Victoria Connelly - The Rose Girl

by Unknown

  Their father laughed, obviously not registering the little snip.

  ‘Will you excuse me?’ Evie said, standing up from the table.

  Celeste and Gertie threw her warning looks.

  ‘I need to use the facilities,’ she explained.

  ‘Ah!’ their father said, waving his fork in the air. ‘Our cloakroom’s out of action. Got a plumber coming round tomorrow. Use the upstairs bathroom. You know where it is?’

  Evie nodded and left the room.

  The upstairs bathroom was Simone’s domain – as was the whole of Oak House, really. Evie could see very little of her father there. Everything was Simone’s taste, from the frilly curtains and cushions to the patterned dinner service and embroidered napkins.

  Her eyes scanned the shelves of the bathroom, each one crowded with bottles and potions and lotions. She probably needed every single one to stop her face from turning into the Wicked Witch of the East’s, Evie thought with a naughty giggle. What on earth did their father see in her, she wondered for the hundredth time?

  Evie sighed. She was feeling a little light-headed and it had nothing to do with the mushroom risotto. She splashed her face with cold water and stared at her reflection. Her eyes looked larger and darker than ever with her blonde hair and she wasn’t sure she liked the look. She was very pale these days. Paler than she’d ever imagined, but maybe that would change.

  It was then that her phone beeped. She took it out of her pocket and saw that it was a text from Lukas.

  Missing you. Coming back to Suffolk. x

  Evie groaned. That was the last thing she needed right now. What was it with him? She’d never given him any encouragement. Well, other than sleeping with him a few times. But she’d made it perfectly clear to him that she wasn’t looking for a relationship; that was the very last thing she wanted.

  For a moment, she thought about the way he used to walk around the garden. He had a funny, casual, shuffly way of walking as if he had all the time in the world, which used to aggravate Evie, and yet he’d always managed to get his jobs done. He just never looked as if he was working very hard. One of life’s laid-back sorts of people, Evie thought, wishing she could take a leaf out of his book because she wasn’t like that at all. She always seemed to be rushing and stressing which was a sign that the business was doing well, of course, but she sometimes wished that she could take some time out and just be – well – Evie.

  But that’s what you’re going to do, she told her reflection now. Just not today.

  Leaving the sanctuary of the bathroom, she walked along the landing and couldn’t help noting that the door to her father’s bedroom was ajar. Nosiness had always been a terrible fault of Evie’s and had got her into trouble many times in the past, but she still couldn’t resist peeping inside now.

  The bedroom was a typical Simone production with its flowery bedspread and neat built-in wardrobes. There were none of the usual bedroom horrors like a friendly sock left on the floor or drawer that hadn’t quite aligned itself properly. It was all so precise, and Evie knew that she would find it impossible to sleep in such a room.

  She was just about to leave in disgust when something caught her eye. There on the far wall was a painting of roses that she instantly recognised. A gasp left her and she crossed the plush carpet towards it, taking in the simple spray of flowers depicted in careful oils. It was a classic composition of just the sort that her grandfather had favoured, and Evie instantly knew that it was, indeed, from her grandfather’s collection. It was unmistakable. So what on earth was it doing here at Oak House, she wondered?

  Taking her phone out again, she took a couple of quick photos of the painting before returning downstairs. Simone glared at her from her position at the head of the table when she entered the dining room, but her glare turned into a smile when her father looked up from his plate.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Evelyn. We thought you’d fallen down the toilet.’

  Evie grunted and sat down.

  ‘Your risotto’s gone cold,’ her father pointed out.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Evie said, earning herself a reprimanding glance from Celeste.

  ‘Well, I really don’t know if you deserve dessert now,’ Simone said as if Evie was a child.

  Their father guffawed and then picked up a newspaper, which he was apt to do between courses so that he wouldn’t actually have to engage in conversation. Evie took the opportunity to get her sisters’ attention as soon as Simone had left the room, flapping her hands wildly at them both.

  ‘What is it, Evie?’ Celeste said, none too subtly.

