From the other side of the estate gates, Lizzie had watched as a procession of army trucks trundled up the drive, through potholes several feet deep in places. Men in uniform called out to each other coarsely, ignoring her presence. Troops of soldiers practised their field skills, and a trench that had been looped with barbed wire over a muddy pit served as a grim obstacle course. Lizzie’s eyes were wide with alarm: there must be over two thousand men here, she realised, although friends in the village had assured her there were only five hundred. Lizzie’s fists gripped the bars. There were makeshift tents littered all over the grounds and, from what she could see, there was nothing left of the beautiful gardens.

  It was heartbreaking to see her precious estate in such a mess, but she was glad she’d come down to Somerset. At least now she knew the extent of the task ahead. But, Lizzie thought, impatiently sidestepping a veteran limping down the street in front of her, if she were being really honest with herself, she would admit that she’d come down to Somerset in part to get away from Victoria, and the terrible, unforgiving silence between them that had been dragging on for weeks, since she’d come back from hospital. Lizzie knew she had made the right decision, giving the baby away to the orphanage, and she didn’t regret it, no, not in the slightest. She raised her chin. There would be another offer for Tori, she was sure of it. Damn and blast her for mucking things up with Oswald. But Victoria was too pretty not to attract another eligible man. She’d just need to buck up and stop sulking. Bledesford needed her to marry, particularly, Lizzie sniffed, as Reggie had been so careless as to go and get himself killed.

  Lizzie’s heels clicked in double-time against the pavement, the handles of her bag digging into her gloved hands as she turned into her street. Her sable was hot and damp against her collar, so she pulled it off to drape it over her elbow. Almost home now. And there was no time to waste; she would work to get Victoria back on side, and then they would make plans together for Bledesford’s future. No matter how long they needed to wait, or whatever they had to do, they would reclaim their rightful place as heirs of Bledesford.

  Suddenly Lizzie pulled up short. Had she taken a wrong turn? No, she didn’t think so – this was her street. But as the unseasonably warm sun streamed down on her, she stumbled on the gaping holes in the ground in front of her. Turning around in confused circles, Lizzie saw with sudden sweaty relief her house, thank God, still standing in the row of identical white portico façades, but something was wrong, she just didn’t quite understand what.

  It was only when Edgar opened the door to her, and she dimly heard his bleating voice, that she realised that the park in the centre of the square had disappeared, with only pieces of shattered iron railing leaning at all angles, piles of rubble and tree roots poking out of the dirt, and, at its heart, a terrible gaping crater. Gone, she thought bleakly, bombed to smithereens.

  ‘Mrs Fortescue,’ Edgar cried. ‘It’s terrible news, I’m afraid . . . She . . . Miss Victoria . . .’ He waved a feeble hand at the park.

  Lizzie dropped to her knees, dimly aware of her precious s
tockings scraping against the ground, but the shock was a blanket to any pain. Crumpled, she covered her eyes with her hands, barely registering Edgar flapping about her. Her whole world had come suddenly asunder.

  She was on her own, she bleakly understood, even as the tears came and she wailed, heedless of the butler, the neighbours, the fireman picking his way through the rubble. She was completely alone now, with no husband, no sister, no child to care for – and no Bledesford. Was there anything she could do to make things right?

  North London Orphanage: archived records

  Let the record state that Baby X, a foundling of the female sex (B. April, 1941. Mother: assumed deceased, Father: unknown) was adopted by a Mrs Elizabeth Dearlove-Fortescue in September 1941 and collected on 21 October, with accompanying possessions (1 linen and lace bonnet, 1 knitted blanket).

  36

  ‘Tabs!’ Sylvie opened the back door to her friend, who was wearing a fetching white blouse with a ruffled Victorian collar – classic McQueen – and a pair of red suede pumps with cropped black denim jeans. She was looking utterly gorgeous.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t even bother changing. Just hopped in the car and came straight down. It seemed like the only thing to do after the week I’ve had . . . Hope you don’t mind me turning up unannounced?’

