by Georgia Hill
Sheila nodded. ‘It’s one of those houses that’s tucked away. Half the folk round here don’t know it even exists, even if they can afford it.’
Rachel dropped down into second. She’d never get used to the one-track roads in the county. This one had grass growing along the middle of it, ‘What do mean?’
‘It’s one of those snooty health spa places now.’
Rachel giggled. Whatever its fate, she hadn’t imagined that. ‘I wonder what Hetty would have thought of that? Or the aunts?’
‘The aunts?’
‘They looked after Hetty when she moved to the house. One was a bit stern. Leonora.’
‘I think the spa is called Leonora.’ Sheila added, drily.
Rachel laughed out loud. She’d been right. It was going to be a good day. She wondered gleefully what Hetty’s crusty old aunt would have made of having a spa named after her.
‘Do you know, although Gabe’s told me a bit about your Hetty’s journal and I’ve always known the house, I really don’t know anything about the family. I asked Gabe, but he’s such a man, he never wants to talk about anything.’
Rachel laughed again. It was an accurate picture of Gabe. He was interested in Hetty, but only up to a point. He certainly didn’t want to discuss her endlessly, as Rachel wanted to. She found herself telling Sheila all about Hetty and Edward and Richard. It was a relief to have an avid audience, as curious as she was.
After another ten minutes of excruciatingly narrow lanes, Rachel pulled up on an elegant gravelled carriage drive in front of a compact stately home.
‘Oh,’ she breathed, leaning forward on the steering wheel, ‘it’s so pretty. I hadn’t thought it would be pretty.’
Sheila nodded. ‘It’s a bit lopsided nowadays, can you see? When the new people took it on, the right side was in so much disrepair it had to come down, so it’s lost its Regency symmetry.’
Rachel stared at the house. Mellowed red sandstone had turned pink in the August light and, despite its truncated exterior, it was still attractive. A portico rose above a grand set of steps designed to impress - or intimidate the visitor. On three sides, the house was sheltered by beech trees, giving it a secretive air, but on its western side, the grounds fell away to the sky. A slew of discreetly expensive cars were parked up, but there was no one in sight.
‘Doesn’t seem to be anyone around,’ Sheila said, ‘shall we go in?’
Rachel looked at her, excitement levels rising. ‘Do you think we could?’
‘I don’t see why not. It’s open to the public. We can always pretend we’re interested in one of those spa days. Actually,’ Sheila said with resolve, ‘I do fancy one of those spa days. I’m going to treat myself!’
‘Today?’ Rachel asked faintly. She hadn’t brought anything appropriate and was fairly sure she couldn’t afford even a neck massage in this place. The day was taking an interesting turn.
‘No, not today. But sometime soon. Would you like to come with me?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well,’ Sheila said kindly, ‘we’ll see what it’s like, shall we? You can make up your mind afterwards. No hurry, for you that is.’
Rachel locked the car and, with her new camera, took a few pictures. It was a beautiful house, but she was struggling to see it as Hetty had. Then she hurried off after the suddenly dynamic figure of Gabe’s mother, who was marching up the vast steps. One of the double doors opened just as Sheila’s hand rose to knock and a young blonde woman smiled at them.
‘Good morning, ladies. Welcome to Delamere Hotel and Spa,’ she said in what was definitely not a local accent. ‘My name is Ingrid. Have you come for treatments?’
‘We –’ Rachel began.
‘We’re thinking about it,’ Sheila took over. ‘We’d like to see the facilities, if we may. To see what sort of thing you do.’
‘Of course,’ Ingrid said smoothly. ‘Come to the drawing room and I’ll take some details. Would you like coffee?’
‘Coffee would be good,’ Rachel answered as she and Sheila followed Ingrid through a marble hall and into a gold-and-cream sitting room. Rachel looked around in wonder. Was this the same room Hetty had been shepherded into on her very first visit? It could be; she remembered a description of some French doors opening onto a terrace. She felt excitement kick in as, directed by their efficient hostess, they sat on the sofa.