  Evie cleared her throat. ‘I need to talk to you both,’ she said, motioning to the hallway.

  Celeste and Gertie got up from the table, apologising to their father, who didn’t seem to notice what was going on.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’ Celeste hissed once they were in the hallway.

  ‘I’ve just seen that painting you were talking about,’ Evie said.

  ‘What painting?’ Celeste asked.

  ‘The missing rose painting?’

  ‘What do you mean? Where?’

  ‘Upstairs – in Dad and Simone’s bedroom.’

  Celeste frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes! I’m positive!’

  ‘Keep your voice down, Evie!’ Celeste warned.

  Evie groaned. ‘You’ve got to go and look at it. It’s ours! I’m sure of it,’ she whispered urgently.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Celeste said. ‘I’ll take a look. Just go and sit down and, whatever you do, don’t say anything.’

  Evie returned to the dining room with Gertie, and Celeste quietly walked up the stairs. The bedroom door was still ajar. Taking deep breath, she entered the room. Like her sister before her, Celeste couldn’t help noting the decor of the room and the number of cushions that were heaped on the bed. Simone was one of those women who had more cushions than friends, but she wasn’t here to look at cushions. She soon saw the painting Evie had told her about.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said to herself, for it was, indeed, her grandfather’s missing painting. This, she thought, was awkward. She knew her mother would never have given the painting to their father, and Celeste was pretty certain that her father had nothing to do with this anyway. He probably didn’t even know it was in the room; he never noticed such things. So how had it got there? Celeste cast her mind back. Her father had had a key to the manor long after he had left and had made several trips to collect things, but had he been seeing Simone then? And had she come with him on such a trip and just stolen the painting?

  With gentle hands, Celeste took the painting off the wall and examined it. She turned it around and noticed the tiny ink inscription on the top left-hand corner.

  ‘To Esme, with love from Arthur.’

  No, she thought, her mother would never have let his painting leave the house.

  Placing the painting back on the wall, Celeste returned downstairs but there wasn’t an opportunity to talk to her sisters because desserts had arrived.

  ‘You been using the facilities too?’ Simone asked Celeste. ‘I must say, you girls have very weak bladders for your age.’

  Evie rolled her eyes and they ate the apple strudel in silence.

  It wasn’t until half an hour later that the three of them got a chance to talk. Simone was making coffee in the kitchen and their father was snoozing in his favourite chair, his loud puffs signalling that he was sound asleep.

  ‘Well?’ Evie said. ‘Did you see it?’

  Celeste nodded. ‘It’s ours, all right.’

  ‘I told you! You’ve got to go and get it.’

  ‘I can’t just pluck it off the wall and stick it under my jacket, can I?’ Celeste said, looking outraged.

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ Evie said. ‘It belongs to us.’

  ‘Celeste is right. We can’t just take it,’ Gertie said.

  ‘Why not?’ Evie cried.

  ‘Keep your voice down!’ Celeste war
ned as their father stirred with a frighteningly loud snort.

  ‘If that painting is worth as much as the others, then surely we can’t afford to leave it here. What if Simone goes and sells it herself? How would you feel then?’ Evie asked.

  Celeste shook her head. ‘She wouldn’t, would she? Not if she’s had it this long already.’

  ‘But she might get bored with it and decide to sell it then,’ Gertie said. ‘Didn’t she go through that phase of collecting those dreadful figurines and then sell them all when she got bored of them?’

  Celeste nodded. She’d forgotten about that.

  ‘So what are we going to do?’ Evie pressed.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Celeste said honestly.

  ‘Yes, well, don’t think about it for too long,’ Evie said, ‘or I’ll do something about it myself.’

  17.

  Evie had no idea how the job of looking after Esther Martin had fallen to her but, whenever anything needed doing, Celeste and Gertie just happened to be either at the far end of the walled garden or deeply engrossed in paperwork. Evie sighed as she took the vacuum cleaner into Esther’s quarters whilst their new tenant was safely out of the way in the kitchen.