  ‘Of course not – it’s so good to see you.’

  The two girls embraced, then Sylvie leaned down to grab Tabs’s bag and motion her inside. She felt suddenly underdressed in her flowing lace tea dress and bare feet, but Tabs fingered the fabric on Sylvie’s sleeve appreciatively.

  ‘This is totally gorj. Another attic piece?’

  ‘Yes, I think from the thirties or forties. I’ve been wearing the collection so much lately. I’m completely addicted.’

  ‘I brought down those patterns we discussed – for the forties blazer and the frilly petticoat. And that to-die-for corset from the late 1800s . . . Can’t you just imagine them all on Edie Campbell, with a pair of chunky Doc Martens? My friend Nessa says she might be willing to do the look book for us . . . Don’t you think she’d be just perfect?’

  Sylvie nodded enthusiastically as Tabs prattled on, pulling out a scrapbook of their mocked-up designs and a handful of fabric swatches, ranging from frayed silks to red tartan to rich, sumptuous brocades. ‘Anyway, we can talk about all that later, we just need to finish the samples first . . . But here’s me raving on – how are you?’

  ‘Me?’ Sylvie shrugged. ‘I’m great.’

  Tabs’s eyes sparkled.

  ‘You’ve got your glow on. Let me guess. Nick?’

  ‘God, have you been spying on me, or have you turned psychic? Where’s your crystal ball?’

  Tabs doubled over, laughing. ‘It’s written all over your face, you minx! Do tell Aunty Tabs every little detail.’

  Sylvie suddenly felt shy. ‘Um, it’s all good.’ She looked away, blushing. ‘It’s still early days.’ She led Tabs up to the spare room near her own, which was already set with fresh linens and flowers from the garden, and had been cleaned up considerably even in the few weeks since Tabs had last visited. She popped her friend’s bag on a fold-out luggage rack under the window, where the heavy damask drapes had been cleaned and repaired and now looked fresh and glowing in the late summer sunlight.

  ‘Wow – how lucky am I? This must be the best bolthole away from the city ever. It’s like some gorgeous little boutique hotel. Except not so little. So how did the loathsome Mr Rutherford take the news?’

  ‘Not very well, actually. He was quite shirty when we told him we weren’t interested. But Nick’ – Sylvie couldn’t help beaming at the mention of his name – ‘called up someone he knows at the Trust and told them all about the Henry Ball garden designs. There’s a guy coming out on Monday, but Nick reckons it’s just a formality.’

  ‘God, look at you, you’re so loved up! Nick this, Nick that . . . Hey, have you seen Sam lately?’ Tabs asked casually, looking out the window.

  ‘Yeah, he’s here loads. Actually, he’s downstairs now, helping Nick in the garden.’

  ‘Oh? Shall we go say hi?’ There was such a studied breeziness to Tabs’s tone that Sylvie burst out laughing. She crossed the room to grab her hand.

  ‘Come on, you hopeless pretender, I’ll take you to him.’

  Tabs grinned. ‘Just a sec, let me change out of these shoes . . .’ She kicked off her pumps and pulled on a pair of patent cherry red Hunters.

  ‘Hark at you in your flash designer wellies,’ Sylvie laughed, swatting Tabs across the shoulder.

  37

  ‘I’m fairly certain we have all we need, Miss Dearlove. I’ll let you know if any other questions crop up, but we should be back to you with our answer in the next few weeks. After that, it’s a fairly quick process,’ said Ronald Mason, the local representative for the National Trust.

  They walked back across the grass and up the drive. The small portly fellow stopped by his car and pulled out his keys. He gave Sylvie a conspiratorial wink.

  ‘You know, I think it’s safe to say the Trust will be very interested in going ahead.’ He rolled up Nick’s copies of the garden blueprints, sliding them carefully back inside their cardboard postal tube, and tapped his nose. ‘My surveyor’s report will confirm everything you’ve told us. It does indeed appear to be the work of Henry Ball.’