It might well be the same room, but it had definitely changed since that first tea with the aunts. No sign of the genteel poverty suffered by the household. The only shabbiness was of the carefully constructed, chic, kind. The interior was as delicately pretty as the outside. ‘What a marvellous house!’ she burst out.
Ingrid gave a smug smile. ‘We think so. Please make yourselves comfortable, ladies. I’ll ring for coffee. We can discuss your needs and then perhaps you’d like a look around?’
Rachel and Sheila caught one another’s eyes and stifled a giggle. This was going to be fun.
And it was. After taking endless details and providing them with a pot of excellent coffee, Ingrid finally allowed them to look around the house and, even better, she claimed a prior engagement and left them to their own devices. As long as they didn’t enter any rooms marked Private or go into rooms with a red light on above, meaning that a treatment was in progress, they could wander anywhere.
‘And do try the dining room for lunch or afternoon tea on the terraces,’ Ingrid trilled. ‘The salmon parfait is divine and we do a wonderful range of low-calorie cakes. I do hope we’ll be able to meet your needs.’ And, wafting a cloud of a delicious-smelling something, she skittered off.
‘Thank you so much, Ingrid,’ Sheila called back in a reasonable impersonation. Then she turned to Rachel. ‘Rita from the post office could learn a thing or two about customer service from her.’
Rachel laughed. ‘Do you know, I think I rather prefer Rita’s brand of charm. I think Ingrid might get a bit –’
‘Sickly?’ Sheila supplied.
‘Precisely! Can you imagine running in to get the papers, with a Sunday-morning hangover, and facing that?’ Then Rachel clapped her hands together and focused her mind. ‘I can hardly believe I’m here. Where shall we start?’
Sheila looked at the floor plan Ingrid had given them. ‘What about the library? It’s just down this corridor on the left, I think.’
The library. The place where an adolescent Richard had shown Hetty those drawings. The room where they’d had that terrible argument, after which she’d stampeded into marriage with Edward. She nodded at Sheila. ‘The library it is, then.’
The door was open, so the women walked straight in, trying not to feel self-conscious. Rachel’s first thought was that it was smaller than she had imagined but, even so, it was a large room by an ordinary house’s standards. Sheila went to leaf through some magazines on a vast oak table by the fireplace and began chatting to the only other occupant – a woman in a tracksuit.
Rachel hugged herself as she looked around. The room couldn’t have changed all that much since Hetty’s time, although the furniture had that carefully eclectic look that spoke of an expensive design consultant. It had luxurious rugs partly covering a wooden floor and she couldn’t stop a thrill running through her as she realised she was walking on the very same floor that Hetty and Hester and Richard and Edward had troddon on all those years before. ‘Get a grip,’ she whispered to herself and studied the books on the endless shelves. ‘I wonder if any of these came with the house?’ she murmured, as she ran her hand along the spines. The titles were dull; agricultural catalogues or breed indexes. No Victorian porn, as far as she could see.
The room was lovely, though, with its dark wood furniture, softly lit lamps and heavy brocaded curtains. A huge bowl of roses on a circular table in the middle of the room drenched everything in a subtle scent.
They were always her favourite rooms, libraries. In all the big houses she and Tim toured, in his endless quest to wind up volunteers, the libraries were the rooms th
at drew her back. There was something about being surrounded by polished wood and old books that was infinitely soothing.
‘Hello, Hetty,’ Rachel whispered to the carefully manicured gloom. ‘You must have found this all so overwhelming after the villa in Kent.’
‘Rachel,’ Sheila called out suddenly. It broke the spell. ‘Come and look at this.’ She held up a photograph frame. ‘Could this be Hetty, do you think?’
Rachel went to where Sheila was standing, by a whatnot stand in the corner of the room. ‘Oh, Sheila,’ she breathed, as she took the photograph from her. ‘I think it is!’
It was a typical Edwardian photograph. Several people were grouped on what she recognised as the steps at the front of the house. They were stiffly posed and dressed in formal high-necked clothes. Hetty was in the front row next to Edward. ‘It can’t have been taken long after the wedding.’
Sheila took another look. ‘Or an engagement photograph?’ She peered at Hetty’s left hand. ‘No, not clear enough to see if she’s wearing a ring. How frustrating. But the two in the middle, your Hetty and the man, they’re definitely posed as a couple.’
