House of Trelawney

by Hannah Rothschild

  Most of the twenty-minute drive to A&E was passed in silence. The only noise was the slap-slap of the windscreen wipers and the drumming of the rain on the roof of the car.

  “Stop the car, stop!” Clarissa said suddenly.

  “What’s happening?” Kitto asked, pulling over to the side.

  “Turn the engine off at once.” Clarissa’s tone of voice, normally deep and measured, had risen to a tremulous staccato. “He’s trying to say something but I can’t hear.”

  Kitto turned the key and the engine fell silent. He, Toby and Clarissa strained to hear Enyon’s words.

  “Tell her to come back.”

  “Who’s he talking about?” Toby asked.

  “Ignore him,” Clarissa said, her face set in a line of disapproval.

  “I love her,” Enyon rasped.

  “Kitto, drive on.” Clarissa’s voice was icy.

  Assuming his father was referring to Blaze only added to Kitto’s despair. How typical, he thought bitterly, that it was his sister the old man had asked for: the one that had got away, who had spent the last twenty years doing exactly what she wanted, who eschewed all responsibility, who’d been set free to make something of her life. While he, the eldest son, who had relinquished his dreams, was not even in his father’s last thoughts. If only he’d persuaded Anastasia to marry him; if only she hadn’t run away. Slamming the car into gear, Kitto put his foot down on the accelerator.

  He set the windscreen wipers on to full speed and drove faster. Next to him he saw Toby looking across nervously, his fingers whitening as they clung on to the seat.

  “You’re driving too fast.”

  “You frightened?” Kitto said.

  “A little, yes.”

  “Being frightened is good; it sets the heart on fire.” Kitto laughed manically.

  “Dad, you missed the turning.” Toby’s voice jerked him back to the present. “The hospital was up to the right.”

  Without thinking or looking to the left or right, Kitto wrenched the wheel to make a U-turn. There was a terrible screech as a large lorry slammed on its brakes. The last thing they heard was the sound of tearing metal and a loud bang. Then there was silence.

  12

  The Date

  THURSDAY 25TH SEPTEMBER 2008

  Blaze and Wolfe met at a small French restaurant in Soho. Away from the farm, dressed in a suit and an open-necked shirt, he appeared less handsome and ill at ease. Blaze, wearing black trousers and a white silk shirt, held out her hand awkwardly. He ignored the gesture and leaned forward and kissed her on her unblemished cheek. Blaze, worried that he’d press his lips to the other side and feel her puckered skin, stepped back.

  They looked at each other awkwardly until a waiter appeared and led them to a corner table.

  “Would you like a drink?” Wolfe asked once they had both sat down.

  “A Martini please,” Blaze said. She had already had a shot of vodka at home and, when the aperitifs arrived, resolved not to drink hers too fast. Be cool, she told herself. Pretend this is normal. The contents of the menu swam before her eyes and, when the waiter took their order, she asked for the first things from each section.

  “I must thank you,” Wolfe said. “I heeded the advice you gave at the Kerkyra presentation. As a result, my portfolio weathered the last few weeks pretty well. You saved me and my investors from huge losses.”

  Blaze tried to hide her disappointment; this was a thank-you dinner. Romance was not on the table.

  “I’m pleased someone was listening.” She downed her Martini in one gulp. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes until Wolfe asked a question.

  “You’ll want red wine?” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because you ordered bresaola followed by steak.”

  “I did?” Oh, for goodness’ sake, get a grip, she told herself. “Of course, red wine would be lovely.”

  “Do you like Merlot?”

  “Please choose.”

  “Are you OK?” he asked. “You’ve gone a bit pink. Do you need some air?”

  Blaze let out an involuntary high-pitched laugh. “No. I was just thinking about the crisis. I think we are just in the foothills of the real crash. I imagine it will take months to understand what’s happening and to see who else will be brought down.”

  She could hear herself babbling and, glancing across the table, she saw Wolfe looking intently at her.

  “What are you staring at?” she asked, running her tongue over her teeth to make sure they were clean.

