by Jan Harvey
‘Thank you.’ She reached out with delicate fingers to take one. George placed the box back in its allotted space on the wide walnut coffee table where it disappeared amongst ornaments, leather bound magazine covers and crystal ashtrays. He flicked up the flame of the lighter and she leaned into it, the cigarette between her lips. I sat, stupidly silent, simply gazing at her.
‘I must thank you most sincerely, Cécile, for making the effort to introduce yourself whilst you are visiting England,’ said George. ‘You must have more interesting diversions in Oxford to keep you occupied.’
Cécile tapped her cigarette into the nearest ashtray. ‘I wanted to see Lapston Manor, to take a look for myself at the house where Henri lived. I felt it was very important to me.’
‘Of course, of course. This must be most distressing for you and as I said on the telephone, anything I can do to help.’ A sadness clouded George’s face. ‘It has been a terrible loss for us all.’ There was a moment of reverence for the duality of their loss and she looked away, towards the fireplace, whilst she gathered her thoughts.
‘But how wonderful that you are in Oxford and so close,’ said George.
‘Henri always promised he would have brought me to Lapston,’ she said, looking terribly pained. It was obvious that she was deeply troubled and I was certain George was about to say something when, just at that moment, the double doors opened and Grant returned with the tea trolley. He served us all before quietly withdrawing and closing the doors behind him.
Cécile sipped the tea, she took it without milk, then she looked around at the lounge taking in the faded opulence, and I was moved by how very vulnerable she looked as she did so. She was, no doubt, imagining what it would have been like to live here with Henry, to set up home in this fine English house together. I think both George and I thought, for one ghastly moment, she might even start to shed a tear. I even ran my fingers across the handkerchief in my breast pocket in readiness.
‘I understand, from what you told me over the telephone, that you were not wishing to intrude, but I insisted because Henry had showed intentions towards you and, if you will excuse me for being so bold, one could never fault his taste.’ For one dreadful moment, I thought George was about to espouse his well-worn theory that a man with an eye for a horse of good conformation had, almost inevitably, an eye for a beautiful woman too. It was something he was fond of saying so I interjected, fearing that it might be somewhat lost in translation.
‘Are you staying in Oxford long?’ I asked.
She was about to take a sip of tea, the cup suspended in mid-air.
‘I will be moving on,’ Cécile replied. ‘I have accomplished my task in seeing where Henri lived.’ She lifted the delicate china cup to her lips and dipped those entrancing eyes in doing so. She was a fine looking woman, demure, a delicate chin, neck and tantalising lips, and I could fully understand what Henry was doing courting her. I was about to suggest that she might enjoy a trip to Stow, and perhaps a spot of luncheon the following day, when George stepped into the breach.
‘I am delighted that you have come to visit our home. May I offer you dinner tonight, then you can see the house properly tomorrow and we can take a walk around the grounds? I presume you are staying locally.’
‘I have a room at The Crown Inn,’ she replied. ‘It is very comfortable and I have made a reservation to take dinner there this night, I feel I must not trespass any further on your kindness.’
‘My dear, I insist, I won’t hear of it. You must stay here tonight at the very least. Let me send for your things. Alice will be home just after six and I know she wants to meet you. I won’t hear another word about The Crown. I will settle your account if you are agreeable, and you shall dine with us. In that way I can hear more from you about Henry, I owe you and him that much at least. You are our only link to him in the past eight months. Perhaps you will oblige us with sharing some of your memories, as I am sure it would sustain Alice in her grief, as well as Carrick here, and of course myself. I fear my sister, in particular, has taken this all very badly indeed.’
‘Well, George, if you are sure, I would not wish to impose, but I should like to tell you very much of Henri and our brief time in Paris together.’ Cécile placed her cup on the coffee table and smiled. George and I saw the relief in her eyes and knew instinctively that by being at Lapston, she felt closer to Henry. It was a good thing he was doing, a very good thing, I concurred entirely.