It was true. Hetty and Edward had been placed right in front and a space had been left around them.
Rachel eagerly scoured the rest of the group. A tall woman in an old-fashioned dress and hairstyle must surely be Hester; the frowning, dried-up woman hanging onto her arm could only be Leonora. She wondered if it was the cook, wearing an apron – she looked kind. And that must be the elderly groom who looked after Snowy; he stood with his hand on the shoulder of a youth – Sam the stable boy! It was as if the members of the house were coming alive to her, she felt she knew them so well. She’d love a copy of it, to show Gabe. Sneaking a quick look round, she got out her camera, held it as close as she could and took a picture.
And then Rachel caught her breath. The impossibly handsome man, standing a little distant from the group, was Richard. An older, taller and broader Richard. He had changed. He had a modern-looking face, somehow, with smooth good looks.
He had changed in more ways than just physically. Gone was the devil-may-care expression of the photograph taken of him on horseback. Here, he looked pinched and wary. Withdrawn into himself. Without hope. And now Rachel knew why. She shivered. She wasn’t sure she liked the look of him.
‘It’s so hard to look at photos taken at this time in history and not think of what they’ve got to come,’ Sheila murmured. She glanced at Rachel. ‘The war.’
Rachel frowned and ran a finger lightly over Edward and Hetty posed, not so very happily, as the happy couple. The image of them about to launch into their married life, not knowing what was to come, was heart-breaking.
Sheila nudged Rachel’s arm, kindly. ‘Let’s look at the rest of the house and get some lunch. We’ve been in this gloom long enough.’
Rachel replaced the photograph reluctantly and followed Sheila out. She was right, the room had become suffocating. She was in danger of drowning in the tragedies of the past.
The rest of the house was as lovely, but it was harder to find whispers of Hetty and the others in the clinical-looking Leonora Spa treatment rooms and series of sitting rooms.
Feeling very grand, they ate lunch on the terrace, overlooking a vast expanse of manicured lawn and a Spanish chestnut-tree avenue. Although Rachel looked hard, she could see no sign of the rundown little summer house.
‘Do you know?’ Sheila said after they’d eaten. ‘I haven’t had such a nice day for ages.’ She rolled her eyes, ‘It gets a bit too macho at home, with my two. Thank you so much for bringing me. I think I’m getting nearly as fascinated as you about the Trenchard-Lewis family.’
Rachel looked over and smiled. ‘It’s nice to have someone to share my enthusiasm with. The Log Book will be a great help. Please pass on my thanks to Shona and Bridget. It fills in some detail about school life back then. Apparently, the boys were sent out to chop wood in the winter, when coal became scarce, and boys and girls were taught different subjects!’ Rachel raised her eyebrows. ‘Can you imagine that happening now? She leaned back on her chair and lifted her face to the sun. ‘Roger and Neil, at the estate agents where I bought the house, were sort of interested for a while, but not as obsessed about it all as me.’ She closed her eyes, drinking in the warmth and peace.
‘Ah, Neil Fitch. Nice man.’
Whoops.
Rachel sat up with a jolt. ‘He’s a very nice man,’ Rachel answered finally. ‘And such a keen sportsman.’ She caught Sheila’s eye and they laughed.
‘It’s just such a shame he’s so boring. So handsome too. Quite a catch for someone.’
‘Not me.’
‘I’m very glad Gabe has found someone like you, Rachel.’ Sheila reached over and patted her hand. ‘For a while, I thought he’d rattle around from one conquest to the next, never settling down.’
‘Well, he’s very young,’ Rachel began defensively.
Whoops again.
‘Not that young. Mike and I were married when we were twenty-one.’
‘And so were my parents,’ Rachel admitted. ‘And Hetty was only about twenty. I think it’s slightly different nowadays.’
‘I suppose. Tell me about your parents, Rachel. Gabe tells me they’ve gone to live abroad. How lovely.’
Yes, Dad’s a keen golfer, so they’ve got a place on the Algarve,’ Rachel answered, relieved to have the subject changed. They carried on chatting over coffee and petit fours. Sheila was a good listener and seemed genuinely interested in hearing about how Rachel had changed courses at college.