  “I was thinking how beautiful you are.”

  Blaze instinctively placed a hand over her left cheek. He probably felt sorry for her or was one of those types who traded on other people’s vulnerability. She’d eat her food and leave. She decided to keep talking about the markets, a relatively safe area.

  “A friend of mine said that Detroit looks like a horror film: deserted streets, abandoned buildings and homeless people.” Blaze pushed her starter around her plate. “I know it sounds odd but, on September the 15th, when Lehman’s collapsed, I had this strong premonition that the world had changed and the consequences of what’s happening will reverberate for many years.” Now on familiar ground, she felt her heart calm and her breathing return to something near normal. She continued to talk, hoping that words would allay any possibility of an awkward silence between them. “There will be change; there has to be. Ordinary people will be furious that governments are putting the fates of failing banks before their own countries.”

  “Ordinary people? Sounds a bit condescending.”

  “I consider myself ordinary,” Blaze said briskly.

  Wolfe laughed. “You are far from ordinary.”

  “You think I’m ridiculous,” she replied.

  “Not at all.” Wolfe smiled. “I wonder if we could explore something else.”

  Blaze assumed he wanted an update on her investment decisions. “I’ve decided to stay liquid for now. Prices are bound to keep falling. At some point I will go back into the market. I can’t believe the casualties—they say that Woolworths is teetering on the verge of bankruptcy. I couldn’t imagine my childhood or any high street without Woolies, can you?”

  “It didn’t get as far as my hometown,” Wolfe said. Like Blaze he had ordered bresaola and, like her, was hardly eating.

  “Even though interest rates are supposed to be slashed, I suspect none of the banks will be lending.”

  Wolfe refilled her glass and Blaze downed it in one. He topped it up again.

  “I’m considering taking a position in a road-haulage firm—we’ll never stop needing goods taken from A to B.”

  “Can we change the subject?” he asked again. But Blaze didn’t dare.

  “Since seeing the opening of the Beijing Olympics and China’s mighty display of pomp and ceremony, maybe we should just learn Mandarin, sit back and wait for their invasion. Clearly it’s coming. Perhaps the democratic nominee Barack Obama will get elected and deliver on his campaign promises.” Blaze could hear herself talking far too quickly and took a large gulp of wine to try to slow herself down. Wolfe opened his mouth to say something and she quickly jumped in. “I’m interested by the Large Hadron Collider, aren’t you?” She didn’t give him time to reply. “I keep hearing about all these tech disrupter companies—apparently they’ll change the way we live and work. Apple continues to be a fantastic investment; sales of their iPhones are killing the competition.”

  This time Wolfe leaned over and placed one finger on her mouth to stop her from talking. “Tell me about yourself.”

  Blaze was staggered by the intimacy of his gesture; her heart contracted.

  “Could you go first?” Why did her voice sound so odd?

  Wolfe smiled. “Ask me a question.”

  “Why aren’t you married?”r />
  Wolfe sat back in his chair. “You don’t believe in small talk!”

  Blaze’s hand flew to her mouth; if she could have caught her words, she would have pushed them back in.

  “You don’t have to answer,” she said.

  Wolfe shook his head. “I have had three long-term relationships with wonderful women, each of whom I would gladly have shared my life with.” He hesitated. “But there was a consistent stumbling block: I don’t want and never have wanted children. And they all did.”

  “Why are you so certain about that?”

  “I told you about my parents. Their past hung over our lives like a noxious cloud. When they died, I made a conscious decision to leave their pain and their history behind. Having children would bring those feelings up again, and I’d be frightened of infecting them with everything that’s happened.” He spoke softly, without any sadness or introspection. Blaze wished she could face down her own past with as much clarity.

  “I tried looking you up on the internet,” she said. “I got my office to search the press cuttings. There’s practically nothing on you—no trace, no gossip, not even in the financial pages.”

  “I take precautions.”

  “How does that work?” Blaze had heard of public figures using court orders to suppress stories.