  Honestly, she really had enough to do without turning into Esther’s private housekeeper, she thought. For one thing, Gloria Temple was arriving to make the final choice of roses for her wedding. But, as Evie moved around the room, making sure everything was spick and span, her heart couldn’t help going out to the woman who’d been thrown out of the home she’d been promised only to be forced to live with a family whom she detested. She must be feeling pretty insecure, Evie thought.

  ‘A bit like me,’ she whispered, wondering what it would be like if Celeste followed through on her threat to sell the manor. Where would they all go? Evie couldn’t imagine a life outside its safe confines. She’d never known any other home and she knew her heart would break if she had to leave it. Was that how Esther was feeling now, she wondered?

  Still, there was no need for the old woman to be so impossible all the time. There was never any excuse for rudeness, Evie decided.

  She shook her head, trying – once again – to imagine what it was like to carry around so much hate in a human heart. It wasn’t as if she and her sisters were to directly blame for the death of her daughter, was it? Goodness, she thought, even her father wasn’t to blame. After all, you couldn’t be held personally responsible for whoever fell in love with you and then be held accountable if they went off to Africa and contracted some terrible disease.

  Evie paused by a little mahogany table where Esther had placed a few silver framed photographs. There she was on her wedding day – younger and prettier, but still with that disgruntled sort of expression that seemed permanently fixed on her face. Evie peered at her husband, who had a kind of resigned look about him as if he knew he’d never be a hundred percent happy with his choice of bride. But perhaps Evie was reading too much into things. They’d probably had the most marvellous life together and had been happier than any couple had a right to be, although Evie found that hard to imagine.

  Another photograph caught her eye.

  ‘Sally,’ Evie said, picking up the oval frame and gazing into the pale face of the much-missed daughter. She was standing under an odd-shaped tree that was the most African thing that Evie had ever seen – tall and thin with a very flat canopy. Sally was holding a large straw hat in her hands and was wearing a loose dress in blue and white, her long hair hanging over her shoulders. She looked like a singer from some nineteen-seventies folk group, and her tiny smile elicited one from Evie that soon turned into a frown as she tried to imagine what it must be like to lose such a beloved daughter.

  ‘I’ve left a book out for you.’

  Evie almost left the ground with shock as Esther entered the room. Quickly replacing the photo frame, Evie turned around as the silver-haired harridan entered the room.

  ‘What book?’ Evie asked her.

  ‘One of those books from the box you were eyeing up. It’s on the coffee table,’ Esther said with a nod, and Evie walked across to the table to pick it up.

  ‘Jerome K Jerome,’ she read. ‘That’s a funny name.’

  ‘For a funny man. And a funny book.’

  ‘It’s funny?’ Evie said, looking down at the unlikely title of Three Men in a Boat.

  ‘Yes,’ Esther said. ‘If you have any sort of funny bone, you’ll think so too. Look out for the dog. It might remind you of someone.’

  Evie raised quizzical eyebrows and then watched as Esther slowly lowered herself into her winged chair.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m in the mood to laugh at anything much at the moment,’ Evie said.

  ‘Give it a go,’ Esther said. ‘It’s at times like this when books can save your life.’

  Evie bit her lip, wondering if she was alluding to the death of her daughter again or maybe that of her husband, and she couldn’t help feeling a little connection with the old woman.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll give it back to you as soon as I can.’

  Esther waved a hand at her. ‘There’s no rush. My eyes won’t allow me to read much these days. I find the print so maddeningly small and I don’t get to the libraries much for those large print books.’

  ‘Oh,’ Evie said in alarm, not being able to imagine a world without reading. Like Gertie, she adored stories. Then something occurred to her. ‘Have you tried a Kindle?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘A Kindle,’ Evie said. ‘It’s an electronic reading device and you can make the text as big as you want.’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ Esther said dismissively.

  ‘That doesn’t mean it’s not a great thing,’ Evie told her. ‘I’ll lend you mine,’ she said, making a mental note to delete some of the racier titles she had already read.