5
The second plastic folder contained a list of notices and fines imposed on villagers in the nineteenth century for wrongdoings. One man had been fined a penny for letting his cow run loose on market day, another a shilling for causing an “affray.”
A fine riding horse was for sale on one faded poster and on another a corn mill to let, the advert read: “Presently possessed by Mr F Timms to be shown to interested parties at Whitsunday, 1877. Offers may be made to Robert Steurt of Sarsten till eleventh November next.”
I put them to one side. Maybe a chapter towards the end could bring together little snippets of information like these, but chapter two needed something with more meat. The third bag covered the First World War and the loss of three handsome young men, from the same family, who were killed in battle. There was a picture of them on horseback, ready for action in their neat uniforms, leather bands across their chests. One of the horses had moved its head and it was a blur, but the faces of the men sitting astride them were proud with anticipation writ large on their fresh young faces.
I imagined the person who took their photograph, their father perhaps, pressing the shutter and not knowing he was taking the photograph of his three boys for the last time. They were so young, so much potential. I turned it over and there was a handwritten caption on the back; ‘James, Arthur and Lindo, 1914.’
Heartbreaking.
Camilla had written the article in her neat rounded handwriting. It hadn’t been typed up so I had trouble reading it, but I picked out the salient points. James was the oldest, just twenty. Arthur and Lindo were eighteen-year-old twins. They belonged to a family of gentleman farmers and had volunteered for service on the same day. James was killed early in the proceedings, but the twins had made it through two years being killed on the Somme in June 1916. Other members of our village died there too: George Crakey; Rupert Holder; Thomas Eyre; Harold Murray, the list went on, all of them in their teens or early twenties. I moved on, I wasn’t in the mood for such sadness. I would come back to it later.
The next file was thin and had only a few contents. There was a picture of young woman in jodhpurs and riding boots, her knees drawn to her chest as she sat on a flight of stone steps. Behind her were the grandiose porch and great door of a large house. Above it, carved into the stone, were two shields to each side of a cross that was set above them on the apex of two sweeping inverted arches.
I flipped it over and, on the reverse, it said simply: ‘Alice, Lapston, Autumn 1944.’ She was a very pretty young lady with dark hair framing a heart-shaped face, but it was her smiling eyes that sparkled, and I guessed that whoever took the photograph had made her laugh. There were handwritten bills from a butcher’s shop and a haberdashery store, amongst others, all made out to Lapston Manor.
At the bottom was a postcard depicting a beautiful honey-stoned house with two cedar trees on an emerald lawn. I instantly recognised it as the same house I’d seen over the wall the day before. There were high rising chimneys, an impressive front porch and large windows spaced evenly across its broad elevation. It all helped to make the house quite imposing and gave it an almost symmetrical beauty.
Angela had written about the house on a sheet of thin foolscap paper.
“Lapston was the ‘gentle retreat’ of Lord and Lady Aaron, built in 1751 of the Georgian style. Used as a weekend and holiday home, the Aarons had other houses in London and a hunting lodge in Sussex. In the early eighteenth century, the Lord Cha
rles David Aaron was made Ambassador to Paris and came across a fine townhouse on the Seine in the process of being demolished. He bought many architectural pieces and had them grafted onto his own house. The treasures included a very fine stained-glass window, which was incorporated into the morning room.
“The Aaron family sold their summer retreat in 1904, when it was bought by a family from London, once again to be used as a country home. The Amsherst family were, originally, from Scotland, but moved south and took residence in London (Cadogan Square). They were wealthy from their interests overseas, and for the first half of the twentieth century the house was alive with life and colour, entertaining the nobility and wealthy of Europe. The fortunes of the family changed during the Second World War and the Amsherst family lost the house in 1945, some believe owing to a debt, but this has never been verified. The locals were convinced that there was an untimely death and it fell into the hands of a woman by the name of Roussell who later sold it to Les Fils du Cœur Pur Saint François (The Sons of the Pure Heart of Saint Francis) when it became a children’s convalescent home.