  “I make generous donations to editors’ and newspaper owners’ pet charities and make sure they know about it.”

  “Is that bribery?”

  “It’s for a good cause.” He smiled.

  “Yours or theirs?”

  They both laughed.

  “Your turn,” he said. “Where are your skeletons kept?”

  Blaze squirmed in her chair. There was no alternative but to tell him a version of the truth.

  “I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth which was later wrenched out. Luckily, I had a facility for numbers, became an analyst, then a fund manager and have hardly left my desk for twenty years.”

  “No one’s life could be that dull.” Wolfe grimaced but, seeing Blaze wince and hoping to make her feel better, added, “I could make mine sound equally banal.”

  “I’ve put all my energy into my work and not enough into creating new relationships. I live in one place but dream of being in another. I have nothing to tell you about. I live alone, I dine alone, I sleep alone.” Looking down at her plate, she realised she’d been far too honest and felt ashamed; he’d see her for the imperfect and pathetic human being she was. Unable to bear the humiliation, she reached for her bag under the table and was about to stand up and leave when she saw his expression. Far from disgust and pity, Wolfe looked sympathetic and, in that second, Blaze felt an enormous sense of relief. He was still there. He didn’t seem horrified. Emboldened by his response, she continued to talk.

  “The same day as the markets crashed, my father died. Even though it was a coincidence, I can’t separate the events: both dreaded and anticipated, both with awful consequences.” She thought about her mother’s telephone call: Your father’s dead, a heart attack, and your idiot brother has lost everything and brought ruin upon the family. The funeral’s on the 27th. I expect you to attend.

  Wolfe looked at her in astonishment. “I’m so sorry. If I’d known, I would have asked to postpone our dinner.”

  Blaze thought about her father’s obituary in the Telegraph. Enyon Trelawney made hunting and fishing into an art form. She realised that Wolfe had asked a question. “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “Were you close?”

  “I hadn’t seen him for a long time; there was a horrible row.” Blaze twisted her napkin in her hands and looked into her glass of wine. “My sense of loss seems unreasonable, out of proportion. I never saw him but my emotions are wrung out.” Her voice cracked slightly and, letting go of the napkin, she drove the fingernails of one hand into the other palm in an attempt to transform mental anguish into physical pain. Wolfe must not see any more vulnerability.

  “Is it about lack of closure, unfinished business?” he asked. “Or perhaps that, whether people are with us or not, the relationship keeps on going. The dead only leave the room; they remain firmly in our lives.”

  The knot in Blaze’s vocal cords prevented her from saying anything.

  They ate their main courses in silence. As soon as she’d finished hers, Wolfe gestured to the waiter for the bill. She felt exposed, awkward. Wolfe moved the table and held out his hand. The waiter brought their coats. Blaze burned with mortification; if only she’d kept to her original story. Outside the restaurant the air was biting cold. Blaze held out her hand. “Thank you for dinner. I’m sorry that I wasn’t good company.” She turned away and started walking.

  “Blaze, wait,” he called out.

  She stopped and stood immobile on the pavement, then heard his footsteps behind her. He put a hand on her right shoulder and swivelled her round to face him.

  “I didn’t ask for the bill to get away from you. I couldn’t sit opposite you for a moment longer without doing this.”

  He stepped forward and kissed her on the mouth. Blaze stood with her arms by her side, not daring to move, feeling his lips against her own.

  “I think you ought to breathe,” he suggested.

  She gulped for air.

  Holding her face in his hands, Wolfe kissed her again, parting her lips with his tongue. This time she responded, leaning into his body, exploring his mouth, revelling in his taste. After some time, he drew away and, wrapping his arm around her, pulled her into the crook of his left shoulder. She leaned her head against his chest, thrilled by the sensation of touch.

  “Shall we walk for a bit?” he asked, after kissing her once more. Blaze didn’t want to move; she wanted to stay there for the rest of her life, feeling his warm breath on the crown of her head, the muscles of his arms through his overcoat, the rise and fall of his chest.