‘Must be lovely to have a talent like yours.’ Sheila sat back and put a hand to her eyes. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Think I’ve overdone it.’
Rachel looked at her companion. She looked drawn and pale. ‘Are you okay, Sheila?’
‘I’m fine. I just forget sometimes.’
‘Is there anything wrong?’
‘Oh, it’s just something and nothing.’ Sheila gave a smile. ‘It’s being treated. Just makes me tired, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.’
Rachel looked at friend, concerned. ‘We’ll go when we’ve got the bill, shall we?’
‘You don’t mind not looking around any more? I’m happy to sit here while you wander the grounds.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘No, let’s get back. I’ve got work to do anyway. Time to say goodbye to Hetty for today.’
After she’d dropped Gabe’s mum off Rachel drove thoughtfully through the village. She was anxious about her; Sheila hadn’t looked at all well.
She’d seen Sheila into the kitchen and had made her a cup of tea. Before she’d left, they’d made arrangements to visit a nearby garden centre that specialised in clematis. Rachel had been dying to visit it but other things had got in the way. Another girly afternoon out, with an afternoon tea thrown in sounded wonderful. But she was worried. Worried about what was wrong with her new friend and worried even more that Sheila seemed to think her son was happily settled at last. It was evident Sheila was happy about it. It was just that Rachel wasn’t sure if Gabe was really the right man for her.
Chapter 32
June 1963, Clematis Cottage
It was Peter!
Age hadn’t changed him much. He was still thin and upright, he still had that shock of unruly hair, maybe a little thinner and grey, but still untidy, still flopping over his forehead to be impatiently pushed back. How she remembered that gesture.
Hetty rose, stiff from sitting at the window for too long and went to the front door. Her hands shook as she opened it before Peter had chance to lift the knocker.
All she could manage was, ‘Oh Peter!’
In response he took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Hetty, my Hetty.’ When he stood upright again, there were tears in his eyes. Their embrace was tender, memories of each other’s bodies fierce.
She took him into the kitchen and sat him at the scarred oak table – one of the few things she’d rescued from Delamere. After she’
d bustled about making tea and searching for the old Huntley and Palmers biscuit tin, with a few soft ginger-nuts lurking within, she finally sat opposite him. She expelled a long breath.
‘You haven’t changed one bit.’
‘Neither have you, Hetty.’
She grimaced. ‘I think we both know that that’s not true.’
He shrugged his thin shoulders and gestured towards the stick. ‘Picked up a leg wound at Verdun. Maybe we have changed?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘It’s been a good few years. Time has smoothed a few corners, perhaps.’ He looked directly at her. ‘In essence, though, I think we’re both the same.’
Hetty poured tea, in an attempt to quieten the tumult of emotion she was feeling. She pushed a cup over to him and gestured towards the milk jug. As Peter stirred in milk and sugar, she gazed at him.
The feelings that had begun, so tentatively, illicitly, so very long ago, had never really disappeared. But Peter had.
‘You went to war?’
He took a sip of tea. ‘I went into the army.’
‘I remember that horrible, vile white feather.’
He nodded. ‘It wasn’t only thing which decided me, but I couldn’t not go, not after that.’
‘You were so angry that morning when I came into the school for the first time.’
He sat back, shoulders relaxed. ‘First, I find a white feather in my locker and then I’m told I’m to have a young lady from the big house foisted upon me.’
‘Was I really foisted upon you?’
Peter grinned. ‘You were and I didn’t know what to do with you. For all I knew, you’d be useless at everything.’
Hetty laughed at that. ‘I was very nearly brought up to be so.’ She leaned forward. ‘But I proved useful, helpful, didn’t I?’
He took her hand. ‘You did. You were a solace and a comfort. A sparring partner and a great friend. For too short a time, though.’
‘We were, weren’t we? Great friends. I think both of us had need of friendship at that time. I know I needed one when Edward died.’ Hetty warmed at the memory of Peter’s consolation at a time when she hadn’t comprehended what was happening. He hadn’t said much, had done even less, but she knew he understood.