“In 1957, there was a small fire in the west wing of the house and in the aftermath, many of the architectural fittings were removed. It was, almost overnight, reduced to a shadow of its former self and was bought for a song by a local builder in 1977. It stands today a relic of England’s glorious past, like many other once graceful stately homes.”
That was all there was. I tapped “Lapston Manor” into the search engine on my iPad and a short paragraph came up, much the same sort of thing but less detailed. I had a notebook in my handbag and scribbled down a few words.
I was intrigued and then I remembered Rory and his offer. I felt a really strong desire to see into the house so I could imagine it entertaining all those notable people. It was silly really because I’d never given it a moment’s thought when Steve and I walked that way on the odd Sunday morning.
I made myself a cup of tea, and while I was hugging the mug and mulling it over, the phone rang. It was Angela.
‘I’m just phoning to see how you’re getting on with our exciting little project.’ She had a singsong voice. ‘Found the curs yet, honey?’
‘I’ve reached the Lapston Manor section and I read what you wrote,’ I told her.
‘Intrigued?’
‘I have to say I am, I’ll admit it’s had a sad ending,’ I told her. ‘Such a lovely place.’
‘It sure was, honey. They sure wrecked it after those priests left, everyone in the village took something. You know the little cottage on the corner opposite the pub? It’s the one with the two bay trees each side of the front door.’
‘Yes.’
‘They have a rather eye-catching square of carved stone in the front wall. It says 1751, and beneath the numerals is the maxim ‘In faith, love’ and if you look carefully, a feather. Well, it’s from the house.’
‘I’ll have to take a look next time I’m passing.’ I was trying to picture the cottage she was talking about more clearly in my mind’s eye.
‘It’s quite visible from the road and there are many bits and pieces all over the village, that is if you know what you are looking for.’
‘What about the “untimely death” you refer to in your article?’ I asked.
‘Well, that depends who you talk to, an old lady like me with an interest in history who tries to stick to the facts or the gossip mongers who like a good yarn.’ She was laughing. ‘You have to choose for yourself who to believe.’
‘But what do you know about it?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know enough to go into much detail but the house suddenly changed hands and no one knows why.’
‘Are we talking foul deeds, do you think?’
‘Honey, I have no idea. I was told by a villager, who is long gone, Seth Miller, that people had suspected something because suddenly there was an upheaval and all the family were gone. Seth was the gardener’s help and he was let go without rhyme or reason. In fact, he told me all the staff were.’
‘Who was it who died?’
‘I’m afraid no one knows. Seth told me it changed everything and the house passed to a woman called Roussell, one can only imagine that she was a distant relative. I’d love to know more but I’ve researched everything I can about it and you have it there. I really do wish I had more answers.’
I found myself thinking exactly the same thing.
6
Alice clasped both of my hands in hers tightly and kissed me. She looked lovely in a plaid coat and fur-trimmed hat.
‘Carrick, darling, I am so glad you are here. Do say that you are staying for my birthday.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. It’s not every year a beautiful lady turns twenty five,’ I told her.
‘You flatter me, Carrick, I’m getting old.’ She smoothed down her hair in the hall mirror and pinched her cheeks to give them colour. When she glanced at me, she had those kind expressive eyes, large and round, that charmed me still.
‘You will never be old to me.’ I let Grant help her out of her coat then I took her arm and we walked together to the library. A fire was roaring, and George was standing before it, looking down on the rising flames.
‘Darling!’ Alice left my arm to go and kiss her brother, her long dark hair catching the light of the blaze. ‘How are you? I hope everything went well.’ George brightened visibly on seeing her and she received one of his bear hugs. ‘Well, I am simply dying to know all about her, what was she like?’
‘I presume you mean Madame Roussell,’ George said teasing her.
‘George, stop it, you are trying to torment me, just spill the beans, you know I can’t wait to hear all.’