  It began to rain. Small, hard drops at first and then a downpour. The two of them stepped back to shelter under the restaurant’s awning, hand in hand, watching the raindrops bouncing in the headlamps of oncoming cars. In the distance they saw the shimmering orange light of a taxi. Wolfe, putting his coat over his head, ran towards it. The driver flashed and pulled over. Running back to Blaze, Wolfe held his coat above her head to shelter her from the rain.

  “Where do you live?” he asked.

  “Near Tower Bridge.”

  Once in the back of the taxi they kissed again. This time with more abandon.

  “My niece is at home,” Blaze said, remembering to breathe.

  Wolfe laughed. “I would never presume anything like that on the first date.”

  Leaning into his arms, surrendering to his mouth again, she caught glimpses of a soft, milk-coloured moon rising above buildings and the glow of lights through a rain-smeared window.

  The taxi made its way through Victoria and turned onto the Embankment along the Thames. Lights from nearby buildings bounced off the river’s surface.

  “I have to go to Cornwall tomorrow. For the funeral.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Or I’ll have to come and get you.”

  Blaze laughed. “Do you even know how to get to Cornwall?”

  “Actually, I have a lot to thank the West Country for. I shorted Acorn Bank shares. It was a good call. It crashed nearly as far as Lloyds, down 62 per cent. Unlike Lloyds, though, the government can’t be bothered to rescue it.”

  Although Blaze knew that this was normal City banter—language that she might have used herself in different circumstances—the realisation that Wolfe was one of the people who had brought about the collapse of her brother’s business was shocking. The press had confirmed her mother’s accusation: Acorn had gone into receivership, Kitto was bankrupt and the castle would have to be sold. The same touch that, minutes earlier,
had been so delightful was now repulsive. She shrank from Wolfe, keen only to get out of the cab and away from him as quickly as possible.

  “Could you stop the taxi please?”

  “What’s happened?” Wolfe asked, tapping on the glass and asking the driver to pull over.

  “I need some air,” Blaze said. The moment the vehicle came to a halt, she yanked on the door handle and jumped out.

  “Let me pay, I’ll walk with you,” Wolfe offered.

  “No,” she said firmly. “Goodnight.” She ran up a side street.

  “Blaze, wait,” Wolfe shouted. But, by the time he’d given the cabbie some money, Blaze had disappeared. Only then did he realise: Scott was the family name; her father was the Earl of Trelawney; and her brother, who went by another name he couldn’t remember, was the hapless Chairman of Acorn. How, he wondered, had he been so stupid and slow on the uptake? Taking out his phone, he dialled her number. It went straight to voicemail. “Blaze, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  An hour later, Blaze, drenched by rain, arrived back at Moonshot and listened to his message. She didn’t believe him. How could a person so well informed and sophisticated have failed to know Kitto was her brother? She pressed delete and blocked his number.

  13

  The Burial

  SATURDAY 27TH SEPTEMBER 2008

  The morning of the funeral, there was hardly a break between the sky and the landscape; both were the colour of soft-lead pencils. As the nominal head of the family, Kitto, now the Earl of Trelawney, walked at the front of the procession, his head bowed against the prevailing wind, his dark suit soaked through by drizzle. Since the car crash, he had lost a significant amount of weight and both his clothes and skin, also grey in colour, hung from his bones. Ten feet behind him, his three children walked side by side—Ambrose in the middle, flanked by Arabella and Toby—all dressed in their old school uniforms and dark green wellington boots (even Clarissa had conceded that the ground was too wet for normal footwear). Behind them, on a cart pulled by a grey horse, led by the former Trelawney groom Manshanks, the Dowager Countess sat on a padded cushion beside her husband’s coffin. Following the cart, the incoming Countess, Jane, walked alone. Behind her, the Earl’s female next of kin—his newly discovered relation Ayesha, his daughter Blaze—and, between them, the old Earl’s brother Tony and sister Tuffy. The rear was brought up by a motley group of neighbours, relations and local stalwarts.