  When she left the room, closing the door quietly behind her, the copy of Three Men in a Boat in her hand, Evie couldn’t help but smile. Had she really just had a normal non-confrontational conversation with Esther Martin? Celeste and Gertie would never believe her.

  Celeste was surprisingly happy to have a reason to contact Julian Faraday again so soon. The painting discovered in her father and Simone’s bedroom was nagging away at her so she decided to send the photographs she’d taken to Julian.

  ‘What do you think?’ she texted him, giving him the rough dimensions of the painting. She wasn’t surprised when he rang her back just three minutes later.

  ‘You found the missing painting!’ he said in delight.

  ‘Well, yes,’ she said, not elaborating at this point. ‘Have you any idea who it’s by?’

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘It’s by a little-known English artist called Paul Calman. He painted between the wars – mostly still life but the occasional East Anglian landscape.’

  Celeste cleared her throat. ‘And is it worth much?’

  ‘It’s not worth as much as the others,’ Julian told her, ‘but it’s still a very nice painting. I’d have to see it, of course, to determine its value, but I’d estimate about five thousand.’

  ‘Right,’ Celeste said, acknowledging the fact that it wasn’t going to swell the Little Eleigh Manor coffers greatly but also knowing that she’d want it back in their home even if it was only worth a fiver. It had been chosen by her grandfather for their grandmother and it belonged at the manor.

  ‘Where is it?’ Julian asked.

  ‘Ah,’ Celeste said, biting her lip. ‘We don’t actually have it in our possession at the moment.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing,’ Julian said. ‘Well, perhaps I’ll get to see it at some point and then I can give you a proper valuation.’

  ‘Right,’ Celeste said, secretly thinking that that was never going to happen.

  ‘I’m popping through to Suffolk this weekend,’ he said. ‘I thought I might check out a few places to possibly rent. You know my crazy idea to open an antiques shop?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said.

  �
��I was wondering if you’d like to join me. If you’re not too busy, that is.’

  It was then that a horn sounded from outside and Celeste peered out of the window to see the scruffy white works van of Ludkin and Son.

  ‘Julian, I’ve got to run. Somebody’s just arrived. Goodbye,’ she said, hanging up quickly before rushing to the front door.

  ‘Mr Ludkin,’ she said, extending a hand in welcome. ‘Do come in.’ His hand was rough with a whitish hue as if it had been dipped in plaster.

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ he said, scratching his greying hair, which also looked full of plaster. ‘You remember me boy?’

  Celeste nodded. ‘Tim, right?’

  Tim shuffled a step forward and nodded shyly. He was a little taller than his father, or would have been if his head and shoulders weren’t quite so slumped.

  ‘Well, come on through,’ Celeste said. ‘I’m sure you know where we’re heading.’ She led the way to the infamous north wing, the sound of Tim Ludkin sniffing nervously behind her.

  ‘Still holding up, then?’ Mr Ludkin asked. ‘Not tumbled into the moat yet?’

  ‘I think some of it might have done,’ she said.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ he said, shaking his head from side to side. ‘I do love these old houses but sometimes they’re more trouble than they’re worth.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean but we’ve got to try and save it,’ Celeste said.

  ‘And we can actually go ahead with the work this time?’ he asked. ‘You’re not just getting another quote to add to that the big pile I’ve already given you?’

  ‘We’re going ahead with the work this time,’ Celeste vowed. ‘I fear the whole of the north wing needs attention but there’s one room that needs to be dealt with first.’ She paused outside the Room of Doom and took a deep breath before opening the door. The two men walked inside.

  ‘Right,’ Mr Ludkin said ambiguously and Celeste watched in alarm as his son’s mouth slackened and his eyes glazed over.

  Suddenly, Celeste didn’t want to be there at all. ‘If you could take a look around here and the other rooms in this wing, that would be great,’ she said. ‘Of course, there are other jobs to tackle around the house but I think we should prioritise this wing for now. Can I make you both a cup of tea whilst I let you get on with it?’