  ‘My goodness, that’s wonderful news, Mr Mason!’ Sylvie cried, unable to contain herself. ‘Thank you so much!’

  She was simply bursting to tell Nick the good news. And her mother. And Robin. And Tabs . . . Gigi, too – all of them would be beyond thrilled. Lizzie would be another matter entirely, but she’d deal with that later, Sylvie thought quietly, her broad smile dimming somewhat.

  ‘You know, it really is a happy occasion when everything comes together like this,’ Mr Mason said, looking out over the valley. ‘Honestly, you’d be shocked at the number of estates I come across that don’t have the same potential. People who have no idea how to change with the times and just expecting to be given handouts . . . It’s sad really. We can’t help everyone – there’s simply too many lovely buildings and castles that need a mountain of work doing on them. But considering that Bledesford does hold a special place in Britain’s history – Ball’s first fully realised garden of his own – the Trust won’t want to let that disappear.’

  ‘Well, I hope Bledesford can do Henry proud. We’ll do our very best, and the grant is going to be a lifesaver.’

  ‘You’re willing to put in the work – that’s the most important thing. Believe me, I know what a money pit these old places are. But I have a good feeling about Bledesford. I know you’ll rise to the challenge. It’s so good seeing young people take an interest, Miss Dearlove. Gives me hope for the future, it does . . . Well, do take care. It was lovely meeting you.’

  ‘Sylvie – please. And you too.’

  Mr Mason smiled, looking out across the rise. ‘Everyone’s so caught up in the new, but I’ve always thought that we need to be mindful of where we’ve come from. Preserve the best of the past and learn from our mistakes. Putting the class issue aside, I think these homes are a perfect example of what was great about British architecture and design. It’d be a shame not to honour them, don’t you think?’

  ‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ Sylvie said, waving him off down the drive before pulling out her phone to call Nick.

  They were celebrating. A near-empty bottle of champagne sat on the bedside table beside them. The news had come in early, with Mr Mason delivering it himself: the National Trust grant was a goer.

  Sylvie hiccupped and placed her crystal glass by the bed, just realising that Nick appeared to have nodded off, empty glass still in hand. She gently eased it from his grip and placed it beside hers. Slipping out from between the sheets, she pulled on her kimono and padded downstairs.

  They seemed to be spending most of their time together in bed lately, tangled up between the sheets. Sylvie couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt
so relaxed or free – being with Nick was like the best kind of homecoming. Her parents were over the moon as well. They’d made themselves scarce, heading up to London for a few days to give them both some breathing space and to pursue some opportunities of their own.

  ‘We’ll be fine, really – Nick and I can take care of Lizzie, and besides, Gigi said she’d help as well. The nurse is all set to come by with Lizzie’s medications . . . Go!’

  ‘Well, if you’re absolutely sure that you’ll be okay?’ her mother asked, twisting her fingers, but Sylvie could tell she was secretly thrilled. There was no chance she was letting them stay – Sylvie knew that her mother just needed that little push and she would fly.

  Her parents had been spending the past few days conducting meetings with potential new agents for Robin. His recent work was being very well received, and there was even talk of an exhibition, to be held in Shoreditch.

  Popping the stove-top kettle on the Aga, Sylvie pulled out a teapot and tin Gigi had given her. ‘It’s a mix of St John’s Wort, chamomile and some other things I’ve concocted for you.’ The herbal tea was delicious – Sylvie had developed a taste for it – but it also seemed to be doing the trick – it’d been weeks since she’d needed to take anything for her anxiety. She hadn’t had a panic attack in months. And she hadn’t even thought about cigarettes.

  Her phone rang on the bench and Sylvie picked it up, pouring the tea with one hand as she pulled her kimono tighter around her naked frame. Lizzie’s nurse wasn’t due to arrive for another hour, so they had the place all to themselves.

  ‘Sylvie, it’s Rufus.’

  ‘Hi! How are you?’ To be honest, she’d all but forgotten about him. There’d been so much else going on lately, she’d barely given Rufus or his documentary a second thought.