‘She is a very charming woman, elegant, beautiful and speaks perfect English.’ George turned to me. ‘Very striking, eh, Carrick?’
‘She’s a very pleasant lady,’ I said gingerly, I didn’t want to upset Alice. ‘Typically French,’ I added, as if that might help.
‘Where is she staying, at The Crown? I want to walk over and see her tomorrow.’
‘She was,’ I told Alice, with one eye on George who looked immensely pleased with himself. ‘However, she is now staying here, at your brother’s behest.’
Alice turned from me to George, her eyes widening in surprise. ‘Really? Where is she, the blue guest room?’
‘No, she asked for Henry’s room,’ George replied. ‘And I didn’t see there was any harm in the request, even if it failed to impress Mrs Hall.’ Alice raised her eyebrows because, like me, she had doubts about the suitability of such an arrangement, but neither of us wanted to upset the applecart so we stood down.
‘Should I go and see her, welcome her?’
‘No Alice, darling, Cécile said she was going to have a rest; the journey was arduous. She came over on a refugee boat and it was not at all pleasant for her, people were mixed. She stayed in Oxford for a couple of days. It was noisy and she has not slept well. We suggested she join us for cocktails at seven thirty.’
There was the trace of a pout on Alice’s lips, but she quickly relented. George was lighting a cigarette and he offered us both one, but Alice refused, saying she was very tired after her journey and would go for a rest herself.
‘Mouse,’ said George, using the family’s pet name. ‘Don’t overdo it with questions will you, especially about Henry. She does look very distressed.’
Alice’s face darkened. ‘I’m not insensitive, George, but I do need to know, I think we all do.’ She cast me one of her looks and I knew I was fully expected to support her.
‘It is quite possible that we may find out more than we wish to know, Mouse.’ George sighed heavily. ‘And we simply must not cause Madame any further pain, it would be heartless.’
Alice took her leave, her demeanour altered already. The few days in Scotland were over for her, and the
harsh reality of our loss was once again in our midst.
‘So what do you make of Madame Roussell, old man?’ George asked as the doors closed behind Alice. ‘I have to admit I do feel a lack of connection. She knew Henry at the end whereas I have not seen him for the best part of a year.’ He sat back down heavily on the sofa, I saw him wince, his hip was obviously paining him. ‘I still can’t believe he’s gone, Carrick. I went into his room yesterday to tell him some trifle that had occurred to me; nearly broke my heart when I realised I should never see him in there again, never sit and talk with him, share a problem. That’s why I thought her being in there might bring it to life again, fill the void.’
‘But so soon, George, I can’t say I entirely agree. It’s not as if we know her well, nor even at all.’ I spoke to him with an expected honesty. He and I were at school together and that is where we became the best of friends. I was his confidante and proud to be so. He had always known that I would never deliberately upset him but, on this occasion, he didn’t reply and, more than that, he looked away from me to the flames of the fire and the words were left hanging in the air between us.
As the mantel clock chimed six, I was grateful to have the chance to slip away and change for dinner so I took my leave.
In my bedroom, I laid out my own clothes, gone were the days of the valet. The requirement for a dinner suit was also a thing of the past and I think we all missed the formal and long mourned for days at Lapston. I fear George’s father, Sir Reginald, would have turned in his grave if he knew of its decline. Sadly the war had left us no luxuries save for the relative peace and quiet of the countryside hidden away in an old house that had once, so rumour has it, been visited by old Kaiser Bill himself. The irony of that was not lost on any of us.
In my bedroom, I studied my face in the mirror and realised how tired I looked, the skin under my eyes was dark, my complexion sallow. Losing my own home was one thing, and I would somehow resolve matters in that quarter, but what I lacked now was an interest. I needed to hunt again perhaps, to find a distraction and, it was clear to me, I was seeking the love of a good woman. It even occurred to me that, perhaps, I was ready to settle down and think about children.
